CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNDERGRADUATE LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 2362.Z5A3 1897 
 
 Letters to an unknown; 
 
 3 1924 014 286 516 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014286516 
 
^^rogpet itbitimie 
 
 Letters to an Unknown 
 
 Translated, with a Prefaccj by 
 Henri Pene du Bois 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BRENTANOS 
 
 
 uRis Library 
 
 llf-ni.uiY; 
 
A3 
 
 .,\V ^ J 
 
 CoPyniGHT, 1897, BY 
 
 BRENT ANO'S 
 N. Y. 
 
 Press of J. J. Little & Ca 
 Astor Place, New York 
 
 / 
 
 ASS ^■ 
 
 J.' 
 
PREFACE 
 
 If I knew the name of the Unknown, I 
 would not tell it; but I do not know it. 
 I am not deprived of the charm of mystery 
 which these letters make one appreciate in- 
 tensely. To them one may attach dreams 
 and vague ideas. They are like life, for the 
 best gift of life is the idea which it gives of 
 something that is not in life. 
 
 They are real, and the best object of the 
 real is to serve in the making of the ideal. 
 But students may find in them notes on 
 the manners of an epoch, documents on the 
 state of mind of men and women who are 
 famous, revelations of hearts that were com- 
 plex and not easily defined ; the sincere ex- 
 pression of an admirable individuality. 
 
 Prosper Mdrim^e was a familiar figure of 
 the court of Napoleon III. He wrote for the 
 Empress tales which he signed with his name 
 as her jester. It was a frivolous and vain 
 
iv PREFACE 
 
 court, as every fashionable, exclusive soci- 
 ety is ; but, like every fashionable, exclusive 
 society, it was a good school for a politician. 
 Woman was its sovereign ; nothing was done 
 in it but through her and for her. 
 
 Well, woman is man's great educator. 
 She teaches him the charming virtues, po- 
 liteness, discretion, and the pride which 
 fears to be importunate. She teaches to 
 some the art of pleasing; to all, the useful 
 art of not displeasing. One may learn from 
 her that society is more delicately com- 
 posed than the frequenters of primaries 
 think. , 
 
 From her one may absorb the idea that 
 the dreams of sentiment and the shadows of 
 faith are invincible, and that it is not Reason 
 which governs the world. It is not Reason 
 which governs the world, and I suppose that 
 is why M6rim6e, who was a member of the 
 Senate, an eloquent speaker, and an impres- 
 sive tactician in debate, said that politics 
 bored him. 
 
 He was, like the Baron Dominique-Vivant 
 Denon, who was a familiar figure of the court 
 of Napoleon I. and a friend of Josephine, 
 
PREFACE V 
 
 incapable of comprehending Christian asceti- 
 cism. Like the Baron Dominique-Vivant 
 Denon, he was skeptical in matters of faith, 
 a former secretairy of legation, a director of 
 the Department of Fine Arts, a member 
 of the Institut de France, an officer of the 
 Legion of Honor, a graceful writer, a medi- 
 ocre painter, and a collector of art objects. 
 
 Like the Baron Dominique-Vivant Denon, 
 he lived among furniture carved by Buhl, 
 among fine paintings, scarce books, antique 
 bronzes, painted vases, enamels, medals 
 gathered in a pother of errant and sagely 
 inquisitive life. Unlike the Baron Domi- 
 nique-Vivant Denon, who went through the 
 Terror smiling, tranquil, curious, favored by 
 the people after having been favored by the 
 king, M6nm€e was unpopular. 
 
 Six months after his death, the rioters 
 among the Communists set fire to his apart- 
 ment on the Rue de Lille, and nothing was 
 saved from the ruins of it, except the frag- 
 ments of a Turkish pipe and a deformed 
 antique bronze, which I saw in Paris in the 
 house of M. Edouard Grenier. Paintings, 
 books, vases, enamels, medals, manuscripts, 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 letters, were destroyed. That is why there 
 are no letters of the Unknown. 
 
 M^rim6e was not liked by the people, nor 
 by Hugo, Banville, Gautier, Goncourt, and 
 George Sand, and he returned their dislike 
 with interest. He found on George Sand's 
 table one day, while he was waiting for her 
 in her drawing-room, a portrait of him in 
 prose, which she had written, and he read 
 aloud the first lines of it. 
 
 George Sand, half-dressed, rushed into the 
 drawing-room and tore the manuscript from 
 his hands. He said : " These lines are true, 
 perhaps, but they are not flattering. I con- 
 fess I am sorry I was honest and did not steal 
 them. I would have burned them." 
 
 Goncourt made the following entry in his 
 diary, November i, 1865: " M6rim6e talks 
 slowly, as if he were distilling words, and 
 as he talks he makes glacial coldness fall 
 around him. His irony is dry, wicked, as- 
 tonishing, and domineering. ' ' But the bad 
 effect of this impression is tempered in the 
 same diary by a preceding entry, as follows : 
 " M6rim6e is a being fashioned solely by 
 fear of ridicule. He was scolded when a 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 child, and as he was going out of the room 
 he heard his parents laugh at his tears. He 
 swore he would never be laughed at again; 
 that is the reason of his dryness." 
 
 His dryness was only apparent. He was 
 extremely sensitive, and he exaggerated in- 
 difference to make of it an armor. He has 
 written in " Colomba," in " Carmen," and 
 in the incomparable fantasy of " Lokis," 
 masterpieces of style and imagination which 
 compel admiration for his art. He has writ- 
 ten in his " Letters to an Unknown " ten- 
 der, loyal, deeply pathetic confessions of 
 a temperament which imposes profound 
 affection. 
 
 Henri P£;ne du Bois. 
 
Letters to an Unknown 
 
 Paris, Thursday. 
 
 I HAVE received your letter. Everything 
 is mysterious in you, and the same causes 
 make you act in a manner precisely opposed 
 to other mortals. You go to the country, 
 very well ! It means that you shall have the 
 time to write ; for there the days are long, 
 and having nothing to do leads one to writ- 
 ing letters. At the same time, the watch- 
 fulness and the anxiety of your dragon 
 being less troubled by the regulated occupa- 
 tions of the city, you shall be subjected to 
 more questions when letters come to you. 
 Then, in a castle, the coming of a letter is 
 an event. 
 
 Not at all ! You cannot write, but you 
 can receive a multitude of letters. I am 
 
a LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 beginning to understand your ways, and to 
 be hardly surprised at anything. I pray 
 you, spare me, and do not inflict too harsh a 
 trial on the unfortunate disposition which I 
 have taken, I do not know how, to think 
 well of everything which coines from you. 
 
 I remember having been a little too frank 
 in my last letter on the subject of my tem- 
 perament. An old diplomat friend of mine, 
 a very clever man, has told me often not to 
 speak ill of myself. " Your friends will 
 speak ill of you enough. ' ' I am beginning 
 to fear that you might take too literally all 
 the ill that I told of myself. Imagine that 
 my great virtue is modesty; I carry it to 
 excess, and I tremble lest it should harm 
 me in your opinion. Some other time, 
 when I feel better inspired, I will give you 
 the exact list of all my qualities. It will be 
 a long list. To-day, I am ill, and dare not 
 throw myself into this geometrical progres- 
 sion. 
 
 Guess where I was Saturday night, what 
 I was doing at midnight. I was on the 
 platform of one of the towers of Notre 
 Dame, drinking orange water and eating ices 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 3 
 
 in the company of four of my friends and 
 of an admirable moon ; the whole presided 
 over by a big owl beating its wings around 
 us. Paris in the moonlight, at that hour, 
 is truly a very beautiful spectacle. It 
 resembles the cities of the Arabian Nights, 
 where the inhabitants were enchanted dur- 
 ing their sleep. Our party was singular 
 enough : there were represented four nations, 
 each one having a different point of view. 
 The trouble was, that some of us felt 
 obliged, in presence of the moonlight and 
 the owl, to assume a poetic tone and tell 
 commonplaces. Little by little everybody 
 talked out of reason. 
 
 I do not know how and by what associa- 
 tion of ideas that semi-poetic evening makes 
 me think of another which was not at all 
 poetic. I went to a ball given by young 
 friends of mine, where were invited all the 
 ballet girls of the Opera. These women are 
 mostly stupid ; but I have remarked how 
 far superior they were in moral delicacy to 
 the men of their class. There is only one 
 vice which separates them from other wo- 
 men : that is poverty. All these rhapsodies 
 
4 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 will edify you oddly. So I hasten to finish 
 this letter. Adieu. Do not begrudge me 
 the flattered picture which I have made of 
 myself. 
 
 11. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 Frankness and truth are rarely good 
 things in regard to women ; they are almost 
 always bad things. Now you consider me 
 as a Sardanapalus because I went to a ball 
 of the Opera's ballet girls. You reproach me 
 for that evening as if it were a crime, and 
 you reproach me for praising these poor girls 
 as if it were a greater crime still. I repeat 
 it, make them rich, and there will remain 
 to them only good qualities. But the aris- 
 tocracy has raised insurmountable barriers 
 among the different classes of society, in 
 order that one should not see how like the 
 things that happen on this side of the fence 
 are to those which happen on the other 
 side. I want to tell you a story of the 
 Opera which I learned in that perverse com- 
 pany. In a house of the Rue Saint-Honor6 
 lived a poor woman who never went out of 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN J 
 
 a. small room under the roof for which she 
 paid a rent of three francs a month. She 
 had a daughter twelve years old, well kept, 
 very demure, and who talked to nobody. 
 This little girl went out three times a week, 
 in the afternoon, and returned alone at mid- 
 night. The neighbors learned that she was 
 a chorus girl at the Opera. One day, she 
 goes down the stairs to the janitor's room 
 and asks for a lighted candle. She gets it. 
 The janitor's wife, astonished at her not re- 
 turning, goes up to the garret, finds the 
 woman dead on her bed, and the little girl 
 busy burning an enormous quantity of let- 
 ters which she took out of a very big box. 
 She says : ' ' My mother died to-night, and 
 she has asked me to burn all her letters with- 
 out reading them." That child has nevfer 
 known her mother's real name; she is abso- 
 lutely alone in the world, and has no other 
 resource than to be a vulture, a monkey, or 
 a devil in the Opera's performances. 
 
 Her mother's last advice to her was to be 
 very good, and a chorus girl at the Opera. 
 She is very good, very devout and cares not 
 to tell her story. Please tell me if this little 
 
6 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 girl has not infinitely more merit in leading 
 the life that she leads, than you have, you 
 who enjoy the singular happiness of irre- 
 proachable surroundings and of a tempera- 
 ment so refined that it summarizes in my 
 view an entire civilization. I must tell you 
 the truth. I bear bad company only at rare 
 intervals, and through an inexhaustible curi- 
 osity about all the varieties of the human 
 species. I never dare to come near the bad 
 company of men. Something in it is too 
 repulsive, especially at home, for my friends 
 in Spain were always bull-fighters and mu- 
 leteers. I have eaten more than once at 
 table with people that an Englishman 
 would not look at, for fear of losing the re- 
 spect which he has for his own eye. I have 
 even drunk from the same bottle as a con- 
 vict. It must be said that there was no 
 other bottle and that one must drink when 
 one is thirsty. Do not think that I have a 
 predilection for the rabble. I like simply to 
 see other manners, other faces, to hear an- 
 other language. Ideas are always the same, 
 and if one eliminate all that is conventional 
 I believe that there are good manners in 
 
let'ters to an unknown 7 
 
 places other than the Faubourg Saint Ger- 
 main drawing-rooms. 
 
 The water color which I was making for 
 you is turning out so badly that it is proba- 
 ble I will not send it to you. Let not this 
 prevent you from sending me the worsted 
 work which you are making for me. Try to 
 select a good messenger. As a general rule 
 never take a woman for a confidante ; sooner 
 or later you will repent if you do. Learn 
 also that there is nothing so usual as to do 
 evil for the pleasure of doing evil. Get rid 
 of your optimism and realize that we are in 
 this world to fight against everybody. In 
 this connection, I shall tell you that a 
 learned friend of mine, who reads hiero- 
 glyphics, says, that on the Egyptian cofiSns 
 one reads often these two words: " Life, 
 war"; which proves that I have not in- 
 vented the maxim which I have just given 
 to you. 
 
 in. 
 
 Paris. 
 Your reproaches please me greatly. In 
 truth, I am predestined by the fairies. I 
 
Z LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 ask myself often what I am to you, and 
 what you are to me. To the first ques- 
 tion, I cannot get a reply; for the second 
 question, I imagine that I love you as if 
 you were a fourteen-year-old niece of mine 
 under my care. As for your relative who 
 is so moral and who speaks so ill of me, he 
 makes me think of Thwackum, who says 
 always: " Can any virtue exist without 
 religion ? " Have you read " Tom Jones," 
 a book as immoral as all mine put together ? 
 If you were prohibited from reading it, you 
 read it most certainly. What an odd sort 
 of education is the one which you receive in 
 England ! What is its use ? People lose 
 breath sermonizing a young girl for a long 
 time, and the result is that this young girl 
 desires to know precisely the immoral being 
 whom people tried to make her detest. 
 What an admirable history is that of the 
 serpent! . 
 
 I am studying you with vivid curiosity. 
 I have theories about little things — about 
 gloves, about boots, about curls, and so 
 forth, and I attach a great deal of import- 
 ance to all this, because I have discovered 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 9 
 
 that there is a relation between the temper- 
 ament of a woman and the whim or logic 
 which made her select such and such a stuff. 
 Thus, for example, the world owes to me 
 the demonstration of the fact that a woman 
 who wears a blue gown is a coquette, and 
 affects sentiment. The demonstration is 
 easy, but it is long. . . 
 
 I went sailing the other day. There was 
 a great quantity of sail-boats on the river 
 carrying all sorts of people. There was a 
 very big boat in which were several women 
 of questionable manners. From this boat 
 came a man about forty years of age, playing 
 on the tambourine for his own amusement. 
 While I was admiring the musical organiza- 
 tion of that animal, a woman about twenty- 
 three years old came near him, called him a 
 monster, said that she had followed him from 
 Paris, and that if he would not admit her in 
 his company she would make him repent. 
 All this happened on the shore at a distance 
 of about twenty steps from our boat. The 
 man played on the tambourine while the wo- 
 man spoke, and replied to her very coldly 
 that he did not want her in his boat, where- 
 
lO LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Upon, she runs to the boat farthest from 
 the shore and throws herself into the river, 
 which splashes up on us in beastly fashion. 
 Although she had put out my cigar, indig- 
 nation did not prevent me from taking her 
 out of the water before she had drunk two 
 glasses. The beautiful object of so much 
 despair had not budged, and he murmured 
 between his teeth: " Why take her out of 
 the water, since she wished to drown her- 
 self ? " We put the woman in a tavern, 
 and, as it was late, and the dinner hour was 
 near, we abandoned her to the care of the 
 tavern-keeper's wife. 
 
 Why is it that women love best the men 
 who are most indifferent to them ? That 
 is what I asked myself, while going down 
 the Seine, what I am asking myself again, 
 and what I pray you to tell me, if you 
 know. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I RECEIVED your letter in one of those 
 moments of melancholy when one sees life 
 through a black glass. As your epistle is 
 not very amiable — excuse my frankness — it 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN II 
 
 has contributed somewhat to keep me in a 
 sullen mood. I wanted to reply to you 
 Sunday, immediately and dryly. Immedi- 
 ately, because you had indirectly made a 
 sort of reproach to me, and dryly because I 
 was furious against you. I was disturbed at 
 the first word of my letter, and this disturb- 
 ance prevented me from writing to you. 
 Thank the good Lord for this^ for the 
 weather is fine to-day ; my humor has be- 
 come so much softened that I do not wish to 
 write to you any more save in a style of 
 honey and sugar. I shall not quarrel with 
 you, therefore, about twenty or thirty pas- 
 sages of your last letter, which shocked me 
 greatly, and which I am willing to forget. 
 I forgive you, and with the more pleasure 
 because, in truth, I believe I love you better 
 when you are pouting than when you are in 
 another mood. One passage of your letter 
 made me laugh alone for ten minutes. You 
 say ' ' short and sweet. ' ' You say that you 
 are engaged for life as you would say: " I 
 am engaged for the quadrille." Very well. 
 Apparently, I have employed my time well 
 disputing with you on love, marriage, and 
 
12 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 the rest ; you are still at the point of believ- 
 ing or of saying that when one says ' ' L9ve, 
 one loves. Have you promised in a contract 
 signed before a notary, or on a paper with 
 a vignette at the head ? When I was a 
 schoolboy I received from a dressmaker a 
 note surmounted by two hearts in flames 
 united by an arrow. My teacher began by 
 taking the letter, and ended by putting me 
 in prison. Then the object of this budding 
 passion consoled herself with my cruel 
 teacher. Nothing is so fatal as engagements 
 to those for whom they are made. Do you 
 know that if your love were promised, I 
 would think it impossible for you not to love 
 me ? How could you not love me, you 
 who have made no promises to me, since 
 the first law of nature is to hold in horror 
 whatever has the air of an obligation ? And, 
 in fact, every obligation is naturally bother- 
 some. In fine, if I had less modesty, I 
 would consider that if you had promised 
 your love to somebody, you will give it 
 to me, because you have promised me 
 nothing. You seem to me to be devout, 
 even superstitious. I am thinking at this 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 3 
 
 moment of a pretty little Granada girl who, 
 on mounting her mule to go through a 
 mountain pass, kissed her thumb and struck 
 her chest five or six times, persuaded after 
 this that robbers would not come, provided 
 the stranger did not swear too much. The 
 stranger was I, and his wicked manner of 
 talking was necessary in the bad spots of 
 the road in order to make the horses walk. 
 Read " Tristram Shandy." 
 
 September ssth. 
 Your letter found me ill and sad, busy 
 with the most troublesome business, and I 
 have not the time to take care of myself. 
 I have decided not to quit Paris in October, 
 in the hope that you will come then. You 
 shall see me or not at your choice. The 
 fault will be yours. You speak of par- 
 ticular reasons which prevent you from try- 
 ing to meet me. I do not ask what your 
 motives are. Only I pray you. to tell me 
 really and truly if you have any. Are you 
 
14 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 not preoccupied rather by some childish no- 
 tion ? Perhaps somebody read a sermon to 
 you about me. You should not be afraid of 
 me. Your natural prudence counts for 
 much, doubtless, in your disinclination to see 
 me. Be reassured, I shall not fall in love 
 with you. A few years ago, it might have 
 happened; now I am too old and I have 
 been too unfortunate. I came near falling 
 in love when I went to Spain. It is one of 
 the beautiful acts of my life. The woman 
 who was the cause of my voyage never knew 
 it. If I had remained, I would have done, 
 perhaps, something very foolish: I would 
 have offered to a woman worthy of all the 
 happiness that one may enjoy on earth, in 
 exchange for the loss of all the things that 
 were dear to her, a tenderness which I felt 
 was inferior to the sacrifice which she would 
 have made, perhaps. You recall my moral : 
 " Love excuses everything, but one must be 
 sure that it is love." Be persuaded that 
 this precept is more rigorous than those of 
 your Methodist friends. Conclusion : I shall 
 be charmed to see you. Perhaps you will 
 make the acquisition of a real friend, and I 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN ^5 
 
 will, perhaps, find in you a woman with 
 whom I shall not be in love and in whom I 
 may have confidence. We shall probably 
 gain by better acquaintance. Still, do what 
 your elevated prudence advises. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Do you know that you are sometimes 
 very amiable ? I do not say this to send 
 you a reproach under a cold compliment; 
 but I should like to receive from you often 
 letters like your last one. Unfortunately, 
 you are not always in moods as charitable. 
 I did not answer sooner because your letter 
 was given to me only last night at my return 
 from a small excursion. I spent four days 
 in absolute solitude, without seeing a man, 
 much less a woman, for I do not call men 
 or women certain bipeds who are trained 
 to bring something to eat and to drink when 
 they receive the order to do so. I made, 
 during this retreat, the saddest reflections 
 on myself, on my future, on my friends. 
 If I had had the wit to wait for your letter 
 it would have given quite another turn to 
 
l6 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 my ideas. The remembrance of your splen- 
 did black eyes is perhaps an element of my 
 admiration for you. Still, I am almost in- 
 sensible to beauty. I say to myself that 
 " It spoils nothing; " but I assure you that 
 when I heard a man who is very hard to 
 please say that you were very pretty, I 
 could not prevent myself from feeling sad. 
 This is the reason : I am horribly jealous 
 of my friends, and it pains me to think that 
 your beauty exposes you to the cares and to 
 the attentions of a lot of men who cannot 
 appreciate you and who see in you only 
 what preoccupies me the least. In truth, I 
 am in a frightful humor when I think of the 
 ceremony which you are to attend. Nothing 
 makes me sadder than a marriage. The 
 Turks, who bargain for a woman while they 
 examine them like fat sheep, are worth more 
 than we who have placed over this vile bar- 
 gain a varnish of hypocrisy which is, alas, 
 quite transparent. I have asked myself 
 often what I might say to a woman on the 
 first day of my wedding, and I have thought 
 of nothing possible, unless it be a compli- 
 ment on her nightcap. The devil, happily, 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 17 
 
 will be very clever if he should drag me 
 into such a festival. The part of a woman 
 is much more easy than that of a man. On 
 such a day as this she imitates Racine's 
 Iphigenie. 
 
 You shall never fall in love with me, do 
 not fear. The consoling predictions which 
 you make to me cannot be realized. The 
 chances of death for me have increased this 
 year. Be reassured about your letters. All 
 that shall be found in my room shall be 
 burned after my death; but to tease you 
 I will bequeath to you in my will a manu- 
 script sequel to the " Guzla " which made 
 you laugh so much. You are an angel and 
 a demon, but more a demon than an angel. 
 You call me tempter. Dare to say that this 
 word does not fit you better than me. 
 Have not you thrown a bait to me, poor 
 little fish ; then, now that you have me at 
 the end of your hook, you make me dance 
 between the sky and the water as long as you 
 please? When you are tired of the game, 
 you will cut the thread ; then the hook will 
 be in my mouth, and I will not be able to 
 find the fisherman. Adieu, I promise not to 
 
l8 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 fall in love with you ever. I do not want 
 to be in love, but I should like to have a 
 feminine friend. Pity me, for I am very 
 sad and have a thousand reasons to be sad. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Lady M told me last night that you 
 
 were to be married. This being so, bum 
 my letters; I burn yours, and good-by. I 
 have already told you what my principles 
 were. They do not permit me to remain in 
 friendly relations with a woman whom I 
 knew as a maid, with a widow whom I knew 
 when she was a married woman. I have ob- 
 served that when the civil status of a woman 
 changed, her friendly relations with me 
 changed also, and always for the worse. In 
 brief, right or wrong, I cannot endure that 
 my women friends should marry. There- 
 fore, if you marry, let us forget each other. 
 I pray you not to have recourse to one of 
 your ordinary means of escape, but to reply 
 frankly. 
 
 Your marriage was one of the fatalities 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 9 
 
 which were to fall upon me. The other 
 night, as I could not sleep, I reviewed in my 
 mind all the miseries which have troubled 
 me for a fortnight, and found only one com- 
 pensation for them, which was your amiable 
 letter. Now I wish I could stab the sun, as 
 the Andalusians say. I had a superb stone, 
 well cut, brilliant, scintillating, admirable. 
 I believed it was a diamond which I should 
 not exchange for that of the Grand Mogul. 
 Not at all. It is a false stone. A chemist 
 friend of mine has just made the analysis of 
 it. Imagine my disappointment. I have 
 spent a great deal of time thinking of this 
 pretended diamond and of my good fortune 
 in finding it. Now I must spend as much 
 time, if not more, in persuading myself that 
 it was only a false stone. 
 
 This is only an apologue. I took dinner 
 day before yesterday with the false dia- 
 mond, and made a sad face. When I am 
 angry I handle well enough the rhetorical 
 figure called irony, and I praised the good 
 qualities of the diamond in the heaviest 
 style that I knew, and with glacial coolness. 
 I do not know why I tell you all this, since 
 
20 LETTERS TO AV UNKNOWN 
 
 we are to forget each other soon. Mraai- 
 while, I love you still and recommend myself 
 to your prayers. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My dear feminine friend, we are becoming 
 very tender. You say to me, " Amigo 
 de mi alma," which is very pretty in a femi- 
 nine mouth. You give me no news of your 
 health. You .had said in a previous letter 
 that my feminine friend was ill, and you 
 should have known that I was anxious. Be 
 more exact in the future. You complain of 
 my reticence and you are mystery incarnate. 
 What more do you want on the diamond 
 story if not the name ? Details, perhaps ; but 
 they would be anrioying to write, and they 
 may amuse you some day when we shall have 
 nothing to say to each other, seated face to 
 face in armchairs near the fire. Listen to 
 the dream which I had two nights ago and 
 interpret it if you be sincere. Methought 
 that we were in Valencia, in a beautiful gar- 
 den, with a multitude of oranges and pome- 
 granates. You were seated on a bench near 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 21 
 
 a hedge. Opposite was a wall some six feet 
 in height, which separated the garden from 
 another garden which was much lower. 
 We were talking in Valencian, it seemed to 
 me. Nota bene : I hardly understand Valen- 
 cian. What a queer tongue one speaks in a 
 dream, when one speaks a language which 
 one does not know! I went up a stone 
 and looked into the lower garden. There 
 was a bench near the wall, and on that bench 
 a sort of Valencian gardener and my diamond 
 listening to the gardener, who was playing 
 the guitar. The sight put me in bad humor 
 instantly, but I gave no sign of this at first. 
 The diamond saw me with astonishment, 
 but did not budge nor seem disconcerted. 
 After a time I came down from the stone 
 and said to you in the most natural way, 
 and without referring to the diamond, that 
 it would be a good joke to push a big stone 
 over the wall. That stone was very heavy. 
 You were very glad to help me, and with- 
 out asking any questions — which is not nat- 
 ural to you. By dint of pushing, we suc- 
 ceeded in placing the stone on the top of 
 the wall, and were preparing to push it over 
 
22 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 when the wall itself yielded, crumbled, and 
 we fell with the stone and the wall. I do 
 not know the rest, for I woke up. So that 
 you may understand the scene better, I send 
 you a drawing of it. I could not see the 
 gardener's face, and this enrages me. 
 
 You are very amiable. I have said it to 
 you often for some time. You are very 
 amiable to have replied to the question 
 which I asked you recently. I need not 
 tell you that your reply pleased me. You 
 said, involuntarily, perhaps, several things 
 which pleased me, and especially that the 
 husband of a woman who resembled you 
 would inspire you with real compassion. I 
 believe you, and add that there would be no- 
 body in the world more unfortunate, unless it 
 were a man who loved you. You must be 
 cold and sarcastic in your bad moods, with 
 a pride that prevents you from saying : " I 
 am wrong." Add to this your energy which 
 must make you disdain tears and complaints. 
 
 Come to Paris soon, dear Mariquita, and 
 make of me a lover. I will not be lonesome 
 then, and, in compensation for this, I will 
 make you very miserable with my moods. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 23 
 
 Your writing has become careless and your 
 letters are very short. I am convinced that 
 you have no love for anybody and will never 
 have any. However, you understand well 
 enough the theory of love. Good-by; I 
 make all the possible wishes for your health, 
 for your happiness, in order that you should 
 not get married, in order that you should 
 come to Paris; in order, in fine, that we 
 should become friends. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What is your trouble ? Are you sick at 
 heart ? There are, in your last note, some 
 mysterious phrases, like all your phrases, 
 which seem to say this. Between us, I do 
 not think that you have had the enjoyment 
 of that viscera called heart. You have 
 troubles of the mind, pleasures of the 
 mind ; but the viscera named heart is devel- 
 oped at twenty-five years of age only, in 
 the forty-sixth degree of latitude. You will 
 knit your beautiful and black eyebrows and 
 say : ' ' The impudent man doubts that I 
 have a heart," for that is the great preten- 
 
24 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 sion nowadays. Since so many novels and 
 poems of passion, so-called, have been writ- 
 ten, all women pretend to have a heart. 
 Wait a little. When you shall have a heart 
 for good, you shall tell me about it. You 
 shall regret the good old days when you 
 were living only by the mind, and you shall 
 see that the evils which make you suffer 
 now are only pin-pricks in comparison with 
 the stabs which shall rain on you when the 
 days of passion come. 
 
 You must know that the sea makes me 
 very sick, and is agreeable to me only when 
 I see it from the shore. The first time that 
 I went to England I was so sick that it took 
 me fifteen days to regain my ordinary color, 
 which is that of the pale horse in the Apoc- 
 alypse. Forgive me for speaking always of 
 the diamond. What must be the senti- 
 ment of a man who is not an expert in 
 gems, to whom jewellers have said, " This 
 stone is false, ' ' and who sees it shine admi- 
 rably nevertheless ; who says to himself at 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 25 
 
 times: " If the jewellers do not know dia- 
 monds ! If they deceive themselves, or wish 
 to deceive me ! " I look at my diamond 
 from time to time, and, whenever I look at 
 it, I find it a real diamond. It is a pity that 
 I cannot make a conclusive chemical experi- 
 ment with it. What think you ? If I saw 
 you, I would explain to you what is obscure 
 in this matter, and you would give me 
 some good advice, or, better still, you would 
 make me forget my diamond, real or false, 
 for there is no diamond which may stand 
 comparison with two beautiful black eyes. 
 Good-by; you do not deserve a long letter. 
 You send me only a few lines of careless 
 writing, and when you write three lines, two 
 of them make me angry. 
 
 XI. 
 
 You are charming, dear Mariquita, too 
 charming, even. I possess at once your por- 
 trait and your confidence, double happiness. 
 You were in a mood of kindness that day, 
 for your letter was long and amiable ; but it 
 has one defect, it settles nothing. Shall I 
 
26 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 see you or shall I not ? That is the ques- 
 tion. I know how to solve it, but you do 
 not want to decide. You are, as you will 
 be always, hesitating between your tempera 
 ment and your convent habits. Why do 
 you not wish me to see you on the prome 
 nade, for example, or at the British Mu- 
 seum 7 
 
 XII. 
 
 London, December loth. 
 Why do you not wish to see me ? No- 
 body near you knows me, and my visit 
 would seem natural. Your principal motive 
 seems to be the fear to do something im- 
 proper, as they say here. I do not take 
 seriously what you say of the fear which 
 you have of losing your illusions about me 
 when you know me better. If this were 
 your real motive, you would be the first wo- 
 man, the first human being whom such a 
 consideration prevented from satisfying her 
 desire or her curiosity. Let us come to the 
 impropriety. Is the thing improper in it- 
 self ? No, for there is nothing simpler. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 27 
 
 You know in advance that I will not eat 
 you. The thing is improper, if it is im- 
 proper, only with respect to the world. 
 Observe that this word " world " makes us 
 miserable from the day when we put on a 
 dress that is uncomfortable, until the day 
 of our death. 
 
 In sending me your portrait it seems to 
 me that you gave proof of esteeming me 
 highly enough to believe in my discretion. 
 Why should you believe in it no longer ? 
 The discretion of a man, and mine in partic- 
 ular, is the greater the more is demanded of 
 him. Being sure of my discretion, you may 
 see me. I will add, with my hand on my 
 heart, that I see not the least impropriety in 
 this. I will say more. If this correspond- 
 ence is to be continued without our meeting 
 ever, it becomes the most absurd thing in 
 the world. I leave this to your reflections. 
 
 If I had more fatuity, I would rejoice at 
 what you say of my diamond. But we can 
 never fall in love with each other. Our ac- 
 quaintance did not begin in a manner to lead 
 us to that point. It is too romantic. As 
 for the diamond, my travelling companion. 
 
28 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 while smoking his cigar, spoke of it without 
 knowing my interest in it, and said some 
 very sad things. He does not seem to 
 doubt that it is false. I offer you a good 
 friendship which I hope will be useful to us 
 some day. Good-by. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Paris, February, 1842. 
 
 Since you do not disdain my gifts, here 
 are preserves of roses, jessamine, and ber- 
 gamot. I had promised you sandals and 
 you refuse them with so much persistence 
 that I ought to send them to you. But since 
 my return I have been robbed. No more 
 sandals. I cannot find them. Will you 
 take this in exchange ? Perhaps this Turk- 
 ish mirror will please you better; for it 
 seems to me that you are still more coquet- 
 tish 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 I can remember. 
 
 I give nothing for nothing. Before going 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 29 
 
 to Naples, you shall have the kindness to 
 take my orders, and to bring to me what I 
 shall ask for. I will give you a letter to the 
 director of the Pompeii diggings, if such 
 things interest you. You make of your 
 precious self so brilliant a portrait that I see 
 the time when we shall meet again adjourned 
 to the Greek kalends. Meanwhile, preserve 
 the radiant physiognomy which I admired. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Paris, March, 1842. 
 You are rich; so much the better. I 
 send you my compliments. Rich, that is 
 free. Your friend who had such a good idea 
 must have been an Auld Robin Gray;. he 
 must have been in love with you ; you will 
 not admit it, because you like mystery. I 
 forgive you ; we write to each other too sel- 
 dom to quarrel. Why should you not go to 
 Rome and to Naples for pictures and sun- 
 light ? You are worthy to comprehend 
 Italy, and you would return richer by sev- 
 eral ideas and several sensations. I do not 
 
30 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 advise you to go to Greece. Your skin is 
 not hard enough to resist all the ugly beasts 
 that eat people there. Talking of Greece, 
 since you preserve so well what is given to 
 you, here is a blade of grass. I plucked it 
 from the Anthela hill at Thermopylae, in the 
 place where the three hundred died. 
 
 Do you wish something more substantial 
 from the Orient ? I have given, unfortu- 
 nately, all the beautiful things that I brought 
 back. I would give you sandals, but you 
 would wear them for others. No, thank 
 you. If you wish preserves of roses and 
 jessamine I have some, but accept them in 
 haste or I shall eat them all. We write to 
 each other so rarely that we have many 
 things to say to each other. This is my his- 
 tory: 
 
 I saw my dear Spain again in the fall of 
 1840. I spent two months in Madrid, 
 where I saw a funny revolution, beautiful 
 bull fights, and the triumphant entry of 
 Espartero. I lived in the house of an inti- 
 mate friend who is a devoted sister to me. I 
 went to Madrid in the morning and returned 
 to dinner in the country with six women. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 3I 
 
 the eldest of whom was thirty-six years old. 
 Because of the revolution, I was the only 
 man who could go and come freely, so that 
 those six unfortunates had no other escort. 
 They spoiled me prodigiously. I was in love 
 with none, and perhaps I was wrong. At my 
 return to Paris I gave to myself the innocent 
 pleasure of printing a book without publish- 
 ing it. There were only one hundred and 
 fifty copies, which I gave to people who 
 pleased me. I would offer this scarcity to 
 you if you were worthy of it; but it is a 
 historical and pedantic work, so studded 
 with Greek and Latin that you could not 
 even bite it. 
 
 Last summer I got a little money. I got 
 three months' vacation and spent five run- 
 ning from Malta to Athens, and from Ephe- 
 sus to Constantinople. In these five months 
 I was not out of sorts for five minutes. At 
 Constantinople I saw the Sultan in patent 
 leather boots and black frock coat. There a 
 beautiful woman, on whose sandal I stepped 
 by accident, struck me with her fist, and 
 called me a ' ' giaour. ' ' I had no other rela- 
 tion with the Turkish beauties. I saw at 
 
32 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Athens and in Asia the most beautiful mon- 
 uments in the world, and the most beautiful 
 landscapes possible. 
 
 The drawback consisted in fleas and in 
 bugs as big as larks ; so I never slept. In 
 the midst of all this I have become old. 
 Represent your friend to yourself all gray. 
 And you, are you changed ? I am waiting 
 with impatience for you to be less pretty in 
 order to see you. In two or three years, 
 when you write to me tell me what you are 
 doing and when we are to meet. Your 
 " respectful souvenir" made me laugh, and 
 also your pretension to dispute my heart 
 with Ionic and Corinthian columns. In the 
 first place, I like only Doric columns, and 
 there are no columns, not excepting those 
 of the Parthenon, which are worth to me 
 the reminiscence of an old friendship. Good- 
 by; go to Italy and be happy. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Paris, March, 1842. 
 
 I HAVE just received your letter, which 
 has put me in bad humor. So, it was your 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 33 
 
 satanical conceit which prevented you from 
 seeing me. I have not the right to make re- 
 proaches to you, for I saw you the other day, 
 I think, and a similar sentiment restrained 
 me at the moment when I was about to 
 talk to you. You say that you are better 
 than you were two years ago. You seem to 
 me to be more beautiful ; but you seem to 
 have acquired selfishness and hypocrisy. 
 These may be useful ; only, they are not 
 worth pluming one's self on. As for me, I 
 am worth, I think, neither more nor less than 
 formerly. I am not more a hypocrite than 
 I was. I am, perhaps, wrong. It is certain 
 that I am not loved more. Since this purse 
 was not embroidered by your white hands, 
 what do you wish me to do with it ? You 
 ought to give me some work of yours; my 
 mirror and my preserves deserve one. At 
 least, you might have told me if you re- 
 ceived them. When you go to Italy and 
 pass through Paris, it is probable you will 
 not see me there Where shall I be ? The 
 devil only knows It may be that I will go 
 to Saragossa to s*e this woman about whom 
 you write that you are worth as much as 
 3 
 
34 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 she. For a sister, I shall have no other. 
 Good-by ; I am sorry that I did not see you. 
 Write to me from time to time. It will 
 give me always great pleasure to hear from 
 you, even if you continue the beautiful sys- 
 tem of hypocrisy which you have begun so 
 triumphantly. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Paris, May 14, 1842. 
 
 You are much more beautiful physically, 
 but not morally. You have a beautiful com- 
 plexion, and admirable hair, which I looked 
 at more than your bonnet, which is probably 
 worth the trouble of a look, since you are 
 irritated because of my lack of apprecia- 
 tion. But I never could distinguish laces 
 from calico. You have still the waist of a 
 sylph, and, although I am quite blasi about 
 black eyes, I never saw any as large in Con- 
 stantinople or in Smyrna. 
 
 Now comes the reverse of the medal. 
 You have remained a child in many things, 
 and you have become a hypocrite in the 
 bargain. You do not know how to conceal 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 35 
 
 your first movements; but think you can 
 repair them with a multitude of means. 
 Your magnanimous idea to be harsh for 
 yourself will lead you far, assuredly, and in 
 a few years from now you will find yourself 
 as happy as a Trappist who, after torturing 
 himself, suddenly discovered that there was 
 no Paradise. 
 
 I think I shall not go to Saragossa. I 
 may go to Florence ; but it is certain that I 
 shall spend two months in the south of 
 France looking at churches and Roman 
 ruins. Perhaps we shall meet near a temple 
 or a circus. I advise you to go directly to 
 Naples. You might, however, if you stayed 
 five or six hours at Leghorn, use your time 
 better by going to Pisa to see the Campo- 
 Santo. You promised me something in ex- 
 change for my Turkish mirror. I rely 
 piously on your memory. Be happy, but 
 retain this maxim, "If you do foolish things, 
 do only those that please you." 
 
3(5 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Paris, June 22, 1842. 
 
 I HAVE received your purse ; it exhaled a 
 very aristocratic perfume and is very pretty. 
 If you embroidered it yourself it does you 
 honor. But I have recognized in it your re- 
 cently acquired taste for material things : in 
 the first place, it is a purse ; in the second, 
 you valued it a hundred francs at the 
 stage coach. It would have been more po- 
 etical to declare that it was worth one or 
 two stars; I prize it as highly. I will put 
 medals in it. I would have cared for it 
 more if you had deigned to put in it two or 
 three lines from your white hand. 
 
 I do not want your pheasants ; you offer 
 them to me in an ugly fashion, and, more- 
 over, you say disagreeable things to me 
 about my Turkish preserves. It is you who 
 have the palate of a giaour if you do not 
 know how to appreciate what the Peris eat. 
 The hypocrisy which you practise well 
 enough will turn against you some day. It 
 will become real. As for coquetry, which 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 37 
 
 is the inseparable companion of the ugly 
 vice that you praise, you have had it always. 
 It became you well when you tempered it 
 with frankness, heart, and imagination. 
 Now . . . You have beautiful black hair 
 and a beautiful blue cashmere shawl, and 
 you are amiable when you wish. Say that 
 I do not spoil you ! 
 
 There was once a dervish who seemed to 
 a baker to be a saint. The baker promised 
 to give him white bread as long as he lived. 
 The dervish was enchanted. After a period 
 the baker said to him : ' ' We have agreed on 
 brown bread, haven't we ? I have excellent 
 brown bread, it is my specialty." The der- 
 vish replied: " I have more brown bread 
 than I can eat ; but . . . " I must tell you 
 that I am spending my nights re-reading my 
 works, which are being reprinted. I find 
 them very immoral, and sometimes stupid. 
 I must diminish the immorality and the 
 stupidity without giving myself too much 
 trouble. I say good-by to you, and kiss 
 your hands humbly. 
 
38 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ChAlon-sur-Sa6ne, June 30, 1842. 
 
 You guessed correctly the end of the 
 story: the dervish was mystified by the 
 baker, but he did not like brown bread. 
 
 I saw in Saint Vincent church a very 
 pretty young woman who was making sta- 
 tions of the cross. Is this not the right de- 
 scription for the prayers that are said before 
 paintings representing the principal scenes 
 of the passion ? Her mother was near her 
 watching her very attentively. While taking 
 notes on old Byzantine columns, I asked 
 myself what this young girl could have done 
 to deserve such a penance. The case must 
 have been very grave. Have you become 
 very pious, in accordance with the present 
 fashion ? You must be pious for the same 
 reason that you wear a blue cashmere shawl. 
 I should be sorry if it were so ; our devout- 
 ness in France displeases me ; it is a sort of 
 mediocre philosophy, which comes from the 
 mind and not from the heart. When you 
 shall have seen the devoutness of the people 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 39 
 
 of Italy, I hope that you will say, as I do, 
 that it is the only real devoutness. . . . 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Avignon, July 20, 1842. 
 
 Since you take this view of it, I capitu- 
 late. Give me brown bread, it is better 
 than nothing at all. Only, permit me to 
 say that it is brown bread. You see that I 
 am humble and submissive. I shall reply to 
 your letter article by article. The figure of 
 rhetoric which you think you have invented 
 has been known for a long time. One 
 might give it a new name with the aid of 
 Greek. In French it is simply a lie. Use 
 it with me as little as you can. Do not 
 abuse it with others. Keep it only for great 
 occasions. Do not try to find the world silly 
 and ridiculous. You ought to try to repre- 
 sent it to yourself as it is not. It is better 
 to have illusions than not to have any. 
 
 Your story is well known: "There was 
 once an idol . . ." read Daniel; but he 
 was mistaken, the head was not of gold ; it 
 
40 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 was of clay, like the feet. But the idolatejr 
 had a lamp in his hand and the reflection of 
 this Icrmp gilded the idol's head. If I were 
 the idol I would say: " Is it my fault that 
 you have put out your lamp ?" It seems 
 to me that I am becoming very Oriental. 
 
 I see with grief that your coquetry goes 
 on increasing. I am well informed about your 
 devoutness. I thank you for your prayers, 
 if they are not a figure of rhetoric. I am 
 very sorry that you are reading Homer 
 through Pope. Everything in Homer is re- 
 markable. The epithets which seem so 
 strange when translated in French are ad- 
 mirably precise. I remember that he calls 
 the sea purple, and I had never understood 
 that word. Last year I was in a little boat on 
 the Gulf of Lepanto. The sun was setting. 
 As soon as it vanished, the sea took for ten 
 minutes a magnificent dark violet tint. This 
 requires the air, the sea, and the sun of 
 Greece. I hope that you shall never become 
 an artist enough to have pleasure in recog- 
 nizing that Homer was a great painter- 
 Good-by. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 41 
 
 XX. 
 
 Paris, August 27, 1842. 
 
 I WILL tell you how they call in Greek 
 persons who have, like you, hair of which 
 they are justly proud. The word is " efplo- 
 kamos." " Ef," well, " plokamos," curl of 
 hair. The two words reunited form an ad- 
 jective. Homer said somewhere: " Nimfi 
 efplokamouca Calypso." This means, 
 "Calypso, nymph with well-curled hair." 
 Isn't it pretty ? O, for the love of Greek, 
 and so forth. . . . 
 
 I was packing my luggage at Avignon, 
 when two venerable figures entered and 
 announced themselves as members of the 
 municipal council. I thought they were 
 going to talk of some church, but they said 
 pompously they had come to recommend to 
 my loyalty and to my virtue a lady who was 
 to travel in my company. I replied to them 
 in very bad humor that I should be very 
 loyal and very virtuous, but that it did not 
 please me to travel with a woman, since I 
 should not be able to smoke on the road. 
 
43 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 The stage-coach arrived, and I found in it a 
 woman tall and pretty, simply and coquet- 
 tishly dressed, who said that she was sick, 
 and despaired of reaching Paris alive. I 
 was as polite and amiable as I could be. 
 My companion was a Bonapartist, was very 
 enthusiastic, believed in the immortality of 
 the soul, not much in the catechism, and 
 was an optimist. I felt that she was in a 
 measure afraid of me. At Moulins the 
 coach took two dull travellers, and at Paris 
 my mysterious lady precipitated herself into 
 the arms of a very homely man who must 
 have been her father. I took off my cap to 
 him, and was getting into a carriage, when 
 my unknown came and said to me: " I am 
 moved, sir, by your kindness to me. I can- 
 not tell you enough how grateful I am. I 
 will never forget the happiness which I have 
 had in travelling with a man so illustrious." 
 I am quoting the text. But the word 
 " illustrious" explained the municipal coun- 
 cil and the lady's fright. It is evident that 
 they had seen my name on the post-ofKce 
 book, and that the lady, who had read my 
 books, expected to be swallowed alive. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 43 
 
 What gave you the idea to make my ac- 
 quaintance ? 
 
 I shall be in Paris all the autumn, I think. 
 I shall work a great deal on a moral book, 
 as amusing as the social war which you are 
 to carry to Naples. Good-by. Alas ! I 
 have lost my most beautiful antique gem, a 
 magnificent Juno, while doing a good act — 
 that is, carrying a drunkard who had broken 
 his thigh ; and this stone was Etruscan, and 
 the figure held a scythe, and there is no 
 other monument where Juno is so repre- 
 sented. Pity me. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Your Greek writing is charming, and 
 much more legible than your French. But 
 who is your Greek teacher ? You cannot 
 make me believe that you have learned to 
 write cursive letters from a printed book. 
 
 Your letter is very amiable. I say this 
 because I know that compliments are agree- 
 able to you, and also because it is true. 
 However, as I will never know how to cure 
 myself of the unfortunate fault of saying 
 
44 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 what I think to people who are not everybody 
 to me, you must know that I see you making 
 rapid progress in satanism. You are becom- 
 ing ironical, sarcastic, and even diabolical. 
 All these words are taken from the Greek, 
 and your teacher will tell you what I mean 
 by diabolical; that is, calumniator. You 
 mock my most beautiful qualities, and when 
 you praise me, you do it with reticences and 
 precautions which take from the praise all 
 its merit. It is true that I have frequented 
 bad company, but I did it through curiosity, 
 and I was always in it as in a strange coun- 
 try. As for good company, I have found it 
 often mortally boresome. There are two 
 places wherein I am comfortable enough: 
 one among people without pretentiousness 
 whom I have known for a long time ; two, 
 in a Spanish venta, with muleteers and 
 peasants of Andalusia. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Paris, October 24, 1842. 
 The trouble with the Greeks is that their 
 ideas of decency and even of morality were 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 45 
 
 very different from ours. There are many 
 things in their literature which might shock 
 you, even disgust you, if you understood 
 them. After Homer you can read the tra- 
 gedy writers, who will amuse you, and whom 
 you will like because you have a taste for 
 the beautiful, a sentiment which the Greeks 
 possessed in the highest degree, and which 
 a happy few have inherited from them. If 
 you have the courage to read history, He- 
 rodotus and Xenophon will charm you. Be- 
 gin with the Anabasis. Then you will read 
 Herodotus, and, at last, Thucydides. I 
 would recommend also Lucian, who is the 
 wittiest Greek, but he is very wicked, and I 
 dare not. As for the pronunciation, I will 
 send you a page which I have prepared for 
 you. It will teach you the pronunciation of 
 the modern Greeks. That of the schools is 
 easier, but it is absurd. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Thursday, October, 1842. 
 Would you like to hear an Italian opera 
 with me to-day ? I have a box Thursdays, 
 
46 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 with my cousin and his wife. They are 
 travelling, and the box is wholly mine ; you 
 should have with you your brother or one 
 of your relatives who does not know me. 
 You would please me greatly by coming. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Friday morning, October, 1842. 
 I THANK you for having come yesterday. 
 I hope your brother saw nothing extraordi- 
 nary in our meeting. I have an Etruscan 
 seal for you ; I cannot endure the one that 
 you are using. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Tuesday night, October, 1842. 
 I DO not know where you have learned 
 that I have friends in the four corners of the 
 world. You know very well that I have 
 only one woman friend in Madrid. Believe 
 in my gratitude for your magnanimity to- 
 ward me at the opera the other night. I 
 appreciate as I should the condescendence 
 with which you showed your face to me for 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 47 
 
 two hours, and I must say that I admired it 
 a great deal. As for your assertion that 
 you have never refused me anything, this lie 
 will procure for you several million years of 
 purgatory. I see that you desire my Etrus- 
 can gem, and, as I am more magnanimous 
 than you, I will not say, like Leonidas, 
 "Come and take it!" But how shall I 
 send it to you ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday night. 
 You say, with a great deal of amiability, 
 that you do not wish to see me for fear of 
 boring me. Unless I am mistaken, we have 
 seen each other six or seven times in six 
 years, and if we add the minutes, we may 
 find that we have spent three or four hours 
 together, half of the time saying nothing. 
 As I have not the means to overcome your 
 resolutions, this one will end as you will, 
 but I think it silly not to see me. I beg 
 your pardon for this word, which is neither 
 polite nor friendly, but, unfortunately, true. 
 I ask of you nothing in exchange for my 
 
48 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 antique seal, because you have refused every- 
 thing that I have asked for. 
 
 XXVII. 
 Paris, Saturday, November, 1842. 
 You ought to see me, if only to get out 
 of the atmosphere of flattery in which you 
 are living. We ought to go together some 
 day to the museum to see Italian paintings. 
 It would be a great advantage to you to 
 have me for a cicerone. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Paris, November, 1842. 
 I WOULD like to know what you are doing. 
 When I see you so learned in Greek and in 
 German, I conclude that you are very lone- 
 some, and spend your life with books and 
 some learned professors to explain them to 
 you. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Paris, December 2, 1842. 
 There is a graceful tale in an old Spanish 
 novel. A barber had a shop at the angle of 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 49 
 
 two streets, and the shop had two doors. 
 Through one of these doors he went out and 
 stabbed a passer-by, returned to his shop, 
 went out through the other door, and ban- 
 daged his victim's wound. I bear no ill- 
 will to your blue cashmere shawl, and your 
 cakes. I hold coquetry and greediness in 
 esteem, but only when they are confessed 
 frankly. And you, who aspire to be some- 
 thing more than a woman in fashionable 
 society, should not have its defects. Why 
 are you never frank with me ? 
 
 You shall never know all the good nor all 
 the evil in me. I have been praised all my 
 life for qualities which I have not, and ca- 
 lumniated for defects which are not mine. 
 Good-by. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 December, Monday morning. 
 
 This is what I call talking. To-morrow 
 at two o'clock, where you say. I hope to 
 see you to-morrow, delivered of your head- 
 ache, in spite of which you are more amia- 
 4 
 
50 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 ble than usual. Good-by; I shall be happy 
 to look at the Joconde with you. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Is it not true that the devil is painted 
 blacker than he is ? 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Paris, Sunday night, December. 
 Your letter did not surprise me for an 
 instant. I expected it. I know you enough 
 now to be sure that whenever you have a 
 good thought you repent of it. You know 
 very well how to gild the most bitter pills. 
 I owe you this justice. As I am not the 
 stronger, I can say nothing against your 
 heroic resolution not to return to the muse- 
 um. I know very well that you will do as 
 you like ; only I hope that before a month 
 from now you shall regard me more charita- 
 bly. Frankly, this is what I think of you : 
 you like to give a vague aim to your co- 
 quetry, and that aim is I. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 51 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Sunday, December 19, 1842. 
 The only thing in your letter which seems 
 clear to me is that you have a handkerchief 
 to give to me. Send it, or tell me to come 
 and receive it from your hand, which would 
 be much better. I hate surprises that are 
 announced to me, because I imagine them 
 much more beautiful than they are in fact. 
 Believe me, let us return to the museum 
 together. If I bother you, that will be the 
 end of it ; if not, what prevents our meeting 
 from time to time ? 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 December, 1842. 
 Do you know that if we continue to write 
 to each other in this tone of amiable con- 
 fidence, keeping to ourselves our secret 
 thoughts, we have only one resource ; that is, 
 to polish our style, then to publish some 
 day our correspondence, as was done for 
 Voiture and Balzac. 
 
52 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 December, 1842. 
 I HAVE spent several days in bed medi- 
 tating on the things of this world. I 
 seemed to be on the declivity of a moun- 
 tain which I had climbed with much fatigue 
 and some amusement. This declivity was 
 very rough and very annoying. The only 
 consolation which I discovered was a little 
 sunlight at a great distance, a few months 
 spent in Italy, in Spain, or in Greece, in 
 oblivion of the entire world, the present 
 and the future. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Tuesday night, December, 1842. 
 There was something in your letter of 
 to-day, among a lot of harsh things and of 
 sombre, cold thoughts, something which is 
 true: " I think that I never loved you so 
 much as yesterday." You might have 
 added : "I love you less to-day. ' ' I am 
 sure that if you were to-day as you were 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 53 
 
 yesterday, you would be full of remorse, 
 which hardly ever troubles you. 
 
 XXXVII. i 
 
 Paris, Janttary 3, 1843. 
 You are so amiable when you wish to be ! 
 Why do you choose so often to be wicked ? 
 I dined with Rachel a few days ago at an 
 Academician's. It was to introduce B6- 
 ranger to her. There were many great men 
 there. She came late and her entrance dis- 
 pleased me. The men said so many silly 
 things to her, and the women did so many 
 silly things when they saw her, that I stayed 
 in my corner. After dinner, B^ranger, with 
 his usual common sense, told her that it 
 was wrong of her to waste her time in the 
 drawing-rooms. Mademoiselle Rachel ap- 
 proved, and, in order to show that she 
 heeded, she played the first act of Esther. 
 She needed an assistant, and Racine's book 
 was brought to me. I said, brutally, that I 
 did not understand verses, and that there 
 were people in the parlor who could scan 
 them better than I. Hugo excused himself 
 
54 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 because of his eyes, another poet because 
 of something else. The host devoted him- 
 self. Represent to yourself Rachel in black, 
 between a piano and a tea-table, with a door 
 behind her, making her theatrical face. 
 
 During the intermission, Hugo and Thiers 
 disputed about Racine. Hugo said that 
 Racine had a small mind, and Corneille a 
 great one. ' ' You say this, ' ' replied Thiers, 
 " because you have a great mind; you are 
 the Corneille of an epoch wherein Racine is 
 the Casimir Delavigne." I leave you to 
 think if modesty reigned. 
 
 xxxvni. 
 
 Thursday, January, 1843. 
 Where you say, to-day. I suppose that 
 you really desire to go on this promenade, for 
 your letter is colder than the preceding ones. 
 There is an admirable equilibrium in your 
 manner. You do not wish me to be ever per- 
 fectly contented and you seem to take your 
 measures in advance in order that I should 
 be in a rage. I send you Dickens's sketches. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 55 
 
 Perhaps you have read them, but it doesn't 
 matter. At two o'clock, to-day, Thursday. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, January 16, 1843. 
 I REGRET having insisted so much to 
 make you come out in this frightful rain. 
 It seldom happens that I sacrifice others to 
 myself, and when it does happen I am as full 
 of remorse as possible. Well, you are not ill 
 and you are not angry; that is the most 
 important consideration. A little misfortune 
 comes from time to time in order to turn 
 out a big one. It seems to me that we were 
 sad, although happy enough in the depths 
 of our hearts. There are intimate joys 
 which may not be expressed. I desire that 
 you should have felt some of the sentiments | 
 which impressed me. Good-night. \ 
 
 XL. 
 
 Sunday night, January, .1843. 
 I WAS not tired, and yet when I looked at 
 the map of our peregrinations, I see that we 
 
56 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 should have been both worn out. The rea- 
 son is that happiness gives me strength; 
 from you it takes strength. I dined out, 
 and went to a dance afterward. I went to 
 sleep very late thinking of our promenade. 
 You made fun of me and took for a bad 
 compliment what I said one day of the 
 sleepiness, or, rather, of the torpor, which 
 seizes one too happy to find words to ex- 
 press one's emotions. I noticed yesterday 
 that you were under the influence of that 
 sleepiness. I might have reproached you in 
 my turn with your own reproaches; but I 
 was too happy to disturb my happiness. 
 Good-by, dear friend, 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Wednesday night, January, 1843. 
 I AM very susceptible to your threats. 
 Although I fear them, I cannot forbear to 
 tell you all that I think. Nothing would be 
 easier for me than to make promises to you, 
 but I feel that it would be impossible for 
 me to keep them. Content yourself, there- 
 fore, with our past manner of being, or let 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 57 
 
 US cease from seeing each other. I must 
 tell you that your insistence in opposing me 
 for my ' ' frivolities ' ' renders them dearer to 
 me and makes me attach greater importance 
 to them. It is the only proof which you 
 may give me of your sentiments for me. If 
 I must see you in order to resist the most 
 innocent temptations, this is a saint's labor 
 which surpasses my strength. I should 
 have doubtless a great deal of pleasure in 
 seeing you, but the condition to transform 
 myself into a statue is unbearable to me. 
 
 We have made our explanations to each 
 other very clearly. You shall decide accord- 
 ing to your wisdom whether we must post- 
 pone our next promenade to several years 
 from now or to the first day of sunlight. 
 You see that I do not accept the advice of 
 hypocrisy which you give me. The only 
 hypocrisy of which I am capable is to con- 
 ceal from the people I love all the harm that 
 they do me. I can sustain this effort for a 
 little time, but not for always. 
 
58 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 XLII. 
 
 January, 1843. 
 
 I AM not surprised that you learned Ger- 
 man so quickly; you possess the genius of 
 that language, for you write in French 
 phrases worthy of John Paul. You say, for 
 example, " My malady is an impression of 
 happiness which is almost a suffering." In 
 prose this means, I hope: " I am cured and 
 was not very ill. ' ' 
 
 You were speaking the other day of a sur- 
 prise which you would make to me. Frank- 
 ly, how do you want me to believe you ? 
 All that you can do is to yield when you 
 have reached the end of your bad reasons 
 not to yield. But how could you invent a 
 gift when your genius is to refuse ? I am 
 very sure, for example, that you will never 
 imagine a day for us to go out walking. 
 Will you have Monday or Tuesday ? The 
 sky fills me with anxiety; I rely, however, 
 on my good demon, as the Greeks say. 
 Good-by ; do not have second thoughts, emd 
 give me a place in your first thoughts. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 59 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Paris, January 21, 1843. 
 
 If I had seen you writing I would have 
 divined probably from your expression what 
 you intended to say. You are a coquette 
 in writing, a coquette of obscurity. Alas, 
 you think me more learned than I am in 
 matters of dress. I have, however, fixed 
 ideas on the subject. I will submit them to 
 you if you wish, but I do not understand 
 most of the beautiful things that one should 
 admire, unless they are demonstrated to 
 me; if you explain I will understand at 
 once. When and how ? These two ques- 
 tions preoccupy me more than you think. 
 
 Have you not regretted a little the beauti- 
 ful days spent under the sun of spring ? 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 January 27, 1843. 
 I WOULD prefer to think you cross rather 
 than ill. If you are well and in good hu- 
 mor, and the weather is fine Saturday, why 
 
60 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 should we not go out walking ? We could 
 go out of the world and talk. If you can- 
 not or will not come Saturday, I shall not 
 be angry ; but come soon. When I ask you 
 for anything you do it only after having 
 made me rage for a long time, so that you 
 prevent me from feeling as much gratitude 
 as I should, perhaps. You deprive your- 
 self of all the merit which you would have 
 in being promptly generous. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Paris, February 3, 1843. 
 
 Does not this beautiful weather make you 
 think of Versailles, and consequently does 
 it not make you feel like laughing ? If you 
 were logical you would not laugh. You are 
 not ignorant of the fact that Versailles is 
 the capital of the department of Seine-et- 
 Oise, where there are authorities for the pro- 
 tection of the feeble and where the language 
 is French. In such a land you should be as 
 safe as in Paris. Moreover, our aim is to 
 walk without running the risk of meeting 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 6l 
 
 gadabouters who know us. At Versailles, 
 on days when the museum is closed, we are 
 sure of meeting nobody. I shall say nothing 
 of the air nor of the beauty of the grounds, 
 which have their merit, and which have an 
 influence always on the nature of ideas. 
 Think of me a little. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Paris, February 7, 1843. 
 
 You are wrong to accuse me of being 
 fond of society; in a fortnight, I went out 
 only once at night to call on my minister. 
 I found all the women in mourning, several 
 of them wearing mantillas; no, not man- 
 tillas, but black beards which made them 
 resemble Spanish women. It was very 
 pretty. I am strangely sad And sullen. I 
 wish I could quarrel with you, but I do not 
 know what to quarrel about. You ought to 
 write me some very amiable things. Good- 
 by. I have reopened my letter in order to 
 pray you to observe that the weather is 
 better. 
 
63 LETTERS TG AN UNKNOWN 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, February ii, 1843. 
 Among all the amiable things that you 
 write to me I think I discern the fact that 
 you are not anxious to see me. Am I mis- 
 taken, or is it because I am so little accus- 
 tomed to your sweetness that I cannot be- 
 lieve it real ? Tuesday shall you be cured, 
 shall you be free, shall you be in as good 
 humor as last Wednesday ? 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 February 11, 1843. 
 This note takes upon itself the task of 
 saying no, without your intervention. This 
 ought to cure you of your bad habit of ne- 
 gation. The devil is bad enough without 
 you. You gain a great deal by going out 
 walking with me ; you gain an air of health 
 and of strength. I say nothing of the vari- 
 ety of information which you acquire with- 
 out trouble. Now you are past mistress on 
 the subjects of vases and statues. Every 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 63 
 
 time we meet there is a crust of ice to be 
 broken between us. It is only after a quar- 
 ter of an hour that we take up our last talk 
 at the point where we left it. If we saw 
 each other oftener there would be no ice at 
 all. What do you like better, the end or 
 the beginning of our meetings ? 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 February 17, 1843. 
 Perhaps you ought to give me credit for 
 all my efforts to resemble you. I cannot 
 understand your attitude toward me to-day. 
 Anyhow, I have noticed for a long time that 
 you love me better from afar. But let us 
 not talk of this now. I wish to say to you 
 only that I make no reproaches to you, that 
 I am not displeased with you, and if I am 
 at times sad, it does not mean that I am 
 angry. You have made me a promise, you 
 know that I will not forget it. I do not 
 know if I will remind you of it. There is 
 nothing I detest so much as quarrelling, and 
 I should have to quarrel in order to give 
 you memory. I wish that you should think 
 
64 LETTtRS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 a little of me, and especially that we should 
 think together. Good-by; I am charmed 
 that the pins have pleased you. I feared you 
 might disdain them ; but despite the pleas- 
 ure which I would have to see you wear 
 them, do not put on the blue shawl. You 
 have said sensibly that it is too showy. 
 
 L. 
 
 Paris, Monday night, February, 1843. 
 
 Is it not a great folly on your part to wish 
 to appoint fixed dates for our promenades, 
 as if we could ever be sure of a day ? Was 
 I not right in saying : as often as you can ? 
 We must always suppose when there are 
 two days of fine weather, that there shall be 
 two months of rain afterward. You made 
 all sorts of thoughts come to me last night 
 at the opera, with your rainbow-colored 
 costume. But you need not be so coquet- 
 tish with me. I do not love you better in 
 rainbow than in black. 
 
 I know the superstition about knives and 
 sharp instruments, but not the superstition 
 about pins. I would have thought, on the 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 65 
 
 contrary, that pins were emblems of attach- 
 ment. That is why I selected them. Do 
 you remember that you would not let me 
 pick up yours ? This is one of my griev- 
 ances against you. I forgive them all to- 
 day, but I will find them all as revolting as 
 when they occurred when you shall have 
 added others to them. It is a great misfor- 
 tune not to be able to forget. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Thursday night, February, 1843. 
 I HAVE burned your letter, but I recall it 
 only too distinctly. It was very sensible, 
 perhaps too sensible, but it was very tender 
 too. I have been for a week so anxious to 
 see you that I regret now even our quarrels. 
 I am writing to you ; do you know why ? 
 In order to get angry because you will not 
 answer, and anything is better than the 
 discouragement in which you have left me. 
 Nothing is more absurd ; we were right to 
 say farewell. You and I understand so well 
 reasonable things that we should act most 
 reasonably. But there is happiness only in 
 5 
 
66^ LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 folly and dreams. I never believed before 
 that our quarrels could endure. But it is 
 ten days now since we parted in a manner 
 almost solemn, which has frightened me. 
 Were we more angry than usual, did we 
 love each other less ? There was between 
 us that day certainly something which I 
 cannot recall distinctly, but which had not 
 existed before. Little accidents come after 
 big ones. Good-by ; answer me. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Thursday morning, February, 1843. 
 
 Have you reflected on the fact that it is 
 an admirable invention to place in a beauti- 
 ful palace pictures and statues, and let peo- 
 ple walk among them ? Unfortunately, this 
 beautiful place is to be closed. Are you 
 not sorry ? Believe me, let us say good-by 
 together to all these old statues. Saturday 
 is an admirable day, for only Englishmen 
 come then, and they are not troublesome to 
 those who like to look at pictures. What 
 think you of Saturday, that is, after to-mor- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 6/ 
 
 row ? It will be the last Saturday. This 
 word " last " grieves me. Then, Saturday, I 
 will wait for you at two o'clock in front of 
 the Joconde, unless the weather be horrible. 
 Why do you use paper so small, and why 
 do you write to me only three lines, two of 
 which are to quarrel with me ? What mat- 
 ters it if one live faster, provided one live hap- 
 pier ? Is it not better to have reminiscences 
 than years which one cannot remember ? 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Paris, February, 1843. 
 
 Do you not admire, as I do, that strange 
 coincidence — I shall not say sympathy, I do 
 not wish to displease you — of our thoughts ? 
 Do you remember that formerly we made 
 an experiment almost as miraculous, and 
 recently, near a stove in the Spanish Mu- 
 seum, you read in my mind as, quickly as I 
 thought ? I have suspected for some time 
 that there was something diabolical in you. 
 I am reassured when I think that I saw your 
 two feet. They are not cloven. Yet you 
 
68 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 might have hidden from me a small hoof 
 under your boots. Pray reassure me. 
 Good-by. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Paris, February 19, 1843. 
 Fortunately it is the post-office which 
 made me wait so long for your letter. Al- 
 though I suffered from this tardiness, I did 
 not accuse you for a single moment. I am 
 glad to say this to you in order that you may 
 know that I am curing myself of my faults, 
 as you are of yours. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Paris, February 27, 1843. 
 The verb of which you are so much afraid 
 has always a very sweet sound, even if it 
 be accompanied by all the adverbs which 
 you know so well how to twist around it. 
 You frightened me, dear friend, when you 
 said that you dared not write, and that you 
 would have no longer the courage to speak. 
 You say the reverse of this when we are 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 69 
 
 together. Will not the result be that you 
 will neither speak nor write to me ? You 
 were angry with me, you said. Was it just, 
 and had I deserved it ? Had I not your 
 promise ? I am beginning to know you, 
 and that is, I think, what saddens me so 
 often. There is in you a mixture of oppo- 
 sitions and of contradictions so strange that 
 it would enrage a saint. 
 
 LVI, 
 
 Thursday, March i, 1843. 
 Saturday, then. It is a long time since 
 we have had a quarrel. Do you not think it 
 preferable rather than our anger of former 
 times ? You still have a defect : that of 
 making yourself so scarce. We see each 
 other hardly once in a fortnight. Each time 
 there is a new crust of ice to be broken. I 
 am to you like an old opera which you need 
 to forget in order to see again with pleasure. 
 I, on the contrary, would love you more if 
 I saw you more. Prove to me that I am 
 wrong, and appoint a day when I can see 
 you soon. 
 
70 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 LVII. 
 
 V Ksxs, Friday morning, March 13, 1843. 
 Here is your cravat. It was found Satur- 
 day in the antechamber of His Royal High- 
 ness Monseigneur le Due de Nemours. No- 
 body asked for an explanation of its presence 
 in my pocket. I would have sent it sooner if 
 I had not wished to add the desire of regain- 
 ing your property to that of your sending 
 news of yourself to me. I perceive that 
 although the first desire was very vivid in 
 you it could not triumph over the indiffer- 
 ence of your second desire. Why are you 
 so afraid of the cold ? Reply quickly. 
 
 Lvni. 
 
 Paris, March 14, 1843. 
 It is a crime not to take advantage of the 
 beautiful weather. What think you of a 
 walk to-morrow, Thursday ? You should 
 be the first to speak of it, but you do not. 
 We must go to salute the first leaves. I 
 think also of the influence which the sun- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN fl 
 
 light has on your humor. I should like to 
 try it, I love you in all sorts of weather. 
 Good-by. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Paris, Saturday night, March, 1843. 
 Not the least trace of repentance in your 
 letter. I regret the amber pipe which you 
 had selected. There is something particu- 
 larly agreeable in carrying often to my mouth 
 a gift from you. But let it be as you 
 wish. I say this very often, and always with- 
 out reward for my resignation. I envy the 
 fate of women, who have nothing to do but 
 to make themselves beautiful and prepare 
 for the effect which they want to produce 
 upon others. Others is an ugly word, but it 
 preoccupies you more than me. I am very 
 angry with you without knowing the cause 
 of it ; but there must be a redl cause, for I 
 could not be in the wrong. It seems to me 
 that you become more selfish day by day. 
 In " us" you find only" you." The more I 
 think of this the sadder it is. We are so dif- 
 ferent that we can hardly understand each 
 
72 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 other. Good-by. I hope to see you Tues- 
 day. I hope to see you in a better humor. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Monday night, March 21, 1843. 
 If I have pained you I am as repentant as 
 I can be, but I hope that I have not given you 
 as much pain as I felt. You have often re- 
 proached me for being indifferent; I sup- 
 pose you meant only that I was not demon- 
 strative. When I am not myself, the reason 
 is that I suffer much. Admit that after so 
 long an acquaintance with me it is sad to 
 think that you mistrust me. Good-by. No 
 more quarrels. I shall try to be more rea- 
 sonable. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 March, 1843. 
 I WAS as tired as if I had walked four or 
 five leagues, but the fatigue was so agreeable 
 that I would like to feel it again. All was 
 so successful that although I am accus- 
 tomed to the success of a well-laid plan, I 
 share your astonishment. To be so free and 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 73 
 
 SO far away from the world, is it not amus- 
 ing ? Do you know why I took only one 
 flower from that bunch of hyacinths so 
 pretty and so white ? The reason is that I 
 wished to keep some for another occasion. 
 You ask if I believe in the soul. Not too 
 much. Nevertheless, when I reflect upon 
 certain things, I find an argument in favor 
 of that hypothesis. Here it is : How could 
 two inanimate substances give and receive a 
 sensation through a union which would be 
 insipid were it not for the idea that is at- 
 tached to it ? This is a very pedantic phrase 
 to say that when two people who love each 
 other kiss each other they feel something 
 else than the sensation of kissing the soft- 
 est satin. But the argument has its value. 
 We shall talk of metaphysics if you wish 
 next time. It is a subject which I like a 
 great deal because one may not exhaust it. 
 
 LXII. ' 
 
 Friday, March 29, 1843. 
 If you knew how sweet you were the 
 other day you would never consent to be 
 
74 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 vexing, as you are sometimes. I would have 
 liked you to be still more frank ; neverthe- 
 less, it seemed as if your thoughts were all 
 revealed to me, although your phrases were 
 more complicated than the Apocalypse. I 
 wish you had a hundredth part of the pleas- 
 ure which I feel in seeing you think. There 
 are two persons in you. The better one is 
 all heart and all soul. The other is a pretty 
 statue well polished by fashion, well draped 
 in silk and cashmere ; a charming automaton, 
 the springs of which are skilfully arranged. 
 When one imagines that he is talking to 
 the first he is talking to the statue. Why 
 should that statue be so pretty ? 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Friday night, April %th. 
 
 I HAVE had a horrible headache for two 
 days, and you write me all sorts of wicked 
 things. The worst is that you have no re- 
 morse, and I hoped that you would have 
 some. I am so downhearted that I have 
 not the strength even to scold you. What 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 75 
 
 is the miracle of which you are talking ? 
 The only possible miracle would be to make 
 you less stubborn, and I will never achieve 
 that. It is too far beyond my power. I 
 shall have to wait, therefore, until Monday 
 to guess the enigma. 
 
 Your idea from Wilhelm Meister is pretty 
 enough, but it is only a sophism after all. 
 One might say with as much exactness thatl 
 the memory of a pleasure is a variety of j 
 sorrow. That is true, especially of half 
 pleasures. I mean those which are not 
 shared. You shall have your portrait in 
 Turkish dress. I placed a narghile in your 
 hand for local color. When I say that you 
 shall have it, I mean if you pay. If you 
 are not graceful about it I shall revenge 
 myself terribly. Somebody asked me to- 
 day for a drawing for an album which is to 
 be sold in the interest of the earthquake's 
 victims, and I will give your portrait. 
 
76 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Paris, April 15, 1843. 
 You do not comprehend my generosity in 
 sacrificing myself to you. You ought to 
 thank me in order to encourage me. But 
 you believe that all is due to you. Why is 
 it that we agree so rarely in our points of 
 view ? You did well not to talk of Catul- 
 lus. He is not an author that one should 
 read in Passion week. One sees very well 
 in his work what love was in Rome fifty 
 years before Christ. , It was a little better 
 than love at Athens in the time of Pericles. 
 Already women were something. They 
 made men do silly things. Their power 
 came, I think, not from Christianity, as it 
 is usual to say, but through the influence 
 which the barbarians of the North exercised 
 on Roman society. The Germans were 
 exalted. They liked minds. The Romans 
 cared only for the body. It is true that for a 
 long time women had no minds. They have 
 not any now in the Orient, and it is a great 
 pity. You know how two minds talk to each 
 other. But yours hardly listens to mine. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 77 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Paris, May 4, 1843. 
 I CANNOT sleep at all and am in a dog's 
 humor. Your distinction between the two 
 " Ego " is very pretty. It proves your pro- 
 found selfishness. You love only yourself, 
 and that is why you love a little the Ego 
 which resembles yours. It scandalized me 
 often day before yesterday. I was thinking 
 of it sadly while you were preoccupied by 
 nothing but contemplating the trees in your 
 own way. Every time we see each other 
 you are armed with an envelope of ice which 
 melts only after a quarter of an hour. At 
 my return, you shall have amassed a veritable 
 iceberg. Well, it is better not to think of 
 evil before it occurs. Let us dream always. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Wednesday, June, 1843. 
 Why should we not see each other Fri- 
 day? If it should not inconvenience you, I 
 would have the greatest pleasure. I hope 
 that the weather will be fine. You promised 
 to tell me something which must be too im- 
 
78 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 portant to be postponed. I will take a Span- 
 ish book and we will read, if you wish. You 
 have not said if you would pay for my les- 
 sons. The time not spent in telling what 
 you call silly things seems to me to be so 
 badly spent that I ought at least to earn 
 something. Could I not give you Spanish 
 lessons at your house? I would call myself 
 Don Furlano and would have a' letter of in- 
 troduction to you from one of your friends 
 who would describe me as a victim of Espar- 
 tero's tyranny. 
 
 I am beginning to find unbearable our de- 
 pendence on sunlight and rain. You prom- 
 ise often to invent something. You pretend 
 to govern, but in truth you do your work 
 badly. I can judge only imperfectly your 
 possibilities and your impossibilities. If 
 you meditated on the petty problem of our 
 seeing each other as often as possible you 
 would do a good act. I have many other 
 things to tell you, but I should have to re- 
 call our quarrel, and I should like to annihi- 
 late the memory of it. Good-by. Think 
 of your statue and animate it without tor- 
 menting it. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 79 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Paris, June 14, 1843. 
 
 I AM glad to learn that you are better, and 
 very sorry that you have wept. You must 
 understand always what I say. You see 
 anger or wickedness where there is only sad- 
 ness. I do not remember what 1 said to 
 you, but I am sure that I wished to say noth- 
 ing save that you had grieved me a great 
 deal. All the quarrels which occur between 
 us prove to me that we are very different, 
 and as there is a great affinity between us 
 in spite of this difference, there results nec- 
 essarily a struggle which makes me suffer. 
 When I tell you that I suffer, it is not a re- 
 proach that I am addressing to you. 
 
 Your system of government is always the j 
 same; you will always make me rage after I 
 having made me very happy at times. 
 Somebody who is more philosophical than 
 I would take the happiness when it comes, 
 and not worry about the unhappiness. It 
 is the fault of my temperament to recall all 
 the evil that has passed when I am suffer- 
 
8o LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 ing. But I recall also all the happiness 
 when I am happy. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Paris, Saturday evening, June 23, 1843. 
 Since you did not catch cold, I can recall 
 with happiness all the moments we spent 
 together. I think, as you do, that we were 
 on that day more perfectly — if perfectly 
 admits a more or a less — happy than ever. 
 Why was it? We said or did nothing ex- 
 traordinary. We did not quarrel. Observe, 
 if you please, that it is from you always 
 that quarrels come. I have yielded to you 
 on an infinity of points, and was not in a 
 bad humor for that. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Paris, July 9, 1843. 
 You do well to forget quarrels if you can. 
 They are bigger when examined too closely. 
 It is better to dream as long as possible, and 
 as we can have always the same dream, it 
 resembles a reality. It is a pity that we 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN Si 
 
 should not meet the day after a quarrel. I 
 am sure that we should be perfectly amiable. 
 You have promised to appoint a day for me, 
 but you have not thought of it. Or you 
 have thought that it would be an indecorous 
 thing to do. It is that preoccupation in you 
 which is so often a cause of quarrel between 
 us. I may have said that you constrained 
 yourself a great deal to please me ; I am in- 
 cessantly in a rage against this constraint 
 which, even in its most agreeable element, 
 conceals always a sad thought. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Paris, July, 1843. 
 I WENT to the country yesterday, and re- 
 turned very tired and very sad. Tired be- 
 cause I was bored, and sad because I was 
 thinking that it was a beautiful day lost. 
 Do you ever make such a reproach to your- 
 self? I hope not. At times I believe that 
 you feel all that I feel ; then drawbacks come, 
 and I believe in nothing. 
 6 
 
8? LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Thursday evening, July 28, 1843. 
 You have guessed my thoughts well 
 enough, perhaps, but not entirely. You 
 could never divine them all. I change them 
 so often that what is true in one moment 
 ceases to be true a few moments after. You 
 are wrong to accuse yourself. You have, I 
 think, no other reproach against yourself 
 than those which I make to you. You are 
 wrong to accuse me of not wanting to see 
 you. I never said a word about it. There is 
 another thing which we might do. Not write 
 a word to each other during my trip, and 
 not meet at my return. That is reasonable 
 enough, but hard to execute. When I am 
 not thinking of your letter, do you know 
 what I would like ? I would like to see you 
 once again. Perhaps you would have no ob- 
 jections to saying good-by to me Saturday. 
 I am perhaps wrong to suggest this. God 
 knows in what mood you are ! After all, 
 you can say yes or no. I promise never to 
 be cross again. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 83 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Paris, Thursday night, August 2, 1843. 
 How ingenious you are in taking enchant- 
 ment from others and from yourself. I say 
 enchantment, perhaps wrongly, for I do not 
 think that marmots have any. You were one 
 of these pretty animals before Brahma sent 
 your soul into a woman's body. In truth, 
 you wake up sometimes, and, as you say 
 yourself, to quarrel. Be good and graceful 
 as you know how to be. In spite of my bad 
 humor, I prefer to see you with your grand, 
 indifferent airs, rather than not see you at 
 all. Good-by. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Paris, August 5, 1843. 
 1 WAS waiting for a letter from you with 
 great impatience, and the more time it took 
 to come, the more I expected evidences of 
 second movements and their ugly conse- 
 quences. As I was prepared for all sorts of 
 insults from you, your letter seemed better 
 
S4 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 than it would have seemed in any othe 
 moment. You say that you were happy 
 too, and this word effaces all the others tha 
 precede and follow. It is the best thing yoi 
 have said to me for a long time ; it is almos 
 the only time when I felt that your heart wa: 
 not different from others. What a radian 
 promenade ! 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Vezklay, August 8, 1843. 
 
 I THANK you for having written a word t< 
 me before my departure. It is the inten 
 tion which pleased me, not the expression o 
 your letter. You say extraordinary things 
 If you thought half of the things that yoi 
 say, it would be wiser for us never to mee 
 again. Your affection for me is only a sor 
 of mind's play. You are one of those chillj 
 women of the North ; you live only by th( 
 head. What I could say to you, you woulc 
 not understand. You can divine my thought: 
 sometimes, but you will never understanc 
 them. 
 
 What is certain is, that we had formed o 
 
LETTERS TO. AN UNKNOWN 85 
 
 each other an idea probably very different 
 from that which we have now. If we knew 
 then how much we were to vex each other, 
 do you think that we would have ever met? 
 It is frightfully cold. I have to write a 
 ream of official prose, and I quit you the 
 more easily because the things I would say 
 to you are not full of tenderness. I am as 
 discontented with myself as with you. You 
 would be amiable if you wrote to me at 
 Dijon. Especially if you found under your 
 pen something less brutal than your last let- 
 ter. At Dijon, paste restante, and do not 
 forget my titles and qualities ! 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 AVALLON, August 14, 1843. 
 In general I do not like my own society ; 
 but when I am sad without good reason I 
 am pleased by complete solitude. I was in 
 this mood during my last days at Vezelay. I 
 walked on the terrace and philosophized on 
 the Ego and on Providence, if there be a 
 Providence. I thought of you also, and more 
 agreeably than of me. But that thought was 
 
86 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 not the gayest, because as soon as it came 
 it occurred to me how happy I would be to 
 see you here in this unknown corner. And 
 then — and then all ended with this othei 
 thought, more despairing, that you were 
 very far away, that it was not easy to see 
 you, and not certain that you would wish 
 to be seen. 
 
 My presence at Vezelay has mystified the 
 population. Considerable groups formed 
 themselves around me wherever I went. 
 This attention bored me much, and I wished 
 I had a janissary to disperse the curious. 
 Here I came to see an old uncle whom I 
 hardly knew. I had to remain with him for 
 two days. I do not like relatives. They 
 compel one to be familiar with people whom 
 one never saw. My uncle is a good man, 
 not too provincial, and perhaps I might 
 think him amiable if we had two ideas in 
 common. Women here are as ugly as in 
 Paris. Moreover, their ankles are as big as 
 posts. 
 
 I send you an owl's feather which I found 
 in a hole of the church. The former ownei 
 of the feather and I met for an instant. We 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 8/ 
 
 were equally frightened by our unexpected 
 meeting. The owl was less brave than I, 
 and flew. It had a formidable bill and 
 frightful eyes, besides two feathers shaped 
 like horns. I send you this feather in order 
 that you should admire its softness and be- 
 cause I have read in a book of magic that 
 when a man gives to a woman an owl's 
 feather and she places it under her pillow 
 she dreams of him. Will you tell me your 
 dream ? Good-by. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Saint-Lupicin, August 15, 1843. 
 
 Six hundred metres above the level 
 of the sea. In the middle of an 
 ocean of agile and famished fleas. 
 
 You practise the axiom that language is 
 given to man to conceal his thoughts. Fortu- 
 nately for you, your postscriptum disarmed 
 me. Why do you say in German what you 
 think in French? Is it because you think it 
 in German ; that is, do not think it at all? I 
 
88 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 do not wish to believe it. But there are in 
 you things that irritate me extremely. 
 
 Saint-Lupicin is in the mountains of the 
 Jura. It is very ugly, dirty, and full of fleas. 
 I think often that if railways were better we 
 might go together to such a place and make 
 it beautiful. There is an immense quantity 
 of flowers here, and the air is so pure that 
 the human voice can be heard at a distance 
 of three miles. To prove to you that I am 
 thinking of you, here is a little flower which 
 I picked up in my walk under thp setting 
 sun. 
 
 What are you doing? What are you 
 thinking of? You will never tell me what 
 you are thinking of really, and it is folly for 
 me to ask you. I cannot become accus- 
 tomed to my solitude. It is more painful 
 this year than ever. It seems to me that if 
 I were in prison I would be more comfort- 
 able than I am running through the country. 
 I regret my walks. I have no desire to go 
 to Italy. It is an invention of yours. Your 
 letter pleased me at times, and at others en- 
 raged me. I read between the lines at one 
 moment the softest things, at other moments 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 89. 
 
 only chilliness. Nothing but the postscrip- 
 tum satisfies me. I saw it late. It is placed 
 at such a great distance from the rest of the 
 letter! 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Paris, September, 1843. 
 
 Is it true now that we shall not see each 
 other again? We quitted each other with- 
 out speaking, without looking at each other, 
 almost. I felt a sort of calm happiness 
 which is not usual to me, the other day. It 
 seemed to me for a few moments that I de- 
 sired nothing more. Now, if we can get that 
 happiness again, why should we refuse it? It 
 is true that we can quarrel again, but it has 
 happened so often. What is the memory of 
 a quarrel in comparison with that of making 
 up ! If you think half as much of all this as 
 I do, you must be desirous of going on one 
 of our walks again. Saturday, if you wish, 
 or Tuesday, we might meet. I had per- 
 suaded myself that you would be the first 
 to talk of it. I was mistaken. 
 
go LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Paris, September, 1843. 
 You are wrong to repent for what you 
 have done ; I was wrong to wish you to be 
 different. Pray believe that I have not 
 changed. I regret having left you as I did, 
 but there are moments when one cannot be 
 cool. I should like to see you now in order 
 to regain one of our beautiful dreams of this 
 summer and say good-by to you for a long 
 time, leaving a soft and tender impression. 
 You will find this idea absurd. Yet it pur- 
 sues me, and I cannot forbear from telling it 
 to you. Refuse, you will do well, perhaps. 
 I think I will have enough control over my- 
 self not to be angry. What you decide will 
 be well. I can only promise you my best in- 
 tentions to be calm and resigned. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Avignon, September 2gth. 
 It is a long time since I have received 
 news from you, and almost as long a time 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 9I 
 
 since I have written to you. But I am ex- 
 cusable. My trade is most tiresome. I have 
 to walk or run by day and write a dozen pages 
 of prose by night. 
 
 The country that I am traversihg is ad- 
 mirable, but the people in it are excessively 
 stupid. Nobody opens his mouth except to 
 praise himself. There is no appearance here 
 of the tact which makes the gentleman, and 
 which I found with so much pleasure among 
 the common people of Spain. Barring this, 
 it is impossible to see a country which re- 
 sembles Spain more. The workingmen lie 
 down in the shade or drape themselves with 
 their mantles with an air as tragic as that of 
 the Andalusians. The odor of garlic and oil 
 is mingled everywhere with that of oranges 
 and jessamine. The streets are covered with 
 canvas during the day, and the women have 
 little, well-shod feet. 
 
 September y^th. — I sprained my foot last 
 night. I am writing to you in a state of im- 
 patience hard to describe. If I were com- 
 pelled to spend five or six days more here, 
 I do not know what would become of me. 
 I think I would prefer to be seriously ill 
 
92 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 rather than to be stopped by such a little 
 thing. 
 
 Avignon is full of churches and palaces, all 
 surmounted by high towers. The palace of 
 the Popes is a model of middle-age fortifica- 
 tion. This shows what amiable security 
 reigned in the land in the thirteenth or four- 
 teenth century. In the palace of the Popes 
 you ascend a hundred steps of a tortuous 
 stairway, theft find yourself suddenly in 
 front of a wall. You turn your head and 
 see, fifteen feet above you, the continuation 
 of the stairway which you cannot reach with- 
 out a ladder. There are also subterranean 
 rooms which were used by the Inquisition. 
 They show you the furnaces where the irons 
 were heated to torture the heretics. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Toulon, October 2d. 
 My journey lengthens while the days 
 shorten. It is impossible to see anything 
 dirtier and prettier than Marseilles, whence 
 I have just come. Dirty and pretty fit the 
 women of Marseilles perfectly. All have 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 93 
 
 beautiful black eyes, beautiful teeth, small 
 feet and imperceptible ankles. These little 
 feet wear cinnamon stockings, the color of 
 the mud of Marseilles. Their gowns are 
 badly cut. Their beautiful black hair owes 
 the greater part of its lustre to tallow. Add' 
 to this an atmosphere of garlic mingled with 
 rancid oil vapor, and you may represent to 
 yourself the beauty of Marseilles. What a 
 pity it is that there should be nothing per- 
 fect in the world ! Well, the Marseilles 
 women are ravishing in spite of everything. 
 I need a letter from you to reanimate me. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Paris, Friday morning, November 3, 1843. 
 What is it that prevents you from being 
 frank, and makes you seek for the most ex- 
 traordinary lies in order to conceal a word 
 of truth which would please me so much ? 
 Among the good sentiments of which you 
 speak there is one, you say, which I do not 
 understand ; and as you do not try to make me 
 understand it, I cannot even divine it. As 
 for the two others, I am not more skilful. 
 
94 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Do you believe in the devil? If he frightens 
 you, take care that he does not carry you 
 away. If the devil has nothing to do with 
 the case, as I imagine, there remains the 
 question whether one harms anybody. I 
 tell you my catechism. I have never tried 
 to convert any one, but no one has been able 
 to convert me. You address to me re- 
 proaches much more severe than those which 
 I make to you. Sometimes I yield to sad- 
 ness and to impatience. I charge you with 
 nothing except that lack of frankness which 
 places me in an attitude of mistrust almost 
 continual, forced as I am to seek for your 
 thought under a disguise. If I were con- 
 vinced of what you said the other day, I 
 would be very miserable, for I could not en- 
 dure grieving you. I do not know what 
 your thoughts are, what your sentiments are ; 
 write to me frankly at least once. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Paris, November i6, 1843. 
 You were so good and so graceful that I 
 would forgive you, I think, a return to bad 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 95 
 
 humor, provided you said your walk did 
 you no harm. I slept all day, in this half 
 somnolence that you like. If I were not ac- 
 customed to think aloud in your presence, 
 I should be almost tempted to be angry 
 always, for you are so amiable then that 
 one may not repent for having caused you 
 grief. However, I recall only the moments 
 when we had the same thoughts and when 
 it seemed to me that you forgot my impor- 
 tunity and my conceit. I suppose that you 
 enjoyed yourself at your ball yesterday. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday night, November 22, 1843. 
 It is difficult for me to think that your 
 stubbornness is involuntary. Even if it 
 were, you would be in the wrong. What is 
 the result of it ? By giving with bad grace 
 you deprive of merit the sacrifice which you 
 are making. You feel the pain of this sac- 
 rifice the more because you have not the 
 consolation to think that the merit of it is ap- 
 preciated. To speak as you do, you give me 
 double remorses. I have told you this more 
 
96 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 than once. You judge me badly. It is true 
 that we have different temperaments and can 
 never judge of things in the same manner. 
 How do you want me to quarrel on the sub- 
 ject: " Who loves the better?" The first 
 thing to do would be to agree on the mean- 
 ing of the verb, and that we never shall. 
 
 It is better for us to quarrel than not to 
 meet. This seems to me to be proved. 
 When shall we quarrel ? 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Paris, December 13, 1843. 
 We quitted each other in anger; but 
 when I reflect calmly upon it, I regret no- 
 thing that I said, unless it be the vivacity of 
 several words, for which I beg your pardon. 
 We should have seen sooner how contrary 
 were our sentiments about everything. The 
 concessions which we made to each other 
 had no other result than to make us more 
 miserable. I have made you suffer a great 
 deal in order to prolong an illusion which I 
 should not have conceived. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 97 
 
 Forgive me, I pray you, for I have suf- 
 fered like you. I wish I could leave you 
 better memories of me. I hope that you 
 will attribute to circumstances the sorrow 
 which I may have caused you. I was never 
 with you as I would have liked to have 
 been, or rather, as I wish to appear to you. 
 I have had too much confidence in myself. 
 Perhaps you will care to recollect only the 
 happy moments which were passed in each 
 other's company. I cannot reproach you 
 for anything. You have tried to reconcile 
 two incompatible things and you have not 
 succeeded. Must I not give you credit for 
 having tried in my favor to do the impos- 
 sible ? 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday night, 1844. 
 The clouds played a great part, perhaps, 
 in what happened between us. Once be- 
 fore, we quarrelled in stormy weather; this 
 is because our nerves are stronger than we. 
 I wish to see you and to know how you are 
 morally. What do you think of making 
 to-morrow the promenade which we missed 
 
 7 
 
9* LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 yfesterday ? Your pride will say no, but I 
 am appealing to your heart. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Paris, Saturday night, January 15, 1844. 
 I AM sorry that you are ill. But you will 
 permit me to believe only what I can believe 
 of the manner of your catching cold. This 
 accident seldom keeps one in bed ; still more 
 sfeldom does it keep one in bed as long as 
 it keeps you. All your illnesses have hap- 
 pened too opportunely not to be a little 
 suspicious to me. Formerly you were more 
 frank. You simply wrote a page of re- 
 proaches and said that you were angry. 
 Now you have another system. You write 
 little notes which are very pretty and co- 
 quettish and say that you are ill or that you 
 have a cold. I think I preferred your 
 other process. I hope to meet you in bet- 
 ter humor Tuesday. You treat me like the 
 sun, which comes out only once a month. 
 Good-by ; I am not very well pleased with 
 you. A month without seeing you is too 
 long. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 99 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Paris, February 5, 1844. 
 
 You reproach me for my harshness, and, 
 perhaps, with some reason. It seems to me, 
 however, that it would be more just to say 
 anger or impatience. It might be well 
 enough on your part to think whether this 
 anger or this harshness be natural, or not. 
 
 Examine if it be not sad for me to find 
 myself incessantly at war with your conceit 
 and to see that it has the preference. I 
 confess that I understand not at all what 
 you say of your obedience, which puts 
 you in the wrong in everything and gives 
 you the merit of nothing. But you are 
 neither wrong nor meritorious. Recall for 
 a moment with frankness what you are to 
 me. You accept these promenades which 
 are my life ; but the coldness which makes 
 me despair more and more, the pleasure 
 which you have in making me desire what 
 you refuse obstinately, may excuse my 
 harshness. Your pride is only a variety of 
 selfishness. Will you put aside some day 
 
lOO LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 this great defect and be to me as amiable 
 as you can ? Good-by. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Paris, March 12, 1844. 
 Next Thursday, at one o'clock, I shall be 
 again an ordinary biped ; is it too much to 
 expect of you that you shall send me a few 
 tender words ? 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Thursday night, March 15, 1844. 
 My election as a member of the French 
 Academy has pleased me because I expected 
 to be defeated. My mother, who had been 
 suffering from rheumatism, was cured at 
 once. The greater is my desire to see you. 
 Come and see if I love you more or less, as 
 soon as you can. 
 
 XC. 
 
 March 17, 1844. 
 I THANK you for your compliments, but 
 I want more. I want to see you. Why do 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN loi 
 
 you weep ? The forty seats of the French 
 Academy were not worth a small tear. 
 There were members who blackballed me 
 seven times and who say now that they were 
 my warmest partisans. At least you and I 
 are sure of each other, and when you tell 
 me untruths I can reproach you for them, 
 and you know how to get forgiveness for 
 them. Love me, venerable as I am. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Paris, March 26, 1844. 
 I FEAR that my discourse may have seemed 
 to you long. I hope it was not as cold in 
 your corner as in mine. I am still shiver- 
 ing. We should have taken a short walk to- 
 gether after the ceremony. Did you like 
 the orator better in his costume ? Good- 
 by; I was very glad to see you. I had 
 much trouble to find you hidden behind 
 your neighbor's bonnet. 
 
102 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Thursday night, March, 1844. 
 Why should there be pride, that is selfish- 
 ness, between us ? You were so amiable 
 this morning that I do not wish to quarrel 
 with you. Yet I am in a terrible humor. 
 I do not know if it would be well for you 
 to go out to-morrow; I fear the responsi- 
 bility of giving you advice on that point, 
 and prefer that you should decide. Observe 
 my humility. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Strasburg, April 30, 1844. 
 I SPENT a day delivering the most sublime 
 eloquence to make the municipal council 
 restore an old church. They say that they 
 need tobacco more than monuments and will 
 make a shop of my church. I am glad to 
 find you so joyful. I am in a horrible 
 humor. The cathedral which I loved ap- 
 pears ugly to me. You are right to like 
 Paris. It is, after all, the only city where 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I03 
 
 one may live. I would like to believe in 
 your promise, but I know what to expect. 
 Thick ice shall have been formed between us. 
 You will not even recognize me. Good-by. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, August 3, 1844. 
 I SUPPOSE that you went to the country, 
 taking French leave in spite of your promise. 
 That is very amiable of you. I was naive 
 enough to expect something from you. It 
 is hard for one to change. I have to go out 
 of town for a month or two. If this gave 
 you remorse, or, better, the desire to see me, 
 you might make me forget my bad humor. 
 
 XCV. 
 
 Paris, August 19, 1844. 
 I SHALL not see you before January. 
 You should have thought of that before 
 your departure. When I say that you shall 
 not see me until next year, I mean that it 
 depends on you. While you are learning 
 Greek, / am studying Arabic. It is a dia- 
 
I04 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 bolical language and I will never know two 
 words of it. I went to dinner Sunday with 
 General Narvaez. There were only Spanish 
 women. One of them is trying to starve 
 herself for love and is dying slowly. This 
 mode of death will impress you as very 
 cruel. Good-by. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 ■ Paris, Monday, September, 1844. 
 
 It is evident that we cannot meet now 
 without quarrelling. We want the impos- 
 sible : you, that I should be a statue ; I, that 
 you should not be one. Every new proof 
 of this impossibility is cruel for both of 
 us. I regret all the grief that I have caused 
 you. I yield too often to my absurd impa- 
 tience. I might as well be angry because 
 ice is cold. 
 
 I hope that you forgive me now; I feel 
 no anger, but much sadness. Good-by, 
 since we can be friends only at a distance. 
 When we are old, perhaps we shall meet 
 again with pleasure. Meanwhile, in happi- 
 ness or unhappiness, remember me. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I05 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, September 6, 1844. 
 We spent so little time together that I 
 told you nothing that I wished to say. It 
 seems to me that I saw you in a dream. 
 You had not the air of knowing that I was 
 a reality. When shall we meet again ? 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Paris, September 14, 1844. 
 
 I AM not going to Africa. I shall be out 
 of town for a fortnight and return then to 
 Paris. I regard this change with impassibil- 
 ity. Perhaps you can guess why. 
 
 I do not see how you spend the twenty- 
 four hours of the day. I know how you use 
 sixteen of them, but I want details on eight. 
 Do you read Herodotus ? Good-by. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Poitiers, September 15, 1844. 
 You let ten entire days pass without 
 writing a line to me, and it is very wicked 
 
Io6 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 of you. I believe that you have enjoyed 
 yourself a great deal and I cannot forbear 
 from thinking that you enjoy yourself only 
 when you have the occasion to be a coquette. 
 I have led a very dull life since my departure 
 from Paris. Like Ulysses I have seen many 
 manners, men and things. Your memory 
 represents itself to me now in a multitude 
 of places, but I ally it specially with woods 
 and with museums. If you derive some 
 pleasure from occupying a place in my 
 memory you must think that I am not for- 
 getting you. I spend my time meditating 
 on our promenades. 
 
 C. 
 
 Parthenay, September 17, 1844. 
 Apparently I shall be in Paris before 
 you. To be there without you will seem 
 harder to me than to be running through 
 the fields as I am doing at present. I wish 
 to see you with an ardor which you cannot 
 understand. Will you deign to come ? I 
 try not to think of it, but cannot succeed. 
 In order to be prepared for my deceptions I 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I07 
 
 try to represent to myself your ladyship as 
 a statue with a cuirass. Good-by. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Perpignan, November x^h. 
 
 I HAVE been tormented by an absurd idea 
 which I dared not tell you. I was visiting 
 the arena at Nlmes with an architect of 
 the department who was explaining to me 
 at length the repairs which he had ordered, 
 when I saw at a distance of ten steps from 
 me a charming bird with a linen-gray body 
 and wings red, black, and white. This bird 
 was perched on a cornice and looked at me 
 fixedly. I interrupted the architect to ask 
 him the name of the bird. He is a great 
 sportsman and yet he had never seen a bird 
 like it. I went near it and it flew when I 
 tried to touch it. It stood a few steps fur- 
 ther, still gazing at me. Wherever I went 
 it followed me. Its flight was noiseless like 
 that of a nocturnal bird. 
 
 I returned to the arena the next day and 
 saw the bird again. I had brought bread 
 which I threw at it. It looked at it but 
 
Io8 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 would not touch it. I threw a big cricket, 
 thinking from the form of the bird's bill that 
 it ate insects, but it did not care for the 
 cricket. The most learned ornithologist of 
 the city told me that there were no birds of 
 that species in the land. At my last visit 
 to the arena I met my bird, forever attached 
 to my steps, to such an extreme that it went 
 with me into a narrow and dark corridor 
 where, being a day bird, it should not have 
 come. I remembered then that the Duchess 
 of Buckingham had seen her husband in the 
 form of a bird the day of his assassination, 
 and the idea came to me that you were, per- 
 haps, dead and that you had taken this 
 form to see me. In spite of me, this silly 
 idea annoyed me, and I assure you that I was 
 enchanted to see your letter bearing the date 
 of the day when I saw for the first time my 
 marvellous bird. I am writing to you from a 
 small room which is very cold. The servant 
 talks only Catalonian and understands me 
 only when I speak in Spanish. I have not 
 a book and know nobody. I went to the 
 fountain of Vaucluse, where I had a great 
 wish to inscribe your name ; but there were 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I09 
 
 SO many bad verses, so many Sophies and 
 Carolines that I did not wish to put your 
 name in such bad company. It is a very 
 savage place. There are only water and 
 rocks. The vegetation is reduced to a fig 
 tree which grew, I know not how, among 
 the stones, and two very elegant capillary 
 plants, a sample of which I send you. If 
 I do not find a letter from you at Tou- 
 louse I shall be mortally angry with you. 
 Good-by. 
 
 CII. 
 
 Paris, December 5, 1844. 
 I HAD sworn not to write to you, but I 
 do not think I could have kept my promise 
 much longer. I did not think that you 
 were ill. Our promenade had been so joy- 
 ful! I did not think it possible that you 
 might have a bad remembrance of it. Seem- 
 ingly, what irritates you is my being more 
 stubborn than you. That is a good reason 
 of which you should be glorious. I think, 
 however, that you should be ashamed of 
 yourself for having made me so. And then 
 
no LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 you say that I was harsh with you and you 
 ask if I did not realize it. Frankly, no. 
 Why did you not tell me if I was ? If I 
 was, I beg your pardon. It seems to me 
 that we parted without any expression of 
 grief from you. I thought you were as con- 
 fident, as intimate, as I was to you. If you 
 were angry, that does honor to your dis- 
 simulation. I shall bring to you the sketch 
 which I have made and also your portrait. 
 I have painted your angry eyes. Do not 
 believe that this is their ordinary expression. 
 I know a better one. When you pay me, 
 please recollect that I am not an ordinary 
 painter. It is not the work which you are 
 to pay for, but the trouble and the time. 
 Then, it is well always to be generous with 
 artists. 
 
 cm. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, February 7, 1845. 
 It was better than I expected. I spoke 
 at the Academy with rare calmness. I do 
 not know if my audience liked me, but I 
 liked it. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Friday, February 8, 1845. 
 Since you did not think me ridiculous all 
 is well. Why not to-morrow ? Otherwise 
 we should have to wait till Wednesday and 
 I have not the courage. We have so many 
 things to say to each other. 
 
 CV. 
 
 Toulouse, August 18, 1845. 
 You shall say that I was wrong to expect 
 you to think of me sooner than you have. I 
 cannot become accustomed to your ways. 
 You are never so near forgetting me as when 
 you have persuaded me that you are think- 
 ing of me. I should like to spoil you as you 
 desire, but I am in too bad a humor. I have 
 spent a day at a deputy's, and if I had the 
 ambition to be a politician that visit would 
 have made me change my mind. I prefer 
 the court of a despot rather than the house of 
 a deputy. Most despots wash their hands. 
 
112 LETTERS -TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 I would like to think that yours will be the 
 first friendly face that shall present itself to 
 me in Paris at my return. Unfortunately 
 it shall not be, and you shall wait until the 
 trees are leafless to return to Paris. Who 
 knows if you will not return as an English 
 woman ? Promise me that this shall not be, 
 that you shall not remain away too long and 
 that you shall not be worse than you are. 
 
 CVI. 
 
 Avignon, September 5, 1845. 
 I AM troubled with dizziness. While you 
 are eating melting peaches I am eating yel- 
 low ones, very tart and singular in taste. I 
 am eating figs of all colors. I am horribly 
 bothered at night and regret the society of 
 bipeds like me. I do not regard the provin- 
 cials as anybody. They are things very tire- 
 some to my eyes and foreign to the circle of 
 my ideas. These southerners are strange 
 people : at times I think they are witty, at 
 others I think they have only vivacity. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN II3 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Barcelona, November lo, 1845. 
 My apartment recalls to my mind the cara- 
 vansaries of Asia. It is more comfortable 
 here than in Andalusia, but the natives are 
 inferior to the Andalusians. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Madrid, November 18, 1845. 
 
 Thanks to the extreme slowness of the 
 people of this country, I began only to-day 
 to read the manuscripts which I came to 
 consult. An academic deliberation was 
 necessary to permit me to examine them, 
 and I cannot tell you the number of intrigues 
 which were indispensable in order to obtain 
 information of their existence. 
 
 This country has changed a great deal 
 since my last visit. Those whom I left 
 friends have become mortal enemies. Many 
 of my former acquaintances have become 
 great lords, and very insolent. Here people 
 talk aloud. Their frankness is very surpris- 
 ing, especially to me, whom you have accus- 
 8 
 
114 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 tomed to something else. You should go to 
 the other side of the Pyrenees in order to 
 take a lesson in veracity. 
 
 In spite of your infernal coquetry and of 
 your aversion to the truth, I like you better 
 than all the frank persons whom I meet here. 
 Do not take advantage of this avowal. 
 Good-by. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Paris, Monday, January 19, 1846. 
 You do not tell me the thing which would 
 interest me most ; that is, when I may see 
 you. This proves that you have no desire 
 to see me. Do you wish to walk out Wed- 
 nesday ? If you have the toothache, do 
 not come. If you have any other malady 
 I shall admit of no excuse, for I will not 
 believe in it. 
 
 ex. 
 
 Paris, June 10, 1846. 
 
 You are never so near being bad to me as 
 
 when you have just been kind and graceful. 
 
 You had promised to appoint a day soon. 
 
 But if I waited for you to keep your promises 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I15 
 
 the patience which Heaven gave me would 
 not suffice. The other day you were as 
 indifferent in saying good-by to me as in 
 greeting me. You were not thus the pre- 
 vious time. It is a curious phenomenon 
 that water which has been boiled freezes 
 more easily than cold water. You are an 
 illustration of that experiment in physics. 
 When you quitted me you had your pouting 
 attitude, so I expect that you shall be charm- 
 ing Wednesday. You will please me greatly 
 by coming. But pleasing me does not affect 
 you much. I will give you something. At 
 least, I wish to give you something, but you 
 have been so cruel to me that I do not know 
 if I will give it to you. Still, if you ask for 
 it, it is probable that I will yield, 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Dijon, July 29, 1846. 
 I EXPECTED to find a letter from you here, 
 but suppose you are enjoying yourself too 
 much to think of writing to me. What are 
 you doing, where are you ? I have the 
 spleen, perhaps because you have forgotten 
 
Il6 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 me. Why did you not write to me ? I 
 have reason to be furious. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 August lo, 1846. 
 On board a steamer, the name 
 of which I do not know. 
 
 Although you have given me the habit 
 of your negligence toward me, I cannot re- 
 frain from being anxious when I have no 
 news from you. I wish you would deign to 
 think of me as often as I think of you. I 
 do not doubt that you will enjoy yourself 
 a great deal where you are going, but if, 
 among your pleasures, the remembrance of 
 our promenades should come to you, you 
 would do a meritorious act by hastening 
 your return. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 Paris, August 18, 1846. 
 
 At my return here I feel more isolated and 
 
 sadder than in any of the cities which I have 
 
 quitted. I feel like an emigrant who returns 
 
 to his country and finds in it a new genera- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 17 
 
 tion. Alas! What I say will not make 
 you return an hour sooner. I should be 
 wiser to be resigned. When your gowns 
 shall have faded in the sea air, perhaps you 
 will think of me, but then I shall be at 
 Cologne, or perhaps at Barcelona. They 
 say that for a woman nothing is so agree- 
 able as to show pretty gowns. I cannot 
 offer to you joys equivalent to that. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 Paris, August 22, 1846. 
 Before your departure you seemed to be 
 in a great hurry to see me. I have com- 
 plained for a long time between " saying" 
 and ' ' doing ' ' in you. You spend your time so 
 happily, so agreeably, that you do not think, 
 even, of your return to Paris. You ask if it 
 would please me, which is wicked derision. 
 I am even lonelier here than when I travelled, 
 and yet am busy enough not to regret the 
 absence of people from Paris ; but I do not 
 care for them. It is our walks that I am 
 missing. If you liked them half as much as 
 you say, you would not make me wait so 
 
Il8 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 long for them. I have thought of them 
 during all the time of my voyage and think 
 of them now more than ever. You have 
 forgotten them. 
 
 CXV. 
 
 Paris, September 3, 1846. 
 I HAD imagined that you would prefer one 
 or two walks with me rather than eight days 
 of whitebait. But since you are not of the 
 same opinion, let your will be done ! I have 
 not the courage even not to write to you. 
 I would not write if I were less foolish. I 
 am running the risk of finding myself alone 
 on the blue Rhine. It shall be a little mis- 
 fortune. But I do not know if I will come 
 back this way. So we run the risk, I mean 
 I run the risk, of not meeting till November. 
 The responsibility rests on you. I know 
 that it will weigh lightly on you. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Metz, September 12, 1846. 
 I HAVE just arrived here after a sleepless 
 night in a stage-coach and my head is exces- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN II9 
 
 sively giddy. It seems to me that my 
 candles are turning on my table. A sail, 
 intermingled with wrecks, is announced for 
 to-morrow, but it does not prevent me from 
 sleeping. I shall probably write to you from 
 some German inn. I learn with a great deal 
 of pleasure that you are lonesome. I pre- 
 dicted this to you. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Bonn, September i8, 1846. 
 I HAVE been for six days in this beautiful 
 land of Rhenish Prussia, where civilization 
 is far advanced, except in the matter of beds, 
 which are always four feet long, while the 
 sheets are three feet long. I am leading a 
 German life ; that is, rising at five and going 
 to bed at nine, after four meals. Until the 
 present time this mode of life agreed with 
 me well enough and it did not harm me to 
 do anything but open my mouth and my 
 eyes. Only the German women have be- 
 come horribly homely since my last visit. I 
 have not been pleased by the monuments 
 
I20 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 I have seen ; German architects seem to me 
 to be worse than ours. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 SoissoNS, October lo, 1846. 
 
 It seems that you were in very bad humor 
 last Saturday, but you regained your seren- 
 ity Sunday, although there are small clouds 
 floating over your letter. To continue the 
 metaphor, I would like to see you some day 
 under fixed weather, without previous 
 storms. Unfortunately, it is a habit which 
 you have taken. We separate almost always 
 better friends than when we met. Let us 
 try, therefore, to have, one of these days, 
 the continuous amiability that I have hoped 
 for sometimes. It seems to me that it 
 would be better for us. 
 
 When were you at the Italian Opera ? 
 Was it Thursday, and were we near each 
 other without knowing it ? I should like 
 to have seen you with your court in order to 
 learn if you are in society as I wish you to 
 be. I expect to be in Paris Thursday night, 
 or Friday at the latest. If the weather be 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 121 
 
 fine Saturday, do you wish to go out for a 
 walk ? Good-by, dear friend, I thank you 
 for all the tenderness there is in your letter. 
 I try to forget the harshness that is in it. 
 I like to guess that under it you are all 
 heart and soul; believe that this appears in 
 spite of all your efforts at concealment. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 Paris, September 22, 1847. 
 The" Revue" troubles me a great deal 
 for " Don Pfedre." I should like to have 
 your opinion on this subject. The work 
 seems to me to have the disadvantage of 
 everything that is done at length and pain- 
 fully. I have given myself a great deal of 
 trouble for an exactness that none will 
 appreciate. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Saturday, February 26, 1848. 
 I AM becoming accustomed to the strange- 
 ness of things and reconciled with the con- 
 querors, who, stranger still, behave like gen- 
 
122 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 tlemen. There is now a strong tendency 
 toward order. If it continues I shall be- 
 come a republican. The only fault I find 
 with the new order of things is that I may 
 not be able to make a living in it and that 
 I am deprived of seeing you. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 Paris, March, 1848. 
 If misfortune comes to you, let us try to 
 console each other. Each day must bring 
 to us new griefs. We shall give to each 
 other the share of courage which we retain. 
 Shall we see each other to-morrow, or after ? 
 It seems to me that we have not met for a 
 century. Good-by. You were very ami- 
 able the other day and I regret that you 
 were not amiable for a longer time. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 Paris, March, 1848. 
 I THINK that you are too frightened. 
 Things are not worse than they were yes- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I23 
 
 terday, which does not mean that they are 
 right and that there is no danger. As for 
 your project of travel, it is difficult to give 
 advice. There are people who think that 
 Paris is safer than any provincial town. I 
 am of that opinion. If civil war should be- 
 gin I think it would be declared in the prov- 
 inces. There is great irritation in them al- 
 ready against the dictatorship of the capi- 
 tal. I do not believe that there is immediate 
 danger. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 Saturday, March n, 1848. 
 I AM anxious about your sore throat. 
 Take care of yourself and try to forget all 
 that is happening. I should like to have 
 something other than your shadow. I regret 
 that you retired so early. The happiness of 
 seeing you is as great under the Republic as 
 under the Monarchy. We must not be too 
 miserly. In what a strange world we are liv- 
 ing ! But the most important thing to say 
 to you is that I love you every day more 
 and more. 
 
124 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 Paris, March 13, 1848. 
 I HAD hoped that you would not go out of 
 town so quickly. I wrote to you yesterday, 
 expecting to see you to-day. You do not 
 tell me how long you intend to remain 
 away, drinking milk. I wish you were in 
 Paris with a new bonnet for Thursday's re- 
 ception at the Academy, where new bonnets 
 are to be rare, I fear, I make this request 
 in the academic interest. In mine, I count 
 on going out walking with you Saturday. 
 
 CXXV. 
 Paris, Wednesday, May 15, 1848. 
 All went well, because the rioters are so 
 foolish that, in spite of all the faults of the 
 Chamber, the latter was stronger than they. 
 There are no killed nor wounded. The 
 National Guard and the people have excel- 
 lent sentiments. All the chiefs of the mobs 
 have been arrested. I hope we shall meet 
 Saturday. I was present at very dramatic 
 scenes, which I will relate to you. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 125 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 June 27, 1848. 
 I RETURNED home this morning, after a 
 short campaign of four days which was with- 
 out peril for me, but wherein I saw all the 
 horrors of this time and of this country. I 
 do not know if it will ever be possible to 
 turn off the savagery wherein we fall so 
 often. Do not believe all that the news- 
 papers say of deaths and destructions. The 
 ravage is not as great as people say. These 
 are the most curious things which I saw : 
 
 1. The prison was guarded for several 
 hours by the National Guard and sur- 
 rounded by insurgents. They said to the 
 National Guard, ' ' Do not fire on us and we 
 shall not fire. Keep the prisoners." 
 
 2. I went into a house on the corner of 
 the Bastile Square to see the battle. It had 
 just been won by the insurgents. I asked 
 of the residents there, "Did they take much 
 from you ? ' ' They replied, ' ' Nothing was 
 stolen." 
 
 Add to this the fact that I took to the 
 
126 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 prison a woman who was cutting off the 
 heads of the soldiers with her kitchen knife 
 and a man whose arms were red with blood 
 from having washed them in wounds. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 Paris, July 2, 1848. 
 I HAVE great need of seeing you in order 
 to make up for the sad scenes of last week. 
 Paris is, and shall be, quiet for a long time. 
 I do not think that the social war is at an 
 end ; but a new battle as frightful seems to 
 me to be impossible. An infinity of circum- 
 stances, which may not occur again, led to 
 it. When you return you shall not find the 
 hideous traces which your imagination prob- 
 ably represents to you. What Paris lacks 
 the most is you. I am thinking of you in- 
 cessantly. I was thinking of you while I 
 looked at the deserted houses and the 
 battle. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 Paris, July 9, 1848. 
 You are like Antaeus, who regained 
 strength as soon as he touched the soil. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 27 
 
 You had no sooner reached your native 
 country than you fell again into old defects. 
 I asked you to tell me how long you in- 
 tended to remain out of town. A figure 
 was not difficult to write. But you prefer 
 to send three pages of circumlocutions 
 wherein I cannot understand anything. I 
 see that you spend your time most agree- 
 ably. In brief, I am much displeased by 
 your letter. Good-by. Write to me soon. 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 Paris, Monday, July 19, 1848. 
 You divine things perfectly when you 
 take the trouble and you have sent what I 
 asked for ; what matters it if it be a repeti- 
 tion? Am I not like the ex-king, Louis 
 Philippe ? Like him, ' ' I receive always with 
 renewed pleasure," etc. The truth is that 
 our chances of tranquillity are greatly in- 
 creased. It required several years of organi- 
 zation for the riots of June 23d to 26th. A 
 second representation of that bloody tragedy 
 seems impossible to me ; as long, at least, as 
 actual conditions are not materially changed. 
 
128 LETTKRS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 But let us quit politics. You cannot form 
 an idea of the pleasure that you would do 
 me by accepting my invitation to breakfast. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, August 5, 1848. 
 Have I translated for you a very pretty 
 ballad of a Greek who returns to his home 
 after a long absence and whom his wife does 
 not recognize ? Like Penelope she asks him 
 for details about his house ; he answers cor- 
 rectly, but she is not convinced ; she asks for 
 other details, which she obtains, and then 
 she recognizes him. All this is left to your 
 powers of divination. Good-by ; I am wait- 
 ing for news from you. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 Paris, August 12, 1848. 
 
 I CANNOT tell you how angry I am with 
 
 you. Apricots and prunes have gone out 
 
 of season and I expected the pleasure of 
 
 eating some with you. I am perfectly sure 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 29 
 
 that if you had really wished to come you 
 would be in Paris already. I am horribly 
 lonesome and I have a great desire to leave 
 the city without waiting for you. All that 
 I can do is to wait until August 2Sth, at 
 three o'clock — not an hour longer. 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 Paris, August 20, 1848. 
 The situation is much embroiled. It re- 
 sembles that of Rome during Catiline's con- 
 spiracy. Only there is no Cicero. The 
 citizen Proudhon has a great number of 
 adepts and his sheets are sold by the thou- 
 sand. All this is very sad. But the capital 
 point is whether you will be here August 
 25th. If there be a battle it will be won or 
 lost on that day. The leaves are beginning 
 to turn and to fall. I have been ill for sev- 
 eral days ; that is why I am sad, perhaps. I 
 need not tell you that I should be vexed to 
 die before our breakfast at Saint-Germain. 
 Good-by, write to me quickly. You ought 
 not to tease people as you do. 
 
 9 
 
I30, LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 Paris, August 23, 1848. 
 It was not amiable of you not to answer 
 sooner. I am still ill. I do not eat nor 
 sleep. However, I have to work, and it is 
 not in doing nothing that I am yawning. I 
 cannot understand why you stay away so 
 long. I can find no other explanation of 
 your sojourn among the savages than that 
 you have made some conquest there of which 
 you are proud. I have a good quarrel in 
 reserve for you. Shall it be Friday or Mon- 
 day ? It would not be prudent of you to 
 delay longer. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, N'ovember 5, 1848. 
 I HAVE been irritated against you, for 
 I need to see you. I have been, and am 
 still, very ill and frightfully sad. An hour 
 with you would cure me. You did not 
 even take the trouble to write something 
 amiable to me. I have to forgive you 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I31 
 
 always, but I wish you would do something 
 to deserve forgiveness. Will you do some- 
 thing to make up for my lonesomeness of a 
 fortnight ? I leave to your intelligence the 
 application of adequate damages. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 London, June i, 1850. 
 I SHALL not tell you much of my impres- 
 sions. Decidedly, Englishmen are individu- 
 ally stupid and collectively admirable. All 
 that may be done with money, common 
 sense and patience they do ; but they have 
 no more idea of the arts than my cat. We 
 are going to Hampton Court in order to 
 avoid the offers of suicide which the Lord's 
 day makes. All the women seem to me to 
 be made of wax. They wear bustles so 
 considerable that there is room on the Re- 
 gent Street sidewalk for only one woman. 
 I visited yesterday the new House of Com- 
 mons, which is a frightful monstrosity. I 
 never knew before what one could do with 
 absolute lack of taste and two million pounds 
 sterling. I fear to become a socialist by 
 
132 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 eating dinners that are too good, in gold 
 plate. But there is no probability of a revo- 
 lution here. The poor people are servile 
 unto strangeness. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 Salisbury, Saturday, June 15, 1850. 
 I HAVE enough of tMs country. I have 
 an indigestion of perpendicular architecture 
 and of the perpendicular manners of the 
 natives. I am particularly furious against 
 Oxford. One fellow had the insolence to 
 invite me to dinner. There was a fish of 
 four inches in a grand silver dish and a lamb 
 chop in another dish. All this served in 
 magnificent style, with potatoes in a carved 
 wood dish. But I was never so hungry. 
 This is an indication of the hypocrisy of the 
 people. They like to show to strangers 
 that they are moderate, and, provided they 
 lunch, do not dine. I have just made a 
 bull. I gave a half crown to a gentleman 
 in black who showed me the cathedral, and 
 then I asked him to give me the address of 
 a gentleman to whom the dean had written 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 133 
 
 a lettier of introduction for me. It happened 
 that the man to whom I gave the ha)f crown 
 and the man to whom the letter was ad- 
 dressed were the same person. He looked 
 silly for a while, and so did I ; but he kept 
 the money. My letter will go, God knows 
 when ! I have just been told that on the 
 Lord's day the post-office rests. The women 
 here wear hoops under their gowns. It is 
 impossible to see anything more ridiculous 
 than an English woman in a hoop. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 Basle, October lo, 1850. 
 Here I am in a model republican land 
 where there are neither custom-house officers 
 nor policemen, and where the beds are of 
 my size. Good-by; you must be, lazy as 
 you are, pleased because I write you so late, 
 since it will excuse you from the task of 
 replying to me. 
 
 CXXXVIII, 
 
 Paris, Monday, June 15, 1851. 
 I WENT out yesterday for the first time 
 to see the Spanish dancers at Princess M»- 
 
134 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 thilde's. They are mediocre. Moreover, 
 these ladies wore such a quantity* of crino- 
 line in the back and so much cotton in front 
 that it was evident civilization is invading 
 everything. I have just received your 
 cushion. You are really a very skilful work- 
 man. I would never have suspected it. 
 Good-by. I do not know how to thank you. 
 
 CXXXIX, 
 
 London, Saturday, July 22, 1851. 
 I AM sad at your departure. I have not 
 even the consolation of scolding you. Try 
 to return by the first days of August. The 
 Crystal Palace is a great Noah's Ark, mar- 
 vellous by the singularity of the objects 
 which one sees there, very mediocre from an 
 artistic point of view. I am so vexed by 
 your letter that I have not the courage to 
 write. Good-by. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 Parts, Thursday night, December 2, 1851. 
 It seems to me that the last battle is being 
 fought. Who shall win ? If the president 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 35 
 
 should lose, it seems to me that the heroic 
 deputies will have to yield the place to 
 Ledru-RoUin. The military men say that 
 they are sure of success; but you know 
 what their predictions mean. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 Paris, December 3, 1851. 
 What shall I say ? I know no more than 
 you do. It is certain that the soldiers have 
 a ferocious air and frighten the bourgeois 
 this time. We are navigating toward the 
 unknown. Tell me when I shall see you. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 March 24, 1852. 
 I HAVE all sorts of trouble, besides a great 
 deal of work. In fine, I have undertaken a 
 chivalrous work impulsively, and you know 
 that one should guard against impulses. I 
 repent at times. The innocence of Libri has 
 been demonstrated to me and I am writing 
 an article for the " Revue " about his suit. 
 Pity me ; one gains only hard knocks in such 
 
136 LKTTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 a trade, but injustice revolts one so much at 
 times that it makes one stupid.* 
 
 I am sorry to learn of the death of a per- 
 son whom you liked. It is one reason more 
 for us to meet often. You are right to think 
 that life is a silly thing, but let us not make 
 it worse than it is. After all, there are good 
 moments in it, and the remembrance of these 
 good moments is more agreeable than that 
 of bad ones is sad. We must make an 
 ample provision of good recollections. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 Paris, April 22, 1852. 
 I AM threatened with a suit for contempt 
 of court. I should not have attacked the 
 judgment against Libri. I shall have to 
 submit to interrogations. I hope that in 
 the battle I shall have regained my energy. 
 At present, I am annoyed and nervous. 
 
 * Libri was not innocent. An Italian bibliographer, 
 very learned and seductive in manner, he robbed the 
 National Library of valuable manuscripts, which have been 
 found in private collections in England. Whenever they 
 are offered at public sales the National Library claims them 
 as stolen goods, and gets them. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 37 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 Friday night, May i, 1852. 
 My good mother is dead. I hope she did 
 not suffer too much. Her features were 
 calm and she wore her usual sweet expres- 
 sion. I thank you for your interest in her. 
 Good-by ; think of me. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 Paris, May 19, 1852. 
 Come quickly ; I have a great quantity of 
 things to say to you. I do not know if they 
 wish to hang me or not. What makes me 
 fidgety is the thought of a public cereimony 
 before the flower of the rabble and three 
 imbeciles in black gowns, stiff as pickets, 
 and persuaded that they are something. 
 Good-by. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 Paris, May 22, 1852. 
 Was our walk tiresome ? Say no quickly. 
 I was waiting for a word from you. I have 
 
138 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 been confiscated by my lawyer. He seems 
 to be a man of wit, not too eloquent. I 
 have hopes. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 May, 1852, Wednesday, 5 o'clock. 
 Fifteen days of imprisonment and one 
 thousand francs fine ! My lawyer spoke very 
 well ; my judges were very polite ; I was not 
 at all nervous. In fine, I am not as much 
 displeased as I should be. I shall not take 
 an appeal. 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 May 27, 1852, at night. 
 My revenge has begun already. My 
 friend Saulcy was at a house where they 
 were talking of the judgment against me, 
 yesterday; when, heedlessly, he said such 
 big words as silliness, fatuity, stupidity, 
 conceit of snobs, and so forth, appealing to 
 a gentleman in evening dress whom he 
 knew by sight, but whose profession he did 
 not know. The gentleman was one of my 
 judges. Imagine the state of mind of the 
 hostess, the guests, and of Saulcy himself, 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 39 
 
 who fell on a sofa laughing to death and 
 saying, " Nevertheless, I retract nothing!" 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 Monday night, June i, 1853. 
 I SPEND all my time reading the letters of 
 Beyle. That makes me at least twenty 
 years younger. It is like making an au- 
 topsy of the thoughts of a man whom I knew 
 intimately and whose ideas of things and 
 men have singularly affected mine. That 
 makes me sad and joyful twenty times an 
 hour. 
 
 CL. 
 
 Marseilles, September 12, 1852. 
 I NEED your presence in this country 
 which seems so dull to me. I would make 
 you eat twenty different kinds of fruits that 
 you do not know. For example, yellow 
 peaches, white and red melons, and fresh 
 peanuts. Moreover, you might spend a 
 day in Turkish curiosity shops where there 
 are inutilities the most agreeable to see and 
 the most disagreeable to pay for. I have 
 
14° LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 asked myself often why you do not come to 
 the south of France, and never find a reason. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 MouLiNS, September 27, 1852. 
 I HAVE had for forty-five hours such a 
 disposition to congestion of the brain that 
 I felt as if I were going to the land of the 
 shades. I was absolutely alone and I treated 
 myself, or, rather, did not treat myself at all, 
 for I was in a state of physical and moral 
 prostration which would have made painful 
 the least exertion. I felt some annoyance 
 at the thought of going to an unknown 
 world ; but it was still more annoying to re- 
 sist. It is through brutal resolution, I think, 
 that one quits this world ; not because illness 
 triumphs, but because one has become indif- 
 ferent to everything and makes no defence. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 Carabanchel, September 11, 1833. 
 When I arrived here they were preparing 
 to celebrate the anniversary of the hostess. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I4I 
 
 They were to play a comedy in her honor 
 and in that of her daughter. I had to manu- 
 facture skies, repair scenes, design costumes 
 and so forth. Then I had to direct rehear- 
 sals of five mythological goddesses, only one 
 of whom had ever played in private theatri- 
 cals. All went well. This morning I have 
 a terrible headache. As there are nine ladies 
 here, without a man, I am called in Madrid, 
 Apollo. Of the nine muses, there are^ 
 unfortunately, five who are mothers or 
 aunts of the four others ; but these four are 
 Andalusians with little ferocious airs that 
 become them ravishingly, especially when 
 they are wearing the Olympian costume. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 The Escurial, October 5, 1853. 
 I SEND you a little flower which I found 
 on the mountain behind the ugly convent 
 of the Escurial. At night, when the wind 
 passes over it, the odor of it is delightful. 
 I found the Escurial as sad as when I left it 
 twenty years ago, but civilization has reached 
 here. There are iron beds, chops, no bugs 
 nor monks. 
 
142 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 Madrid, October 25, 1853. 
 
 Bulls have no more heart and men are 
 not worth much more. I think of begin- 
 ning my archaeologic voyage as soon as the 
 weather is settled. It is probable that if 
 you send your orders I shall receive them 
 in time to fill them. Unfortunately, I do 
 not know what to buy in this country. I 
 bought, at all events, handkerchiefs the de- 
 sign of which is very ugly; but it seemed to 
 me that you liked one of those handkerchiefs 
 which came to me I know not from where. 
 Do you want garters and buttons ? At 
 Madrid nobody reads. I have asked myself 
 how the women pass the time and found no 
 plausible answer. They are all thinking of 
 becoming empresses. A lady of Granada 
 was at the playhouse when some one an- 
 nounced in her box that the Countess Teba 
 was to marry the French Emperor. She rose 
 impetuously, exclaiming, " In this country 
 there is no future." 
 
 Among my diversions I have forgotten to 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 143 
 
 mention an academy of history, whereof I 
 am a member. Good-by. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 Madrid, November 22, 1853. 
 I SHALL bring you garters, since you do 
 not want buttons. I discovered them not 
 without trouble. Civilization is making 
 such rapid progress that elastics have re- 
 placed on almost all legs the classic ligas of 
 the past. When I asked the maids here to 
 tell me where the shops were, they crossed 
 themselves in indignation, saying that they 
 did not wear such old things, which were 
 good enough only for the common people. 
 The progress in French fashions is frightful. 
 Mantillas are rare. Bonnets replace them. 
 You should rejoice at the masterpieces of 
 the dressmakers in this capital. We had on 
 the 15th a ball to celebrate Saint Eugenie. 
 The wife of the United States Minister wore 
 a costume which made everybody laugh. 
 Black velvet embroidered with braid and 
 spangles and a theatrical diadem. Her son 
 
144 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 sent a challenge to a duel to a duke, very 
 noble, very rich, very dull and anxious to 
 live long. Good-by. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Madrid, November 28, 1853. 
 The house where I live is a neutral ground 
 where ministers and chiefs of the opposition 
 meet, which is agreeable for those who want 
 news. Wherever one goes in Madrid, pro- 
 vided one goes to a public place, one is sure 
 of meeting the same three hundred persons. 
 The result is a very amusing society, infin- 
 itely less hypocritical than elsewhere. I 
 must tell you a good story. The custom 
 here is to offer everything that is praised. 
 The Prime Minister's sweetheart was dining 
 the other day beside me ; she is as foolish as 
 a cabbage and very big. She displayed 
 beautiful shoulders on which fell a garland 
 with tassels of metal or glass. Not know- 
 ing what to say to her, I praised both shoul- 
 ders and garland, and she replied, "At your 
 disposition." 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 '45 
 
 Paris, July 29, 1854. 
 My minister has offered to send me to 
 Munich as commissioner of I know not 
 what. I said neither yes nor no. Probably 
 you intend to spend some time in London. 
 My last days there were amusing and inter- 
 esting. I met all the politicians. I was 
 present at the debate on the budget in the 
 House of Lords and in the Commons, and 
 all the celebrated orators spoke, wickedly it 
 seemed to me. I have brought from Lon- 
 don a pair of garters. I do not kno\y what 
 English women put on their stockings, nor 
 how they procure this indispensable article, 
 but I think it must be a very difficult thing 
 to get and very trying to their virtue. The 
 clerk who gave me these garters blushed to 
 his ears. You write amiable things which 
 would please me greatly if experience had 
 not made me distrustful. I dare not hope 
 what I desire most ardently. 
 
 xo 
 
146 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Paris, August 2, 1854. 
 I DO not believe in your impossibilities. 
 I retain my doubts and my grief. My 
 minister wishes me to go to the exhibition 
 at Munich. I have no desire to go. Good- 
 by ; I love you whatever you do and I think 
 you should be affected by this. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 INNSPRUCK, August 31, 1854. 
 
 I AM eating delicious snipe and drinking 
 extraordinary soups. The drawback of this 
 voyage is ignorance of the manners and of 
 the ideas of the people. The women in the 
 Tyrol seem to me to be treated as they de- 
 serve. They are attached to carts and made 
 to drag heavy loads. They are very homely, 
 with enormous feet. The beautiful ladies 
 whom I met on the railway trains or on boats 
 are not much better looking. They wear in- 
 decent bonnets and blue brogans with apple- 
 green gloves. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 47 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Prague, Sepfemier ii, 1854. 
 I AM ill and out of sorts. The faces here 
 are very different from those of Germany : 
 big heads, large shoulders, little hips and no 
 legs. This is the description of a Bohemian 
 beauty. I strained my knowledge of anat- 
 omy uselessly yesterday to understand how 
 these women walked. They have beautiful 
 eyes and black hair, but feet and hands of a 
 length and of a width which astonish voy- 
 agers best accustomed to extraordinary 
 things. I have seen autographs of Ziska 
 and John Huss. They wrote finely though 
 they were heretics. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 Vienna, October a, 1854. 
 My guide has presented me to very beau- 
 tiful ladies. Fashionable society being po- 
 lite here, they found me amiable. I wrote 
 sublime thoughts in albums. I made draw- 
 ings ; in a word, I was perfectly ridiculous. 
 Did I tell you that I went to Hungary ? My 
 
14$ LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 prudery was shocked at Baden, where men 
 and women go pell mell in boiling mineral 
 water. I saw there a beautiful Hungarian 
 woman who hid her face with her hands, not 
 having, like Turkish women, a shirt. You 
 would find here magnificent furs for nothing. 
 Good-by; I am not well pleased with your 
 last letter. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, November 27, 1854. 
 It is very unfortunate to lose one's 
 friends, but it is a calamity which one may 
 avoid only by a greater calamity, which is 
 not to like anybody. Above all, one must 
 not forget the living for the dead. You 
 should have come to see me instead of writ- 
 ing to me. We might have talked on the 
 vanities of this world. I remained all day 
 by the fireside in misanthropic disposition. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 LoNDpN, July 20, 1856. 
 I HAVE found here people so amiable that 
 it is evident they are very lonely. I met 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 149 
 
 two of my ancient beauties : one is become 
 asthmatic and the other a Methodist. Then 
 I made the acquaintance of eight or ten 
 poets who seemed to me to be more ridicu- 
 lous than ours. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 Edinburgh, July 26, 1856. 
 I HOPED to get a letter from you. None 
 came. I am going with a Scotchman to see 
 his castle beyond the lakes. I spent three 
 days at the Duke of Hamilton's. There are 
 paintings by great masters, Greek and 
 Chinese vases and magnificent books. All 
 these things are arranged without taste, and 
 it is evident that their owner does not enjoy 
 them. I understand now why the French- 
 man is liked in foreign lands. He takes the 
 trouble to enjoy himself and thus he amuses 
 others. The Scottish accent is odious to 
 me. The women are very ugly. I am 
 shocked by the proportion of reddish hair 
 that I meet. 
 
liO LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 Sunday, August 3, 1866. 
 From a country house near Glasgow. 
 I SPENT three days at the Marquis of 
 Breadalbane's. There is a herd of American 
 bisons, very ferocious, imprisoned in a pe- 
 ninsula. Bisons and marquis have an air of 
 being bored. I have just heard a story 
 which pleases me. An Englishman walks 
 in front of a hencoop Saturday night and 
 hears a great noise of cocks and hens. He 
 imagines that some fox is in there and warns 
 the keeper. The keeper answers : ' ' Oh, we 
 are only separating the cocks from the hens 
 because to-morrow will be the Lord's day." 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 KiNLOCH-LiNCHARD, August 16, 1856. 
 I AM not pleased with your letter. Think 
 again and then say yes or no. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 151 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Carabanchel, Thursday, December, 1856. 
 I TOOK advantage of this beautiful weather 
 to sprain my wrist, and if I am able to write 
 to you the reason is that I was instructed in 
 the American method wherein one does not 
 move the fingers. The sprain came through 
 my horse's fault. He threw me over his 
 head while I was lighting a cigar. I do not 
 sleep better than in Paris, although I go to 
 bed at eleven. There is a Countess Apraxine 
 here who smokes, wears round hats, and has 
 a goat in her drawing-room. But the most 
 amusing person here is Lady Shelley, who 
 wrote yesterday to the French consul: 
 " Lady Shelley announces to the French 
 consul that she will give an English dinner, 
 after which she will be charmed to see him 
 to-day at five minutes after nine o'clock." 
 She wrote to Madame Vigier, " Lady Shel- 
 ley would be charmed to see Madame Vigier 
 if she would kindly bring her music with 
 her." Madame Vigier replied, " Madame 
 Vigier would be charmed to see Lady Shd- 
 
152 LETTtRS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 ley if she would kindly come to her house 
 and behave like a well-bred woman." 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Lausanne, August 24, 1857. 
 
 It seems to me that you might have varied 
 your tirades of enthusiasm, on the pleasure 
 of travelling, with some flattering compli- 
 ments, by way of consolation for those who 
 have not the privilege of accompanying you. 
 I forgive you, however, because of your in- 
 experience with travelling. You say that 
 you will be away for three weeks only. I 
 give you a month. I pray you to consider 
 only that September 28th is an unfortunate 
 anniversary for me, because I was born Sep- 
 tember 28th. It would be agreeable to me 
 to spend the day in your company. 
 
 Good-by; enjoy yourself; do not tire 
 yourself; think of me. I send you a leaf 
 grown six thousand feet above the level of 
 the sea. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 l»ARis, September 8, 1857. 
 
 While you are enthusiastic, I am very ill 
 6i a frightful cold. I hope this will move 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 153 
 
 you. I do not see why you should stay 
 three days at Lucerne, unless you spend 
 your time on the lake. But it is useless to 
 give you advice which will reach you too 
 late. If you had arranged your affairs with 
 some strategy we might have met in your 
 travels. If I were not so ill that it is impos- 
 sible for me to assemble two ideas, I would 
 take advantage of your absence by working. 
 I am sorry that you do not carry Beyle's 
 work with you to Italy. He liked Milan 
 particularly, because he fell in love there. 
 I wish I could go into a gondola with you. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 Aix, January 6, 1858. 
 Frost, snow, atrocious cold. I do not 
 know if I shall be able to go to Burgundy ; 
 however, I shall start for Paris to-morrow 
 night. I trust that you will wish me a 
 happy new year in person. I met at Nice 
 all sorts of fine people, among others the 
 Duchesse de Sagan, who is always ybu'ng 
 and ferocious. 
 
IS4 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CLXXI. 
 Paris, Monday night, January 29, 1858. 
 I HAVE not seen you for a century. It is 
 true that many things have happened! I 
 am cured, and attribute this to our last walk. 
 Write to me, I pray you, for I need to see 
 you in order to forget all the horrors of this 
 world. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 
 Tuesday night, April 28, 1858. 
 You cannot form an idea of the beauty of 
 the British Museum on Sunday, when there 
 is absolutely nobody there except Panizzi 
 and me. It takes then a marvellous attitude 
 of piety; only, one fears that the statues 
 may descend from their pedestals and dance 
 the polka. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 
 May 3, 1858. 
 I WAS invited to a dinner of the literary 
 fund and warned that I should have to 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 155 
 
 speak. I consented, with the pleasure that 
 you may imagine, and said silly things in 
 bad English for a quarter of an hour to an 
 assembly of three hundred men of letters, or 
 so-called, and one hundred women, admitted 
 to the honor of seeing us eat tough chicken. 
 I received yesterday the visit of a lady and 
 her husband, who wished to sell autograph 
 letters of Napoleon to Josephine. They are 
 interesting letters, for they are full of love. 
 I do not understand why Josephine did not 
 burn them immediately after receiving them. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 Paris, May 19, 1858. 
 I HAVE been accusing you of taking from 
 me a book for which I searched as if it were 
 a needle. I found it this morning in a cor- 
 ner where I had placed it myself. I wish I 
 could talk with you at length before your 
 departure. It seems to me that we have 
 never talked together. 
 
IS6 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 Palace of Fontainebleau, 
 
 May 20, 1858. 
 I AM half poisoned for having taken too 
 much laudanum. Besides, I wrote verses 
 for his Netherlandish Majesty, played in a 
 comedy and made a fool of myself. What 
 shall I say of the life which we are leading 
 here ? We hunted a deer yesterday. We 
 ate on the grass. Every day we eat too 
 much. Destiny had not made me a courtier. 
 I wish I could talk with you in this beautiful 
 forest. 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Paris, June 14, 1858. 
 When a woman has as much taste as you 
 have, she should not say of a well-written 
 book that it is immoral. You should say 
 that the good in the book is good. Do not 
 jud^e of things with your prejudices. You 
 become day by day more prudish. I will 
 let you wear crinoline, but I will not let you 
 be prudish. You must know how to look 
 for the good where it is. I am not in 9 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 57 
 
 humor to say pretty things to you. I am 
 displeased with you, but I shall have to for- 
 giye you, of course. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 Interlaken, July 3, 1858. 
 I FELL in a. hole with my horse, but we 
 got out of it without other inconvenience 
 than extreme coolness for an hour or twq. 
 A Yankee lady whom we met made, at the 
 same place, a picturesque somersault. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 Innspruck, July 25, 1858. 
 Salzburg seems to me to deserve its Ger- 
 man reputation. Happily, it is an unknown 
 land for most tourists. There are no Eng- 
 lishmen there to bore you with their f^pes. 
 The most beautiful women of the Tyrol are 
 in the Zitterthal, they say. I saw many 
 pretty women there, but too well fed. Their 
 legs, which they show to the garter — it is 
 not as high as you might think — are dazzl- 
 ingly big. 
 
158 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Venice, August 15, 1858; 
 You were making improper comparisons 
 of Mont Blanc with Sugarloaf while I was 
 exterminating myself searching for shells for 
 you. I never saw anything uglier. It is 
 probable that the custom houses that I have 
 to traverse will break them into little pieces, 
 or seize them entire. I rejoice at this in 
 advance, for such a commission was never 
 before given to a man of taste. Venice has 
 filled me with sadness. The architecture is 
 effective, but tasteless and without imagina- 
 tion. I am filled with indignation against 
 the commonplaces that have been written 
 about it. The streets are full of charming 
 girls, bare-footed and bare-headed, who, if 
 they were bathed and scrubbed, would be 
 Venuses. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Genoa, September 10, 1858. 
 The lake of Como pleased me. I stopped 
 at Bellaggio. I found in a pretty villa by the 
 lakeside, Madame Pasta, whom I had not 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 59 
 
 seen since the time when she was triumphant 
 in Italian opera. She has increased singu- 
 larly in width. She cultivates her cabbages 
 and says that she is as happy as when we 
 threw crowns and sonnets at her. I shall 
 expect you in Paris October ist. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 Cannes, October 8, 1858. 
 Your shells have arrived here intact. I 
 shall be in Paris Wednesday or Thursday. 
 If you want your shells come and get them. 
 Florence is a beautiful city. Venice is only 
 pretty. I find here a complete desert. All 
 the hotels are empty and there is not an 
 Englishman in the streets. The weather is 
 superb. What are your intentions for this 
 fall ? One never knows what you will do. 
 You look one way and row another. Good- 
 by. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 Paris, October 21, 1858. 
 Here I am in Paris, furious not to find 
 you. Pity me ; I bought in Venice a chan- 
 
l6o LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 delier which arrived broken yesterday. I am 
 like a stranger here and do not know what 
 to do with my time. It would be different 
 if you were here. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 Paris, Sunday nigH, Nffoember 15, 1858. 
 I AM going to Compifegne to-morrow for 
 four days. Sandeau came to see me this 
 morning in all the excitement of a man who 
 has put on knickerbockers for the first time. 
 He propounded a hundred questions so naive 
 as to alarm me. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 Palace of CoMPiioNE, 
 Sunday, November 21, 1858. 
 Most of the invited guests left yesterday 
 and there remained thirty or forty at table. 
 We took a long walk in the woods. If it 
 were not for the cold the forest would be 
 as beautiful as at the beginning of the fall. 
 To-day a new cargo of illustrious guests is 
 expected. All the Ministers ; then Russians 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN l6l 
 
 and other foreigners. When I think that I 
 might have seen you in Paris to-day I am 
 tempted to abandon everything. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 Palace of Compiegne, 
 Wednesday, November 24, 1858. 
 The devil is in our way decidedly. I 
 have to stay here until December 2d or 3d. 
 I feel like hanging myself when I see you so 
 resigned. 
 
 CLXXXVL 
 
 Marseilles, December 29, 1858. 
 I CONTINUE to rely upon you for the 
 books to be sent to the Lagrenee girls. 
 Think of the responsibility which you have 
 accepted. You have always been worthy of 
 my confidence. Your choice of books for 
 young girls has always been exquisite. If 
 you are going to Florence next year let me 
 know. It is my greatest desire to be there 
 with you. 
 
l62 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 Cannes, January 7, 1859. 
 There is a great number of Englishmen 
 here. I dined day before yesterday at Lord 
 Brougham's with I know not how many 
 misses, freshly arrived from Scotland, to 
 whom the sight of the sun seemed to cause 
 
 i great surprise. If I had the talent to de- 
 scribe costumes I would amuse you with 
 
 , theirs. Good-by, dear friend, I wish I could 
 send you some of my sunlight. Take care 
 of yourself and think of me. 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 Cannes, January 22, 1859. 
 A MARVELLOUS moonlight, not a cloud, 
 the sea as polished as a mirror, no wind. I 
 am convinced that the light does me more 
 good than the heat. We had a day of rain 
 and I felt horrible spasms. As soon as the 
 sun returned, Richard was himself again. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN < 163 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 Cannes, February 5, 1859. 
 
 My windows open on the sea and I can 
 see the islands from my bed. It is delicious. 
 The almond trees are in bloom, but the win- 
 ter was so cold and the summer was so dry 
 that the jessamines are blighted. I am be- 
 ginning to count the days. I hope that the 
 month will not come to an end without my 
 meeting you. 
 
 CXC. 
 
 Paris, March 24, 1859. 
 
 Were you at liberty to-day ? I supposed 
 I was engaged for the entire day. This pre- 
 vented me from writing to you and asking 
 you to see me. At the last moment I found 
 myself a free man. I am glad that my 
 article on Prescott's " Philip II." pleased 
 you. I am not very well pleased with it, 
 because I said only half of what I wished 
 to say. The work is really mediocre. It 
 
1 64 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 seems to me that, if the author had been 
 less a Yankee, he might have done some- 
 thing better. 
 
 CXCI. 
 
 Paris, April 23, 1859. 
 Somebody gave me a novel by Lady 
 Georgiana Fullerton, written in French, 
 with a request to note the passages that are 
 defective. There is nothing in this book 
 except peasants of the B6arn who eat sand- 
 wiches and poached eggs, and ask thirty 
 francs for a basket of peaches. I might as 
 well try to write a Chinese tale. You ought 
 to take this book and correct it for me, in 
 return for all the books which I have lent 
 you that you have never returned. 
 
 CXCII. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, April 28, 1859. 
 There is in our army a gayety which the 
 Austrians lack absolutely. Although I am 
 not an optimist, I am confident of our suc- 
 cess. Our old reputation is so well cstab- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 165 
 
 lished that those who fight against us do 
 it with faint hearts. Do not fear; very- 
 few bullets hit their mark and the war will 
 not hurt your brother. Be sure that the 
 beautiful Italian ladies will treat our soldiers 
 well. If I were of your brother's age, a 
 campaign in Italy would be to me a most 
 agreeable manner of seeing the awakening of 
 an oppressed people. It is one of the most 
 beautiful spectacles. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 Paris, May 7, 1859. 
 All bullets do not hit their mark and 
 there is a great deal of space above and 
 around a man. Your brother will have made 
 the finest campaign since the Revolution. 
 Among your tribulations are you thinking 
 of an oasis ? You and I need it greatly. 
 Nothing would be easier for you, if you 
 wished to do a good act. I can take you 
 here or elsewhere for a week. I shall await 
 your decision impatiently. Good-by, dear 
 friend ; be brave. I kiss you very tenderly, 
 as I love you. 
 
1 66 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CXCIV. 
 
 Paris, May 19, 1859. 
 The misfortune which may come may not 
 be overcome. It is wise to think of it as 
 little as possible. That is why I desire so 
 much to go with you far from the war, think- 
 ing of nothing but leaves and flowers and 
 other agreeable things. If you have read 
 Boccaccio, you know that all great misfor- 
 tunes come to such an end. Why not let 
 them begin thus ? I have dined at a China- 
 man's who gave me an opium pipe. I was 
 suffering from suffocation before I began to 
 smoke; at the third puff I was cured. A 
 Russian who tried the opium after me was 
 completely changed in less than ten min- 
 utes: he was very homely; he became truly 
 handsome. This lasted a quarter of an hour. 
 
 CXCV. 
 
 Paris, May 28, 1859. 
 You have a way of announcing bad news 
 which enrages me. You say always what 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 67 
 
 you would have done, if ! It is like Ro- 
 land's horse who had all the good qualities, 
 but who is dead. If he had not been dead 
 he would have run faster than the wind. I 
 do not like that style of pleasantry, because 
 it makes your good-will suspicious to me, 
 and because I am vexed at your being so 
 far from me. Your return will be soon, 
 probably. Meanwhile, keep me informed 
 of your acts and projects, for it seems im- 
 possible that you shall not do all sorts of 
 wild things. Good-by. Write to me very 
 reasonably, without diplomacy. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 
 Paris, June ii, 1859. 
 If we have all Europe against us, how 
 shall we get out of it without recourse to 
 revolution everywhere ? It seems that Aus- 
 tria intends to send its last soldier to Italy. 
 This is not reassuring, but it is one reason the 
 more to gather strength and courage against 
 the misfortunes which may happen. I am 
 thinking cff the weather and the green leaves. 
 
1 68 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Good-by. You know that I am waiting im- 
 patiently for your letters. Do not forget to 
 be precise and clear. 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 Paris, July 3, 1859. 
 I AM dying of desire to see you. My poor 
 devil of a servant received a bullet in the leg 
 at the battle of Solferino. Everybody in 
 my house is in tears. I am suffering a great 
 deal and sleep not at all. Good-by. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday night, July 20, 1859. 
 
 When I make a proposition to you, I do 
 it very seriously always. All depends on 
 you. I am invited to go to Scotland and to 
 England. If you return to Paris I shall not 
 budge. I shall feel under an extraordinary 
 obligation to you, and if you had an idea of 
 the pleasure that you would do me I am 
 sure that you would not hesitate. 
 
 This morning a man dressed in black and 
 having a noble face came to see me. He 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 169 
 
 said that God inspired him. He had been 
 accused of trying to kill his porter with a 
 dagger, but it was a crucifix. While the 
 man talked he kept his hand in the pocket of 
 his coat, and I expected him to draw from it 
 a dagger. He could find one easily on my 
 table. There was nothing near me except 
 a Turkish pipe, and I was calculating the 
 moment when prudence would dictate that I 
 should break it on his head. At last he drew 
 from his terrible pocket a rosary. He fell 
 on his knees. I retained a glacial coolness, 
 but I was afraid, for what can one do with a 
 madman ? 
 
 CXCIX. 
 
 Paris, July 21, 1859. 
 My letter of yesterday crossed yours. 
 Yours was not a letter, but a curling-paper. 
 I am reading the " Letters of Madame du 
 Deffand," which will amuse you. They im- 
 press me with the sincerity and the fidelity 
 of the writer's affections. These people 
 were more amiable than we and than you, 
 whom I love no more. Good-by. I am in 
 too bad a humor to write more. 
 
I70 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 cc. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, July 30, 1859. 
 I SHALL be in Paris until August 15th, 
 after which I shall probably go to the High- 
 lands, but it is well understood that you 
 shall have the preference over everything, 
 and you may expect me any day that you 
 will appoint. You see that I am precise. 
 It seems that you cannot live without moun- 
 tains and old forests. I should be charmed 
 to see you. I sometimes suspect that I am 
 travelling on the grand railway which goes 
 beyond the tomb. At times the idea is pain- 
 ful; at others, I find in it the consolation 
 which one feels in railway trains: the ab- 
 sence of responsibility before a force superior 
 and irresistible. 
 
 CCI. 
 
 Paris, August 12, 1859, 
 I SHALL call on you before the end of the 
 month. When you want to delay negotia- 
 tions, you are more skilful in finding dilatory 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 171 
 
 means than the Austrian diplomats. It is 
 well understood that I shall accept good rea- 
 sons, reasonable objections ; but they must 
 be made with frankness. You know very 
 well that whenever I shall have to choose 
 between the greatest happiness for me and 
 the least inconvenience for you I shall not 
 hesitate. Good-by. 
 
 ecu. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, September 3, 1859. 
 I FEAR that we shall not meet again this 
 year and I do not wish to go without saying 
 good-by to you. I shall start Monday for 
 Tarbes, where I shall remain probably until 
 the I2th or 15th. I shall return to Paris for 
 a few days and then go to Spain. If I be- 
 lieved in presentiments I would not go be- 
 yond the Pyrenees, but I must make my 
 visit, which shall be the last probably, to 
 Madrid. Without being ill, I am so nervous 
 that it is worse than an illness. I am con- 
 soled by the thought that you are enjoying 
 yourself. Take care of yourself, eat and 
 sleep, since you can. 
 
172 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 Paris, September 15, 1859. 
 My trip to the Pyrenees has done me 
 good. Their Majesties were in good health 
 at Saint-Sauveur. I have admired the na- 
 tives, who had the good taste not to follow 
 them wherever they went. The Emperor 
 bought there a dog of the ancient Pyrenean 
 race. It is a little larger than a donkey. 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 Paris, September 20, 1859. 
 Although you have made me furious 
 this summer with your ifs and your noes, I 
 assure you that it saddens me not to say 
 good-by to you. Who knows if you will be 
 in Paris when I return ? I am going in a 
 dark mood. I hope that your ideas are rose- 
 colored. I shall regret Paris because I might 
 have seen you there. You are its only attrac- 
 tion for me. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I73 
 
 ccv. 
 
 Madrid, October 21, 1859. 
 I RECEIVED with great happiness your 
 little letter and your amiable souvenir. I 
 arrived here wearied by all sorts of little 
 troubles. Your letter, which had preceded 
 me in Madrid through excess of zeal of one 
 of my friends, was lost for several days and 
 could not be found easily. The ladies 
 whom I had left thin have become elephants, 
 for the climate of Madrid is fattening. Ex- 
 pect to see me increased by a third. Yet I 
 hardly eat and I am not well. At night I 
 go to the opera, which is pitiful. I went 
 Monday to a bull-fight, which was not amus- 
 ing. The bulls have become oxen, and the 
 spectacle resembles too much an abattoir. 
 
 CCVI. 
 
 Cannes, January 2, i860. 
 I WISH you a happy new year. Here is a 
 good story of this country. A farmer near 
 
174 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Grasse was found dead in a ravine, where he 
 had fallen or had been thrown at night. 
 Another farmer came to see one of my 
 friends and told him that he had killed the 
 man. " How and why did you do it?" 
 The man answered, " He had cursed my 
 sheep. Then I went to my shepherd, who 
 gave me three needles that I put to boil in 
 a pot, and I said over the pot words which 
 he taught me. The same night that I put 
 the pot, on the fire the man died." Do not 
 be astonished that my books were burned at 
 Grasse on the square in front of the church. 
 I am going there Tuesday for a few days. I 
 am promised monuments of all sorts and 
 beautiful mountains. 
 
 CCVII. 
 
 Cannes, January 22, i860. 
 I HAVE seen beautiful rocks, cascades, and 
 precipices. I have spent a week in admira- 
 tion of pure nature. I have contracted from 
 it horrible pains and I have been in bed for 
 two days. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 175 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 Cannes, Febrtiary 4, i860. 
 When is your f^te day ? It seems to me 
 that your name is Lutheran or heretical. Is 
 your patron saint the Evangelist or the Bap- 
 tist ? When is his f^te day ? You guess that 
 I wish to surprise you. I am waiting for 
 two of my friends, who are to spend a week 
 with me. Good-by; I shall see you next 
 month. Meanwhile, I am ill, melancholy, 
 bored. I am losing my eyesight, and could 
 not draw even if my health permitted it. 
 How sad it is to grow old ! Good-by. 
 
 CCIX. 
 
 Cannes, February 21, i860. 
 I RECEIVED only the day before yesterday 
 a letter from my cousin about the Byzantine 
 buckle. I send you her textual opinion. 
 She says that this buckle is charming, too 
 charming for her and a great deal too young. 
 However, to correct her severe judgment, 
 she adds that she has just ordered a gown 
 
176 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 to fit the buckle. If you are not satisfied 
 with your success you are hard to please. 
 Good-by, take care of yourself. Do not go 
 out at night. 
 
 ccx. 
 
 Paris, Sunday night, March 12, i860. 
 While I was at Cannes I read a novel by 
 Bulwer— "What Will He Do With It?" 
 — which seemed to me to be senile to the 
 last degree. The hero and heroine surpass 
 all that usage makes permissible in the stupid 
 style. I learned to-day that at one of the 
 most recent masked balls a woman had the 
 courage to wear the costume of 1806 with- 
 out a crinoline, and made a sensation. 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 Paris, April 4, i860. 
 I NEED you to take life patiently. It be- 
 comes day by day more and more a bore. 
 People are so stupid. I have bought sev- 
 eral beautiful books. Have you read the 
 " Memoirs of Holland," attributed to Ma- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 177 
 
 dame de Lafayette ? I will lend them to 
 you when you come, provided you give me 
 good security. The volumes are bound by 
 Bauzonnet. 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 Saturday, April 13, i860. 
 I HAVE been leading a dissipated life since 
 Easter. I went to two balls and dined out 
 every day. One ball which I was to attend 
 is postponed because the accomplices of 
 Ortega, among whom are two relatives of 
 the Empress, are on trial in Spain. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 
 Tuesday night, May i, i860. 
 The ball at the Alba's was splendid. The 
 costumes were beautiful. The gowns were 
 outrageously short at the top and at the bot- 
 tom also. I saw a great number of charm- 
 ing feet and many garters in the waltz. The 
 crinoline is in its decadence. Believe me, in 
 two years gowns shall be short, and women 
 who have natural advantages will distinguish 
 themselves from those who have only arti- 
 
178 LETTERS TO AV UNKNOWN 
 
 ficial ones. The daughter of a lord was 
 dressed as a dryad in a gown which would 
 have revealed her entire bust if she had not 
 thought of wearing fleshings under it. The 
 ballet of the elements was composed of six- 
 teen women, all pretty, in short skirts and 
 covered with diamonds. The naiads were 
 powdered with silver, which fell on their 
 shoulders like drops of water. The Salaman- 
 ders were powdered with gold. The dining- 
 room, the servants in costumes of pages of 
 the sixteenth century, all illuminated by 
 electric light, made one think of Belshazzar's 
 feast. The Emperor changed his domino 
 every few minutes and never failed to be 
 recognized. The Empress wore a white 
 burnous and a black silk mask which dis- 
 guised her not at all. 
 
 CCXIV. 
 
 Saturday, May 12, i860. 
 
 You shall probably be astonished to learn 
 
 that I work and write as in my fine days. 
 
 When we meet, I will tell you through what 
 
 singular circumstance I have shaken my 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 175 
 
 antique laziness. It would be too long to 
 write. Good-by. I thiftk of you inces- 
 santly, despite all your faults. 
 
 ccxv. 
 
 Palace of Fontainebleau, 
 June 12, i860. 
 I SHALL not think for an instant of your 
 not waiting for me. It would be absurd of 
 you to go to the seashore this warm weather. 
 Tell your friends to be patient. I have to 
 be patient and tell a hundred times the same 
 thing to a person who will not listen. 
 
 CCXVI. 
 
 Paris, Sunday night, July 2, i860. 
 I DO not want to refer again to your ex- 
 pedition. Many things may happen to 
 change your projects. You know mine. I 
 shall remain at the British Museum till the 
 end of July; then go to Bath and to Scot- 
 land, where I shall await till Sfeptember an 
 invitation from you. Good-by. 
 
l8o LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCXVII. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, July 12, i860. 
 I HAVE just finished a long report on 
 the Library of Paris. I lose my time in 
 meddling with what does not concern me. 
 I sometimes desire to write a novel, but 
 whenever I begin one some silly administra- 
 tive things are given to me to arrange. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 July 20, i860. 
 It is very amiable of you, assuredly, not 
 to have sent me a word of farewell before 
 my departure. I shall not forgive you till 
 we meet. It takes me some time to become 
 accustomed, in London, to the singular light 
 of the town. It passes, apparently, through 
 brown gauze. I would return to-morrow 
 if you were in Paris. Good-by; I am not 
 pleased with you. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN l8l 
 
 CCXIX. 
 
 9 South Parade, Bath, 
 Wednesday mght, August 8, i860. 
 I BOUGHT a blue veil for you before quit- 
 ting London. When they are in evening 
 dress and have white cravats, all English- 
 men resemble one another. I advise you to 
 write to me quickly, for I am very sad and 
 need consolation. This city is very pretty. 
 It is not too full of smoke and it is sur- 
 rounded by hills covered with grass and 
 trees. The baths do me good. Good-by. 
 
 CCXX. 
 
 London, 18 Arlington St., 
 August 9, i860. 
 I AM preoccupied by nothing but the 
 thought of meeting you. Try to do some- 
 thing on your part in order to gain time. 
 I do not despair of spending several hours 
 with you, if we set our energies together. 
 The more I think of your expedition to 
 Algiers, the more it seems crazy to me. 
 
1 82 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Everything will be on fire in the Orient this 
 winter. Good-by, dear friend. I am very 
 sad and wish I were angry. I have not the 
 strength to be angry, for I do not scold you. 
 
 CCXXI. 
 
 Glenquoich, August 22, i860. 
 The worst things here are little insects 
 called midges. They like my blood and de- 
 vour my face and hands. I am here with two 
 young women, one a blonde and the other 
 Titian red, both with satin skins, and the 
 horrible midges prefer to attack me. Our 
 principal amusement is fishing. The ad- 
 vantage of it is that the midges fear water. 
 There are fourteen persons here. During 
 the day each one goes his own way. At 
 night, after dinner, each one takes a book 
 or writes letters. To talk, to try to please 
 one another, are things unknown to the 
 English. I am certain that you will do your 
 best to meet me before your voyage, I 
 have had the courage not to wear your blue 
 veil, despite the midges, in order that you 
 should get it fresh. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 183 
 
 CCXXII. 
 
 Paris, September 14, i860. 
 I SHALL have many errands for you at 
 Algiers. I recommend you to find for me 
 a characteristic dressing-gown. I wish you 
 would get acquainted with the women and 
 tell me frankly what they said to you. 
 
 CCXXIII. 
 
 September 17, i860. 
 You complain of not receiving letters 
 from me and I cannot understand this. It 
 is a mystery. Let me know what you 
 think of it. Good-by; take good care of 
 yourself. 
 
 CCXXIV. 
 
 Paris, October 7, i860. 
 I CAN understand the interest which a 
 first view of Oriental life has for you. You 
 say justly that you find at every step some 
 things that are grotesque and others that are 
 admirable. There is, in fact, something 
 
1 84 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 grotesque always in the Orientals, as in cer- 
 tain pompous animals at the Zoo. I thank 
 you for your descriptions, only they are in- 
 complete. You have had the rare privilege 
 of seeing Musselman women and you do not 
 tell me what I should like to know. Do 
 they make in Algeria, as in Turkey, an ex- 
 hibition of their charms ? I should like to 
 know the characteristics of the dancers whom 
 you saw — if they were modest ; and if they 
 were not, why not. 
 
 CCXXV. 
 
 Paris, October i6, i860. 
 You have promised me an exact descrip- 
 tion of a quantity of things that I cannot 
 see. Thanks to the privileges of your sex, 
 I you can go into harems and talk with the 
 women. I would like to know how they are 
 dressed, what they do, what they say, what 
 they think of you. I suppose the dances 
 are more interesting than those of Paris, 
 but I want detailed descriptions of them. 
 Have you understood the sense of what you 
 have seen ? You know that everything 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 85 
 
 which regards the history of humanity is full 
 of interest to me. Good-by, dear friend. 
 Write to me often; tell me what you are 
 doing. Many details. 
 
 CCXXVI. 
 
 Paris, October 24, i860. 
 I THANK you for the descriptions you 
 sent me, although they need illustrations 
 and a perpetual commentary, especially with 
 regard to the dances of the natives. From 
 what you say I imagine they are like the 
 dances of the gitanas in Granada. Probably 
 the intention is the same. I am sure that 
 an Arab of the Sahara who saw a waltz in 
 Paris would take it for a pantomime. When 
 one goes to the bottom of things one arrives 
 always at original ideas. You have noticed 
 this when you studied mythology with me. 
 I cannot admit the timidity of your explana- 
 tions. There are enough euphemisms at 
 your disposition to tell me everything, and 
 you are reticent only to make me pray you 
 not to be. Give me details of manners and 
 have no fear of scandalizing me. 
 
1 86 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCXXVII. 
 
 November i, at night, i860. 
 You have given me only sketches of Al- 
 gerian manners, and I want precise details. 
 There is nothing which you cannot say and 
 you are celebrated for your use of euphe- 
 misms. You know how to tell things in an 
 academic way. I want to know all that 
 you have learned. I am preparing for 
 French conquests in China by reading a new 
 novel which Stanislas Julien, the patented 
 Chinaman of our government, has translated. 
 It is the story of two young ladies who are 
 very witty and who write verses about every- 
 thing. They meet two students who write 
 with the same facility, and engage in an end- 
 less combat with quatrains. In these qua- 
 trains there is nothing but white dragon- 
 flies and blue lotus. It is impossible to find 
 anything more destitute of passion. Evi- 
 dently, the people who find pleasure in that 
 style of literature are abominable pedants 
 who deserve to be conquered by us. I 
 dined to-day at Prince Napoleon's. Princess 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 87 
 
 Clothilde admired my cuff-buttons and 
 asked for the jeweller's address. I said: 
 "Rue d' Alger, No. lO." Is that right ? 
 Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCXXVIII. 
 
 Marseilles, November ij, i860. 
 I HAVE only the time to say good morn- 
 ing to you. Good-by. 
 
 Marseilles, November 18, i860. 
 Unfortunately, it was too late. The 
 posters say that the ships leave at four, and 
 they leave at noon. Did you go to the 
 Moorish baths ? What sort of women did 
 you meet there ? I iniagine that the habit 
 of sitting with their legs crossed makes their 
 knees horrible. If you do not approve their 
 fashion in dress I suppose that you will 
 adopt their kohl for the eyes. Besides being 
 very pretty, it is excellent as a preservative 
 from ophthalmia. You have my authority to 
 use it. Do you eat bananas in Algiers ? It 
 is the best fruit in the world, in my opinion, 
 but I should like to eat it with you. On this 
 idea, dear friend, I wish you good-night. 
 
l88 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCXXIX. 
 
 Cannes, December 13, i860. 
 You write with Lacedemonian concision, 
 and, moreover, use a paper manufactured, 
 doubtless, for you only. Yet you have 
 many interesting things to tell me. You are 
 living among barbarians, where there are 
 many things to observe, and you can observe 
 better than anybody because you are a 
 woman. In spite of this, you have taught 
 me only one thing, which I suspected, and 
 you have not told me what you thought 
 of it. You are not doing your work of a 
 traveller well. 
 
 ccxxx. 
 
 Cannes, December 28, i860. 
 I THANK you for the pretty purse which 
 you have sent me. I say purse, but I do 
 not know what it is. But it is very pretty, 
 and the gold embroidery in various colors is 
 exquisite in taste. Only barbarians can do 
 such things. I thank you for the dates 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 189 
 
 and the bananas. If I were in Paris you 
 might send them, but you cannot imagine 
 the negligence of transportation here. When 
 you come, bring them and we will eat them 
 together. I see that Mr. Cobden has vis- 
 ited you. He is a very interesting man, the 
 contrary of an Englishman, because he never 
 says a commonplace and has not many pre- 
 judices. Good-by; take care of yourself and 
 enjoy your sun. 
 
 CCXXXI. 
 
 Nice, January 20, 1861. 
 If you find some pretty silk stuff which 
 may be washed and has not the air of a 
 woman's gown, make of it a dressing-gown 
 for me, as long as possible, buttoned on the 
 left side in the Oriental fashion. 
 
 CCXXXII. 
 
 Cannes, February 16, 1861. 
 Your absence from Paris has been the 
 cause of two misfortunes. The first is, I 
 forgot the books of the Lagrenee girls ; the 
 
igo LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 second is, I forgot Saint Eulalie. There is 
 nothing here which I might send to Paris 
 except flowers, and God knows in what con 
 dition they would reach there. I ask for 
 your advice. I am as troubled as usual, and 
 this time have not the resource to transmit 
 my trouble to you. Good-by, dear friend ; 
 take care of yourself. 
 
 CCXXXIII. 
 
 Paris, March 21, 1861. 
 
 I DELIVERED my speech in the Senate. I 
 was frightened to death, but I overcame 
 this feeling by saying to myself that I was in 
 the presence of two hundred fools and should 
 not be affected by them. The most bother- 
 some thing in politics- is Catholicism. You 
 cannot imagine the degree of exasperation 
 that the Catholics have reached. For no- 
 thing at all they jump at you. For ex- 
 ample, if you do not show all the whites of 
 your eyes while talking of the saintly mar- 
 tyrs, and if you ask innocently, as I have 
 done, " Who has been martyred ? " 
 
 A colossal bore was ' ' Tannhauser. ' ' Some 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I9I 
 
 say that the performance at Paris was in com- 
 pliance with one of the secret clauses of the 
 Treaty of Villaf ranca ; others that Wagner 
 was sent to us in order to force us to admire 
 Berlioz. The fact is that it is prodigious. 
 It seems to me that I might write something 
 like it to-morrow, inspired by my cat walk- 
 ing on my piano. The performance was 
 very furious. Princess Metternich gave her- 
 self a great deal of trouble to make people 
 think that she understood and to provoke 
 plaudits which never came. Everybody 
 yawned ; but everybody wanted to seem to 
 understand this unanswerable enigma. I 
 imagine that your Arabic music prepares one 
 well for this infernal noise. The fiasco was 
 enormous ! Auber said that it was Berlioz 
 without melody. 
 
 CCXXXIV. 
 
 Paris, April 2, 1861. 
 
 Dear friend, I am very glad to learn that 
 
 you are on this side of the sea. I have 
 
 an agreeable remedy for my pains in the 
 
 stomach. It consists of little pills which 
 
192 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 are transparent and which contain liquid 
 ether. You swallow them, and, a second 
 after, they break and let the ether escape. 
 The result is an odd, agreeable sensation. I 
 recommend them to you as an anodyne, if 
 you need it. 
 
 I do not know if there are as many good 
 Catholics where you are as in Paris. Our 
 drawing-rooms have become uninhabitable. 
 Not only those who were devout, but all the 
 ex-Voltairians of the political opposition 
 have become papists. I have no other con- 
 solation than that some of them feel obliged 
 to go to the mass, which must bother them 
 passably. My former professor, M. Cousin, 
 who formerly called the pope Bishop of 
 Rome, has been converted and never misses 
 a mass. People say that M. Thiers is becom- 
 ing devout, but it is hard for me to believe 
 that, because I have always liked him. 
 
 I can understand that you may not be able 
 to tell me now when you intend to return to 
 Paris, but let me know as soon as you can. 
 Tell me, dear friend, how you are. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 1 93 
 
 ccxxxv. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday, April 2^, 1861. 
 I AM writing a history of a Cossack of 
 the seventeenth century, who was killed in 
 Moscow with horrible tortures, after he had 
 hanged and drowned a great number of Boy- 
 ards. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCXXXVI. 
 
 Paris, Senate, May 15, 1861. 
 I AM the prey, at the present moment, of 
 herrings, which the seals of Boulogne have 
 excited to torment us. This means that 
 we are disputing about herrings in this es- 
 tablishment. We are threatened with daily 
 sessions. I work every night and have the 
 happiness of having reached the tortures 
 inflicted upon my hero. You see, I am near 
 the end. The work is long, not very amus- 
 ing, and very horrible. I will let you read 
 it when it is printed. Is it true that the 
 herring fishermen of Boulogne are thieves, 
 who have bought herrings taken by the Eng- 
 lish and pretend having caught them them- 
 1-3 
 
194 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 selves ? Is it true that the herrings have 
 been seduced by the English and never pass 
 near our coast ? 
 
 CCXXXVII. 
 
 Palace of Fontainebleau, 
 Thursday, June 13, 1861. 
 
 I NEVER saw people so wild nor so sense- 
 less as all magistrates. I say to myself for 
 my consolation that if, in twenty years from 
 now, some antiquarian looks at the " Official 
 Gazette ' ' of this week he will say that there 
 was, in 1861, a philosopher full of modera- 
 tion and of calmness, in an assembly of 
 young fools. This philosopher is myself. 
 I say this without vanity. In this country, 
 where magistrates are recruited among men 
 too stupid to earn a living as lawyers, magis- 
 trates are badly paid, but receive the privi- 
 lege of being insolent and vexing. 
 
 The weather is magnificent and the air 
 of the woods is delicious. The masters of 
 the house are, as usual, extremely good and 
 amiable. The Princess Mettemich is here. 
 She is vivacious in the German fashion ; that 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 195 
 
 is, she has made for herself a style of origi- 
 nality formed of two parts of a fast woman 
 and one of a lady. I fear that she has not 
 wit enough to sustain the r61e. Good-by, 
 dear friend. 
 
 CCXXXVIII. 
 
 Palace of Fontainebleau, 
 
 Monday, June 24, 186 1. 
 Dear friend, I have not budged from 
 here, and will remain until the end of the 
 month. I told you that I had a sunstroke. 
 I am better now, but suffering from lum- 
 bago, which I caught from rowing on the 
 lake. I am waiting for news from you im- 
 patiently, but fear the fault is mine. I 
 promised that I would write you if I quitted 
 Fontainebleau, but what will you have ? 
 One does nothing here and yet one is never 
 free. Most of the time is spent waiting. 
 The great philosophy of the land is to know 
 how to wait, and it is hard for me to get 
 trained to it. Our great expectation at this 
 moment is that of the ambassadors from 
 Siam, who will arrive Thursday. It is said 
 that they will present themselves on all 
 
196 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 fours, crawling on their knees and elbows. 
 Some say that they lick the carpet, pow- 
 dered with candy in view of that operation. 
 The ladies imagine they are to receive mar- 
 vellous gifts. I believe that they are bring- 
 ing nothing at all and hope to carry away 
 many beautiful things. I went to Alise last 
 Wednesday with the Emperor, who has be- 
 come a perfect archaeologist. He spent 
 three hours and a half on the mountain 
 under a terrible sun, examining vestiges of 
 the sieges of Caesar and reading the commen- 
 taries. We lost there the skin of our ears 
 and came back looking like chimney sweep- 
 ers. We spent our evenings on the lake or 
 under the trees, looking at the moon and 
 hoping for the rain. Good-by, dear friend ; 
 take care of yourself. Do not expose your- 
 self to the sun, and give me news of yourself. 
 
 CCXXXIX. 
 
 Palace of Fontainebleau, 
 
 June 29, 1861. 
 Dear friend, I received the cigar case, 
 which is charming, even in comparison with 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 197 
 
 the gifts of the Siamese ambassadors. My 
 life here is so preoccupied by nothing that I 
 have not the time to write. At last, we are 
 all returning to Paris to-night. We had, 
 Tuesday, a passable ceremony, quite similar 
 to that of the " Bourgeois Gentilhomme. " 
 It was the oddest spectacle in the world, 
 that of a score of black men, quite similar to 
 monkeys, dressed in gold brocade and wear- 
 ing white stockings with patent leather shoes, 
 the sword at the side, all crawling on their 
 knees and elbows along the Henri II. gal- 
 lery, carrying their noses on the backs of 
 those who preceded them. The first am- 
 bassador had the hardest work. He wore a 
 felt hat embroidered with gold which danced 
 on his head at every movement, and he held 
 in his hands a gold bowl containing two 
 boxes, wherein were letters of their Siamese 
 Majesties. The letters were in silk purses 
 embroidered with gold. After they had 
 given the letters and tried to turn back, there 
 was confusion in the embassy. There were 
 backs striking faces, sabres entering into 
 eyes. The aspect was that of a troop of 
 bugs on a carpet. The Minister of Foreign 
 
198 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Affairs had invented this beautiful ceremony 
 and exacted that the ambassador should 
 crawl. People think the Asiatics are more 
 naive than they are. I am sure that they 
 would have been glad if they had been per- 
 mitted to walk. All the effect of the crawl- 
 ing was lost, because the Emperor lost 
 patience, made the bugs rise, and spoke Eng- 
 lish to them. The Empress kissed the little 
 monkey which they had brought with them 
 and which they say is the son of one of the 
 ambassadors. He ran on all fours like a 
 little rat, and had an intelligent air. The 
 temporal King of Siam sent his portrait to 
 the Emperor, and that of his wife, who is 
 horribly ugly. But you would have been 
 charmed by the variety and beauty of the 
 stuffs which they brought. They are gold 
 and silver, woven so lightly that all is trsms- 
 parent and similar to the light clouds of a 
 beautiful sunset. They gave to the Emperor 
 trousers embroidered with enamel, gold, red 
 and green, and a waistcoat of supple gold 
 brocade, the designs of which, gold on gold, 
 are marvellous. The buttons are of gold 
 with small diamonds and emeralds. I never 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN I99 
 
 saw an3rthing so pretty and splendid. What 
 is singular in the taste of these savages is 
 that there is nothing loud in their stuffs, 
 although they use only dazzling silks, silver 
 and gold. All this is marvellously com- 
 bined and produces a quiet, harmonious 
 effect. Good-by, dear friend; I expect to 
 go to London, about July 8th or loth. 
 
 CCXL. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 July i6, 1861. 
 I SEE by your last letter, dear friend, that 
 you are as busy as a commander-in-chief the 
 day before a battle. I read in " Tristram 
 Shandy " that, in a house where a woman is 
 with child, all the women assume the right 
 to ill-treat men ; that is why I have not writ- 
 ten to you sooner. I feared that you might 
 look down on me from the height of your 
 grandeur. I hope that your sister is well 
 and that you are no more anxious. Still, I 
 should be pleased if you advised me ofHcially. 
 This does not mean that you need to send 
 me a printed circular. You know, or do not 
 
200 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 know, that there is a new chancellor, who is 
 old, but whose morals are not. A lawyer 
 named Stevens sent his clerk with a card to 
 the chancellor. The clerk is told that my 
 lord has no house in London, but that he 
 comes often from the country to a house on 
 Oxford Terrace. The clerk goes there and 
 asks for my lord. " He is not here. " " Do 
 you think he will return for dinner ? " " No, 
 but to sleep, certainly. He sleeps here 
 every Monday. ' ' The clerk leaves the let- 
 ter, and Stevens is astonished because the 
 chancellor makes faces at him. The truth 
 is that my lord has in that house a clandes- 
 tine acquaintance. 
 
 I have been in London since Thursday 
 and have not had a moment of rest. I run 
 from morning until night. I am invited to 
 dinner every day and to concerts and balls 
 in the evening. I went yesterday to a con- 
 cert at the Marquis of Lansdowne's. There 
 was not one pretty woman present, which is 
 remarkable ; but all of them were dressed as 
 if the greatest dressmaker had made their 
 gowns. I never saw such hair-dress. One 
 old woman wore a crown of diamonds 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 20I 
 
 formed of small stars with a big sun in front, 
 exactly like wax figures at a fair. 
 
 CCXLI. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 July 25, 1861. 
 I AM spending my time here in a very mo- 
 notonous fashion, although I dine out every 
 day and see people and things I have not 
 seen before. I dined at Greenwich yester- 
 day, with great personages who tried to 
 make themselves jolly, not, like the Ger- 
 mans, by throwing themselves out of the 
 window, but by making a great deal of 
 noise. The dinner was abominably long, 
 but the whitebait was excellent. We have 
 unpacked here, twenty-three boxes of anti- 
 quities. There are two statues and several 
 very remarkable busts of a good epoch and 
 thoroughly Greek. I went to the House of 
 Commons the other evening and listened to 
 the debate on Sardinia. It is impossible to 
 be more verbose than most of the orators. 
 Gladstone pleased me. I expect to be in 
 
202 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Paris August 8th or loth. I hope to find 
 you quietly in some solitude. 
 
 CCXLII. 
 
 Paris, August 21, i86i. 
 Dear friend, I have arrived at last, not 
 in too good a state of preservation. I do 
 not know if it is because I ate too much 
 turtle soup, or because I ran too much in 
 the sun, but I have again those pains in the 
 stomach which had left me for a time. They 
 come in the morning at five o'clock and last 
 for an hour and a half. I suppose that when 
 one is hanged one suffers in that way. Our 
 Imperial Commission for the Universal Ex- 
 position is at work. We are making prose 
 to persuade people who have pictures to 
 lend them to us, in order that we may send 
 them to London. It is a passably indiscreet 
 proposition, and most collectors are Carlists 
 or Orleanists, who think it is a pious thing 
 to refuse. I fear we shall not make a good 
 appearance in London next year. We shall 
 exhibit only the works done in the last ten 
 years, while the English will exhibit the 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 203 
 
 products of their school since 1762. There 
 is nobody in Paris, which pleases me enough. 
 I spent six weeks dining out, and it is agree- 
 able now not to be compelled to put on a 
 white cravat to go to table. I have no 
 projects for this fall, but if Madame de 
 Montijo goes to Biarritz I will call on her 
 and spend a few days with her. It seems 
 to me that you are taking pleasure in the 
 great number of children your sister has. I 
 cannot understand this. I suppose you let 
 her put them all on your back, in accordance 
 with your habit of submitting to oppression 
 which does not come from me. Good-by, 
 dear friend. 
 
 CCXLIII. 
 
 Paris, August 31, 1861. 
 Dear friend, I have received your letter, 
 which seems to announce that you are hap- 
 pier than you have been for a long time. I 
 rejoice at it. There is little disposition in 
 me to love children ; still, I can understand 
 attachment for a little girl, as for a little cat, 
 an animal which your kind resembles much. 
 I am always ill. There is a complete soli- 
 
204 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 tude here. I went yesterday to the Im- 
 perial Club and found only three persons, 
 who were asleep. I take advantage of my 
 solitude to work at something which I 
 promised my master and which I should like 
 to take to him at Biarritz, but I am progres- 
 sing very slowly. I have much trouble to 
 do something nowadays. Make me think 
 of showing to you the portrait of a gorilla, 
 which I drew in London. I was on terms of 
 intimacy with him. It is true that he was 
 stuffed. I read only Roman history. The 
 nineteenth volume of M. Thiers's work is 
 more negligently written than the preceding 
 ones, but full of curious things. In spite 
 of his desire to write ill of his hero, he is 
 continually carried away by his involuntary 
 love for him. He says he will finish the 
 twentieth volume in December, and will go 
 then around the world. 
 
 CCXLIV. 
 
 Biarritz, September 20, 1861. 
 Dear friend, I am here, like a bird on a 
 branch. Usage does not permit one to 
 make projects in advance. Nothing is said 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 205 
 
 about the time of our departure. Yet the 
 days are shortening, it is cold after dinner, 
 and, with the system of doors and windows 
 invented here, it is impossible to be warm. 
 All this makes me think that we shall not 
 stay here long. The sea air does me good. 
 I breathe easier, but sleep badly. The time 
 here, as in all imperial residences, is spent 
 in doing nothing. I work a little, and walk 
 a great deal. We had a charming prome- 
 nade, yesterday, along the Pyrenees, near 
 enough to the mountains in order to see 
 them in all their beauty, and not near enough 
 to suffer from their inconveniences. The 
 Prince Imperial gave a dinner, yesterday, to 
 a band of children. The Emperor com- 
 pounded for them, out of seltzer water, 
 champagne, which had the same effect upon 
 them as if it were real wine. They were all 
 drunk in a quarter of an hour, and my ears 
 are still ill of the noise which they made. 
 Good-by, dear friend ; I have had the temer- 
 ity to promise to translate for his Majesty 
 a Spanish memoir, and I have just discovered 
 that it is terribly difficult to translate. 
 Good-by. 
 
Z06 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCXLV. 
 
 Paris, November 2, 1861. 
 My eyes are so bad that I did not recog- 
 nize you at once, the other day. Why do 
 you come into my district without warning 
 me ? The man who was with me, asked 
 who the lady was who had such beautiful 
 . eyes. I spend all my time working like a 
 nigger for my master, whom I shall see in a 
 week. The perspective of a week of knee 
 breeches frightens me a little. I have a 
 good book for you. My memory is failing, 
 as I sent to the binder a volume whereof I 
 had another copy. You see what you gain 
 by this. When we meet we will talk of 
 metaphysics. I like the subject because it 
 may not be exhausted. Good-by, dear 
 friend. 
 
 CCXLVI. 
 
 CoMPiEGNE, November 17, 1861. 
 Dear friend, we are to be here until the 
 24th. It was his Majesty, the King of Por- 
 tugal, who prevented us from having the 
 festivals which we were preparing. They 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 20/ 
 
 have been postponed and we have been re- 
 tained here in consequence. We are com- 
 fortable here and as independent of one 
 another as we can be in such a place. 
 
 Here are four lions, Highlanders in kilts : 
 the Duke of Athol, Lord James Murray, 
 and the Duke's son and nephew. It is 
 amusing enough to see their eight bare 
 knees, in a parlor where all the men wear 
 breeches or tight trousers. Yesterday the 
 piper of his Grace came, and all four danced 
 in a way to alarm everybody when they 
 turned around. But there are ladies whose 
 crinoline is still more alarming when they 
 enter a carriage. As the invited women are 
 permitted not to wear mourning, there are 
 legs of all colors. I like red stockings. 
 Despite walks in humid woods and red-hot 
 drawing-rooms, I have not caught a cold, 
 but I do not sleep. I was present at the 
 grand ministerial comedy, wherein one or 
 two more victims were expected. The faces 
 were good to observe, the speeches still 
 more so. What think you of the Emperor's 
 letter ? I think it is very good. He has his 
 own way of saying things, and when he talks 
 
2p8 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 as a sovereign he has the art to show that 
 he is not commonplace, as others are. I 
 think that is exactly what this magnanimous 
 nation wants. It does not like the common- 
 place. Yesterday, Muller's picture, repre- 
 senting Queen Marie Antoinette in prison, 
 was given to the Empress. The Prince Im- 
 perial asked 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 to forgive the Queen 
 whom he was keeping in prison. He is an 
 odd child, sometimes terrible. He says that 
 he bows always to the people because they 
 expelled Louis Philippe, who did not like 
 them. He is a charming child. Good-by, 
 dear friend. 
 
 CCXLVII. 
 
 Cannes, January 6, 1862. 
 
 Dear friend, I will not tell you of the sun 
 
 of Cannes, for fear of grieving you, in the 
 
 midst of the snows where you must be now. 
 
 What is written to me from Paris makes me 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 309 
 
 cold. I have here the society of M. Cousin, 
 who came here to cure himself of laryngitis, 
 and who talks like a one-eyed magpie, eats 
 like an ogre, and is astonished at not being 
 cured under this beautiful sky, which he 
 sees for the first time. He is very amusing, 
 for he has the good quality of being witty 
 for everybody. I suppose that even to his 
 servant he talks as he would to the most 
 coquettish duchess. The natives are spell- 
 bound, and you may imagine how big their 
 eyes become when they are told that this 
 man, who talks well on any subject, has 
 translated Plato and is the lover of Madame 
 de Longueville. 
 
 I am not doing much here. I am study- 
 ing botany in a book and with the grasses 
 that fall under my hand ; but I deplore my 
 bad sight every instant. I should have be- 
 gun this study twenty years ago, when I had 
 eyes. It is amusing enough, although su- 
 premely immoral, since in botany there are 
 for one lady always six or eight gentlemen 
 at least, all anxious to offer to her what she 
 takes from the right and from the left with 
 much indifference. I regret very much not 
 14 
 
2IO LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 to have brought a microscope ; yet, with my 
 spectacles, I have seen stamens court pistils 
 without being ashamed by my presence. I 
 make drawings also, and am reading in a 
 Russian book the history of a Cossack 
 named, unfortunately, Bogdan Chmielnick. 
 With such a name it is not astonishing that 
 he has remained unknown to us Occidentals, 
 who remember only names derived from the 
 Greek or Latin. How do you govern the 
 little children who absorb you so much ? It 
 seems that it is very amusing to bring up 
 children. I have brought up only cats, who 
 never gave me any satisfaction, excepting 
 the last one, who had the honor to know 
 you. What seems unbearable to me with 
 children, is the time that one must wait to 
 know what they have in their brains and 
 to hear them reason. It is a pity that the 
 labor in the intelligence of boys may not be 
 explained by them and that their ideas come 
 to them almost unconsciously. The great 
 question is to know whether to tell them 
 silly things, like those which were said to 
 us, or to talk to them reasonably. There is 
 good in both systems. I have made the ac- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 211 
 
 quaintance of a poor cat, who lives in a hut 
 in the woods. I bring meat and bread to 
 him, and as soon as he sees me he comes to 
 me, running with all his might. I regret I 
 cannot take him with me, for he has mar- 
 vellous instinct. Good-by, dear friend. I 
 hope this letter will find you in good health. 
 I wish you a good and happy new year. 
 
 CCXLVIII. 
 
 Cannes, March i, 1862. 
 
 My cousin's fete day went out of my head. 
 I remembered it, the other day, when it was 
 too late. We shall talk of it at my return, 
 if you please. It becomes more and more 
 difficult to meet every year, for I have 
 exhausted pins, rings, handkerchiefs, and 
 buttons. It is hard to invent something 
 new. It is not less difficult for novels. I 
 have just read rhapsodies which deserve 
 truly corporal chastisement. 
 
 You cannot imagine anything prettier 
 than this country in this weather. All the 
 fields are covered with violets and anemones 
 and a quantity of other flowers, the names 
 
212 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 of which I do not know. Good-by, dear 
 friend. I hope to see you soon. I desire 
 to find you in the same good condition 
 which you were in two months ago. Do 
 not get thin nor fat, do not worry too much, 
 and think a little of me. Good-by. 
 
 CCXLIX. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 
 May 12, 1862. 
 The exposition, frankly, resembles a fi- 
 asco. It is true that everything is not yet 
 unpacked, but the building is horrible. Al- 
 though very large, it does not seem to be 
 so. One must walk and lose himself in it 
 to be assured of its extent. Everybody says 
 that there are beautiful things in it. I find 
 that the English have made much progress 
 in taste and art of decoration ; we make fur- 
 niture and wall paper better than they, but 
 we are in a deplorable way, and if it con- 
 tinues we shall soon be distanced. Our 
 jury is presided over by a German, who 
 thinks he is talking English and who is in- 
 comprehensible to everybody. There is 
 nothing more absurd than our meetings; 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 213 
 
 nobody knows what they are about. Still, 
 we vote. The worst is, that there are Eng- 
 lish manufacturers in our class, and we 
 shall have to give them medals which they 
 do not deserve. I dined, day before yes- 
 terday, with Lord Granville. There were 
 three small tables in a long gallery. This 
 arrangement was to make the conversation 
 general, but as the people did not know 
 one another, they hardly talked. At night 
 I went to Lord Palmerston's, where was the 
 Japanese Embassy, which hooked all the wo- 
 men with the big sabres worn at their belts. 
 I saw many beautiful women and some very 
 abominable ones; they made a complete 
 exhibition of their shoulders and breasts, 
 some admirable, some odious; both with 
 the same impudence. I think that the 
 English have no judgment in these things. 
 Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCL. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 June 6, 1862. 
 Dear friend, I am beginning to catch a 
 glimpse of the end of my troubles. My re- 
 
214 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 port to the International Jury, in the purest 
 Anglo-Saxon, without a single word derived 
 from the French, was read by me yesterday. 
 I have to make another report to my govern- 
 ment. I think I, may leave here about the 
 20th of this month. You will do well to 
 write to me before the 15th where you shall 
 be then and what your intentions are. De- 
 cidedly, I think that the exhibition is a 
 fiasco. The commissioners advertise and 
 beat the drum, without attracting the crowd. 
 They need fifty thousand visitors a day and 
 are far from obtaining them. Fashionable 
 people do not go, since the price of admis- 
 sion has been reduced to a shilling. The 
 restaurant is detestable. Only the American 
 restaurant is amusing. You are served 
 there with drinks more or less diabolical, 
 which are taken with straws : mint julep, for 
 example, which would raise the dead. All 
 these drinks are made of gin, more or less 
 disguised. I am tired of British hospitality 
 and of its dinners, which seem to have been 
 made all by the same inexperienced cook. 
 You cannot imagine how ardent is my desire 
 to eat soup at home. I do not know if I 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 21 5 
 
 told you that my old cook was to quit me 
 to retire on her lands. She has been with 
 me for thirty-five years. This annoys me 
 very much, for nothing is so disagreeable as 
 new faces. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLI. 
 
 Paris, July 17, 1862. 
 I SHALL not tell you all my regrets. I 
 wish you had shared them. If you had had 
 half of them you would have found a way to 
 make others wait for me. I have had Very 
 annoying days since your departure. My 
 poor old Caroline died at my house, after 
 much suffering. After her death, her nieces 
 came to quarrel about her succession. One 
 took her cat, which I wanted to keep. She 
 leaves, it seems, an income of twelve or fif- 
 teen hundred francs. It has been demon- 
 strated to me that she could not have amassed 
 so much money with the wages that I gave 
 her. But if she robbed me I would sub- 
 scribe willingly to being robbed in that way 
 always. I hope to be in Paris when you 
 arrive there. Madame de Montijo arrived 
 
21 6 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 last week; she is much changed. Nothing 
 can console her for the death of her daugh- 
 ter, and she is less resigned than on the first 
 day. I dined at Saint-Cloud last Thursday 
 and enjoyed it. It seemed to me that they 
 were less devout than people say generally. 
 They let me gossip about things as I pleased, 
 without calling me to order. The little 
 prince is charming. He has grown two 
 inches and is the most charming child I have 
 ever seen. It is horribly warm here, but I 
 do not suffer from it. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLII. 
 
 Bagneres-de-Bigorre, Hautes-Pyr]£n£es, 
 Saturday, August i6, 1862. 
 
 Dear friend, I have been here for three 
 days, with M. Panizzi. The frightful sun 
 quitted us day before yesterday, and we have 
 a weather worthy of London — fog and an 
 imperceptible little rain which drenches you 
 to the bones. I met here one of my friends, 
 who is a physician. He struck me with his 
 fist in the back and the chest and discovered 
 that I had two mortal maladies, of which he 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN ^\^ 
 
 will cure me if I will drink every day two 
 glasses of warm water, the taste of which is 
 not bad. Moreover, I bathe in a certain 
 spring, the water of which is warm, but 
 agreeable to the skin. It seems to me that 
 it is doing me a great deal of good. I do 
 not sleep well, but I have a good appetite. 
 There is not a crowd here. Englishmen and 
 prunes failed this year. There are two balls 
 every week, to which I shall not go, and 
 concerts, one of which I have heard. The 
 country is very beautiful. What has become 
 of you ? Write to me. I would like to 
 show you the incomparable verdure of this 
 country and the beauty of the waters, with 
 which crystal could not compare. It would 
 be agreeable to talk with you, in the shade 
 of the big oaks. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLIII. 
 
 £agneres-de-Bigorre, 
 
 September i, 1862. 
 
 Dear friend, I thank you for your letter. 
 The little quarrels and the little affairs of 
 the province seem so miserable and so piti- 
 ful to residents of Paris, that they deplore 
 
2l8 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 the condition of people who have them. It 
 is certain, however, that a Parisian, after 
 a few months in the country, does as the 
 natives do and becomes completely provin- 
 cial. This is sad for human intelligence. 
 Good-by, dear friend, good-by, and write 
 me. 
 
 CCLIV. 
 
 Biarritz, Villa Eugenie, 
 
 September 27, 1862. 
 
 Dear friend, if the weather where you are 
 is similar to ours, you must take advantage 
 of it and not be in haste to return to the 
 asphalt of Paris. I am here, by the seaside, 
 breathing better than I have breathed for a 
 long time. The waters of Bagnferes had 
 begun to hurt me greatly. I was told then 
 that it was so much the better. The fact is, 
 that as soon as I quitted Bagnferes I lived 
 again ; the sea air, and perhaps also the au- 
 gust food which I eat here, have cured me. 
 It must be said that there is nothing so abom- 
 inable as the cooking at Bagnferes. There 
 are not many persons at the villa and these 
 only amiable persons, whom I have known 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 219 
 
 for a long time. In the city tke Americans 
 predominate. On reception days, which are 
 Thursdays, it is necessary to put the Ameri- 
 cans of the North on one side and the 
 Americans of the South on the other side, 
 otherwise they would devour one another. 
 We dress on that day. The rest of the time 
 the ladies dine in high-necked gowns and 
 our ugly sex in frock coats. There is not a 
 castle in France nor in England where one 
 feels as free of etiquette. We have splen- 
 did walks in the valleys along the Pyrenees, 
 and return from them with prodigious appe- 
 tites. The sea, which is ordinarily very bad 
 here, has been surprisingly calm for a week. 
 The bathers wear strange costumes. One 
 woman, who is of the color of a turnip, 
 dresses in blue and powders her hair. In 
 spite of walks and eating, I work a little. I 
 have written more than half a volume. It 
 is the history of a Cossack hero. Have you 
 read Victor Hugo's speech at a dinner of 
 Belgian book-sellers at Brussels ? How piti- 
 ful it is, that a man having so many beautiful 
 images at his disposition, will say platitudes 
 unworthy of an honest man ! There is, in 
 
220 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 his comparison of a tunnel with a railway, 
 more poetry than I have found in any book 
 that I have read in years ; but it lacks com- 
 mon sense. The twentieth volume of 
 Thiers's work pleases me. I like his judg- 
 ment of Napoleon and other great men. He 
 is a little severe on Alexander and on 
 Caesar. Yet there is a good deal of truth 
 in what he says of the absence of virtue in 
 Caesar. Good-by, dear friend. Take good 
 care of yourself and do not sacrifice yourself 
 too much for others, because they will take 
 the habit of your doing it, and you may be 
 obliged to do painfully, some day, what you 
 do now with pleasure. Good-by ^ain. 
 
 CCLV. 
 
 Paris, October 23, 1862. 
 Dear friend, I have had a very exciting 
 time since the beginning of the month. I 
 came back from Biarritz with the sovereigns. 
 We were all ill, having been poisoned, I 
 think, with verdigris. The cooks swear that 
 they mended their pots, but I do not believe 
 in their protestations. The fact is, that 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 221 
 
 fourteen persons at the villa had cramps. I 
 was poisoned before with verdigris and know 
 the symptoms of it. I remained in Paris a 
 few days and then went to Marseilles, to in- 
 stal packet boats for China. You understand 
 that the ceremony needed my presence. 
 These packet boats are so beautiful and have 
 little rooms so well arranged that they give 
 one the desire to go to China. I resisted, 
 however, and was contented with a sun bath 
 at Marseilles. You seem to me to be too 
 much moved by Victor Hugo's speech. 
 They are words without ideas. Read a let- 
 ter of Madame de S6vign6, to return to good 
 prose. I would like to know your projects. 
 I will tell you mine. I shall go to Com- 
 pi^gne about the 8th of next month and re- 
 main there until after the Empress's i&te; 
 that is, until the i8th or 20th. Before or 
 after that time, may I not see you ? It 
 seems to me that the country must be very 
 cold and very damp at present, and that you 
 should think of returning. Good-by, dear 
 friend ; I hope you are in good appetite and 
 health. 
 
222 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCLVI. 
 
 Paris, November 5, 186*. 
 Dear friend, I am invited to Compiegne 
 until the i8th. I shall be in Paris on the 
 loth until three o'clock and hope to see you. 
 I disapprove of your new literary taste. I 
 am reading a book which may amuse you; 
 it is the history of the revolt of the Nether- 
 lands, by Motley. There are no less than 
 five thick volumes. Although not too well 
 written, they are interesting. He has a 
 great deal of anti-Catholic and anti-monar- 
 chical partiality, but he has made extensive 
 researches and is a man of talent, although 
 an American. I have a cold and a pain in 
 my lungs. You will learn some day that I 
 have ceased to breathe for the lack of vis- 
 cera. This ought to make you very amiable 
 toward me. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLVII. 
 
 Cannes, December 5, 1862. 
 Dear friend, I have arrived here between 
 two overflows, and for four days I have 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 223 
 
 thought that there was no more sun, even 
 at Cannes. When it begins to rain here, it 
 is not a joke. The plain between Cannes and 
 the Esterel was changed into a lake. Still, 
 in this deluge, the air was soft and agreeable. 
 Happily, this condition did not last long. 
 The sun reappeared, radiant, three days ago, 
 and since then I live with my windows open 
 and am almost too warm. Before leaving 
 Paris I consulted a great physician, for I 
 imagined I was in a very bad state, since my 
 return from Compi^gne, and I wanted to 
 know when I should prepare for my funeral. 
 I am well pleased with having consulted 
 him; first, because he said this ceremony 
 would not take place as soon as I appre- 
 hended; second, because he explained to 
 me, anatomically and very clearly, the cause 
 of my ills. I thought my heart was ill ; not 
 at all. It is my lung. It is true that I will 
 never be cured ; but there is a way of not 
 suffering from it, and that is a great deal, if 
 not the principal thing. 
 
 You cannot form an idea of the beauty of 
 the country, after all these rains. There are 
 May roses everywhere. The jessamines are 
 
224 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 beginning to bloom, as also a quantity of 
 wild flowers, all very pretty. I would like 
 to take a course of botany with you in the 
 woods. I have received here the last book of 
 M. Gustave Flaubert, who wrote " Madame 
 Bouverie, ' ' which you have read, I think, al- 
 though you would not confess that you have. 
 I thought he had a great deal of talent which 
 he was wasting under the pretext of realism. 
 He has just written a new novel, which he 
 calls " Salammbo." In any other place 
 than Cannes I would not have opened this 
 volume. It is a history of Carthage, several 
 years before the second Punic war. The 
 author has acquired a sort of false erudition 
 by reading Bouillet, and he accompanies it 
 with a lyrism copied from the worst phrases 
 of Victor Hugo. There are pages in it 
 which will please you, doubtless, since, like 
 all persons of your sex, you like emphasis. 
 For me it is hateful, and the book has made 
 me furious. Good-by, dear friend. I hope 
 winter will not treat you badly and that you 
 will take care to escape colds. Is your little 
 niece still amiable ? Do not spoil her, so 
 that she shall not be miserable later. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 225 
 
 CCLVIII. 
 
 Cannes, January 3, 1863. 
 
 Dear friend, I began the year badly in 
 my bed with painful lumbago. This is what 
 one earns in these beautiful climates where, 
 as long as the sun is on the horizon, one may 
 imagine one's self in summer, but immedi- 
 ately after sunset comes a quarter of an 
 hour of humid cold which penetrates the 
 marrow of one's bones. It is as in Rome, 
 with the exception that here one gets rheu- 
 matism and there fever. My back regained 
 some of its elasticity to-day. 
 
 You are wrong not to read " Salammbo." 
 It is true that it is perfectly crazy, but after 
 all there is a great deal of talent in it. 
 Good-by; do not forget me. 
 
 CCLIX. 
 
 Cannes, January 28, 1863. 
 
 Dear friend, I was preparing to go to 
 
 Paris, when I had a new attack of spasms in 
 
 the stomach. The physician tells me that if 
 
 I return to Paris before being entirely cured, 
 
 15 
 
226 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 I shall surely fall lower than I was, and so 
 I shall remain here for a fortnight. The 
 weather is admirable ; still, this climate is a 
 little treacherous. I should not be deceived 
 by it. As long as the sun is on the horizon 
 one imagines it is June ; five minutes later 
 comes a penetrating dampness. It is be- 
 cause I have admired too long the beautiful 
 sunsets that I have fallen ill. Around us, 
 a quantity of snow has fallen, and nothing 
 can be more beautiful than the view of our 
 mountains, all white, surrounding our little 
 green oasis. 
 
 There has been a tragedy in our neighbor- 
 hood. A pretty English miss was burned 
 at a ball. Her mother, in trying to save 
 her, was burned also. Both died in three or 
 four days. The husband, who was burned 
 also, is still ill. This is the eighteenth 
 woman of my acquaintance to whom this 
 has happened. Why do you wear a crin- 
 oline ? You ought to set a good example. 
 One has only to turn before the chimney, 
 or look at one's self in the glass — there is 
 always a glass above the chimney — to be 
 roasted alive. It is true that one dies but 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 22/ 
 
 once and that it is a great pleasure to show 
 a monstrous back. But who is deceived by 
 a balloon full of air ? Why do you not put 
 a metallic curtain before your chimney ? 
 Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLX. 
 
 Paris, April 26, 1863. 
 Dear friend, as I was not counting on 
 your manner of travelling like a turtle, I did 
 not write to you at Genoa. I am addressing 
 my letter to Florence, where I hope you will 
 stay for a time. It is the city of Italy which 
 has best preserved its characteristics of the 
 Middle Age. Be careful not to catch cold. 
 As for Rome, it is so long since I have 
 been there that I am unable to give you ad- 
 vice about it. Only, I would recommend 
 that you should not be out in the air at sun- 
 set, because you might catch the fever. 
 You should go to the Saint Peter cathedral 
 a quarter of an hour before the angelus and 
 wait there until the strange humidity of the 
 atmosphere, which happens then, shall have 
 
228 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 passed. There is nothing more beautiful 
 than this great church at the close of day. 
 It is sublime, truly. Think of me there. 
 Some rainy day, go to the Catacombs. Go 
 to one of the small corridors leading into the 
 subterranean streets; put out your candle 
 and remain alone for three or four minutes. 
 You will tell me the sensations which came 
 to you. I should be pleased to make the 
 experiment with you ; but then you would 
 not feel, perhaps, the same thing. It never 
 happened to me to see at Rome what I had 
 intended to see, because I was attracted at 
 every street corner by something unex- 
 pected, and it is a great pleasure to yield to 
 that sensation. I recommend also that you 
 should not visit too many palaces. Most of 
 them are over-praised. Be preoccupied 
 especially by frescoes and by views of 
 nature. I recommend to you the view of 
 Rome and of its surroundings from Saint 
 Peter in Montorio. There is a very beauti- 
 ful fresco of the Vatican. See, at the Capi- 
 tol, the Wolf of the Republic, which bears 
 the trace of the lightning that struck it in 
 the time of Cicero. I believe that you shall 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 22$ 
 
 not be able to see a hundredth part of what 
 you should see, in the little time that you 
 will have to give to your voyage. I regret 
 your departure. I will say that you have 
 done well to take advantage of the oppor- 
 tunity to see Rome. There remains only 
 the question of damages due me, which I 
 pray you to keep in mind. I hope that you 
 think of it sometimes. There is not a beau- 
 tiful place which I have seen, without regret- 
 ting my inability to associate you with it in 
 my memory. Good-by, dear friend; write 
 to me often, a few lines only; enjoy your- 
 self well and come back in good condition. 
 Good-by. 
 
 CCLXI. 
 
 Paris, May 20, 1863. 
 Dear friend, I write to you with an 
 abominable grippe. For a fortnight I have 
 been coughing instead of sleeping. The 
 only remedy is to take laudanum, and this 
 gives me headache. In brief, I feel weak and 
 like going to the devil. I hope it is not the 
 same with you. I think I have told you to 
 
230 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 take good care against the humidity, which, 
 in the country where you are, goes with 
 sunset. Take care to be never cold, even if 
 you should be too warm. I envy you for 
 being in that beautiful land, where melan- 
 choly is sweet and agreeable, but I wish that, 
 to make the comparison better, you went 
 for a week to Naples. Of all transitions, it 
 is the harshest and the most amusing I know. 
 Moreover, it has the advantage of comedy 
 after tragedy. I do not know if the art of 
 cooking has progressed in the states of the 
 Holy Father. In my time it was the abomi- 
 nation of desolation. It may be that politi- 
 cal revolutions have levelled the kitchens of 
 Rome and Naples, and that, gourmet as you 
 are, you will find them both bad. 
 
 I hoped that you would tell me some 
 stories, or at least your impressions. It 
 always pleases me to know how things ap- 
 pear to you. Do not forget to see the 
 statue of Pompey, which is probably the one 
 at the foot of which Caesar was murdered ; 
 and if you discover the shop of a man named 
 Cades, who sells false antiques and pottery, 
 buy me an intaglio of some old stone. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 23 1 
 
 CCLXII. 
 
 Paris, Friday, June 12, 1863. 
 Dear friend, I learn with great pleasure 
 your return to France. I hope that you will 
 be here next week and that I shall see you 
 before my departure, on the 21st, for Fon- 
 tainebleau. You do not write of your 
 health. I suppose that, despite the bad 
 Papal cooking, you are in good condition. 
 
 CCLXIII. 
 
 Palace of Fontainebleau, 
 
 Thursday, July 2, 1863. 
 Dear friend, I would have liked to reply 
 sooner to your letter, which gave me great 
 pleasure, but one here has the time to do 
 nothing, and the days elapse with a prodi- 
 gious rapidity. The grand and principal 
 occupation is to sleep, eat and drink. I 
 succeed in eating and drinking, but not in 
 sleeping. There are a number of people 
 here, less official than usual. We walk at 
 times in the woods, after dining on the grass 
 like the milliners of the Rue Saint Denis, 
 
232 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Several large cases were brought here, 
 day before yesterday, from his Majesty, the 
 Emperor of Cochin-China. They were 
 opened in one of the yards. In the big cases 
 were smaller ones, painted red and gold 
 and covered with cockroaches. The first 
 contained two very yellow elephant's tusks 
 and two rhinoceros horns, plus a package of 
 mildewed cinnamon. There came from all 
 this, inconceivable odors, half rancid butter 
 and half spoiled fish. In the other case 
 were narrow stuffs, resembling gauze, in 
 ugly colors, all more or less dirty and, more- 
 over, mildewed. Gold medals had been 
 promised, but they were not there, and they 
 remain, probably, in Cochin-China. The 
 inference is that the grand Emperor of 
 Cochin-China is a swindler. All the ladies 
 are sunburnt. We are going to a Spanish 
 dinner in the forest to-day and I am charged 
 with the duty of making the ladies eat raw 
 onions. They would faint at the mere 
 name of that vegetable. I have given strict 
 orders that they shall not be warned, and, 
 when they shall have eaten the raw onions, 
 I will make my confession myself. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 233 
 
 CCLXIV. 
 
 London, August 12, 1863. 
 
 Dear friend, I thank you for your let- 
 ter, which I was expecting impatiently. I 
 thought London would be empty, and that 
 was the first impression which I felt, in fact. 
 But I perceived, after two days, that the 
 great ant-hill was still inhabited, and espe- 
 cially, alas ! that people ate there as much as 
 last year. Is not the slowness of dinners in 
 this country inhuman ? It takes even ap- 
 petite from you. One has to remain two 
 hours and a half at table, and if one adds the 
 half hour which the men leave to women to 
 talk ill of them, it is always eleven o'clock 
 before the men return to the drawing-room. 
 
 The great men seem to me to have grown 
 old since my last visit. Lord Palmerston 
 has abandoned his false set of teeth, and is 
 much changed thereby. He has retained 
 his mutton chops and looks like a gorilla who 
 is gay. Lord Russell is not in such good 
 humor. The great beauties of the season 
 have gone, but they were not highly praised. 
 The gowns seemed to me, as always, very 
 
234 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 mediocre and mussy; but nothing resists 
 the air of this country. My throat is an 
 evidence of it. 
 
 CCLXV. 
 
 Paris, August 30, 1863. 
 I AM going, to-morrow, to Biarritz with 
 Panizzi. We are invited by our gracious 
 sovereign, who shall be our host for I do not 
 know how long. I shall go to Cannes in 
 October. I have an extremely curious book, 
 which I will lend to you if you be good to 
 me. It is the relation, made by a fool, of a 
 suit in the seventeenth century. A nun of 
 his Majesty's family "facevaV amore" with 
 a Milanese gentleman, and, as there were 
 other nuns whom it displeased, she killed 
 them with the aid of her lover. It is very 
 edifying. Read " Urie Saison k Paris," by 
 
 Madame de She is a person full of 
 
 candor, who felt a very great necessity to 
 please his Majesty, and said it to him at a 
 ball, in tones so categoric and so clear that 
 nobody in the world, except you, would 
 have misunderstood her. He was so stupe- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 235 
 
 fied that he did not know what to reply, and 
 it was only three days afterward that he 
 comprehended. I imagine you making the 
 sign of the cross and a horrified grimace. 
 Have you read Renan's " Life of Jesus" ? 
 Probably not. It is a blow with an axe on 
 the edifice of Catholicism. The author is 
 so frightened by his own audacity in deny- 
 ing the divinity, that he loses himself in 
 hymns of admiration and of adoration. It 
 is interesting. 
 
 CCLXVI. 
 
 Cannes, October 19, 1863. 
 Have you read the command of the 
 Bishop of Tulle, to all the religious of his 
 diocese, to recite Aves in honor of M. 
 Renan, or, rather, to prevent the devil from 
 taking away everything because of M. 
 Renan's book ? Since you are reading the 
 letters of Cicero, you must find that the 
 people of his time were wittier than ours. 
 I am ashamed whenever I think of our nine- 
 teenth century, so inferior to its predeces- 
 sors. I leave you, to go fishing with a line, 
 
236 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 or rather to see others fish, for I never could 
 catch a fish. The best of it is, that they 
 make by the seaside an excellent soup for 
 those who like oil and garlic. I suppose 
 you count yourself among them. 
 
 CCLXVII. 
 
 Palace of CompiJigne, 
 November 16, 1863, at night. 
 Dear friend, since my arrival here, I have 
 led the agitated life of an impressario. I 
 have been an author, an actor, and a theatri- 
 cal manager. We played with success a 
 play, somewhat immoral, the subject of 
 which I shall relate to you at my return. 
 We have had magnificent sky-rockets, and a 
 woman who wanted to see them too closely 
 was killed. We have had long walks. I 
 shall remain in Paris until the first days of 
 December and then return to Cannes, which 
 I left in bloom. It is impossible to imagine 
 anything more beautiful than its fields of jes- 
 samine and of tuberoses. You write to me so 
 laconically that you never reply to my ques- 
 tions. You have a way of doing only what 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 337 
 
 you want, which confounds me always ; you 
 jest, you promise. When I read your letters 
 I seem to hear you ; I am disarmed, but furi- 
 ous in fact. You do not even tell me what 
 is becoming of the charming child who in- 
 terests you so much. I pray you not to 
 make her as silly as most women of our 
 
 time. There is here Miss , who is a 
 
 beautiful girl, five feet four inches high, with 
 all the gentleness of a grisette and an amus- 
 ing mingling of easy manners and honest 
 timidity. We were fearing that the second 
 part of a comedy would not be equivalent 
 to the first part. She said: " It will be all 
 right. We will show our legs in the ballet. ' ' 
 Note that her legs are like pipe-stems and 
 her feet not aristocratic. Good-by, dear 
 friend. 
 
 CCLXVIII. 
 
 Paris, Friday, December 12, 1863. 
 Dear friend, you complain of having a 
 cold, and you do not know what that is. 
 Only one person in Paris has a cold, and that 
 is I. I spend my life coughing and stifling, 
 and if it continues you shall have to give 
 
238 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 my funeral oration. Do you know Aris- 
 tophanes ? I have translated for you one of 
 his works. There are things in it which will 
 grieve your prudery, but they will interest 
 you. 
 
 CCLXIX. 
 
 Cannes, January 12, 1864. 
 Dear friend, I was ill as soon as I arrived. 
 I brought from Paris an abominable cold. 
 I do not know what would have become of 
 me if I had remained there. At times, the 
 east wind brings a bit of snow taken from 
 the Alps, but we are in a privileged oasis. 
 I represent to myself a man of Marseilles in 
 the snow, as a cat on the ice with nutshells 
 on its paws. I am charmed that Aristoph- 
 anes had the honor of pleasing you. You 
 ask if the Athenian women were present at 
 theatrical performances. There are men of 
 learning who say yes ; there are others who 
 say no. If you had seen Karagueuz when 
 you were in the Orient you would have 
 found, doubtless, many women there. In 
 the Orient to-day, and formerly, in anti- 
 quity, there was none of the prudery which 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 239 
 
 prevails at present. What is the name of 
 the comedy wherein Euripides is dressed 
 as a woman ? Do you understand the part 
 of the Scythe policeman ? The lack of 
 reserve with which Aristophanes talks of 
 the gods on the day of their festival is 
 more extraordinary than all the rest. The 
 same thing happened in the first days of 
 Christianity. Comedy was played in the 
 churches. There was the mass of the fools 
 and the mass of the ass, the text of which is 
 extant in a very curious manuscript. The 
 wicked have spoiled everything by doubting. 
 When everybody had faith all was permis- 
 sible. Besides the silly things which Aris- 
 tophanes throws into his plays, like salt, 
 there are choruses of most beautiful poetry. 
 I recommend "The Clouds " to you, if you 
 have not read it. It is, in my opinion, the 
 best play which has been retained of his. 
 There is in it a dialogue of the just and the 
 unjust, which is in the most elevated style. 
 I think that there is some truth in his re- 
 proaches to Socrates. The man who proves 
 to everybody, as Socrates did, that he is an 
 ass, is a plague. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
240 LETTERS .TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCLXX. 
 
 Cannes, February 17, 1864. 
 
 Dear friend, since you have taken the 
 trouble to read Aristophanes, I forgive you 
 your ways and your prudery in reading him. 
 Admit only that he is very witty, and it 
 would be a great pleasure to see one of his 
 comedies. I do not know what the opinion 
 of the men of learning at present is on the 
 presence of women at the theatre. It is 
 probable that there were periods of tolerance 
 and of intolerance in the same country, but 
 the women never went on the stage. Their 
 parts were played by men, which was easy 
 because all the actors wore masks. 
 
 I am very ill, dear friend, and feel that I 
 am going to a better world, through a path 
 which is not very agreeable. I have very 
 painful spasms. I cannot sleep. I have no 
 appetite and feel very feeble. What will 
 become of me when, instead of a magnificent 
 sky, I shall have the leaden sky of Paris and 
 rain and fog in permanence ! I am thinking 
 of returning there at the end of this month. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 24I 
 
 if I have the strength, for I am somewhat 
 ashamed not to be doing any of my ofHcial 
 trades. 
 
 CCLXXI. 
 
 Friday, March i8, 1864. 
 I AM writing to you in the Luxembourg, 
 while the Bishop of Rouen is damning im- 
 piety. If you have not seen the new halls 
 in the Louvre, where vases and terra-cottas 
 are classified, you would do well to go there. 
 I offer to you the accompaniment of my 
 lights. You shall see there very beautiful 
 things, and others to interest you, though 
 they might shock your prudery. Appoint 
 your day and hour. 
 
 CCLXXIL 
 
 Wednesday, April 13, 1864. 
 Dear friend, I have regretted much your 
 departure. You should have bade me fare- 
 well once more. You would have found me 
 ill. I suffer, in spite of arsenic and the rest, 
 
 J6 
 
242 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 I hardly go out ; yet desired to see my mas- 
 ters, who are in good health. This visit 
 gave me the advantage of seeing at their 
 best the new fashions, which I do not ad- 
 mire. This is a sign of old age. I cannot 
 bear the new styles of hair-dress. There is 
 not one woman who dresses her hair for her 
 face; all take the style of wigged heads. 
 One of my friends introduced me to his wife, 
 who is young and pretty. She had a foot of 
 rouge, painted eyelashes, and was powdered. 
 This horrified me. Have you read About's 
 book ? It is at your service. I do not know 
 if it is successful. Perhaps the clericals 
 were sensible enough not to excommunicate 
 it, which is the surest means of selling a 
 book. I promise myself never to go to the 
 academy again, except to collect my wages, 
 eighty-three francs, thirty-three centimes 
 every month. I am absorbed by a history 
 of Peter the Great. He was an abominable 
 man, surrounded by abominable scoundrels. 
 That amuses me. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 243 
 
 CCLXXIII. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 Jtdy 21, 1864. 
 Dear friend, you have guessed where I 
 was. I have been here since the last time 
 that we met. I spend my time, from eight 
 o'clock in the evening to midnight, in din- 
 ing out, and the morning in seeing books and 
 statues, or in writing my great article on the 
 son of Peter the Great, which I have a great 
 wish to entitle, " The Danger of Being 
 Stupid." For the moral of my work is, that 
 one must be witty. I think that you will 
 find here and there, in a score of pages, some 
 interesting things, notably how Peter the 
 Great was deceived by his wife. I have 
 translated with a great deal of trouble and 
 care the love-letters of his wife to her lover, 
 who was impaled in the bargain. They are 
 really better than one could expect of the 
 time and country where she wrote. But 
 love achieves marvels. The misfortune is 
 that she did not know orthography, which 
 makes it difficult for grammarians like me 
 to guess what she means. 
 
244 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 They are talking of nothing here but the 
 marriage of Lady Florence Paget. It is im- 
 possible to see a prettier figure or a more 
 delicate body, too small and too delicate for 
 my particular taste. She was celebrated for 
 her flirtations. Ellice's nephew, Chaplin, 
 of whom I have spoken to you often, a tall 
 fellow twenty-five years old, with an income 
 of twenty-five thousand pounds sterling, fell 
 in love with her. She hesitated for a long 
 time, then engaged herself, and received 
 jewels and six thousand pounds sterling to 
 pay her dressmaker's bills. Last Friday, 
 they went together to the park and to the 
 opera. Saturday morning she went out alone 
 to the church of St. George, and there mar- 
 ried Lord Hastings, a young man of her age, 
 very homely, having two little defects; to 
 wit, gambling and drink. After the religious 
 ceremony they went to the country. At 
 the first station she wrote to the marquis, 
 her father : ' ' Dear Pa, as I knew you would 
 never consent to my marriage with Lord 
 Hastings, I was wedded to him to-day. I 
 remain, yours, etc. ' ' She wrote to Chaplin : 
 " Dear Harry, when you receive this I shall 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 245 
 
 be the wife of Lord Hastings. Forget 
 yours very truly, Florence." Poor Chaplin, 
 six feet tall, yellow haired, and in despair! 
 Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLXXIV. 
 
 Paris, October i, 1864. 
 Dear friend, I am here, belated by my 
 proofs, and you see that they need careful 
 correction. I shall start irrevocably on the 
 8th. I shall sleep at Bayonne, and be at 
 Madrid on the i ith. I do not know how 
 long I shall stay there. The Pope has pro- 
 hibited in Rome the painting of French 
 signs. They must be all Italian. There is, 
 on the Corso, a Madame Bernard, who sells 
 gloves and garters. They have forced her 
 to call herself Signbra Bernardi. If I were 
 the government I would not permit this. 
 There is a great scandal here, which amuses 
 perverse people, but I shall not relate it to 
 you for fear of making you angry. Good- 
 by, dear friend. 
 
246 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCLXXV. 
 
 Madrid, October 24, 1864. 
 Can you imagine the misery of people 
 living on an elevated plateau, exposed to all 
 the winds, having nothing with which to 
 warm themselves except braseros, very primi- 
 tive pieces of furniture that give one the 
 choice of freezing or suffocating ? I find 
 that civilization here has made much prog- 
 ress ; this does not embellish Madrid. The 
 women have adopted your absurd hats and 
 wear them in absurd fashion. The bulls have 
 lost much of their merit, and the men who 
 kill them are ignorant and cowardly. Where 
 are you, what are you doing ? Write to 
 me quickly. 
 
 CCLXXVI. 
 
 Cannes, December 4, 1864. 
 Dear friend, I find not a word from you, 
 which grieves me a great deal. I have an- 
 other grievance against you. You have 
 given me all sorts of trouble with your 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 247 
 
 handkerchiefs. I discovered, at last, half a 
 dozen Nipi handkerchiefs, very ugly. I took 
 them, although everybody said they were 
 out of fashion ; but I was obeying orders. I 
 hope you have received them. You wanted 
 them embroidered. There was not one more 
 in Madrid than the six I sent you. Good-by, 
 dear friend. Write to me and tell me what 
 your projects are for this winter. 
 
 CCLXXVII. 
 
 Cannes, December 30, 1864. 
 What do you think of the Pope's encyc- 
 lical letter ? There is here a bishop, a man of 
 wit and of common sense, who veils his face. 
 It is truly pitiful to be in an army whose 
 general exposes it to defeat. I am without 
 news from my publisher. Are there new 
 novels for Christmas ? I mean English 
 novels, for this is the time when they come 
 into bloom. Good-by, dear friend. I have 
 to write thirty-five letters; I began with 
 you ; I wish you all the prosperities. 
 
248 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCLXXVIII. 
 
 Cannes, January 20, 1865. 
 
 Dear friend, have you received your exe- 
 crable Nipi handkerchiefs ? I learned that 
 the person who was to take them to Paris, 
 having been elected a member of the Cortes, 
 had remained in Madrid and had given the 
 handkerchiefs to Madame de Montijo, who 
 did not know what they were. Spaniards 
 are not brilliant in making clear explana- 
 tions. I have written to the Countess Mon- 
 tijo to give the package to our ambassador, 
 who will send it to you by the French mail. 
 I hope you will receive it before my letter, 
 but I do not wish to take again the respon- 
 sibility of your commissions, which force me 
 to make more prose than they are worth. 
 The best thing that you can do is to throw 
 the handkerchiefs in the fire. 
 
 We have here a detestable winter, not 
 cold, but rainy. I take great pleasure in 
 reading the letters of the bishops. There 
 are few lawyers as subtle as these gentle- 
 men. The most subtle among them is one 
 who makes the Pope say precisely the re- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 249 
 
 verse of his encyclical. I know nothing 
 of my works, and if you have learned some- 
 thing about them I should be obliged if you 
 would let me know. The number of Eng- 
 lishmen becomes day by day more and more 
 frightful. They have built on the seashore 
 a hotel almost as large as the Louvre, and it 
 is alw^ays full. One cannot go out without 
 meeting young misses in Garibaldi jackets, 
 with impossible feather-decked hats, pre- 
 tending to make sketches. There are cro- 
 quet and archery parties, where come a 
 hundred and twenty persons. I regret the 
 good old times when nobody came. I have 
 made the acquaintance of a tame sea-gull, 
 which I feed with fish. It catches the fish in 
 the air, always head first, and swallows some 
 bigger than my neck. Do you remember an 
 ostrich of the Jardin des Plantes whom you 
 strangled, almost, with lozenges, in the time 
 when you embellished the place with your 
 presence ? Good-by, dear friend. I expect 
 to return to Paris soon, and find you there. 
 
2SO LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCLXXIX. 
 
 Cannes, April 14, 1865. 
 Dear friend, I was waiting to be cured 
 before writing to you ; but in spite of the 
 beautiful weather, in spite of all possible 
 care, I am always the same; that is, very 
 ill. I cannot accustom myself to this life of 
 suffering and I have neither courage nor resig- 
 nation. The sky here is magnificent. What 
 are you doing this spring ? Shall I find you 
 in Paris ? So your friend, Paradol, becomes 
 an academician. Ampfere has written a very 
 bad history of Caesar in verse; you can 
 comprehend all the allusions which Paradol 
 will make to this work, forgotten now by 
 everybody. You know, perhaps, that Wil- 
 liam Brougham, brother of Lord Brougham 
 and his successor to the peerage, has just 
 been caught in a very ugly swindle. This 
 creates a great scandal here among the Eng- 
 lish colony. The old Lord Brougham re- 
 tains his equanimity. He is, of course, 
 entirely innocent of any wrong. I am read- 
 ing, against sleeplessness, a book by Charles 
 Lambert, who demolishes the holy King 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 251 
 
 David and the Bible. It seems to me to be 
 very ingenious and amusing enough. The 
 clericals have succeeded in making popular 
 serious and pedantic works which, fifteen 
 years ago, would not have attracted any- 
 body's attention. Renanhas gone to Pales- 
 tine to make new studies of landscapes. 
 Peyrat and Charles Lambert are writing 
 books more serious and more learned, which 
 sell like hot cakes, according to my book- 
 seller. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLXXX. 
 
 Paris, July 5, 1865. 
 Dear friend, I was beginning to fear that 
 you had been devoured by some bear. I 
 thought you were in the Tyrol, when your 
 letter came. It is better to travel, I think, 
 in the long days than in the fall, but nothing 
 prevents you from going to Munich in Sep- 
 tember. Only you should take care to take 
 warm clothing with you, for the weather 
 changes very suddenly in that big, ugly, and 
 very high plain of Munich. You should go 
 to the Hotel Bavaria and not to MauUich's, 
 
2S2 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 where I was robbed of my boots. A guide 
 will show you everything worthy of atten- 
 tion. The paintings in the palace are inter- 
 esting enough, but you need special per- 
 mission to see them. You should see, in 
 the Museum of Antiques, the front of the 
 temple of Egina and the marble group of 
 which I spoke to you. The Greek vases are 
 very curious. The frescoes of Cornelius 
 will make you shrug your shoulders. There 
 is nothing at Innsbruck except the landscape 
 and the bronze statues of the cathedral. In 
 all these places you may be sure to find a 
 bed and a tolerable dinner. Buy green 
 stockings at Salzburg or at Innsbruck, if 
 you find any that fit you. The Bavarian 
 legs are as big as my body. Good-by, dear 
 friend ; take good care of yourself and enjoy 
 yourself. 
 
 CCLXXXI. 
 
 London, British Museum, 
 August 23, 1865. 
 Dear friend, I have been here for about 
 six weeks. I have had some terrible din- 
 ners. It seems to me that Lord Palmerston 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 253 
 
 is aging remarkably, in spite of his success 
 at the elections. I have spent three days 
 with his probable successor, Gladstone. I 
 find pleasure, always, in observing the vari- 
 eties of human nature. Here they are so 
 different from ours that one cannot under- 
 stand how it happens. Gladstone has seemed 
 to me to be, under certain aspects, a man 
 of genius, under others, a child. There are 
 elements in him of the child, the statesman, 
 and the madman. There were five or six 
 deans at his house, and every morning the 
 guests regaled themselves with a short prayer 
 in common. What seemed preferable to 
 everything was a sort of badly cooked bread, 
 which is drawn from the oven at breakfast 
 time and which is not digested in a day. 
 Add to this the ale of Wales, which is cele- 
 brated. I suppose you have noticed that 
 the hair now should be red. Nothing is 
 easier in this country. There has been no- 
 body here for a month. There is not a single 
 horse in Rotten Row. I like well enough a 
 large city in this lethargic state. I take ad- 
 vantage of it to see lions. I went yesterday 
 to the Crystal Palace and spent an hour look- 
 
254 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 ing at a chimpanzee, almost as tall as a child 
 ten years old, and so similar to a child in his 
 actions that I felt humiliated by his incon- 
 testable relationship. I have written an 
 article on the " History of Caesar." I shall 
 return to Paris next week. I hope to find 
 you there. I have enough of London. I 
 have had for an instant the thought of going 
 to Scotland, but I should have fallen among 
 hunters, a race which I hold in abhorrence. 
 Good-by, dear friend ; keep me posted about 
 your movements; return from the Tyrol 
 with green stockings, I pray you ; but I dare 
 you to return with Tyrolean legs. 
 
 CCLXXXII. 
 
 Paris, September 12, 1865. 
 Dear friend, I have been here for several 
 days. I came through Boulogne, and while 
 they were fastening our boat to the quay 
 there was such a crowd that I asked myself 
 what could be so interesting in our arrival. 
 You should warn the English ladies that 
 they make a great exhibition of legs, and 
 more, in walking on the quay's edge when 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 2$$ 
 
 the tide is low. My modesty has suffered 
 from this exhibition. 
 
 Paris is emptier than ever, this year. It 
 pleases me in that state. I rise and go to 
 bed late ; I read a great deal and hardly get 
 out of my dressing-gown. It is a Japanese 
 gown with embroideries on a jonquil-yellow 
 background, more brilliant than the electric 
 light. I was not bored very much in Eng- 
 land. I wrote for the" Journal des Savants " 
 an article on the ' ' Caesar ' ' about which I have 
 spoken to you already. You know all the 
 good that I think of the author and of his 
 book ; but you understand the difificulties of 
 my work, not wishing to pass for a courtier, 
 nor to say disagreeable things. I think I 
 got out of the dilemma well enough. I took 
 for a text the idea that the Republic had 
 come to its end and that the Roman people 
 was going to the devil, from which Caesar 
 rescued it. As the thesis is true and easily 
 supported, I wrote variations on that air. 
 Manners are still progressing. The son of a 
 prince has just died in Rome. He had a 
 brother and sisters who were not rich. He 
 was an ecclesiastic, a monsignor, and had an 
 
3S6 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 income of two hundred thousand pounds. 
 He bequeathed everything to his secretary. 
 It is as if Nicomede had bequeathed his 
 kingdom to Caesar. I would bet that you 
 do not understand. It seems to me that 
 Boulogne is becoming more beautiful. I 
 saw fishwomen there coquettishly dressed; 
 but what English women there are, and what 
 hats they wear! Good-by, dear friend. I 
 am going for two days to Trouville. 
 
 CCLXXXIII. 
 
 Paris, October 13, 1865. 
 Dear friend, I found your letter yester- 
 day at my return from Biarritz. The first 
 welcome of my native city was not amiable. 
 I had, last night, one of my longest attacks 
 of spasms. It comes, I suppose, from the 
 change of air, or it may be the result of a 
 journey of fourteen hours in a railway train. 
 This morning I feel better. I have lamen- 
 table letters from people about nothing but 
 cholera. Nobody thinks of it here, and I 
 think that, except drunkards, none suffered 
 seriously. If the cholera had begun in Paris 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 257" 
 
 no one would have paid any attention to it. 
 The cowardice of the people of Marseilles 
 was necessary to warn us of it. I think I 
 have told you my theory on cholera. One 
 dies of it only when one wishes to die, and 
 it is so well bred that it never calls on you 
 without sending its visiting card in advance, 
 as the Chinese do. 
 
 At Biarritz, we had a visit from the King 
 and Queen of Portugal. The King is a very 
 timid German student. The Queen is charm- 
 ing. She resembles the Princess Clotilde, 
 but is more beautiful. She is a revised 
 edition. Her complexion is of a white and 
 of a rose, rare, even in England. It is true 
 that her hair is red, but it is a very dark red. 
 She is amiable and polite. There were, in 
 their train, a certain number of male and 
 female caricatures, apparently picked up in 
 a second-hand shop. The Minister of Por- 
 tugal recited a tirade about me to her Ma- 
 jesty, which she heard with much grace- 
 fulness. The Emperor introduced me to 
 the King, who extended his hand and looked 
 at me with two large, round, surprised eyes. 
 Another personage, M. de Bismarck, pleased 
 17 
 
2S8 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 me more. He is a big German, very polite, 
 who is not naive. He seems to be absolutely 
 destitute of " gemuth," but he is full of wit. 
 He conquered my heart. He brought with 
 him a wife, who has the largest feet on the 
 Rhine, and a daughter who walks in her 
 mother's footsteps. Please tell me what I 
 may read, among the beautiful things that 
 have been written since I have ceased to live 
 among the most witty people in the universe. 
 I would like to see you. 
 
 CCLXXXIV. 
 
 Paris, November 8, 1865. 
 
 I WOULD have liked to go to Cannes ; but 
 I was asked to remain for the first festivals 
 at Compifegne, and the request was made 
 with such good grace that I could not refuse. 
 
 I returned from Biarritz in very good 
 health, but after three days I felt all the 
 rigor of a change of climate. I have been 
 better for a few days. I think that Com- 
 pifegne will hurt me a great deal, but I shall 
 go to the south of France as soon as I can. 
 
 You cannot imagine the scandal of Prin- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 259 
 
 cess Anna's marriage, nor the comic rage of 
 the Faubourg Saint-Germain. There is not 
 a family having a daughter, who did not 
 count on the Due de Mouchy. The great 
 question is, " If they make calls, shall we 
 send cards to them ? ' ' There is, at this 
 moment, a marriageable girl with several 
 millions in her pocket and some fifty others 
 to come. She is a very pretty girl, some- 
 what mysterious, a daughter of M. Heine, 
 who died this year; an adopted daughter, 
 be it understood, whose origin no one 
 knows. But for millions the finest names 
 of France, Germany and Italy are prepared 
 to ally themselves with all sorts of platitudes. 
 Adopted children are agreeable to the god- 
 dess Fortune. The Greeks of to-day call 
 them children of the mind. 
 
 There is only one man of genius at pres- 
 ent : Ponson du Terrail. Have you read one 
 of his feuilletons ? No one handles as he 
 does, crime and assassination. It is delight- 
 ful. If you were here I would like to shake 
 your orthodoxy by making you read a curi- 
 ous book on Moses, David, and Saint Paul. 
 It is not an idyll, like Renan's, but a dis- 
 
26o LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 sertation, too much larded with Greek and 
 Hebrew. It is worth reading. But you do 
 not like conversations like this, and you are 
 right. There are other things to say to you. 
 Good-by, dear friend ; I have a great desire 
 to see you. 
 
 CCLXXXV. 
 
 Cannes, January 2, 1866. 
 
 Dear friend, I did not know where to 
 write to you. That is why I did not write. 
 You lead such an errant life that one does 
 not know where to catch you. You have 
 taken the habit of subalternizing yourself. 
 You are at times the victim of the sea lions, 
 and oftener the victim of that child whom 
 you love, so that there is no way of seeing 
 you, as in the good old times when we 
 were so glad to be together. Do you 
 remember ? 
 
 I came here in a pretty bad state of health, 
 after a week at Compifegne. They tried to 
 keep me, but I resisted heroically,, and fled 
 here. The sun has produced its ordinary 
 effect. How is it that, liking to travel as 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 261 
 
 you do, you do not spend your winters at 
 Pisa, or in some place where the great arbiter 
 of humcin healths, my lord of the sun, is ? 
 I think that if it were not for him I would 
 be under the earth. All my contemporaries 
 hasten to precede me there. Last year was 
 rough for a little circle of my friends. We 
 dined together once a month : I am the sole 
 survivor. This is my grave reproach against 
 the Great Mechanic. Why do not men fall, 
 like leaves, in one season ? Your Father 
 Hyacinth will not fail to say silly things. 
 He will say, " O, man, what are ten years, 
 a century ! ' ' What is eternity to me ? 
 What is important for me is a small number 
 of days. Why are they so bitter ? 
 
 Only a quarter of the ordinary visitors at 
 Cannes are here this year. Reason : a Pa- 
 risian ate three lobsters and died of cholera. 
 The land was at once placed under suspicion, 
 and the mayors of Nice and of Cannes con- 
 ceived the bad idea of denying, in the news- 
 papers, that the cholera had come. So 
 everybody believed that it had. Several of 
 my friends have been as heroic as I, and we 
 form a small colony which dispenses with 
 
262 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 the crowd. Good-by, dear friend. I send 
 you my best and most tender wishes. 
 
 CCLXXXVI. 
 
 Cannes, February 20, 1866. 
 
 Dear friend, you charge me with laziness 
 and you are the very model of it ! You live 
 in Paris and talk of things with honest folk, 
 and might keep me informed of what hap- 
 pens in the great city ; and you never relate 
 anything. Is it true that the crinoline is 
 proscribed and that between the gown and 
 the skin nothing but the shirt is worn ? If 
 that is so, shall I recognize you when I arrive 
 in Paris ? I remember an old man who said 
 to me, when I was young, that when he went 
 into a drawing-room where were women 
 without panniers and without powder, he 
 imagined seeing chambermaids assembled 
 in the absence of their mistresses. I am not 
 sure that one can be a woman without a 
 crinoline. 
 
 You say nothing to me of Ponsard's play. 
 He has preserved the tradition of the Cor- 
 nelian verse, somewhat emphatic, but large. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 263 
 
 sonorous, and good. I imagine that the 
 fashionable people admire this, as they ad- 
 mire the sermons of the Abb6 Lacordaire, 
 buying a cat in a bag because it is said to 
 be as it should be. 
 
 I have just read a little book on the reli- 
 gions of Asia, which is very interesting. It 
 seems that in Persia one is hardly a Mussul- 
 man. New religions are making there, and 
 renewals of antique superstitions. If I am 
 in Paris when the question in which you are 
 interested comes to the Senate, I will vote 
 as you advise me. I expect to be in Paris 
 at the beginning of next month. What is 
 said and done at present seems to be more 
 and more silly. We are much more absurd 
 than they were in the middle ages. Good- 
 by, dear friend. 
 
 CCLXXXVII. 
 
 Paris, Aprils, 1866. 
 
 Dear friend, is it not a fatality that you 
 
 should depart when I arrive ? Fortunately, 
 
 you will return soon. I have been here 
 
 since Saturday night. I left, hardly breath- 
 
264 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 ing, and the travel made me worse. We 
 had a terrible storm last night, which I hope 
 will do me good. Try to cover yourself 
 with all your furs and to leave the chimney 
 corner as seldom as possible and only when 
 the days are sunny. I have become so sen- 
 sitive to the cold, or, rather, the cold hurts 
 me so much, that I imagine hell is the com- 
 partment of the ' ' bolge ' ' in Dante. Hap- 
 pily, I am told, the crinoline is out of fash- 
 ion, which puts your legs and the rest under 
 shelter. I went out yesterday for an hour 
 and saw a woman without a crinoline, but 
 with skirts so extraordinary that I was stup- 
 efied. They seemed to me to be made of 
 pasteboard with furbelows. They made a 
 good deal of noise on the asphalt. 
 
 It is your habit to do the very reverse of 
 common mortals, and, as the country will 
 soon be agreeable, I presume that you are 
 to return to Paris. Have the kindness ta 
 advise me of your intentions. 
 
 I am asking myself if I shall go, Thurs- 
 day, to the Academy to aid in the making 
 of an Immortal. Between Henri Martin 
 and Cuvillier-Fleury or M. de Champagny, 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 265 
 
 one does not know what to do. However, 
 the latter is a little too clerical for me, and 
 I am angry with him for writing on Roman 
 history in newspaper style. Have you read 
 anything by Cuvillier-Fleury ? If you have, 
 tell me what you think of him. If you give 
 me a reward I shall vote for whomever you 
 designate. 
 
 The modem English novels bore me mor- 
 tally. They were our great resource at 
 Cannes. Do you know anything which may 
 keep company with a poor devil unable to 
 go out after dark ? Good-by, dear friend ; 
 think a little of me. 
 
 CCLXXXVIII. 
 
 Paris, June 24, 1866. 
 What becomes of you ? It seems that 
 the cholera prevails at Amiens. I do not 
 know what is reserved for us at Luxem- 
 bourg, and perhaps the senatus-consult, 
 with which we are threatened, will force me 
 to remain here till the end of the month. 
 I have bought, to console myself, the 
 twenty-seven volumes of the ' ' M6moires du 
 
266 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 XVIIIfeme Sifecle, ' ' which I shall have bound. 
 Is there anything in them that you would 
 like to have ? I received, with astonish- 
 ment, the book which you sent back to me. 
 I was afraid that you had added it to those 
 which you have already taken from me. 
 When will you come and take another ? In 
 spite of the heat, I am quite ill. 
 
 You asked me, the other day, where I got 
 acquainted with the dialect of the Bohe- 
 mians. I had so many things to say to you 
 that I forgot to reply. I learned it from M. 
 Borrow ; his book is one of the most curious 
 that I have read. What he tells of the Bo- 
 hemians is perfectly true, and his personal 
 observations are entirely in accord with 
 mine, except upon one point. In his quality 
 as a clergyman, he may have been mistaken 
 where, in my quality as a Frenchman and a 
 layman, I could make conclusive experi- 
 ments. It is strange that this man, who has 
 such a gift for languages, has so little dra- 
 matic perspicacity that he cannot distinguish 
 in this dialect many words foreign to the 
 Spanish. He pretends that only the roots 
 of Sanscrit words have been preserved. I 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 267 
 
 like the odor of the perfume which you have 
 sent me ; I like it less, however, since I have 
 learned that the one who gave it to you sees 
 you often. 
 
 CCLXXXIX. 
 
 Palace of Saint-Cloud, 
 August 20, 1866. 
 
 Dear friend, I received your letter yes- 
 terday. I thank you for your compliments 
 on my appointment as a grand officer of the 
 Legion of Honor. It surprised me as much 
 as you. I say to myself, like the " Cocu 
 Imaginaire ' ' : 
 
 " Does one's leg become more crooked, 
 after all, or one's shape less graceful ? " 
 
 I beg your pardon for quoting a play 
 which you have not read because of its 
 title. 
 
 You take a singular route to go to the 
 land of the sea lions ; but if you can have a 
 little sunlight, you shall have a great deal of 
 pleasure in seeing the banks of the Loire. 
 There is nothing more French in France. I 
 recommend to you the palace of Blois, 
 which was recently restored. Inspect the 
 
268 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 new church of Tours, restored. It is situ- 
 ated on the Rue Royale, at the right from 
 the station. I forget the name of it. See 
 also, at Tours, a house which is called, im- 
 properly, the house of the executioner, and 
 which is attributed to Tristan I'Ermite, be- 
 cause of a sculptured cord girdle at the win- 
 dows, attribute of a widow, which the igno- 
 rant have taken for a hangman's rope. 
 
 We have deplorable weather. Yesterday 
 I had a long drive. We were caught in a 
 storm, which wet me to the bones. The 
 water filled the cushions, so that we were as 
 in a bath-tub. I shall be in Paris, I think, 
 in the last days of this month, and will go 
 to Biarritz in the beginning of September. 
 Will you come ? 
 
 The Emperor is in good health. We pass 
 the time without etiquette. We dine in 
 frock coats, and everybody does as he 
 pleases. I have received from Russia an 
 enormous history of Peter the Great, written 
 from a quantity of official documents, 
 hitherto unpublished. It seems to me that 
 everything tends to peace. It is very 
 evident that M. de Bismarck is a great man, 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 269 
 
 and too well prepared for anybody to be 
 angry against him. We shall have to digest 
 a great many things until we get the needle 
 gun. What the German parliament will do 
 remains to be seen. As for Italy, it is not 
 even mentioned. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCXC. 
 
 Biarritz, September i^th. 
 We have four days of rain in seven. The 
 three others are hot. The sea is much more 
 beautiful here than at Boulogne. I went to 
 an amusing excursion in the mountains, the 
 other day, and saw one of the strangest 
 grottoes that one may see. You pass under 
 a great natural bridge, made of one arch, as 
 long as the Pont Royal ; you have, on one 
 side, a wall of rocks, and, on the other side, 
 a tunnel, natural also, and very long; for 
 nature, less clever than engineers, made its 
 bridge lengthwise and extended it with the 
 tunnel. Under the tunnel, perpendicular to 
 the bridge, runs a clear brook. The propor- 
 tions are gigantic. It is very cool there and 
 at a thousand leagues from human beings. 
 
270 LErtERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 This beautiful place, which is called simply 
 Sagarramedo, is in Spain; and if it were 
 near Paris, an enterprising man would show 
 it for ten cents and make his fortune. In 
 another cavern, at a league from there, but 
 in France, we found a score of smugglers, 
 who sang Basque songs in chorus, with the 
 accompaniment of the " galoubet. " It is a 
 little, shrill flute, very savage and very 
 agreeable. The music is full of character, 
 but sad enough to bury the devil, as are all 
 the tunes of mountaineers. We were guided 
 there by a singular man, who has made a 
 fortune by smuggling. He is the king of 
 these mountains, and everybody obeys him. 
 Nothing could have been more beautiful 
 than to see him gallop among the rocks on 
 our column's flank, which had a great deal of 
 trouble to go through the pass. He leaped 
 over all obstacles, yelling to his men in 
 Basque, in French, and in Spanish, and 
 never making a false step. The Empress had 
 charged him with watching over the Prince 
 Imperial, whom he made pass with his pony 
 through the most impossible routes which 
 you may imagine, and with as much care of 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 27 1 
 
 him as if he had been a lot of prohibited 
 goods. We stopped for an hour at his house 
 at San, where we were received by his 
 daughters, who are well-bred persons, well 
 dressed, and not at all provincial, different 
 from Parisians only by the way in which 
 they pronounce " r," which, for the Basques, 
 is always " rrrh." 
 
 We expect the fleet; but the sea is so 
 bad that, if it came, we could not com- 
 municate with it. There is no crowd at 
 Biarritz. There are few pretty faces. 
 Nothing can be uglier than the women's 
 bathing dress. I have been presented to 
 the Grand Duke Luchtenberg. I have dis- 
 covered that he reads Schopenhauer, be- 
 lieves in positive philosophy, and is inclined 
 to socialism. I expect to be in Paris in the 
 first days of October. Will you be there ? 
 Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCXCI. 
 
 Paris, November $, 1866. 
 We shall be, therefore, like Castor and 
 Pollux, who never could appear on the same 
 
272 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 horizon ! Besides the pleasure which I 
 would have had in seeing you, I expected 
 that of reading to you something which I 
 have translated from the Russian. At Biar- 
 ritz, they were disputing one day on the 
 difficult situations in which a person might 
 be ; as, for example, Roderigue between his 
 papa and Chimene, Mademoiselle Camille 
 between her brother and the Curiace. At 
 night, having drank tea which was too 
 strong, I wrote a score of pages on such a 
 situation. The thing is very moral, at bot- 
 tom, but there are details to which Monseig- 
 neur Dupanloup might object. There is 
 also a begging of the question, necessary 
 for the development of the tale. Two per- 
 sons of different sex go to an inn. This 
 has never happened, but it was necessary 
 for my tale, and near them something extra- 
 ordinary happens. It is not, I think, the 
 worst thing that I have written, although it 
 is written in haste. I read it to the lady 
 of the house. There was at Biarritz, the 
 Grand Duchess Marie, daughter of Nicholas, 
 to whom I had been presented several years 
 ago. We renewed our acquaintance. Soon 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 273 
 
 after my lecture I received the visit of a 
 policeman, saying that he had been sent by 
 the Grand Duchess. " What may I do for 
 you ?" — " I have come from her Imperial 
 Highness to ask you to come to her to-night 
 with your novel. ' ' — ' ' What novel ? ' ' — 
 " The one which you read, the other day, 
 to her Majesty." I said that I had the 
 honor of being her Majesty's jester, and 
 could not work for others without her per- 
 mission. I ran at once to relate the thing 
 to her. I expected that the result would be 
 a war with Russia, and it mortified me a 
 little to be not only permitted to go, but 
 asked to accompany the policeman to the 
 Grand Duchess's. In order to console my- 
 self, I wrote a letter to the Grand Duchess, 
 announcing my visit. I went to carry my 
 letter to her house ; there was a great deal 
 of wind, and, in a far-ofl alley, I met a wo- 
 man whom her skirts, into which the wind 
 had entered, threatened to blow into the 
 sea. She was in the greatest embarrass- 
 ment, blinded and dazzled by the noise of 
 her crinoline and the rest. I ran to her aid. 
 I had a great deal of trouble in aiding her, 
 18 
 
274 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 and then only I recognized the Grand 
 Duchess. She acted very well with me ; she 
 gave me good tea and some cigarettes, for 
 she smokes, as all Russian ladies do. Her 
 son, the Duke of Luchtenberg, is a very 
 handsome fellow. Good-by, dear friend. 
 What do you think of overflows ? I con- 
 gratulate you on not having been drowned. 
 
 CCXCII. 
 
 Cannes, January 3, 1867. 
 Dear friend, your letter filled me with re- 
 morse. I have wanted to write to you for a 
 long time, but the uncertainty as to where 
 you are is a great bother. You are ever 
 wandering, and none knows where to catch 
 you. Then, you have not replied to a very 
 long letter, written in a very beautiful style, 
 which I sent to you. Moreover, you do not 
 know how time flies in a land like this, 
 where it never rains, and where the most 
 important thing is to stay in the sun. I 
 have done nothing but read a history of 
 Peter the Great. The great man was a bar- 
 barian, who got drunk horribly. This did 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 275 
 
 not prevent him from being superior to his 
 time. I should like to say that, some day, 
 to persons as prejudiced as you are. I am 
 reading the novel of my friend, Madame de 
 Boigne. It pains me. She is a person of 
 much wit, who exposes her faults and criti- 
 cises them bitterly, but persists in them. 
 She passed more than thirty years without 
 saying a word of this novel, and she ordered 
 its publication in her will. It surprised me 
 as much as if I heard that you printed a 
 treatise on geometry. 
 
 CCXCIII. 
 
 Paris, Thursday, April 4, 1867. 
 Dear friend, here I am, at last, in Paris. 
 I did not write to you, because I was too 
 sad and could say only painful things of 
 myself and of this sublunar world. You will 
 find me very ill, but very happy to see you. 
 If the weather be fine Friday morning, we 
 may go together to the Museum of the 
 Louvre. I hardly dare to go out, because I 
 fear the cold, but am ordered to take exer- 
 cise. I hope you are still prosperous. They 
 
276 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 are repairing my house, and I am reduced to 
 living in my parlor, which is as sad as a 
 prison. Come to console me. You may 
 take all the books you want and I will not 
 ask you to leave anything in pawn. Good-by. 
 
 CCXCIV. 
 
 Paris, Friday, April 30, 1867. 
 Dear friend, I am very sorry that you are 
 surrounded by sick persons. I fear that 
 you are not thinking of me. Will you not 
 come to take care of me ? I went to the 
 exposition and was not dazzled. It is true 
 that it was raining and impossible for me to 
 see the amusing things which are in the gar- 
 den. I saw some beautiful Chinese objects, 
 too high priced for my purse, and Russian 
 carpets, all sold. Some morning you shall 
 have to take me there and guide me in my 
 purchases. The rainy weather hurts me 
 much. I do not dare to go out and I live 
 like a bear. I am burning with the desire 
 to go to your house some evening, but I am 
 convinced that I should be compelled to 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 277 
 
 spend the night on the first step of your 
 stairway. 
 
 CCXCV. 
 
 Wednesday, June 26, 1867. 
 Dear friend, would it not have been 
 better if you had brought your bouquet to 
 me yourself ? I have condoled with you for 
 the loss of your purse at the exposition. 
 Condole with me, for I have lost mine in 
 a carriage. 
 
 CCXCVI. 
 
 Paris, June 30, 1867. 
 Dear friend, here are two tickets for to- 
 morrow's ceremony. They deserve a big 
 tip, for I had a great deal of trouble in ob- 
 taining them. I send them to you in haste. 
 Try not to be ill. It will be terribly hot. 
 
 CCXCVII. 
 
 Friday, July 5, 1867. 
 Dear friend, I am charmed that you en- 
 joyed yourself. I was afraid of the heat. 
 You sought for me vainly ; I was not there. 
 Come quickly to relate to me the beautiful 
 
278 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 things which you saw and to give me your 
 opinion of the Sultan and of the princes, 
 who had the great privilege of contemplat- 
 ing you for three hours. 
 
 CCXCVIII. 
 
 Paris, July 27, 1867. 
 
 Dear friend, I thank you for your letter. 
 I shall not describe to you all my ills, but 
 pray believe that I am overcome by them. 
 I hope that you will pity me. I do not sleep 
 nor eat. I envy you these two faculties, 
 which you possess with many others. 
 
 I congratulate you on having met the Sul- 
 tan. Was he amiable ? The opera people 
 are discontented with him. They like better 
 Egypt's Pasha. He has been reconciled 
 with his cousin, Mustapha, but they would 
 not drink coffee together, each one being 
 persuaded that it would be too dangerous, 
 because of the great progress of chemistry, 
 I suppose. If you had been in Paris, you 
 would have seen something beautiful which 
 was given to me. It is a brooch in the form 
 of a shield, with a portrait of Marie Antoi- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 279 
 
 nette in miniature, made, probably, at 
 Vienna, before her marriage, and given by 
 her to the Princess de Lamballe. There 
 was a lock of her hair behind it, but some- 
 body took it. I sent the brooch to her 
 Majesty, who is making a collection of ob- 
 jects of Marie Antoinette. It will be, cer- 
 tainly, one of its prettiest relics. It is au- 
 thentic, and was worn for a long time by 
 Princess de Lamballe. I hold these sad 
 antiquities in horror, but one should not 
 dispute about tastes. 
 
 I think you might have been a little more 
 polite, and borrowed my proofs from me. 
 Sainte-Beuve is still ill. There is a great 
 number of women around him. When are 
 you coming back ? I need you to tell me 
 stories and make me take my ills patiently. 
 I read Luther's Table Talk, the other night. 
 That big man pleases me, with all his preju- 
 dices and his hatred for the devil. 
 
 CCXCIX. 
 
 Paris, September 6, 1867. 
 Dear friend, I have received your letter, 
 which gave me much pleasure. I went, the 
 
28o LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 other day, to the exposition, where I saw 
 the Japanese women. They have a coffee- 
 and-milk complexion, which is very agree- 
 able. As far as I could judge by the folds 
 of their gowns, they have legs as thin as 
 those of a chair, which is pitiful. While I 
 looked at them, I said to myself that Euro- 
 pean women would not appear so well be- 
 fore a Japanese public. Do you imagine 
 yourself exhibited at Yeddo, and Prince 
 Satsuma's grocer saying, " I would like to 
 know if the bump in the back of this lady's 
 gown belongs to her ? " Talking of bumps, 
 they are not wearing them at all, and this 
 proves that there were none ; for all women 
 found themselves at the same instant in the 
 fashion. 
 
 CCC. 
 Paris, September 27, 1867. 
 There is a Prince Augustin Galitzin, who 
 has become converted to Catholicism, and 
 who is not very clever in Russian. He has 
 translated a novel by Turgeni.eff, the title 
 of which is " Smoke." Turgenieff asked 
 me to correct the proofs. Well, there are 
 vivacious things in this novel which make 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 281 
 
 Prince Galitzin blush. For example, an un- 
 heard-of thing: a Russian princess in love, 
 with aggravation of adultery. He skips the 
 passages which wound him too much, and I 
 reestablish them in the text. He is some- 
 times very sensitive, as you will see. The 
 princess comes to see her lover in a hotel, 
 at Baden. She goes into his room, and the 
 chapter finishes. The story resumes, in the 
 Russian original, as follows: "Two hours 
 later, Litvinof was alone on his divan." 
 The new Catholic has translated as follows : 
 ' ' An hour later, Litvinof was in his room. ' ' 
 You see, it is much more moral, because 
 it suppresses an hour, and thus diminishes 
 the sin by half. Moreover, room, instead of 
 divan, is much more virtuous: a divan en- 
 tails guilty acts. I have reestablished the 
 two hours and the divan ; but the chapters 
 wherein I have done this have not been pub- 
 lished. This amuses me very much. There 
 is a beautiful scene in the novel, wherein the 
 heroine tears English lace, which is much 
 more grave than a divan. I am waiting to 
 see what they will do when they reach this 
 passage. 
 
283 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCCI. 
 
 Paris, Monday night, October 28, 1867. 
 I AM still ill, hardly breathing, and on the 
 eve of not breathing at all. The sudden 
 death of M. Fould has grieved me much. I 
 expect to go out of town in the first days 
 of November. I am urged to go, in order 
 to escape a cold. Good-by, dear friend ; I 
 hope you will return before ray departure. 
 Quit the ugly fog, and take good care of 
 yourself. 
 
 CCCII. 
 
 Paris, November 8, 1867. 
 Dear friend, I write to you in haste. I 
 shall go to Cannes to-morrow, to get sunlight 
 and heat. I do not know how long I shall be 
 able to remain out of town. It depends on 
 the Pope, Garibaldi, and M. de Bismarck. 
 The Pope is convinced that he owes no obli- 
 gation to us, and that it was heaven which 
 did everything for his beautiful eyes. Good- 
 by, dear friend. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 283 
 
 CCCIII. 
 
 Cannes, December i6, 1867. 
 Fine weather has returned and I am 
 beginning to breathe again. I am at the 
 mercy of every change of the weather, and 
 there is not a barometer which I may not 
 surpass by the sureness of my predictions. 
 I am much frightened by politics ; there is, 
 in the general tone of the journals and of 
 the orators, something which recalls 1848 to 
 me. There are strange fits of anger, with- 
 out apparent causes. All nerves are 
 strained. 
 
 CCCIV. 
 
 Cannes, January 5, 1868. 
 Dear friend, forgive my belated answer. 
 I have been, and am still, ill. The cold hurts 
 me a great deal. I am anxious for my good 
 friend, Panizzi, who is ill in London. The 
 last news which I had from him, shows that 
 he is discouraged, which is a very bad symp- 
 tom in patients. I am reading a book which 
 
284 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 is too long, and badly written, but the au- 
 thor of which is honest and says what he 
 has seen and heard. One must not dwell on 
 his reflections, for he is a little foolish. It 
 is Dixon's " New America." He saw the 
 Mormons and the republic of Mount Leb- 
 anon. This and Fenianism give an idea of 
 America. Good-by, dear friend ; I wish you 
 good health and prosperity. 
 
 cccv. 
 
 Cannes, February 10, 1868. 
 I HAVE not become accustomed to suffer 
 and suffering irritates me. This gives me 
 two ills, instead of one. I think I will stay 
 here until the end of the month. I am glad 
 that my essay on Pushkin pleased you. I 
 wrote it without having the works of Push- 
 kin by me. The verses which I quoted 
 were those which I learned by heart, in the 
 time of my Russian fervor. There never has 
 been here as great a number of English men 
 and women. The women have incredible 
 hair, gowns, and red stockings. Among the 
 extraordinary Englishmen is the Duke of 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 285 
 
 Buccleugh, who has a horn in the middle of 
 his forehead. His son has an inclination to 
 imitate him. Do not think that I say this 
 metaphorically. It is a real horn growing 
 in the cranium. 
 
 CCCVI. 
 
 MoNTPELLiER, April 30, 1868. 
 Dear friend, I have been so ill as to lose 
 all courage. It was impossible for me to 
 think. I learned, by chance, that there 
 was at Montpellier a physician who treated 
 asthma by a new method and I have tried it. 
 It seems to me that my condition is improv- 
 ing. I hope to find you soon in Paris. 
 There is a fair under my windows. They 
 are exhibiting a giantess, in a satin gown, 
 which she lifts to show her legs. Their 
 diameter is that of your waist. Good-by, 
 dear friend. 
 
 CCCVII. 
 
 Paris, June i6, 1868. 
 I WENT, day before yesterday, to the Bois 
 de Boulogne, where I saw the most extrava- 
 
286 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 gant gowns. I met a very beautiful woman, 
 whose hair was the color of an aurora. I 
 could have sworn that she was a Breda 
 street girl. I recognized in her the wife of 
 a general. Her hair was formerly a dark 
 chestnut. We are progressing in manners. 
 
 CCCVIII. 
 
 Palace or Fontainebleau, 
 August 4, 1868. 
 I HAVE been here for a fortnight, doing 
 nothing at all. I have a sweet memory of 
 our last walk. Have you ? Here I walk a 
 little, read less, and breathe well enough. 
 There are about thirty persons in the pal- 
 ace, the only new comers being cousins of 
 the Empress, whom I met in Madrid, and 
 who are very amiable to me. I have made a 
 copy of a portrait of Diane de Poitiers. She 
 is represented as Diana, dressed with a bow 
 and arrow, and it is evident that she posed. 
 From the feet to the head, everything is a 
 portrait. I shall dare to say that the fact 
 results, from an examination of her legs, 
 that she tied her garters above her knee. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 287 
 
 This was the fashion of her time. It is not 
 the fashion now, I have heard. 
 
 CCCIX. 
 
 Paris, September 2, 1868. 
 While I was at Fontainebleau, a strange 
 thing happened to me. I had the idea of 
 writing a novel for my hostess, and did not 
 have the time to finish it. I finished it 
 here, but I had no sooner done this than I 
 began another novel. This recrudescence of 
 the malady of my youth alarms me, because 
 it resembles a second childhood. When I 
 was in the palace we read prodigious novels, 
 whose authors were unknown to me. It is 
 to imitate them that I wrote this last novel. 
 The scene is in Lithuania, where they talk 
 pure Sanscrit. A great lady of the land, 
 having gone to hunt, has had the misfortune 
 to be captured by a bear, destitute of sensi- 
 tiveness. She becomes insane, but gives 
 birth to a boy, who grows arid becomes 
 charming, only he is inexplicably odd. He 
 gets married, and on the night of his wed- 
 ding, eats his wife raw. You, who divine 
 
288 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 everything, because I tell you everything, 
 guess why. That charming boy is the ille- 
 gitimate son of that badly bred bear. Please 
 tell me what you think of it. Good-by, 
 dear friend; write to me more than three 
 words on a line. Tell me very candidly what 
 you think of the bear. 
 
 cccx. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, September 29, 1868. 
 Dear friend, the principal thing is that 
 the lecture did not tire you. Is it possible 
 that you did not guess at once how badly 
 bred that bear was ? As I read, I saw on 
 your face that you disapproved of the plot. 
 I shall have to submit to yours. Do you 
 think that the reader, less timorous than 
 you, will accept your version ? So it is a 
 simple look of the bear which made that 
 poor woman insane and gave to her son his 
 sanguinary instincts. It shall be done as 
 you wish. Your advice to me has always 
 been good; but this time, I think, you 
 abuse the permission which you have to 
 criticise me adversely. I shall go to Mont- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 289 
 
 pellier Saturday. I hope to say good-by to 
 you two or three times before then. 
 
 CCCXI. 
 
 Cannes, November 16, 1868. 
 
 I HAVE been for six weeks coughing and 
 stifling, and the different drugs which I 
 take, with much docility and resignation, 
 produce no effect upon me. I sleep badly 
 and spend the time entertaining blue devils. 
 It is at night especially that I suffer. 
 
 I made, during my insomnia, a careful copy 
 of the " Honey Hunter," with the changes 
 that you advised and which seem to me to 
 improve the work. That the bear went to 
 the extreme of troubling an illustrious gene- 
 alogy remains doubtful. Still, intelligent 
 persons like you will understand that a very 
 grave accident occurred. I have sent this 
 new edition to M. Turgenieff, so that he 
 may revise the local color. The trouble is 
 that neither he nor I have been able to find 
 a Lithuanian who knew his language and his 
 country. I wished to send this work to the 
 19 
 
290 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 Empress for her birthday; but I have re- 
 sisted the temptation and have done well. 
 God only knows what would have become of 
 the bear in the society of Compifegne. 
 
 Poor Rossini is dead. It is said that he 
 worked a great deal although he wished to 
 publish nothing. This has always . seemed 
 to me to be improbable. Consideration of 
 money had always a great importance for 
 him. He was one of the wittiest men I 
 have met, and there was nothing more mar- 
 vellous than the air of the " Barber of 
 Seville ' ' sung by him. No actor was com- 
 parable to him. If you know some amusing 
 book, tell me about it, I pray you. 
 
 CCCXII. 
 
 Cannes, January 2, 1869. 
 
 If you knew what an ugly, what a monoto- 
 nous life I am leading, you would under- 
 stand that it is bad enough to endure it 
 without rendering an account of it. The sky 
 and the sea are magnificent, and their influ- 
 ence, which formerly gave me health, does 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 29I 
 
 me no good now. What shall I do ? I do 
 not know, but I have often a great desire 
 that all would end. Your voyage seems to 
 be agreeable, but I do not approve of your 
 return through the Tyrol. You will meet 
 with a great dccil of snow ; you will lose the 
 skin of your cheeks. Any other road 
 would be better. Why do you not go to 
 Sicily and see Mt. iEtna, which is in erup- 
 tion, they say ? I have copied again " The 
 Bear," with much care. Many things in it 
 are changed, for the better, I think. Title 
 and names are changed also. For persons 
 as unintelligent as you, the manners of that 
 bear will remain very mysterious. But one 
 will not be able to argue from them to his 
 disadvantage, however perspicacious one 
 may be. An infinity of things remain un- 
 explained in the story. Physicians tell me 
 that plantigrades may, better than other 
 beasts, ally themselves with us; but such 
 cases are scarce, naturally, bears not being 
 very attractive. Good-by, dear friend, I 
 wish you a happy new year. 
 
292 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 CCCXIII. 
 
 Cannes, February 23, 1869. 
 I FIND, dear friend, that my ill is incur- 
 able. I have tried I do not know how many 
 infallible remedies ; I have been in the hands 
 of three or four very skilful men, not one of 
 whom gave me the slightest relief. I have 
 not the strength to read, and I have no 
 books. I think that you will find my 
 ' ' Bear ' ' better presentable in his new form. 
 I have made illustrations for the book. Do 
 not think that they include all the scenes, 
 the one, for example, where the bear for- 
 gets himself. Good-by, dear friend ; I regret 
 that you are not going to Rome this year. 
 
 CCCXIV. 
 
 Cannes, March 19, 1869. 
 Dear friend, I have been in peril for four 
 or five days. I can walk in my room now, 
 and may soon, I am told, go out in the sun- 
 light. Good-by, dear friend. Health and 
 prosperity. 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 293 
 
 cccxv. 
 
 Cannes, April 23, 1869. 
 Dear friend, I shall leave here day after 
 to-morrow. I am very weak, but think I 
 may endure travel. I hope to find you in 
 good health. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCCXVI. 
 
 Paris, Sunday, May 2, 1869. 
 Dear friend, I have been in Paris for 
 several days, but I was so tired and so ill that 
 I had not the courage to write you. Come 
 to see me and console me. Good-by. 
 
 CCCXVII. 
 
 Paris, May 4, 1869. 
 I AM sorry that you did not wait two min- 
 utes. You would not let the servant tell 
 me that you had come and simply gave him 
 my book. You call this a visit to a patient ! 
 Your charity was easy. It does not count. 
 I am a little better and I need you to go 
 to the exposition, where I do not wish to 
 
294 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 see daubs and nudities. You shall be my 
 guide. Do you remember the time when I 
 was yours ? Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCCXVIII. 
 
 Paris, Saturday, June 12, 1869. 
 Dear friend, I am afflicted by the pro- 
 found stupidity evident in public affairs. 
 This people, which believes itself to be the 
 wittiest on earth, expresses its desire to 
 enjoy a republican form of government by 
 demolishing the stands where poor people 
 sell newspapers. The danger is that there 
 is a sort of emulation for stupidity, as for 
 everything else. 
 
 I spend my time deciphering letters of 
 the Duke of Alba and of Philip II., which 
 the Empress gave to me. They wrote like 
 cats. I am beginning to read Philip II. easily, 
 but his captain-general still embarrasses me. 
 I have just read one of his letters to his au- 
 gust master, written a few days after the 
 death of Egmont, in which he pities the fate 
 of the countess who has not one loaf of 
 bread after having had a dowry of ten thou- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 295 
 
 sand florins. Philip II. has a long and 
 troubled way of saying the simplest things. 
 It is very difficult to guess what he wants, 
 and it seems that his constant aim is to em- 
 barrass his reader and leave him to his own 
 devices. They made the most hateful pair of 
 men that ever existed, and, unfortunately, 
 neither was hanged, which is not flattering 
 to Providence. Good-by, dear friend. 
 
 CCCXIX. 
 
 Paris, June 29, 1869. 
 
 I THANK you for your letter, dear friend. 
 I am angry against poets and pretended 
 temperate climates. There is no spring, 
 there is not even summer. I went out of 
 doors to-day and came back frozen. When 
 I think that there are people who go in the 
 woods and talk of love in weather so cruel, 
 I am tempted to believe in miracles. 
 
 I am going to Saint-Cloud Thursday, 
 where I shall remain probably a fortnight. 
 I am reading, with a great deal of trouble, 
 Kenan's " Saint Paul." He has decidedly 
 a monomania for landscapes. Instead of 
 
296 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 doing his work, he describes woods and 
 prairies. I have received the works of Bau- 
 delaire, which have made me furious. Bau- 
 delaire was crazy ! He died in the hospital, 
 after writing verses which attracted for him 
 the esteem of Victor Hugo, and which had 
 no other merit than that of being immoral. 
 Now they are making of him a misunder- 
 stood man of genius ! 
 
 CCCXX. 
 
 Paris, Wednesday night, August 5, 1869. 
 
 I SPENT a month at Saint-Cloud, in a 
 tolerable condition. The open air did me 
 good, I think. My physician of Cannes came 
 with a new remedy, invented by him, which 
 cured me of my painful oppression. It is 
 an eucalyptus pill, and the eucalyptus is a 
 tree of Australia, naturalized at Cannes. 
 It is well, if it lasts, as the man said while 
 he was falling from a fourth-story window. 
 
 At Saint-Cloud I read " The Bear " before 
 a very select audience, among which were 
 many young ladies, who did not under- 
 stand, it seemed to me. This gives me the 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 297 
 
 idea to send the work to the " Revue," 
 since it may cause no scandal. Tell me 
 what you think of the idea. You must keep 
 in mind the century's progress in hypocrisy. 
 Good-by, dear friend. Write me something 
 gay, for I am very sad. I have great need 
 of your gayety and of your real presence. 
 
 CCCXXI. 
 
 Paris, September 7, 1869. 
 Dear friend, I am beginning to look 
 toward the south, although I have not felt 
 yet the approach of winter, but I have prom- 
 ised myself not to be surprised by the cold. 
 I have taken baths of compressed air, which 
 have done me some good, and I am follow- 
 ing a new treatment, which is successful 
 enough. I am still very solitary ; I never 
 go out at night, and I see almost nobody. 
 At Saint-Cloud the Empress had made me 
 read ' ' The Bear ' ' — it is called ' ' Lokis ' ' now, 
 which means bear in Jmoude — before young 
 girls who, as I think I told you, understood 
 nothing at all. This encouraged me, and, 
 on the 15th of this month, the thing will 
 
298 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 appear in " La Revue des Deux-Mondes." 
 The Emperor's illness is not grave, but it 
 may be prolonged. I shall write this winter 
 a life of Cervantes to serve as a preface for 
 a new translation of Don Quixote. Is it a 
 long time since you have read Don Quixote ? 
 Does it amuse you still ? Do you know 
 why ? It amuses me and I cannot tell the 
 reason ; on the contrary, I know many rea- 
 sons which should prove that the book is 
 bad; and yet it is excellent. I should like 
 to know your ideas on this subject. Do 
 me the pleasure of reading a few chapters 
 and of asking yourself questions about 
 them. Good-by; I hope that the month 
 will not go by without my seeing you. 
 
 CCCXXII. 
 
 Cannes, November 11, 1869. 
 Dear friend, I am here in the finest 
 weather imaginable, and the most persistent, 
 which makes the gardeners despair, for they 
 cannot make their cabbages grow. I am not 
 better than if the weather were bad. Then 
 I have had grave troubles. The servant 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 299 
 
 whom I had brought with me became sud- 
 denly so impertinent that I had to discharge 
 her. You can understand how disagreeable it 
 is to lose a servant who has been with one for 
 forty years. Fortunately, repentance came. 
 She asked for forgiveness so persistently 
 that she gave me a pretext to yield and keep 
 her. She has so many good qualities that 
 it would have been impossible for me to re- 
 place her. I hope that my firmness shall 
 have a salutary effect in the future and pre- 
 vent similar incidents. 
 
 CCCXXIII. 
 
 Cannes, January 6, 1870. 
 
 Dear friend, I thank you for your letter 
 and for your good wishes. I did not have 
 the material force to reply at once. The 
 cold has hurt me much. I am discouraged ; 
 nothing does me good. I try all the reme- 
 dies and they have no effect. I have the 
 certainty that a slow and painful death is 
 coming to me. I must make the most of it. 
 
 Politics do not give me an agreeable di- 
 version. It seems to me that we are march- 
 
300 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 ing to a revolution worse than that which we 
 traversed together so gayly twenty years 
 ago. I hope the performance will be post- 
 poned so that I shall not have to attend it. 
 
 CCCXXIV. 
 
 Cannes, February lo, 1870. 
 Dear friend, I had only sad things to 
 tell, and that is why I have not written 
 to you sooner. My life is truly miserable. 
 The winter has been frightful. All the 
 beautiful flowers which made the glory of 
 the country have been destroyed, many 
 orange trees have been frozen, and there 
 shall not be enough flowers to make pomade 
 for you. I am writing for myself, and per- 
 haps for you, a little story which is full of 
 love. Good-by ; I wish you health and pros- 
 perity. 
 
 CCCXXV. 
 
 Cannes, April 7, 1870. 
 Last Monday, wishing to learn if I could 
 bear the voyage to Paris, I went to Nice, 
 where I made a few calls. I thought for an 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 301 
 
 instant that I would commit the indiscretion 
 of dying at the house of a person whom I 
 did not know intimately enough to take that 
 liberty. I came here in very bad condition. 
 I was better yesterday. I hope to go to 
 Paris at the end of the month. I ask myself 
 often if I could go up my stairs. You know 
 so many things, do you know an apartment 
 where I could be installed without having to 
 go up many steps ? Good-by, dear friend ; 
 take good care of yourself. Health is the 
 best of this world's goods. 
 
 CCCXXVI. 
 
 Cannes, May 15, 1870. 
 I AM horribly weak ; yet have the hope to 
 go to Paris at the end of next week. My 
 health is absolutely ruined. I wish I could 
 find diversion in work, but work requires a 
 strength which I have not. 
 
 CCCXXVII. 
 
 Paris, June 26, 1870. 
 Dear friend, I have been ill for a month. 
 I can do nothing, not even read. I suffer a 
 
302 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 great deal and have little hope. I have pat 
 some order in the shelves of my library, 
 and keep for you the " Lettres de Madame 
 de S6vign6," in twelve volumes, and a small 
 Shakespeare. When you come to Paris, I 
 will send them to you. I thank you for 
 thinking of me. 
 
 CCCXXVIII. 
 
 Paris, July 18, 1870. 
 
 Dear friend, I have been, and am still, 
 very ill. I think that one must be in very 
 good health and have very strong nerves 
 not to be affected by the events of to-day. 
 I do not need to tell you what I feel about 
 the war with Prussia. I am one of those 
 who think that it could not be avoided. The 
 explosion might have been retarded, but it 
 was impossible to avert it. War is more 
 popular here than it ever was. Military men 
 are full of confidence, but when one thinks 
 that all the future is subject to the chance 
 of a bullet, it is difficult to share that con- 
 fidence. Good-by, dear friend. The physi- 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 303 
 
 -cians say that I am better, but I do not feel 
 so. Good-by ; I kiss you with all my heart. 
 
 CCCXXIX. 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, August 9, 1870. 
 Dear friend, I think that you would do 
 well not to come to Paris. There are in 
 the streets only discouraged people, or 
 drunken men singing the Marseillaise. The 
 army has been admirable, but it seems that 
 we have no generals. I am not worse, only 
 overwhelmed by the situation. I am writ- 
 ing to you from the Luxembourg, where we 
 do nothing but exchange hopes and fears. 
 Good-by. 
 
 CCCXXX. 
 
 Paris, August 29, 1870. 
 Dear friend, I thank you for your letter. 
 I am very ill and very nervous. Affairs 
 have improved a little. The military men 
 show confidence. It seems that Marshal 
 Bazaine's army achieved prodigies of valor. 
 The Prussians are conducting the war by 
 
304 LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 
 
 force of numbers. Until now they have 
 been successful, but near Metz the carnage 
 was such as to cause sad reflections to them. 
 It is said that the young ladies of Berlin 
 have lost all their dancers. If we can lead 
 the rest to the frontier, or bury them here, 
 which would be better, our troubles will not 
 yet be at an end. This terrible butchery is 
 only the prologue to a tragedy, the last 
 scene of which no one knows. Whether we 
 are victorious or defeated, a revolution must 
 come. All the blood that has been shed 
 is to the profit of the Republic — that is, of 
 organized disorder. Good-by, dear friend; 
 remain where you are. Here, we are very 
 quiet ; we are waiting for the Prussians with 
 a great deal of calmness. 
 
 CCCXXXI. 
 
 Cannes, September 23, 1870. 
 Dear friend, I am very ill, so ill, that to 
 write is very difficult. There is some im- 
 provement. I will write to you soon, I 
 hope, in detail. Send to my house at Paris 
 
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN 30S 
 
 for the " Lettres de Madame de S6vign6 " 
 and the Shakespeare. I should have sent 
 them to you, but I went away. Good-by; 
 I kiss you. 
 
 Prosper M6rimde died two hours after 
 writing this letter. 
 
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