CORONADO, June 20th.
I find myself more and more interested in him. It is not, I am
sure, his—do you know any noun corresponding to the adjective
“handsome”? One does not like to say “beauty” when speaking of a
man. He is handsome enough, heaven knows; I should not even care
to trust you with him—faithful of all possible wives that you are—
when he looks his best, as he always does. Nor do I think the
fascination of his manner has much to do with it. You recollect
that the charm of art inheres in that which is undefinable, and to
you and me, my dear Irene, I fancy there is rather less of that in
the branch of art under consideration than to girls in their first
season. I fancy I know how my fine gentleman produces many of his
effects, and could, perhaps, give him a pointer on heightening
them. Nevertheless, his manner is something truly delightful. I
suppose what interests me chiefly is the man’s brains. His
conversation is the best I have ever heard, and altogether unlike
anyone’s else. He seems to know everything, as, indeed, he ought,
for he has been everywhere, read everything, seen all there is to
see—sometimes I think rather more than is good for him—and had
acquaintance with the QUEEREST people. And then his voice—Irene,
when I hear it I actually feel as if I ought to have PAID AT THE
DOOR, though, of course, it is my own door.
July 3d.
I fear my remarks about Dr. Barritz must have been, being
thoughtless, very silly, or you would not have written of him with
such levity, not to say disrespect. Believe me, dearest, he has
more dignity and seriousness (of the kind, I mean, which is not
inconsistent with a manner sometimes playful and always charming)
than any of the men that you and I ever met. And young Raynor—you
knew Raynor at Monterey—tells me that the men all like him, and
that he is treated with something like deference everywhere. There
is a mystery, too—something about his connection with the
Blavatsky people in Northern India. Raynor either would not or
could not tell me the particulars. I infer that Dr. Barritz is
thought—don’t you dare to laugh at me—a magician! Could anything
be finer than that? An ordinary mystery is not, of course, as good
as a scandal, but when it relates to dark and dreadful practices—
to the exercise of unearthly powers—could anything be more
piquant? It explains, too, the singular influence the man has upon
me. It is the undefinable in his art—black art. Seriously, dear,
I quite tremble when he looks me full in the eyes with those
unfathomable orbs of his, which I have already vainly attempted to
describe to you. How dreadful if we have the power to make one
fall in love! Do you know if the Blavatsky crowd have that power—
outside of Sepoy?