IV

_Mariquita de mi alma_ (it is thus that I should commence if we were in

Granada), I received your letter in one of those moments of melancholy

when one views life only through dark glasses. As your epistle is not as

amiable as it might be--pardon my frankness--it has contributed not a

little to the continuance of my sulky mood. I wished to answer your

letter Sunday, promptly and sharply; promptly, because you had censured

me in an indirect sort of way, and sharply, because I was furious with

you.

I was interrupted at the first word of my letter, and this interruption

prevented me from writing to you. Thank the good Lord for this, for the

weather is fine to-day, and my ill-humour has become mollified to such

an extent that I no longer wish to write to you save in a style of honey

and sugar. I shall not quarrel with you, therefore, about thirty or

forty passages in your last letter, which gave me a terrible shock, and

which I am quite willing to forget. I forgive you, and with so much the

more pleasure because I really believe that, in spite of my wrath, I

like you better when you are pouting than in any other mood. One passage

in your letter made me laugh all by myself for ten minutes. You tell me

short and sweet: “My love is promised” and thus you bring on the great

knock-down blow without any preliminary skirmishes.

You say you are engaged for life as you would say, “I am engaged for the

quadrille.” Very well. I have apparently employed my time to advantage

in discussing with you questions of love, marriage, and the like; you

are still on the point of believing, or at least of saying, that when

you are told to love a certain gentleman, you love him. Have you

promised by a contract signed before a notary, or on vignetted paper?

When I was a school-boy I received once from a seamstress a note

surmounted by two hearts aflame, united as follows: [Illustration: image

of two parallel hearts pierced by an arrow]; there was, besides, a

declaration of the most affectionate kind. My teacher first confiscated

my letter, and then locked me in my room. The object of this budding

passion proceeded to console herself with my cruel teacher.

Nothing is so fatal as engagements to those in whose behalf they are

made. Do you know that if your love were already promised, I should

believe confidently that it would be possible for you to love me? Why

should you not love me? for you have made me no promises, since the

first law of nature is to take a dislike to everything that has the

appearance of an obligation. And, indeed, every obligation is in its

nature irksome. In short, if I had less modesty I should come to the

conclusion that if you have pledged your love to some one, you will give

it to me, to whom you have promised nothing. Joking aside, and speaking

of promises, since you do not care to have my water-colour, I have a

strong desire to send it to you. I was dissatisfied with it, and began a

copy of an infant Marguerite of Velasquez, which I wished to give you.

Velasquez is not easy to copy, especially for daubers like myself. Twice

I have begun my Marguerite, but now I am even more discontented with it

than I was with the monk. The latter is still subject to your orders. I

will send it whenever you wish, but it will not carry conveniently. Not

only this, the spirits which sometimes amuse themselves by intercepting

our letters might possibly take care of my picture. What reassures me is

that it is so bad that no one but I could have made it, and no one but

you be blamed for it. Let me know your pleasure.

I hope you will be in Paris about the middle of October, at which time I

shall have two or three weeks’ leisure. I should not care to spend them

in France, and for a long time I have intended to see the Rubens

pictures at Antwerp, and the Art Gallery at Amsterdam. If I were sure of

seeing you, however, I should renounce Rubens and Van Dyck with the

greatest cheerfulness. You see that the sacrifice costs me nothing. I do

not know Amsterdam. However, it is for you to decide. Here your vanity

will lead you to say: “A great sacrifice, indeed, not to prefer me to

those fat Flemish women, with their white caps and baskets of fish, and

in a picture gallery besides!” Yes, it is a sacrifice, and a great one

too. I give up the certainty, that is, the very great pleasure, of

seeing the paintings of a master, to the very uncertain chance that you

will compensate me. Observe, that leaving out of consideration the

impossible supposition that you might not please me, if _I_ were to

prove a disappointment to _you_, I should have good reason to regret my

works of art and my fat Flemish women.

You seem to be devoutly superstitious even. I am reminded at this moment

of a pretty little Grenada girl, who, on mounting her mule to go through

a mountain pass at Ronda (a spot notorious for robbers), piously kissed

her thumb, and struck her breast five or six times, absolutely certain

after that that the robbers would not show themselves, provided the

_Inglés_ (meaning myself, for every traveller must be an Englishman)

would not swear too much by the Holy Virgin and the Saints. This

shocking manner of speaking becomes necessary on bad roads in order to

persuade the horses to go.

Read “Tristram Shandy.” I should enjoy immensely your opinion of the

story of that person. You are unjust and jealous--two admirable

qualities in a woman, two faults in a man. I have them both. You ask me

about the affair which preoccupies me. To tell you that, it would be

necessary to describe my life and my character, of which no one has the

least idea, because I have never yet found any one who inspired me with

sufficient confidence to tell it. After we have met often we may perhaps

become good friends, and you will understand me. To have a friend to

whom I could express all my thoughts, past and present, would be to me

the greatest blessing. I am becoming sad, and I must not end this letter

in such a mood. I am consumed with the desire to have an answer from

you. Be kind, and do not make me wait long.

Good-bye. Do not let us quarrel again, and let us be friends. With

respect I kiss the hand which you extend to me in sign of peace.

V

_September 25._

Your letter found me ill, and very dreary, busily engaged with some

extremely troublesome affairs, so that I have not had time to take care

of myself. I have, I think, inflammation of the lungs, which makes me

exceedingly irritable. In a few days, however, I propose to take myself

in hand and get well.

I have decided not to leave Paris in October, in the hope that you will

come then. You shall see me or not, at your pleasure. It will be your

fault if you do not. You mention particular reasons which prevent you

from trying to meet me. I respect secrets, and do not ask your motives;

only, I beg you to tell me, really and truly, if you have any. Are you

not moved, rather, by some childish notion? Perhaps some one has read

you a lecture on my account, and you are still under its spell. You

should have no fear of me. Your natural prudence, doubtless, counts for

much in your disinclination to see me. Be reassured, I shall not fall in

love with you. A few years ago that might have happened; now I am too

old, and I have been too unfortunate. I can never fall in love again,

because my illusions have caused me many _desengaños_.

When I went to Spain I was on the point of falling in love. It was one

of the beautiful acts of my life. The woman who was the cause of my

voyage never suspected it. Had I remained, I might have committed,

possibly, a great blunder, that of offering a woman worthy of enjoying

every happiness that one may have on earth, in exchange for the loss of

all that was dear to her, an affection which I realised was far inferior

to the sacrifice that she would probably have made. You recall my maxim,

“Love excuses all things, but one must be sure that it is love.” You may

be sure that this precept is more rigid than those of your Methodist

friends. In conclusion, I shall be charmed to see you. You, perhaps, may

gain a real friend, and I, it may be, shall find in you what I have long

sought--a woman with whom I shall not be in love, but one whom I may

have for a confidante. We shall both gain, probably, by a closer

acquaintance. Still, you must act as your lofty sense of prudence

dictates.

My monk is ready. At the first opportunity, therefore, I shall send you

the picture framed. The child Marguerite, still unfinished and too badly

begun to be ever completed, will remain just as it is, and will serve as

a blotting-pad for a sketch I shall do for you when I have time. I am

dying of curiosity to see the surprise you have in store for me, but in

vain do I rack my brain to guess it. When writing to you I omit all

transitions, with me a very necessary trick of style.

You will find this letter, I fear, terribly disconnected. The reason is,

that while writing one sentence another comes to my mind, and this

occasions a third before the second one is finished. I am suffering

greatly to-night. If you have any influence Above, try to obtain for me

a little health, or, failing in that, resignation; for I am the most

impatient invalid in the world, and treat my best friends abominably.

Stretched on my couch, I think of you, of our mysterious acquaintance,

with pleasure, and it seems to me that I should be very happy to chat

with you in the same desultory way that I write; besides, there is this

advantage, that words vanish, but writing remains. I am not tormented,

however, by the thought that some day my words, either living or

posthumous, may be published. Good-bye. Let me have your sympathy. I

would I had the courage to tell you a thousand things that make life

sad. But how can I, when you are so far away? When are you coming? Again

good-bye. If your heart prompts you, you have an abundance of time to

write to me.

P.S.--_September 26._--I am even more low-spirited than I was yesterday.

I suffer tortures, but if you have never had gastritis you can have no

conception of what it means to suffer pain that is indefinite and at the

same time intense. It has this peculiarity, that it affects the entire

nervous system. I should like to be in the country with you. I am sure

you would cure me. Good-bye. If I die this year, you will be sorry that

you did not know me better.