Do you know that you are sometimes very kind? I do not say this as a
reproach veiled by a cold compliment, but I should be glad indeed to
receive frequent letters like your last one. Unfortunately, you are not
always so charitably inclined towards me. I have not replied earlier,
because your letter was only delivered to me last night, on my return
from a short trip. I spent four days in absolute solitude, without
seeing a man, much less a woman, for I do not call men and women certain
bipeds who are trained to fetch food and drink when they are ordered to
do so. During my retreat I made the most dismal reflections about myself
and my future, about my friends, and so on. If I had had the wit to wait
for your letter it would have given quite another turn to my thoughts.
“I should have carried away happiness enough to last me at least a
week.”
The way in which you came down on that worthy Mr. V. is delightful. Your
courage pleases me immensely. I should never have supposed you capable
of such _capricho_, and I admire you all the more for it. It is true
that the remembrance of your splendid black eyes counts for something in
my admiration. However, old as I am, I am almost insensible to beauty. I
say to myself that “it amounts to nothing”; but I assure you that when I
heard a man of very fastidious taste say you were very pretty, I could
not repress a feeling of sadness. This is the reason (but first let me
assure you that I am not the least bit in love with you): I am horribly
jealous, jealous of my friends, and it grieves me to think that your
beauty exposes you to the attentions of a lot of men incapable of
appreciating you, and who admire in you only those things for which I
care the least.
In fact, I am in a beastly humour when I think of that ceremony which
you are to attend. Nothing makes me more melancholy than a wedding. The
Turks, who bargain for a woman while they examine her as they would a
fat sheep, are better than we, who have glossed over this vile trade
with a varnish of hypocrisy which, alas! is only too transparent. I have
asked myself often what I should find to say to a wife on the first day
of my marriage, and I have thought of nothing possible, unless it were a
compliment on her night-cap. Happily, the devil will be extremely
clever if he ever entraps me into such an entertainment. The part which
the woman plays is much easier than that of the man. On such an occasion
she models her conduct on Racine’s Iphigenia; but if she is at all
observant, what a lot of droll things she must see! You must tell me
whether the reception was beautiful. All the men will pay you attention
and favour you with allusions to domestic happiness. When the
Andalusians are angry, they say: _Mataria el sol á puñaladas si no fuese
por miedo de dejar el mundo á oscuras!_
Since September 28, my birthday, an uninterrupted succession of petty
misfortunes have assailed me. Besides this, the pain in my chest is
worse and I suffer great distress. I shall delay my trip to England
until the middle of November. If you are unwilling to see me in London,
I must abandon the hope, but I am anxious to see the elections. I shall
overtake you soon after in Paris, where chance may bring us together,
even if your whim persists in keeping us apart. All your reasons are
pitiful, and are not worth the trouble to refute, and all the more since
you yourself know that they are worthless.
You are joking, certainly, when you say so pleasantly that you are
afraid of me. You are aware that I am ugly, and have a capricious
temper, that I am always absent-minded, and often, when in pain, very
irritating and disagreeable. What is there in all that to disturb you?
You will never fall in love with me, so rest easy. Your consoling
predictions can never be realised. You are not a witch. Now the truth is
that my chances of death have increased this year. Do not be anxious
about your letters. All letters and papers found in my room shall be
burned after my death; but to plague you, I shall bequeath you in my
will a manuscript continuation of the _Guzla_, which amused you so much.
You have the qualities of both an angel and a devil, but many more of
the latter. You call me a tempter. Dare, if you will, to say that this
title does not apply to you far more than to me. Have you not thrown a
bait to me, a poor little fish? and now that you have me caught on the
end of your hook you keep me dangling between the sky and the sea as
long as it amuses you; then, when you grow tired of the game, you will
cut the line, I shall drop with the hook in my mouth, and the fisherman
will be nowhere to be found.
I appreciate your frankness in confessing that you read the letter
which Mr. V. wrote me and entrusted to your charge. I guessed it,
indeed, for since the time of Eve all women are alike in that respect. I
wish the letter had been more interesting; but I suppose that, in spite
of his spectacles, you consider Mr. V. a man of good taste. I am out of
sorts because I am suffering.
I am reminded of your promise to give me a _schizzo_--a promise you
would never have given if I had not begged for it--and I feel in better
humour. I await the _schizzo_ with the greatest patience. Adieu, _niña
de mis ojos_; I promise never to fall in love with you. I do not want to
be in love ever again, but I should like to have a woman friend. If I
should see you often, and you are all I believe you to be, I should
become very fond of you, in a truly platonic way. Try, therefore, to
arrange it so that we may meet when you come to Paris. Shall I be
compelled to wait many long days for a reply? Good-bye again. Pity me,
for I am very downcast, and I have a thousand reasons for being so.