PARIS, _Saturday, March, 1842_.
For two hours I have been trying to decide whether I should write to
you. My pride offers many reasons why I should not do so, but although
you are perfectly sure, I hope, of the pleasure your letter gave me, I
declare I can not refrain from telling you so.
So you are rich; so much the better. I congratulate you. Rich, which is,
interpreted, free. Your friend, who had such a happy inspiration, must
have been somewhat of an Auld Robin Gray; he was evidently in love with
you. You will never confess it, because you are too fond of mystery; but
I will forgive you; we write to each other too seldom to quarrel. Why
should you not go to Rome and to Naples to enjoy the pictures and the
sunshine? You are capable of appreciating Italy, and you will return
richer in impressions and ideas.
I do not advise you to visit Greece. Your skin is not tough enough to
resist the multitude of hideous creatures that prey on people there.
Speaking of Greece, since you take such good care of what is given you,
here is a blade of grass which I plucked on the hill of Anthela at
Thermopylæ, the place where the last of the three hundred died. This
little flower has in its constituent atoms probably a few of the
molecules of the late Leonidas. I recollect, besides, that on this very
spot, as I lay stretched upon a pile of straw in front of the
guard-house (what a profanation!), I spoke of my youth to my friend
Ampère, and said that among the tender remembrances which I had
preserved there was but one in which there was no touch of bitterness. I
was thinking at the time of our beautiful youth. Pray keep my foolish
flower.
Tell me, should you like some more substantial souvenir of the Orient?
Unfortunately, I have given away all the beautiful things that I brought
back with me. I could give you quantities of sandals, but you would wear
them for others, thank you. If you wish some conserves of roses and
jessamine, I still have a little left, but let me know at once, or I
shall eat them all. We hear from each other so seldom that we have a
great many things to say concerning ourselves. Here is my history:
I visited my dear Spain again in the fall of 1840. I spent two months in
Madrid, where I witnessed a ridiculous revolution, several superb
bull-fights, and the triumphal entry of Espartero, which was the most
comical parade I ever saw. I was a guest in the home of an intimate
friend who is almost like a dear sister to me. In the morning I went
into Madrid, and returned to dine in the country with six women, the
oldest of whom was thirty-six. In consequence of the revolution I was
the only man at liberty to come and go freely, so that these six
unfortunates had no other protector. They spoiled me terribly. I did not
fall in love with any of them, as I should perhaps have done. While I
did not deceive myself as to the advantages which I owed to the
revolution, I found it very agreeable, nevertheless, to be a sultan,
even _ad honores_.
On my return to Paris I treated myself to the innocent pleasure of
printing a book for private circulation. There were only made a hundred
and fifty copies, with superb paper, illustrations, etc., which I
presented to people whom I liked. I should offer you this rare book if
you were worthy of it; but I must warn you that it is a historical and
pedantic work, so bristling with Greek and Latin, nay, even with Oscan
(do you even know what Oscan is?), that you could not so much as nibble
at it.
Last summer I happened to fall on a little money. My minister gave me
three months’ holiday, and I spent five running about from Malta to
Athens and from Ephesus to Constantinople. During these five months I
was not bored for five minutes. What would have become of you, to whom I
was once such an object of terror, if you had met me during my Asiatic
journey, with a belt of pistols, a huge sword, and--would you believe
it?--a moustache that extended beyond my ears! Without intending any
flattery, I should have struck fear into the heart of the boldest
brigand of melodrama. At Constantinople I saw the Sultan, in
patent-leather boots, and a frock-coat, and again, afterwards, covered
with diamonds in the procession of the _Baïram_. On the same occasion, a
handsome woman, on whose toe I had stepped by accident, slapped me
severely and called me a _giaour_. This constituted my only intercourse
with the Turkish beauties. At Athens, and in Asia, I saw the most
splendid monuments in the world, and the loveliest landscapes possible
to imagine.
The only drawback consisted in fleas and gnats as big as larks;
consequently I never slept. Meanwhile, I have grown old. My passport
describes me as having turtle locks, which is a pleasant Oriental
metaphor for saying all sorts of disagreeable things. Picture to
yourself your friend as quite gray. And you, _querida_, have you
changed? I am waiting impatiently until you become less pretty, so that
I may see you. In two or three years from now, when you write to me,
tell me what you are doing and when we are to see each other. Your
“respectful remembrance” made me laugh, and also that you should presume
to dispute its place in my heart with Ionic and Corinthian columns.
In the first place, I do not care for any but the Doric, and there are
no columns, not even excepting those of the Parthenon, which can be
compared to the memory of an old friendship. Good-bye; go to Italy, and
be happy. I start to-day for Evreux, on a matter of business, expecting
to return Monday night. If you wish to eat rose leaves, say so; but I
warn you there is only a spoonful left for you.