AVIGNON, _July 20, 1842_.
Since you take that view of it, upon my word, I capitulate. Give me
brown bread; it is better than none at all. Only, allow me to say that
it is brown, and continue to write to me. You will observe how humble
and submissive I am!
Your letter reached me when I was steeped in melancholy, caused by the
sad news of the death of the duc d’Orleans, which I had just learned
upon returning from a trip into the mountains. I was sadly in need of a
letter of another character; such as it was, your letter has at any rate
proved a diversion.
I shall reply to it item by item. The figure of rhetoric of which you
think yourself the inventor, has been known for a long time. With the
aid of Greek, one might give it a new and whimsical name. In French it
is called by the less stately name of a lie. Employ it with me as little
as you can. Do not overtax it with others. It should be kept for unusual
occasions. Do not make too great an effort to find the world silly and
ridiculous. It is, alas! only too much so. You ought, on the contrary,
to endeavour to imagine it as it is not. It is better to have too many
illusions than not to have any at all. I still have a few, some of which
are not very sound, but I make strenuous efforts to retain them.
Your story is very familiar. “There was once an idol.” Read Daniel; but
he was mistaken--the head was not of gold; it was of clay, like the
feet. But the idolater held a lamp in his hand, and the reflection from
this lamp gilded the idol’s head. If I were the idol (you will observe
that I do not on this occasion assume the attractive rôle), I should
say: “Is it my fault that you have extinguished your lamp? Is that any
excuse for destroying me?” It seems to me that I am becoming somewhat of
an Oriental. So be it!
If you knew Madame de M. you would love her to distraction. She does not
give me white bread, but she gives me something that takes its place.
She is not a baker’s wife; she is a baker.
I grieve to see that you are becoming more and more affected. I am fully
informed about your piety. I thank you for your prayers, if you do not
mean them for a figure of speech. As to your blue cashmere, I am rather
sceptical of your piety, because piety in 1842 is a fashion, just as
blue cashmeres are. You will fail to understand the connection, but it
is perfectly clear notwithstanding.
I regret very much that you are reading Pope’s translation of Homer.
Read the translation of Dugas Montbel, which is the only one worth
reading. If you had the courage to brave ridicule, and time to spare,
you would get Planche’s Greek Grammar and his Dictionary. For a month
the grammar would put you to sleep, but its effect would be seen later.
After two months you would enjoy looking up the Greek words, translated
usually almost literally by M. Montbel. Two months later still you would
be able to guess fairly well, by the awkwardness of his expression,
when the translator has failed to reproduce clearly the Greek phrase. By
the end of a year you would read Homer as you read a melody with its
accompaniment: the melody being the Greek, the accompaniment the
translation. It is possible that you might then wish to study Greek
seriously, in which case you would have the pleasure of reading many
delightful books.
But I am supposing that your time is not absorbed in the selection of
toilettes, or in displaying them before your friends. Everything in
Homer is remarkable. The epithets, which in the French translation seem
so strange, are wonderfully correct. I remember that he speaks of the
sea as purple. I never understood what he meant until last summer, when
I was in a little boat on the Gulf of Lepanto, going to Delphi. It was
just at sunset. Immediately afterwards, the sea took on a magnificent
deep violet tint, which lasted for ten minutes. To see this effect
requires the atmosphere, the sea, and the sun of Greece. I hope that you
will never become enough of an artist to recognise with pleasure that
Homer was a great painter.
The final words of your letter are full of enigmas. You tell me that you
will write to me no more, which would be a great misfortune. However, I
yield to your decision, and you will hear nothing more from me except
compliments. I believe I have already addressed to you several of these.
You solicit one, I imagine, when you say you have neither feeling nor
imagination. By continually denying their existence you may bring ill
luck on yourself. One should not trifle with such things. But I have an
idea that you intended only to try the experiment of your rhetorical
figure on me. Fortunately I know how much to believe.
If you can think of anything pleasant to say to me, you might write. I
shall remain here for a fortnight still. I want to add one word about
the life I am leading, tramping the fields without meeting any other
obstacle than rocks. Farewell. I hope you find me this time sufficiently
submissive and well-behaved, _Signora Fornarina_?