_January, 1843._
I am no longer surprised that you learned German so well and so quickly;
you possess the genius of that language, for you write in French
sentiments worthy of Jean-Paul; as, for example, when you say, “My
malady is a sensation of happiness which is almost pain.” In prose this
means, I hope, “I am quite well again, and was not very ill.”
You are right to scold me for lack of consideration for those who are
ill. I have reproached myself bitterly for having made you take that
walk, for having allowed you to sit so long in the shade. As for the
rest, I have no regrets, nor have you either, I hope. Contrary to my
usual habit, I have no distinct recollections of that day, but am like a
cat who licks his whiskers for a long time after drinking his milk.
Admit that the peace of which you sometimes speak with admiration, that
the _kêf_, which is superior even to the best that we know, is as
nothing in comparison to the happiness “which is almost pain.” Nothing
is more insignificant than the life of an oyster, especially of an
oyster which is never eaten.
You profess to spoil me, while the fact is that you yourself have been
so spoiled that you ill understand how to spoil others. You are
pre-eminent in your ability to provoke them; but in point of compliments
I think you owe me several in compensation for the magnanimity with
which I have allowed you to scold me. I marvel at myself. Thus, instead
of your usual sermon, in your next letter tell me something pleasant,
or rather say all those charming extravagances that come to you so
easily.
You have compelled me to take up once more my Asiatic journey better
than I could have done it for myself. A faster train than the railway
affords is waiting for us, and we have it in our minds. I took your
“hint,” and since receiving your letter I have accompanied you to Tyre
and to Ephesus; together we have crept into the beautiful grotto of
Ephesus. We sat beside the ancient tombs, and conversed of many things.
We quarrelled, and made up again; it was all as it was in the country
the other day, only there was nothing to disturb us except several big,
inoffensive, but repulsive-looking lizards. I can not, even in the
mind’s eye, picture you as sympathetic as I should like to have you; at
Ephesus even, I fancied you as a little sulky, and abusing my patience.
The other day you spoke of a surprise that you would have for me, but
how do you expect me to believe you? All that you can do is to yield
when you have reached the limit of your futile excuses. But how is it
possible for you voluntarily to contrive a gift, when you have a genius
for refusing all I ask? I am perfectly sure, for instance, that it would
never occur to you to propose a day for us to go for a walk. Do you
prefer Monday, or Tuesday? I am anxious about the weather; nevertheless,
I trust to our good demon, as the Greeks say.
By the way, I want to read you a passage from a Greek tragedy, which I
shall translate literally, and of which you shall then give me your
opinion. I believe the Spanish comedy has dropped behind, somewhere
between the place we landed and that where we re-embarked. But as I
believe you were reading the history of the count de Villa-Mediana, I
will try and find the little poem of the duke de Rivas for you.
Good-bye. Do not have any second thoughts, and give me a place in your
first. You know in which place I belong. Remind me to tell you a story
of a somnambulist, which I intended telling you the other day.