_February 17, 1843._
It is possible that I was unjust towards you; if so, I ask your pardon.
At the same time, you do not try to put yourself in my place, and
because you do not look at things from my standpoint you insist that I
take your point of view, which is impossible. You do not, perhaps, give
me all the credit I deserve for my efforts to be like you. I do not
understand your present attitude towards me. Not only so, but speaking
literally, I have seen for a long time that you love me better at a
distance than when I am with you.
Let us talk no more of this now. I wish only to say that I do not
censure you, and that I am not offended with you, and that if at times I
am depressed, you must not suppose that I am angry. You have made me a
promise, which you may be sure I shall not forget, and yet I do not know
if I shall remind you of it. There is nothing I dislike so much as
quarrels, but I should have to quarrel with you in order to jostle your
memory. Nothing that pains you would give me pleasure; therefore I will
agree to the programme which you have arranged.
Indeed, that was a happy inspiration of ours the other day. What a snow,
and what a rain! What a pity it would have been to put me off until
to-day! You are always afraid to follow your first impulses; do you not
know that they are the only ones which are worth anything, and which
always succeed? I have an idea that the devil is constitutionally slow,
and decides always on the longest way around. To-night I have been to
the Italian Opera, where, in spite of the constant applause given my
enemy, Madame Viardot, I enjoyed myself.
I have received from Spain the books for which I have been waiting in
order to continue my work, so that temporarily I am in high spirits. I
wish I knew that you were thinking of me, and especially that we were
thinking together. Good-bye. I am charmed that you like the pins. I was
afraid you might disdain them; but, despite the pleasure it would give
me to see you wear them, do not wear the blue shawl next time. You are
right in saying that it is too showy.
L
PARIS, _Monday night, February, 1843_.
If I were not afraid of spoiling you, I should tell you of the pleasure
I have had from your letter, with its very gracious promise, and, more
than all, your eagerness for the return of dry weather. Is it not great
folly on your part to wish to make fixed dates for our walks, as if we
could ever be sure of a day? Was I not right in saying, “Come as often
as you can”? When we have had two days of fine weather, we may take it
for granted that it will rain for two months afterwards. What matters it
if at the end of a year we find ourselves so much ahead by a few days’
promenade? Indeed, your letter is full of first impulses, that is why I
like it so well. I fear, however, that you are so generously disposed
only because we can not take advantage of your good intentions.
Nevertheless, your promises are somewhat reassuring, and if you do not
keep them you will be very, very sorry.
You made me think of all sorts of things the other evening at the opera,
with your iris-coloured gown. But you need not be coquettish with me. I
love you no better in iris-colour than in black.
Tell me the truth, were you not angry with me when you reflected? If so,
that would have been for me an unfortunate first impulse the other day,
and that would have caused me both pleasure and distress. When I see you
I shall know which.
I know the superstition attaching to knives and sharp instruments, but
not that about pins. I should have thought, on the contrary, that pins
signified attachment, and that is the reason, perhaps, which made me
select them. Do you remember that you would not allow me to pick up
yours at Madame de P.’s? I still cherish this grievance against you,
along with many others. I forgive them all to-day, but when you have
added others to them I shall be as indignant as ever.
It is a great misfortune to be unable to forget. My writing to-day
resembles a cat’s scratching. I can not yet sharpen my pen, and doubt
very much whether you can read my scrawl. It is almost as intelligible
as what you write in blank.
I suppose you are going in society a great deal this carnival season. In
arranging my desk I have discovered that I failed to go to the ball
given by the Director of the Opera. What has become of the happy time
when such things pleased me? Now they bore me to death. Do I not seem
very old to you?
There is some appearance of clearing weather, but I dare not say a word.
I have sworn to leave you perfect liberty. Theodore Hook is dead. Have
you read _Ernest Maltravers_, and _Alice_, by Bulwer? They present
charming pictures of youthful and of mature love. I have them both, when
you wish them.