PARIS, _April 15, 1843_.
I have suffered such intense pain in my eyes yesterday and this morning
that I could not write to you. I am a little better to-night, and the
weeping has almost stopped. Your letter is somewhat amiable, which is
most unusual. There are even a few expressions of affection, without any
“buts” or second thoughts. We look at many things from different
standpoints. You fail to understand my generosity in sacrificing myself
for you. You ought to thank me as an encouragement. But you believe that
all is due to you. Why is it that we agree so seldom in our point of
view?
You acted sensibly in not speaking of Catullus. He is not an author whom
one should read during Holy Week, and in his works are many passages
impossible to translate in French. It is easy to see what love meant in
Rome fifty years before Christ. It was a little better, however, than
love at Athens in the time of Pericles. Women had already gained a
little importance, and compelled men to do silly things. The position of
woman is due not to Christianity, as it is customary to say, but to the
influence exerted on Roman society by the barbarians of the North. The
Germans were idealists. They worshipped the soul. The Romans cared only
for the body. Women, it is true, for many ages had no souls. They have
none still in Oriental countries, which is most unfortunate. You know
how two souls can hold converse. But yours is not willing to listen to
mine.
I am glad to know you enjoyed those verses of Musset. You are right in
your comparison of him to Catullus. Catullus, I believe, used better
language. Musset made the mistake of denying the existence of the soul,
just as Catullus had done. For the latter, however, there was some
excuse, on account of the age in which he lived. It is a most
unseasonable hour. I must stop in order to bathe my eye. As I write I
weep constantly. Good-bye until Monday. Pray for sunshine. I shall bring
you a book. Wear your seven-league boots.