PARIS, _June 14, 1843_.
I am delighted to learn that you are better, and very sorry that you
should have wept. You misunderstand invariably the meaning of my words.
You interpret as anger or unkindness what is only sadness. I can no
longer recall what I said on that occasion, but I am sure that I
intended to express but one thing, which was that you had grieved me
sorely. All these quarrels prove how very unlike we are, and since,
notwithstanding this difference, there exists between us a strong
affinity--it is the _Wahlverwandschaft_ of Goethe--there results
inevitably a struggle in which I suffer keenly. When I say that I
suffer, do not understand it as a reproach against you. Things which a
moment ago seemed rose-colour to me, now look black. You know perfectly
well how to efface with two words this blackness; and as I read your
letter to-night I feel that, perhaps, after all, the sun is not hidden
forever.
But your system of government is still the same; you make me lose my
temper, after having given me moments of exquisite happiness. One more
philosophical than I would enjoy the happiness when it comes, and not
trouble himself about the unhappiness. It is my misfortune to have a
temperament that remembers all the wretchedness of the past when I am
unhappy; but, on the other hand, I recall all the joy when I am happy.
For nearly three weeks I have tried hard to forget you, but I have not
succeeded any too well. The perfume which your letters breathe has
proved a great barrier to my self-imposed task. Do you recollect how I
noticed that Indian perfume one day when we had offended each other
grievously, and were afterwards reconciled?
I am head over ears in business matters. Write to me promptly. I have
been working hard, and upon some absurd affairs. I will tell you about
them when I see you.