PARIS, _February 5, 1844_.
You chide me for my harshness, and, perhaps, with some reason. It seems
to me, however, that it would be more reasonable for you to call it
anger or impatience. It might also be fitting on your part to reflect
whether this anger or this harshness is justifiable or not.
Consider if it is not a most discouraging thing for me to be engaged in
an incessant struggle with your pride, and to see your pride get the
better of me. I confess that I fail to understand your meaning when you
speak of your obedience, which always puts you in the wrong, and which
gives you no credit for anything you do. The contrary, it seems to me,
is nearer the truth; but on your part it is a question of neither wrong
nor merit. Recall for a moment frankly what you are to me. You agree to
come with me on those walks which are my life; but your coldness,
perpetually renewed, which disheartens me more and more; the pleasure
designed, or, as I prefer to believe, instinctive, which you take in
making me desire that which you refuse obstinately, may be an excuse for
my harshness.
If you have done any wrong, however, it is most certainly that you let
your pride take the precedence over your affections. The first sentiment
is to the second as a colossus to a pygmy. Your pride is, in reality,
only a variety of selfishness. Will you some day abandon this grievous
fault, and be as lovable to me as you know how to be? Willingly would I
accept this condition, if you would promise to be entirely frank, and if
you had the courage to keep your promise. It would be for me, perhaps, a
sad experience; nevertheless, I should accept it joyfully, since in any
case you would be happy, you say.
Good-bye, and may it not be for long. Wear your seven-league boots, and
we shall have a lovely walk; if the weather were no worse than it has
been for several days, you would run no risk of catching cold. I am
suffering severely from headache and dizziness, but I hope you will cure
me.