PARIS, _December 5, 1844_.
I had sworn not to write to you, but I am not sure that I could have
kept my promise much longer. I did not know, however, that you were
suffering. Our walk was so charming that I did not think it possible you
could have retained an unpleasant memory of it. Apparently, what annoys
you is that I am more stubborn than you. That is a fine reason, is it
not, and one of which you should be proud? Should you not rather be
ashamed of yourself for having made me so? And then you say that I was
harsh, and ask me if I did not realise it? Indeed, no. Why did you not
mention it then? If I was so, I beg your pardon. It seems to me that
when we parted you gave not the slightest evidence of resentment against
me. I supposed that you felt as confidential, as friendly towards me as
I did to you. Shall I tell you that this was the sweetest memory I have
preserved of our meeting? When I see you so, it makes me very happy. If
you were angry at the time, it does credit to your power of
dissimulation. But I prefer to believe in your second impulses, rather
than that you were insincere. Tell me if I am mistaken.
This evening I began the drawing that you ordered. It is difficult to
do, and I should like to have your instructions. Do you really insist on
that field of thistles? You say you consider it one of the most
beautiful places in the world. I shall bring you the sketch I have made,
and also your portrait. I have given your eyes their wicked expression,
but do not believe that this is how they look usually. I know a better
expression, which I love all the more because I see it so seldom. You
shall see it all, however, and I shall hear what you have to say about
it. When you come to pay me, you will be good enough to remember that I
am not an ordinary painter, and that it is not the work for which you
are to pay, it is the trouble and the time. Besides this, it is well
always to show generosity towards artists.
While you were recovering from your indignation I have been almost vexed
with you. I fancied you would write sooner. It is in part from having
expected your letter, and in part owing to a foolish sentiment of pride
that I did not anticipate you with a letter. You observe that I accuse
myself also for my faults. Pardon me for my injustice; it was not
anything in the past, at least, that made me unfair towards you.
Since I saw you I have been ill almost continuously. I think it was due
to the Spanish lesson on the “broad earth,” as Homer says. Your letter
cured me. I think now it was your manner of leaving me that was
responsible for my illness. You did not deign to turn your head to say
good-bye. We shall have many pardons to ask of each other, when we meet,
for all our uncharitable thoughts!
It is horribly late, my fire has gone out, and I am shivering with cold.
Once more good-bye, and I thank you from my heart for having written. I
waited a week for your letter. Are you not also stubborn?