MADRID, _October 25, 1853_.
... Our colony has broken up, the duchess having given birth to a
daughter. Her mother has constituted herself the nurse, and the rest of
us have come in a body to Madrid. I have caught an odious cold, and to
make it worse there is a cursed sirocco blowing.
Notwithstanding this beastly weather, and my sneezing, I went yesterday
to see Cucharis, the best matador since Montès. The bulls were so bad
that they had to give one to the dogs and excite half of the others with
streamers of fire. Two men were tossed into the air, and for a moment we
thought they had been killed, which lent a momentary excitement to the
fight. Otherwise it was abominable. The animals no longer have any
spirit, and the men are little better.
As soon as the weather becomes settled, I wish to set out on my
archæological journey. People keep predicting a Martinmas summer, which
never comes. If you will send me your instructions, I shall receive your
letter probably in time to fulfil them. Unfortunately, I do not know
what is worth buying in this country. At all events, I have bought you
some handkerchiefs of a very ugly design; but it seems to me that you
enjoyed carrying off one of those handkerchiefs which came to me
somehow, I do not know how.
One no longer sees any other than French costumes here. At the
bull-fight yesterday the women wore hats. Would you like garters and
studs? If they are still worn, tell me what kind you wish, but do not
delay your reply.
I am reading, or rather I am re-reading, _Wilhelm Meister_. It is a
strange book, in which the most beautiful things and the most ridiculous
puerilities alternate. In all that Goethe has written, there is
remarkable mingling of genius and German simplicity. Was he making game
of himself or of others? Remind me when I return to give you the
_Elective Affinities_. Of all his writings, I consider this the most
whimsical and anti-French.
I have had a letter from Paris, speaking in high terms of a book of
Alexandre Dumas _fils_ called _Un Cas de Rupture_, or something of the
sort. In Madrid, no one reads. I have wondered how the ladies spend
their time when they are not occupied in love-making, but I find no
reasonable answer. All of them dream of being an empress. A young lady
of Grenada was at the theatre, when some one in her box announced that
the countess Teba was to marry the emperor. She rose impetuously,
exclaiming: “In this country there is no future!”
Among my diversions, I forgot to mention an Academy of History, of which
I am a member. It is almost as amusing as ours.
Good-bye.