CANNES, _January 7, 1859_.
I am settled here in some sort of fashion. The weather is cold but
magnificent. From ten o’clock until four the sun is warm; but hardly has
it touched the summit of the mountains of the Estérel, when there arises
a keen wind from the Alps which cuts you in two. Nevertheless, I feel
much better than when I was in Paris. I have had no paroxysms of pain,
and the cough I brought away with me is entirely cured from being in the
open air; only I eat nothing at all, and sleep but so-so.
On account of my nervous temperament, I became the other day terribly
irritated and was obliged to dismiss my servant, to turn him out on the
spot. Persons of that class imagine themselves necessary to you and
abuse your patience. I have found a fellow here to take care of my
clothes, who is like a cat walking on ice with nut-shells on his feet. I
should like to discover a treasure such as I have sometimes seen--some
one who would understand my wishes without putting me to the necessity
of speaking.
Englishmen are here in great numbers. I dined day before yesterday at
Lord Brougham’s, with I don’t know how many misses, freshly arrived from
Scotland, to whom the sight of the sun seemed to cause immense surprise.
If I had the talent to describe costumes, I should amuse you with the
description of theirs. You have never seen anything to equal them since
the invention of crinoline.
I am reading the _Memoirs of Catherine II_. As a representation of
manners and customs it is remarkable. This and the _Memoirs of the
Margrave of Bayruth_ give a singular idea of the people of the
eighteenth century, and especially of the court-life of the period. When
Catherine II married the grand duke, who became afterwards Peter III,
she had a wealth of diamonds and beautiful brocade gowns, and yet her
living apartment consisted of a single room, which served as a
passageway to her women, who, twenty-six in number, all slept in one
room beside that of the queen. There is not a tradesman’s wife to-day
who does not live more comfortably than did empresses a hundred years
ago.
The memoirs of Catherine stop, unfortunately, at the most interesting
moment, before the death of Elisabeth. She says enough, however, to give
the strongest reasons for believing that Paul I was the son of a Prince
Soltykof. It is a singular thing that the manuscript in which all these
choice incidents are related she dedicated to her son, this same Paul I.
I have learned that you executed conscientiously my commission for the
purchase of books. I have even received Olga’s acknowledgments. She
seems enchanted with her portion. One book especially, something about
_Gems of Poetry_ (_?_), has produced a tremendous effect. I inclose her
eulogies. I hope your fertile imagination will not rest with this
success, and that it will find me something for my cousin, Sainte
Eulalie.
Good-bye, dear friend. I should like to send you a little of my
sunshine. Take care of yourself, and think of me. The _prigadiou_ is
remarkably well. After his fast of six weeks he has begun to eat again.
He devoured three flies the day of his arrival in Cannes. At present, he
has become so fastidious that he will eat nothing but the heads.
Good-bye again....