PARIS, _April 23, 1859_.
The news has made me ill, although I was not at all surprised.
Everything now is given over to chance. I suppose your brother is ready
to be off. I wish him all the good luck possible. The war,[19] I fancy,
will be violent enough at first, but it will not last long. The
financial condition of every one concerned will not allow its
continuance. While strolling yesterday in the woods, where there were
multitudes of birds, it seemed extraordinary that in such weather as
this people should be amusing themselves fighting.
I hope you find the _Memoirs of Catherine_ entertaining. There is a
flavour of local colour which I find delightful. What a ridiculous
creature was a great lady of that period, and how clear as day does it
appear from this story that nothing but strangling could have had any
effect on a beast like Peter III!
Some one gave me to read a novel by Lady Georgina Fullerton, written in
French, with a request that I should note the passages that are
imperfect. There is nothing in the book but Béarnese peasants who eat
bread and butter and poached eggs, and who sell peaches at thirty francs
a basket. I might as well try to write a Chinese novel. You ought to
take this book and correct it for me for the trouble I have taken to
lend you so many books which you have never returned. I went to the
Exposition yesterday, and it seemed to me shockingly commonplace. The
tendency of art is to a low level which amounts to positive flatness.