CANNES, _January 3, 1860_.
I wish you a prosperous and happy New Year. I should be glad if you had
the weather that I am enjoying. As I write, all my windows are open, and
yet a north wind is blowing, strong enough to make funny little waves on
the sea. I thank you for getting the books. Evidently they gave
satisfaction, for I received a complimentary letter from Olga. I
suppose, in accordance with my wishes, you took special pains in your
selection for her. The choice for next year will certainly be
embarrassing, for you must have exhausted the catalogue of moral
literature.
I am writing to you in a most inconvenient position. Three days ago,
while sketching on the sea-shore, I was attacked by lumbago, which came
on me like a flash, without so much as saying “By your leave.” Since
that moment I have been all askew, although I rub with every sort of
herb known to Saint John. The sun proving my best remedy, I roast myself
in it all day.
We have stopping here baron Bunsen and his two daughters, both tired of
waiting for some one to come along, and with shanks resembling Hercules’
club, but one of whom sings very well. The baron is an intelligent man,
and knows all that is going on, of which you keep me slightly informed.
He told me of the discomfiture of the congress, which scarcely
astonishes me.
I have read the brochure of the abbé. It impresses me as more unskilful
than violent. He shows his hand so plainly, that he must certainly be
considered an awful plague in Rome, where common-sense and shrewdness
are not disregarded. The priests there are clever intriguers. Ours have
the blustering instincts of the nation, and do all sorts of irrevelant
things. The way he shelters himself behind his catacombs made me laugh,
and also the martyr airs he assumes concerning the money which was
offered him. You will see that he will ask for it in the end.
Here is a pretty story of this country. A farmer in the suburbs of
Grasse was found dead in a ravine into which he had fallen, or had been
thrown, in the night. Another farmer went to see one of his friends, and
accused him of killing the man.
“How and why did you do it?”
“Because he cast a spell over my sheep. When he did this I went to my
shepherd, and he gave me three needles, which I put to boil in a little
pot, and repeated over the pot some words he taught me. The same night
that I put the pot on the fire, the man died.”
Do not be astonished that my books were burned at Grasse, on the square
in front of the church.
I am going next Tuesday to this place for several days, in spite of its
manners. I am promised monuments of all sorts, and some beautiful
mountains. I shall bring you some acacia flowers, since you always enjoy
their perfume.
Good-bye, dear friend. I am tired to death from having written you three
pages, for I can lean on but one elbow, and my back suffers with every
movement of the body. Good-bye again. I thank you once more for the
books....