PARIS, _October 7, 1860_.
DEAR FRIEND: Your letters have arrived finally, and reassure me
concerning the fate of mine. You are right to accuse the Marseillais of
losing their heads during the emperor’s visit. They lost also two small
casks of Spanish wine which had been sent to me, and which have remained
in the warehouse, goodness knows how long! The Marseillais wine-merchant
who was to receive them wrote me naïvely that he had been too busily
engaged with the celebration to think of my wine, and that he could not
attend to it until he had taken a little rest.
I understand perfectly the fascination and interest with which you are
inspired by a first view of oriental life. You say very truly that at
every step you discover some things that are comical and others that are
admirable. There is, indeed, something comical always in the Orientals,
as there is in certain strange and pompous animals in the Jardin des
Plantes. Descamps has seized exactly this grotesqueness of the oriental,
but he has failed to catch the noble and beautiful side of their
character.
I thank you very much for your descriptions, only they are rather
incomplete. You have enjoyed the rare privilege of seeing Mussulman
women, and you do not tell me that which I should like to know. Do they
make in Algeria, as in Turkey, a generous exhibition of their charms? I
remember to have seen the bust of the present Sultan’s mother as plainly
as I have seen your face. I should like to know, also, the character of
the dances which you saw, if they were modest, and, if not, explain why
not.
If you will suggest a way of sending the package I have for you, I will
despatch it at once; if you have not received it by the time you return
to Marseilles I will send it off by the first steam-boat to leave. I
should be glad if you would buy something for my use. You know what I
like, and I leave the choice, therefore, to your powers of divination.
I have been to Saintonge for a few days, and returned only yesterday.
The weather was uninterruptedly abominable, and I brought back an
extinguished voice and a frightful cold. I found the people there
profoundly distressed, and weeping their eyes out over the misfortunes
of the Holy Father and General Lamoricière. General Changarnier has
given a description of his colleague’s campaign, in which, I am told,
after praising him to the skies, he shows him to have been guilty of
huge blunders. In my opinion the only one of the martyr heroes who is
not ridiculous is Pimodan, who died like a brave soldier. Those who pose
as martyrs because they were taken prisoner are rascals on whom I waste
no pity. The present times, moreover, are perfectly absurd, and it does
me good to read my newspaper every morning to learn of some new
catastrophe, to read the remarks of Cavour or the encyclicals. I see
that Walker was shot in America, which caused me some surprise, for his
case is similar to that of Garibaldi, whom we all admire.
Did you think my photograph a good resemblance? I enclose a better one,
or, at least, one with a less lugubrious expression. I should be glad to
give you some news of Paris, but no one is here. I envy you for being in
the sunshine.
If you have any commissions for me, I shall be in Paris still a month or
more. You do not mention the cooking of the country. Do you have
anything good to eat? If so, get the recipe.
Good-bye, dear friend.