PARIS, _October 16, 1860_.
DEAR FRIEND: I received yours of the 5th by slow transportation. I
imagine there was one of those wind-storms of which the newspaper tells
every morning. The Mediterranean is playing tricks, it seems, this year.
I envy you the sunshine and warmth which you enjoy. Here there is
constant rain or fog; sometimes it is warm and humid, more frequently
cold and humid, but always as disagreeable as possible.
Paris is still completely empty of people. I spend my evenings reading,
and sometimes sleeping. Night before last, wishing to hear some music, I
went to the Italian opera. They gave _The Barber of Seville_. This
music, which is the gayest ever written, was sung by people who acted as
if they were returning from a funeral. Mademoiselle Alboni, who was
_Rosine_, sang admirably, with the notes of a bird. Gardoni sang like a
gentleman who was afraid of being mistaken for an actor. If I had been
Rossini, it seems to me I should have shaken them all. The _Basile_ was
the only one (I can not remember his name) who sang as if he had any
appreciation of the words.
You have promised to give me a minute and circumstantial description of
quantities of interesting things which I am unable to see. Thanks to the
privileges of your sex, you have access to the harems and may converse
with the women. I should like to know how they are dressed, what they
do, what they say, what they think of you. You have mentioned, also, the
dances. I fancy they are immensely more interesting than those one sees
in Paris ball-rooms, but you will be obliged to describe them with the
utmost exactness. Do you understand the significance of what you see?
You are aware that everything which bears on the history of mankind is
full of interest to me. Why will you not put on paper all you see and
hear?
I do not know whether we are to go to Compiègne this year. They tell me
the empress, whom I have not seen, is still in the depths of woe. She
sent me a charming photograph of the duchess of Alba, taken more than
twenty-four hours after her death. She appears to be sleeping
tranquilly. Her death was very peaceful. She laughed at the Valencian
dialect of her waiting-women five minutes before she died. I have heard
no direct news from Madame de Montijo since her departure, but I have
grave fears that the poor woman will not recover from this blow.
I am deep in a great academic intrigue. It has nothing to do with the
French Academy, but with the Academy of Fine Arts. A friend of mine is a
preferred candidate, but his Majesty has compelled him to decline, to
give place to M. Haussmann, the prefect. The Academy is indignant, and
wishes to nominate my friend, notwithstanding his withdrawal. I am
giving it all the encouragement in my power, and should like to be able
to tell the emperor the harm he is doing in meddling in affairs that do
not concern him. I hope I shall succeed in the end, and that the big
colossus will be black-balled in good fashion.
Italian affairs are most amusing, and what is said among the few honest
folk in Paris is still more diverting. We are beginning to see the
arrival of a few of the martyrs of Castilfidardo. As a general thing
they do not speak too enthusiastically of Lamoricière, who could not
have been as great a hero as he was advertised.
I saw, a few days ago, the aunt of a young eighteen-year-old martyr who
had been made prisoner. She told me that the Piedmontese had treated her
nephew abominably. I waited to hear her relate something horrible.
“Only fancy, monsieur, five minutes after being made a prisoner the poor
boy had his watch taken from him--a gold hunting-case watch, too, that
I had given him!”
Good-bye, dear friend. Write to me often. Tell me what you are doing,
and many details.