CANNES, _January 6, 1862_.
(I no longer remember dates.)
DEAR FRIEND: I shall not tell you of the sunshine of Cannes, for fear of
causing you too great distress amidst the snows in which you must be at
this moment. What is written to me from Paris makes me cold just to
read. I suppose you must be still at R----, or on the journey therefrom;
so that I shall take my chances in addressing this to your official
residence, as the surest place for you to be found.
I have here, as companion and neighbour, M. Cousin, who came to be cured
of laryngitis, and who talks like a one-eyed magpie, eats like an ogre,
and is astonished not to recover under this beautiful sky, which he now
sees for the first time. He is, moreover, very interesting, for he
possesses the gift of being witty to everybody. When alone with his
servant, I fancy that he talks to him as he would to the most coquettish
Orleanist or Legitimist duchess. The native Cannais are fascinated by
him, and you may imagine how they will stare when they are informed that
this man, who talks well on any subject, has translated Plato, and is
the lover of Madame de Longueville. The only inconvenience is that he
does not know when to stop talking. For a philosopher of the Eclectic
school, it is a pity not to have adopted the good features of the
Peripatetics.
I am not doing much of anything here. I am studying botany in a book and
with the plants which fall under my hand, but every instant I bewail my
bad sight. It is a study which I should have begun twenty years ago,
when I had my eyes. It is, however, very amusing, although supremely
immoral, since for one lady there are always at least six or eight
gentlemen, all eager to offer her what she accepts with much
indifference from the right and the left. I regret exceedingly not to
have brought my microscope; still, with my spectacles I have seen
stamens making love to a pistil without showing any embarrassment at my
presence.
I am sketching also, and am reading in a Russian book the history of
another Cossack, a much better soldier than Stenka Razine, named,
unfortunately, Bogdan Chmielnicki. With a name so difficult to
pronounce, it is not astonishing that he has remained unknown to us
Occidentals, who remember only names of Latin or Greek derivation.
How has the winter treated you? and how do you manage the little
children who absorb so much of your time? Apparently you find the
bringing up of children an amusing occupation. I have had experience
only in raising cats, who have given me scant satisfaction, excepting
the last one who had the honour to know you. The intolerable thing about
children, it seems to me, is that you must wait so long to know what
they have in their brains, and to hear them reason. It is a great pity
that the trouble taken in cultivating the youngsters’ intelligence can
not be undertaken by the chits themselves, and that new ideas come to
them almost unconsciously. The principal question is, to know whether
they should be taught silly things, as we were, or whether we should
talk to them reasonably. There is something to be said for and against
both systems.
Some day, when you pass Stassin’s, kindly look in his catalogue for a
book by Max Müller, a professor in Oxford, on linguistics;
unfortunately I do not recollect the title of the book. You must tell me
if it costs very much, and if I shall be obliged to forego my fancy to
possess it. I am told it is an admirable analysis of language.
I have made the acquaintance of a poor cat who lives in a hut back in
the woods. I take him bread and meat, and as soon as he spies me coming
he runs a quarter of a mile to meet me. I regret that I can not take him
away with me, for he has marvellous powers of instinct.
Good-bye, dear friend. I hope this letter will find you in as good
health and as flourishing condition as last year. I wish you a
prosperous and happy New Year....