CANNES, _January 28, 1863_.
DEAR FRIEND: I was preparing to start for Paris, and expected to be
there the 20th, when I was seized with another attack of my spasms of
the stomach. I had a terrible cold, with most distressing choking, and
kept my bed for a week. The physician told me that if I were to return
to Paris before being entirely cured I should certainly have a relapse,
which would be more serious than my present illness, so I shall remain
where I am for another fortnight. I understand, besides, that the
discussion of the address will be uninteresting, and that everything
will pass quietly and quickly.
At present I am pretty well, a little weakly still, but I am beginning
to go out again and to lead my usual life. The weather is admirable:
this climate, however, is somewhat treacherous, and less than any one
else I should allow myself to be deceived by it. So long as the sun is
above the horizon one would suppose it was June; five minutes after
sunset, however, arises a penetrating dampness. It is from admiring the
beautiful sunsets too long that I have been ill.
They tell me that you have had no severe cold, but fog and rain. Around
about us an incredible amount of snow has fallen, and nothing is
lovelier at this time than the sight of the mountains all white with
snow, surrounding our little green oasis.
How have you spent your time? Have you escaped catching cold and what
sort of a life are you leading? I devote my evenings to writing for the
_Journal des Savants_. That beast of a _Chmielnicki_ is not yet dead,
and will cost me, I fear, two more articles still before I can write his
funeral oration. I have already written two as long as the one you read,
and as abundant in impalements, flayings, and other pleasantries of the
kind. I am apprehensive lest it is too much like _Salammbô_. You must
tell me your candid opinion, if you come across this rare _Journal des
Savants_, which the ignorant persist in neglecting to read in spite of
its worth.
We have had a tragedy in our neighbourhood. A pretty English girl was
burned fatally at a ball. Her mother, in trying to rescue her, was
burned also. Both died in three or four days. The husband, who was
burned also, is still ill. This is the eighteenth woman of my
acquaintance to whom this has happened. Why do you wear crinoline? You
should set an example. It is only necessary to turn around before the
chimney-place, or to look at one’s self in the mirror (there is one
always above the fireplace), to be roasted alive. It is true that one
dies but once, and that it is a great source of satisfaction to exhibit
a monstrous bustle, as if any one could be deceived by a balloon full of
air! Why do you not have a metallic curtain before your chimney-place?
It seems that they are becoming more religious in Paris. I receive
sermons from people from whom I should have expected something quite
different. I am told that M. de Persigny came out as an ultra-papist in
the committee of the Address to the Senate. Well and good, I do not
believe there has ever been a period in the history of the world when it
was more stupid than it is in this age. All this will last while it may,
but the end is a little terrifying. Good-bye, dear friend.