CANNES, _February 17, 1864_.
DEAR FRIEND: Since you have been willing to take the trouble to read
Aristophanes, I will forgive your affectations and your prudishness in
reading him. Admit, however, that he is very witty, and that it would be
a great pleasure to see one of his comedies played. I do not know what
the opinion of erudites of our day is on the presence of women at the
theatre. It is probable that there were in the same country periods of
tolerance and of intolerance, but women never appeared on the stage.
Their parts were played by men, which was all the easier, since the
actors invariably wore masks....
I am desperately ill, dear friend, and realise that I am on the way to a
better world, through a path which is not the most agreeable. From time
to time, the intervals of which are much more frequent than formerly, I
have convulsions, and attacks of severe pain. I scarcely ever sleep; I
have no appetite, and suffer from weakness, which is most exasperating.
The least exercise exhausts me.
What will become of me when, instead of a magnificent sky, I shall have
the leaden skies of Paris, and constant rain and fog! I am thinking,
nevertheless, of returning by the end of this month, if I have the
strength, for I am somewhat ashamed of doing none of my official duties.
It is necessary to sacrifice one’s self, and I reconcile myself to it,
whatever may befall.
Since I have already waited so long, I will wait longer for
Sainte-Eulalie’s gift. So far as pins and rings are concerned, I fancy
the embarrassment is the same as of old. Her bureau-drawers have been
overcrowded with them ever since I first began to remember my cousin’s
fête-day. I have exhausted every variety of trinkets possible to
imagine. If you have discovered anything out of the ordinary, which is
not ruinous, you will have solved a tremendous problem.
There is another and still more interesting one on which I shall be
obliged to consult you. It is how I shall manage, in a legitimate way or
otherwise, to have some clothes sent me from London. Among your
sea-dogs, it is not impossible that there is some one by whom Mr. Poole
might send my clothes. Think about this, and you will render me a great
service.
Good-bye, dear friend. I have had a wretched night, and coughed enough
to split my cranium. I hope you have escaped all the forms of cold
which are so prevalent. In Paris it seems that every one is afflicted,
and that some people even are stupid enough to die of it. Good-bye
again.