CANNES, _February 20, 1866_.
DEAR FRIEND: You charge me with indolence, you, who are its
personification! You, who live in Paris and discuss affairs with
civilised folk, should keep me informed of what is done and said in the
great city. You never tell me enough.
Is it true that crinoline is no longer in fashion, and that between the
gown and the skin nothing is worn but the chemise? If this is so, shall
I recognise you when I arrive in Paris? I recollect an old man who said
to me when I was young, that on entering a drawing-room where there were
some women without hoop-skirts and without powder, he supposed they were
chamber-maids assembled in the absence of their mistresses. I am not
sure that one can be a woman without crinoline.
I have allowed the address to go to vote without my presence, and it was
not lost; but I shall be compelled to return soon on account of my
bird-organs.[33] The question is not yet concluded, and it will be
necessary a second time to display my eloquence, which exasperates me
excessively.
Notwithstanding the loveliest weather in the world, I have by some means
succeeded in catching cold, and when I have a cold I am always
dangerously ill. Breathing with difficulty ordinarily, now I do not
breathe at all. Except for this I am better than I was last year. To be
sure, I do absolutely nothing, which is a prime factor in being well. I
brought a lot of work with me, but have not even unpacked it.
You have not mentioned Ponsard’s play.[34] He has retained the tradition
of the Corneille versification, somewhat emphatic, but broad, generous,
and sincere. I fancy that fashionable society will go into ecstasies
over this, as they go into ecstasies over the knowledge of M. Babinet
and the sermons of the abbé Lacordaire, buying a cat in a bag, just as
soon as they are persuaded that it is the proper thing. I fear that
persons in skin-tight trousers, with dog-ears, and reciting verse, do
not excite me to raptures of admiration.
I have just read a little book by my friend, M. de Gobineau, on the
religions of Asia. You shall judge of it on my return, if you do not
prefer to read it before then. It is a very strange and curious book. In
Persia it seems that there are scarcely any Mussulmans left, new
religions are being made, and, as elsewhere, they are mere imitations of
ancient superstitions which were believed to be a thousand times dead,
and which suddenly reappear. You will be interested in a sort of
prophetess, very pretty and eloquent, who was burned several years ago.
My lord, the bishop of Orleans, passed through Cannes the other day, and
called to see M. Cousin, whose interest he asked in behalf of M. de
Champagny. I supposed that my president, Troplong, would try to succeed
M. Dupin, but he stands in awe, apparently, of our burgraves, who,
indeed, would be delighted to play him a mean trick. I hear mention of
Henri Martin and Amédée Thierry, both of whom are as capable of
extolling M. Dupin as I of playing the double-bass. If I am in Paris, I
will vote as you advise me. I expect to be in Paris early next month.
What is now said and done seems to me daily to be more stupid. We are
more ridiculous than they were in the middle ages. Good-bye, dear
friend.