CANNES, _February 10, 1868_.
DEAR FRIEND: I am distressed to learn of the death of M. D. I saw him
at ----, I do not know how many years ago. He was devotedly fond of you,
and while the death of friends of eighty years should be expected at any
moment, still it always comes as a thunder-clap. One of the greatest
sorrows of those who live to be aged is to lose our friends day by day,
and to realise that we are more and more alone in the world....
For my own part, my thoughts are melancholy, and my mood gloomy. I have
not yet succeeded in accustoming myself to suffering, and it irritates
me, which gives me two ills instead of one. I think I shall stay here at
least until the end of this month, in which case I have some hope of
finding you in Paris. I am delighted that my essay on Poushkin did not
bore you. The best thing about it is that I wrote it without having the
works of Poushkin by me. The quotations I gave are verses that I
committed to memory in the time of my fervour for all things Russian.
There are many Russians here, and I had charged one of my friends to
borrow a volume of miscellaneous poems, if there was one in the
Muscovite colony. He inquired of an uncommonly pretty woman, who,
instead of poems, sent me a big piece of fish from the Volga, and two
birds from the same country, all cooked a few metres from the north
pole. It was rather good. Judging from the slice sent to me, the fish
must have been a jolly fellow from five to six feet in length. This
lady, who is called Madame Voronine, has a charming head. Her husband
has the appearance of a veritable Calmuc. At first he refused the hand
of the lady. He shot himself, the ball missed, and for his trouble he
was made to marry her.
As for English, men and women, never have there been such a lot of them,
with impossible hair and toilettes, with red hair and overcoats lined
with grebe skins, and with parasols. During the last two weeks the
parasols have been more serviceable than the furs, for the weather is
magnificent, and the sun hot as in June. Among other extraordinary
Englishmen is the duke of Buccleugh, who has a horn in the middle of his
forehead. His son shows a disposition to follow his example. Do not
imagine that I am speaking metaphorically; it is a real horn growing on
the cranium, and it will end, I fear, by playing them a bad trick.
I told you that I had _Smoke_, bound in a volume expressly for you. I
might send it to you if you wished it; but I believe that I recall your
having taken home the numbers of the _Correspondent_ in which it is
found. It is one of the best things that M. Tourguenieff has ever done.
The discussion on the press is disgusting to me. Every one tells too
many lies, and not an idea is heard that has not been already expressed
twenty times in better terms. It seems to me that the level of
intelligence is rapidly sinking lower, like that of honesty. It is
indeed sad.
Yesterday I met one of my friends returning from Mentana. He told me
that the Garibaldians were thoroughly whipped; that they were a singular
mixture of abominable riff-raff and of the flower of the aristocracy.
Good-bye, dear friend. Take good care of yourself, and do not forget me.