PARIS, _Saturday, June 12, 1869_.
DEAR FRIEND: This dull weather, with its alternations of heat and cold,
worries me and does me great harm; besides, I am in a beastly humour.
The uproar that takes place every night on the boulevards, which reminds
me of the fine times of 1848, contributes no little to my melancholy,
and makes me feel, with Hamlet, that “man delights me not, nor woman
neither.”
What afflicts me the most in all this sad business, is its profound
stupidity. This people, which calls itself, and believes that it is, the
most intellectual on earth, expresses its desire to enjoy a Republican
form of government by demolishing the stands where poor people sell
newspapers. They shriek, _Vive la Lanterne!_ and break the street-lamps.
It is enough to make one hide his face. The danger is that there is for
stupidity a sort of emulation, as for everything else, and between the
Chambers and the Government, God only knows what the result will be.
I spend my time deciphering letters of the duke of Alba and of Philip
II, which the empress gave me. Both of them wrote like cats. I am
beginning to read Philip II, easily enough; but his captain-general is
still very troublesome. I have just read one of his letters to his
august master, written a few days after the death of count Egmont, in
which he pities the fate of the countess, who has not a loaf of bread
left, after having had a dowry of ten thousand florins. Philip II has
an intricate and tedious way of saying the simplest things. It is very
difficult to divine his meaning, and it seems to me that his constant
intention is to confuse his reader and leave him to his own powers of
initiation. The two make the most detestable pair of men that ever
existed, and neither of them, unfortunately, was hanged, which is
nothing to the credit of Providence.
I have also received from England a curious book, in which it is claimed
that _Jeanne la Folle_ was not mad, but heretical, and that, on this
account, papa, mamma, her husband, and her son all concerted to keep her
in prison, and from time to time, to have her suffer a taste of torture.
You shall read it, if you like; the book is at your service.
I have nothing encouraging to tell you of my health, which is not
flourishing; a little better, it may be, than before I came.
Nevertheless, I cough constantly, and can neither eat nor sleep.
Good-bye, dear friend. Write to me soon.