I WALKED about the whole morning in a rage. “What an abandoned wretch is
this Julian! what, call my letter a joke! play at ball with it, reply not
a single line! But all your infidels are alike! They dare not stand the
test of argument; they know their weakness, and try to turn it off with a
jest. Full of vanity and boasting, they venture not to examine even
themselves. They philosophers, indeed! worthy disciples of Democritus;
who _did_ nothing but laugh, and _was_ nothing but a buffoon. I am
rightly served, however, for beginning a correspondence like this; and
still more for writing a second time.”
At dinner, Tremerello took up my wine, poured it into a flask, and put it
into his pocket, observing: “I see that you are in want of paper;” and he
gave me some. He retired, and the moment I cast my eye on the paper, I
felt tempted to sit down and write to Julian a sharp lecture on his
intolerable turpitude and presumption, and so take leave of him. But
again, I repented of my own violence, and uncharitableness, and finally
resolved to write another letter in a better spirit as I had done before.
I did so, and despatched it without delay. The next morning I received a
few lines, simply expressive of the writer’s thanks; but without a single
jest, or the least invitation to continue the correspondence. Such a
billet displeased me; nevertheless I determined to persevere. Six long
letters were the result, for each of which I received a few laconic lines
of thanks, with some declamation against his enemies, followed by a joke
on the abuse he had heaped upon them, asserting that it was extremely
natural the strong should oppress the weak, and regretting that he was
not in the list of the former. He then related some of his love affairs,
and observed that they exercised no little sway over his disturbed
imagination.
In reply to my last on the subject of Christianity, he said he had
prepared a long letter; for which I looked out in vain, though he wrote
to me every day on other topics—chiefly a tissue of obscenity and folly.
I reminded him of his promise that he would answer all my arguments, and
recommended him to weigh well the reasonings with which I had supplied
him before he attempted to write. He replied to this somewhat in a rage,
assuming the airs of a philosopher, a man of firmness, a man who stood in
no want of brains to distinguish “a hawk from a hand-saw.” {16} He then
resumed his jocular vein, and began to enlarge upon his experiences in
life, and especially some very scandalous love adventures.