The Italian law procedure begins to bore me. How slow they are, in
spite of their vivacity! and how they talk! I am literally talked to
shreds. I sent for some of the newest French novels, and read for
whole days. The writers make upon me the impression of clever
draughts-men. How quickly and skilfully each character is outlined!
and what character and power in those sketches! The technical part can
go no farther. As to the characters thus drawn, I can only say what I
said before,--their love is only skin deep. This may be the case now
and then; but that in the whole of France nobody should be capable of
deeper feelings, let them tell this to somebody else. I know France
too well, and say that she is better than her literature. That running
after glaring, realistic truth makes the novel untrue to life. It is
the individual we love; and the individual is composed not only
of face, voice, shape, and expression, but also of intelligence,
character, a way of thinking,--in brief, of various intellectual and
moral elements. My relation to Laura is the best proof that a feeling
founded upon outward admiration does not deserve the name of love.
Besides, Laura is an exceptional case.