UC-KRLF $B 317 Mflfl ^ fidies in m UttU f0o»C ■AkA«A*A»A»Jk« ^ rams y^.AA-AAA>VM^m^:/!^^:^^A^^^^ H^^U'^ aid (t med^. IN MEMORIAM BERNARD MOSES > CO ^ ^ ^,^ n- JO Q ^ "^ ':3D L^ OO PROSPER MERIMEE'S LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA WITH RECOLLECTIONS BY LAMARTINE AND GEORGE SAND BRIG'A-BRAG SERIES. I. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES BY Chorley, Planche, and Young. II. ANECDOTE BIOGRAPHIES OF THACKERAY AND DICKENS. III. PROSPER MERIMEE'S LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA; with Recollections by Lamartine and George Sand. IV. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES by Barham, Harness, and Hod- der. V. THE GREVILLE MEMOIRS. VI. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES by Moore and Jerdan. VII. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES by Cornelia Knight and Thomas Raikes. {Ready in April.) Each I vol. sq. i2mo. Per vol. $1.50. Seniy post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers, 2E>cicsas2£»cac M>tvie0 PROSPER MERIMEE'S LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA WITH RECOLLECTIONS BY LAMARTINE AND GEORGE SAND EDITED BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD NEW YORK SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, AND COMPANY 1875 •' ** gCRNARD MOSES Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by ScRiBNER, Armstrong, and Company, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STHREOTYPHD AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS. PAGB PREFACE V PROSPER MERIM£E, Letters to an Incognita 17 ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE, Twenty-five Years of My Life ..... 137 GEORGE SAND. Recollections . , 319 TBltOU PREFACE. AMARTINE, Merimee, and George Sand have added such brilliancy to the French literature of the present century, that their association in this volume is entirely natural and calls for no explanation or justification. Alphonse de Lamartine was born at Macon on the Saone, on the 21st of October, 1792, and died in February, 1869 ; Prosper Merimee was born in Paris in 1803, and died in Cannes, September 23, 1870 j George Sand (Madame Dudevant, whose maiden name was Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin) was born in Paris on July I St, 1804 ; and happily, the date of her death can- not yet be named. The extraordinary brilliancy of the literary reputation of Lamartine, conjoined with the great influence which he at one time exerted in French politics, make him unquestionably the most prominent of the trio. The financial embarrassments in which his extravagant habits plunged him toward the close of his life, placed him in such an unfortunate attitude toward those who had for many years flattered and petted him, that his great popu- larity suffered a disastrous eclipse; but the matchless elo- quence which he repeatedly displayed as an orator, the in- fluence which he now and then possessed as a statesman, and the poetic glow and fervor which breathe through all VI PREFACE. his writings, have secured for him and his works a repu lation and a name which must endure. The wide diver- sity in the character of the writings of George Sand makes it difficult as yet to assign her a precise place in literature, but some of her works will live as long as the language in which they were written. Both Lamartine and George Sand are nearly as well known to Amer- icans as they are to their own countrymen. For nearly the last half century their names have been widely famil- iar, and the facts of their respective careers are easily accessible. Until recently, however, Mdrimee has been but slightly known, save to his own countrymen. He first appeared before the public in 1825, as the translator from the Spanish of several dramas, under the title " Th^- &tre de Clara Gazul;" in 1833, he published a moral tale, "The Double Mistake" ("La Double M6prise"), and then there followed at intervals, notes of journeys in the South, and also in the West of France, " Stories in Roman History ; " "A History of Don Pedro I., King of Castile ; " " An Episode in the History of Rus- sia," etc., etc. " Columba," a novel which was published in 1 841, was extremely successful, and upon this, more than upon any other of his works, his popular reputation will probably rest. Whether that reputation can be per- manent among his own countrymen is a question which it is hardly worth while to discuss. In the course of his ca- reer, however, first as Inspector-General of Historical Monuments, a position to which he was appointed as early as 1834, then as member of the French Academy, with an election to which he was honored in 1844, and afterwards as Senator (1853), he saw French society in all its phases and constantly under circumstances which gave him the most excellent opportunities for observation. Cynical by PREFACE. vii nature, the lingering disease to which he finally yielded, led him to look at men and things, especially during all the later years of his life, in a morbidly critical way ; but that he was capable of loving ardently, these now famous " Letters to an Incognita " abundantly prove. Indeed, they show something even more remarkable than this ; that the lover could settle down into the devoted friend, maintaining during a period of over thirty years, — for this singular correspondence extends from 1842 to 1870, — the sincerest admiration for the woman for whom, at one time, Mdrimee cherished something more than a Platonic affection. As regards the identity of the " Incognita " and the manner in which the publication of these letters was received in Paris, it is enough to quote the opening paragraphs from a paper suggested by them, which ap- peared in the " London Quarterly Review " for January, 1874. The writer says : " No literary event since the war, has excited anything like such a sensation in Paris, as the publication of the " Letters \ une Inconnue." Even poli- tics became a secondary consideration for the hour, and Academicians or Deputies of opposite parties, might be seen eagerly accosting each other in the chamber or the street, to inquire who this fascinating and perplexing un- known could be. The statement in the " Revue des Deux Mondes " that she was an Englishwoman, moving in bril- liant society, was not supported by evidence ; and M. Blanchard, the painter from whom the publisher received the manuscripts, died, most provokingly, at the very com- mencement of the inquiry, and made no sign. Some inti- mate friends of Merim6e, rendered incredulous by wounded self-love at not having been admitted to his confidence, insisted that there was no secret to tell ; their hypothesis being, that the " Incognita " was a myth, and VI 11 PREFACE. the letters a romance, with which some petty details of act- ual life had been interwoven (as in " Gulliver's Travels " or " Robinson Crusoe "), to keep up the mystification. But an artist like Merimee would not have left his work in so unformed a state, so defaced by repetitions, or with such a want of proportion between the parts.' With the evi- dence before us as we write, we incline to the belief that the lady was French by birth, and during the early years of the correspondence in the position of dame de compagnie or travelling companion to a Madame M de B , who passes in the letters under the pseudonym of Lady M . It appears from one of them that she inherited a fortune in 1843 ; and she has been constaix'l-ly identified with a respectable single lady residing in Paris with two nieces, and a character for pedantry fastened on her (per- haps unjustly), on the strength of the Greek which she learned from Merimee." As regards Merimee himself, it is only necessary to quote some passages from the " Study," with which the distinguished author Henri Taine prefaces these " Let- ters to an Incognita." He writes : " I frequently met Merimee in society — a tall, erect, pale man,^ho, except- ing his smile, had very much the appearance of an Eng- lishman ; at least he possessed that cold, distant air that in advance repels all familiarity. One was impressed, merely on seeing him, with his natural or acquired phlegm, his self-control, his habit and determination of holding himself in perfect check. His countenance, espe- cially on ceremonious occasions, was impassible even in intimate circles, and when recounting some drollery his voice remained even and calm, never any outburst nor en- thusiasm ; while he related the raciest details in fitting words with the tone of a man asking for a cup of tea. PREFACE. IX He so strenuously subdued all manifestations of sensibil- ity as to seem destitute of it ; but it was not so, indeed quite the reverse ; as there are racers so well broken in by their master, that once well in hand they no longer indulge in a caracole. This training began at an early period with Merimee ; for he was but ten years old when, having committed some slight fault, he was severely repri- manded and sent from the room : and weeping, overcome with distress, he had just closed the door, when he heard a burst of laughter, and some one said : * Poor child, he really thought us angry.' He revolted at the idea of be- ing deceived ; he swore to repress thenceforth so humil- iating a sensitiveness, and he kept his word. ' Remember to distrust,* was his motto. To guard against impulse, ardor, and enthusiasm, never entirely to allow himself full play, to maintain always a personal reserve, to be the dupe neither of others nor of himself, to act and write as if perpetually in the presence of an indifferent and mock- ing spectator, — such was the salient feature which, graven more and more deeply into his* nature, left its imprint on every phase of his life, his work, and his talent. He lived as an amateur ; and indeed, possessed of a critical taste and habit, one can hardly do otherwise ; by dint of revers- ing the tapestry, one ends by looking habitually at the wrong side, seeing instead of handsome personages in fine attitudes, only bits of thread. Early in life, Merimee possessed a competency, afterwards a congenial and inter- esting office, that of Inspector-General of Historical Monu- ments, and subsequently a place in the Senate and a posi- tion at court. He was competent, active, and useful in regard to the monuments ; in the Senate he had the good taste to be generally absent or silent ; while at court he preseived his independence and freedom of speech. To X PREFACE. travel, study, observe, to dissect men and events, formed his chief occupation, his official bonds holding him in but slight restraint. A man of such wit as Merimee pos- sessed, is necessarily held in a certain respect, his irony transpiercing the finest chain-mail of his adversaries. It would be difficult to present a more serious deportment in corporate assemblies, and to entertain less internal re- spect for them, than Merimee exhibited. Grave, dignified, studied in attitude, his manners were irreproachable when he visited the Academy or improvised a public discourse ; nevertheless, with an occasional sly and comic touch that turned both orator and audience into ridicule. Two dis- tinct personages existed in Merimee; the one fulfilling with easy propriety the duties, and acquitting himself with grace in the splendors of society ; the other holding him- self apart and above his second half, whose performance he regarded with a bantering or resigned air j and so also there was a dual self in his ties of affection or sentiment. On the one hand a perfectly natural man, good and even tender, than whom no one was more loyal, unfailing in friendship, and who once having offered his hand, never withdrew it. This characteristic was strikingly shown in his defense of M. Libri against the judges of the court and public opinion ; the action of a true knight who singly throws his gage of battle to a whole army. Con- demned to fine and imprisonment, he did not assume the air of a martyr, but showed as much grace in submitting to the penalty of his ill-fortune, as bravery in provoking it ; and made no mention of it, save with quiet humor, in a preface, saying that he 'had passed fortnight of July in a retreat, where he was in no wise incommoded by the sun, and where he enjoyed profound leisure.' He was obliging and earnest in serving others ; and persons PREFACE. XI who, in begging his good offices, left him disconcerted by his cold manner, would be surprised by his appearance a month afterwards, having in his pocket an affirmative an swer to their petition. In his correspondence a striking statement escapes him, which his friends find true, — ' It rarely chances that I sacrifice others to myself, but when ever it happens, I suffer all possible remorse.' " Towards the close of his life two elderly English ladies were seen at his house, to whom he seldom spoke, and about whom he did not seem to trouble himself greatly ; yet a friend saw tears in his eyes because one of them was ill. He never made any allusion to his deepest feel- ings ; and here we have a correspondence, first lover-like, then merely friendly, that continued during thirty years, and yet the name of his correspondent is unknown ! By those who read these letters aright, he will be found gra- cious, affectionate, delicate, earnestly in love, and, almost incredibly, at times a poet, even moved to superstition, like a lyrical German. But by the side of the lover, the critic still appears, and the conflict between these oppos- ing forces in the same nature produces very singular effects ; in such a case, however, it is wise not to scan too closely. ' Do you know,' says La Fontaine, ' that how- ever slightly I may love, I no more see the defects of the one exciting the sentiment, than does a mole a hundred feet below the earth. With the sowing of the first grain of love, I never fail to surround it with my entire stock of incense.' In this, perhaps, lay the secret of his charm. In Merimee's letters harsh words were showered with caresses. Tenderness, altercation, and reconciliation reigned successively : for he seems to have met a charac- ter as restive, as unyielding, and independent as his own, — - 1 lioness though tame. After a violent quarrel, an aifec- Xii PREFACE. donate word recalls him to her feet : and these alterna* tions of love and anger finally subside into a calm and enduring friendship. They met at the Louvre, at Ver- sailles, in the neighboring woods, took long clandestine walks together several times a week, even in January ; he admired ' a radiant countenance, a subtle charm, a white hand, superb black hair,' an intelligence and attainments worthy of his own, the graces of an original beauty, the attractions of a comprehensive culture, the seductions of delicious toilet and skillful coquetry ; he breathed the per- fume of an education so choice, and * a nature so refined, as to epitomize for him a rounded civilization ; ' in short, he was under the spell. The critic, however, in turn re- placed the lover ; he unraveled the meaning of a reply, of a gesture ; he disengaged himself from sentiment, the better to judge a character ; and wrote her rather biting truths and epigrams which were returned to him the fol- lowing day. " Such he was in life, and such we find him in his books. He studied and wrote as an amateur, passing from one subject to another, as fancy or occasion prompted, giving himself up to no science, using his talent for the illustra- tion of no theory. This was the want neither of applica- tion nor capability ; on the contrary, few men possessed more varied attainments. He was master of the Italian, Greek, Latin, Spanish, English, and Russian languages, with their history and literature : and I believe that he also read German. From time to time a phrase, a note shows the point to which he had pursued these studies. He spoke Calo in a manner to astonish the Spanish gyp- sies ; he understood the various Spanish dialects, and deciphered ancient Catalonian charters, and scanned Eng- lish poetry. Only they who have studied an entire litera* PREFACE. Xlll lure in print and manuscript, during the four or five sue- cessive periods of the language, its style and orthography^ can appreciate the facility and the perseverance necessary to enable one to understand Spanish so thoroughly as the author of ' Don Pedro ; ' and Russian as the writer of the * Cosaques ' and the ' Faux Demetrius.' He pos- sessed a remarkable lingual gift, and acquired languages up to a ripe age, becoming a philologist towards the end of his life, applying himself at Cannes to the minutiae of study pertaining to comparative grammar. To this knowledge of books he joined extensive learning respecting monu- ments, his reports proving him to be a specialist as to those of France, comprehending not only the effect but the technicalities of architecture. He studied each church on the spot, aided by the best architects ; his memory of locality was excellently trained, and born of a family of painters, he had early handled the brush, being an artist in water-colors ; in short, he investigated the subject exhaustively, and having a horror of specious phrases, touched no topic unless with certainty of detail. He travelled frequently ; once in the East, twice in Greece, a dozen or fifteen times in England, in Spain.^ and elsewhere, studying the manners, not only of good company but of bad ; consorting familiarly with gypsies and bull-fighters, and relating stories to the peasants be- neath the Andalusian stars. Possessed of these varied acquirements, and of such noble faculties, Merimee might easily have attained an eminent position, both in history and art ; but as a historian he occupies only an average rank, while his place, though high, is but limited in art. Nearly always he seems to have written only when occasion prompted, simply to anmse and orcupy himself, subjected to no ruling idea, sub- XIV PREFACE. ordinating himself to no task, conceiving no harmo- nious whole. In this, as in all else, he became disen- chanted, and in the end disgusted. Skepticism induced melancholy, and his correspondence in this connection is most sad. His health failed by degrees, and he wintered regularly at Cannes, sensible that his life was fading away j but he carefully watched over it ; the one anxiety that accompanies us to the last breath. By order of his physician he practiced archery, sketched for his amuse- ment the lovely scenery of the neighborhood, and could be met every day in the country walking in silence, with his two English lady friends, one carrying his bow, the other his box of water-colors. So he killed time and learned to be patient. He often went to a lonely cabin, half a league distant, to feed a cat; and caught flies for. a lizard which he kept by him ; and these were his pets. When the rail- way brought him a friend, he revived, and his conversation was again brilliant and charming ; his letters were always so, his mind and wit the most original and exquisite, re- maining unimpaired. But happiness failed him ; the future looked dark, nearly as gloomy as it does to us of to- day ; and before closing his eyes, he sorrowfully witnessed our national disaster, dying September 23, 1870. In sum- ming up his character and talent, it will be found that, born with an excellent heart, endowed with a superior intellect, having lived an honest man, labored much, and produced several works of the first order, yet he neither utilized his gifts to their utmost extent, nor attained the full happiness to which he might have aspired. Through the fear of being deceived, he was mistrustful in life, in love, in science, and in art, and was himself the dupe of this distrust. One is always so to some degree, and per- haps it is better to resign one's self to it in advance." PREFACE. XV Tb*" mystery which surrounds these " Letters to an In- cognita," their freshness, their epigrammatic brilliancy, their keen and flashing wit, the careless boldness with which they dash off the portraits of the leading men and women of the day, in English as well as in French soci- ety, combine to draw attention first of all to them, and they are therefore assigned the first place in this volume. In the translation, special care has been taken to avoid the repetitions which were allowed to disfigure the letters as they were originally published. Everything of general interest has been carefully preserved, so that the letters as they stand reflect with sufficient fullness Merimee's rela- tions to the Incognita, while they give us as well his pointed comments upon the men and events of his day. This translation of the " Lettres k une Inconnue " is, by the way, the only one through which they have thus far been made accessible to the English reader. In that section of the volume assigned to Lamartine we have his last published work, "Twenty-five Years of My Life," in Lady Herbert's translation, slightly abridged. The passages which have been exscinded, were mainly digressions or rhapsodies, which any reader of the volume itself would be very likely to omit. The integrity of the narrative itself has been carefully preserved, and all those who have ever felt at all attracted toward Lamartine, will turn to it with an eager interest which cannot fail to be satisfied. " In these Memoirs," as M. de Ronchaud who edits them in the original French, remarks, " his whole nature comes out in its living simplicity. Lamartine's books are full of his genius, but nowhere else has he shown us much of his heart." The second volume of these " Memoirs of Lamartine " is occupied by a trans! a- 2 XVI PREFACE. tion of the diary of Mme. de Lamartine, " Memoirs of my Mother." These traverse to so great an extent the same ground which is covered by " Twenty-five Years of My Life," that only a few pages have been selected from them for this volume. It is enough to say of " Memoirs of My Mother," in general, that they exhibit Mme. de Lamartine as a deeply spiritual and devout woman, a ten- derly affectionate mother, keenly anxious for the welfare of her children, and pardonably proud of the brilliant career of her illustrious son. The distressing circum- stances of her death were in painful contrast with the peace and serenity which would seem to have been the more appropriate close of so saintly a life. There are few more affecting passages in any of Lamartine's works than the " Epilogue " in which he describes the heart-rending affliction which overwhelmed him in the death of his mother. Doubtless George Sand might have given us one of the most notable volumes of reminiscences ever pub- lished, had she chosen to do so. Possibly she still holds her material for such a book in reserve. Certainly, her " Reminiscences and Impressions " "(Souvenirs et Impres- sions ") is not by any means the work its title would lead the reader to anticipate. It seems to be a rechauffe of articles furnished from time to time possibly to reviews, with scattering personal recollections, few of them so pointed as to possess any general interest. If the share of this volume which is assigned to her r^ay seem dispro- portionate, the only explanation must be found in the fact that we have here all of her " Reminiscences and Impres- sions " which is likely to interest the American reader. LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA. |ARIS, Thursday. — Everything about you is mysteri- ous ; and the causes inducing in others a certain line of conduct, impel you always to opposite action. I am becoming accustomed to your ways, and nothing any longer surprises me. Spare me, I beg of you ; do not put to too harsh a test the unfortunate habit I have contracted of find- ing good in all that you do. I was perhaps a little too frank in my last letter, in speaking of my character. An old diplomatist, a shrewd man of the world, has often advised me, " Never say any ill of yourself; your dear friends will say quite enough." Do not, however, take, literally my self-depreciation ; believe, rather, that my chief virtue is modesty, which I carry to excess, and I tremble lest it injure me in your estimation. I may at another time, when inspired, supply you with an exact cata- logue of my qualities ; for the list will be long, and being to- day slightly indisposed I dare not project myself into this " progression of the infinite." You cannot guess where I was on Saturday evening, and in what engaged at midnight. I was on the platform of one of the towers of Notre Dame, drinking orangeade and eating ices in the society of four friends and a magnificent moon, with the accompaniment of a great owl flapping his wings. Paris at this hour, and by moon- light, is a superb spectacle, resembling a city of the Thousand and One Nights, the inhabitants of which have been enchanted during their sleep ; but Parisians usually go to bed at midnight, and are most stupid in so doing. Our party was a curious 1 8 LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA. one, four nations being represented, each of us with a differ* ent way of •thiriking ; but the bore of it was, that some of us, ihspired'bythe rri-cx)n and the owl, thought it necessary to as- su'ifia a poetic 'tone 'arid indulge in platitudes — in fact, little by -little every one. began to utter nonsense. I do not know by what chain of ideas this semi-poetic evening leads me to think of one that was not in the least so ; a ball given by some young men, to which all the opera dancers were invited. These women are usually very stupid ; but I have observed how superior they are in moral delicacy to the men of their class. Only One vice separates them from other women — that of poverty. Paris. — Frankness and truth towards women are not de- sirable — indeed quite the reverse ; for see, you regard me as a Sardanapalus because I have been to a ball of figurantes. You reproach me as for a crime, and reprove as a still greater crime my praise of these poor girls. Make them rich, I repeat, and only their good qualities will remain ; but insur- mountable barriers have been raised by the aristocracy between the different classes of society, so that few persons understand how entirely what passes beyond the wall resembles what passes within. I will tell you a story that I heard in this perverse society. In the Rue Saint Honor^ lived a poor woman who never left her miserable attic, and who had a little girl twelve years old, neat, reserved, well behaved, who never spoke to any one. Three times a week this child left home in the afternoon, returning alone at midnight, being a super- numerary at the opera. One night she came down to ask for a lighted candle, which being given to her, the porter's wife followed her after a while to the garret, where she found the woman dead on her wretched pallet, and the child occupied in burning a quantity of letters which she drew from a battered trunk. She said, " My mother died to-night, and charged me to burn these papers without reading them." The child knows the name neither of father nor mother, is entirely alone in the world, having no other resource than that of personat- J FIGURANTE. 1 9 ing monkeys, vultures an.i devils on the stage. Her mother's last counsel to her was, to remain a figurante and to be very good ; which she certainly is, even very pious, and does not care to relate her history. Will you be good enough to tell me if there is not infinitely greater merit in this child leading such a life, than belongs to you who enjoy the singular hap- piness of irreproachable surroundings, and are endowed with a nature so refined as to picture for me, in a measure, the bloom of civilization ? I will tell you the truth. I can only endure low society at rare intervals, and through an inexhausti- ble curiosity respecting all varieties of the human species, seldom entering that of men, there being to me something inexpressibly repulsive in it, especially with us ; but in Spain, muleteers and bull-fighters were my friends. I have more than once eaten from the platter of people at whom an Eng- lishman would not look for fear of compromising his self-re- spect ; and I have even drunk from the same leathern bottle with a galley-slave ; there was, however, but one bottle, and one must drink when thirsty. Do not believe that I have a predilection for the canaille. I simply like to study different manners, different faces, and to hear a different language. Ideas are the same everywhere, and aside from the merely conven- tional, I do not find good breeding limited to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. All this is Arabic to you, and I know not why I say it. My mother has been very ill, exciting in me great uneasiness, but is now out of danger, and will be in a few days entirely restored to health. I cannot endure anxiety, and during the period of danger I have been in a state of distrac- tion. As a rule, never select a woman for a confidante ; soon or late you would repent of it. Learn also, that there is nothing more common than to do evil for the very pleasure of it. Shake off your ideas of optimism, and be convinced that we are in this world simply to fight against each other. In this connection, I remember that a learned friend who reads hieroglyphics told me that on the Egyptian sarcophagi are often engraved these two words : life^ war; which proves 20 LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA. that I did not originate the maxim just given you. The characers are represented by one of those vases called canopes, and a shield with an arm holding a lance. Paris. — Your reproaches afford me great pleasure. As to your over-moral relative who says so much evil of me, he re- calls Thwackum, who asks : Can any virtue exist without religion f Have you read " Tom Jones," a book as immoral as all of mine put together. If it was prohibited, of course you read it. What a droll education you receive in England ! And what avails it ! Breath is wasted for years in preaching to a young girl, with the certain result that she will desire to know precisely that immoral person for whom it was hoped to inspire her with a holy aversion. What an admirable story is that of the serpent ! All that I know of you pleases me prodigiously. I study you with ardent curiosity. I have certain theories respecting the veriest trifles, — gloves, boots, buckles, to which I attach much importance, having discovered that a certain relation exists between the character of women and the caprice, — or rather, the connection of ideas and the ratiocination, — that dictates the choice of such or such stuffs. I could show, for instance, that a woman who wears blue gowns is a coquette and affects sentiment. I went the other day on a boating excursion, a number of sailing vessels being on the river, in one of which were sev- eral women of a vulgar class. As the vessels reached the shore, from one of them stepped a man about forty years of age who was persistently beating a drum for his own amuse- ment ; and while I was admiring the musical organization of this animal a young woman approached him, called him a mon- ster, saying that she had followed him from Paris, and if he declined to admit her to his society he should dearly rue it. The man continued to pound his drum vigorously during this appeal, replying phlegmatically that he would not have her in his boat, whereupon she ran to the vessel moored farthest from the shore and within twenty feet of our own, and sprang PHILOSOPHY OFENGA GEMENTS, 2 1 Into the river, splashing us infamously ; but although she had put out my cigar my indignation did not hinder me, aided by my friends, from dragging her out before she had swallowed two glasses of the muddy water. The noble object of such despair had not budged, and grumbled between his teeth : *' Why did you pull her out if she wished to drown herself ? " Why is it that these cold, indifferent men are the most be- loved ? I asked myself this question as we sailed home ; I ask it still, and I beg you to tell me if you know. Paris. — Mariquita de mi alma — it is thus I should begin were we at Granada. I believe, notwithstanding my anger, that I love you better in your fits of pouting than I do in any other mood. One sentence of your letter made me laugh like one of the blessed. Without hostile preliminaries for the blow, you tell me short and sweet : " My love is promised." You say that you are engaged for life as if it were simply for a quadrille ! Very good ! My time, it seems, has been profit- ably employed in discussing love, marriage, and the rest of it ! You still say and believe, that when told to " love Monsieur," you at once love. Has your engagement been signed before a notary .'* When I was a school-boy I received a love-letter with two flaming hearts pierced with a dart, from a seamstress, which precious effusion was captured by the school-master, and I locked up ; and, as a denouement of the drama, the object of this budding passion consoled herself with the cruel school- master. Engagements are fatal to the happiness of those who subscribe to them. It is a primal law of nature to hold in aversion whatever savors of the obligatory. All bonds are in- herently irksome ; and if so trammeled, I seriously believe that you would love me j me, to whom you have promised nothing. To me you appear very devout, superstitious even. This reminds me of a pretty little girl from Granada, who when mounting her mule to cross the Ronda Pass, a route famous for robbers, devoutly kissed her thumb and struck her breast three times, assured by this pious action that the robbers would not 22 LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA. dare to show themselves, provided that the Ingles — that is myself ; with these people all travellers are English — would not swear by the Blessed Virgin and the saints : but only this wicked mode of speech will make these horses move among such roads. See "Tristram Shandy." You are weak and jealous, two qualities not objectionable in a woman, but de- fects in a man, and I possess them both. Let us cease quar- reling and be friends. I kiss the hand that you offer me in pledge of peace. September. — You allude to special reasons that prevent you from seeking to be with me. I respect secrets, and will not pry into your motives. Some kind busybody may have taken me for the text of a sermon that sways you ; nevertheless, in fearing me you would be doing me an infinite wrong. Be re- assured I shall never be in love with you ; I am now too old and have been too unhappy. I once felt myself falling in love and fled to Spain, one of the finest actions of my life, the cause of the journey never being suspected by the lady. To remain, would have been to commit a great folly — that of offering to a woman in exchange for all that was dear to her, a tenderness that I was conscious of being inadequate to the sacrifice I should have tempted her to make. " Love excuses all, but we must be quite sure that it is love ; " and this pre- cept, be assured, is more inflexible than those of your Metho- distical friends. In me you will acquire a true friend, while I may find a woman with whom I am not in love and in whom I can confide. Should I die this year, you will feel regret at having hardly known me. The remembrance of your splendid black eyes is no incon- siderable element of my admiration for you. I am old, and nearly insensible to beauty, yet on hearing a fastidious man say that you are very handsome I could not repress a feeling of sadness, and for this reason : that I am horribly jealous (I am not the least in love with you) of my friends, and distressed at the thought that your beauty exposes you to the attentions of men who only appreciate in you that which attracts me the least. The truth is, I am in a frightful humor ; nothing makes WEDDING-DAY SPECULATIONS. 23 me so melancholy as a marriage. The Turks who buy a woman after examining her like a fat sheep, are more honest than we who cover our shameful bargain with the transparent varnish of hypocrisy. I have often asked myself what I could say to my wife on my wedding-day, and have found nothing possible unless it be a compliment to her nightcap. The devil would be very cunning to entrap me to such a fete. The woman's role is easier than that of the man. On that day she models herself after the Iphigenia of Racine ; but if she ob- serve at all keenly, what droll things she must see ! Of course at this fete love will be made to you, and you will be regaled with allusions to domestic happiness. WJien angry, the Anda- lusians say : " I would stab the sun "but for the fear of leaving the world in darkness." You jest in saying so charmingly that you are afraid of me. You know that I am ugly, capricious in temper, always ab- stracted, and often tormenting when suffering. Do you not find all this reassuring ? You are no pythoness ; you will never be in love with me. You are a combination of the angel and the devil, but the latter predominates. You call me a tempter ! Dare to say that this word does not apply more strongly to yourself ! Have you not thrown a bait to me, poor little fish that I am ? And holding me at the end of your line you keep me dancing betwixt heaven and earth, until weary of the sport it may please you to cut me loose, and I shall swim about with the hook in my gills, but never again to find the angler. Adieu, jtina de mi ojos. Lady M announced to me yesterday that you are going to be married. This being so, burn my letters : I burn yours, and adieu. You know my principle that does not permit me to maintain an intimacy with a married woman whom I have known as demoiselle, with a widow whom I have known as wife. The change in a woman's legal status affects also her various social relations, and always for the worse. In a word, I cannot bear my female friends to marry, therefore, should you marry, let us forget each other. I still love you and com- mend myself to your prayers. 24 LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA. Paris. — We are becoming very tender. You say to me; Amigo de mi alma, which is very pretty on a woman's lips. It is needless to say that the answer to my question has greatly pleased me. You say, perhaps involuntarily, to my de- light, that the husband of a woman who should resemble you would inspire you with true compassion. I believe this readily, and I add that no one would be more unhappy, unless it be the man who should love you. You must be cold and mocking in your fits of ill humor, with an invincible pride that prevents you from saying, " I am in the wrong." Add to this an energy of character causing you to despise complaints and tears. When by the lapse of time and force of events we shall become friends, it will be seen which of the two can more skillfully torment the other. The mere thought of it makes my hair stand on end. Cannot we meet without mys- tery and as good friends .'* I am ill and terribly weary. Come to Paris, dear Mariquita, and excite my love anew. I shall never be weary then. Paris. — What is your malady ? Some heart sorrow ? Some mysterious phrases of yours would seem to imply as much. You both suffer and enjoy through the head, but entre nous, I do not believe that you are yet in the enjoyment of that viscus {viscere) called heart, which is only developed to- wards twenty-five years of age, in the forty-sixth degree of lati- tude. Now you are knitting your beautiful black eyebrows and saying : " The insolent fellow, to doubt that I have a heart ! " This is, indeed, the great pretension of the day; since the manufacture of such numbers of so-called passionate romances and poems, all women pretend to have a heart. Wait yet a while ; when you have a heart in earnest, send me the tidings. You will then regret the happy time in which you only lived by the head, and the ills you now suffer will seem only pin-pricks in comparison with the stabs that will rain upon you with the birth of passion. Your gracious promise to give me your por- trait is a double pleasure, as a proof of your increased conn- dence in me. I am thinking at this moment of the expression TRAMMELS OF SOCIETY. 25 of your countenance, which is a little hard : a lioness, though tame. I kiss your mysterious feet a thousand times. Adieu. London, December. — Tell me, in the name of God, if you be of God, querida Mariquita, why have you not answered my letter 1 Your last one put me into such a flutter that my reply, on the impulse of the moment, was hardly common sense. Why will you not see me ? Your chief motive appears to be the dread of doing something improper, as they say here. I do not accept as serious your fear that a more inti- mate knowledge of me may destroy your illusions. Were this indeed your motive, you would be the first woman, the first human being even, the gratification of whose desires or curiosity had been hindered by a similar consideration. The thing can be improper only as regards society. You know in advance that I shall not eat you. Note in passing, that this word society makes us unhappy from the moment of donning inconvenient garments at its behests, until the day of our death. A man's discretion, and mine exceptionally, is the greater in proportion that it is trusted. There is, and there will be throughout your life, a conflict between your intuitions and your conventual discipline ; thence arises the whole difficulty. The sea always makes me excessively ill, and the glad waters of the dark blue sea are only agreeable to me when seen from the shore ; after my first voyage to England it required a fortnight to restore my usual color, that of the pale horse of the Apocalypse. One day at dinner I was seated opposite to Madame V , who suddenly exclaimed, " Until to-day I thought you were an Indian ! " Paris, March, 1842. — Since you do not refuse my gifts, I send you conserves of rose, bergamot, and jasmine. I offered you Turkish slippers, but have been plundered. Will you have this Turkish mirror in exchange ? It may be more acceptable, for you strike me as being even more coquette than in the year of grace 1840. It was in December, and you wore ribbed silk stockings. 26 LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA. You are now rich — rich, that is to say free. A capital idea this of your friend, who is another Auld Robin Gray. He must have been in love with you, which you will never confess, for you too dearly love mystery. Why not go to Rome and Naples to see the sun ? You are worthy of comprehending Italy, and would return richer in ideas and sensations. I do not advise Greece ; your skin is not sufficiently tough to resist all the viHainous insects that devour one in that classic land. Speaking of Greece, I send you a blade of grass gathered on the hill of Anthela at Thermopylae, on the spot where fell the last of the "three hundred." It is not improbable that particles of the dead Leonidas mingle with the constituent atoms of this little flower. It was, I remember, at this very spot, while lying on heaped-up straw and talking to my friend Ampere, that I told him that among the tender memories re- maining to me there was only one unmixed with bitterness. I thought of our beautiful youth. Pray keep my foolish fiower. I revisited my dear Spain in 1840, passing two months at Madrid where I saw a droll revolution, admirable bull-fights, and the triumphal entry of Espartero, the most comical show possible. I stayed at the country-house of a friend, who in her devotion to me is a sister, and went every morning to Madrid, returning to dine with six charming women, of whom the eldest was thirty-six years old. Owing to the revolution I was the only man permitted to go and come freely, so these six unfortunates had no other cortejo. They spoiled me pro- digiously. I was not in love with any of them, in which perhaps I was wrong ; and though not deceived by these privileges conferred by the revolution, I found it very sweet to be Sultan, even ad ho7iores. On my return I indulged in the innocent pleasure of having a book printed, not published, magnificent in binding and engravings. I would offer you this rarity, but it is historic and pedantic, and so bristhng with Greek, Latin, and even Osque (do you know in the least what Osque is ?), as to be beyond your mark. Last summer, finding myself with money in my pocket, I roved between Malta. Athens, and Constantinople for five months, during which THE INCOGNITA SKETCHED. 2/ there were not five tedious minutes. I saw the Sultan in varnished boots and a black frock coat, afterwards, covered with diamonds, in the procession of Bairam ; on which occa- sion a very handsome dame, on whose slipper I trod inadvert- ently, gave me a tremendous blow with her fist, calling me a giaour., and this was my sole association with Turkish beauties. At Athens and in Asia I saw the finest monuments in the world, and the loveliest landscapes. The drawback consisted in fleas, and gnats the size of larks. With all this I have grown very old. My firman gives me turtle-dove hair, which is a pretty Oriental metaphor for expressing an ugly truth. Imagine your friend quite gray ! Your claim to rival Ionic and Corinthian capitals in my heart, made me laugh. In the first place, I like only the Doric, and there are no capitals, not even those of the Parthenon, which are worth to me the memory of a friendship. Paris, May., 1842. — If I must be frank, and you know that I cannot correct myself of this defect, I will confess that you struck me as much improved physically, not at all so morally ; that you have a very fine complexion, and beautiful hair which I looked at more than your cap, which probably was worthy of admiration, as you seem to be provoked that I did not appreciate it ; but I have never been able to distinguish lace from calico. You have still the figure of a sylph, and though rather blase as to black eyes, I never saw finer ones at Constantinople nor at Smyrna. Now for the reverse of the medal. You have continued a child in many things, and have acquired into the bargain a nice little dash of selfishness and hypocrisy, which may be service- able, only it is nothing of which one need boast. You do not know how to conceal your first impulses, but think to make amends by a host of puerile evasions. What do you gain by it ? Remember Jonathan Swift's fine maxim : A lie is too good a thing to be wasted. This magnanimous idea of being hard to yourself, will, assuredly, lead you very far, and a few years hence you will find yourself as happy as the Trappist, 28 LETTERS TO AN INCOG NITA. who, after having perseveringly scourged himself should one day discover that there is no Paradise. It is your Satanic pride that has hindered you from seeing me. You believe, at least, that you have pride, but it is only a petty vanity well worthy of a devotee. The fashion of the day tends to ser- mons — do you frequent them .'' This alone is lacking in you ! As respects myself, I am not more of a hypocrite, in which perhaps I am wrong : certain it is that I am not there- fore the better liked. Ah ! great news ! The first Academi- cian out of the forty who shall die will be the cause of my paying thirty-nine visits. I shall pay them as awkwardly as possible, and shall gain thirty-nine enemies. It would be tedious to explain to you this fit of ambition. Suffice it that the Academy is now my blue cachemire. Be happy, but re- member this maxim : Never to commit other follies than those agreeable to you. Perhaps you prefer M. de Talleyrand's apothegm, that one must guard against good impulses, because they a^e nearly always honest. Paris, June, 1842. — I have received your purse, which ex- hales a charmingly aristocratic perfume, and if embroidered by yourself does you honor ; in it also I recognize your recent taste for the positive. It would have been poetical to value it at one or two stars ; and I should prize it even more had you deigned to add to it some lines from your white hands. No, I will not accept your pheasants which you offer in a de- testable way, saying, moreover, disagreeable things about my Turkish sweetmeats. It is you who have the palate of a giaour in not appreciating the food of houris. Your con- science, I am sure, is often less lenient than I, whom you accuse of hardness and indifference. The hypocrisy that you now cleverly practice, merely as a game, will, in the end, play you a trick — that of becoming a reality. As to coquetry, the inseparable companion of the deplorable vice that you affect, you have long been duly convicted of it, and it became you when tempered by frankness, by heart and imagination. Is it your friendship that you designate as an essence f a word I FRENCH AND ITALIAN DEVOTION 29 like. Since all that you wish for comes to pass, I humbly pray you to intercede with destiny that I may be an Academician ; but the plague must supervene among these gentlemen to favor my chances, to improve which I must also borrow a little of your talent for hypocrisy. I am too old to reform, and in making the effort I should perhaps become even worse than I am. Formerly I had no high opinion of my precious self, but my self-esteem has increased, simply because the world has degenerated. I pass my evenings in re-reading my books which are being republished, and find myself very immoral and sometimes stupid. The question now is to diminish the immorality and stupidity with the least trouble ; but at the cost of blue devils to myself. Chalon-sur-Saone, June^ 1842. — Thanks for your prayers, if they are not a mere rhetorical figure. I am aware of your de- voutness, which is now the fashion, like blue cachemires. Our French devotion displeases me, being a species of shallow philosophy proceeding from the head and not the heart. When you have seen the Italians you will agree with me that their devotion is alone genuine : only one cannot have it at will, and one must be born beyond the Alps or Pyrenees to possess such faith. You cannot imagine the disgust with which our present society inspires me, and one would say that it had sought by every possible combination to augment the mass of ennui apparently necessary in the order of the world ; while in Italy everything tends to render existence easy and endurable. Avignon, July^ 1842. — Since you assume this tone ma foi, I yield. Give me brown bread, which is better than none at all, only permit me to say that it is brown, and write to me again. You see that I am humble and submissive. The figure of rhet- oric of which you believe yourself to be the inventor has been long in use, and might be clothed with an uncouth Greek name, but in French it is known under the less lofty term of lying. Make use of it with me as little as possible, and do 30 LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA. not lavish it on others : it must be kept for great occasions. Do not seek to find the world foolish and ridiculous ; it is only too much so in reality. It is better to cherish illusions, and I hold several which are perhaps rather transparent, but I exert myself to retain them. I am sorry that you read Homer in Pope, and recommend as preferable Dugas-Montbel's transla- tion, which is the only readable one. If you had the courage to brave ridicule and the time to spare, you would read Planchd's Greek Grammar a month to make you sleep, which would not fail of this effect ; at the end of two months you would amuse yourself by comparing M. Montbel's translation with the Greek ; and two months aftervyards you would easily perceive from the ambiguity of phrase, that the Greek has a meaning other than that given by the translator. At the end of a year you would read Homer as you do a melody and the accompaniment ; the melody being the Greek, the accompani- ment the translation. It is possible that this would incite the wish to study Greek in earnest ; but such assiduity is also to presuppose you with neither dresses to occupy you, nor people to whom they may be displayed. Everything in Homer is re- markable. His epithets, so seemingly strange in French, are singularly appropriate. I remember that he calls the sea " purple," and I never understood its apphcation until last year. I was in a little caique on the Gulf of Lepanto, going to Delphi. The sun was setting, and as it disappeared the sea wore for ten minutes a magnificent tint of dark violet — but this requires the air, the sea, the sun of Greece. I hope that you will never become sufficiently an artist to discover that Homer was a great painter. I hope that you find me this time passably resigned and decorous, Signora Fornarina / Faris, August, 1842. — I congratulate you on your Greek studies, and to begin with something that may interest you, will tell you the word by which in Greek persons possessing like yourself hair of which they are justly proud are described : efplokamos. Ef, much ; plokamos, curl. Homer, somewhere says : — A TETE-A-TETE. 3 1 " Nimfi efplokamou^a Cal5rpso." (Curly-tressed nymph Calypso.) I am sorry that you should set out so late in the season foi Italy, which you will see only through atrocious rains that ob- scure half the charm of the loveliest mountains in the world, and you will be obliged to accept on faith my eulogies on the exquisite skies of Naples. Moreover, you will have no good fruit, but in compensation, becajicos, so called because they live on grapes. While packing my trunk at Avignon, two venerable figures entered, announcing themselves as members of the Municipal Council. I supposed them emissaries from some church, when they informed me with much pomposity and prolixity that they wished to commend to my loyalty and virtue a lady about to travel with me. I rephed very crossly that I should be very loyal and virtuous but that I detested travelling with women, whose presence precluded smoking. The mail coach arrived, within which I found a large, handsome woman, simply and coquettishly attired, who declared herself to be always very ill in a carriage, and despaired of reaching Paris alive. Our tete- a-tete began, and I was as polite and amiable as I find it pos- sible to be while remaining in a cramped position. My com- panion talked well, without any Marseillaise accent, was an ardent Bonapartist, very enthusiastic, believed in the immor- tality of the soul, not too much in the Catechism, and saw things generally