THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 ^ 
 
AN AUTHOR'S LOVE 
 
AN AUTHOR'S LOVE 
 
 BEING THE UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF 
 PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE' 
 
 ilontfon 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1889 
 
 All rizhts reserved 
 
COPYRIGHT 1889 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE W. DILLAWAY 
 
 GIFT 
 
/ ^^9 
 
 PROSPER M^RIMJ^E AND THE 
 MNCONNUE' 
 
 A WRITER in the Quarterly Review for January 
 1874 says : "No literary event since the war 
 has excited anything Hke such a sensation in 
 Paris as the publication of the Lettres d une 
 Inconnue. Even politics 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 ' unknown ' could be. The state- 
 ment in the Revue des Deux Mondes that she 
 was an Englishwoman, moving in brilliant 
 society, was not supported by evidence ; and 
 M. Blanchard, the painter, from whom the 
 publisher received the manuscripts, died most 
 provokingly at the very commencement of the 
 inquiry, and made no sign. Some intimate 
 friends of M^rim^e, rendered incredulous by 
 wounded self-love at not having been admitted 
 to his confidence..JjMiii*d that there was no 
 
 iwS27286 
 
vi PROSPER M&RIM&E AND 
 
 secret to tell ; their hypothesis being that the 
 Iiiconnue was a myth, and the letters a romance, 
 with which some petty details of actual life had 
 been interwoven 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 evidence 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 \ ^"<^ she has been 
 confidently identified with a respectable single 
 lady residing in Paris, with two nieces, and a 
 character for pedantry fastened on her (perhaps 
 unjustly) on the strength of the Greek which 
 she learned from Merimee. 
 
 " The extraordinary amount of interest taken 
 in her is owing to something more than the 
 Parisian love of scandal, gossip, or mystery. 
 Prosper Merimee belonged to that brilliant 
 generation of which MM. Thiers and Guizot 
 are the last, and he will be remembered longer 
 than many of those by whom he was tempor- 
 arily outshone. His character was no less 
 remarkable than his genius, and the strangely- 
 contrasted qualities that formed it will be found 
 
THE ' INCONNUE' vii 
 
 almost as well worth studying as his works. 
 It was because he was an enigma when living 
 that people are so eager to know everything 
 concerning him when dead. Was his cynicism 
 real or affected ? Had he, or had he not, a 
 heart? Did he, or could he, love anything or 
 anybody at any time ? Was he a good or bad 
 man ? a happy or unhappy one ? These are 
 among the problems raised by the Letters^ 
 
 So much for the Quarterly Review. 
 
 In the Preface to the only existing English 
 translation of Prosper Merimee's Lettres a tme 
 Inconnue, published by Messrs. Scribner and Co. 
 in their Bric-a-Brac Series, and edited by Mr. 
 R. H. Stoddard, occurs this sentence : " The 
 mystery which surrounds these Letters to an 
 Incognita^ their freshness, their epigrammatic 
 brilliancy, their keen and flashing wit, the care- 
 less boldness with which they dash off the 
 portraits of the leading men and women of the 
 day, in English as well as in French society, 
 combine to draw attention first of all to them, 
 and they are therefore assigned the first place 
 in this volume." 
 
 Side by side with this testimony from both 
 an English and an American source to the 
 interest attaching to Merimee himself and to 
 his writings, particularly to the story of his love 
 and friendship for the mysterious Inconnuey 
 may be placed the following extracts from M. 
 Henri Taine's "acute and discriminating" study 
 
viii PROSPER MJ^RIMJ^E AND 
 
 of his character prefixed to the original edition 
 of the Lettres a une Inconnue : 
 
 " I have several times met Merimee in 
 society. He was a tall, erect, pale man, who, 
 save for his smile, had the coldly distant air of 
 an Englishman which checks beforehand all 
 familiarity. Only to look at him one felt that 
 he was either naturally or from force of habit 
 phlegmatic, and possessed of great self-control, 
 particularly in public, where his expression of 
 countenance was impassible. Even in private 
 life, when recounting some droll anecdote, his 
 voice would remain unbroken and perfectly 
 calm no snap or enthusiasm. He would 
 relate the raciest details in the most pertinent 
 terms, but with the tone of a man asking for a 
 cup of tea. Feeling with him was under such 
 self-control that he appeared almost to be 
 without any, whereas he possessed an unusual 
 amount, but it was like a thoroughbred under 
 the complete command of its master. The 
 training necessary to this result began with 
 Merimee at an early date. When only ten or 
 eleven years of age, having committed some 
 slight fault, he was severely scolded and sent 
 from the room. Weeping and sorely distressed, 
 he had just closed the door when he heard 
 laughter, and some one said, ' Poor child, he 
 believed us really angry ! ' He was indignant 
 at the idea of having been a dupe ; he vowed 
 never again to exhibit such humiliating sensi- 
 
THE * INCONNUE* IX 
 
 tiveness, and he kept his word. * Remember to 
 mistrust ' became his motto. To guard against 
 expansion, impulse, or enthusiasm ; never to 
 allow himself entirely full play ; reserving, as it 
 were, a portion of himself; to be the dupe 
 neither of others nor of himself; to act and 
 write as though perpetually in the presence of 
 an indifferent and mocking spectator, and to 
 constitute himself this spectator, these are the 
 characteristics which left their impress deeply 
 engraved upon every phase of his life, his work, 
 and his talent. 
 
 " Mdrimee existed as an amateur ; it is im- 
 possible for one to do otherwise if possessed of 
 a critical disposition ; by dint of reversing the 
 tapestry one finishes by habitually seeing the 
 wrong side, where, instead of fine personages 
 well grouped, there are only bits of thread. 
 
 " Early in life Merimee possessed a comfort- 
 able competency ; then a convenient and inter- 
 esting employment, the inspection of historical 
 monuments ; and later a place in the Senate 
 and a position at Court. He was competent, 
 active, and useful in respect to the monuments ; 
 as a senator he had the good sense to be, as 
 a rule, absent or silent ; whilst at Court he 
 retained his independence and frankness of 
 speech. To travel, study, and observe, to 
 minutely investigate men and things, this was 
 his occupation, with which his official duties in 
 no way interfered. A man of such wit as his 
 
X PROSPER MARIMAE and 
 
 necessarily makes himself respected, his irony 
 transpiercing those encased in the closest 
 armour. He was grave, dignified, and of irre- 
 proachable demeanour when he made an 
 academic visit or improvised a public discourse, 
 nevertheless with it all there was a dry touch 
 of humour which turned both orator and 
 audience into ridicule. As candidate for the 
 Academy of Inscriptions, he was taken to see 
 several learned men of most formidable aspect 
 Upon returning from these visits he wrote : 
 ' Have you ever seen dogs going into the hole 
 of a badger? After they have had some 
 experience, they object to the process, and 
 sometimes come out more quickly than they- 
 go in ; for he is not a pleasant brute to visit, 
 your badger. I always think of a badger when 
 I ring at the door of an academician, and in 
 the mind's eye I see myself in exactly the same 
 position as the dog. However, I have not yet 
 been bitten, although I have had some odd 
 encounters.' 
 
 " Two distinct beings existed in Merimee 
 the one acquitting himself with perfect correct- 
 ness in his necessary social duties ; the other 
 holding himself apart from or above the first, 
 watching his performances with a cynically- 
 amused or a resigned air. Equally was there 
 a dual spirit within him in regard to affection 
 or sentiment. The first, the natural disposition, 
 being good and even tender, with no superior 
 
THE INCONNUE' XI 
 
 in loyalty, no one more sure in friendship ; 
 when he had once given his hand he never 
 withdrew it. One sees this in a striking degree 
 in his defence of M. Libri against the judges 
 of the court and public opinion. It was the 
 action of a knight who alone combats an army. 
 Condemned to fine and imprisonment, he 
 assumed none of the airs of a martyr, but 
 showed as much grace in submitting to his ill 
 fortune as he had exhibited bravery in pro- 
 voking it. And he never spoke of it, save in a 
 Preface, and, in a manner, as an excuse, explain- 
 ing that in the preceding month of July he had 
 been obliged ' to pass a fortnight in a retreat 
 where he was in nowise inconvenienced by the 
 sun, and where he enjoyed profound leisure.' 
 Nothing more, but it was like the discreet and 
 fine smile of a gentleman. 
 
 " Merimee never spoke of his deepest feelings, 
 and in the Letters we have a correspondence 
 first of love, later of friendship, which lasted 
 through thirty years, yet the name of his cor- 
 respondent remains unknown. By those who 
 read these letters aright the man will be found 
 to be gracious, affectionate, delicate, an ardent 
 lover, and, incredible as it may seem, at times 
 a poet, moved to the point of being as super- 
 stitious as a lyrical German. This seems so 
 strange that one of his letters to the Inconnue 
 must be cited in explanation : ' You had been 
 so long without writing to me that I began to 
 
xii PROSPER M^RIM^E AND 
 
 be uneasy, beside which I was tormented with 
 an absurd idea of which I have not dared write 
 you. I was visiting the Arenas of Ntmes with 
 the architect of the department, when I saw ten 
 steps from me a charming bird, a little larger 
 than a titmouse, the body light gray, with wings 
 of red, black, and white. This bird was perched 
 on a cornice, and it looked at me fixedly. I 
 interrupted the architect to ask him its name. 
 He is a great sportsman, and he told me that 
 he had never seen any bird like it. I went 
 nearer, and the creature did not fly away until 
 I came close enough to touch it ; then it went 
 and perched at some little distance, still looking 
 at me. Wherever I went it seemed to follow 
 me, for I found it at each story of the amphi- 
 theatre. It had no companion, and its flight 
 was noiseless, like a night bird. The following 
 day I returned to the Arena, and I again saw 
 my bird. I had brought some bread, which I 
 threw to it, but it would not eat ; then I threw 
 it a large grasshopper, believing- from the form 
 of its beak that it would eat insects, but it 
 seemed that this was not the case. The most 
 learned ornithologist of the town told me that 
 no bird of this species existed in the country. 
 Finally, at the last visit that I made to the 
 place, there was my bird, still following my 
 steps, and actually accompanying me into a 
 dark narrow corridor, where he, a day bird, 
 ouo^ht never to have ventured. And then I 
 
THE ' INCONNUE' Xlll 
 
 remembered that the Duchess of Buckingham 
 had seen her husband under the form of a bird 
 the day of his assassination, and the idea came 
 to me that you were perhaps dead, and that 
 you had chosen this disguise in which to come 
 and see me. In spite of myself this betise 
 tormented me, and I assure you that it has 
 enchanted me to find that your letter bore the 
 date of the day when for the first time I saw 
 my marvellous bird.' 
 
 " This is how the heart and imagination work 
 even in a sceptic ; it is a betise, but none the 
 less true is it that he was on the threshold of the 
 dream, and entering on the broad road of love. 
 
 " But side by side with the lover existed the 
 critic, and the conflict between these two per- 
 sonages in the same man produced singular 
 effects. In the case of a lover it is perhaps 
 better not to see too clearly. * Do you know,' 
 said La Fontaine, ' however slightly I love, I no 
 more see the defects of the loved ones than 
 does a mole a hundred feet below the earth. 
 The moment* that I have a grain of love I do 
 not fail to mix with it all the incense in my 
 possession.' Perhaps this explains why he was 
 so amiable. In Merimee's letters harsh words 
 are mingled with the tender ones : ' I confess 
 that you appeared to me much improved 
 physically, but not at all morally ; you retain 
 the figure of a sylph, and notwithstanding that 
 I am blas^ on the subject of black eyes, I have 
 
xiv PROSPER M&RIM^E AND 
 
 never seen finer ones either at Constantinople 
 or Smyrna. But now for the reverse of the 
 medal. You have remained a child in many 
 things, and you have become in the very highest 
 degree a hypocrite. You believe that you have 
 great pride ; I am sorry to say it, but you 
 possess in reality only a small vanity not 
 unworthy a devote. Every one goes to hear 
 sermons at present ; do you ? This would be 
 the final touch.' After two months of tender- 
 ness, of quarrels, and reconciliations, he writes 
 as follows : * It seems to me that every day 
 you grow more egotistical. In the word " we " 
 you see only " you." The more I think of this, 
 the more sad it seems. We are so different 
 that we can hardly understand each other.' It 
 seems that he had met a character as restless, 
 as unyielding, and as independent as his own 
 a lioness though tame and he analyses it : 
 * It is a pity that we do not see each other the 
 day after a quarrel ; I am convinced that we 
 should be perfectly amiable one for the other. 
 Certainly my greatest enemy, or, if you will, 
 my rival in your heart, is your pride ; you revolt 
 against everything that irritates this pride ; you 
 follow your own idea even to the smallest 
 details. Is it not your pride that is satisfied 
 when I kiss your hand .^ . . .' After a worse 
 quarrel than usual he writes : * You are one of 
 these chilly women of the North, you live only 
 by the head. . . Adieu, since we can only 
 
THE ' INCONNUE' xv 
 
 love each other at a distance. When we are 
 both old perhaps we shall meet again with 
 pleasure.' And then at an affectionate word 
 from her he returns. But the opposition of 
 their characters is always the same throughout ; 
 he cannot stand it, that a woman will be a 
 woman : ' Why, after being for so long all that 
 we have been to each other, must you still 
 reflect for several days before answering the 
 most simple question ? I never know which 
 will win the day, your head or your heart ; you 
 do not know yourself, but you always give the 
 preference to your head.' 
 
 " All these quarrels finally end in a true and 
 lasting friendship, but do you not admire this 
 agreeable manner of love-making ? They met 
 at the Louvre, at Versailles, in the surrounding 
 forests ; took long clandestine tete-a-tete 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 a 
 charming toilette and a finished coquetry ; he 
 breathed the perfume of an education so choice 
 and of a nature so exquisitely refined that they 
 epitomised for him a complete civilisation ; 
 in short, he was under the spell. By turns, 
 however, the critic replaced the lover. He 
 unravelled the meaning of a reply, of a gesture ; 
 
xvi PROSPER MERIM&E AND 
 
 he detached himself from his love for the 
 woman in order to become the judge of her 
 character ; and he wrote her sharp truths and 
 epigrams, which she returned in full the follow- 
 ing day. 
 
 " Such was Mdrimde in his life, and such one 
 finds him in his books. He wrote and studied 
 as an amateur, passing from one subject to 
 another as the fancy or occasion prompted him, 
 without giving himself up to any one science 
 or any particular theory. This was not for 
 want of either application or ability ; on the 
 contrary, few men have possessed more varied 
 attainments. He possessed a natural talent for 
 languages, and was complete master of several ; 
 and to his knowledge of books he added ex- 
 tensive learning respecting monuments, under- 
 standing not only the effects, but also the 
 technicalities of architecture. Born of a family 
 of painters, he was accomplished as an artist in 
 water-colours ; and in this, as in all else that 
 he attempted, he went to the bottom of things, 
 having a horror of specious phrases, and writing 
 of no subject unless with certainty of detail. 
 He had travelled much, and carefully observed 
 the manners and customs of not only good 
 company but bad. With all these varied 
 acquirements, joined to such noble faculties, 
 Merimde might have ranked high both in 
 history and in art, but in the former his rank 
 is only an average one, and in the second 
 
THE " INCONNUE' xvil 
 
 limited. He was distrustful, and too much 
 distrust is hurtful. It seems that almost 
 always he wrote merely as the occasion 
 prompted, to occupy or amuse himself, without 
 submitting himself to any dominating idea, or 
 conceiving any great harmonious whole. In 
 this, as in all else, he became first disenchanted, 
 and finally disgusted. Scepticism produced 
 melancholy, and in this connection his corre- 
 spondence is sad. His health failed by degrees, 
 and he wintered regularly at Cannes, feeling 
 that life was slipping from him ; but he took 
 great care of himself, the instinct of self-preser- 
 vation being the one that remains with a man 
 to the end. When the railway brought him a 
 friend he revived, and his conversation was 
 again charming, as his letters were always, 
 nothing being able to impair his wit, which was 
 most exquisite and original. But he could not 
 command happiness ; he looked at the future 
 gloomily, and through fear of being deceived he 
 was distrustful in life, in love, in science, and 
 in art, and became himself the dupe of his 
 mistrust." 
 
 Such are a few of the extracts from M. 
 Taine's account of Prosper Merim^e ; but that, 
 in spite of all his doubts and cynicism, the man 
 was "capable of loving ardently," the famous 
 Letters to an Inconnue prove beyond a doubt ; 
 and they prove also that a warm love which 
 has at one time been more than mere Platonic 
 
xviii PROSPER M&RIM&E AND 
 
 affection can resolve itself into a friendship 
 faithful, tender, and loyal unto death. 
 
 One word more from the Quarterly Review. 
 The writer states that when Mdrimee " first 
 formed the acquaintance of his Inconnue he 
 was thirty-seven years of age, and a recognised 
 celebrity, if not quite in the fulness of his fame. 
 The precise date is fixed by a letter dated 
 Paris, February 1842, in which, apologising for 
 not sending her some Turkish slippers, he sends 
 a Turkish looking-glass instead : ' Perhaps you 
 will like it best ; for you strike me as having 
 become still more coquette than in the year of 
 grace 1840. It was in the month of December, 
 and you had on stockings of striped silk ; that 
 is all I remember.' 
 
 " The first of his letters, written in Paris and 
 received in England, begins with a reproach : 
 ' I received your letter in due time. Everything 
 about you is mysterious, and the same causes 
 make you act in a manner diametrically opposed 
 to that in which others would conduct them- 
 selves. You are going into the country, good ; 
 that is to say, you will have plenty of time to 
 write, because there the days are long, and the 
 want of something to do is conducive to the 
 writing of letters. At the same time the 
 vigilance and anxiety of your dragon being 
 less disturbed by the regular occupations of the 
 town, you will have to submit to more questions 
 when letters come for you. Moreover, in a 
 
THE INCONNUE Xix 
 
 country-house the arrival of a letter is an event. 
 Not at all, you cannot write, but on the other 
 hand you can receive no end of letters. I 
 begin to adapt myself to your ways, and I am 
 no longer surprised at anything. All the same, 
 pray spare me, and do not put to too severe a 
 proof this unfortunate habit I have acquired, I 
 do not know how, of approving of all that 
 you do. 
 
 " ' I have a remembrance of having been per- 
 haps a little too frank in my last letter, when 
 speaking to you of my character. Among my 
 friends there is an old diplomatist, a shrewd 
 man of the world, who has often said to me 
 " Never speak ill of yourself Your friends are 
 safe to do so for you." I begin to fear that 
 you may take literally all the evil that I have 
 said of myself. Understand that my great 
 virtue is modesty ; I carry it to excess, and I 
 tremble lest it may prejudice you against me.' " 
 
 The correspondence begins in this tone, but 
 all the letters of Merimee should be read in 
 order fully to appreciate the answers of the 
 Inconnue. 
 
I 
 
 London, Tuesday. 
 
 To-morrow I leave for the country, where I 
 shall have but little time to write ; on the other 
 hand, I shall hope and expect to receive no 
 end of letters from you. The " dragon " goes 
 with me. I am frantically busy, yet find time 
 to think of you. Is not that gentille ? You 
 know the address, so I shall look for a letter 
 from you almost immediately. Always most 
 sincerely. 
 
 II 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 Your diplomatic friend was not far wrong, 
 mon cher^ when he advised you never to speak 
 ill of yourself because your friends are safe to 
 do so for you. In the face of this sage counsel 
 why do you tell me of such a betise as your 
 opera supper and your ball to ballet dancers, 
 accentuating the dots over the i's by treating 
 me to a list of the virtues of those same frail 
 fair ones? So you think they compare well 
 with other women save in the one difference 
 
 5 B 
 
2 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ill 
 
 of poverty. Mes compliments upon your lady 
 acquaintances, kindly omit me from the list. 
 Really, the by/J y-ou rh^htipJ'^ as ; having hovered 
 over you at midnight on the platform of the 
 towers of Notr^ , Darne failed signally in im- 
 parting the smallest particle of his traditionary 
 wisdom to you, if you think to win my friend- 
 ship by these frank declarations of a taste I 
 find questionable. I am glad that you at least 
 own to the fact that those women are stupid. 
 You close your letter with asking me not to be 
 annoyed at the picture you draw of yourself, 
 but I am distinctly so. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The story you tell me of the young figurante 
 who played the parts of vultures, devils, and 
 monkeys, in order to support a dying mother, 
 and who lived a little saint the while in spite 
 of the temptations and surroundings of a theatre, 
 is a pretty one enough, and withal touching, but 
 it does not alter my opinion of women of her 
 class, as a class. And why, may I ask, do you 
 begin your letter by telling me that frankness 
 and truth are rarely good to employ towards 
 women, and in a few lines farther on, with more 
 frankness than politeness, ask me to tell you 
 whether the life this same little saintly figurante 
 leads (presumably when she is not personating 
 
rii PROSPER MRIME'S ' INCONNUE ' 3 
 
 monkey or devil) does not possess infinitely 
 more merit than my own ? Are you bent upon 
 making me seriously angry, and is this the style 
 in which you propose to carry on our corre- 
 spondence ? Do not, I implore you, provoke 
 me so often. Have I not told you that my 
 temper is not a good one? I think I must 
 have been born in an east wind, I am so 
 frightfully uncertain. Just how sorry I am for 
 your poor mother's illness, I can hardly find 
 words to say ; I know your tender love for her, 
 and can well understand how the anxiety of 
 the past week must have tried you. Thank 
 God that the danger is over. 
 
 Your postscript is most disappointing. Don't 
 tell me seriously that I am not after all to 
 have the aquarelle ; I have so set my heart upon 
 it. Of course I send you the tapestry all the 
 same, but that does not in the least prevent my 
 regretting the loss of my share of the compact. 
 Why not send the picture in any case, and let 
 me judge of its merit ? 
 
 You are right, very right, in suggesting as a 
 rule for general guidance " Never select a 
 woman for a confidante," false as I feel myself 
 to be towards my sex in so cordially agreeing 
 with you ; en revanche^ however, I cannot agree 
 with you when you assert that we are in this 
 world only to battle against our kind, to spend 
 our lives in a hand-to-hand fight with every- 
 thing and everybody. And I much doubt 
 
4 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE in 
 
 whether you believe it either ; your tone in 
 making the statement is weak, and you fall 
 back too quickly upon your friend and his 
 supporting Egyptian hieroglyphics. Havej^z/, 
 par exentphy found life all war, women all false ? 
 J' en doute. 
 
 One of my relations tells me that he has 
 heard much of you, and that you are not all 
 good, that your books, for instance, are decidedly 
 bad. Is this true ? Never try to deceive me. 
 I would rather have truth at any price, even 
 should it beggar my whole life until the end. 
 Do you, I wonder, understand me, or shall I 
 give you a little sketch of what I think I am 
 for your future guidance? Suppose I try. I 
 am very truthful, that first and foremost ; loyal 
 to a fault, with no half-hearted friendship de- 
 pending upon the varying opinions of others, 
 and changing with them. Not jealous, for I 
 have too proud a confidence where I love, and 
 were the confidence destroyed it would kill the 
 love. Between these two estates there is too 
 barren a soil for jealousy to grow in. You 
 will probably smile at this, and call it over- 
 boastful, or very crude. If so, do not tell me 
 that you have done so. Ah, there comes a 
 weak spot in the sketch the things I cannot 
 bear to hear. On second thoughts I will leave 
 the picture unfinished. 
 
IV PROSPER MArIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 5 
 
 IV 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 I am glad that you liked the portrait which 
 I drew of myself, and did not find it too flatter- 
 ing, but would it not be wiser to wait and see 
 it completed before pronouncing judgment ? 
 It is a heavenly day, so clear that God's own 
 truth seems to pierce the skies above, descending 
 in shafts of light and giving to mortals a clearer 
 insight into people and things around them, 
 hence my fear that your opinion of me may be 
 over-good. 
 
 Little can you imagine the storm of indig- 
 nation you aroused in me by your remark that 
 your feelings for me were those suitable for a 
 fourteen-year-old-niece. Merci. Anything less 
 like a respectable uncle than yourself I cannot 
 well imagine. The role would never suit you, 
 believe me, so do not try it. 
 
 Now in return for your story of the phleg- 
 matic musical animal who called forth such 
 stormy devotion in a female breast, and who, 
 himself cold and indifferent, was loved to the 
 extent of a watery grave being sought by his 
 innamorata as solace for his indifference, let me 
 ask the question why the women who torment 
 men with their uncertain tempers, drive them 
 wild with jealousy, laugh contemptuously at 
 their humble entreaties, and fling their money 
 to the winds, have twice the hold upon their 
 
6 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE V 
 
 affections that the patient, long-suffering, do- 
 mestic, frugal Griseldas have, whose existences 
 are one long penance of unsuccessful efforts to 
 please ? Answer this comprehensively, and you 
 will have solved a riddle which has puzzled 
 women since Eve asked questions in Paradise. 
 
 The subject interests me doubly at this 
 moment, for my love is promised ; I am engaged. 
 As an " uncle " you will, I hope, feel duly in- 
 terested in the news, perhaps, even spare time 
 from your many grown-up friends in Paris, 
 those who have passed the infantile age of 
 fourteen, and send me your good wishes. As 
 things now are perhaps it will be wiser not to 
 send the aquarelle. 
 
 V 
 
 15/// September. 
 
 Is it convenable to begin your letter as you 
 do, to address me as " Mariqtnta de mi Alma'' 
 just after I tell you that I am engaged, that I 
 have made my choice for life, that I have given 
 my love to some one else ? Why will you not 
 take me seriously ? I find the matter serious 
 enough, heaven knows ; in fact rather too solemn 
 to suit me. 
 
 Oh, why do you write as you do when you 
 must know that I am unhappy, wretched ? Yes, 
 I expect to be in Paris in October, but for many 
 reasons it will be better not to see you when 
 
V PROSPER M&RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 7 
 
 there. Go to your fat Flemish women ; their 
 only recommendation to me is that they are on 
 canvas, and not in the flesh ! Make no sacri- 
 fices for me by remaining in Paris instead of 
 going to Antwerp, it will be time doubly lost, 
 for you will lose the sight of your pictures and 
 not be blessed with a glimpse of me. I am 
 quite decided that it will be better not to meet. 
 But send me the aquarelle by all means. I have 
 changed my mind as to that, and can see no 
 good reason why I should not have it. So 
 you have decided that it is to be the monk 
 after all, not Valasque's infant Marguerite. In 
 what way did you spoil the copy of this latter ? 
 I am grasping, I should have liked both. 
 
 The idea of seeing you in October tempts 
 me strongly, but there are grave reasons why I 
 should not do so. No, my time then will all 
 be taken up in getting my trousseau ; you know 
 there is nothing on earth women love so much 
 as shopping. 
 
 How I wish this horrible rain would stop. 
 It is getting on my nerves, I seem to feel each 
 drop on my heart, and I am sure a deep in- 
 denture of some kind will be worn into that 
 sensitive organ. But rain indentures would at 
 least be clean, that is some comfort ; and they 
 cannot leave any ache behind them, poor little 
 harmless washed-out things. 
 
 I have a surprise in store for you, that is, 
 unless between now and October I do not 
 
8 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE V 
 
 change my mind and decide not to tell you of 
 it. You may judge from that last sentence 
 that I have changed my mind upon another 
 subject, and intend after all to see you ; but you 
 are mistaken, it was a mere slip of the pen. I 
 am convinced that it would be so infinitely 
 wiser for us not to meet. 
 
 It is Sunday, and the church bells at this 
 moment are ringing loudly, and horribly out of 
 tune. They too, like the rain, would get upon 
 my nerves if their hideous discord lasted much 
 longer. I will go to church, and see if the 
 services can exorcise the demon of unrest which 
 seems to possess me. Thank God mon fittur 
 is not here ; he left for London yesterday. But 
 I forget, you take no interest in him, in which 
 you are wrong, for he is a most estimable 
 young man. Would I marry him if he were 
 not? In no way can I agree with you that 
 the fact of being bound is of itself sufficient to 
 preclude the possibility of true love. The idea 
 is a horrible one, and if accepted would destroy 
 all the moral foundations of society. As to 
 your further suggestion that being bound to 
 some one else would almost inevitably have 
 the result of making me care for you, I treat 
 it with the scorn which it deserves. Adieu. 
 Enjoy Amsterdam ; worship at the shrine of 
 Rubens, and try in Antwerp Cathedral to gain 
 a few Christian ideas as well as suggestions of 
 colour and flesh tints. Your friend always. 
 
VI PROSPER M& RIM RE'S ' INCONNUE 
 
 VI 
 
 30/y^ September. 
 
 " Love excuses all, but we must be quite sure 
 that it is love." These words of your letter are, 
 I think, the saddest you ever wrote, the saddest 
 any one could write. What infinite possibili- 
 ties they suggest, what boundless sorrow, when 
 the awakening shall come and one discovers 
 the paltry imitations which one has mistaken 
 for the original, the base coin believed to be 
 sterling gold. How can one ever be sure of 
 finding real love when the devil himself has not 
 half the disguises love can assume at command, 
 and Satan's imagination, lively as it is, grows 
 absolutely uninventive in comparison with 
 Cupid's ? And yet, on the other hand, may not 
 too much caution lose one the best thing life 
 can give, leaving in exchange regret and re- 
 morse as one's twin companions to the 
 grave ? 
 
 Oh, how sad you have made me ! There is 
 not enough backbone, moral or physical, in my 
 whole nature to throw off the load of sadness 
 which you have with those few words laid 
 upon it. 
 
 You tell me that you too are triste, and 
 moreover ill, and that adds to my own depres- 
 sion. I am glad that we are returning to 
 London to-morrow ; any change is welcome to 
 me when one's mind is at a palsied standstill 
 
lo AN AUTHOR'S LOVE vi 
 
 such as mine has reached, even a fog instead 
 of sunshine, or muddy pavements in place of 
 grassy fields. 
 
 And so you have determined to stop on in 
 Paris in spite of my repeated assurances that I 
 will not meet you there. You say you will see 
 me, or not see me, as I may choose, but believe 
 me when I tell you I have already chosen, and 
 firmly decided, that it is best not to see you. 
 Why shall I not confess the truth once and for 
 ever? I am afraid of you. There, are you 
 satisfied ? Is your vanity preening its feathers 
 like a peacock in the sun ? Does a soothing 
 satisfaction flow through your veins and bring 
 a placid expression to your features ? All this 
 ought by rights to be the result of my candid 
 confession, and I make no doubt it is. Well, 
 much good may it do you. To me it proves the 
 fact that I am above all things magnanimous. 
 I return you good for evil, in giving you 
 pleasure in exchange for the unutterable sad- 
 ness which you have given to me. It grows 
 and deepens as I write, this dreary sadness, it 
 hurts me almost to tears. " Love excuses all, 
 but we must be quite sure that it is love." 
 Ah, how could you write such words, or how, 
 once written, could you have the heart to send 
 them to me, weighted as they are with the 
 demons of doubt and mistrust, with fear, sorrow, 
 unrest, agony, despair, temptation ! Ay, there 
 comes the sting, they tempt me. And you 
 
Yii PROSPER MiRIM^E'S ' INCONNUE' ii 
 
 send them to represent yourself, the tempter ! 
 How dare you ? 
 
 See you in Paris no, never. Promise me 
 to burn all the letters I have written to you, I 
 wish it. 
 
 I must make still another confession to you. 
 I have bearded the lion in his den, gone in 
 
 person to see M. V , and persuaded him 
 
 to write to you. It needed some courage to 
 do this, as you can imagine, but what I have 
 still to tell needs more. 
 
 But it is best to be frank about it and 
 confess the truth. I read the letter which he 
 entrusted me with for you. Are you very angry? 
 Do you find me beneath contempt, or will you 
 forgive me ? With this mortifying statement, 
 which conscience compels me to make, I think 
 I had better close. If you are unforgiving this 
 shall be my last letter. 
 
 If you like I will send you a " schizzo^ 
 
 VII 
 
 London, 3*^ October. 
 
 Your long silence had almost convinced me 
 that being unable to pardon my indiscretion 
 
 in reference to M. V 's letter, you had 
 
 determined to let my last epistle remain the 
 last, as I had hinted. Judge of my delight, 
 therefore, when this morning as I was going for 
 a melancholy walk in a still more melancholy 
 
12 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE Vli 
 
 drizzle, the postman and I met face to face 
 on the doorstep, and in a moment the dear 
 familiar handwriting greeted my eyes. With 
 what eagerness did I break the seal, tear open 
 the envelope, and seek the first words ; and 
 how thankful, how grateful, was I to your 
 forgiving heart in that you had made them 
 what they are. It shows how anxiously guilty 
 I had been, that the proportionate relief should 
 be so great. You say that you want ^^ un 
 ami fhnininr In consequence of the curious 
 construction of your language I cannot translate 
 that sentence into English, we having but one 
 gender for the word friend. I wonder the 
 French who are so clever in most things did 
 not manage a little more cleverly in this. Is 
 it not awkward sometimes to speak of "//;/^ 
 aniie " when from obvious reasons " tin ami " 
 would suit one's purpose infinitely better ? 
 " Un ami feminin" although rather a contradic- 
 tion of terms, has the merit of originality, and 
 I adore originality. Further, I am immensely 
 flattered that you think I could fill this want 
 and become this original sexless thing. Done, 
 I accept. I will be your ^^ ami feminin!' The 
 position solves so many difficulties, and you 
 promise so energetically never to fall in love 
 with me, that there can be no danger. I 
 believe you would make a friend worth having, 
 that you would be loyal as you are noble, and, 
 best of all, be uninfluenced by others. It will 
 
Yii PROSPER MARIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 13 
 
 be good to have such a friend, and I promise 
 to be faithful in return. How a few words 
 can change the face of nature. Since reading 
 your letter the melancholy mist itself seems 
 almost cheerful, so much sunshine is in my 
 heart I do not feel the want of it in the 
 outside world. I walked through the damp 
 streets feeling so light and springy that it was 
 with difficulty I kept my feet upon the ground. 
 (Will that sentence convey the slightest idea 
 to your mind of what I really mean ?) The 
 two or three friends I met must have thought 
 me rather mad, for I answered their questions at 
 random, thinking the while of your proposition, 
 ^^ tin ami femininr I to be that to you I It 
 means so much I wonder if to you it means 
 just the same that I imagine it to be? We 
 must talk it over, for now I think we might 
 meet. I really think so ; there would be no 
 danger. With your absurd reasons for the 
 fact that it would be impossible for me to fall 
 in love with you I do not agree at all, they 
 are unworthy of you, and I shall not discuss 
 them. Why do you so malign yourself? I 
 being your friend now can ask such questions. 
 I like it, this appointment of " ami f^minin " ; 
 nothing has ever happened to me in my life 
 which has pleased me more, perhaps not so much. 
 Any woman can be a wife, or tme maitresse, 
 according to her views upon such subjects, but 
 so few can be a true friend. Will you think 
 
14 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE viri 
 
 me boastful if I say that I believe I possess 
 many of the qualities which go to make a 
 real friend ? Not the weak, pulseless, forceless 
 thing which so often usurps the name, but an 
 honest, loyal, helpful soul, that lives and feels 
 and suffers and dares, yet does not change ; 
 steadfast amid good report and evil report ; 
 true in word and in deed ; tender in weakness, 
 and generous in pain. Tell me, is my idea 
 yours ? 
 
 Yes, I pity you (as your friend) for the 
 milk raisons which you tell me make you sad. 
 Let me share them with you, and divide their 
 heavy weight. What is a friend good for 
 unless for this ? Voire ami f^minin. 
 
 P.S. Do you know I have been quite ill ? 
 
 VIII 
 
 Friday. 
 
 Amigo de mi Alma Your last letter ought 
 by rights to have made me very angry, for in 
 it you take not the slightest notice of my 
 consent to become your friend ; you tell me as 
 though it were something new to you that 
 
 Lady M has told you of my approaching 
 
 marriage, say that in consequence of this you 
 will burn my letters, ask me to do the same 
 with yours, and bid me an eternal adieu. Of 
 what can you be thinking? Did I not tell 
 you frankly of my engagement, and was it not 
 
VIII rROSPER MARIMRE'S " INCONNUE' 15 
 
 after that announcement that I promised to be 
 your friend ? Have you never received that 
 letter, and is that perhaps the explanation of 
 the curiously abrupt reticent production which 
 has just been handed to me purporting to be 
 from you ? I confess to being sorely puzzled. 
 The " schizzo " is ready, and I would forward 
 
 it to Pall Mall, to M. V 's care, only I 
 
 much fear that curiosity may tempt him to 
 examine it, which I should not like. Advise 
 me what to do about it. I will at once send 
 to him for the picture you mention. 
 
 Do you know, I pity you, for your letter 
 leads me to believe that you are either suffering 
 and ill, or else diabolically cross. Either state 
 is bad enough for the person most concerned, 
 but I think the latter is worse in its conse- 
 quences to others. And I pity myself, for you 
 have made me cross, and worst of all do I pity 
 the unfortunate man who is to marry me. 
 Dieul his lot will, I much fear, not be an 
 enviable one. Women of my nature ought not 
 to marry; it is a mistake. I wonder why I 
 do it? 
 
 I had meant not to allude to the ridiculous 
 story of a diamond, the " false stone " with 
 which you fill your letter. No more than 
 yourself do I understand why you should take 
 the trouble of telling me this story, nor why 
 you should go out of your way to veil the 
 identity of a woman (for of course the " false 
 
(6 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE x 
 
 diamond " was a woman) under such a trans- 
 parent allegory. One thing which you tell me 
 I can quite believe, namely, that the figure of 
 rhetoric, called irony, is entirely under your 
 control. I beg that you will never try its 
 effect upon me. Why should we quarrel as we 
 do ? Treve d'hostiliUs, let us be really friends, 
 it is much simpler, so restful where everything 
 seems uncertain. Do you remember once 
 asking me a question to which I would give 
 no answer? Well, let it remain unanswered, 
 ^jiais MariQUITA. 
 
 IX 
 
 London, Thursday. 
 
 Impossible to write anything worth reading 
 to-day, for I am ill, and in consequence blue 
 devils are rampant. I think it is partly this 
 suicidal fog which has upset me ; certainly this 
 is not a cheery place in November. - I am 
 going to have my portrait painted for you, and 
 will not forget your suggestion that when it is 
 being done I shall think of you as Amigo de 
 mi Alma, 
 
 X 
 
 <^th November. 
 
 Yes, I am much better ; many thanks for 
 your sympathy. You say that I have no heart ; 
 mafoi^ I believe you are about right ! I begin 
 
XI PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 17 
 
 to believe also that one gets along tolerably 
 well with whatever may take the place of that 
 portion of one's being when the rightful tenant 
 vacates. You see, mon beau moquer^ your teach- 
 ings are not all thrown away upon me. I do 
 retain a little of the much wisdom lying in your 
 cynical reflections, and in course of time you 
 may actually be proud of your pupil. 
 
 My portrait is not bad, now that it is finished. 
 
 Shall I send it to you care of M. V , or 
 
 forward it direct to Paris ? 
 
 Why will you harp on the story of your 
 diamond ? What do I care whether she be 
 false or true ! Pour a little acid over her and 
 find out ; if she stands the test, good ; if not, 
 and she should shrivel up and disappear, why, 
 better still. You see she bores me. Adieu. 
 
 XI 
 
 November. 
 
 Are you equal to a long long letter from me 
 to-day, dear friend ; shall you be able to stand 
 pages of all sorts of fears and imaginings, a 
 full soul-communion of my heart with yours ? 
 I acknowledge the justice of your reproaches, 
 and feel that my letters lately have been short 
 and doubtless unsatisfactory. You accuse me 
 of being unable to say, '' fai tort" but there 
 you are wrong. Not only can I confess frankly 
 that I am mistaken, but I can add the words 
 C 
 
i8 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xi 
 
 which to many people are harder still to say 
 I am sorry. I would not give much for either 
 a man or woman who could not, for there 
 would unquestionably be something very wrong 
 about them. There is a good deal of common 
 sense in some of the old saws, such as, " Honest 
 confession is good for the soul," and " Peccato 
 confessato e mezzo perdo7tato" and half a dozen 
 more in as many different languages. There 
 is something very real and soothing in that odd 
 warm glow which comes to one's heart in gentle 
 swelling waves of feeling after the fault has 
 been confessed, or the misunderstanding cleared 
 away, and the kiss of perfect pardon and glad 
 comprehensiveness has consecrated and sealed 
 anew the friendship or the love. He who has 
 never felt this weight of doubt or vexation lifted, 
 and the warm trustful belief born again all fresh 
 and holy, has missed one of the purest joys to 
 be tasted upon earth. I pity those who can- 
 not say frankly and freely " I am sorry," for 
 the three small words possess a mighty magic 
 for softening angry suspicion, and healing sore 
 and wounded feelings where grander phrases 
 would be powerless. But why should all natures 
 be alike? It would make the old saws useless 
 if they were, and deprive us of one of the truest 
 of them all, " Variety is the spice of life." 
 How terribly monotonous it would be if all the 
 flowers were roses, every woman a queen, and 
 each man a philosopher. My private opinion 
 
XI PROSPER MJ&RIM^E'S 'iNCONNUE ' 19 
 
 is that it takes at least six men such as one 
 meets every day to make one really valuable 
 one. I like so many men for one particular 
 quality which they may possess, and so few 
 men for all. Comprenez-vous ? Shall I ever 
 understand all your characteristics, I wonder, 
 for that you are a being of many different 
 phases, more, far more, than are given unto the 
 majority of mortals, I am convinced even by 
 our short acquaintance. One of my male 
 friends I like because he brings me bonbons^ 
 always doing so at the precise moment when 
 my inner man craves that particular form of 
 sustenance ; another helps to illuminate the 
 groping darkness of my mind as to a future 
 state, his strong faith giving me a strength 
 which I would not barter for untold sums of 
 gold ; yet another wholly disapproves of me, 
 but the forceful almost brutal way in which he 
 tells me home truths and exposes all my 
 personal idiosyncrasies, affects me like a bracing 
 tonic which I would not be without. And yet 
 again there is one who finds me perfect, and 
 so cunningly does he word his creed of my 
 perfections that it penetrates my heart with 
 sweet conviction, while my spirit acknowledges 
 the profoundness of his discrimination in almost 
 grovelling gratitude ; one I am persuaded can- 
 not possess a teaspoonful of brains in the whole 
 space of his cranium, but he whistles divinely, 
 and in certain moods he stands the favourite. 
 
20 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xi 
 
 And SO on through them all, yet not one of the 
 long list knows how to love me as I would be 
 loved, not one has been able to call forth love as 
 love should be, from my capricious heart. Is 
 that perchance the role fate destines you to play, 
 my unknown, mysterious friend ? Nous verrons. 
 
 My God, I am engaged ! Both the fact and 
 its corresponding man had entirely escaped 
 my memory. 
 
 You will call me flippant, if this letter reaches 
 you when in a serious mood ; or dull, should it 
 find you bored with life. Is it not a trifle 
 dangerous, this experiment we are trying of a 
 friendship in pen and ink and paper ? A letter. 
 What thing on earth more dangerous to confide 
 in ? Written at blood heat, it may reach its 
 destination when the recipient's mental ther- 
 mometer counts zero, and the burning words 
 and thrilling sentences may turn to ice and be 
 congealed as they are read. Or, penned in 
 irritation and anger, they may turn a melting 
 mood to gall, and raise evil spirits which all 
 future efforts may be powerless to exorcise. 
 Ten thousand devilries may lie unsuspected 
 among the hastily-scribbled words or carefully- 
 thought-out phrases, destined to play unutterable 
 havoc when the seal shall be broken and the 
 contents disclosed. A letter ; the most uncer- 
 tain thing in a world of uncertainties, the best 
 or the worst thing devised by mortals. Were 
 I beside you and said a stupid thing, the 
 
XI PROSPER M^RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 21 
 
 quick contraction of your forehead would warn 
 me of my blunder ; or if the thought were good 
 and you should find it worthy, how soon the 
 sudden light in your eyes or the amused line 
 about your mouth would make me know your 
 thoughts. I can hear your answer to this 
 suggestive sentence. You will say at once, 
 "Then meet me. Think no more of these 
 absurd reasons which you cannot even explain, 
 but which you persist in regarding as insur- 
 mountable," and so on, until you make yourself 
 a^^gi'yj and me remorseful. Alas, it is not 
 possible ; circumstances are too strong for me, 
 and it is not wholly want of courage on my 
 part, as you seem to think. If it ever is, this 
 much-talked-of meeting, it will be your talisman 
 on the ''peleton de fil " which brings it about, 
 not Mariquita. 
 
 P.S, Remember that in the fairy tale of 
 Prince Ahmed the clue of thread was to roll till 
 it reached the gates of the castle ; when it stopped 
 four lions were to be seen, awake and roaring, 
 but a bribe of food thrown to them rendered 
 them safe to pass! 
 
 XII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
22 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xiiia 
 
 XIII 
 
 London, 12M December. 
 You are really here, actually in London ! Is 
 the same sunless sky above your head and mine, 
 the same triste atmosphere around us both ? 
 Ah, was it wise to come? ^^Lhomme propose^ 
 Dieu disposer At any time after five o'clock 
 you will find me. 
 
 XIIlA 
 
 London, lyth December 1840. 
 There are some happinesses so great Satan 
 cannot pardon them, and they do not come 
 from God. They are the origin of all the 
 tortures and scourgings which have been dealt 
 to human souls since the world began, or since 
 penitence existed. My scourging has com- 
 menced in the misery of your absence ; will it 
 end there ? Words cannot say how I miss you 
 and miss the delight of being with you. I am 
 nervous, overwrought, defiant, reckless, in a 
 word, just in that tragic state of mind when 
 the very last thing I should do is what I am 
 doing, putting my tumultuous thoughts on 
 paper. A faint glimmer of reason tells me 
 this, but is not sufficiently strong to restrain 
 me from the folly. Do not answer me in the 
 same tone, do not take me au s&ieiix, do 
 
XIV PROSPER M&RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE' 23 
 
 not mention my engagement, which I have 
 broken perhaps the one act of my Hfe which 
 deserves commendation. Write me one of your 
 airy unserious letters, with no deep meaning to 
 it, Hke a cool fresh hand laid lightly on a burn- 
 ing head tormented with sick fancies and evil 
 dreams. Not too dear a hand, which would 
 thrill one with its touch, or distress one lest its 
 owner should tire in the act of standing by the 
 couch and ministering to the pain, but one that 
 is only kind and compassionate, belonging to a 
 good dear soul who would not have you turn 
 and thank him, or bid him rest, only wishing 
 you to sleep and forget. Ay, forget. Memory 
 is counted a good thing to possess, but is not 
 forgetting a far higher art, a vastly better thing ? 
 Yet not for all the world could give would I 
 forget the bliss unspeakable of the days just 
 past. Write to me, as I have said, lightly, 
 taking no heed of my tragic gloominess. My 
 head aches, I long for the cool compassionate 
 hand. A toi toujoicrs. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Chateau Beaus^jour, 
 Ydth February 1842. 
 
 Shall you be glad to hear from me again, 
 cher ami ? I answer the question for myself, 
 and write. As you will see by the heading of 
 
24 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE XT 
 
 my letter, I am with our kind old friend 
 
 Madame de C , but in a day or two I go 
 
 to England for a short visit, after which my 
 plans are uncertain. You promised me once 
 some souvenirs of your Eastern travels (not the 
 Turkish slippers ; those I still refuse) ; send them 
 to me here, before I leave. From England I 
 will send you a " protocol " in some measure 
 outlining our future relations ; do you not find 
 the idea a rather wise one ? I am well, and 
 very happy at the prospect of hearing from you 
 again, perhaps seeing you, of that anon. When 
 
 in England I go direct to Castle D , Lord 
 
 D 's place in Surrey, which they tell me is one 
 
 of those houses best worth seeing in the country. 
 I will give you no news of myself until I hear 
 from you, and although your letter will, I hope, 
 reach me here, I shall not answer it until I 
 
 reach D . Madame de C begs me to 
 
 send mille amities de sapart. Shall I sign myself 
 
 Mariquita ? 
 
 XV 
 
 D Castle, Surrey, 
 
 March 1842. 
 
 Where have I read that the gift of a mirror 
 is either the most delicate compliment or the 
 most deliberate insult? With what you will 
 probably be pleased to term my " infernal 
 coquetry," I choose to flatter myself that the 
 
XV PROSPER M&RIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 25 
 
 lovely thing you call ^^ un miroir Ttcrc^'' and 
 which came to me quite safely before I left the 
 Chateau Beausejour, is meant as the former. 
 Thank you so much ; it is a million times better 
 than the slippers. When you mentioned com- 
 fitures of rose, bergamot, and jasmine, it sounded 
 more like food for angels than for mortals 
 cursed with digestions, but oh, the sticky sweet- 
 ness of the dreadful things, how can you like 
 them ? Frankly, they are not to my taste. 
 One jar I gave, as you told me, to Madame de 
 
 C , and she said far more amiable things 
 
 about it than I possibly can, if I am to retain 
 any regard for veracity. But thank you again 
 so much for the mirror. 
 
 A curious thing has happened to me. An 
 old gentleman and not so very old either 
 who knew me from babyhood died suddenly, 
 and left me all his fortune. Why, he alone 
 knew, and as he has taken the knowledge with 
 him to that place from which no traveller 
 returns, small chance exists of any one else 
 ever being enlightened as to his motives. I 
 can hardly understand my new estate as yet, 
 and strangely enough do not feel tempted to 
 spend a penny of my unaccustomed wealth. 
 I should have thought that any one blessed 
 with the extravagant tastes which I possess, 
 after having had them repressed all through 
 life, would rush into wild expenditure, buy 
 everything, and throw money away senselessly, 
 
26 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xv 
 
 but this absence of all desire to spend anything, 
 in me of all living people, is incomprehensible. 
 I suppose it is the first strangeness of knowing 
 that I could be lavish if I would. I think I 
 should like to travel, I have seen so few places 
 or things, and the world contains so many. 
 Write me a long account of your journeyings, 
 and tell me what is best worth the time spent 
 upon it. I have a fancy to go to different 
 countries, not as a mere tourist, to ''do the 
 sights " in as short a time as possible, but to 
 settle for some length of time in some one 
 attractive spot, to study the languages in the 
 countries they severally belong to, and study 
 the people, their ways and national character- 
 istics, at the same time. What think you of 
 my idea ? I feared that my last letter would 
 anger you, and was not therefore astonished at 
 your not answering it. The protocol I felt 
 sure you would disapprove of; all the same, I 
 think that I did right in sending it.^ See how 
 forgiving I am for your total disregard of it, I 
 write humbly asking your advice as to the dis- 
 position of myself and my new importance in 
 the coming years, answer me nicely, and send 
 me that little history of yourself and your 
 journeyings. 
 
 This old castle of Lord D is delicious ; 
 
 how I wish you could enjoy it with me. It is 
 
 positively steeped and saturated in memories, 
 
 1 The letter referred to is evidently lost. 
 
XVI PROSPER M^RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 27 
 
 the walls have grown gray with all that they 
 have seen and heard, the very stones seem 
 mellow with the patience and humbleness which 
 hoary old Time alone can bring. So much has 
 happened here, so many great ones of the earth 
 have lived and died in these wide wainscoted 
 rooms and shadowy corridors and noble halls, 
 that I wonder visible palpable spirits do not 
 meet one at every turn. I almost wish they 
 did, and that they would stop and tell us of 
 the buried past, and whether it is true that they 
 think the present is puny and bloodless, the life 
 of to-day a mere faint copying of the good old 
 times so stirring and bold. 
 
 To-morrow I return to London, but only for 
 a day or two. Write to me there as soon as 
 you receive this, if you are not still ill-tempered. 
 Adieu. Je vous aime. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Paris, nth March 1842. 
 I left London suddenly, and have been here 
 for the past three days, but purposely have not 
 let you know. To-night I leave Paris for Italy 
 
 with Madame C . Your charming letter 
 
 reached me just before I left London, and the 
 account of your travels makes me long still 
 more to see foreign lands, therefore I go. You 
 ask me if I have changed, and add that you are 
 
28 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xvii 
 
 impatiently waiting for me to become " moins 
 jolie^^ before again meeting me. To punish 
 you for this wicked wish I will tell you that I 
 am not " moins j'olie " than when you saw me 
 last. My mirror, your delightful Turkish one, 
 tells me decidedly a flattering tale which I 
 should not have mentioned to you but for this 
 unholy wish of yours. I believe I could rival 
 your beauty of Saragosa should we meet. As 
 a small souvenir I send you a purse, but feel 
 obliged to confess that I did not embroider it 
 myself. Au revoir. 
 
 XVII 
 
 Wednesday^ April iZ ^2. 
 You actually saw me when I was in Paris 
 and yet did not speak to me ! How can you 
 own to such a baseness ? It is just as well that 
 you add the statement that the feeling which 
 prevented you from doing so was " mesquin" It 
 may have been my " satanic pride," as you 
 forcibly put it, which made me pass through 
 without telling you, but pray what term would 
 you apply to your own conduct in seeing me, 
 half coming to speak to me, and then letting 
 me go my way in silence whilst silently going 
 yours ? Do not write to me of egotism and 
 hypocrisy if calmly and in cold blood you did 
 this thing. Must we always quarrel ? No, 
 
XVII mOSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 29 
 
 you have not the right to scold me, as in a 
 little spasm of repentance later on in your 
 letter you wisely mention. If you could but 
 know all ! I had no time before leaving Paris 
 to let you know at what date we expect to be 
 
 in Naples. Madame de C is an uncertain 
 
 mortal like myself, therefore our united plans 
 are doubly uncertain. I will ask her if she 
 remembers the occasion you mention, but that 
 you upon any occasion ever played the role of 
 " niais " I cannot believe. I am half sorry now 
 that I did not let you know I was in Paris. 
 It being morally impossible to go back to that 
 time and to decide anew and differently, I 
 can say this without consequences. But only 
 in speech can I tell you of my experiences of 
 the last two years, not on paper. The phases 
 of wifehood and widowhood safely passed, the 
 change in the woman's " legal status " which 
 long ago you told me invariably affected her 
 for the worse. Will you find it so, I wonder, 
 in my case ? Eh bien, we have not met, the 
 tale is not yet told, and as yet you can know 
 nothing. I half long, half dread, to meet you, 
 so great is the gulf that has opened and 
 widened and closed between us since those 
 sunless golden December days in London. 
 
30 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Perhaps I have remained childish in many 
 things, and very glad am I if because of this 
 fact I can be childishly delighted at your 
 saying that my eyes please you, that they even 
 compare favourably with those of the beauties 
 of Constantinople and Smyrna, to whom you 
 have doubtless said so many more amiable 
 things than you say to me. Why waste your 
 time in repeating so often that I am a 
 hypocrite? In your heart of hearts you know 
 the statement is cruelly untrue, yet in the face 
 of this you quote my own language to me in 
 Jonathan Swift's immoral maxim "A lie is 
 too good a thing to be wasted " thinking by 
 it to convince me of the care with which you 
 employ a lie. I send you an essence ; translate 
 the word into its real meaning and cease 
 reproaching me because I am trying to do 
 what I believe to be right. 
 
 (The remainder of this letter is missing.) 
 
 XIX 
 
 (Missing) 
 
XX PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 
 
 XX 
 
 D , lothjuly 1842. 
 
 While you are amusing yourself at Avignon 
 I am leading the quietest and most studious 
 life possible in this tiny Swiss village lost 
 among mountains and lakes, where I walk 
 and row and swim for exercise, lest too much 
 learning should drive me mad. I am trying 
 to master Greek, and am at the same time 
 reading Pope's translation of Homer. In time, 
 if the quiet of my present life continues, I may 
 accomplish something. You give me no definite 
 news about your chance for becoming one of 
 the immortals. It is the only kind of immor- 
 tality I wish for you just yet. To see you an 
 Academician would give me immense pleasure 
 and pride, to lose you from this life would, I 
 think, kill me, or, worse than that, leave me to 
 live with life's light extinguished. I felt sure 
 that you would read my expression aright, and 
 knew that by " essence " I meant friendship. 
 But here, in this quiet spot so far removed 
 from the falseness of the world, so near to 
 God's heaven where truth shines in the blue 
 of the sky above and is reflected in the crystal 
 waters below, touching the white mountain-tops 
 as they reach far beyond the delusions of earth, 
 here with the very air breathing truth in its 
 pure freshness untainted by contact with earth 
 
32 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE xxi 
 
 or things earthy, some inward force stronger 
 than myself compels me to write that which 
 I know will make you angry, and you will 
 answer with scornful cynical words, which will 
 cut and hurt me. Yet even knowing this, 
 perhaps because of knowing it, the truth around 
 me in sky and air and crystal water forces me 
 to speak. It is not only friendship that I feel, 
 but love so strong that every good resolution 
 I have made snaps like glass in frosty weather. 
 Therefore I see but one way to end the 
 struggle half measures are useless, I must 
 break off everything. If I write to you, I say 
 what I have promised myself not even to 
 think ; if I see you, it is worse still. You have 
 told me your story of the pain blanc and the 
 pain bis at the very moment when it does me 
 good in helping me to see things clearly, not 
 exactly the effect you intended it to have 
 perhaps, but the one which of itself it has had. 
 We must meet no more, and I must write to 
 you no more. Nothing is left me to give you 
 save my prayers, and for all good and for 
 every blessing these shall be yours. Adieu. 
 
 XXI 
 
 D , i<^th July 1842. 
 
 I give it up you are incorrigible you are 
 past praying for ! Let us be friends again as 
 
XXII PROSPER ME RIMER'S ' INCONNUE ' 33 
 
 before. Our journey to Italy must be much 
 later than I hoped ; en attendant I daily go 
 deeper into Greek, and am becoming much 
 interested in it. I send this to Paris, as 
 it is, I fancy, too late now to catch you at 
 Avignon. 
 
 XXII 
 
 D , ^th September 1842. 
 
 Qnel conte de f^es is this you tell me a propos 
 of a mysterious female travelling alone with 
 you for upwards of some fifty hours or so? 
 Are you emulating the pious and most moral 
 Dean Swift in your old age, and shall you 
 write a history of still another "sentimental 
 journey" ? I can only trust that a kind 
 Providence will protect you as it did him, and 
 that with him you will be able devoutly to 
 exclaim, your eyes raised to heaven and 
 gratitude filling your heart the while, '* God 
 tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." Shall 
 you take this aventure de voyage as the 
 foundation for that new moral novel of which 
 you spoke to me in your last letter? I send 
 you a scrap of my Greek writing, let me know 
 if you can decipher it. Mille amities. 
 
34 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE xxiii 
 
 XXIII 
 
 D , \2th October. 
 
 We are just leaving this quiet spot where I 
 have passed through several phases of feeling 
 in regard to you. 
 
 The time spent here has been one of those 
 pauses in life which are, I think, given to 
 mortals for a purpose. One of those intervals 
 where, if they will but face the music and 
 answer honestly the questions conscience puts 
 to them, those answers must of necessity prove 
 how they have used the limitless freedom 
 granted them as individual free agents. The 
 choice between good and evil which, when 
 closely looked into, assumes an appalling re- 
 sponsibility, has been their own willing choice, 
 and nothing further is left for them to do but 
 manfully abide the issue. The only trouble is, 
 that if the pause be too long and the examina- 
 tion prove unsatisfactory, a restlessness follows, 
 and, like the possessed one in the parable, " The 
 last state of that man is worse than the first." 
 Self- introspection may be useful at times, 
 doubtless it is so, but I hold strongly to the 
 belief that in no case can fruitless looking back 
 be of any avail. No regret or remorse can 
 undo the past ; the record of each act is written 
 and sealed and closed for ever. Why waste the 
 strength of the present in useless repinings, in 
 
XXV PROSPER M^ RIMER'S ' INCONNUE ' 35 
 
 utterly futile wishes for the " might have been " ? 
 The second stage of the pause has come to me, 
 and an intolerable restlessness possesses me. 
 To-morrow we leave the mountains and this 
 chilly clarified air of crystal truth, betaking 
 ourselves we do not quite know where, perhaps 
 Italy, perhaps Paris. 
 
 Are there any good Greek novels to be had ? 
 You once suggested that I would end by be- 
 coming an author, but have no fear. I may 
 have committed many follies, and may commit 
 still more before the time allotted me for follies 
 has gone to swell the roll of years, but that 
 weakest of all weaknesses, that crowning folly 
 of follies, writing a book, can at least never be 
 laid to the door of Voire amie devou^e. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Paris, Wednesday^ October 1842. 
 I am here, but contrary to your expectation ; 
 you see I tell you of the fact. My cousin, 
 
 Madame G and my brother are both with 
 
 me. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 Your note has just come. Enchanted to 
 accept your loge at the Italian's to-night. My 
 brother will accompany me. Mariquita. 
 
36 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Sunday Evenings October 1842. 
 
 "A Roland for your Oliver." You told me 
 once of a dream that you had had ; of a garden 
 in Valencia, where I was with you, and where 
 you spoke a language which in your waking 
 hours you do not understand, and attempted 
 to do a deed which in reality would be impos- 
 sible to you, namely, to crush to death a woman 
 (your false diamond) with a heavy stone from 
 the wall above. Now hear my dream, which 
 made last night one long hour of bewildered 
 misery to me. As in yours, we two were alone 
 together in some strange country, unlike any 
 I have ever seen, with wide, far-reaching deserts 
 all around us, rippling with fine golden sand, 
 hot and glinting in the sun. The sky was of 
 a blue which seemed to live, so fervid was it, 
 so penetrating in the warmth, and depth, and 
 richness of its colour, while not a cloud broke 
 the evenness of its sapphire surface. No trees 
 were there of any kind save only one, but that 
 one so perfect in its slender symmetry, so 
 delicate in the tender tinting of its drooping 
 feathery branches, each one a wide long leaf 
 divided into thin pointed smaller leaves, the 
 whole a thing of such exquisite and matchless 
 beauty that I knew I stood beneath an Eastern 
 palm. The still loveliness of the scene was 
 
XXVI PROSPER MArIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 37 
 
 marred only by one unsightly object, but that 
 a ghastly one. Bleached and dry the gaunt 
 skeleton of a camel lay on the glistening sand, 
 its whitened bones, which were picked clean by 
 carrion birds, telling in their bare mute stillness 
 of the noble-hearted beast who had bravely 
 struggled on with weakening limbs and failing 
 breath, courageously keeping up with the caravan 
 laden with costly stuffs and fragrant spices, the 
 treasured products of other lands which were 
 being brought back across long miles of desert 
 wastes. Telling so pitifully also of how at 
 last the limbs refused to carry the brave heart 
 farther, of how the laboured breath fluttered 
 painfully, giving one great sigh of almost human 
 pain, then stopped for ever. But not before a 
 suffering also almost human had come to the 
 spirit of the great awkward beast, who, with dying 
 eyes turning slowly from side to side, watched 
 the halt made by the caravan, and heard the 
 order given to unload the bags of silks and 
 spices which it had carried so far, to take off 
 the trappings and coloured worsted tassels 
 of which it had been so proud, and saw all 
 these borne away and placed on other beasts, 
 strong and still of use. Then came the order 
 to go forward, and the endless line of camels 
 and men and gay brilliant colours stretched out 
 along the sand, growing smaller and smaller as 
 they went on towards friends and welcome and 
 home, until at last there was only a speck in 
 
38 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE xxvi 
 
 the far distance, each moment growing smaller 
 and smaller still until it was gone, and nothing 
 remained but sand and sky and deadly burning 
 heat. Haply the glazing eyes grew dim and 
 sightless before those other different specks 
 against the vivid blue took form and shape 
 and came steadily nearer, the ghoulish carrion 
 birds. In my dream you stood beneath the 
 palm alert and wakeful, but a strange dull 
 apathy stole slowly over me in the sultry noon- 
 day heat, and I could not clearly see the bright 
 forms coming suddenly out of space, lovely 
 women from all four corners of the world, hair 
 all golden, or burnished bronze, or richest black, 
 eyes of all colours flashing brilliant glances, and 
 laughing, tempting lips calling softly in tones 
 like fairy music. They were all around us, 
 these witching shapes of beauty, but so drowsy 
 was I, that I heard and saw too vaguely to 
 really comprehend, until at last my heavy eyes 
 half closed, your face the last and only one I 
 looked upon, and even when the sleep-drugged 
 lids dropped wholly, the impress of your features 
 was still beneath them as I fell into a deep 
 dreamless calm. When I awoke (in my dream) 
 it was cool still starlight, and I waked so gently 
 that only my eyes unclosed, my body did not 
 move. The palm still reached towards heaven 
 in soft faint dusky lines, and a light breeze 
 stirred the feathery leaves which at mid-day 
 had not moved. I spoke your name, but no 
 
XXVII PROSPER MERIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 39 
 
 answer disturbed the starlit stillness, and I 
 thought that perhaps you too slept. Slowly 
 remembrance of the waking day came back to 
 me, and the lovely forms of the tempting 
 women grew distinct and brilliant to my mind 
 as they had not seemed when actually before 
 my eyes. The music voices seemed to call 
 you still, but far, far off, like distant echoes. 
 I started up, and the second time spoke your 
 name with sharp distinctness which seemed to 
 cut the stillness of the night like a pointed 
 instrument. Only my own voice answered me, 
 and I looked wildly around. The bones of 
 the dead camel gleamed ghostly white, the palm 
 was beside me in its exquisite beauty, the star- 
 studded heaven above, the waste of desert all 
 around, but you were gone, I was alone. With 
 a piercing cry I awoke, trembling and cold. 
 Will you interpret my dream for me ? you know 
 that I have never refused anything that you 
 have asked. How good of you to say that you 
 have an Etruscan seal for me ; I will use it in 
 sealing my letters to you, but never when I 
 write to others. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 So you do not interpret my dream after all, 
 only wonder where I have learned that you 
 have friends in the four quarters of the globe, 
 
40 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xxvii 
 
 and add the monstrous fable that in reality you 
 possess but one in Spain, or as you idiomatically 
 express it, "/^ n'en ai qu'iin ou qu'tme d Madrid" 
 The number strikes me as modest for a man 
 of your undoubted merit, but then I know that 
 you are modest, and moreover discreet with a 
 discreetness far beyond that generally vouchsafed 
 to your sex. Your original idea of the three 
 heads amuses me vastly, and I am puzzling the 
 one which I know to be actually fastened upon 
 my own shoulders with vain imaginings as to 
 what third quality can possibly remain in me 
 which is worthy to join those of a coquette and 
 a diplomatist. 
 
 Are you really ill, or do you say so merely 
 to excite my compassion, which for you, as well 
 you know, flows in a plenteous stream at a 
 moment's notice ? No, you looked far too 
 vigorous the other day for it to be possible 
 that illness and you have aught in common. 
 The impression you then left upon me was so 
 perfectly agreeable a one, that in justice to you 
 and to myself I find it wise to leave it undis- 
 turbed. You could never again, I believe, be so 
 delightful, and in order that this impression 
 may remain unspoiled and tenderly enshrined 
 within my memory, I have decided not to see 
 you again during the remainder of my stay in 
 Paris. 
 
xxviii PROSPER MERIM^E'S'INCONNUE' 41 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Paris, November 1842. 
 
 As we seem to be remaining on here in- 
 definitely, ten thousand annoying things having 
 arisen to prevent, for the moment at least, the 
 Italian journey, I write to you again. The 
 sentence in your last letter telling me that you 
 are really ill, touched my heart, which, believe 
 me, is not so hard as you suppose it to be, only 
 somewhat curiously constituted, and probably 
 different from those belonging to other women 
 you have met. 
 
 I quite long for the seal you have promised 
 me ; it exactly suits my fancy. You must one 
 day when we meet (should we ever meet 
 again) tell me the meaning of the device. In 
 return I will explain to you the seal I generally 
 use a six-sided one having mottoes in French, 
 English, Italian, Arabic, Latin, and German. 
 The number, you see, allows of two for each 
 of my three characters. Diplomatist, Coquette, 
 and that mysterious third whose title you so 
 cruelly withhold from me. A propos of German, I 
 send you a little song, " Das Lied des Claerchens," 
 which I have copied out myself, only the end, 
 the very end, I have not written. Some day 
 that too I must tell you. They seem to be 
 accumulating, these bits of information which 
 can only be imparted orally, not by pen and 
 
42 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE xxviii 
 
 pencil. If only I could be sure that you would 
 be as charming as you were at our last meeting, 
 I would without hesitation name the hour for 
 another, but, pardon my saying so, you are just 
 the least trifle uncertain. Look into my eyes 
 and tell me if this be not the truth. 
 
 You remember Madame de P and her 
 
 mauvaise langiie and abominable rudeness to me 
 some time ago ? Well, precisely Madame de 
 
 P did I meet to-day when strolling through 
 
 the gallery of the Louvre, and had she been 
 my dearest friend she could not have shown 
 more pleasure in encountering me. She seem- 
 ingly ignored completely that anything but the 
 most cordial relations had ever existed between 
 us ; apparently had quite forgotten that her 
 language, both to me and of me, had been any- 
 thing but parliamentary, in a word, deported 
 herself entirely as a good friend, while I know 
 that she has been, and probably still is, one of 
 my most unscrupulous enemies. How can you 
 account for the fact that instead of being enraged 
 at her hypocrisy I was merely amused, after a 
 slow unexcited fashion, at her entire change of 
 tactics ? She is a worldly woman, and to a 
 certain extent a clever one, therefore she has 
 reasons for the change which she feels it is 
 worth her while to make, and it is deliberately 
 that she forgets and ignores any past unplea- 
 santness. Again I ask, Why was I agreeable to 
 that woman ? For I was ; agreeable not in the 
 
XXVIII PROSPER MRIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 43 
 
 sense of putting myself out in any way, but I did 
 not snub her, as she had every right to expect 
 that I should ; I did not make her new role at 
 all difficult for her, on the contrary, I rather 
 helped her over the stile as I would have helped 
 a lame dog who had once bitten me. I believe 
 that there must be a certain altitude of cool 
 comfortable indifference which if once reached 
 by mortals renders them positively delightful. 
 They become convinced that life is too short 
 and people in general too unimportant to allow 
 the one to be disturbed, or the other to disturb 
 them, and as a consequence no one has power 
 to irritate them, or vex them, or move them to 
 violent emotion of any kind, while they in turn 
 grow placidly inclined towards every one. This 
 really is the only argument I can find to ex- 
 plain my agreeable delightfulness to Madame 
 
 de P , who, I am certain, thought me all of 
 
 that. There was no forgiving Christian charity 
 in it ; no slightest wish to resume our old 
 friendly relations ; only the most absolute in- 
 difference. I should not care if I never saw 
 her again, but if I met her to-morrow I should 
 be just as agreeable to her as I was to-day. 
 
 A ring has come at the outer door of the 
 apartmjent. What unqualified happiness would 
 be my portion at this moment if I could be 
 certain that within the next I should see you, 
 hear you speak, and look into your eyes ; if I 
 could be sure that your hand had rung the bell, 
 
44 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE xxx 
 
 and that quickly I should have you by my side, 
 feel your breath upon my cheek, and drink in 
 that intoxicating sense of nearness which makes 
 each nerve thrill with a joy so deep it is almost 
 pain ! Yet more than ever I believe that it is 
 wiser, far wiser, for us not to meet. Aufwie- 
 dersehn. 
 
 P.S. The visitor announced by the bell was 
 a cadaverous-looking priest bringing a subscrip- 
 tion-book for a female orphan asylum ! 
 
 XXIX 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 XXX 
 
 Paris, December 1842. 
 
 MON CHER AMI INSOUCIANT Pas possible 
 to receive your gracious visit to-day, for still 
 another brother has come to join me, and I owe 
 to him at least the first twenty-four hours of 
 his stay in Paris. 
 
 Surely it was for you, mon cher^ that the 
 description given of a friend of mine was 
 originally intended. He is a trifle cynic.al, this 
 friend, and decidedly pessimistic, and of him it 
 was reported that he never believed in anything 
 until he saw it, and then he was convinced that 
 it was an optical illusion. The accuracy of 
 
XXXII PROSPER M^RIMJ&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 45 
 
 the description struck me. Have you by chance 
 sent the Etruscan seal to your one friend at 
 Madrid ? 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 On Tuesday at two o'clock, if you will, we 
 might try the Musee, that is, if this evil thing 
 called a headache has by that time returned 
 to the lower regions where it rightly belongs. 
 Were it not for this wretched migraine I would 
 write you a wild legend of the north in return 
 for your story of the Spanish barber. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Thursday^ Midnight. 
 
 You were tres gentil to-day, and on my part, 
 believe me, I am tres recomiaissante. Your 
 fears lest I should take cold were unfounded, 
 and I slept perfectly well, with no tormenting 
 dreams of lonely deserts and an Eastern version 
 of the Venusberg in Tannhaliser, with wastes 
 of sand, a palm tree, and the skeleton of a 
 camel for the mise en scene. 
 
 After all, how few days in the year, or in a 
 whole life, does a human being really live ! 
 We sleep, wake, go through a certain number 
 of duties or so-called pleasures, eat, read, walk, 
 see those who are around us, and then sleep 
 
46 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xxxiii 
 
 again, but who in their senses could seriously 
 call that living ? Existing if you will, but 
 nothing more. A whole life, and only a few 
 days, at best a few months, of living such as 
 deserves the name, to be gathered out of the 
 long stretch of years. The thought makes me 
 melancholy, so I will say good-night, lest my 
 dreary mood affects you too. On second 
 thoughts I will bid you good morning, for that 
 is the time when this note will reach you, and 
 I would that on opening it you might find a 
 sunshiny morgengriiss, not gloomy melancholy. 
 The flowers I send are fresh and sweet as I 
 write, and may perhaps keep a tiny perfume 
 for your waking ; I bought them at the marM 
 of the Madeleine in returning home to-day after 
 our walk. Bon jour. Mariquita. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Paris, 
 Friday^ loth December. 
 
 Do not tempt me. When the 2ist of 
 January comes I may, and probably shall, 
 repent in sackcloth and ashes, but on this loth 
 day of December my mind is firm and unmov- 
 able, I cannot, will not, go again to the Musee. 
 The arch tempter is the devil : you can never 
 take second place in anything, therefore if you 
 become a tempter it must be arch tempter, 
 i.e. the devil. 
 
XXXI ir PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 47 
 
 My nerves are shaken to their foundation 
 by the most piteous sight I have ever seen. 
 You must have noticed the little Jacques, the 
 merry little black-eyed imp who was always 
 tumbling about the courtyard under everybody's 
 feet. He was the most amusing little scamp I 
 ever met, and the concierge and his wife 
 positively adored him ; they have no children of 
 their own, and I believe they picked up this 
 waif one cold winter night on the Boulevard 
 where he had been purposely lost. Well, poor 
 little Jacques strayed beyond the court to-day, 
 and when playing in the street fell under one 
 of the lumbering heavy coal carts, and was 
 carried back a poor wee bit of crushed humanity, 
 the laughing rosy face all white and sharp with 
 pain. But through all his suffering he seemed 
 to have only one thought, how best to cheer 
 the distracted old couple who are the only 
 father and mother the little fellow has ever 
 known. '* Do not cry, petit Papa ; Maman^ ne 
 pleure pasr This the weak little voice said over 
 and over again with pathetic monotonousness, a 
 pale ghost of a smile on the small drawn features. 
 Even when the fever came and he grew delirious, 
 the boy turned restlessly from side to side with 
 always the same words, " Ne pleure pas mammt^ 
 bon petit papa, ne pleure pas!' Poor little child, 
 there was nothing to do for him, and to-night 
 or to-morrow he must die, merry little Jacques. 
 
 Forgive me for not coming again as you 
 
48 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xxxiv 
 
 wish, and do not quarrel or say cutting things 
 to me. Little Jacques and the tragedy of his 
 morsel of life have made me sad, and when I 
 am sad " methinks I love you most." 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 Tuesday, i^th December. 
 
 You have a wonderful patience, mon ami, and 
 a persistence which ought to carry you far. 
 Still harping on the Musee. If from now until 
 20th January you dwell upon this one idea, 
 will it not get upon your nerves, and ought you 
 not to keep those same nerves quite calm for 
 the trying ordeal of those thirty-nine visits to 
 the Academicians which to my feeble intellect 
 appear almost as formidable as the Thirty-nine 
 Articles of the Protestant faith ? 
 
 You say that I know well how to gild the 
 most bitter pill ; what if I confess that I find it 
 better for my own peace of mind not to see 
 you, for the flattering (and true) reason that a 
 terrible fear then comes over me that the time 
 may arrive when I shall never see you more ? 
 This is a finer gilding than most pills are coated 
 with. If you could but understand that I am 
 very weak where you only think me a coquette. 
 
 I have a handkerchief for you, which took 
 my fancy immensely ; I wonder if you will like 
 it. Tell me how to send it to you, and pray 
 that I may keep my resolution not to see you. 
 
XXXVII PROSPER M&RIMJ^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 49 
 
 XXXV 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 XXXVI 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Paris, 
 Monday^ December 1842. 
 
 Why to-night, of all nights, should a far-away 
 memory of my strange lonely childhood come 
 to me with a vivid distinctness ? You will 
 smile at the reminiscence, and smile still more 
 at the weighty importance I attached to it 
 when it was a very real and serious experience 
 to me, but I was a queer child, and it is 
 characteristic. I am afraid I was wofully 
 conceited, and it may be that just such experi- 
 ences were needed in order to suppress my undue 
 opinion of myself One cold winter morning 
 I awoke positively bristling with good resolu- 
 tions. I had been devouring a good many 
 books too highly seasoned with religious views 
 for a small person of my morbid tendencies ; I 
 was in a highly -strung state of self-sacrifice, 
 believing with fanatical fierceness that even I 
 could work out my own salvation by prayer 
 E 
 
50 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xxxvii 
 
 and good works, and a strict mortifying of 
 fleshly lusts. I was, in a word, in a frightfully 
 Pharisaical frame of mind, believing secretly 
 that I did all these things already, if not quite 
 perfectly, still infinitely better than the children 
 around me, or even some of the grown-up 
 people ; believing also that I was on special 
 terms of privileged intimacy with the Almighty, 
 that I understood Him, and He me, a good deal 
 better than most people. Jesus was my friend, 
 the smallest act in my daily life I did for Him, 
 and to please Him. I had been peculiarly lucky 
 for some time past, had won approbation for 
 my quickness at my lessons, and been praised 
 with unusual generosity for various things. 
 My little heart swelled with the true pharisaical 
 complacency, and I felt the delightfully soothing 
 consciousness that I was *' not as other men 
 are," only I said children, not men. For some 
 days this exalted state of mind had worked 
 very well, and each night I said longer and longer 
 prayers, positively revelling in the state of 
 holiness to which I had attained, wrestling with 
 God as I imagined Jacob wrestled with the 
 angel, only all my entreaties were for others, 
 for my playmates, my companions at school, 
 my naughty little brothers, that they might 
 finally be brought to know the beauty of 
 holiness, might reach the state of boundless 
 satisfaction and divine peace which I by special 
 grace had already reached. 
 
XXXVII PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 51 
 
 On the particular winter morning referred to, 
 this glow of godliness was very strong in me, 
 I yearned like the saints of old to be up and 
 doing, to buckle my armour on and to fight 
 the battles of the Lord. Failing actual visible 
 warfare against Satan, I meant to scourge my- 
 self, and to chastise the carnal lusts with greater 
 severity than ever. First dressing without a fire, 
 that I might mortify the flesh, blue and shivering 
 I went down and inspected the ready laid 
 breakfast-table. I remembered that an ugly 
 crack disfigured my youngest brother's favourite 
 china mug from which he drank his morning 
 draught of milk. The child himself had not 
 noticed the blemish across the large gilt letters, 
 spelling " Love the Giver," which was the pride 
 of his baby heart, but I had, and at the time it 
 appeared, congratulated myself that it was in 
 his mug not mine. In the flush of righteousness 
 which filled my heart to bursting, I determined 
 to exchange the cups and give my little brother 
 the whole one. At this very moment he came to 
 the table, and I hastened to make the exchange, 
 before he could see it, for did not the Bible say 
 " Let not your left hand know what the right 
 hand doeth," and had not the full meaning of 
 that sentence been made clear to me? But, 
 alas, neither right nor left hand could be de- 
 pended on that fateful day. So frozen were 
 my fingers after the fireless room, that I clumsily 
 let the mug fall, and my brother howled with 
 
52 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE xxx vii 
 
 grief for his hopelessly broken treasure. I was 
 sharply scolded, but bore it meekly for "Jesus' 
 sake," as I kept repeating to my sore little 
 heart, which knew so well my real motive and 
 my innocence. The baby brother refused to 
 kiss me, striking at me in unforgiving anger 
 for destroying the thing he loved the best, and 
 heavy-hearted I went to my lessons, promptly 
 receiving a mark for being late, won because I 
 had stopped to make peace with the child I had 
 unintentionally wronged. Several little friends 
 studied with me and the class in history held 
 one girl so nearly my equal in her love for 
 books that we were called the rivals, but for 
 some time past she had occupied the first place. 
 A question came that day at which she hesi- 
 tated : if she could not reply to it her place 
 would be mine. It was a terrible moment. I 
 knew the required answer, the coveted honour 
 was within my grasp, but the Bible told me to 
 prefer others before myself, and this girl was 
 my friend. She only needed a hint, one word, 
 and I knew she would remember all that was 
 necessary. Speaking while reciting lessons 
 was strictly forbidden by our governess, but I 
 took out my pocket handkerchief, coughed, and 
 quickly whispered the word which I knew would 
 save my companion. She took advantage of 
 my hint, and remained head of the class ; but 
 for me a speedy judgment followed. When 
 accused of having spoken, I dared not lie, so 
 
XXXVII PROSPER MRIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 53 
 
 received two more bad marks to add to the one 
 for unpunctuality ; but worse, far worse than 
 this was the blow dealt me by the friend I had 
 rescued at the cost of my own advancement. 
 She unhesitatingly denied having heard what I 
 had said. This literally staggered me for a 
 moment, and bitterly did I reproach her when 
 later we spoke together, but she was scornful 
 in her denials, and I knew when we parted 
 that our friendship, which had been bound by 
 solemn oaths to endure through eternity, was 
 destroyed. During that entire day the same 
 evil chance followed me. On every side I was 
 misunderstood or reprimanded for things I had 
 not done, until I grew fearful and bewildered. 
 All my self-satisfaction seemed to shrivel up ; 
 the confident reliance I had had upon God melted 
 away, the warm glow which had enveloped me 
 and made me feel so strong had grown chill 
 and feeble, and a sullen despair seemed creeping 
 over me with a resentful sense of injustice. As 
 the early winter evening came on 1 wandered 
 about the house disconsolately, too proud to 
 confess the soreness of my wounded feelings, 
 too miserable to stay in the warm cheerful 
 nursery where the little brothers were playing. 
 We children had been left to the care of ser- 
 vants, and in the great lonely house the nursery 
 was the one bright spot. Finally, I went to the 
 library where the shutters of the windows were 
 not yet closed, and curled myself up among the 
 
54 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xxxvii 
 
 cushions in one of the low wide seats. I can 
 see the little crumpled figure now, with the 
 sore child's heart almost bursting, and the 
 rebellious tears which came hot and fast, dashed 
 away by angry little hands. The room grew 
 darker and the things in it turned to mere 
 shadowy outlines, but the small form in the 
 window-seat sat on looking hopelessly at the 
 frosty stars which blinked and twinkled mock- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Nobody loves me, nobody cares. It's no 
 use trying. I don't believe there is a God, or 
 He would not let people not understand. Why 
 do people hurt me so when I want to be 
 good ? " 
 
 Poor little angry, doubting, lonely child. 1 
 feel sorry for her as I sit here to-night, writing 
 to you ; are you sorry for her, or do you not 
 understand ? 
 
 The hot tears came faster still, and the child 
 let them fall. Presently a cold nose rubbed 
 itself against her hand, and a yellow greyhound 
 jumped up beside her. Passionately she threw 
 her arms around the dog drawing him tightly 
 to her. 
 
 " O Zippy, Zippy, love me ! Love me back ! 
 Don't run away, 1 love you Zip, love me back, 
 love me back ! " 
 
 Please be sorry for the little child. 
 
 I think I never have loved you as I loved 
 you yesterday. 
 
XXXIX PROSPER MARIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 55 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Paris, 
 New Yeafs Day 1843. 
 
 The very first words that I write in this glad 
 New year of grace must be for you ; but have 
 you welcome large enough for all the love they 
 bring, the wishes that every good on earth may 
 come to you, the prayer that sorrow and pain 
 may never be your portion, the trust that future 
 years may gather only blessings, joy, delight 
 for you, till life shall close, and gentle death 
 shall bring you peace ? 
 
 For the letters you send my brother I cannot 
 thank you in writing when I know you to be 
 so near, therefore meet me as usual, and you 
 will find me appreciative of this latest kindness 
 added to so many earlier ones. 
 
 They tell me that once an Academician, a 
 man becomes something between a rock and a 
 mummy ; is this true, and shall you turn into 
 this sensitive thing ? Are the following German 
 characters correct ? Ich Hebe dick 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Your account of Rachel amused me very 
 much, one can hardly blame her for being 
 annoyed at the absurd interruptions during her 
 recitation. Yes, certainly I will come for the 
 
56 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE XLI 
 
 walk. At two o'clock to-morrow, Thursday. 
 Do pray for fine weather, this sort of thing may 
 be good for fishes, but I hardly swim well 
 enough to enjoy it. A demaiji. 
 
 XL 
 
 Friday Evening^ i St h January 1843. 
 You seemed so anxious lest I should suffer 
 from our drenching that I send a line to assure 
 you that I am all right. My cheeks burned so 
 
 when I came in that my cousin Madame G 
 
 asked if I had fever ; I did not tell her the 
 varied excitements we had gone through in 
 order to find a shelter from the tempest, enough 
 I think to account for a dozen fevers ! What 
 a rain that was, worse a thousand times than 
 that of a fortnight ago, when I declined to play 
 the part of fish. Why were you sad yesterday ? 
 The question has sorely puzzled me since we 
 parted. Au revoir^au revoir I 
 
 XLI 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 So tired ! Oh so tired am I, that were it not 
 for my promise I would not write ; instead I 
 should like to sleep, but happiness I think makes 
 me wakeful. Could I but be sure of such 
 dreams as our meeting of yesterday I would 
 
XLii PROSPER M^RIMAE'S'INCONNUE' 57 
 
 sleep in spite of happiness, knowing that they 
 would bring so deep a joy that in them I could 
 lull my soul to sweet forgetfulness till we could 
 meet again. 
 
 XLII 
 
 1 . 3 o Wednesday^ ' 
 
 January 1843. 
 
 The weather is so uncertain that I have 
 decided not to walk, and send this before two 
 o'clock that you may not wait for me. Were 
 you quite just yesterday, or kind ? I think you 
 were neither. And because I may or may not 
 do this or that one day and not another, you 
 should not claim the one or the other as a pre- 
 cedent. Unless you promise to remember my 
 conditions, and to keep your own promises, our 
 walks must be discontinued. You would not 
 believe that I seriously meant this when I said 
 it the other day, almost a week ago, but do you 
 not believe it now? You call the walks a 
 pleasure ; you tell me they are the greatest 
 happiness you know ; yet deliberately you pre- 
 vent them from being enjoyed, and this by your 
 own perverseness. Is this reasonable ? 
 
 XLIII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
58 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE 
 
 XLIV 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 XLV 
 
 26th January 1843. 
 A truce, a truce, a truce ! Life is not worth 
 the living at such a price as this. I cry mea 
 culpa, so have done ; let this unseemly strife 
 between us end, and let us be at peace. So 
 weary am I, so tired, I think I would purchase 
 peace at any price, if death itself must prove 
 the penalty. Come, I have drugged my con- 
 science. We'll look at it together. It lies so 
 still so still what is so still as a conscience 
 drugged ? I seem unable to find a simile 
 strong enough ; out of your cleverness, your 
 mocking, cutting rhetoric of speech, your wit, 
 your irony, your cruel, cold sharp cynicism, 
 choose me a fitting phrase to say how still, how 
 stilly quiet a thing a drugged conscience is. I 
 am very weak in words, actions are my forte, 
 and actions they say speak louder than words ! 
 So still, so still, so deadly still ! My God ! I 
 know how still it lies, I have found the simile. 
 The gaunt ghastly skeleton rotting on the 
 sand ! ! ! There it is ; the simile, not the skele- 
 ton, I write so fast I may not make the words 
 distinct. But you must see it ; even in a dream 
 
XLV PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 59 
 
 it was cut so sharp against God's heaven of 
 blue. It never moved so much as a hair's 
 breadth ; the white ghostly thing with the stars 
 looking at it pityingly in the soft south wind. 
 Even the breeze did not move it ; and the sun, 
 burning with a furnace heat, never stirred it, 
 only bleached it drier and drier. Heavens, it 
 was dry enough I trow when I saw it, perhaps 
 now it is whitened dust, blown to the four 
 corners of the earth. Then it could no longer 
 be my simile, for it would move, and movement 
 for a conscience drugged is a foolish contradic- 
 tion in terms. Well now love me love me 
 back ! love me back ! I feel like that little 
 crumpled figure that once sat in the window- 
 seat in the dusky gloaming all alone. The poor 
 little angry, doubting, lonely child, whom I told 
 you I was sorry for. She had fought her little 
 fight with such a confident, conceited, phari- 
 saical little ignorant heart, and when the end 
 came it was " Love me back ! Love me back ! 
 I love you." And the little yellow greyhound, 
 poor faithful affectionate dead and buried little 
 Zippy dog, settled warmly down beside her in 
 the chilly dark and licked the angry childish 
 hands which had dashed the tears away, and 
 loved her back again. " Is thy servant a dog 
 that he should do this thing?" The term dog 
 does not seem to be used in quite a flattering 
 sense in this somewhat sarcastic biblical ques- 
 tion, but for myself I rather query if the fidelity 
 
6o AN AUTHOR'S LOVE XLViil 
 
 of a dog has ever been equalled by a man. 
 What think you ? Ask pardon, then love me 
 back, love me back ! Love is the only real 
 sunshine, and without sunshine I cannot live. 
 I have a sharp pain in my side, the left ; is that 
 where conscience is, or only one's heart ? 
 
 XLVI 
 
 Paris, 2d February. 
 Could we not find some new place for our 
 walks ? There are too many people one knows 
 in Paris now to make it either safe or amusing 
 to risk meeting them. 
 
 XLVII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Paris, 
 Sunday Mornings nth February. 
 
 Wer besser liebt ? Should you ever ask me 
 that question again most unhesitatingly could 
 
 I give the answer 1 love best. But you 
 
 will not think so when I add that I shall not 
 be able to see you to-day, I am feeling anything 
 but well, and several annoying things prevent 
 
XL7III PROSPER M&RIMM'S ' INCONNUE' 6i 
 
 all hope of my being able to enjoy our walk. 
 Further, I cannot name any day or hour just at 
 present when I can promise to come. We must 
 trust to circumstances growing more favourable. 
 With a most unsmiling face do I write all this, 
 
 for I am disappointed, mais que voulez- 
 
 vous ? All the world seems going to church ; 
 from my window, as I write, I see men, women, 
 and children coming and going up the wide 
 steps of the Madeleine in an endless ceaseless 
 stream. 
 
 There is a place (I will not tell you where, 
 and you are never likely to come across it), but 
 there is one lovely corner of the world, where, 
 could I go to-day, I should feel the better for 
 it. A quiet spot, where prayer is real and faith 
 is not a dream. Imagine a wide, blue lake, 
 stretched out in shimmering beauty ; from its 
 shores rise gently -sloping hills, grass -covered, 
 or thick with foliage in every shade of green, 
 where deep cool shadows lie in dark streaks so 
 restful amidst the flooding sunshine. Far off is 
 one white-capped mountain peak, kissed every 
 morning by the earliest sunbeam and the first 
 pink flush of dawn, and every evening greeted 
 by the latest crimson glow of the purple god as 
 he slowly sinks to rest. Fair islands dot the 
 lake, fairest of all the one I take you to on a 
 quiet summer Sunday. Through a wood, along 
 a narrow winding path with high trees on either 
 side must you go, until a pile of stones sur- 
 
62 AN- A UTHOR 'S LOVE xlviii 
 
 mounted by a cross arrests your eye. The 
 path leads on, and a stillness seems to have 
 fallen on you as you walk, perhaps from the 
 shadow of the cross. Soon, quite straight before 
 you is a wooded grove of white birch trees, tall 
 slim poplars, and young leafy oaks. A space 
 is here, around it rustic seats, and fronting you 
 as you stand, a rocky altar twined with flowers, 
 above this a tall white cross with arms out- 
 stretched. Overhead only the deep blue vault 
 of heaven, around the tranquil water of the 
 lake. The pkce is empty, but slowly one by 
 one the rustic seats fill quietly; those who fill 
 them seeming to be hushed by the same curious 
 stillness which has fallen on you since passing 
 the wayside cross. There is something holy in 
 the silence, and the whisper of the breeze which 
 just stirs the leaves in passing making them 
 glint and flash in the sunlight, seems to fill you 
 with a strangely penetrating sense of calm. 
 
 Suddenly, in the distance, comes a faint far 
 sound of voices singing, at first almost unheard, 
 but each moment growing clearer, louder, in the 
 h)^mn of praise ; and presently a strain of music 
 swells the sound, while white -robed choristers 
 wend along the curving path, their fresh young 
 voices mounting up towards heaven, higher and 
 higher, until, as the surpliced band reaches the 
 space before the altar the sound has grown to 
 thrilling gladness. Those quiet ones who fill 
 the rustic seats have joined their voices to the 
 
XL VIII PROSPER mRIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 63 
 
 song, and joyous echoes fill the shadowy wood, 
 floating far across the shining lake. Ah, this is 
 praise indeed in its purest, simplest form. The 
 stillness falls again, one single earnest voice 
 pleading to God above for mercy and for- 
 giveness of sins to erring mortals, being the only 
 one that breaks upon the air. High above the 
 kneeling forms stands the tall white cross, not 
 only as the emblem of that other shameful tree 
 upon which hung the God Man, but with 
 a loving, yearning tenderness all its own. 
 Strangely enough it bends slightly forward, not 
 sufficiently to affright you, lest weighted with 
 all the agony and woe of those for whose sins 
 it once bore the sacrifice, it should fall upon 
 and crush you, but tenderly, wooingly, as though 
 to draw you nearer and enfold you in the 
 stretched -out arms, "mighty to save." Hot 
 waves of feeling sweep over you, strange un- 
 bidden tears come to your eyes, the world and 
 scheming noisy life seem immeasurably far off 
 from you in this island chapel by the lake with 
 only God's high, free heaven for a dome. 
 Thoughts which have not been yours for years 
 come crowding quickly, speaking with small 
 still voices. Those you have loved and lost, and 
 perforce have learned to live without, feel nearer 
 to you in that lovely, lonely spot than they ever 
 can in a busy world ; some spell draws you 
 close to them with all the old, warm love of 
 long ago. The prayers are over, the glad 
 
64 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE xlvih 
 
 praise mounts once more to Heaven, and then, 
 as the choristers wind slowly through the wood 
 again, the sound of singing voices grows fainter 
 and fainter, dying away at last in a distant, 
 deep Amen. The hushed sense of silence 
 comes anew, all is so still. 
 
 I saw it once long years ago, the strangely 
 peaceful, lake-side chapel in the wood ; I wish 
 I could show it to you to-day. 
 
 But it is not here, not in brilliant Paris ; 
 there is no room for it, no soil on which to 
 plant so plain a cross, and in all the wide, broad 
 streets of Paris not space enough for that narrow 
 curving path leading to the altar, and where 
 the Amen dies away. It is not here, but the 
 old life is, the wicked, old humbugging life of 
 the wicked, old humbugging world, with its 
 iron force of habit, its pleasant, mocking smiles, 
 its thousand cursed doubts and wonderings, 
 its cool, intellectual reasonings, its saturnine 
 humour, its red-blooded passions. Vive V amour 
 is the song sung best in Paris Love is the 
 god we worship, you and I, the dear god who 
 claims our adoration. And 'tis not a bad 
 worship after all, not for us, for you and for me 
 in Paris. 
 
 It looks like snow. I am wise, I think, to 
 decide against our walk for to-day, but unless I 
 send this letter quickly, it will hardly reach you 
 before the hour when we should have met. I 
 kiss you in my heart, au revoir. 
 
XLix PROSPER MERIMAE'S ' INCONNUE' 65 
 
 XLIX 
 
 Sunday Eve;itng, 1 1 th February. 
 
 Dear heart, do not cavil at my every word, 
 almost my every thought. I was really ill 
 this morning, and therefore could not walk ; 
 really occupied with necessary things (all con- 
 cerning other people), therefore could not meet 
 you, much as I wished to do so. Yesterday 
 afternoon I too found the weather superb, yet 
 where do you suppose I spent the glorious 
 sunshiny hours ? In the Petit St. Thomas, that 
 fearful shop, crushed, crowded, almost suffo- 
 cated ; tormented to buy on the right side and 
 on the left, elbowed by fat women who had 
 breakfasted on onions, mes paitvres pieds ecrases 
 by fatter men come to buy cotton night-caps. 
 Altogether it was a pleasant way to spend a 
 perfect afternoon, far pleasanter than merely 
 walking with you in the park at Versailles or 
 under the great trees at St. Germain ! My 
 cousin is going away on Thursday, and wanted 
 me to help her with her shopping. Could I 
 say " No, I would rather not, thank you kindly ; 
 I have promised to spend just that time with 
 the cleverest, wittiest man in France, he is far 
 more amusing than you " ? Be reasonable, at 
 least outwardly. It is the little outward reason 
 that leaves us a few loopholes in this mad world 
 of ours for bits of delicious stolen happiness. 
 F 
 
66 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE Li 
 
 What have you for me that I shall think 
 stupid ? You must have gone a long way to 
 find that, a stupid thing, when your hands 
 give it. 
 
 That very last walk must not be repeated 
 in detail, comprenez-voiis ? en gros^ mais pas en 
 detail. Please remember this. 
 
 L 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LI 
 
 i6tk February. 
 
 Oh the lovely pins, how charming of you ! 
 The blue shawl I find a trifle gay, but have a 
 brilliant idea as to how it had best be used. I 
 will explain it to you when we meet. My 
 cousin is waiting in the carriage for me ; I have 
 not a moment. Oh for a little sunshine, what 
 has happened to the weather ? The very first 
 fine day I promise to try my best, for see you 
 soon I must. I was furious with you the other 
 night at the opera, but to-day I forgive you, et 
 je vans aime. Love me back, love me back. 
 
 LII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
LVi PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 67 
 
 LlII 
 
 Thursday^ February 1843. 
 
 Is the Mr. Sharpe whose illness I have just 
 heard of your friend ? I once met him in 
 London. Poor man. What a monstrous, 
 threadbare sort of a week I have passed ! 
 Shops, shops, shops, until every idea in my 
 head seems turned into lace or ribbon. On 
 Friday or Saturday I hope to be free. Do take 
 care of your poor eye. I am sincerely dis- 
 tressed about it. 
 
 LIV 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LV 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LVI 
 
 I'jth February 1843. 
 
 What can I say to you to help your sad 
 thoughts ? You know that you have all my 
 sympathy. Go at once to London if you think 
 you ought to do so, or if it would give you 
 pleasure, or give pleasure to your sick friend. 
 
68 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE lx 
 
 You may later regret not having done so. I 
 will write to you while you are gone, should 
 you decide to go, then, after that, I think I 
 will write no more, I dare not, I find more 
 courage comes to me in speaking. 
 
 LVII 
 
 Thursday Momingy \st March 1843. 
 Saturday, at the same time and place, weather 
 permitting ! 
 
 LVIII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LIX 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LX 
 
 Paris, Friday. 
 If you love the sunshine I adore it ! I 
 sympathise with the religion which makes the 
 sun its god, so great is my devotion for it. I 
 know that I am better physically and morally 
 when it shines upon me ; it improves my temper 
 and puts me at peace with mankind. But that 
 you love me better in sunshine than at other 
 
LX PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 69 
 
 times suggests other ideas not so clear to my 
 mind as my own are upon the incalculable value 
 of the sun. No, I do not quite approve of this ; 
 it does not appeal to me with the entire appre- 
 ciation which most of your ideas excite. I 
 have just read the final sentence of your note 
 again, and more carefully, and find that I was 
 a trifle hasty in my rendering of it. You 
 distinctly say after all, that you love me " dans 
 tons les temps" but that the happiness of seeing 
 me is greater happiness when the sun illuminates 
 it. Now the subtilty of this distinction appeals 
 to me delightfully, for does it not prove that 
 sunshine affects you as it does me, giving you 
 more pleasure in all life, even in love ? A la 
 bonne heure^ I like you to think like me, and I 
 try to think with you. 
 
 What an inanely stupid letter ! A bread- 
 and-butter miss of sixteen would blush to send 
 it ! But I feel idiotic, rather drunk with sunshine, 
 I have so long been starved without it. Light 
 your cigarette with my silly silly letter, mon 
 beau soleil, it is the wisest use you can make 
 of it, if even in that very distant form the word 
 wise can be written near it. Oh Sonnenschein ! 
 Oh Sonnenschein ! A inardi. 
 
 P.S. I forgot to say that I am going to the 
 country. 
 
70 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE lxi 
 
 LXI 
 
 Saturday^ igth March 1843. 
 
 There are letters and letters, as I suppose 
 there are varying distinctions between fools as 
 a class and philosophers as a class. Having 
 sent you my last epistle in the guise of the 
 most infantile of weak little black and white 
 fools, I will try to-day to despatch my thoughts 
 by an old philosopher gray and hoary with 
 wisdom. Wisdom shall look from his eyes and 
 his wrinkled forehead, in his bushy brows and 
 snowy locks, and shall run down his venerable 
 beard as the oil ran down Aaron's in the Bible 
 story. By the way, when in England did you 
 ever hear that story sung as a sacred anthem ? 
 I have, once, but I am not particularly keen 
 about doing so again. The oil ran down his 
 beard, ran down Aaron the oil it ran his 
 beard ran down down down Aaron-^ down 
 the oil, the oil, the oil, down Aaron down 
 
 down the oil his beard ran down ran 
 
 God knows where it finally did or did not run, 
 or whether it was the oil, or Aaron, or the 
 beard which eventually ran down down 
 down . The only comprehensive impression 
 left upon my mind when the anthem was over 
 was that the beard and Aaron and the oil were 
 going on in such an extraordinary and improper 
 manner and getting so mixed, that I felt 
 
hJi PROSPER M A RI MICE'S ' INCONNUE ' 71 
 
 decidedly shy about having anything to do with 
 any of them. 
 
 I have written to a friend of mine in London 
 for the rare and valuable book you so much 
 wished for : if any one can procure it he will be 
 able to do so ; his own library is one of the 
 best in the country, and he has exceptional 
 chances for picking up literary gems. If he is 
 in town he will answer at once, and will also 
 begin his search for the book without loss of 
 time, but it may be that he is abroad he fre- 
 quently goes away at this season. However, 
 my letter is gone, is already posted, and just so 
 soon as I receive his answer I will send it to 
 you. Let us hope that it may be favourable 
 in every way. You need not be uneasy lest 
 my asking for the book may cause astonishment. 
 My book -worm friend is accustomed to my 
 eccentricities, and will not give the request a 
 second thought not in the way you fear. As 
 for the price, if you propose paying such a sum 
 as that I can only say, " Rather you than me ! " 
 "Me" would very strongly object, although as 
 a rule I consider money spent in books as well 
 invested. 
 
 Why oh why are you so sad ? In almost 
 every letter you tell me that you are triste ; 
 do you think it makes me gay to hear it ? 
 What can I do for you, what say to you, in 
 what words write to you, in order to cure you 
 of this mortal melancholy ? I try each mood 
 
72 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE LXi 
 
 in turn, grave and gay, silly and serious ; I 
 rack my brain for stories to make you laugh, 
 for something to bring a smile to your grave lips, 
 because always in my ear are ringing the words 
 you write so often triste, tres triste, bien triste. 
 How can I cheer your sadness ? Only tell me, 
 and you shall be triste no more. Will it please 
 you to hear that for Monday, the whole of 
 Monday, a long long happy Monday, I can be 
 yours ? I shall be free for the entire day, and 
 will use my freedom in making myself your 
 captive, " An it please you, my lord." Does it 
 please you, will you order sunshine, and a gentle 
 western breeze, and a happiness which nothing 
 can disturb, and a great great love for me, and 
 a cheerful salon and cosy little dejeuner a la 
 foiLvchette at the Pavilion Henri Quatre, near 
 the great trees at St. Germain where Louise de 
 la Valliere loved the king, and where the 
 magnificent Louis XIV loved Louise? Will 
 you order all this and have it ready for Monday, 
 blessed Monday the 2ist day of March in the 
 year of grace 1 843 ? 
 
 Now have I not kept my promise and sent 
 you a letter freighted with wisdom, for do I not 
 know that the wisdom you like best in me, and 
 find the wisest, is the folly of love ? Ah yes, I 
 know, and I love you for your wise folly, as 
 you love me in return for my foolish wisdom. 
 
LXli PROSPER M^RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 73 
 
 LXII 
 
 Monday Evening^ 7.1st March 1843. 
 
 Once upon a time there was a little girl 
 called Mary who had a friend named Grace. 
 The friend was older than Mary, and in the 
 child's affection for her was mingled a little 
 fear and not a little humbleness. One day 
 Mary's mother said to her, " If you are very 
 good for a whole week, study your lessons well, 
 and are careful with your copy, and neither 
 make a noise nor ask tiresome questions, you 
 shall go and spend Saturday with Aunt Marion 
 at Clover Patch, if the weather is quite fair, 
 and take Gracie with you." 
 
 This announcement to the child meant just 
 bliss, absolute bliss, nothing more and nothing 
 less. Aunt Marion was the dearest, kindest 
 old maid aunt in the world ; Clover Patch was 
 the dearest old house in existence, and had the 
 most beautiful gardens and clover fields, filled 
 with fruit and flowers. Oh how weary long 
 the week seemed to little Mary. She studied 
 her lessons until her little brain was dizzy, and 
 wrote out her copy over and over again, very 
 careful to make big round letters, but afraid to 
 ask what the words meant because mother 
 might call it a tiresome question. 
 
 Nothing new under the sun. 
 
 It looked very much like a lie, and Mary 
 
74 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE lxii 
 
 hardly liked to write it over so often. Her 
 doll was new, with its pretty pink cheeks and 
 round little body, so new that Mary was afraid 
 to take it to Clover Patch with her, much as 
 she wanted to show it to Aunt Marion. You 
 see the paint had not rubbed off yet, and no 
 holes had been stuck in the body, so Mary 
 could not know that it was stuffed with saw- 
 dust. Several things she could think of were 
 new, but she would not run any risk, so held 
 her peace. Every night she prayed with a 
 beautiful faith that it might be " quite fair 
 weather" on Saturday, and she was painfully 
 quiet that no sound of hers might imperil the 
 success of the trip to Clover Patch. The day 
 came, warm and bright ; Grace was sweet and 
 gracious ; Aunt Marion her dear old self ; fruit, 
 flowers, fresh country milk, everything was 
 delicious. The children played in the new- 
 mown hay, gathered buttercups, and shouted 
 with delight when the little round gold spot 
 was reflected in their dimpled chins, tossed 
 cowslip balls and twined daisy chains, fed the 
 downy yellow chickens, and gazed entranced 
 at the new litter ot pigs, the funny round pinky 
 white and black things with sweet little curled-up 
 tails. A very long, long happy day at Clover 
 Patch was bliss indeed. But the children grew 
 tired at last, and a little cross, and almost 
 before they knew it an awful ending had come 
 to their happiness. Clouds were coming up 
 
LXTi PROSPER MARIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 75 
 
 quickly, and Mary grew frightened she was 
 terribly afraid of a thunderstorm. Grace was 
 not at all sympathetic, but a good deal superior 
 to her younger friend, and she only laughed at 
 little Mary's troubled face. " Oh, Gracie, let us 
 go into the house quickly, it is getting so 
 dark." 
 
 " I did not know you were a coward." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not a coward, but look, quick, oh, 
 there's the thunder." 
 
 " Well, if you're not a coward, stay here." 
 
 " But oh, Gracie the lightning, please 
 come in." 
 
 " Now you are going to cry. I wouldn't be 
 a coward and a cry-baby both." 
 
 The words were bad enough, they made 
 Mary's little heart swell with indignation, but 
 the laugh the heartless mocking laugh so hard 
 and scornful with the cruel scorn of childhood 
 was more than little Mary's heart could bear. 
 She clenched her fist tight with sudden passion, 
 her small face was very white. 
 
 "And now you are a little spitfire," Grace 
 said suddenly, before her companion had time 
 to speak. 
 
 " And you you are a liar, and liars go to 
 hell, and the devil burns them ! " 
 
 The words almost choked her, but she had 
 said them, those awful words which made her 
 tremble when mother told her about them on 
 Sunday nights. And said them to Grace, her 
 
76 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE LXii 
 
 friend that she loved.- Oh what an ending to 
 the blissful summer day ! 
 
 Do you believe in a soul ? Is it an embryo, 
 a spiritual essence, a germ ? Shall everything 
 that we have now, all that we are, all the fears 
 and loves and hatreds that we feel in the flesh, 
 fall away and leave us only a seed, and shall 
 one seed know another seed for the old love it 
 loved on earth when both are changed and 
 glorified ? Or does it go and dwell in a star, 
 this spirit which they say wings its flight above 
 and is not buried in the ground with the poor 
 body it has lived with always but which it 
 leaves behind to worms ? And do the stars 
 recognise each other? 
 
 Some wise ones tell us we shall meet again 
 and be the same ; same hands, same feet, a mouth 
 to eat and kiss, "raised incorruptible" that is 
 the phrase. In which do you believe? Tell 
 me. 
 
 My heart and I are very tired to-night, we 
 have puzzled so long over old things and new. 
 But there is nothing new, nothing absolutely 
 new can be, because the days of miracles are 
 over, and although the world still has its full 
 complement of fools, they are nineteenth cen- 
 tury fools who do not believe in miracles. It 
 is, however, given to some silvery tongues to tell 
 old truths so cunningly, and to turn their old 
 dyed garments so cleverly, that even the fools 
 are taken in. It strikes me that we grow a 
 
LXiv PROSPER M&RIMJ^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 77 
 
 little too analytical and metaphysical to be 
 quite amusing. Good-night. 
 
 LXIII 
 
 Saturday^ lo A.M., 30/;^ March. 
 It must be for Monday from two to five, 
 to-day I cannot possibly leave. 
 
 ' LXIV 
 
 Friday Mornings Ztk Apt'il. 
 
 Only a short time since I wrote to you that 
 the time of miracles was past, and lo, one has 
 happened ! Is that a proper term to apply to 
 a miracle ? I am unaccustomed to such things. 
 Do they happen, or take place, or merely exist ? 
 they are certainly puzzling. On Monday, for 
 to-morrow I cannot come, I will explain the 
 miracle, and you shall tell me how to under- 
 stand it. Now do remember this ; so often 
 when we meet we quite forget, at least I do, 
 the things I mean to tell you, for instance, you 
 never said whether you liked my little essay on 
 Wilhelm Meister, and I wrote it more for your 
 opinion than for anything else. Do not spoil 
 the coming Monday as you did the last, it really 
 is too stupid for us to quarrel as we do, even 
 the " making up " does not really make up for 
 what we each time lose and suffer. When I 
 
78 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE Lxvi 
 
 am gone you will regret it all, and I probably 
 shall regret it still more. Let us be more 
 sensible. 
 
 LXV 
 
 Paris, Tuesday, 1 2th April. 
 
 Ah, that was a happy day, with no draw- 
 back, if only your poor eyes did not suffer frorft 
 that wretched coiirant d'air. I scarcely dare 
 write lest some word or phrase of mine may 
 spoil the "afterglow," which I know cannot 
 last long, but which I would hold undisturbed 
 in its perfect beauty until the last tint steals 
 away ; even then it will always have a dear 
 corner in my memory, a place to itself in my 
 gallery of mind pictures, a little quiet place 
 where the brilliancy of the other paintings will 
 not clash or be too strong for the soft tones and 
 dreamy tenderness of this. 
 
 At dinner last night some one spoke of 
 Catullus and his works, but I did not own to 
 having read them. A discussion arose as to 
 the precise date at which women's influence in 
 the world began, and the various opinions 
 amused me. Tell me yours. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 Paris, 2d May. 
 
 I wore the ivy in my hair to-night when I 
 dined with the Comtesse de B , going after- 
 
Lxviii PROSPER M^RIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 79 
 
 wards to see the feu d' artifice. It suddenly 
 struck me in the middle of dinner that they 
 might compare me to a ruin in consequence of 
 my decorations, and I was quite uncomfortable ; 
 
 it would be exactly like M. N , who was 
 
 present, to do this. Here is a little comparison 
 for you, a little conundrum for you to find an 
 answer to by the time we meet, or if you are 
 very industrious you may discover it before that 
 and write me the answer. 
 
 LXVII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Paris, i^^th Jime 1843. 
 
 I think I cannot bear it much longer, this 
 incessant quarrelling when we meet, and your 
 unkindness during the short time that you are 
 with me. Why not let it all end ? it would be 
 better for both of us. I do not love you less 
 when I write these words ; if you could know 
 the sadness which they echo in my heart you 
 would believe this. No, I think I love you 
 more, but I cannot understand you. As you 
 have often said, our natures must be very 
 different, entirely different ; if so, what is this 
 curious bond between them ? To me you seem 
 
8o AN AUTHOR'S LOVE lxix 
 
 possessed with some strange restlessness and 
 morbid melancholy which utterly spoils your 
 life, and in return you never see me without 
 overwhelming me with reproaches, if not for 
 one thing, for another. I tell you I cannot, 
 will not, bear it longer. If you love me, then in 
 God's name cease tormenting me as well as 
 yourself with these wretched doubts and ques- 
 tionings and complaints. I have been ill, 
 seriously ill, and there is nothing to account 
 for my illness save the misery of this apparently 
 hopeless state of things existing between us. 
 You have made me weep bitter tears of alternate 
 self-reproach and indignation, and finally of 
 complete miserable bewilderment as to this un- 
 happy condition of affairs. Believe me, tears 
 like these are not good to mingle with love, 
 they are too bitter, too scorching, they blister 
 love's wings and fall too heavily on love's heart. 
 I feel worn out with a dreary sort of hopeless- 
 ness ; if you know a cure for pain like this send 
 it to me quickly. 
 
 LXIX 
 
 Paris, Saturday^ 6 p.m., 2^,01 June. 
 One line before I have to dress for a large 
 
 dinner at Madame de G 's. Although I 
 
 said good-bye to you less than an hour ago, I 
 
Lxxi PROSPER M&RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 8i 
 
 cannot refrain from writing to tell you that a 
 happy calm which seems- to penetrate my whole 
 being seems also to have wiped out all remem- 
 brance of the misery and unhappiness which has 
 overwhelmed me lately. Why cannot it always 
 be so, or would life perhaps be then too blessed, 
 too wholly happy for it to be life ? I know 
 that you are free to-night, will you not write to 
 me, that the first words my eyes fall upon 
 to-morrow shall prove that to-day has not been 
 a dream ? Yes, write to me. I have tiot taken 
 cold. 
 
 LXX 
 
 ^th July. 
 
 Let me dream Let me dream. 
 
 LXXI 
 
 Paris, i^ihjuly. 
 When I remember how short the time now 
 is before you must leave and all our happy 
 days be over, I can scarce write for the grief 
 that comes over me. In losing you I shall lose 
 my other better self, and must wander on as 
 aimlessly as those tortured ones in Dante's hell, 
 who have lost their mates and can know peace 
 never again. Will you think of me when you 
 
82 AJV A UTHOR 'S LOVE Lxxii 
 
 have gone, think kindly and never bitterly? If 
 I have hurt you I have hurt myself far more, 
 so let that make amends. 
 
 I must soon decide where my summer is to 
 be spent ; all my plans have been in abeyance 
 lately, it was so fair to dream and idly drift 
 from day to day without any fixed plan or 
 purpose. But all dreaming must, I suppose, 
 one day end. And the end should be good, 
 peaceful, and convenable. Before all things, no 
 regrets, or reproaches, or vain looking back ; 
 no futile wishing that things had been other 
 than they were and are. So to part were well, 
 perhaps better than to dream on indefinitely. 
 When a break comes naturally and calmly, a 
 journey, a friendly parting, is it not wiser to 
 accept quietly this solution, to go our several 
 ways in life in peaceable commonplace fashion, 
 rather than to wait for an end which may be 
 tragic, or worse still, a wretched, played-out 
 comedy ? Think of this, my friend, and tell 
 me the result of your thoughts. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Thursday, 2%th July. 
 Your letter received last evening was no 
 answer to mine of the 25 th. Will you not 
 write ? I wished to speak to you on Monday, 
 but could not. 
 
Lxxiv PROSPER MARIM^E'S'INCONNUE' 83 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 Paris, 
 Thursday Evenings id August 1843. 
 
 It was an odd interview ; I am not quite sure 
 to-night whether I am myself, or some one else, 
 you will probably suggest that I am neither, 
 only a statue made of a material a trifle colder 
 than marble. In truth, you would not be far 
 wrong this tirqe, for I feel frozen ; not externally, 
 I took no cold and hope you did not, but all 
 my ideas seem congealed. You are writing to 
 me, I know, perhaps at this very moment. 
 What will you say, I wonder, how will you 
 speak of our curious interview? I think I 
 know what one part of your letter will be, one 
 idea that in some form or other you will suggest. 
 It is this, that we put away the past, and begin 
 anew. You will express it more poetically, in 
 choicer language, but that will be the sense 
 underlying your words, at least I think so. I 
 shall be very curious to see if I have judged 
 rightly. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 4M August 1843. 
 Yes, it was a good " recommencement," 
 whether absolutely wise or not is another 
 question which we had better not discuss. But 
 
84 A2Sr A UTHOR 'S LOVE lxxvii 
 
 I was very happy, happy for one long golden 
 afternoon, and that at least is something, no 
 small thing either to save and hold and keep as 
 fact and memory. Adieu, et au revoir. 
 
 LXXV 
 
 Paris, 6th August. 
 T cannot let you go without one line, al- 
 though it may be the last I write, for your 
 words wounded me too cruelly yesterday easily 
 to forget them. They cannot, however, prevent 
 my wishing you bon voyage. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 Versailles, 
 nth August 1843. 
 
 The whole morning has been spent by me 
 under our favourite trees trying by force of 
 reading German to make the long hours pass 
 more quickly. They are very long these hours 
 passed without you. The weather is lovely, 
 that at least is one satisfactory bit in the gener- 
 ally muddled state of my affairs. I can walk 
 all day if I like, and be troubled neither by 
 
Lxxvii PROSPER MERIM^E'S 'INCONNUE' 85 
 
 undue heat nor rain. Very few people are here ; 
 
 the two pretty children of Lady C- have 
 
 been left in charge of their nurse while her 
 ladyship disports herself and her toilettes at 
 Trouville ; old M. de L still pursues his re- 
 searches in the gallery for his Notes on Painting 
 (what an awful book it will be when finished !) ; 
 and an American family, who afford me much 
 amusement, are about the only humans I see. 
 This Transatlantic party are delicious, each one 
 perfect in his or her particular way. They 
 have actually crossed that terrible Atlantic 
 Ocean, and made a journey that would stagger 
 most people, for the purpose of educating and 
 marrying their daughter in foreign lands. I 
 must begin my description with the daughter 
 she is so much the most important member. 
 She is lovely a charming figure, complexion 
 like smooth young rose leaves, wavy brown 
 hair, good eyes, and teeth quite perfect But 
 her voice, Man Dieu ! her voice ! Do they 
 never teach their children to modulate their 
 voices in that country ? It is something quite 
 too awful. This girl comes into the salle d, 
 manger dressed delightfully, a trifle much, and 
 with diamonds in her ears that in England 
 would be worn at a Court ball ; but she is so 
 pretty that she almost produces the effect of a 
 picture, so the dressing, even in its inappropri- 
 ateness, would not matter so much if only she 
 would remain a picture and not open her lips. 
 
86 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE lxx vii 
 
 But that shrill, unmusical voice, high over every 
 other sound in the room, is quite terrible. No 
 matter who is talking, even the rest of her own 
 party, she still screams on like a pretty young 
 peacock until one's ears tingle. The plump 
 mamma, wearing more diamonds, does not 
 seem to mind this in the least, or in fact any- 
 thing else which her daughter does or does not 
 do. She is quite placid under all circumstances, 
 and plainly shows that she is a generation 
 behind the girl in education and culture. The 
 papa is going to encounter the Atlantic again, 
 and be absent from his family for months, that 
 he may make more dollars for his family to 
 spend, and be able to send supplies for the 
 trousseau of Mademoiselle, for the pretty daughter 
 is engaged, the fiance being no less a personage 
 
 than little Prince P , that small attache of 
 
 the Sardinian Legation in London whom I 
 always thought the most forlorn, moth-eaten 
 human specimen I ever met. He is crible de 
 dettes, and they say scrofulous, but his couronne 
 ferm^e, like charity, covers a multitude of sins. 
 They gladly pay his debts, these good demo- 
 cratic Americans, with their hardly -earned 
 dollars, and still more gladly bestow upon him 
 their sweet young daughter, blooming with 
 health and beauty. The sight of it all is rather 
 disgusting ; one is apt to hope better things 
 from a new country claiming to be free from 
 old-world follies. 
 
Lxxix PROSPER ME RIM RE'S ' INCONNUE ' 87 
 
 The owl's feather came safely, but was not 
 needed for the purpose you mention. Even 
 without it under my pillow as a dream talis- 
 man, my sleeping as well as waking thoughts 
 are seldom given to any one but yourself. 
 Hardly a safe employment for them, I know, 
 and each day I tell myself that the time has 
 come to seek something else as mental food, 
 while evening returns only to find the old 
 thoughts occupied as usual. Adieu ! I await 
 your letters with impatience. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 September 1843. 
 Ah, why did we meet again ! Why disturb 
 a memory grown calm and peaceful by an 
 actuality gloomy, stormy, mutually reproachful ! 
 What is this strange, tormenting, mysterious 
 affinity which seems to bind us together when 
 reason, simple common sense even, so plainly 
 says that there is something so radically differ- 
 ent in our natures that union of spirit is a 
 simple impossibility ? This sort of thing, this 
 meeting and fruitless regretting, is silly childish- 
 ness, it has not even the dignity of madness to 
 
88 A^f A UTHOR 'S LO VE Lxxx 
 
 excuse it. Come, in common sense, let us end 
 the whole matter. You are leaving Paris 
 almost immediately ; good, then do not let us 
 meet again ! I will wish you bon voyage as a 
 friend. We will write to each other sometimes, 
 forget each other gradually, and all is said. 
 This is the only sensible thing we can do ; let 
 us be sensible, and let this be the end. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Paris, SepteDiher. 
 
 I am glad that you did not accept my letter 
 and its suggestions as final, I am glad that we 
 did meet before you left, and that we were 
 sensible enough to part friends the best and 
 dearest of friends. After all that we have been 
 to each other, any other course than this would, 
 I think, hardly have proved us to possess much 
 spirit, to say nothing of plain common sense. 
 
 To - morrow I leave Paris and go to Hann- 
 over for a time to revisit my old haunts, but 
 how long I shall remain I do not yet know. 
 I send this to Avignon, and shall hope for a 
 long letter from there. Send me some archi- 
 tectural sketches ; you must remember our dis- 
 cussion about them. 
 
Lxxxi PROSPER MRRIMEE'S INCONNVE ' 
 
 LXXXl 
 
 Hannover, 
 i()th September 1843. 
 
 Me void once more in the old familiar 
 German town where long ago I struggled with 
 the terrible German language. I never told 
 you, I think, of my first winter here, but it was 
 amusing enough, or rather it is amusing to look 
 back upon ; at the time there were decided 
 drawbacks to merriment My guardian was 
 not sorry when I petitioned to be sent to 
 Germany in order to learn the language on the 
 spot (for well I knew that any attempt on my 
 part to learn it elsewhere would be a conspicu- 
 ous failure ! ), and he promptly packed me off 
 under charge of some old ladies travelling in 
 this direction. I was deposited like a parcel 
 " this side up with care," and ** fragile," marked 
 in the corners. My new abode was the sunny 
 little room looking out upon the Georg Strasse, 
 where, for the sake of old associations, I am 
 to-day writing to you. Remember at that time 
 I was innocent of the smallest knowledge of 
 the language which more than once lately I 
 have employed to tell you of the state of my 
 affections. Ich Hebe dich meant nothing to me 
 then ; I could not have said it or written it 
 had the refusal to do so been extermination. 
 Frau Finanzrathin Muthmann was the unpro- 
 
90 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE lxxxi 
 
 nounceable title I was told to give the fat, 
 shapeless woman who was lady of the house, 
 and who, to add to her slender widow's income, 
 consented to take young women like myself 
 anxious to learn the language of the Fatherland. 
 Glibly enough can I say her name now, but 
 then it was not so easy. There were two 
 daughters a pretty blue-eyed Fraulein Marie, 
 about twenty, and a child with long fair braids 
 of wonderful hair in a marvellous state of tidi- 
 ness, and one son, a lout called Heinrich. 
 The name has always been odious to me since, 
 for its owner fell in love with me, and my first 
 experience of German beer and German Schwdr- 
 merei combined did not capture my fancy. 
 He was always drinking beer, that odious 
 Heinrich, even when indulging in the wildest 
 metaphors to express his passion for myself. 
 Had I engaged an apartment in the Tower of 
 Babel during its building I should have been 
 equally enlightened in regard to what was 
 going on around me as I was for the first week 
 or so in this little German household to which 
 I must not forget to add one other pupil, but 
 one who was so far advanced in German that 
 she scorned any other tongue ; and a cousin of 
 Fraulein Marie a tall Prussian officer who I 
 am convinced kept his ramrod down his back 
 when it was not needed for active service. 
 Never shall I forget how I disgraced myself 
 the first time this gallant soldier appeared upon 
 
Lxxxi PROSPER MERIMJ&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 91 
 
 the scene. I had never seen the military 
 social salute the heels clicked sharply to- 
 gether ; the quick downward jerk of the head, 
 and instant raising of it again as though a 
 snap-hinge united the skull of the magnificent 
 animal to his spine ; the spasmodic motion 
 from one person to another, for to each in turn 
 must the whole performance be strictly gone 
 through with, from the first stiff taking of 
 position to the very end of the hinge movement. 
 Oh how I laughed and almost suffocated in my 
 vain efforts to prevent the entire company from 
 knowing what so convulsed me ! Later we 
 became very good friends the Herr Lieutenant 
 and I ; he did not schwdrm for me as much as 
 Heinrich did, and in consequence I found him 
 more agreeable. It was a pleasant life enough ; 
 I worked hard at mastering the language, and 
 enjoyed the walks to beautiful Herrenhausen, 
 and the afternoon concerts under the trees, and 
 the early evenings at theatre or opera. We 
 had seats in the Fremden loge near the stage 
 for the better hearing of the German words, 
 and the first tenor, from whom three times a 
 week I took singing lessons, made eyes at me 
 in the sentimental parts of his role. It was a 
 new sensation to be made love to so very 
 publicly and yet with no one understanding 
 but myself, and I found it quite romantic. 
 Yes, it was a decidedly pleasant life, even the 
 Wiirst tasted good, and I learned to drink my 
 
92 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ixxxiii 
 
 little flasche of Tivoli beer quite comfortably 
 before going to bed on theatre nights. We 
 were all tucked up and asleep about ten o'clock, 
 the plays beginning there before six, and not 
 having you to dream about in those early 
 days I slept soundly, and was all ready for the 
 day's work when I awoke. A simple, pleasant 
 life, and I like to recall it as I sit in my old 
 room to-day and feel myself so changed. 
 
 I liked your description of Avignon. The 
 palace of the Popes I remember well, and a 
 little shrine on the old bridge struck me as so 
 pretty and picturesque that I made a sketch of 
 it which I still have. I saw a good deal, I think, 
 in those few months when I was abroad, but 
 I long to see more, that is the worst of travel- 
 ling ; the cry is always more, more, and one is 
 never satisfied. 
 
 Write to me of all your wanderings ; I can 
 read as many pages as you will send, and not 
 tire of so doing. Adieu. 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 Paris, i^fth November xZ/i,'}^. 
 Arrived here last evening. To see you 
 again can it be possible ! I shall be free all 
 day to-morrow. 
 
Lxxxvii PROSPER MARIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 93 
 
 LXXXIV 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 Paris, i 3M December, 
 We are absolute fools, no other word will 
 do. To part friends, to write each to other as 
 friends, to have reached a wise calm phase of 
 existence, to count upon meeting again as 
 friends with all save happy memories of the past 
 blotted out, and to make an absurd fiasco of 
 everything as we did to-day ! The contempt I 
 feel for myself passes words, and not to put it 
 more strongly, my respect for you is decidedly 
 less. I write no more after signing myself, as 
 I now do for the last time, M. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 Friday^ \\th January 1844. 
 No, you received no letter from me on 
 Tuesday, for the simple reason that I did not 
 
94 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE lxxxix 
 
 write one, nor did I this year send you a New 
 Year Greeting as I did last. If you have kept 
 my letters a foolish thing to do by the way 
 read that one of last New Year's Day over again ; 
 if I remember rightly it contains sufficient 
 tenderness to content a man for a long time. 
 I am rather ill, and have been taking care of 
 my aunt, who is with me, and who is more ill 
 still. This must be my excuse for a short and 
 absolutely uninteresting letter, a thing of ink 
 and paper not deserving the name of letter, but 
 all that I propose sending you, therefore you 
 must, I fear, make the best you can of it. 
 
 If you have time for such trivialities make 
 me a sketch of our woods. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 Paris, Sunday^ nth March, 
 
 After all, I find that it will be absolutely 
 impossible for me to meet you to-morrow. I 
 am sorry, but I really cannot arrange the walk, 
 a bientdf. 
 
PROSPER M&RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 95 
 
 xc 
 
 Thursday Mornings \^th March. 
 
 I am so excited I can hardly wait to hear 
 the result. Of course you will be elected, of 
 that there can be no doubt. When I next see 
 you you will be enrolled among the Immortals, 
 and I shall have a grave Academician all for 
 myself! Dieii votis garde. 
 
 XCI 
 
 Friday, 1 6th March 1844. 
 
 Laugh at me if you will, but I could not 
 help it, I cried when it was all over and you 
 were really nominated ! I know it was the 
 acme of silliness, but I had worked myself up 
 to a tremendous pitch of excitement ; I do not 
 think I could have stood your losing the nomina- 
 tion, for in spite of all you say I feel sure that 
 in your heart you cared about it. You must 
 be so busy I will not take up a moment longer 
 of your time, only send warmest congratulations, 
 best wishes, love. Adieu, mon vMrable I 
 
 XCII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
96 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE 
 
 XCIII 
 
 Of course I saw what you sent me " en plelne 
 Academie" and naturally my first impulse was 
 to screen myself behind the friendly hat of my 
 next neighbour, in blank terror lest she and all 
 -the world beside should see it too, and know 
 that it was meant for me ! How could you do 
 such a dangerous and compromising thing? and 
 how sweet of you to think of me at such a 
 moment and to do it ! 
 
 Your speech did not seem in the least too 
 long, and I enjoyed it immensely. But I will 
 write no more ; we are to meet soon, in less than 
 an hour now, and I can say all the much that 
 still remains to be said in person. Had I 
 known it was so late I should not have written, 
 this will hardly reach you before it is time for 
 you to come for me. A vous de coeur. 
 
 XCIV 
 
 Paris, 27//; April 1844. 
 Your last letter was so humble, you your- 
 self so lamblike and mild during our last walk, 
 that the soft and unusual glow of your complai- 
 sance still floats around me like a halo. My 
 friends do not know me jn this effulgent, radiant 
 state, and I assure you my success at dinners 
 
xciv PROSPER MMIMEE'S " INCONNUE ' 97 
 
 and balls is something quite phenomenal. Does 
 this announcement enrage you, or are you still 
 like the tenderest morsel of spring mutton ? 
 As I passed the butchers' shops to-day and saw- 
 paper roses pinned on their prize sheep, I was 
 strongly tempted to stop and buy some to send 
 to you at Strasburg. 
 
 I am just so happy that it is a pleasure 
 merely to live. Nothing particular has happened 
 to produce this exaggerated state of feeling, but 
 it is in the sweet " youngness " of the year, the 
 tenderness of the first spring foliage, the tiny little 
 leaves uncurling so gently, the life in the balmy 
 air like a pure wine exhilarating but not grossly 
 intoxicating, the butterfly children with innocent 
 eyes toddling along the Champs Elysees, the 
 sky all dotted with fleecy rainbow-tinted clouds, 
 studding the heavens with sapphires and opals 
 which flash in the mellow sunshine. Only to 
 live on such a day as this is pure happiness, 
 but to live with the knowledge that another 
 heart beats with you and for you, another warm, 
 living, loving human being thinks of and cares 
 for you, ah, voila happiness doubled and in- 
 tensified. Can you wonder that I am gay when 
 I feel and know all this, and when I am in this 
 loveliest city by the Seine, this brilliant flashing 
 "Paris? Come back to me here, and I promise 
 that our thread of life shall be taken up again 
 where it was dropped, as though no break or 
 pause of any kind had come in the weaving of 
 H 
 
98 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE xcvi 
 
 it. Come back to me, but quickly, while the 
 sunshine lasts. 
 
 XCV 
 
 Paris, 
 Tuesday^ ^oth July. 
 
 How long it is since I have written to you, 
 but meeting every day was better, was it not ? 
 better than the best of letters. Now I suppose 
 that little interlude is over, and that we both 
 must " to life again," an outside, other people's 
 life, a noisy, bustling, ordinary life. Well, 
 dreaming for ever would, I suppose, end in 
 softening of the brain, and we still have heads, 
 although for so long now hearts have been 
 trumps. I feel that I must make an effort, and 
 seriously pull myself together, must go away 
 somewhere and show the world, my portion of 
 it at least, that I still do live, and am tolerably 
 sane. How much longer shall you be in Paris ? 
 I ought to go to the country almost imme- 
 diately, but I promise to see you again first. 
 
 XCVI 
 
 Paris, i 8//^ August. 
 You see I am still here in spite of your sar- 
 castic suggestion the other day, that it was 
 quite possible for me to take " French leave." 
 
xcviii PROSPER M^RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 99 
 
 Let me know to-morrow the date when you 
 must leave Paris, that I may make my arrange- 
 ments accordingly. 
 
 XCVII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 Paris, 
 
 5M September 1844. 
 
 After changing all my plans and remaining 
 on here simply for the pleasure of seeing you 
 again, I find our interview of the day before 
 yesterday, and your letter of Monday 3d, just 
 punishment for the betise I have evidently com- 
 mitted in doing so. You bid me an eternal 
 adieu, ''^pendant que vous avez du courageP 
 Merci. You suggest that we can love each 
 other only at a distance, that perhaps when we 
 have both reached a comfortable old age we 
 may meet again with pleasure, but that while 
 waiting for this millennium you beg I will in 
 both happiness and unhappiness remember you. 
 You also say that no anger remains with you, 
 only a great sadness. You still further add 
 (and the sentence makes me think you must be 
 dying) that you hope now I will pardon you. 
 
 For a lately nominated Academician the 
 
loo AN AUTHOR'S LOVE Ci 
 
 composition as a whole of this most extra- 
 ordinary letter strikes me as a trifle weak, if 
 you do not mind my saying so. As an ex- 
 ample of French style it may be all right, but 
 in crude English it produces upon my mind the 
 idea of a mental feebleness which is simply 
 incredible, when I remember who it is that 
 writes it. Have you already softening of the 
 brain ? I feared it in my own case, should our 
 idle dreaming be indefinitely prolonged, but I 
 did not seriously anticipate it as the end of 
 your career. 
 
 Wake up, take a tonic, cut your finger, do 
 anything to regain your scattered senses, and 
 meet me at two o'clock to-morrow, Thursday, 
 6th September ; if you do not do this it will 
 indeed be adieu with a vengeance. 
 
 XCIX 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 C 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CI 
 
 14M September 1844. 
 
 From Poitiers you write me that my last 
 letter reached you, but you make no sort of 
 
CI PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' loi 
 
 allusion to two previous ones in which were 
 one or two questions which, if you remember, I 
 also asked you at ouit j-lc^st ' raeeting*^ m Paris, 
 when after all we dicf'fiot "have, that final tragic 
 parting, did not say tl>at eternal ' fcdi^iir which 
 you were to express while you still had du 
 courage ! Oh, how infantile we are to quarrel 
 as we do, kiss and make friends, and go on 
 writing as calmly as possible after our little 
 tempests in a teapot. You have a way of not 
 answering questions which is very reprehensible, 
 but it is no use for me to waste time in repeat- 
 ing them, for they were rather frivolous, and 
 anything less frivolous than I feel to-day could 
 hardly be imagined. 
 
 There is a man here who interests me 
 strangely, a man who is in great mental trouble, 
 and whom I have met in a most extraordinary 
 way. I do not yet quite understand how it 
 came about ; how a clergyman of the Church of 
 England should take me of all people into his 
 confidence ; how he ever came to tell me of his 
 doubts and his terrible experience. It was one 
 of those strange confessions which are some- 
 times made by the most reticent men to the 
 most unlikely of listeners. A mutual friend 
 mentioned his name to me one day as we all 
 stood at the hotel door together, he merely 
 bowed, and a moment later moved away, and I 
 did not give him a second thought. The 
 following afternoon late, I found myself far 
 
I02 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE Ci 
 
 away from our inn, and a sudden mountain 
 storm came up before I could find shelter of 
 any kindr' It was 'not only an unpleasant but 
 a dangerous position, for the lightning plays 
 odd*' tricks 'In 'tHes^Jwild' rocky districts, and is 
 no respecter of persons. " I confess to having 
 been a good deal frightened, and as I looked 
 helplessly about the sight of the tall Anglican 
 priest I had met the day before was a very 
 welcome one, he was at least a human being 
 and a man, and might know of some hut where 
 we could find temporary safety. As it happened 
 he did, and for more than an hour we were 
 together in an empty cabin on the hillside, used 
 by the goat-herds in the summer-time. The 
 storm increased, and the danger of it was very 
 evident. How it came about, I repeat, I do not 
 know, but the conversation turned upon fear, 
 trust in God, and faith. Shall I ever forget 
 that man's stricken, haggard face as he told me 
 his story ! Told me, while the lightning played 
 about us in forked tongues of flame, of his 
 simple, childlike, unquestioning belief in God 
 and Christ, in angels and in an old-fashioned 
 cloven-footed devil. How he had preached the 
 word, and taught plain Christian Bible truths 
 such as he himself had learned at his mother's 
 knee. How, little by little, doubts came, ques- 
 tionings arose, faith became clouded, how the 
 wonderful story of Christianity which he had 
 reverently received, and in which he had rever- 
 
CI PROSPER M&RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE' 103 
 
 ently instructed others, took gradually but 
 surely the hues of a lovely fairy tale, which 
 man's intellect could only smile at, not seriously 
 accept. How the trouble grew greater and 
 books and study only made it worse, until in 
 order to remain an honest man he had fled from 
 church and people, taking his nominal holiday 
 for a season, knowing well in his heart that it 
 was a farewell for all time. As the storm 
 increased the man's excitement grew ; I think 
 he forgot that I was there, and talked only to 
 himself or the spirits he recognised in the storm 
 shrieks. Oh, it was awful, the great agony of 
 a soul in doubt. Never can I forget the un- 
 utterable horror of it. The tortured pain, the 
 seething agony, the writhing despair of that 
 human soul ! It was an infinity of anguish 
 compared to which the physical crushing of 
 bone or rending of flesh or muscle can be 
 nothing. It was sport for devils, rare mirth for 
 the arch-fiend himself bored with the puny 
 impotence of man in fashioning evil. Rich 
 rare sport for the old pagan to watch a nine- 
 teenth-century conscience so saturated with 
 intellectual culture that it had thrown old 
 beliefs to the winds, and denied as fables God 
 and Satan equally. To be doubted must con- 
 vulse the power of evil with devilish delight, 
 and I can fancy him evolving out of his own 
 inner devil's -doubted consciousness a rare re- 
 finement of revenge for the presumption of this 
 
1 04 AN A UTHOk 'S LOVE CI 
 
 clarified nineteenth-century intellect, even while 
 the anguished soul told of his doubts and of the 
 peace gone from him for ever. The storm 
 cleared slightly, and the lightning ceased. The 
 man before me was still looking out over the 
 mountains with wide unseeing eyes, unconscious, 
 I was convinced, that any one was near him. 
 I hated to leave him alone with his great agony, 
 yet I dreaded more to have him come out of 
 that odd trance -like state, and perhaps re- 
 member that he had spoken words before a 
 stranger which he would rather have died than 
 uttered. So very quietly I stole away and left 
 him alone with his tortured soul. It was the 
 kindest thing that I could do. He did not 
 appear at dinner that night, and the next morn- 
 ing very early he was gone. 
 
 No, I do not feel frivolous to-day. At this 
 moment I question whether I shall ever feel so 
 again. 
 
 This story will not appeal to you, and I 
 much wonder why I tell it, unless it is that the 
 habit of writing to you all that happens in my 
 life has grown upon me. You need not give 
 me your views of the incident or refer to it. 
 I know beforehand all that you can say, it will 
 only be a repetition of your former words, " Do 
 you believe in the devil ? The whole question 
 lies in this. If he alarms you, provide against 
 his carrying you off," and so on to the end of 
 the chapter. 
 
cii PROSPER MRIM:E'S 'INCONNUE ' 105 
 
 Think no more of my story. 
 
 The forests here are Hke old friends, because 
 they remind me of those near Paris, and of our 
 walks together in them. When shall we meet 
 there ? when do you return ? I wish that you 
 were here to-day, I would gladly forget in your 
 wit, and your mockery of all things serious, the 
 solemnness of that man's soul-torture, but I said 
 we were to allude to that no more. I could 
 love you to-day as madly as you, even you, 
 could wish, why are you not here ? You would 
 no longer jeer at me for being a marble statue, 
 formal, cold, forbidding ; it would be the old 
 cry over again only more intensified " I love 
 you ! Love me back!" To-night I hunger and 
 thirst for you, I love you with every fibre of 
 my being, madly, unfearingly, with a passionate 
 recklessness I have never felt before I Ah, 
 thank God that you are not here ! 
 
 CII 
 
 D , nth November. 
 
 I have been able to get out of the trip to 
 the Italian Lakes, therefore shall be in Paris 
 about the first week in December. Seinpre a 
 te. 
 
io6 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cm 
 
 cm 
 
 Paris, d^th December 1844. 
 
 There is such a passion of antagonism in 
 my soul to-day that I know well the last thing 
 I should do is to write, yet I do write. I was 
 very angry with you when we parted. You are 
 entity to a degree absolutely absurd, and with 
 it all you are very " hard." Do you not know 
 this ? can you not yourself feel it, without my 
 being forced to tell you ? I have been tres 
 souffrante^ and I know that I am irritable to a 
 degree. Everything seems going wrong, and 
 the edges of my life are surely more frayed and 
 ragged than they have any right to be, more 
 wofuUy uneven than the edges of any one else's 
 life. Why cannot we have things when the 
 longing for them is upon us ? Before we eat 
 our hearts out with aching vain desire ? Before 
 all the gilt is worn off the gingerbread and the 
 cake itself has grown stale and musty? Why 
 not ! oh why not ! You may think me un- 
 grateful to write this, when one thing is mine 
 which I should prize, and I do prize above all 
 others, and when one infinite happiness has 
 come to me in that we have met again. And 
 you will be fairly right. I am ungrateful, and as 
 I said before, am to-day frightfully antagonistic 
 towards men and things. Why is it, I wonder, 
 that women often wish to be men, but no 
 
cv PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 107 
 
 mortal ear has yet listened to the longing from 
 a masculine heart to be a woman ? The Jews 
 carry the idea further still ; in the service of 
 their synagogues the males chant in sententious 
 self-satisfaction, standing the while in the main 
 body of the building, " God, I thank Thee that 
 Thou hast not made me a woman." Above, in 
 the gallery regions, to which the females have 
 been banished, comes the response in much 
 more humble tones " God, I thank Thee that 
 Thou hast made me according to Thy will." 
 To-day I am not humble, I cannot echo any 
 such self-abasing sentiment, I would be any- 
 things I think rather than what I am. The 
 flowers of life have poisoned petals, their per- 
 fume is stifling, not exhilarating. Bref, I have 
 blue devils badly, so will write no more. 
 
 CIV 
 
 Paris, Thursday, yth February. 
 Let me hear how the reception at the 
 Academy goes off, that is, if you have time to 
 send me a line. 
 
 CV 
 
 Thursday Evening, yth February. 
 My warmest congratulations. Vous void a 
 full-fledged Academician. I was present at 
 
io8 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE CVI 
 
 your reception, but did not tell you beforehand 
 that I was going as you had said you would 
 be nervous if you fancied any of your friends 
 to be looking on. But it went off charmingly ; 
 of what had you been afraid ? And now for a 
 good long walk with the seven-league boots. 
 What hour will suit you best ? 
 
 CVI 
 
 D , 15M August 1845. 
 
 I am only just settled here, having got 
 through my wanderings in Germany with 
 
 Madame de C very much later than I 
 
 expected to. The old haunts are pleasantly 
 familiar ; I am quite glad to find myself amongst 
 them once more. 
 
 What is it within us that so quickly responds 
 to a real touch of the pathetic ? We read a 
 book, not particularly well written, perhaps 
 rather the reverse, and eminently stupid. One 
 sentence, one small line which comes unex- 
 pectedly in the middle of a page, touches us to 
 quick sympathy, hot tears come to our eyes, 
 and an odd wedge is in our throats. And it is 
 even more marked in real life, this prompt re- 
 sponse to pathos. I cried like a baby this 
 afternoon. A peasant girl in whom I took a 
 good deal of interest last summer married a 
 low quarrelsome brute who between drink and 
 
ovil PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 109 
 
 temper has made her Hfe a misery, and more 
 than once nearly murdered her in his fits of 
 drunken fury. Now he has done it quite, 
 killed her as surely ais Cain killed Abel, but she 
 by a loving lie persisted in saving him from a 
 righteously deserved death by the guillotine. I 
 went to see the poor thing this afternoon, all 
 that was left of her, for she was nothing but a 
 broken up mass of bones. " I fell from the hay- 
 loft, madame, it was so high no one could fall 
 from there and not be crushed, but I do not 
 mind dying, Francois is so good to me." Until 
 the very end the poor pretty thing kept repeat- 
 ing this pitiful lie which was to save her 
 husband, and she finally died with it upon her 
 lips. Has she been saved or damned by it ? 
 Who will dare to say ? 
 
 Life and its problems are too intricate for 
 me ; of one thing only do I seem to be quite 
 quite sure, I love you. 
 
 CVII 
 
 Paris, 2>^ Septe^nber 1845. 
 In the soft September dark I have been 
 sitting thinking of you, and of our speedy 
 meeting. Two of my friends here are ill, and 
 I have promised not to go over to England 
 without them. The fear expressed in your last 
 letter, therefore, is for the present at least un- 
 
no AN AUTHOR'S LOVE oviil 
 
 founded ; Lady M will not just yet have 
 
 the chance of expounding her theories as to 
 " the baseness of being in love," and I individu- 
 ally cannot become either -more or less English 
 than I already am from contact with les 
 Anglais. Whether I can remain here until the 
 20th, the date you mention as a probable one 
 for your return, is a question. I will do my 
 best, of that you may rest assured. Do take 
 care of yourself and do not work too hard. It 
 is all very well to accomplish what you under- 
 take, but there are bounds to all things, and I 
 fear you are rather apt to overdo it. For 
 myself, I am splendidly well and the weather 
 is perfect. If only you were here, what walks, 
 what talks, we might have. Do make a speedy 
 end of all your tiresome old deputes and come 
 back. You say you prefer the court of a despot 
 to the sort of existence you are now leading. 
 A la bonne heure^ there is nothing easier for 
 you to have. I will be the despot with all the 
 pleasure in the world ; the court shall be that 
 of love, and you shall be prime minister. Come 
 back, and see if you do not like the post. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 Paris, \st November 1845. 
 It is too lonely here without you ; every- 
 thing reminds me of the " chill October," which 
 
cix PROSPER M^RIM^E'S 'INCONNUE' in 
 
 together we found only too full of delight by 
 day and happy dreams by night. I am off for 
 London to-morrow, to pay my English visits 
 while you are sunning yourself in Spain making 
 wicked love to dark-eyed Sefioras. Write me 
 long accounts of the country ; it is one of the 
 many desires of my heart to see it. If you 
 remain in the land of bull-fights and lace man- 
 tillas through December, only returning to Paris 
 in January, I should not very much wonder if 
 you found me there on your return. The 
 Scotch visits I have given up ; it is too cold to 
 go so far north,, and my English friends will 
 surely see enough of me in the space of time 
 between now and January. 
 
 CIX 
 
 Beechwood Hall, Sussex, 
 loih November. 
 
 It is certainly very nice to find myself back 
 amidst old friends and old scenes after wander- 
 ing so long, and surely the English have brought 
 the art of living to a perfection unknown in any 
 other land. I confess I take kindly to the 
 smoothness and polished culture of it all, the 
 luxurious homes, and well-trained servants and 
 thoroughly-groomed horses, and the business of 
 life reduced to a well -organised succession of 
 pleasures. There are probably " hitches " of 
 
112 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cix 
 
 some sort somewhere, but as a mere guest at 
 delightful country-houses one never discovers 
 them. It was almost dark when I reached the 
 little country station some three miles from this 
 fascinating old place, but a brougham was wait- 
 ing for me, and a tall footman respectfully 
 handed me a warm cloak and rug, very welcome 
 in the chilly November dusk. After driving 
 along country roads past model cottages and 
 the ivy-covered stone church, we came to a long 
 avenue where the great trees stood like sentinels, 
 and finally reached an open door with a cheerful 
 welcoming light streaming through it, and more 
 tall respectful servitors waiting at the steps. 
 The air of being expected always gives one a 
 pleasant sensation, no matter how often it is 
 repeated. The first hall entered was a toler- 
 ably large square one, with an organ standing 
 on one side, a wide fireplace opposite, and one 
 or two chairs and tables. A double oak door 
 and heavy portieres divide this from the hall 
 proper, a huge apartment with two more fire- 
 places, fur rugs, divans, lounging -chairs, tall 
 plants, and a billiard-table ; armour and stained 
 glass windows breaking the length of the walls. 
 From this central hall open innumerable rooms, 
 in one of which I found my hostess and several 
 members of the house party, around a cheery 
 tea-table. 
 
 Lady G is as pretty and delightful as 
 
 ever, he looks decidedly older than his age 
 
cix PROSPER MiRIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 113 
 
 warrants. The beautiful Mrs. W is here, 
 
 also her husband. Poor man, his life is one 
 long apology for the stupid airs she gives her- 
 self. There are one or two stray men, an 
 attache of the Austrian Embassy with a very 
 fierce moustache, a delightful man in the Foreign 
 Office, and last, not least, Mr. Gladstone. How 
 he towers above other mortals ! I had never 
 met him, and am now delighted at the chance, 
 whether he will deign to speak to so unimport- 
 ant an individual as myself remains to be seen. 
 Could he only know my immense admiration 
 for his mental qualities and the amount of 
 pleasure he would give me by so doing, he 
 might be persuaded. Every one in the country 
 is talking about him. 
 
 More people are coming to-morrow, amongst 
 others, an American woman who sings well. 
 Some of the party seem to expect great " sport " 
 from this particular guest, and I feel strongly 
 tempted to whisper a friendly word of warning 
 in her ear. But would she accept it as friendly ? 
 On the whole, I think the experiment too doubt- 
 ful to risk, Americans are such an unknown 
 quantity to me. I feel sure that I am going to 
 enjoy my visit ; the human elements are interest- 
 ing, and there is something wonderfully attractive 
 in the combination of magnificence and comfort, 
 stateliness and unconventionality, about the life 
 led in these grand old Tudor mansions standing 
 in their acres of sloping wooded parks. Conti- 
 I 
 
14 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE 
 
 nental life with all its charm possesses nothing 
 equivalent to it. From here I expect to go to 
 
 Lord A 's in Kent, not far from here ; I long 
 
 for your letter from Madrid, and how I envy 
 you the Murillos ! A riverderci. 
 
 CX 
 
 Paris, \%th January 1846. 
 
 Can there be any being in existence less 
 interesting than a woman with the toothache, 
 or anything on earth more unpleasant than the 
 toothache itself? I flatter myself that I pos- 
 sess a fair amount of courage in most things, 
 but where a dentist and dentistry is concerned, 
 I own it frankly, I am found wanting. Impos- 
 sible for me to venture out with my tooth as it 
 now is, and I cannot make up my mind to let 
 a dentist see it. 
 
 How good of you to send me so large a 
 donation for the poor family I told you of ; but 
 I should not have said anything about it, I 
 intended to help them entirely myself, and ought 
 not to have troubled you in regard to them. 
 You are too generous. 
 
 CXI 
 
 Paris, lothjune. 
 
 Are you better this morning, less cross than 
 you were yesterday, less dictatorial and more 
 
cxiir PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 115 
 
 human ? For your own sake I hope so, as I 
 do not propose seeing you for some time to 
 come, it will not make so much difference to 
 me as it must to you. The books I will send 
 a little later, one of them I lent to a friend who 
 has not yet returned it, but promises to do so 
 before this afternoon. What heavenly weather. 
 
 CXII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CXIII 
 
 Dieppe, 5M August 1846. 
 In an old worm-eaten book which I once 
 found in a garret, its title-page gone and the name 
 of its author unknown, I read the following 
 legend: "The world was very new, but few people 
 as yet were in it, and those had not learned 
 how much of evil and sorrow and unhappiness 
 earth can hold ; they still kept some of the 
 freshness and glad newness of life, too much, 
 so Satan thought as he left his own kingdom 
 and came to earth for a morning stroll. So 
 few souls had as yet come down to hell that he 
 had plenty of time to spare, and was of far too 
 restless and energetic a disposition to waste the 
 moments in idleness. As he wandered on in 
 the world above, his ill temper increased ; every- 
 
ii6 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxiii 
 
 thin^^ looked so fresh and sweet, the few mortals 
 he came across were so simple, so kind to each 
 other, so innocently happy. * This will never 
 do/ Satan finally exclaimed, 'this is entirely 
 wrong. I shall be defrauded of half my popula- 
 tion if this sort of thing goes on ; hell will 
 be horribly dreary unless I can get some of 
 these nice smiling people down there.' It was 
 in a garden that Satan made these observations, 
 and he sat down to ponder seriously and work 
 out some little problem for stirring up these 
 placid mortals that they might the more quickly 
 come to grief on earth, and change their 
 quarters to his domain below. Now, as a rule, 
 Satan did not think much of gardens, although 
 he had a rather pleasant recollection of the 
 Garden of Eden, where his first venture in tempt- 
 ing a woman had been tolerably successful 
 But flowers he despised. The very name For- 
 get-me-not absolutely nauseated him ; why not 
 call it constancy at once a word he hated ; 
 the passion-flower held that within its purple 
 heart which Satan did not care to see, a 
 cross and nails positively made him shudder. 
 The violet meant humbleness, and the lily of 
 the valley modesty, the dark-eyed pansy deep 
 remembrance pah ! the names disgusted him ; 
 how silly those people were to like such things. 
 But stop ! none of these flowers just mentioned 
 seemed to be as attractive to the men and 
 women or even the children whom he was 
 
CXI II PROSPER MARIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 117 
 
 watching in the garden as still another. What 
 was this sweet fair thing they all seemed to 
 carry, or to wear, or to play with, this proud 
 imperial flower growing in such luxuriant pro- 
 fusion, tinted with every shade from deep deep 
 red to the softest flush of pink, or golden yellow 
 to palest cream and snowy white ? The rose, 
 the royal rose. Men toyed lightly with the 
 roses, women clasped them tenderly to their 
 breasts, children kissed them and stroked their 
 velvet leaves. A light like flame leaped into 
 Satan's eyes, a fierce lurid light so scorching in 
 its power that men and women said suddenly 
 in surprise, * How warm it is, how sultry the 
 day has turned, and so quickly too.' And the 
 children languidly stopped playing, and all the 
 roses seemed to droop. Satan left the garden, 
 and wasted no more time on earth ; he had 
 plenty of work to do down below. Going into 
 his well-fitted laboratory he looked with pardon- 
 able pride upon the rows of bottles and jars 
 ranged upon shelves, the while carefully select- 
 ing one here and there, and placing all those 
 chosen together on one separate shelf. Then 
 when he had enough, he complacently read the 
 labels of those set apart : Rapturous Joy ; 
 Recklessness ; Human Tears ; Heart's Blood ; 
 Mad Delight ; Satiety ; Contempt ; Peaceful- 
 ness ; Hope ; Faith ; Despair ; Fool's Paradise ; 
 Pride ; Self-abasement ; Distrust ; Agony. 
 A smile of grim satisfaction lighted Satan's 
 
ii8 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxiii 
 
 dark clever face. He picked out an empty 
 jar larger than the others, took off the top and 
 placed it beside him, ready ; then he got a 
 large bowl, a spoon, and a ladle ; then carefully 
 he poured a certain quantity from each bottle, 
 not measuring them, but guessing pretty accu- 
 rately just what proportion of each was needed 
 for the hell's broth he meant to brew ; then 
 with his spoon he mixed them all together in 
 the bowl, and with the ladle dipped out the 
 thick blood -red liquid, pouring it into the 
 waiting jar. After carefully covering this, he 
 labelled it in large letters LOVE, put back 
 the various bottles, chose out of a drawer three 
 or four paint-brushes of different sizes, and was 
 about to leave the laboratory when a sudden 
 thought struck him. He laughed heartily, 
 ' Jove, to think that I had almost forgotten the 
 perfume. This pretty scientific mixture will 
 deepen the colours but kill the scent, which is 
 of celestial manufacture, not intended to stand 
 much handling from hell. I must dust a per- 
 fume over the roses after I have painted them, 
 so sweet that it will deceive the most learned 
 botanist, then the work will be complete, and 
 thousands of men and women will come down 
 to me.' Satan at this added to the jar and 
 the paint-brushes a package of fine gold-dust 
 powder, and left his laboratory, locking the 
 door behind him. His preparations had taken 
 him longer than he had expected, and he had 
 
cxin PROSPER M^RIMM'S'INCONNUE' 119 
 
 not much time to reach earth again if he would 
 get there at the only moment when it would 
 be possible for him to paint the roses success- 
 fully. This he knew would have to be done 
 as evening was falling and the flowers were 
 tired and thirsty from the day's heat. Just at 
 that hour they would drink the sweet fiery 
 liquid with eagerness, but if the dew of heaven 
 once fell and they drank that instead, it would 
 be useless offering them the devil broth. So 
 Satan hurried and reached the garden just in 
 time. The red roses drank thirstily of the 
 sparkling liquid he offered, and their colour 
 deepened to a dusky bloody tint royal in its 
 beauty. The pink ones drank and flushed to 
 warmer hues ; the yellow swallowed hastily, 
 while a living gold seemed to come to their 
 hearts. Only the white ones turned away. 
 They knew that at early dawn they were to be 
 gathered for a burial ; that cold crossed feet, 
 and folded hands, and a pure face paler than 
 themselves were lying hushed and still, waiting 
 to be strewn with their white faint fragrance 
 before all should be shut out together from the 
 gay world and the sunshine. So sad were the 
 white roses at what the morning must bring 
 that they turned away from Satan and his 
 broth, they would wait for the pearly dew from 
 heaven ; it was the last time they could drink 
 it. Back he went after this rebuff to the red 
 and yellow beauties, dusting them thickly with 
 
120 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxiii 
 
 the powder, giving them all that the white 
 roses had refused ; and then with the remainder 
 of the broth which the sad pale burial flowers 
 would not touch, he coloured the paint-brushes, 
 and tinted each folded leaf and petal, every 
 stem, and even the thorns. These latter 
 amused him hugely. * To think that God in 
 heaven gives the thorns to love, and leaves me 
 to colour it so beautifully and give it this 
 bewildering intoxicating scent ! His share of 
 the gift will only prick and give pain, mine 
 will bring wild delight and happiness to men 
 and women at the first, and bring men and 
 women down to me at the last. Ha, ha, a 
 very clever devil are you, Monsieur Satan ; 
 je vous fais mes compliments^ " 
 
 The legend ended here, or rather the book 
 was torn, and the last leaves missing, so I could 
 read no more, but I never forgot the story, and 
 have often meant to tell it to you. He is a 
 clever devil Monsieur Satan, and no mistake. 
 
 Just as it happened last year, I got off so 
 late to this place that I much fear I shall be 
 late in getting back to Paris. There are many 
 pleasant people here, and I am amusing myself, 
 but I do not forget to look out for a letter 
 from you when the post comes in. When do 
 you expect to return to Paris ? Take care of 
 yourself, and do not gather too many roses. 
 
cxv PR OS PER MERIMEE 'S ' INCONNUE ' 121 
 
 CXIV 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CXV 
 
 Dieppe, loth Aitgtist 1846. 
 It grows more and more amusing here, and 
 I am interested in watching several amourettes 
 in varying stages. One has reached the point 
 where the Divorce Court will be the only pos- 
 sible ending ; another promises considerable 
 excitement when the expected sposo arrives 
 upon the scene ; a third already gives hope of 
 orange blossoms and marriage settlements ; and 
 a fourth is sad. An old story, horribly mono- 
 tonous, but dolefully miserable. The wrong 
 people joined together, and the right ones dis- 
 covered too late. There will be no esclandre^ 
 nothing will happen, only four lives will be, or 
 rather are, blighted. One man will fly to 
 ambition for his comfort, another, eventually, 
 to drink. One woman will worry heaven with 
 her prayers until for very pity's sake heaven will 
 let her in ; the other will grow harder and 
 harder, never really sin, but do more harm by 
 her cold goodness than it is given most sinners 
 to accomplish. I watch them all in turn, as 
 the waves come in, break on the shore, and roll 
 back again to the sea, and I decide that the 
 
1 22 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cxvi 
 
 worst thing in life is its frightful monotony. 
 Are you in Paris ? Let me know, I cannot 
 get there yet. Would it give you pleasure if I 
 could come ? 
 
 CXVI 
 
 Dieppe, \st September. 
 
 A new month entered on to-day and I am 
 still here. Your picture of Paris was dreary, it 
 did not tempt me. I think one is almost more 
 delightfully alone with a person they care for 
 when in a crowd and a whirl than when just 
 they two souls are masters of the situation. 
 Perhaps this subtle distinction is what keeps me 
 here, it is almost worthy of you. The sea 
 seems to be sufficient for my every need at this 
 particular moment. Very few people are left 
 in the place, not one who interests me. The 
 amourettes and their respective dramatis personcs 
 have taken themselves off to other shores, the 
 plage is deserted, the rooms at the casino 
 empty, even the petits chevaux do no more racing 
 for reckless gamblers. Only the sea and I are 
 left, and we are wonderfully good friends. 
 When I am happy and find life all coitleiir de 
 rose, the sea dances and sparkles in the sun- 
 light and laughs with me for joy. When I 
 would dream it plashes gently beside me and 
 murmurs a low gurgling music that makes my 
 dream go smoothly and in tune ; and when I 
 
ex VII PROSPER mARIMAE'S " INCONNUE ' 123 
 
 feel that no gift in life is so good as strength to 
 do and to dare, to battle and to conquer, the 
 sea leaps and roars and towers in high-crested 
 might, dashing everything weak and feeble 
 aside as it rolls on with a noise of mighty- 
 thunder. No friend I ever had is so sympa- 
 thetic as the sea. Until we quarrel, the sea 
 and I, here I shall stop, so write to me here, and 
 miss me, while I love the sea. 
 
 CXVII 
 
 , \oth September. 
 
 I had to part from the sea after all, a tele- 
 gram having called me to this God-forsaken 
 place. Dieu^ how can people exist en province ! 
 It is awful. I trust devoutly that Paris will 
 see me again towards the end of the month, or 
 at the latest, in the first week of October. 
 Then I promise to be charming for you, and 
 how good it will seem to be together again. 
 You say that you are doing my picture, or 
 several of them ; what dress have you put me 
 in, is it grande toilette^ or neglig^e^ or what ? I 
 wonder if I can support existence in this awful 
 place until October. If I can only do so with- 
 out outraging the feelings of my rich godmother, 
 who has promised to leave me her valuable col- 
 lection of china, it is all I ask. 
 
124 AN A UTHOR 'S LO VE 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 , \^th September, 
 
 Do not expect me to write to you, I have no 
 ideas, I feel suffocated, and if I stay here much 
 longer I shall make violent love to the ciir^. 
 I should have done so already, only he squints. 
 My godmother fancies that she is consumptive, 
 and dreads a breath of air ; her dame de com- 
 pagfiie is really consumptive, and speaks below 
 her breath. The china is maddeningly beau- 
 tiful, or I could not endure being here a day 
 longer. I never did care very much about my 
 godmother ; she is a poseuse. The poor lady 
 companion I am sorry for, only my sympathy 
 frightens more than it pleases her ; she has had 
 so little in her life, poor thing, that she cannot 
 understand it. The cur^ comes to confess the 
 two old souls, and looks as if he would like to 
 confess me too. Instinct doubtless tells him 
 that he would have the liveliest half-hour he 
 has passed for a long time if he only could do 
 so. Oh, how you must spoil me when I come 
 to Paris, to make up for the purgatorial time I 
 am having in this musty old chateau with two 
 invalids and a cross-eyed priest. If only that 
 exquisite china did not fill the place I should 
 take French leave. 
 
cxix PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 125 
 
 CXIX 
 
 Paris, Zth October 1846. 
 
 Well, were you content that I should be so 
 glad to meet you again ? You see the starving 
 processes I had gone through in purgatory re- 
 acted in your favour, and so famished was I for 
 a little life which was really worth the living 
 that I could resist nothing you had to offer. 
 The rain is coming down in long straight lines, 
 the drops scarcely separated by the smallest 
 space. I like a perfectly hopeless rainy day 
 such as this is, with nothing uncertain or doubt- 
 ful about it, only a steady, deliberate downpour 
 which says, " I mean to rain until I am tired, 
 and nothing you can do will stop me." There 
 is something so determined about such a rain 
 that it commands one's admiration in spite of 
 one's self 
 
 That new tenor who sang at the Italian 
 Opera the other night is going to be a success, 
 the papers are loud in his praise, and prophesy 
 wonders for him. Paris is filling up, and 
 quantities of English are here. Adieu, I am 
 tired. 
 
 cxx 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
126 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxxui 
 
 CXXI 
 
 London, 
 24M February 1848. 
 
 I have still no news of my brother, and am 
 terribly anxious. How do you like the new 
 order of things, and will it last ? I am most 
 anxious to get to Paris. 
 
 CXXII 
 
 London, 2d March. 
 Some friends are going over to-morrow, 
 and I have arranged to cross with them. Let 
 me see you either late to-morrow evening or as 
 early as you can the next day. 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 Paris, March 1848. 
 No, fortunately I lost nothing by the failure 
 
 of Messrs. , but since seeing you some 
 
 friends have almost persuaded me to leave Paris 
 at once. They think things are growing more 
 serious, and that a revolution is inevitable. 
 Would Paris be safe in that case ? I do not 
 want to leave you here and go away myself, 
 yet I can hardly give that as my reason for 
 Do advise me. 
 
cxxvi PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE 127 
 
 CXXIV 
 
 Paris, 
 Friday^ loth March. 
 
 My sore throat grows worse in this weather, 
 and I dare not go out. Do write to me. 
 
 cxxv 
 
 Paris, 12th May. 
 I am going away for a few days with Madame 
 
 de C , who declares a " milk cure " will 
 
 make my throat all right in no time. I wish 
 I could come back and find the political trouble 
 over. Ati revoir.' 
 
 CXXVI 
 
 M , id^th May. 
 
 Now that I am here I hourly wish myself 
 back in Paris. The times are too stirring to 
 be away from the centre of action. Madame 
 
 de C was right in one thing however, 
 
 the milk cure has done my throat good, I am 
 almost well. Let me know what goes on at 
 the Chambre ; I hope to see you on Saturday. 
 
 CXXVII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
128 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxxix 
 
 CXXVIII 
 
 London, 
 i(^th Ju7te 1848. 
 
 It is growing insupportable to me, absence 
 from you, when you write of all this horrible 
 carnage and bloodshed around you. I hear 
 cannons in my dreams, and fancy you shot, and 
 bleeding, and dead, and surrounded with every 
 conceivable horror. Here in London the idea 
 of going to Paris at this moment is a madness 
 not to be explained, but I must in some way 
 find a plausible reason for doing that very thing 
 without running the risk of being sent to Bedlam, 
 for see you I must. Your letters are my only 
 comfort, but rather a sorry one, filled as they 
 are with such ghastly details. Do be careful. 
 I am sure you run a great deal of unnecessary 
 risk. 
 
 CXXIX 
 
 London, dth July. 
 It is more than provoking, but I cannot get 
 away at present. The season is a very gay 
 one, and almost without knowing it, certainly 
 without intending it, I am knee-deep in social 
 engagements. It is a bore, but it cannot be 
 helped. I do not fancy the idea of France as a 
 Republic all its traditions are opposed to such 
 a form of government, all its charm lies in the 
 
cxxx PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 129 
 
 atmosphere "brought by courts and kings and 
 an ancient noblesse. Here they speak openly 
 of the weakness and timid hesitancy of the 
 king, and think that had he shown more firm- 
 ness he might have saved his throne. The 
 royal exiles will, I presume, eventually find a 
 home in this tight little island, which holds its 
 own through wars and rumours of wars, and 
 keeps its crown steady, no matter what others 
 tumble off or are exchanged for the red cap 
 of " Liberty." Why could you not come to 
 London for a little ? I am sure it would amuse 
 you, and the change and rest would do you 
 good. 
 
 CXXX 
 
 London, 
 \-^th July 1848. 
 
 I am in a perfect dread of what may happen 
 to-morrow, please send me a despatch or write 
 at once. There is sure to be an ^meute^ and you 
 seem to have a talent for being in the thickest 
 of these sorts of entertainments. I shall be 
 back in six weeks at the latest ; let us hope that 
 things will settle down by that time, so that we 
 may have our walks in peace. What a selfish 
 sort of animal a human being is ; I fear that I 
 think far more of these walks of ours than of a 
 country's good, inais^ dest coimne qa. As you 
 may have guessed, you who know me so well, 
 I am hugely dissatisfied with myself to-night ; 
 K 
 
130 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cxxxi 1 1 
 
 you will think me selfish not to give up my 
 amusements here (and, frankly, I am enjoying 
 myself), while I feel guilty for not doing so, yet 
 cannot find the courage to break off and come. 
 But let us settle on the date in about six weeks, 
 and with much pleasure do I now accept your 
 invitation to breakfast with Lady . 
 
 CXXXI 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CXXXII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 Ferndale (on the Thames), 
 \Zth August 1848. 
 
 London was so hot and deserted that I came 
 
 down here last week with the R s, and 
 
 shall stop with them until I can get over to 
 Paris. It is no use losing your temper because 
 I do not come, and there is less use still in 
 upbraiding me as you do. I am absolutely 
 dependent upon some lawyers who are settling 
 up an estate, and if you wish to know what the 
 word aggravation really means, try and hurry an 
 English lawyer. All I can do is to pray for 
 
cxxxiii PROSPER M&RIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 131 
 
 patience, and row on the river with the best- 
 looking man I can find to accompany me. And 
 the number is not limited ; this pretty spot is near 
 enough to town to allow detained unfortunates 
 to run down and dine and sleep, or to stay from 
 Saturday to Monday, and constant streams of 
 
 the kind come and go. Mrs. R assures 
 
 me confidentially that it is the only really 
 amusing life she knows of, far and away nicer 
 than London itself ; and it is not bad, provided 
 the right people get together. If I could see 
 you coming up the lawn, and if after a pleasant 
 chat at tea-time out on the grass under the 
 oaks I could row you on the river until so late 
 that it would be a scramble to dress for dinner, 
 or let you " punt " me lazily along by the banks 
 while I told you how much I have missed you 
 in spite of my London gaieties, I too might find 
 
 this life as amusing as Mrs. R does ; 
 
 but as I cannot do all this, and am on the con- 
 trary restless and anxious to get away in spite 
 of your doubts upon the subject, I do not enjoy 
 the lazy placidity of shady lawns and continued 
 punts as I should under different circumstances. 
 You say that you can give me until the 25th, 
 at three o'clock, and not an hour longer. I feel 
 as if a pistol had been put at my head, a sort 
 of " money or your life " business, your words 
 are so peremptory. Could I only communicate 
 this startling impression to the lawyer, there 
 might be some hope, but the outlook is not 
 
132 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxxxiv 
 
 hopeful, and I feel about as cheerful as the dull, 
 brown, slowly-moving river near which I am 
 sitting. There is no sign of a boat, no sound 
 of a human voice, not a glint of sunshine ; all 
 nature is in a neutral-tinted mood depressing 
 to a degree, and I feel more neutral, and more 
 dull and more depressed, than nature. I shall 
 reduce myself to tears if I go on writing, I am 
 so sorry for myself, and I think the wisest thing 
 I can do is to bid you good-bye and go and eat 
 some luncheon. 
 
 CXXXIV 
 
 D , list Aicgtist, 
 
 Very unexpectedly I had to come here at a 
 moment's notice, but it brings me a trifle nearer 
 to Paris, and any change was welcome, so rest- 
 less was I growing by the banks of that slow 
 brown river. I am afraid a horribly human 
 sentiment was at the bottom of my restlessness 
 while at Ferndale, a humiliating sentiment to 
 own up to, but a very real one. Everybody 
 save myself was enjoying life in his or her 
 particular way, or in the words of the story, 
 there were such lots of good times and I was 
 not in them ! You see that just makes all the 
 difference. No one likes to see people enjoy 
 themselves better than I do, always providing 
 that I have a " good time " too, and do not 
 have to play audience for the good times of 
 
cxxxv PROSPER MERIAIAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 133 
 
 other people. I hope you appreciate the 
 honesty of this statement, and can read between 
 the lines sufficiently to see why a good time for 
 me at Ferndale was an impossibility with your 
 reverend self in Paris. If that is not a dainty- 
 way of saying many things in a comprehensively 
 small space, then I know not the art of speech. 
 Friday, or at the latest Monday, will see me 
 in Paris. Adieu. 
 
 CXXXV 
 
 Avenue Josi^phine, Paris, 
 4^k November 1848. 
 
 How long it seems since I last took up my 
 pen to write to you, it is quite a strange sensa- 
 tion, but if you will be ill, and lose this crisp 
 autumn weather which was made for walking, 
 the least I can do is to try and cheer you on 
 paper. I am rather deaf still from the effects of 
 the firing, and was at first frightened by the 
 cannons ; it is not unlike living on top of a 
 frolicsome volcano to be in Paris just now, and 
 I am by no means certain that I enjoy the 
 situation. 
 
 Of all the queer collections of odds and ends 
 of people, surely the queerest are gathered to- 
 gether in this house. Never before did I stay 
 in an English pension in Paris, and may I 
 never be so weak-minded as to do it again. 
 The extraordinary experiences these humans 
 
134 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxxxv 
 
 have had, which experiences they detail and 
 retail until one's ears ache, are only fit for a new 
 edition of the Arabian Nights. There is an 
 English widow with her two daughters, and 
 (from their own accounts) every princeling in 
 Italy has tried to marry one or both of the 
 young women during the last winter which 
 they spent in Florence. There is a pretty 
 American woman, far too young and too pretty 
 to be left to her own devices, who talks patheti- 
 cally of how " terribly Charlie misses her," but 
 business keeps him in New York, and she feels 
 it her duty to educate the child here that he 
 may learn the language correctly. The child 
 is a baby of three, the veriest little Turk I ever 
 encountered, and will learn a good bit more 
 than the correct pronunciation of the language if 
 his mamma will only stay in Paris long enough, 
 which I fancy she will willingly do. There is a 
 morbid German who gives lessons in Spanish 
 (did you ever meet a German who did not 
 assure you that he could instruct better in every 
 foreign language than a native could ?), and who 
 thinks it his duty to experience sensations be- 
 tween times. His latest experiment in feeling 
 was going to the Morgue, and as it had so 
 completely taken away his own appetite that he 
 could not eat, he generously proceeded to take 
 away ours by giving an account of what he had 
 seen lying on the marble slabs under the water- 
 jets. You know it is at dinner-time only that 
 
cxxx V PR OS PER M^RIM&E 'S ' INCONNUE ' 135 
 
 I see this human menagerie, and 1 find once 
 a day gives me quite as much of them as I 
 care about. The lady of the house sits at the 
 head of the table in a moire silk dress, a small 
 beehive-shaped cap on her head, all white lace 
 and red ribbons, and wears gloves with the 
 fingers cut off, showing elaborate rings. Whether 
 she burned her hands when she began life as a 
 kitchen-maid, or whether she imagines this to 
 be a purely French fashion to be strictly followed 
 in France, I cannot say. She gives the ladies 
 around her addresses of the best shops, i.e. of 
 those where she probably receives a commission 
 on all purchasers sent, and offers to accompany 
 any of the men to the Bon Marche or to buy 
 their winter flannels for them ; then after dinner 
 she presides over a tea-table in the salon up- 
 stairs, doling out weak tea at nine o'clock while 
 making conversation. One man is delightful. 
 He is, not to put it too gently, the most stupend- 
 ous liar I ever met, but he lies so charmingly, 
 and with such abandon and cheerful confidence, 
 that his conversation is most refreshing. He 
 is an American, a western man, and extra- 
 ordinarily unconventional. He has been over 
 more ground in a less space of time than any 
 individual ever compassed before, at least he 
 says so. What he has not seen he describes 
 quite as well as the generality of people tell of 
 the things their eyes have beheld in the flesh, 
 rather better, and skilfully inserts racy anecdotes. 
 
136 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxxxvii 
 
 or hairbreadth escapes, or thrilHng encounters 
 with men and beasts, all of which one knows 
 as a fact to be moral and physical impossibilities, 
 but one enjoys them just as much as if they 
 were truth, simply from the manner of the 
 telling. 
 
 Do send me a line saying that you are better. 
 Toujour s a vous. M. 
 
 CXXXVI 
 
 Paris, 30M May 1850. 
 One word for good-bye although it is so 
 short a time since we spoke " face to face." 
 Do not be too radical the moment you touch 
 British soil, enjoy the good dinners they are 
 sure to give you, and accept with a good grace 
 the compliments they are certain to pay you. 
 Remember, when the English say a civil thing 
 they generally mean it. You rather frightened 
 me this morning with your desperate belief in 
 Liberie, Egalite, Fraternite\ and were altogether 
 in such a combative state of mind that you 
 struck me as dangerous ; write me all your 
 impressions. How you will hate an English 
 Sunday. 
 
 CXXXVII 
 
 Paris, \2ih June. 
 Your letter from London dated the ist 
 amused me immensely. I am glad you found 
 
cxxxviii PROSPER M^RIMEE'S 'INCONNUE' 137 
 
 a vent for your feelings in Hampton Court, and 
 did not allow the atmosphere of the " Lord's 
 Day " to drive you to suicide. Much as I like 
 London, I confess that the Sabbaths there are 
 trying. You do not mention who were your 
 party, merely say " we," and a day at Hampton 
 Court, as I know by experience, may be very 
 delightful or quite the reverse, according to 
 one's companions. I see by the papers that it 
 is cold in England, whereas here it is lovely, but 
 I will not distract your attention from cathedrals 
 and architecture by rousing disturbing remini- 
 scences of nature's temples, etc. etc. The more 
 closely you attend to buildings there, the more 
 quickly will you be able to return to our woods 
 and forests here, and knowing this I refrain 
 from any word that might lengthen your stay. 
 Adieu. 
 
 cxxxvni 
 
 Paris, 
 
 yi Julv 1850. 
 
 Time for only one more letter to reach you 
 before your return ; with how much pleasure do 
 I write this. Your adventure with the man at 
 Salisbury Cathedral to whom you gave half a 
 crown, and who proved to be the person for 
 whom you had a letter of introduction, was 
 extremely funny, but why in the name of all 
 that was wonderful did he keep the money 
 when the mistake was discovered ? His doing 
 
138 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxl 
 
 SO strikes me as more than odd. Well, no 
 more until we meet. Ah, how glad, how very 
 glad, I shall be to see you again. 
 
 CXXXIX 
 
 D- 
 
 Saturday^ \2,thjime 185 1. 
 
 I trust sincerely that your mother is going on 
 well ; do not forget that if there is anything I 
 can send her, anything that she may fancy which 
 I can do for her, you are to let me know. You 
 must have been terribly anxious at this last 
 attack, and I have sympathised with you dur- 
 ing every hour. The cushion is finished at last, 
 and I send it off this morning. Rest your 
 tired head on it sometimes, and decipher the 
 symbolical design ; you will recognise the tree, 
 the branching shady oak, the figure in the 
 distance, and the cold December sky. . Need I 
 point out further the tale the picture tells, or 
 its ending? 
 
 CXL 
 
 , \%th July 1 85 1. 
 
 How glad I am that I was able to return to 
 
 Paris from D , and to see so much of you 
 
 there during the last few weeks, for now I have 
 been summoned here ; the poor old godmother 
 is really ill this time, and I fancy will not be 
 
CXLI PROSPER MARIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 139 
 
 long in following the departed dame de com- 
 pagnie to a better world. If she lingers on I 
 must stay with her, and cannot be in Paris to 
 meet you on your return from London. This 
 will not please you, I know, but it pleases me 
 far less. If you had not been out of town for 
 the day I could at least have said good-bye to 
 you before leaving, but even that was impossible, 
 as you will understand. A bientot^ I hope. 
 
 CXLI 
 
 Paris, 
 Thursday^ 2d December 1 8 5 1 . 
 
 I am terrified, and would give much to be 
 away from here. The people seem to have 
 gone mad, and they say the soldiers are shoot- 
 ing down the populace in all directions. M. 
 
 G will not allow us to venture out, but goes 
 
 himself at intervals and brings us news. I 
 suppose there will be no chance of hearing from 
 you to-day, but if it is possible let me have a 
 line to-night to tell me at least that you are 
 safe. 
 
 P.S. Our concierge has just been brought in 
 badly wounded. For God's sake be careful. 
 
I40 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxuii 
 
 CXLII 
 
 Paris, 
 Friday^ 3<^ December 1 85 1. 
 
 Your note reached me safely late last night, 
 and found me anxiously waiting for news of 
 you. What is this about the President, and is 
 it true that Cavaignac and Thiers are among 
 those arrested ? Is Paris to be placed in a 
 
 state of siege ? I send this by N , and have 
 
 told him to bring your answer with him if he 
 can find you. I feel punished for my wish so 
 often expressed that if anything exciting 
 occurred here I might be on the spot to wit- 
 ness it. I have seen all that I want to see of 
 political agitations, and one coup d'etat is enough 
 for a lifetime. It is so much harder to sit 
 quietly at home and only learn of things from 
 a distance. I envy you for being on the spot, 
 and for being in the thick of the fight, but 
 again I implore you, be careful. 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 Paris, 2yi March 1852. 
 
 One of the best, perhaps the very best friend 
 I ever had, is dead. How simple the words are 
 to write, how unutterable is the depth of their 
 meaning, the infinity of the loss they repre- 
 sent ! The world seems so dreary to-night, life 
 
ox Liv PR OS PER M&RIMI>E 'S ' INCONNUE ' 141 
 
 looks such a bitter failure, and what is yet to 
 come stretches out in such gloomy empty 
 nothingness. Why is it that those most sorely 
 needed here seem the first to be taken away ? 
 It made me feel strong only to be near this 
 friend, she played her part in life so bravely 
 from the moment life thrust a part upon her, 
 never flinching herself, no matter how hard the 
 task set her ; never failing others, no matter 
 how severe the test demanded by friendship. 
 No one ever helped me as she has helped, and 
 I am but one of many who could say the same. 
 No one ever had greater trials, ay, and doubts 
 too, than she, yet before the end came she had 
 triumphed over all. Time and suffering, suffer- 
 ing and time, brought redemption at last, but it 
 came from the conflict fought silently within, 
 not by loud outward wailing and moaning. 
 My loss is very great, and to-night I feel 
 stranded. Even your presence, I think, I can- 
 not bear just yet a soul must be alone when 
 a great trial comes, the cup of affliction is too 
 small for two or more to share, it is filled for 
 one alone. Adieu. 
 
 CXLIV 
 
 Paris, 12 d April 1852. 
 I have followed the course of this ^^ affaire 
 Libri'' with keen interest, and my pride in you 
 
142 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxlvi 
 
 increases at every stage of it. You do indeed 
 understand the meaning of the word friendship. 
 How staunch and loyal you are ! Uninfluenced 
 by any one's opinion, and guided only by what 
 you feel to be right ! Will it help you through 
 all the disagreeable annoyance of the thing to 
 know that I most warmly and cordially approve 
 every step that you have taken, that I sym- 
 pathise with you, love you, and am very proud 
 of you ? 
 
 CXLV 
 
 Paris, i-},d April. 
 If they really condemn you to prison let me 
 know at once. Come to see you there? But 
 of course, arrange that I shall be allowed to do 
 so, and let me know if there is anything that I 
 can attend to for you during all this annoying 
 business. It is M. Libri who is to be congratu- 
 lated upon having such a friend as you. Com- 
 mand me in any way, and believe that you have 
 my whole love and sympathy. 
 
 CXLVI 
 
 Paris, 
 Saturday Mornings 2d May. 
 
 My poor friend, your note has this moment 
 reached me. What can I say, what can any 
 one say to you at such a moment ? I know 
 
cxLViii PROSPER MERIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 143 
 
 how deep your attachment was to your mother, 
 and although her death was not unexpected, 
 does any amount of preparation ever really 
 prepare us for these partings which leave us so 
 poor, so beggared of love, so desolate in loneli- 
 ness ? I think not. No love on earth can be 
 so pure as that of a mother for her child, and 
 its infinite tenderness and holiness must, I 
 think, last on and be a blessed unseen shield 
 around him even after its bodily expression has 
 been silenced. 
 
 In the first sharpness of loss we cannot 
 realise that it must be better with those who 
 have gone than had we kept them here ; but 
 the knowledge, when love is real as was yours, 
 must in time bring a peace and consolation 
 with it. You helped me so much by your 
 friendship when a short time since sorrow came 
 so sharply to me, let me try and help you now 
 when I know how sore and wounded and grief- 
 laden your own heart must be. Your friend 
 always. 
 
 CXLVII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 Paris, Wednesday Morning. 
 I shall think of you all day. Let me know 
 the very first moment that you can after the 
 
144 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE CL 
 
 decision is rendered what the verdict is. If 
 they actually send you to prison it will be 
 shameful on the part of the judges, but will 
 only prove that no man was ever so firm a 
 friend as is Prosper Merimee. How proud M. 
 Libri ought to be. How proud I am that I 
 can claim Prosper Merimee as my friend. 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 Wednesday Evening. 
 The wretches ! ! ! Quinze Jours de prisoji et 
 milk francs d'amende I Let me know where 
 and when you can see me. Your friend who 
 honours loyalty and is loyal to you. 
 
 CL 
 
 Paris, 31^/ May. 
 
 I feel myself to be frightfully guilty' because 
 I breathe this life-giving sunshine while you 
 are behind bars, and I am well and almost 
 cheerful even while I have to take my walks 
 alone and you can take none at all. It must 
 be the pride I feel in hearing every one speak 
 of you as they do, as they could not help 
 doing, for but one opinion exists as to your 
 loyalty, courage, and coolness during the whole 
 of this Libri affair. 
 
 But what a tangle of a world it is, where 
 
CLI PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 145 
 
 such things are possible. I hope that you 
 received the book safely ; let me know when 
 you have finished with Beyle. Think of our 
 not even being able to quarrel ! 
 
 CLI 
 
 , 1 1 t/i Septetnber. 
 
 While you are wandering in Touraine I 
 decided that it would be a capital idea for me 
 to come and pay my respects to the godmother, 
 and at the same time take a look at my (pro- 
 spective) china. It is all right the china, not 
 the godmother. This latter is as unpleasantly 
 wrong as a cross-grained old woman who ought 
 to die and does not, possibly can be. No one 
 has a greater veneration for dignified old age, 
 silver locks, and all the rest of it, than I have, 
 and above all things do I delight in a beautiful 
 old lady who wins your love and respect by 
 calm cheerfulness and sweetness as she nears 
 the end of a long life. But I ask you, Can one 
 interest one's self in a querulous, selfish, old 
 creature who is always demanding sympathy 
 for imaginary ills when she is as sound as a 
 dray horse and has not a lovable quality in 
 her whole disposition ? No ; it is the china, 
 and nothing but the china, which forces even 
 decent outward civility from me to this detest- 
 able old woman whose name I bear, and who 
 L 
 
146 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE CLi 
 
 in my infancy undertook to renounce the world, 
 the flesh, and the devil on my account. She 
 could only, I judge, have been persuaded to do 
 so by the hope that my share of such vanities 
 might fall to her, for to things carnal she is 
 wedded until her useless tyrannical old life 
 ends. I know she drove that unlucky woman 
 who had to live with her out of the world by 
 simple nagging, for never in the whole course 
 of my experience have I found any one such a 
 past mistress of the art. In spite of her assur- 
 ances to the contrary, she is perfectly capable 
 of altering her will at the last moment, and 
 leaving all this exquisite Sevres to anything or 
 any person beside myself; hence my peniten- 
 tial pilgrimages to this dreary spot, and my 
 efforts to be entertaining when I get here. 
 Only a day or two longer, however, shall I be 
 able to stand the strain on my temper ; then I 
 shall go, I think, to England, perhaps Scotland, 
 for a few visits, devoutly praying that' a kind 
 Providence may gather the godmother to her 
 fathers before it is time for me to come here 
 again. Write to me of all that you see and 
 do, and miss me, weary for me as I do for you 
 each day and hour. 
 
 CLII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
CLV PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE' 147 
 
 CLIII 
 
 London, 
 30M Septeuiber 1852. 
 
 Why will you persist in travelling when you 
 are not fit for it ? Your letter has caused me 
 the greatest anxiety, and your account of the 
 sudden attack you seem to have had makes me 
 quite miserable. It is very wrong of you to 
 do this sort of thing. Do return to Paris ; I 
 will give up my visits and meet you there at 
 any date you name. I wrote to you on your 
 birthday, but you do not appear to have re- 
 ceived the letter ; our epistles must have crossed. 
 Now be sensible, come . . . 
 
 CLIV 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CLV 
 
 Paris, 
 loth October 1853. 
 
 Your two last letters, dated the Escurial, 
 5 th October, and Madrid, 25 th October, have 
 both reached me together this morning. Did 
 you carry the first in your pocket until you 
 found a travelling companion for it, or are the 
 postal arrangements in Spain entirely out of 
 
1 48 AN A UTHOR 'S LO VE CL^ 
 
 order? Well, here they both are, and that is 
 something, very much indeed, for they have 
 given me great pleasure. Your suggestion that 
 if there is anything I wish for I have but to 
 speak to obtain it, is too noble a one for me 
 not to respond to. I much wish for a Spanish 
 
 fan such as Madame de C had, the one 
 
 whose history you told me. Bring me that, 
 and I will say thank you with effusion. The 
 little flower which you send in your second 
 letter has even yet a faint sweet perfume, and 
 I can fancy it breathing to me some of the 
 thoughts which I know you had in sending it. 
 Merci, inon ami. The years as they pass do 
 not, I think, lessen our friendship. Tell me, 
 have I kept the compact well which we made 
 so long ago ? No, do not tell me ; not on 
 paper at least. A question like that should be 
 asked and answered in far different fashion ; 
 hand in hand and heart to heart, with frank 
 true eyes looking the reply before the words 
 can form themselves in speech. 
 
 Your account of the coinedie which you super- 
 intended at Carabanchel interested me ; your 
 young goddesses must have been delightful. I 
 am glad that a little play is mixed with all 
 your work, and that the role of Apollo has 
 fallen to you in so goodly a company. You 
 have such a wide catholicity of sympathy that 
 as consoler I should imagine all classes come 
 tolerably comfortably within your compass. 
 
CLVi PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 149 
 
 The Court has just gone to Compiegne, and 
 Nieuwerkerke was not invited ; they say, how- 
 ever, that he has taken a villa in the town. The 
 
 Princess M is more " Russian " than ever. 
 
 M. D tells me that she encourages her 
 
 "cousin the emperor" in all that he does. 
 Adieu, amitsez-voiis bien, mais 
 
 CLVI 
 
 Paris, -^oth October 1853. 
 
 Les affinith ectives. I will not forget to 
 remind you of the name on your return, but 
 do give me some faint idea of when that is to 
 be. Are you going to pass the remainder of 
 your life in Madrid ? I shall begin to believe 
 that you have gathered roses there, the reddest 
 you could find, if you do not soon move on to 
 other cities. By all means bring the handker- 
 chiefs, the buttons I do not care for. For your 
 third suggestion, les jarretieres^ know, O sage, 
 that such articles are no longer worn by any 
 woman possessing the slightest consideration 
 for the shape of her leg ! 
 
 The arrest of Delescluse, ancien co^nmissaire 
 of Ledru Rollin, and of Goudchaux, ancien 
 Minister of Finance during the Republic, is 
 causing much comment ; and they say that 
 other arrests of importance have been made at 
 Tours, Nantes, and Nevers. The emperor is 
 
150 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE CLVii 
 
 blamed for showing too great clemency to the 
 men sure sooner or later to disturb his reign. 
 
 I am glad that at last you will confess to find- 
 ing beauty in at least part of Wilhelni Meister. 
 I think Goethe has put some of his most exqui- 
 site thoughts within its pages, yet until now you 
 have always laughed at me for saying so. Ah, 
 do come back ; writing for a constancy is so 
 poor a compensation for our walks, and the 
 weather here is wonderfully good. 
 
 CLVII 
 
 Paris, 25//^ November. 
 How absurd you are about the garters ! 
 The femmes de chambre were about right to be 
 indignant at the idea of your bringing such 
 things for sotivenirs. Why are the diplomatic 
 representatives of the United States always ex- 
 traordinary people who do extraordinary things ? 
 It is everywhere the same story. Remind me 
 to tell you an anecdote of the American 
 Minister in London, which is even more 
 amusing than yours of the man in Spain, or 
 rather of his son. If you die in Madrid, do 
 you wish to be buried there, and shall I come 
 to your funeral ? Ma foi, I believe you have 
 discovered that " one friend " about whom you 
 told me so long ago, and that accounts for your 
 continued absence. Am I right ? 
 
CLix PROSPER MArIMEE'S' INCONNUE' 151 
 
 CLVIII 
 
 Vk^vS>^ \st December iZ^-i)' 
 Just as well, inon cher, that you say you have 
 " ia7it (Tenvie " to see me again, after telling 
 me such a disgraceful story as the one about 
 " la belle I' whose shoulders were placed " d, la 
 disposition de V." The customs of a country are 
 sometimes odd things, but to this one I doubt not 
 that you took kindly. Seriously, it is just as 
 well that you should return to your native land. 
 The Court comes back to-day from Fon- 
 tainebleau, where the emperor insisted upon 
 the strictest etiquette. No one was allowed to 
 sit in his presence, whether he himself was 
 seated or not ! Your empress is much in- 
 terested in the form of spiritualism which makes 
 tables talk. M. Guizot has been instrumental 
 in this fusion of the two branches of the House 
 of Bourbon, while M. Thiers is, they say, furious 
 at it, and is all for the Empire. 
 
 When you decide to come back you will 
 find a warm and loving welcome from yours 
 loyally, M. 
 
 CLIX 
 
 D , zistjuly 1854. 
 
 Your letter of the 29th has just been for- 
 warded to me here. Am more distressed than 
 
152 A/i A UTHOR 'S LOVE clx 
 
 I can say to learn that you are suffering, also 
 at the news of your friend's illness. By this 
 time I trust you are both better. No ; I have 
 no idea of going to London at present, so con- 
 tinue writing to me here. My plans are very 
 unsettled, and I may at any moment be called 
 to , as I hear that my godmother is very ill. 
 
 CLX 
 
 D , lid August 1854. 
 
 Louis XIV after the battle of Ramillies said 
 " DieiL a done oubli^ tout ce que fai fait 
 pour hii ? " What have I done, or left undone, 
 what has Providence forgotten or remembered 
 against me, that so heavy a blow should fall 
 upon me ? Can you credit it, when I tell you 
 that that unscrupulous woman, that shameless 
 godmother of mine, has died, actually gone out 
 of the world, and left no will behind her !. All 
 my promised china, the priceless old Sevres, for 
 the sake of which I have endured so much, goes 
 to a distant cousin, who has never suffered any- 
 thing at the hands of the old infidel, for the 
 simple reason that he never saw her. The 
 
 Chateau of , with its pictures and furniture 
 
 and plate, all go with the china, everything, in 
 fact, passes into the hands of a man who does 
 not need it, and is incapable of appreciating it. 
 When I remember the weeks and months of 
 
CLXi PROSPER M^RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 153 
 
 boredom I have suffered in the society of that 
 woman, the number of times I have smiled 
 when I could readily have wept with weariness 
 at her querulous plaints, the restraint I have 
 put upon that unruly member, the tongue, that 
 no word of mine might jeopardise the china, I 
 could be desperate in many ways. It really is 
 trying, for the one weakness to which I plead 
 guilty with no reservations is a love of rare 
 china ; and that promised to me by this wretch 
 of a godmother was worth waiting for. Con- 
 sole me by a long letter ; it is all that is left 
 me. If I could be with you in your journey- 
 ings, see nature in her loveliest moods, and see 
 how each one in turn affected you, there might 
 be hope for me ; but to be here alone (for 
 Madame de C has not yet arrived), know- 
 ing my china to be gone for ever, and you to 
 be absent indefinitely, is more than I can bear 
 with serenity. 
 
 CLXI 
 
 D- 
 
 6//^ Septeinber 1854. 
 
 The little flower from Innspruck came safely, 
 and seemed to echo the closing words of your 
 letter '^ Ecrivez-moi tres-longuement et tres- 
 tendrementr You must know so well that all 
 the tenderness of my whole being is for you, 
 
1 54 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE CLXI 
 
 and for you alone ; but that you should care to 
 hear it anew is not unpleasing to me in the 
 year 1854, when I remember that it was in 
 1 840 the word " tenderly " first grew to be a 
 prominent word in our mutual dictionary. Ah, 
 love, you have loved me well, in joy and in 
 sorrow, through sunshine and with clouded 
 skies ; " loyal and true " your motto, and un- 
 changing faith your creed. Few women can 
 claim as much, none could ask for more. 
 
 I am curious to hear your opinion of Vienna ; 
 it is a place which fascinated me at first merely 
 as a sightseer, when I superficially enjoyed the 
 gay Ringstrasse and the enchanting shops, the 
 curious vault of the Capucine Church, the Volks 
 Garten with Strauss himself as leader of the 
 orchestra, and the procession of Corpus Christi 
 in which walked the emperor, and archdukes, 
 and Hungarian noblemen in marvellously pic- 
 turesque attire. Later I found in the fair city 
 by the Danube a society more charming than 
 that of any city I know, a hospitality which no 
 other capital can equal. If you once find your- 
 self among the agreeable Viennese, I fear me 
 your return will be a matter of time and 
 patience, the former yours, the latter mine. I 
 know well the fascination of Austrian men and 
 women, and the numerous delights of Austrian 
 life. You will find it gemilthlich, and once 
 under the spell of that word you are lost. 
 
CLXiii PROSPER MERIM&E'S ' INCONNUE 1^5 
 
 CLXII 
 
 \st October 1854. 
 
 Your letter tells me nothing. You have not 
 yet reached Vienna ! Such as it is, your letter, 
 it has come to me just as I am leaving this place 
 for Paris, where you will find me if you return 
 within reasonable time. 
 
 CLXIII 
 
 Paris, 
 \oih October 1854. 
 
 Ah, so "really truly" you find Vienna to be 
 " uri sejour agr^able." I should have been 
 terribly disappointed had you thought other- 
 wise, for in so thinking you would not only 
 have thrown great discredit upon my good 
 taste, but proved your own to be very bad. I 
 can scarcely wait for you to tell me in person 
 all your experiences, in letter form they are 
 always interesting and never satisfactory. The 
 anecdote you relate of the Belgian Minister and 
 Gortschakofif was most witty. Did I ever tell 
 you of having met Prince Gortschakoff at 
 Wildbad ? Two amusing incidents are con- 
 nected with the occasion : one, that the clever 
 Russian paid me a compliment which will 
 remain enshrined in my memory for frequent 
 grateful reference when I grow old and loqua- 
 
1 56 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE clxiii 
 
 cious ; the other will be a useful warning to me 
 never to play the part of cat's-paw for ambitious 
 old ladies. The compliment arose from the fact 
 that the prince spoke innumerable languages 
 equally well, reminding me, in his fearless use 
 and ready application of them, of a man I once 
 saw throwing knives at a New Year fair at 
 Neuilly. My own conversational powers were 
 limited in their expression to English, French, 
 and German. One afternoon when Gortscha- 
 koff was seated by me under the trees at Wild- 
 bad, a very beautiful countrywoman of his own. 
 
 Princess D , came towards us, exquisitely 
 
 dressed, and her hands full of yellow roses. 
 Like most Russians, she too spoke almost every 
 tongue, and holding out a rose she stopped 
 before us saying in Italian with an entrancing 
 smile, " Your favourite colour, prince ; are you 
 not coming to hear the music ? " He took the 
 flower, paid her a pretty compliment, and sat 
 down again, while the lady, not overpleased, 
 walked on. " Why do you not join her ? " I 
 asked ; " she can speak in almost as many 
 foreign tongues as you do." " Commenty 
 madame, you would seriously suggest my 
 leaving a woman who can converse with esprit 
 in three languages for the pleasure of hearing 
 silly things said in six by tme jolie poiLph ? 
 You flatter me." He slowly pulled the fragrant 
 Gloire de Dijon rose to pieces, leaf by leaf, and 
 remained with me during the rest of the after- 
 
CLXiii PROSPER MRIME'S ' INCONNUE ' 157 
 
 noon, while the beautiful ptincess enjoyed the 
 music as best she could without him. Remind 
 me when we meet to show you the photograph 
 of himself which Prince Gortschakoff gave me 
 at this time. It is an oval vignette ridiculously 
 like the one you have of M. Thiers. In signing 
 his name he has spelt it Gortchacow. 
 
 My story of playing cat's-paw is a longer 
 one, but more instructive. You may have met 
 
 Lady M (not our mutual friend, however) 
 
 in London. You know she began life at the 
 bottom of the social ladder, as also did Mrs. 
 
 B , not an Englishwoman by birth, but 
 
 to-day quite a feature in English society. 
 Well, both ladies desired the attentions of the 
 Russian Chancellor for themselves, and neither 
 wished the other to have them, so Lady 
 
 M encouraged me in keeping the prince 
 
 from Mrs. B , which lazily amused me for 
 
 the moment. She herself, however, was not so 
 much amused at the ultimate arrangement of 
 things, and eventually she became as bitter an 
 
 enemy of mine as she had caused Mrs. B 
 
 to become, while Prince Gortschakoff bored me 
 in the end, when I found other and younger 
 men to talk to. He soon departed, and I saw 
 him no more ; on the contrary, the delightful 
 
 parties of Lady M and the agreeable 
 
 dinners of Mrs. B in London continue, 
 
 mats je ny siiis plus. I wonder whether the cat 
 grew philosophical when she licked her poor 
 
158 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE clxiv 
 
 burned paw, or whether she sadly and wisely 
 came to the conclusion that in future she would 
 let other people's chestnuts alone ? 
 
 The Legitimistes were wild with joy when 
 the news which came from Vienna that Sebas- 
 topol was taken proved to be false, and even 
 circulated the report that the English and 
 French had sustained a defeat. 
 
 The American Bonapartes, father and grand- 
 son, dined with the Princess M a few days 
 
 ago. M. Chaix d'Est Ange was present, and 
 gave it as his opinion, privately, that the 
 marriage of Mademoiselle Paterson, which had 
 been broken by an imperial decree of the first 
 Napoleon, could not be recognised by the 
 present emperor. The ex-king of Westphalia 
 sent for him to consult upon the subject. His 
 Majesty favours the Bonaparte-Paterson claims, 
 and poor M. Chaix is in a terrible quandary, 
 not wishing to displease the powers that be ! 
 Adieu. 
 
 CLXIV 
 
 Versailles, \Zth July 1856. 
 
 No, the two years that have passed have 
 made no difference ; all that you speak of wish- 
 ing I will do, even to meeting you in London 
 if it is a possible thing to arrange dates. Let 
 me know just when you will return there. 
 Yours always as always, Mariquita. 
 
CLXVii PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 159 
 
 PS. What souvenirs there are in every 
 
 detail of this spot. Have you forgotten ? Can 
 you ever forget ? 
 
 CLXV 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 (His letter CLXV and her letter CLXVI 
 both missing.) 
 
 ^ CLxvn 
 
 Dieppe, 2gik/uly 1856. 
 Not a word from you since your letter dated 
 London, 20th July, and I have been anxious to 
 hear how you like country-house life in Scot- 
 land. If Sundays are bad in England they are 
 worse there. Do write me of your experiences. 
 I am enjoying the sea as much as I always do, 
 but am growing anxious to hear from you. 
 What you proposed to me when we last met I 
 have thought of carefully but cannot yet see 
 my way to approving of the plan. Let us 
 wait and talk it over. I feel sure that will be 
 a wiser course than to decide hastily before 
 we meet. 
 
 CLXVHI 
 (Letter missing) 
 
1 6o AN A UTUOR 'S LOVE 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 Paris, 
 Sunday, i^lh December 1856. 
 
 As you tell me to do so, I will send this to 
 Cannes, but fear it will reach that place before 
 you do. Where do you think I spent my morn- 
 ing ? At Versailles, where I made a pilgrim- 
 age in memoriam. Quite alone I went, for the 
 hundreds of Sunday sightseers I did not count, 
 they only made the place more lonely to me, 
 besides, not one among them knew our haunts, 
 our shady grove now wind-blown and desolate, 
 our corner of the gallery passed by and hidden 
 from sight. You will ask why I went to look 
 at summer's bloom and living greenness turned 
 to winter's frost and cold. Ah, why indeed ? 
 Some restless spirit seemed to urge me on ; I 
 felt forced to gaze upon that thing dead which 
 living we must never face again, and what 
 instead do you think I found ? A tiny bud- 
 ding root which pierced through the hard earth 
 in our grove, and clear sunlight pouring in 
 through the once fast -closed window of our 
 dusky gallery corner ! What does it emblem 
 and predict, this life and light where only stillest 
 memories were laid in darkness ? Oh, love, let 
 it mean what light and life should always 
 mean, truth not falsehood, goodness not evil, 
 faith not suspicion. Will you agree to this, and 
 
CLXX PROSPER MARIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' i6i 
 
 not crush the bud or darken the sunlight ? 
 Our letters are sure to cross each other. I 
 wonder if you too have in these past days given 
 a thought to Versailles and the strange unreal- 
 ness of the time spent there ? 
 
 CLXX 
 
 Geneva, loth August 1857. 
 
 ~0h this fascinating place, why have I allowed 
 so many years to roll over my head without 
 seeing it ? Yesterday we went to the Castle of 
 Chillon, spent the night at Vevay, and only re- 
 turned here this evening. I took Byron with 
 me, and grew as enthusiastic as even he could 
 have wished over the fate of the lonely prisoner. 
 I could see the "sunbeam which hath lost its 
 way," although as a matter of fact the sun at 
 the moment of our being there was high over- 
 head and no stray beams were wandering about ; 
 I felt how " cankering a thing " iron could 
 become as I touched the rings attached to the 
 " seven pillars of Gothic mould," and so fully 
 did I realise the human suffering which had 
 spent itself in vain longings and hopeless de- 
 spair within those " dungeons deep and old," 
 that I too looked upon Chillon's prison as a 
 " holy place " and found its " sad floor an altar." 
 There certainly is an immense pleasure in 
 
 M 
 
i62 AN A UTHOR 'S love Clxx 
 
 travelling, not merely in the varying scenes of 
 the moment, but in the store of memories to 
 be garnered up as mind food for future years. 
 We have allowed ourselves three weeks for our 
 trip, at the end of which time I shall hope to 
 meet you again in Paris. Venice is included 
 in our programme ; in fact, I fancy that most of 
 our time will be spent there. I have but one 
 regret, that is, that we could not have made the 
 journey together. This regret will, I feel cer- 
 tain, only increase as the days go on, and will 
 culminate at Venice the first time I glide along 
 the canal in a gondola, where you are not, but 
 where I shall think of you, dream of you, and 
 long for you. Ah, mo7i ami, you must be first 
 always, far away or close beside me, absent and 
 present always my first thought, my one deep 
 happiness, my loyal love. 
 
 This ends the letters to which answers are 
 found in the first volume of Prosper M^rimee's 
 Lettres a tine Inconmie, The first of his letters 
 in the second volume, to which one of hers 
 applies in answer, is number CLXXII, dated 
 Paris, Lundi Soir, 29 Janvier 1858. Any- 
 thing of hers between number CLXX and 
 CLXXIV seems to be missing. 
 
OLXXiv PROSPER MARIMEE'S ' JNCONNUE ' 163 
 
 CLXXIV 
 
 Paris, Sunday^ i^th April 1858. 
 Do I miss you ? Mais je le crois bieit ; how- 
 ever, it may be just as well that you are for the 
 moment absent, as I can better attend to the 
 wants of my numerous friends, all of whom 
 seem to have turned up at the same moment, 
 and all of whom are prepared to see sights, 
 and to shop, and to hear the new plays, under 
 my personal supervision, so you see that my 
 work is cut out for me for some time to come. 
 Write me about your work in England, and of 
 how you and M. Panizzi get on at the British 
 Museum. During one winter that I spent in 
 London I had a card of admittance for the 
 reading-room of that venerable institution, but . 
 invariably a thick fog would come up as soon 
 as I reached the building, and total darkness 
 would come upon the inner rooms of the 
 library ; and into these rooms no light could 
 be carried ; and the book I needed at the time 
 was invariably to be found only in that corner 
 of the place ; ergo, my card of admittance did 
 me but little good, and the amount of reading 
 I accomplished at the British Museum was of 
 the smallest. At Madame Walewska's last 
 ball the emperor paid marked attention to 
 Madame Greville, an extremely pretty woman. 
 At last, after about an hour's conversation, he 
 tried to convince her that he was the emperor, 
 
i64 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE clxxv 
 
 but without raising his mask. She was in- 
 credulous, when Caesar finally said, " Voyez ce 
 petit salon de repos, il riy a que VEmpereur et 
 rimperatrice qui pidssent y entrer^^ and im- 
 mediately he did enter ! 
 
 CLXXV 
 
 Paris, 30//^ April 
 
 I have been studying one married life that 
 seems absolutely and entirely happy. Mr. and 
 
 Mrs. X have been here for a month, and 
 
 I have seen them every day, sometimes several 
 times a day during that time. They have been 
 married fifteen years, and are the cheeriest 
 people and the best friends I ever saw. At the 
 time of their marriage he was a young army 
 officer on slender pay, she had some little 
 money of her own. They divided everything ; 
 she gave him half of her interest as it fell due, 
 he gave her half of his pay when it was received. 
 If they went to the theatre together each 
 bought their own ticket, if they took a friend 
 they divided the expense of his between them. 
 Half the household expenses came out of the 
 husband's pocket, half out of the wife's, and 
 when remonstrated with by other women who 
 deplored this as a terribly bad precedent, little 
 
 Mrs. X only laughed, and answered 
 
 stoutly, " Why should Fred work all day and 
 do all the paying besides ? I don't call it 
 
CLXxvi PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE' 165 
 
 fair ;" and things went on as before, the same 
 principle of equality entering into everything. 
 Many a time it would have been more than 
 easy for the pretty wife to have spent all her 
 own portion of income, that actually belonging 
 to her, and the half of his besides, but the idea 
 of so doing never entered her head ; it was share 
 and share alike as simply and lovingly as two 
 children cutting an apple into two equal parts. 
 He has now left the army, and is rapidly amass- 
 ing a fortune, but the old principle holds good 
 as it did when pay-day came for the young 
 lieutenant. Two such cordial hearty good 
 friends I have never seen, hopes, joys, fears, 
 trials, and love shared equally between them 
 even as the gold and silver is, and a great happy 
 whole is the result. Why cannot more people 
 live lives like this, instead of holding up 
 marriage as the greatest failure of the age ? 
 Are you never coming home? The young 
 leaves are growing to shady branches, and our 
 woods are all fresh and sweet and cool in the 
 glad spring which will so soon grow to summer. 
 Let the very first words of your next letter tell 
 me the day of your return. 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 Paris, Thursday Mornmg. 
 It was good to see you again ; letters are but 
 a poor substitute for sight and touch and hear- 
 
i66 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE clxxvii 
 
 ing. I am glad that all my friends are gone, 
 
 even Mr. and Mrs. X , charming as they 
 
 were ; the time is ours now, with no outside 
 interruptions to try one's temper and spoil 
 one's days. A demain. 
 
 CLXXVII 
 
 Paris, Thursday, 7.0th May 1858. 
 
 It does indeed seem tm siecle since we had a 
 good long old-fashioned talk such as we used 
 to have in the days of long ago. This month 
 of May has not fulfilled its promises. The 
 picture of myself you shall have of course before 
 I leave ; let us hope the derni-heiLve de patience 
 will be productive of a good result, artistically 
 speaking, morally I find the time a trifle short 
 
 for much result of any kind. M. D has 
 
 just told me the following anecdote. I give 
 it you for what it is worth. The Due de 
 Malakof in returning from the races met the 
 Due d'Aumale, who, standing up in his carriage 
 and waving his hand, cried, " Vive le Due de 
 Malakofr 
 
 The marshal stepped out of his carriage and 
 thanked the Due d'Aumale for his generous 
 sympathy, when the duke made him a most 
 flattering little speech. Be quite certain that 
 you do return by the 29th, for having joined a 
 party of friends for this summer trip I am no 
 
CLXxx PROSPER MARIMIlE'S ' INCONNUE ' 167 
 
 longer quite my own mistress, that is, I could 
 not possibly put off our departure even for a 
 day, if the penalty were to go without bidding 
 you good-bye, so pray allow nothing to keep 
 you beyond the promised time. Adieu, mon 
 ami, cher ami, so loyal and so true. 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 -, \oth June 1858. 
 
 The book is simply frightful, badly written 
 and extremely immoral. How could you send 
 me such a perverted view of human nature? 
 The second portrait did not resemble me in the 
 least, so why do you regret it ? 
 
 Forgive me for . . . mais 11' en parlons pins. 
 Am too tired after my long journey to write 
 more. M. 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 G , \othJiily. 
 
 Your mention of Innspruck reminds me of 
 an unsolved mystery in my life. It was during 
 the first summer after I had studied German 
 at Hannover, when I knew just enough of the 
 
i68 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE clxxx 
 
 language to understand almost all that I heard 
 said, yet not quite all. My guardian had taken 
 me for a month's journeying, allowing a school 
 friend to be of the party. She also knew about 
 the same amount of the language that I did, no 
 more, no less. At Innspruck the hotel was 
 noisy and uncomfortable, so we took rooms for 
 a week at ^. pension perched up on a hill away 
 from the railway disturbances which on the 
 first night of our stay had prevented us from 
 sleeping. My friend and I shared a large 
 room together, and far other noises, although 
 not less disturbing ones, deprived us of all rest 
 on the second night. Perhaps strictly speaking 
 I should not say all sleep, for tired out we had 
 retired early, and slept at once, and it was 
 between ten and eleven o'clock that a strange 
 harsh laughter, and then the sound of bitter 
 weeping, roused us both at the same moment. 
 Through the chink of the door between our 
 apartment and the one next to it came a line 
 of light, and we could hear voices in the same 
 direction. " No, no ; I will never do it ! You 
 may kill me, but I will never do it!" 
 
 This in German spoken in a high female 
 voice, interrupted by sobs. Although we sprang 
 out of bed and listened at the crack of the door, 
 neither of us could hear the reply to this, but 
 we could plainly distinguish two voices speaking, 
 evidently those of a young man and an elderly 
 woman. '^ Ach lieber Himmel, torment me 
 
CLXxx PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 169 
 
 no more ! Heinrich, Heinrich, ivo bist dii ? 
 Again both voices answered her together, the 
 man's loud and angry, and twice we could hear 
 him ask tauntingly, " Thou wilt not do it ? 
 thou wilt not ? But we shall see. " A whole 
 volley of abuse followed in the shaking uncertain 
 tones of the old woman, but, strain our ears as 
 we might, we could comprehend not one word. 
 Suddenly the man's voice changed entirely, his 
 chair moved, and we imagined it to be drawn 
 closer to the girl, while the words came softly 
 " Liebe Meme ich Hebe dichr The sobs ceased, 
 but in their place came a laugh so mirthless, 
 so dreary in its wordless woe, that it seemed to 
 chill us with a sudden cold, warm as was the 
 night. Then once again the girl moaned out 
 the name she had already spoken " Heinrich, 
 Heinrich." " Let her sleep now ; go," the old 
 woman said authoritatively ; a chair moved, a 
 sword clanked, and a man's step crossed the 
 room quietly, the door closed. 
 
 He was an officer, then, the man. Who in 
 the name of wonder could the girl be, and the 
 woman, and what tragedy was being enacted 
 within our very hearing? Wide awake and 
 greatly marvelling we crept back to bed, and 
 soon the light behind the communicating door 
 was extinguished. 
 
 The next morning we told my guardian of 
 the wonders of the night, and he, in course of 
 conversation with the Hauss Wirth, mentioned 
 
I70 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE clxxx 
 
 that anything said in the room adjoining ours 
 could be heard. The man only shrugged his 
 shoulders ; he evidently considered it no affair 
 of his. " Who occupies the room ? " my guardian 
 continued. Another shrug *' A young lady 
 who is ill, and an attendant or nurse who is 
 travelling with her." " And who is the officer 
 who visits this young lady at midnight ? " was 
 the next question asked. At this the man 
 scowled angrily, and answered shortly that he 
 did not play the spy upon his guests, nor did 
 he care to be questioned about them by others 
 staying in the house ; if Monsieur did not like 
 the rooms there were doubtless plenty of others 
 to be had in Innspruck. Bref^ my guardian 
 got decidedly the worst of it in the encounter 
 with the landlord, and, manlike, showed his 
 resentment of that fact by pitching into us, 
 calling us a couple of imaginative young 
 simpletons who had probably dreamed the 
 whole thing. But when night came we proved 
 him to be wrong, for although we went early 
 to our room nothing was further from our 
 intentions than going to sleep. Taking our 
 position near to the long opening of the ill- 
 fitting door, we listened. All was still at first, 
 although we thought we heard some one turning 
 the leaves of a book as though reading. About 
 nine o'clock a knock came, and in a low tone 
 the old woman said, " Herein ; " then came the 
 click of spurs, and the clanking of a sword 
 
CLXXX FRO SPER M^RIMAE 'S ' INCONNUE ' 171 
 
 which was quickly taken off and laid on the 
 table. " Sie schldft," the woman almost whis- 
 pered, and there was a long silence. Later 
 the two talked together, but in too low a tone 
 for us to catch a word ; and at last the girl 
 awoke. At first she did not appear to discover 
 the presence of the officer, but asked whether 
 she might go out the next day if the sun 
 shone. " I am so cold, so cold ; and will 
 Heinrich never come ? " This plaintively like 
 a little child ; then in frightened, shrieking 
 tones ^^ Ack, mein Gott^ mein Gott, is he here! 
 Send him away, away, away ! " The voice 
 grew shriller and shriller, reaching almost to a 
 scream, and then came the same weird dreadful 
 laugh which had so startled us the night before. 
 Just as it had been then, the same tragic 
 comedy was played : the girl swore that 
 nothing would tempt her to do the thing, 
 whatever it might have been, that they were 
 urging upon her, while the man first threatened, 
 then told her he loved her, then went softly 
 away as she fell into the curious unnatural 
 stillness. Quite worn out with excitement, 
 both my friend and I slept far beyond the 
 breakfast hour the next morning, and the first 
 thing I heard was my guardian calling through 
 the door, " Look quickly, girls, if you want to 
 see your mysterious neighbours ; they are just 
 driving away." In very light attire we both 
 rushed out upon the balcony as a closed 
 
1 72 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ci.xxxi 
 
 carriage passed before it. At the window 
 nearest us was a white face with dark wild 
 eyes, and opposite sat a good-looking young 
 Prussian officer. Was it the fancy of our 
 imagination suddenly startled from dreamland, 
 or was it truth, that the terrified face at the 
 window seemed to look up to us in imploring 
 despair? We never knew, and the travelling 
 carriage was quickly out of sight. 
 
 Should I ever go to Innspruck again I would 
 hunt out \h'dX pension, and if that uncommuni- 
 cative old Hauss Wirth still lives I would bribe 
 him well if only I could persuade him to tell 
 me the true story of the girl and the officer 
 and the old woman. 
 
 I enclose you an exact drawing of what I 
 want you to get for me at Venice, as you are 
 so good as to offer to execute commissions 
 there. There is an old curiosity shop in a tiny 
 narrow street off the Grand Canal where I 
 once saw something like it. If ampng the 
 hundred different curiosity shops you can find 
 this one, you will have no further trouble ; if 
 you think the commission too complicated do 
 not bore yourself with it. Write soon to voire 
 amie sincere. 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 Chamounix, 1 1th August. 
 The people I am with are such conscientious 
 sightseers that I am forced, whether I like it 
 
CLXXXii PROSPER MERIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 173 
 
 or not, to climb mountains and explore valleys, 
 to rhapsodise over waterfalls and go into 
 ecstasies over glaciers. As for finding a moment 
 in which to write, that is an impossibility pure 
 and simple ; but you, by some method known 
 only to yourself, seem to make time for letters 
 which only grow longer and more delightful 
 the more you have to occupy you, so do not 
 curtail yours because mine may become shorter. 
 Habit, they say, is the great master of our 
 lives ; you have accustomed me for so long 
 now to receiving your letters that my life would 
 seem barren indeed without them. So write 
 quickly and often. 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 \st Septe7nber 1858. 
 
 Ah, what would I not have given to be with 
 you at Venice when you assisted at the Fun- 
 zione in honour of the archduke ! Six hundred 
 gondolas, with lights and music, on the Canal ; 
 why, it must have been fairy-like in the effect 
 a picture well worth remembering. I am 
 glad that you thought of me and wished for 
 me at Venice ; it surely is the place of all 
 others where one needs a kindred soul. Moon- 
 light falling in its magic witchery on those 
 palaces which architecturally you find sans gotlt 
 et sans imagination^ turns them to dreams in 
 
174 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE clxxxiv 
 
 stone ; and the gliding noiselessness of the 
 gondolas, the mysteriousness of the bridge- 
 spanned water, the winged lion clearly outlined 
 against a starry sky, the whole dreamy wistful- 
 ness of the scene makes one long to see it 
 while close beside a heart that sympathises 
 with the hushed beauty and needs no words to 
 tell its sympathy. I know so well the touch 
 of sadness in Venice air and Venice loveliness, 
 and could we feel it together I am certain it 
 would be no grief-laden sadness, but only one 
 heavy with love. Let me know when you 
 propose returning to Paris, and do not get 
 back too late in the season for our walks. 
 
 CLXXXIII 
 
 ^th October 1858. 
 
 No ; the letter from Brescia never reached 
 me, and I regret its loss. Impossible to get to 
 Paris just yet, so do put off your return. I 
 have been rather ill, and do not care to exchange 
 this bracing mountain air for Paris streets. 
 You will, I suppose, soon be at Cannes, where, 
 at this time of the year, I should think you 
 would find yourself the sole inhabitant. 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 15M October. 
 
 . . . And less still do I like the English 
 proverb which you so unblushingly apply to 
 
CLXxxvi PROSPER MERIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 175 
 
 me "You look one way and row another." 
 Where, if I may ask the question, did you pick 
 up such an elegant and refined expression ? 
 If I did not object to slang on principle I 
 could quote another to you which would be a 
 worthy answer ; but you would carefully learn 
 it, and I should be free from it never again, so 
 I refrain. Of course you will be furious with 
 me if I am not in Paris when you arrive, mais^ 
 mon che7'^ I much fear that is exactly what will 
 happen ; I shall be some several hundred miles 
 distant, and you will lose your temper all to no 
 purpose. Trusting that by some good fortune 
 you will have remained on at Cannes, I will 
 send this letter there. If you have left, and it 
 is forwarded too late for you to receive it before 
 discovering for yourself that Paris is as yet not 
 blessed with my presence well, I can only 
 say tant pis for Paris ; I being safely out of the 
 way cannot come to much harm, and when we 
 do finally meet you will have forgiven me, as 
 you always do forgive. 
 
 CLXXXV 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CLXXXVI 
 
 Paris, 
 Saturday^ 10th November 1858: 
 
 Eh Men, it is now my turn to be desperate ! 
 I return to Paris hoping to find an answer to 
 
176 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE clxxxvi 
 
 my last letter which has evidently missed you ; 
 I send at once to ask whether you can give 
 me to-morrow, and the answer comes back 
 that monsieur is at Compiegne with their 
 Majesties the emperor and empress ! Me 
 voild plantee. A whole long Sunday without 
 you when I had so counted on your presence, 
 and heaven only knows how much longer time 
 you mean to play the courtier and bask in 
 Imperial favour. It really is too trying. You 
 will get this to-morrow morning, on the happy 
 Sunday I had counted upon for us to pass 
 together. If I write more I shall say some- 
 thing I may regret, so disappointed am I, so 
 thoroughly upset by finding you gone. What 
 could have become of my last note from 
 
 G ? It told you that I was coming, and 
 
 said many things which I flatter myself you 
 would have cared to hear. But even if it had 
 reached you I suppose an Imperial summons 
 would have put aside its little humble claim, 
 and this would have been almost worse than 
 feeling certain that you never received the 
 letter. Are their Majesties going to ask you 
 very often, and just at the very times I want 
 you ? Much comment is being made, and not 
 of a flattering kind either, over the rumoured 
 
 appointment of Monsieur H as Minister 
 
 of Public Works. 
 
CLXXXVii PROSPEE MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE' 177 
 
 CLXXXVII 
 
 Paris, Thursday^ i^d November. 
 
 Finding that I must resign myself, I do so 
 with as good a grace as possible. The whole 
 morning of yesterday I spent at the Louvre, 
 going first of all to see my beloved Venus de 
 Milo. The calm, passionless beauty of her face 
 always throws a spell over me ; it begins to 
 work as I first see her from the end of the long 
 gallery after mounting the staircase and turning 
 to the left, and it grows in its subtleness at 
 every step which brings me nearer to the fair 
 still woman. Very strongly do I incline to the 
 opinion that she is no Venus, there is too much 
 restfulness, which tells of strength, in the face, 
 too much meaning and depth of feeling to 
 be the emblem of Love's goddess. If her 
 beautiful lost arms could be found and fitted to 
 her gracious figure, I feel sure they would never 
 take the senseless pose given to the arms of 
 the Venus of the Capitol, or to the Vemcs de 
 Medicis. After looking long and with satisfy- 
 ing fulness at the still, lovely woman in stone, 
 I went upstairs to the picture gallery, and pass- 
 ing by the general favourites around which there 
 is always a crowd, I walked on until I came to 
 two paintings which always attract me, they 
 hang nearly opposite to each other, and are 
 " The Angels' Kitchen " and the " Birth of the 
 N 
 
178 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE clxxxviii 
 
 Virgin." The faces of the child -angels are 
 bewitching, and their wings so downy you can 
 almost feel their soft young feathers. To-morrow 
 I mean to go to a place I have often wished to 
 see yet never have, in spite of the many years 
 during which off and on I have found myself in 
 Paris, and this place is the Conciergerie. If ever 
 a spot was hallowed by human suffering it is that 
 small low room within the frowning building 
 by the bank of the Seine, the room where Marie 
 Antoinette lived through hours of agony. Adieu. 
 Amtisez-vous bien, mais ne m'oubliez pas. 
 
 CLXXXVIII 
 
 Paris, idth November 1858. 
 
 It is all very well, monsieur, to be sarcastic 
 over my present state of resignation, but I ask 
 you, what else is left me ? Is it not far better 
 to employ my time profitably by seeing things 
 of beauty and interest than it would be to tear 
 my hair and wring my hands in vain bewailing 
 of my lot, and in impotent ravings against the 
 powers that be for their appreciation of your 
 society, and their flattering detention of your 
 person ? Be sensible ; if you cannot get away 
 from Imperial society it is no doubt my loss ; 
 but being an unavoidable one, the next best 
 thing that I can do is to occupy my time 
 rationally until you are able to return, and this 
 
CLXXXViii PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE' 179 
 
 I propose to do. I went yesterday morning, as 
 I told you in my last I meant going, to the 
 prison of the Co7iciergerie, and the terrible days 
 of the Revolution seemed to me more real than 
 I ever felt them before. In all history there is 
 to me no more pathetic, shudderingly horrible 
 account than that of Marie Antoinette's cruel 
 imprisonment and monstrous death. What 
 mattered it to have been queen, to have had a 
 powerful emperor for a brother, or Royal and 
 Imperial relations, or a people who had shouted 
 themselves hoarse at the coronation, or rank, or 
 worldly honour, or fulsome adulation ! The 
 sufferings and humiliations of the woman's life 
 so far outdid the joys and triumphs of the 
 queen's, and the misery of the end was so 
 widely disproportioned to the brilliancy of the 
 beginning. To think of a proud delicate woman 
 being shut up for months in that narrow cell, 
 where even solitude was denied her, and a coarse 
 brutal soldier was left to watch her day and 
 night ! Think of the grated bars of the window 
 through which came a little light, but with it 
 such ribald obscene language that the light itself 
 heralding this additional torture must have been 
 almost a dreaded guest. And then the mockery 
 of the so-called trial with charges brought more 
 terrible than death in their unnatural horror ; 
 the long suspense ; the burning disgrace of the 
 common cart with a fiend in human form 
 seated beside the daughter of the House of 
 
i8o AN A UTIIOR 'S LOVE clxxx vrii 
 
 Hapsburg ; the long agonised progress through 
 the crowded streets amid the hoots and jeers of 
 a maddened populace ; the secret absolution 
 falling from pitiful lips ; the place of execution 
 saturated with the blood of hundreds ; the for- 
 saken loneliness ; the fear, the shame, the shud- 
 dering agony of the end ! God, to think of it 
 all to-day, after long years have passed, makes 
 one tremble with grief, and pity, and amazement 
 at the hellish cruelty of it all. France more 
 than any country upon earth is surely the most 
 ungrateful, the most forgetful of its own promises. 
 The people shout Vive le Roi I with no greater 
 enthusiasm than they will cry a little later ct 
 has la Monarchie ! and they hail a Republic 
 with the same eagerness that they have shown 
 before in acclaiming an emperor. " Unstable 
 as water, thou shalt not succeed," was, I am 
 convinced, spoken centuries ago as the rightful 
 motto for the French nation. I have no patience 
 with them as a nation, all my kindly feeling 
 goes to one and one only of the race. Poor 
 Marie Antoinette had better never have played 
 at dairymaid in Le petit Trianon, or lent her 
 beauty to grace the royal festivals at Versailles, 
 when only the ghastly scaffold in the wide 
 Place de la Concorde was to be the end. Does 
 the Empress Eugenie, I wonder, ever tremble as 
 she looks out over the Tuileries gardens at the 
 accursed spot, or query whether the day may 
 yet come when she too shall gaze upon a sea of 
 
CLXXxix PROSPER MiRIMiE'S ' INCONNUE' i8i 
 
 angry human faces, or fly from the execrations 
 of an enraged Paris multitude ? I should think 
 it would be a trifle alarming even in these later 
 days to mount a throne in France. 
 
 Montalembert has been condemned to six 
 months' imprisonment, and a fine of three 
 thousand francs, for an article comparing the 
 government of France unfavourably with that 
 of England. Le Correspondant was the journal 
 in which the article appeared. 
 
 Your account of the temperature in which 
 you pass your days at Compiegne is uncomfort- 
 able ; do be careful, and do not come back all 
 knocked up with the extreme sudden changes 
 in which you seem to indulge. Are they not 
 tired of you, the emperor and empress ? Do 
 be a little disagreeable and be sent away ! 
 
 CLXXXIX 
 
 Paris, New Yearns Day ^ 1859. 
 
 The two books came safely. I can quite 
 believe how you were hurried before leaving, 
 but am thankful that we had at least one long 
 happy day ere you took your departure. " He 
 only is rich who owns the day," is a sentence I 
 came across some time ago in some miscellane- 
 ous reading, and very rich I feel even at the 
 remembrance of this day, which I did indeed 
 own, wholly and entirely. What an extraordi- 
 nary custom this is in Paris of allowing the 
 
1 82 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxo 
 
 beggars free liberty to infest the streets on New 
 Year's Day. I went to Notre Dame this 
 morning, where the music was unusually good, 
 but my patience was sorely tried during the 
 walk there by the ceaseless application for soils^ 
 and coming back I took a fiacre to avoid the 
 nuisance. We walked for some time along the 
 Boulevards last night to see the temporary 
 booths. What rubbish they sell at them, but I 
 suppose the people are amused and would not 
 think it the joiir de Van, if both booths and 
 rubbish were not there. May every good and 
 blessing come to you with 1859, health, wealth, 
 happiness, and love. But no, I would not have 
 that latter come to you, love, because it is 
 yours already ; I would only have it grow and 
 strengthen in faith and truth and loyalty ; I 
 would have you to say to me Amigo de mi 
 alma in the years to come, as you have said it 
 in the years that are gone. Your idea of our 
 going together to Florence next winter is more 
 than tempting. If I am to catch the post in 
 order that you may get this at Marseilles before 
 going on to Cannes I must stop writing and send 
 my letter at once. Pas adieu, mais au revoir. 
 
 cxc 
 
 Paris, 
 Tuesday, \ 2th January 1859. 
 
 It was delightful to read in your letter from 
 Cannes of the sunshine you are enjoying there, 
 
cxci PROSPER MARIMJ&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 183 
 
 for here it is the dreariest of dreary winter 
 weather, and I am very thankful that you and 
 your throat are well out of it. The books I 
 chose with all possible care, being doubly 
 particular with those destined for Mademoiselle 
 Olga, so I am very glad that she liked her 
 share of them. The Memoires de la Margrave 
 de Baireuth I have read, but not those of 
 Catherine II of Russia, and I shall be glad to 
 have them when you return. It is a horrid 
 nuisance about your servgint ; I wish you could 
 find a good English valet. Before you leave 
 Cannes I will send you a list of the vases, 
 shapes and colours, that I want you to get for 
 me in the Valauries pottery. Remind me of 
 this should I forget it. To-night I am going 
 to a ball at the Tuileries. 
 
 CXCI 
 
 Paris, 27th January. 
 
 I have read the Dictionnaire du Mobilier de 
 Viollet-le-Duc which you sent in your last letter, 
 but like it only indifferently well. There are 
 ideas, certainly, but you write less in your usual 
 style, and rather as though you were not 
 thoroughly in sympathy with your subject. 
 My criticism may be unjust, but there it is ; this 
 is the way in which the work strikes me. By 
 what date are you obliged to have the article 
 
i84 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cxcii 
 
 on Prescott's Philip II ready for the Revue des 
 Deux Mondes ? That I feel sure I shall like. 
 Your empress looked quite lovely at the 
 Tuileries ball of the 1 2th. She wore a gown of 
 pale rose colour trimmed with chocolate brown, 
 and as jewels, the diamonds given by the city 
 of Paris. The crush was something awful, and 
 every one was talking of an almost certain war. 
 
 CXCII 
 
 Paris, 2 2,d March 1859. 
 
 To think that I shall see you back here again 
 to-morrow ! It seems almost too good news to 
 be true. I have just finished the review of 
 Prescott's Philip II, and liked it immensely ; 
 but will tell you all I think of it in person. 
 Reports as to the chances of war are so contra- 
 dictory that I hardly know what to write to 
 you as the opinion here. In case you may not 
 have seen this morning's Mo?iiteur I copy its 
 official announcement for your benefit : " La 
 Russie a propose la reunion d'un congres en 
 vue de prevenir les complications que I'etat de 
 ritalie pourrait faire surgir et qui seraient de 
 nature a troubler le repos de I'Europe. 
 
 " Ce congres compose de plenipotentiaires de 
 la France, de I'Autriche, de TAngleterre, de la 
 Prusse et de la Russie, se reunirait dans une 
 ville neutre. 
 
oxciii PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE' 185 
 
 " Le Gouvernement de I'Empereur a adhere a 
 la proposition du cabinet de St. Petersbourg. 
 Les cabinets de Londres, de Vienne et de Berlin 
 n'ont pas encore repondu officiellement" 
 
 God grant that they may answer favourably, 
 and that the war with Italy may not be. My 
 brother would of course be obliged to go with 
 the army, and I cannot think of that without 
 dread. 
 
 CXCIII 
 
 Paris, 2:^d April 1859. 
 
 Is it not terrible, this news of certain war 
 with Italy? My poor brother is off directly. 
 The word poor is hardly the right one to use, 
 or any expression denoting pity, for he is 
 delighted at the prospect of some fighting, and 
 would not if he had the chance be anything but 
 a soldier. To me the very name of war is 
 terrible, being synonymous as it is with suffering 
 and misery and death. I once saw a regiment 
 march off to join an army, the men all well 
 and strong, full of hope and eager for the fray, 
 confident of victory and certain of glory, in- 
 spiring with their own courage and enthusiasm 
 the wives and children and friends gathered to 
 bid them God -speed ; later I saw that same 
 regiment return, all that was left of it ; and I 
 watched the faces of the widows and the 
 fatherless and the desolate as they scanned each 
 
1 86 AN A UTHOR \S LOVE co i 
 
 tired, wounded, travel-stained man only to find 
 that the ones they sought were among the 
 missing. In presence of their grief even those 
 who had returned, and those happy ones who 
 had found their own again, were sombre and 
 silent. The contrast between the gay, hopeful 
 going forth and the sorry coming back was too 
 strong, and meant too much. 
 
 Tell me if you think this war will be of 
 long duration. Is it possible as yet to know 
 anything in regard to it ? I thought I should 
 have heard from you to-day before now, and I 
 fancy each bell that rings brings news of you, 
 for you will not have forgotten that I leave for 
 Turin early to-morrow. I must see my brother 
 before he goes, but it is with a heavy heart that 
 I leave on such a mission. Good-bye at any 
 time is to me the saddest of words, but at a 
 time like this it is doubly hard to say. 
 
 (Letters missing from CXCIV to CC inclusive.) 
 
 CCI 
 
 , loth July 1859. 
 
 Oh, mon ami^ if you could know the relief I 
 feel at the declaration of peace and the safety 
 of my brother ! I know how remiss I have 
 been during all this time of excitement in not 
 sending you anything that could by the wildest 
 
ecu PROSPER M&RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 187 
 
 stretch of the imagination be termed a letter ; 
 my hurried communications have been such 
 mere scraps, and so few and far between, that 
 I wonder at your loving patience in answering 
 them as you have done. Your long letters 
 with the latest news of the progress of the war 
 from a Paris standpoint have been my greatest 
 comfort during the past three months, when I 
 have had my sister-in-law's fears to calm as 
 well as my own. Now the reaction has come 
 after the long and trying suspense, I feel 
 wildly gay, ready for anything, equal to most 
 things. The discourse of the emperor at St. 
 Cloud yesterday I find both noble and good, 
 and devoutly do I trust that his last words, " Le 
 repos de V Eur ope '^^ represent un fait accompli ! 
 A good many people one knows are here, and 
 society is becoming quite dissipated after its 
 forced seclusion. Why do you stop on in Paris 
 so late ? I hear that it is very warm there, and 
 I cannot think it good for you to run the risk 
 of extreme heat when you continue to complain 
 of sleeplessness and want of appetite. Write 
 me your plans. 
 
 ecu 
 
 , idth July 1859. 
 
 Yours of the 21st has this instant reached 
 me. Are you quite mad to remain on in Paris 
 feeling as ill as you do ? Leave at once, I 
 
i88 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE coin 
 
 entreat you, or if you insist upon staying there, 
 and would like me to come on, I will do so. 
 The tone of your letter is so depressed it has 
 given me an attack of blue devils, and quite 
 spoiled for me an expedition to which I had 
 been looking forward with great pleasure. A 
 party of six, including myself, are to go up the 
 mountains on mules to-morrow afternoon, after 
 it grows cool, spend the night at a little sort 
 of shed on the top mountain, and see the sun 
 rise the next morning. A couple of servants 
 are to precede us with two extra mules laden 
 with creature comforts in the form of bedding, 
 food, etc., as the native accommodations are of 
 the roughest. Could you only be of the party 
 the expedition would be perfect, as it is, not 
 only shall I miss you that I should have done 
 in all cases but now since hearing how miser- 
 able you are my pleasure will be tempered 
 down to a very mild degree indeed. I will, 
 however, write you an account of the excur- 
 sion should anything of interest occur. Adieu. 
 
 CCIII 
 
 , ^th August. 
 
 The mountain trip was most successful, and 
 just as I was preparing to write to you about 
 it, and tell you the story of a peasant girl we 
 met, and in whom we became much interested, 
 
ecu I PROSPER M&RIMEE'S ' JNCONNUE ' 189 
 
 your letter of the 30th arrived. You are quite 
 correct in your imaginings about me ; I am 
 terribly sun-burned, and I regret to be obliged 
 to confess that I have grown fatter ! However, 
 with your written promise before me that no 
 matter what changes have come to me you will 
 still be charmed to see me, and that I may 
 count upon being treated with great tenderness, 
 I feel equal to any confession. Ah, mon ami, 
 what strength is given by a great love and a 
 boundless trust between two human beings ! 
 It places in one's heart a little fortress which 
 outside influences assail in vain, and which is so 
 securely stored with faith and confidence as 
 ammunition, and assured affection as provisions, 
 that no siege can weaken it, no attack prove 
 dangerous. Do not be so depressed about 
 yourself, and do in pity give yourself a holiday. 
 Come and see me here, and get a little of this 
 life-giving air into your lungs ; I venture to 
 say you would feel better within an hour after 
 your arrival. And now I must tell you about 
 our peasant girl, the beautiful pale contadina 
 
 whom Lady M and I have adopted as a 
 
 protegee. 
 
 Mazetti Marco, the miller, was the richest 
 
 man in the Commune of C , and all the 
 
 young men for miles around knew that the 
 dark-eyed Rosina, the miller's only child, would 
 have fifteen hundred francs ; some of the village 
 gossips even went so far as to whisper two 
 
1 90 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE com 
 
 thousand francs, as her marriage portion. This, 
 added to the girl's beauty, made Rosina much 
 sought after by the young men, and terribly 
 envied by the young women, yet so sweet and 
 lovable was the girl that even Betta Caproni, 
 whose envy came very near to hatred, dared 
 not openly say a word against the miller's 
 daughter, who was beloved by the whole Com- 
 mune. Rosina's greatest charm was the deep 
 soft red colour which was like her name-flower, 
 the rose, and which came and went in her 
 cheeks at every changing mood ; deepening at 
 affectionate words, or paling with sympathy 
 when a child was hurt, or a neighbour ill, or 
 even if her little dog Rita hurt its foot and 
 whined. For several years the girl Betta had 
 loved a young contadino called Angelo, a fine 
 strapping fellow who could sing and dance, and 
 was always the gayest youth at a festa, and who 
 could make love, so the gossips declared, faster 
 than he could work to get an honest living. 
 After a fashion of his own Angelo returned 
 Betta's fierce love, which, truth to tell, he was 
 half afraid of; but on a certain feast-day he 
 learned something which quite turned his head, 
 and put all thoughts of Betta out of it. It was 
 the roses in Rosina's cheeks which betrayed the 
 secret in her heart, and told to Angelo's wonder- 
 ing astonishment that the miller's daughter, the 
 pretty heiress of the Commune, did not look with 
 any disfavour upon him as a partner for the 
 
ccm PROSPER M^RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 191 
 
 dance, or as her companion afterwards, when by 
 the light of a silver summer moon the village 
 youths and maidens wandered under the per- 
 golas, and told in their soft Italian tongue the 
 old old story which seems to grow young again 
 in the telling. Old Mazetti at the mill was not 
 overpleased when his child and his child's mother 
 pleaded for Angelo, and said that they were 
 sure that love for Rosina would cure him of all 
 laziness and wildness and a few other little 
 characteristics which were scarcely those which 
 Mazetti had hoped to find in a son-in-law. 
 Rosina's lovely rounded cheeks were whiter than 
 her father had ever seen them, while he hesitated 
 before consenting to give her Angelo as a 
 marito, and he felt almost repaid for yielding 
 against his better judgment when the roses 
 came again, first in an uncertain flush of rosy 
 pink, but always growing deeper and warmer 
 in tone as the blood came back to the girl's 
 anxious heart and leaped joyously through her 
 veins. She was very happy as she sat under 
 the vines with Angelo, whose black eyes burned 
 with triumph when he thought how all the 
 youths for miles around would envy him his 
 good fortune in winning the miller's daughter 
 and her fat dowry. But Betta, when the news 
 came to her, would not believe it ; she said it 
 was a silly lie which Angelo himself would be 
 the first to laugh at. He had promised to 
 marry her when he got work that paid, and 
 
192 AN A UTHOR 'S L VE ociii 
 
 he was too fine a fellow not to find work 
 quickly. 
 
 Perhaps so, said the gossips, if he ever looked 
 for it. 
 
 Some days passed before Betta saw Angelo, 
 but when she did, and he told her half roughly 
 that it was bad enough for a man to live on 
 nothing, but no one could expect him to keep 
 a wife, and the bambino heaven was sure to 
 send, on the same, and he was tired of trying 
 for work. The times were very hard, and soon, 
 if all the new-fangled notions were acted on, 
 there would be no work for any one. Betta 
 listened in silence ; she knew well enough that 
 all he was saying in long sentences and twisted 
 phrases could very well be put into two or three 
 words as follows : Rosina has a dowry of fifteen 
 hundred francs, and I need not work if I marry 
 her. That was all ; and the more roughly 
 Angelo spoke, the more certain was Betta of 
 one thing, which at least gave her a fierce 
 comfort in the midst of her sudden anger 
 Angelo loved her better than he did Rosina ; 
 if she had the dowry, Angelo would be hers. 
 Almost in silence Betta turned and left the 
 man she cared for in her strong, ignorant way, 
 but a new power seemed born within her heart, 
 while a voice kept repeating more and more 
 distinctly " If I had the dowry, Angelo would 
 be mine." 
 
 Rosina was happy, giving much in the gener- 
 
com PROSPER MERIM&E'S'INCONNUE' 193 
 
 ous simplicity of her affection, and not under- 
 standing that Angelo gave very Httle. And 
 the time went on, and the gossips wagged their 
 heads and said Mazetti Marco was a fool, and 
 Rosina was throwing herself and her dowry 
 away, and Betta had grown very black to look 
 at, but no one minded the gossips. So the 
 sum.mer passed, and winter came on, and all 
 the arrangements were being made ready for 
 the marriage ; only two days now, and Angelo 
 would take Rosina for his wife, and the dowry 
 would be surely his. The miller had been to 
 the town where the money was kept, and 
 brought it back with him in a stout leather 
 bag, this all the Commune knew, and the 
 feasting for the marriage was to begin the next 
 day. There was no moon, and the night was 
 very dark, but presently all the village was 
 aroused by a lurid glare which reddened the 
 heavens as though with blood, and brought out 
 clearly the fright and terror in the people's 
 faces as quickly they ran all in the same direc- 
 tion, towards the mill and the miller's home, 
 which were wrapped in sheets of flame. Later 
 the fright grew to ghastly horror, for although 
 the miller's wife and daughter were safe, Mazetti 
 Marco was only a charred and blackened form. 
 " He had gone back for the money and could 
 not escape !" so said all the gossips when talk- 
 ing together of the marriage that would never 
 be, and the dowry that had been burned, and 
 O 
 
194 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cci v 
 
 the pretty heiress who was now as poor as 
 Betta herself. 
 
 There my story comes to a natural pause, 
 so, like the Princess Shehrzad in the Arabian 
 NightSy I will postpone the ending of it until 
 " next time." Please take an interest in poor 
 Rosina, for you will see her if you come 
 here, only you will find no roses in her 
 cheeks. 
 
 CCIV 
 
 -, \(dih August. 
 
 First of all will I answer your question as 
 to what time you can come and see me. At 
 any time. Choose your own date, and do not 
 waste ink and paper in writing me nonsense 
 about my talents for dilatory negotiations and 
 my resemblance to Austrian diplomatists ! 
 The sooner you come the better I shall like it, 
 for no other reason than the one you will know 
 to be a true one, however reluctant you may 
 be to acknowledge that fact, namely, that I 
 long to see you ; I weary for you. 
 
 And now for the end of my history of 
 Rosina. Poor girl ! from the night when she 
 saw her father a lifeless mass of charred flesh, 
 her home a heap of ashes, her dowry and pro- 
 mised husband lost to her for ever, and her 
 mother a helpless wreck, with mind about gone 
 from the succession of horrors she had lived 
 
cciv PROSPER AI&RIM^E'S 'INCONNUE' 195 
 
 through, every tinge of colour left the cheeks 
 of the miller's daughter, never to return. A 
 strange, unnatural pallor overspread her face, 
 from which the large, sad eyes looked out hope- 
 lessly at the changed life still left for her to 
 live. A strange, new pride, too, seemed to 
 have come to the penniless contadina who no 
 longer ranked above the village girls around 
 her, which pride had never belonged to the 
 well -dowered maiden who was acknowledged 
 to be above her associates. It was only a very 
 little that those around her could offer, for the 
 
 inhabitants of the Commune of C were 
 
 terribly poor, but on all sides some gentle, 
 kindly deed was remembered of the pretty 
 Rosina, with the soft, deep colour like her 
 blushing name-flowers ; and human nature is not 
 all bad, especially when human beings are poor. 
 But even this little the girl declined. A poor 
 two hundred francs remained in the town where 
 Mazetti Marco had kept his money, and with 
 that Rosina first buried all that was left of the 
 old man, and then bought a tiny building with 
 two rooms, pretty enough in summer-time, 
 when the vines twined lovingly over roof and 
 walls, but very cold and bare in the winter 
 days, when the little scaldino would be placed 
 close to the poor, half-witted old mother, while 
 Rosina and the dog Rita sat close together, 
 that a little warmth and comfort might come 
 to both. " She ought not to keep the dog 
 
196 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cciv 
 
 when they are so poor," the gossips said one 
 to another, but only the girl herself and the 
 dog knew that they would rather be hungry 
 and be together than well fed and divided. 
 Oh the scalding tears that fell on Rita's shaggy 
 little yellow neck when the pale Rosina would 
 drop the work she was trying so hard to make 
 support them all, and would think of the little 
 while ago when she and work were strangers, 
 and the good old father shielded her from every 
 ill, and Angelo her lover sat beside her under 
 the vines. Only Rita knew, for the mother 
 understood nothing now, and the neighbours 
 never saw the girl save when she walked quietly 
 but proudly among them, asking help from 
 none, and still doing kindly acts for sick child- 
 ren or tired mothers. The work paid so poorly, 
 and Rosina's fingers were cut and blistered with 
 plaiting the reeds for the basket-makers. Of 
 Angelo she saw nothing ; she never went to 
 the festas, and music and dancing were still 
 the things which Angelo did best. He had 
 gone back to Betta in a shy, sheepish sort of 
 way, and was more than astonished that the 
 girl's old fierce love seemed changed, only find- 
 ing expression now in sharp speeches or harsh 
 answers to his questions, yet, strangely enough, 
 Angelo had never liked her so well as now. 
 Betta herself had been very quiet all these 
 days when so much was happening in the 
 village, but quiet with a quietness which is 
 
cciv PROSPER MARIMEE'-S ' INCONNUE' 197 
 
 very apt to be synonymous with strength, or 
 to indicate possession of that knowledge which 
 is power. Twice lately she had gone away, 
 her mother said to stay with an old uncle who 
 had money, much money, which he sometimes 
 thought he might leave to Betta when he died ; 
 and each time she came back after one of these 
 visits the girl had a new kerchief pinned around 
 her throat, or long ear-rings, or a string of 
 beads around her neck, which the uncle had 
 given her. " It is very strange," the gossips said, 
 " that we never heard of Betta's uncle before," 
 but no one minded the gossips. One fine day 
 a letter came to the post-office in the village 
 for Betta's stupid old mother, who had never 
 had a letter in her life before. Her daughter 
 read it to her, and all the neighbours soon 
 knew that the rich uncle was dead, and his 
 money, nearly two thousand francs, had come 
 to Betta ! She was the heiress now, with the 
 fat dowry, and Rosina, with her strange, pale 
 cheeks, wept bitter tears on Rita's neck, while 
 the little dog looked at her with kind, wise, 
 brown eyes, and licked her pale hands. When 
 Angelo asked Betta to marry him he was very 
 humble, and the girl gave him her hand as 
 she would have thrown a dog a bone, not look- 
 ing at him, but with her sullen eyes turned the 
 other way. There was music and dancing and 
 feasting at the wedding, and all the village 
 came to bring good wishes to the bride, all 
 
1 98 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cciv 
 
 but the pale Rosina, who sat with the foolish 
 mother and the dog in the little hut. 
 
 The winter came again, and life grew harder 
 
 for the people of the Commune of C ; 
 
 they grew poorer and poorer ; only Angelo and 
 Betta had money, and queer tales were told ot 
 the life they led. " He can buy drink now, and 
 he beats her, and never works." This the 
 gossips said, shaking with cold the while, all 
 huddled together around a scaldino which 
 Rosina had bought long ago when she was 
 rich, and had given to a poor old crone bent 
 double with the rheumatism. Heaven had 
 sent the bambino which Angelo had talked of 
 a pretty dark -eyed baby thing, soft and 
 dimpled and smiling, never dreaming what sort 
 of a world it had come to. When it could just 
 toddle on two little fat unsteady legs the end 
 came for Angelo and Betta. He had drunk 
 until he was more a beast than a man, and in 
 a fit of drunken fury he stabbed her and stabbed 
 himself, and no doctor in all the village could 
 stop the life-blood flowing so fast away from 
 both husband and wife. Betta's sullen eyes 
 were growing dull, but she could speak still, 
 and she bade those around send quickly for 
 Rosina. When the pale face and sad eyes bent 
 pitifully over her she roused herself and spoke 
 quickly, there was so little time. " I took it ; I 
 vowed, with the Diavolo for my witness, that I 
 would have the dowry and Angelo ; I watched 
 
CO IV PROSPER M^PIMAE'S 'INCONNUE ' 199 
 
 the miller at dusk through the window ; I stole 
 the two thousand francs and locked the only 
 door through which he could escape, and the 
 house was already in flames I had arranged 
 all that before. Then I kept the money quietly 
 and went to Turin and bought the beads and 
 kerchiefs the mother did not know she 
 
 thought it was really father's brother " 
 
 The blood gushed out afresh, and Betta's dull 
 eyes closed ; Angelo was already dead. 
 
 " Mammina mia" and a wee hand pulled 
 Rosina's dress, while the baby shouted with 
 delight at little shaggy Rita. 
 
 Just a little of the dowry was left, and the 
 miller's daughter bought food and clothing for 
 the child, and took him home to the hut, 
 where the foolish old mother crooned love 
 songs to him, and Rita tried to catch the sun- 
 beams for him as they fell across the red brick 
 floor. 
 
 The priest of the village told Lady M 
 
 the story, and now Rosina, with her sad eyes 
 and strange paleness, lives in a pretty warm 
 dry cottage by the great gate leading to the 
 park in which stands this house ; and the old 
 mother and the child and the dog are happy 
 all day in the sunshine. You shall see them 
 when you come. 
 
 Unlike the Princess Shehrzad's tales, my 
 story is finished. It may interest you when 
 you come upon too much rabachage in Madame 
 
200 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccvi 
 
 du Deffand's Letters. Adieu, je vous einbrasse 
 bien tendrement, ]M. 
 
 CCV 
 
 -, Tth September 1859. 
 
 Sorry as I am not to see you as soon as I 
 hoped, I am too thankful to have you get away 
 from Paris, and to know that you are going to 
 have change of scene and change of air, to say 
 a word against your new plan. Only get 
 better, rest, amuse yourself, above all forget that 
 you cannot sleep or eat, and merely do both 
 without thinking about either ! I send this 
 hurried note, as you tell me to, chez M. le 
 Ministre d'Etat, a Tarbes. 
 
 CCVI 
 
 \Zth September. 
 
 A la bonne heiire ! vous voila almost yourself 
 again after this little short trip to the Pyrenees, 
 what will you not be should you take a longer 
 
 voyage ? Had I not promised Lady M 
 
 to stay with her until she is ready to come to 
 Paris, I would leave for that place to-day, so 
 much do I want to see you now that " Richard 
 is himself aofain." 
 
covin PROSPER M&RIMEE'S ' INCONNUE 
 
 CCVII 
 
 Paris, isth October 1859. 
 
 The agitation among the clergy seems to be 
 increasing, and the Bishops of Orleans and 
 Bordeaux have both addressed discourses to the 
 emperor, the former being very violent. Have 
 you seen them ? The Cardinal Archbishop 
 among other things reminded his Majesty of 
 what he had formerly said '^ La sonverainet^ 
 temporelle du Chef venerable de VEglise est 
 mtimeme^it Hie a Veclat du Catholicisme^ a la 
 Liberty et a VIndependance de V Italie!' 
 
 By post to-day I send you a little souvenir 
 which you will, I hope, find useful during your 
 journeyings. Once more I envy you for being 
 in Madrid a place I have never yet been able 
 to reach. Adieu. 
 
 CCVIII 
 
 Paris, New Yeai^s Eve^ i860. 
 Anniversaries are not thoroughly pleasant 
 things, are they ? They remind one of too 
 many undertakings left unfinished, too many 
 good resolutions broken ; and they define too 
 clearly the widening gaps in life never again to 
 be filled, the circle of friends narrowing with 
 such piteous speed and certainty. No, most 
 distinctly I do not like anniversaries, let us 
 
202 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cci x 
 
 ignore the fact that this is one. There is little 
 news, and the weather is vile ; I feel stupid ; it 
 is the night of nights for reminiscences, and as 
 I refuse to indulge in them, I had far better 
 leave you a fair white unwritten page than try 
 and make conversation when the one subject I 
 could most eloquently converse upon is streng 
 verboten. I have sent the books, et /attends 
 tme prompte reponse. 
 
 CCIX 
 
 Paris, (^th January i860. 
 What a Satanic little story is this which you 
 tell me of the farmer near Grasse who sent his 
 objectionable neighbour to a better world 
 merely by pronouncing a few mystic words 
 over three needles boiling in a pot ! I know 
 several people whom with the greatest dis- 
 interestedness I would cheerfully so aid in 
 exchanging the troubles and trials of this life 
 for the joys of an unknown state, were it not 
 for fear of consequences. Your farmer appar- 
 ently lives on unharmed, I suppose because no 
 one really believes that the spells he invoked 
 killed the neighbour, which proves that it is not 
 things themselves which matter, only the opinion 
 other people have of them. It was a bad day 
 to tell me such a tale, so wicked do I feel. If 
 some one would only do something to put me 
 into a passion it would be all right, I could 
 
ccx PROSPER M^RIM&E'S 'INCONNUE' 203 
 
 then expend my cerebral agitations upon a 
 legitimate object ; as it is, I shall probably do 
 much harm in a self-controlled and ladylike 
 way, making victims of innocent fellow-beings. 
 To relieve you of the embarrassment of a 
 limited selection of moral literature for pre- 
 sentation to your young friends in coming 
 years, I might offer to write some books my- 
 self, were it not for the remark an Irishman 
 once made to me, that he verily believed if I 
 ever did write a book it would be so improper 
 my friends would refuse to let me read it ! 
 
 Yes, I gave the choice in my selection to 
 " Olga," as you requested, without asking why 
 you so particularly distinguished her. This 
 want of curiosity upon my part probably passed 
 unnoticed, as so many of my good qualities 
 seem to pass. Be careful when you go to 
 Grasse on Tuesday next ; the monuments de 
 toute sorte are not worth any extra fatigue, and 
 you confess that the sun at Cannes and the 
 surrounding country is treacherous. You once 
 suggested that our letters might one day be 
 published, in mercy to a future reading public 
 I hasten to close this one. Adieu. M. 
 
 CCX 
 
 Paris, "^oth Ja7iiiary i860. 
 Your comparison of the emperor with the 
 shepherds of the Middle Ages who made wolves 
 
204 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cox 
 
 dance to the music of a magic flute is not bad. 
 He is a wonderful man ; he pipes a certain 
 tune and the workmen apply themselves heart 
 and soul to widening streets instead of barricad- 
 ing them ; he changes the note and the jour- 
 nalists sing his praises instead of deriding his 
 policy ; and with all classes it is the same, his 
 shrewdness in his dealings with foreign powers 
 calls forth commendation from statesmen ; his 
 urbanity delights those called to counsel with 
 him ; his social gifts charm the brilliant crowds 
 thronging the entertainments at the Tuileries, 
 and with it all he is a dreamer. A wonderfully 
 practical dreamer if you will, but still a dreamer. 
 You will see it and believe it one day, mon ami, 
 perhaps too late. I can quite credit the fact 
 that if they did name all the members of the 
 sacred college it would be to you ^'' fort ^gal" 
 providing you were not obliged to listen to 
 their sermons, because, ami infiniment cher, you 
 are not pious. It is with regret that I write 
 the words, they are so painfully true. Were 
 you so, even in the most superficial sense, you 
 would remember the fite of la Sainte Eulalie, 
 which, I feel convinced, you have forgotten. 
 Do you not know that it comes on the iith 
 or 1 2 th? Shall I get something pretty in the 
 way of Byzantine jewellery, for your cousin, and 
 send it to you ? 
 
 I am engrossed in politics ; they alternately 
 bewilder and amuse me, they, being quite 
 
ccxi PROSPER M&RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 205 
 
 strictly interpreted, standing for politicians 
 rather than politics proper. One, at least an 
 humble- minded woman like myself with a 
 proper reverence for the sterner sex, has such 
 an exalted opinion of a male mortal who un- 
 dertakes in whatever form to reform and regene- 
 rate mankind ; I look for something so much 
 nobler than the mere ordinary man, with aims 
 all pure and efforts all disinterested, and what 
 I find bewilders me. Then I come closer and 
 gravely investigate, and my discoveries turn the 
 bewilderment to amusement. You will prob- 
 ably call this silly, but so much that I write 
 must, from your standpoint, be more than silly. 
 Do you know, I find it a great proof of your 
 affection for me that you can endure so much 
 nonsense from me, and when I stop to think 
 seriously of the matter I am amazed that I dare 
 write to you, not only as I do, but at all. Re- 
 flection, however, reminds me that I have so 
 long now been your ami feminin, and that re- 
 lationship solves so many wonderings. You 
 ask me when my fite comes ; I have none. 
 You ask my name, is it not L Inconmie ? 
 
 CCXI 
 Paris, I'jth February i860. 
 
 Do you remember the maxim which Madame 
 de Sdvigne says in a letter to her daughter that 
 
2o6 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccxi i 
 
 she made off-hand, and Hked so well she fancied 
 she had taken it from M. de la Rochefoucauld ? 
 It was, if I mistake not, " Ingratitude begets re- 
 proach, as acknowledgment begets new favours." 
 You were so grateful for my offer to help 
 you safely over ^^ fete of Sainte Eulalie and 
 its accompanying gift, that I hasten to send a 
 Byzantine clasp, which will, I think, faire voire 
 affaire. Let me know if you receive it safely. 
 It complies tolerably well with all your condi- 
 tions, is not too modern or too voyante, has 
 the air of costing more than I paid for it, and 
 has not given me any trouble at all. Am I 
 comprehensive, do I reply as categorically as 
 the neat little numbers in your letter would 
 suggest, are you satisfied with me so far as 
 executing commissions goes ? If so, I have not 
 lived in vain. M. 
 
 CCXII 
 
 Paris, 29M February. 
 
 'Tis good to be alive to-day, for the spring 
 has come to peep at us behind the skirts of 
 winter, and kissed her hands to us while the 
 cold and sleet and snow were for a moment off 
 duty. The little feathered lovers in the trees 
 are as open in their wooing as though leafy 
 foliage screened their indiscreet confessions, in- 
 stead of bare brown branches holding them up 
 
ocxii PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE 207 
 
 to the derision of pessimists and cynics. Their 
 chirpings and twitterings are all perfectly clear 
 to me, while they know that I sympathise with 
 them, and by the very way in which they turn 
 their heads to one side and look at me with 
 bright round eyes, I understand that they wish 
 me well because of my sympathy. They are 
 glad, as I am, that spring is coming soon to 
 stay, and with it birds and travellers from the 
 south ; birds for them to twitter to, and one 
 dear traveller for me to welcome home again. 
 Do be careful not to overtire yourself on the 
 journey. 
 
 I have at one and the same time been told a 
 most exciting secret, and been bound over to 
 keep the peace by not divulging it. For a 
 daughter of Eve this is trying. Of course I 
 mean to keep the solemn promises so solemnly 
 made that I will never, never repeat what I have 
 heard, so do not ask me to share my knowledge 
 with you. Personally I have a theory that a 
 secret is safe only when known to three persons 
 two of whom are dead, but really, I do mean to 
 try and keep this particular one inviolate. I 
 direct this to Marseilles, poste restante, as you tell 
 me to, and I live for the first week in March. 
 What a great thing it is to be happy, every- 
 thing is then so possible. A bientot. 
 
2o8 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ocxiii 
 
 CCXIII 
 
 London, \st April i860. 
 It was just as well for me that I saw so 
 much of you in Paris, as the agreeable remem- 
 brance of having done so may enable me to 
 survive the ennuies I suffer here. I have been 
 independent too long to live in other people's 
 houses when the people are relations, and when 
 those relations have valued old family servants 
 to whom they are bound to show consideration. 
 Such an one is at the present time turning a 
 fairly comfortable world into a very unenvi- 
 able place as a residence, and rapidly convert- 
 ing an amiably -inclined individual (myself) 
 into an irritable, distracted, and distracting 
 specimen of outraged human nature. Write to 
 me quickly, one of your long amusing letters, 
 tell me of your dinners and balls and something 
 enlivening, that I may be able to endure this 
 compulsory visit of one whole month to uncon- 
 genial people. I would send you a ' poisson 
 d'Avril did such things exist in London, but 
 they do not ; no one gives pretty or amusing 
 presents on the 1st of April, they only some- 
 times perpetrate very stupid jokes. My April 
 joke is to find myself where I am, and the pro- 
 portions of it will last me for some time to 
 come. You see I am diabolically cross, but I 
 ask you how, under the circumstances, could I 
 be anything else ? You in Paris well, cheerful, 
 
ccxvi PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE' 209 
 
 and amusing yourself; I in London bound to 
 consult the fancies and prejudices of a narrow- 
 minded old aunt and four spinster cousins. 
 Just why I allow myself to be so imposed upon 
 is what puzzles your most moral and conser- 
 vative M. 
 
 CCXIV 
 
 London, yih April i860. 
 Ah, why did I come here ! The springlike 
 weather makes me long for our woods, and 
 your letter is too cheerful ; you do not miss 
 me half enough. Alfred de Musset's words 
 haunt me 
 
 " Le temps emporte sur son aile 
 Et le printemps et I'Hirondelle, 
 Et la vie et les jours perdus." 
 
 I will not quote the last line of the verse ; it 
 would be equally untrue and ungrateful. But 
 write to me. 
 
 ccxv 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCXVI 
 
 London, ^th May. 
 There is but one drawback in reading your 
 letters, I so dread coming to the end of them. 
 P 
 
2IO AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccxvi 
 
 The last, telling of the ball at the Hotel d'Albe, 
 was delightful ; how good of you to spare so 
 much time for the details which you knew 
 would delight my feminine heart. \i yotc found 
 the women decolletees (Ttine fagon oiitrageiise, it 
 must have been a trifle strong for the rest of 
 humanity. The fashion has not yet crossed 
 the Channel ; we are still very decent here, if 
 not a trifle prudish. It often strikes me as 
 odd that so narrow a stretch of water should 
 separate such entirely different customs, manners, 
 and moralities in the two nations of England 
 and France. Even the shape of a Paris bonnet 
 is modified before it pleases the London beauty, 
 and a roomful of English grande dames will 
 demurely look down their noses at a risqiU 
 French story which would merely make their 
 piqiiante neighbours across the stream laugh 
 heartily ; and yet human nature is terribly 
 alike wherever it exists. Ati, fond, we are not 
 one bit more moral than you, only , we are 
 taught " properer manners," as my old nurse 
 used to say. I have no equivalent exchange 
 for your Paris scandals, although I rejoice to 
 say that my visit to the aunts and cousins is 
 over, safely over too, for which I take no small 
 credit to myself. I allowed my digestion to 
 be thoroughly upset once a week by having 
 the hour of every meal changed, and eating a 
 cold meat dinner in the middle of the day on 
 Sundays. I forbore to mention your name, or 
 
cox VI PROSPER M'^RIMEE'S ' INCONNUE' 211 
 
 to dwell upon the little differences between 
 foreign and English life. I came down to 
 breakfast punctually ; read my letters stolidly 
 under fire of ten pairs of inquisitive eyes 
 who darted silent disapprobation at the foreign 
 stamps and thin paper ; in short, by the miracu- 
 lous aid of a kind Providence, I lived through 
 a month of the dullest possible existence, 
 formed of narrow respectability and respectable 
 narrowness as regards life in its every phase. 
 Now I breathe again, and the world seems 
 alive once more. You will smile when you 
 learn what kept me from absolute collapse 
 during my duty visit ; it was an almost daily 
 stroll to that grand silent resting-place of the 
 dead and shrine of worship for the living 
 beautiful, shadowy, dreamy Westminster Abbey. 
 You see I was careful to seek out no worldly 
 acquaintances during my penitential retreat at 
 the aunt's, who is a kind old soul after all said 
 and done ; therefore much spare time remained 
 upon my hands, and I employed it in wandering 
 through the Poets' Corner and reading the 
 names of those glorious gifted ones who have 
 sung of joy and sorrow, love and death, touch- 
 ing men's hearts to quick sympathy and sooth- 
 ing many an hour of pain or weariness. To 
 write something that will live after one ! To 
 pen even a few words which, whenever read, 
 must bring a throb of restful pleasure to a 
 human heart, that may help one child of earth 
 
212 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccxv i 
 
 amid the endless grind of earthly toil ; is this 
 not ambition well employed ? You who are 
 doing all this, do you not feel glad that it has 
 been given you to do ? From where the poets 
 lie in the old Abbey it is not far to the tombs 
 of kings and queens with heads uncrowned by 
 death and laid low as any common commoner. 
 Mere worldly greatness does not seem to me 
 one -half so worth the having as greatness of 
 mind and soul, yet see the crowd cheer and 
 hail the one while the other is worshipped only 
 by a few. And when tout le monde approves, 
 why, it is much, it is everything ; one is always 
 fool enough to be governed by public opinion. 
 If we are ever in London together, you and I, 
 you must come with me to Westminster Abbey 
 and explain it to me architecturally, for I 
 regret to say I am painfully ignorant of the 
 very first principles of architecture. I love the 
 place, and love to ramble along its aisles and 
 its quiet corners, to look far up among the 
 arches -and listen to the organ's peal rolling 
 through the building from corner to corner and 
 end to end ; but I love all this with sensation 
 and feelijig, not understanding this latter you 
 must teach me. 
 
 CCXVII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
ccxviii PROSPER MP.RIMAE'S'INCONNUE' 213 
 
 CCXVIII 
 
 London, ist July i860. 
 
 The crossing to-day was, without exception, 
 the worst I have ever made. It is a matter of 
 positive amazement to me how the two nations 
 of the earth, professing to be the most civiHsed 
 and to know how to Hve more comfortably than 
 their neighbours, will, year in and year out, 
 traverse that wretched Channel in boats which 
 could not have been worse in the dark ages, if 
 that period of time knew anything about boats. 
 Two hours of mortal misery to be endured 
 every time an Englishman wishes to dine in 
 Paris or a Frenchman proposes to visit John 
 Bull in his tight little island ; it really seems 
 absurd. To-day the sea was rough, and a cold 
 drizzling rain made the misery more miserable. 
 You could take your choice of shivering on a 
 wet windy deck or suffocating in the bad air of 
 a musty cabin, sights and sounds ghastly in 
 their disgusting distinctness being thrown in 
 gratis in whichever place you elected to put 
 yourself. A young married couple were cross- 
 ing, at least they looked young and very newly 
 married when they came on board fresh new 
 travelling suits to match their fresh new con- 
 jugal manners and unmistakably new- married 
 little ways but oh, the change as we neared 
 the white cliffs of Dover ! The hapless Marie 
 
214 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxix 
 
 Stuart could not have regretted leaving her 
 " belle France " more bitterly than did the poor 
 little rumpled sea-sick bride, while every illusion 
 she had ever possessed as to the personal 
 charms of her new husband must have been 
 shaken to their very foundations with one glance 
 at his green woe -begone countenance from 
 which sea-sickness had driven all the assured 
 air of the conqueror and successful proprietor. 
 And to think of crossing again to-morrow when 
 
 I go with Lady M to by the sea, 
 
 where she fancies the air will do wonders for 
 her ! London is all mud, and the season is 
 practically over ; I shall like better, al- 
 though the place is new to me. Let me know 
 your plans. What a passion for separation we 
 have, considering that we are supposed to care 
 about one another. Adieu. 
 
 CCXIX 
 
 yihjuly i860. 
 
 I much doubt whether the get - up of a 
 croqiLe-mort would suit you, and all men in 
 deep mourning have a horribly suggestive 
 appearance of undertakers, donc^ not to see you 
 in the funeral procession of Prince Jerome does 
 not bring the amount of regret with it which 
 you seem to think it ought to. I can fancy 
 you in other roles far more to my taste than 
 
rcxxi PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 215 
 
 anything so melancholy as this, and on principle 
 I dislike interments. Remember, when I die I 
 wish to be cremated. This I write in all 
 seriousness. To begin with, it is clean, and I 
 hold strongly to the belief that cleanliness is 
 next to godliness. Then, however fair dead 
 persons may look in that last still sleep, the 
 knowledge that the seeds of corruption are 
 within them is too horrible. Think of the 
 slow decay, the rotting of flesh, the hideous 
 change, the loathsome gnawing worm, the foul 
 
 creeping, slimy things faugh ! all these give 
 
 the lie to the pure pale beauty of the dead, 
 and if life must be false, in pity let its end 
 end the falseness ; have done with shams, and 
 look and be what it really is ! So burn me 
 when I die, that I may at least be clean and 
 not food for worms. 
 
 ccxx 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCXXI 
 
 , list July. 
 
 When you are in a rage you are so delightful 
 that the temptation to infuriate you is almost 
 more than I can resist. For a long long time 
 now I have not had so charming a letter as the 
 one lying open before me, which closes with the 
 
2i6 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxi 
 
 words, ^^ Je stcis vraimeiit de bien mauvaise 
 hmneiir contre voiis" My conscience tells me 
 sternly that I deserve every one of your 
 reproaches, while my vanity whispers in delici- 
 ously soothing tones, " See how he misses your 
 letters when you fail to write he so fears to 
 lose them that angry as he is he tells you that 
 you are the ^' grand motif determinant'' of all 
 his plans, that no change of programme will be 
 a sacrifice if it conduces to a speedy meeting 
 with you ; that he would throw over every 
 engagement and return to Paris to-morrow if 
 you said that you would be there. O dear 
 vanity, how could I live without her ! It was 
 not nice of me, I confess, to neglect writing, but 
 how often have I told you that when living 
 with the sea I am not responsible for my 
 actions ? If we have all existed in a previous 
 state in some other form of animal or bird or 
 spirit, I know what I was, a mermaid. The 
 whole thing becomes clear to me as I write the 
 words. I was born in a grotto below the sea, 
 the walls of a pale shimmering green with opal 
 lights flashing through it, the roof of branching 
 coral, the floor fine silvery sand. Great pearls 
 lay here and there in dreamy moonlight white- 
 ness, and faintly-tinted grasses waved lightly 
 near the grotto's opening. What a gay careless 
 life it was, playing with baby wavelets and 
 sporting in the surf, the cool spray falling on 
 hair and eyes and lips like kisses in a dream. 
 
ccxxi PROSPER M^RIM&E'S " INCONNUE' 217 
 
 And in the starlight how amusing it was to 
 mount to the world above and watch the ships 
 go by as we sat on the rocks and sang for the 
 tired mariners. Oh no, it was not half a bad 
 sort of a life, that of a mermaid under the sea. 
 No care or responsibility, no fighting between 
 good and evil, that wearing ceaseless struggle 
 which seems to know no end. 
 
 How can you regret an owl ? What odd 
 tastes you have in your selection of animal pets. 
 Long ago, do you remember, in almost the first 
 letter I ever wrote to you, I sententiously 
 remarked that an owl which had been in your 
 company had failed to impart its traditional 
 wisdom to you? Oh what queer proper little 
 letters I used to write ! I feel sure that you must 
 have smiled one of your fine cynical smiles 
 when you read them. In those days we 
 promised each other such amusing things ; you 
 swore never to make love to me, and gave me 
 wise reasons to prove how impossible it was 
 that I should find you lovable, and I treated 
 with noble scorn your suggestions that if I 
 married any one else I was bound to love you 
 in the end. Do you remember ? 
 
 Algiers still tempts me, and I have by no 
 means abandoned the idea of wintering there, 
 and I am very clear in my mind that I am not 
 coming to England at present ; on these two 
 points you cannot say that I do not give you 
 information. No one is quite all bad, even 
 
2 1 8 AN A UTHOR 'S LO VE ccxxTi 
 
 1 have a few redeeming points, one of which 
 is that in spite of all your faults I love you 
 still, as a greater mortal than I once said of 
 England. 
 
 CCXXII 
 
 , ith August i860. 
 
 Well, it is almost decided that we go to 
 Algiers, and I am not wholly convinced that it 
 is the best thing to do, which means that I am 
 in a horrid state of uncertainty and am half 
 sorry that I promised my valuable companion- 
 ship for the expedition. I wish I could have 
 helped you in selecting the dresses and bonnets, 
 for I have no doubt that you made a fine 
 muddle of it all, and agree with you that it is 
 not unlikely the " dogs of France " will run 
 after the unfortunates who are obliged to wear 
 the garments of your unassisted choosing. 
 Voilct an idea for this happy souvenir which is 
 to remain with us after parting. . . . 
 
 Have you only just discovered that all men 
 (not merely Englishmen) look uncommonly 
 alike when dressed in habits noirs and cravates 
 blanches ? Mori amiy if you had ever asked a 
 noble guest to get you a glass of champagne, 
 as I once did, mistaking him for a domestique^ 
 you would know that this resemblance reaches 
 confusingly far. Will no man assert himself 
 and refuse to dress like the twin of a gargojt de 
 
ccxx r V PR OSPER MARIMAE 'S ' INCONNUE ' 219 
 
 cafe? Think how well you would look in 
 velvet and point lace attired as a gentleman of 
 the olden times, while no costume ever invented 
 is so trying as the present regulation full dress 
 for a man. 
 
 Surely you cannot be serious when you say 
 that people in England speak of war and a 
 French annexation ! absurd. I send this to 1 8 
 Arlington Street, et je voiis embrasse. 
 
 CCXXIII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCXXIV 
 
 Lestaque, \2th September. 
 
 With this I send you a photograph of myself, 
 which will make those adieux to you which it 
 is impossible for me to make in person. I 
 regret that we could arrange no meeting ; you 
 will think it my fault I find it a little yours 
 also ; but we will not quarrel just as a long 
 journey is to part us still more completely, 
 although we have a genius for parting even if 
 the space be small. Send me your commissions, 
 and I will do my best to execute them in the 
 excellent manner you yourself employ. How 
 I should dislike you if you were not generous. 
 There ought to be a law putting all mean men 
 
220 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxv 
 
 to death they are one of the most un3eemly 
 blots in a tolerably well regulated world. A 
 mean woman is a pitiable sight enough, but a 
 mean man seems to exceed it in pitiableness, 
 he always produces upon me a sense of intense 
 fatigue. I expect a photograph in return. 
 Will you not please go promptly and have one 
 taken ? 
 
 CCXXV 
 
 13M September i860. 
 No letters ; of what are you thinking ? I 
 gave you a carefully-prepared plan of our route 
 on purpose that there might be no danger of 
 missing news from you, and I hear nothing ; 
 write, or I will tell you nothing. Yesterday 
 as we drove along just as the day was falling, 
 
 Madame de C slept, and I, wide awake, 
 
 dreamed. And my dream was that I was great 
 and famous. I had won a name that echoed 
 far and wide, conquered a place in this over- 
 crowded world which was pleasantly apart from 
 the toilers and strugglers still fighting for space. 
 With a calm restful loftiness I watched them 
 pressing and hurrying on, some with great gaunt 
 eyes and hollow cheeks, fiercely determined to 
 win or to die ; others beaten back and trampled 
 down so often that each effort they made to 
 rise was feebler than the last ; and more still 
 crushed into a stupid stolid hopelessness. The 
 
ccxxv PROSPER M^RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE' 221 
 
 men who spurned all these crowded to me, 
 taking eagerly anything that I would give, 
 grateful for the very words over which they 
 once had cavilled and hesitated, and finally re- 
 fused, a fact they now cleverly ignored. At 
 first no child with a new toy could have been 
 more hugely pleased than was I with this pretty 
 plaything called success. I laughed aloud 
 when those before whom I once had trembled, 
 waiting anxiously for their autocratic verdict, 
 now with deep respect waited upon my whims, 
 and it vastly pleased me to give them that which 
 I knew my name alone made valuable, but which 
 they took gratefully, reverently, as though all 
 worth and merit were enfolded in its pages. 
 All this at first amused me, but gradually a 
 slow contempt came for the very people whose 
 opinion I had once highly valued and con- 
 scientiously tried to win. That which I knew 
 to be good honest work, written with a long- 
 ing purpose to accomplish some good in the 
 world, to give some help to humanity, even if it 
 were only a smile to cheer, all this had been 
 counted as nothing worth, I had no name to 
 stamp upon the wares offered for sale, no 
 patent sign to attract attention and win ignorant 
 praise. But now how all was changed. Any 
 worthless trash I might scribble with thought- 
 less haste brought me gold, and men contended 
 which should pay the most gold to capture it, 
 and once obtained they treated it kindly, decked 
 
222 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxv 
 
 it out bravely, and stamping it with my name, 
 my famous world-wide name, they flaunted it 
 abroad and men hastened to share it with them, 
 and pronounce loudly to all who would hear 
 how wise and clever and brilliant a thing this 
 was, this trash stamped with a name. And 
 then I scorned myself more than the silly fools 
 around me. After the scorn a bitter sadness 
 came : what mattered now all this flashing 
 notoriety and fulsome flattery from people who 
 never cared before ? Those who had lovingly 
 followed every step I took along the thorny 
 road to fame, who had helped me with a fond 
 belief in me, a warm sympathy when disappoint- 
 ment came, a glad sincere delight at every little 
 gleam of success, these, so many of them, were 
 gone, and gone before they knew what the end 
 would be. They would have cared so much, 
 and they never knew ; what did it matter now, 
 what was the good of it all, it came so late ! 
 
 Oh tell me, you who know, tell me, is this 
 all that fame can do at the end ? After years 
 of hope and toil and strong belief and final 
 victory, does all the warm glow and flush of 
 success flicker and pale and fade to dull regret 
 that it comes too late? Hot smarting tears 
 came as we drove on in the still twilight, the 
 utter hopelessness of it all seemed to spread 
 over me like a pall, and weigh me down with 
 its stifling sadness, and it seemed so real, I was 
 so wide awake that I could hardly persuade 
 
ccxxvi PROSPER MARIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 223 
 
 myself I had never struggled for fame, therefore 
 why, in heaven's name, should gain or loss of 
 fame disturb me ? I had no wish to write for 
 men's approval, for no man's, only one, and well 
 I knew how kind a judgment every word I 
 wrote for him was sure to win. And I wanted no 
 name to stamp on anything, only the one he gave 
 me, " LInconmiel' which so long a time ago was 
 graven on his heart. A silly, silly waking dream 
 it was for me to dream at twilight, was it not ? 
 
 CCXXVI 
 
 Algiers, 29M September i860. 
 
 How can I tell you what I think of your lost 
 letters when I have never seen them ? Why, 
 you ask a question almost as silly as my waking 
 dream ! Decidenient^ mon ami, you have lost 
 your head as completely as the good people of 
 Marseilles did over the sight of the emperor, 
 and they were painfully far gone. The fetes 
 were worth seeing, and his Majesty cannot com- 
 plain of any want of loyalty on the part of 
 his Marseillais. You ask me for descriptions 
 of what I see and my impressions of Oriental 
 life. Where can I begin and how properly 
 answer ? I am rather bewildered with the 
 startling contrasts of pompous splendour and 
 feeble absurdity in the things around me. The 
 approach to this place was a thing of perfect 
 
224 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxvi 
 
 beauty, for we arrived at sunrise, and the lines 
 came at once to my mind 
 
 " Le soleil se levait, Alger nous apparut, 
 Salut terre d'Afrique, k ton beau ciel salut ! " 
 
 As our vessel glided into the still waters of 
 the port everything was shadowy, vague, mysteri- 
 ous ; slowly a pale gold light spread over sea 
 and sky and the indistinct outlines of an amphi- 
 theatre of hills rising behind and around a 
 silent white town, which looked in the distance 
 like a line of foam on sand. Then a tinge of 
 blue crept into the golden light, deepening in 
 colour as it came, and a faint soft rose tint, 
 which also deepened as it spread until the 
 heavens were one refulgent glow of brilliant 
 colour and the horizon grew more and more 
 luminous as the god of light himself rose with 
 slow majesty behind the Djurajura mountains. 
 At this moment the full glory of an African 
 sunrise was before us, bathing white Algiers as 
 it rose from the sparkling waters in an exquisite 
 rosy blushing light. Then came a motley 
 crew of Arabs, Spaniards, Maltese, and Kabyles, 
 shouting in an undistinguishable jargon of 
 hybrid patois, men with dark faces and 
 picturesque costumes, all clamouring for our 
 goods and chattels. And oh the queer old 
 Arab town with its modern French half that 
 Algiers is when in spite of the polyglot confusion 
 you at last reach it; and oh the palms, the grace- 
 
ccxxvi PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 223 
 
 ful Eastern palms which until now I have only 
 seen in my dream of the desort ; and oh the 
 plants and flowers, and orange and olive groves, 
 and the beautiful vineyards ! I ask again how 
 am I to describe all these ! One must see Algiers 
 to know its perfumed beauty, its luxurious 
 wealth of wild flowers, its pepper trees and 
 myrtle, its great bunches of scarlet poinsettias, 
 and fragrant waxy magnolias, its lemon trees 
 and cypresses. If you wish warm, fragrant, 
 golden loveliness, you must come to Algiers, 
 with sea in front and mountains behind and 
 sunshine over all ! 
 
 There is an immense difference in the old 
 and the new part, the latter inhabited by the 
 French being all excitement and bustle, gay, 
 amusing, vivacious ; the former silent and 
 solemn, the people self-contained, with grave 
 sad faces, while over all falls the veil of mystery 
 which always envelops an Eastern people. 
 The Arab women are graceful, but in their 
 regular features there is but little expression or 
 soul, and a strange resemblance exists in them 
 all. Only two distinct passions gleam from their 
 dark eyes, love and hate, there is nothing be- 
 tween, no finer shades. We have already -been 
 inside a harem and seen these Eastern beauties 
 unveiled ; poor things, what a life they must 
 lead, it would be all hate with me if I were 
 unlucky enough to be in their place ! But my 
 letter is growing to an alarming length, and as 
 Q 
 
226 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxvn 
 
 I do not wish you to find it like a leaf out of 
 a guide-book, I will write quickly FiN. 
 
 CCXXVII 
 
 Algiers, 3^ October i860. 
 No. 5. 
 
 I still revel in all the beauty of nature and 
 colour and picturesqueness, in this entrancing 
 African warmth and brightness. To-day we 
 visited the Mosque of Dja-ma-el-Djedid. Do you 
 find the name musical? A commoner way of call- 
 ing it is the Mosque of the Pecherie. It is dazz- 
 lingly white, and oddly enough is built in the 
 form of a Latin Cross. To explain this there is 
 a legend telling that the designer of the building 
 was a Genoese, a Christian slave who was forced 
 by the Moslems to work. He revenged himself 
 for their cruelty by an ingenious device, namely, 
 the manner in which he designed this building, 
 perpetrating in the Mahomedan temple the 
 symbol of his own Christian faith. When the 
 Mussulmen discovered in what fashion he had 
 carried out their orders they were furious, and put 
 him to a hideously cruel death by impalement. 
 
 Some of the Moorish houses here are the 
 most luxurious and shadowy bits of seclusion, 
 with cool open courts shaded by vines or ivy 
 which is trained up the sides of the building. 
 In these courts you see the dwellers in the 
 
ccxxvii PROSPER M^RIM^E'S 'INCONNUE' 227 
 
 house sitting on soft carpets, and splashing bare 
 naked feet in the fountain which drips cease- 
 lessly with a soothing monotony. But few of 
 the windows of the houses open on the streets, 
 and these few are jealously defended by bars 
 and close gratings. There are quantities of 
 Jews in the place, and some of the Jewish 
 women are lovely. Their ordinary dress is a 
 simple blue, or brown, or green garment confined 
 under the breast with a girdle, while their long 
 black hair is held together with circlets of silver 
 or gold, or merely a simple ribbon. Their arms 
 and feet are bare, and are sometimes very 
 beautiful. We have seen some of the curious 
 Eastern dances, where the women move their 
 bodies entirely from the hips downward, and 
 we often hear the Arab girls singing as they 
 accompany themselves on a mandoline. More 
 guide-book ! I fear you will exclaim after read- 
 ing this letter, but you so constantly tell me to 
 describe all that I see, and you become so 
 abusive, and clamour so for details when I am not 
 particular enough in my descriptions, that I feel I 
 must risk the charge of copying from Baedeker. 
 Is not the poor empress terribly distressed at 
 the death of the Duchess d'Albe ? How sad 
 it was. Will the parties at Compiegne be given 
 up this year? I hope not, as I know how 
 much you always enjoy them. Could you 
 only be with me on these " shining sands of 
 Africa's shore " I should be quite quite happy. 
 
22S AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxviii 
 
 CCXXVIII 
 
 Algiers, \^th October. 
 
 I once wrote you a description of a chapel 
 in a wood where prayer was real and faith was 
 not a dream. In quaint contrast to that quiet 
 spot and the simple worship practised there, 
 yet at once recalling it, is another tiny chapel 
 of an older faith, standing in a deserted garden, 
 amidst a wild luxuriance of foliage and Eastern 
 flowers, in this far-away land, in which a wor- 
 ship of signs and gorgeous symbols was once 
 practised. We came upon it suddenly when 
 going from Algiers along the sea-road to the 
 village of St. Eugene, and immediately the 
 contrast between the two places of worship 
 struck me as more than curious, not only be- 
 cause of the difference in them, but in their 
 odd resemblance, both so lonely and remote ; 
 one so bright and simple under the free dome 
 of heaven, the other so dim and with such an 
 old-world air inside its painted walls; both 
 standing in a place of leafy beauty, the one 
 fresh and cool, the other dark, the air seeming 
 laden with memories of the past ; both prayer- 
 haunted, but from the one the balmy summer 
 air seemed to have swept away all trace of 
 unforgiven sin, while in the other, time seemed 
 only to have accumulated the grief which sin 
 had felt there, and piled it high until its woe 
 
ccxxviii PROSPER MARIMAE'S 'INCONNUE' 229 
 
 oppressed you. We had left Algiers by the 
 north gate, Bal-el-Oned, and as we passed it 
 we came upon a group which could a painter 
 have transferred to canvas just as they looked 
 at the moment, his fortune would have been 
 made. The men, three of them, were very 
 handsome ; Moors, with pale, oval faces and 
 stately figures. They wore a rich, embroidered 
 dress, with a cloak gracefully draped over one 
 shoulder, and on their heads the universal fez 
 and white turban. All three stood like statues 
 as we passed. Two Moorish women, enveloped 
 in white draperies, were sitting near them ; both 
 of these wore the white striped shawl called 
 kaik, with the white linen handkerchief called 
 adjar hiding all of their face save the fiery, 
 dark eyes. Near them a Maltese sailor was 
 disputing with a bloodthirsty-looking Spaniard 
 in a velvet sombrero. The old gate, a group 
 of palms, and the brilliant colouring of air and 
 sky, completed the picture, which, had it hung 
 framed on the walls of the salon^ would have 
 charmed all who looked upon it. But this is 
 a land of pictures. I have already a whole 
 gallery in my mind, which later, when I have 
 more leisure at my command, I must ticket 
 and number for future reference. Let us one 
 day come to Algiers together ; I begin to love 
 it well. 
 
 Do send me some reliable information about 
 the actual state of affairs in the political world. 
 
230 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxix 
 
 We hear strange rumours here of strained rela- 
 tions beween Russia and Austria ; and to come 
 nearer home, of a little discontent among a 
 few about your emperor. Perhaps this latter 
 is nothing more than the difficulty about M. 
 
 H and the beaux- arts to which you 
 
 alluded in your last letter. I feel terribly 
 remote here ; when one lives in Paris, and is 
 accustomed to hearing all the daily details of 
 such things, one rather misses them when 
 absent. Write me one of your long, compre- 
 hensive letters, full of men and things. 
 
 CCXXIX 
 
 Algiers, i^th October. 
 No. 7. 
 
 I am studying Arabic. It appears frightfully 
 difficult, but I hope in time to conquer it as I 
 did German. I do so ardently wish to be 
 able to converse with these people, who quite 
 fascinate me, and are infinitely more interesting 
 than the French colony of which we are ob- 
 liged to see more than we quite fancy. Your 
 tartine politique, as I presume you yourself 
 would designate your last letter, was delightful. 
 I feel quite myself again, and au courant with 
 the affairs of all nations. Did ever a woman 
 have such a correspondent before ? that is the 
 
ccxxix PROSPER M&RIMiE'S 'INCONNUE' 231 
 
 question I ask myself after reading your letters, 
 which surely are the best ever written. You 
 make me smile with your absurd insistence 
 that I should give you fuller and still fuller 
 descriptions of what I see here. " Donnez-moi 
 des details de moeurs et n'ayez pas peur de me 
 scandaliser." This is the motif of your every 
 letter now, and it is growing quite monotonous. 
 Know then, once for all, that in spite of what 
 you are pleased to term my ettph^misme, I dis- 
 tinctly refuse to enlighten you as to a good 
 many of the details of the manners in this part 
 of the world lest they might not improve your 
 own. We have just come in from a visit to 
 the market in the Place de Chatres under the 
 arcades, and have also been up to the Casabah, 
 which was the former residence of the Dey. 
 It is not a particularly cheerful spot, and has 
 high, battlemented walls around the place ; but 
 one thing is higher still, and is moreover very 
 beautiful this is a palm, the tree of my pre- 
 dilection. It rears its lofty, graceful head high 
 up against the sky, and stands so fair and slim, 
 with a dreamy Eastern loveliness which I find 
 in no other tree that I have ever seen, and 
 which appeals to something deep down in my 
 heart, just what I am perfectly incapable of 
 explaining ; I only know that I love a palm, 
 and I think of Heine's lonely pine-tree in the 
 North, sleeping under its white covering of ice 
 and snow, and dreaming of 
 
232 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxxi 
 
 "... einer Palme 
 Die fern im Morgenland ;" 
 
 is lonely, and silent, and grieved, amid burning 
 rocky cliffs. Beautiful as it is, there is some- 
 thing almost pathetic in a palm. Near this 
 particular one to-day an Arab spread his 
 carpet, and throwing himself on his knees, bent 
 his head to the earth as he heard the call to 
 prayer. He had the dull, uninterested expres- 
 sion of his race the look of a fatalist, who 
 accepts all that comes, and with bowed head 
 and total lack of interest repeats at every blow 
 of fate, " The will of Allah be done." Adieu, 
 cher ami, I am not a fatalist ; are you ? 
 
 ccxxx 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCXXXI 
 
 Algiers, ^th December. 
 
 " Je vous apporte ma tete coicpable I " as you 
 tell me, in your letter of ist November, the 
 Emperor Francis Joseph said to the Emperor 
 Alexander. If this is in reality the form of 
 speech used by a serf when he approaches his 
 master, fearing to be punished by him, it is an 
 apt one for me to employ, for I know how 
 
ccxxxi PROSPER M&RIM&E'S' INCONNUE' 233 
 
 guiltily remiss I have been lately in not writing 
 and not acknowledging your two long and very 
 charming letters. That I did not do so is no 
 proof that I did not to the fullest extent ap- 
 preciate your epistles, I enjoyed every word of 
 them, but this African climate must be respon- 
 sible for my remissness ; I am growing lazy with 
 a laziness that would alarm me were I not too 
 lazy even to feel afraid. How kind of you to 
 think of sending me the little package, I shall 
 value it highly. I look through your two last 
 letters as I write, to see if any questions in them 
 need answering. You were quite right as to 
 the address of the jeweller, it was Rue d'Alger, 
 No. 10, where I bought the sleeve buttons. 
 How amusing that the Princess Clotilde should 
 notice them. You are not particularly en- 
 couraging about the Arabic, but I mean to per- 
 severe ; how droll it would be if I could speak 
 in a tongue unknown to you ! I promise not 
 to abuse my superior knowledge ; I will not call 
 you " dog of a Christian " at the very moment 
 you are particularly generous to me, as these 
 Arabs do when we give them small coins, hurl- 
 ing their contemptuous phrases at us with 
 impunity, as they know we cannot understand 
 a word they say. 
 
 Yes, poor Lady M did once write a 
 
 book, a novel, but it never had any success, and 
 it was not a subject she cared to dwell much 
 upon later in life. She was one of several 
 
234 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxxxt 
 
 warnings to me not to perpetrate a similar 
 folly. I shall miss the old lady very sincerely ; 
 she was a good friend up to the day of her 
 death, and you know my idea as to friends, I 
 prefer quality rather than quantity as their 
 characteristic. A few, but those few very 
 staunch and true, are better than half a hundred 
 feeble half-hearted ones who blow hot and cold 
 according to the social thermometer of the day. 
 In the way of literature, I think you might find 
 something better worth reading than the story 
 of Mademoiselle Can and Mademoiselle Ling. 
 If that is the best the Chinese can do, France 
 will not gain much from these much-talked-of 
 victories in China. The Celestials have never 
 interested me, they are so little original, and 
 originality appeals to me so very strongly. 
 What was really the real reason of the empress's 
 visit to Scotland ? Is it personal friendship for 
 the Queen of England, or does it conceal a 
 political meaning ? On all sides I hear differ- 
 ent motives assigned as an explanation of the 
 journey, and if you will confide the truth to 
 me I will not betray your confidence ; I shall 
 only have the delightful satisfaction of knowing 
 what all the world does not know, which is, I 
 think, one of the most pleasantly- soothing 
 sensations in life. You will insist upon hear- 
 ing particulars of Algerian customs, here is one 
 spicy one for you. ..... 
 
ccxxxii PROSPER MERIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 235 
 
 CCXXXII 
 
 Algiers, \oth December i860. 
 
 So I do not acquit myself wdl in my role of 
 voyageuse. I am very sorry, but what more or 
 what less can I do to improve matters ? I 
 tell you of what I see (not quite all of it per- 
 haps) in the best language I know how to 
 command ; I give you a little bit of everything, 
 sunrise, costumes, floral vegetation, descriptions 
 of all kinds, to say nothing of my thoughts, 
 and ambitions, and even my dreams. When I 
 sum up all this, I find you a trifle unreasonable, 
 for, on the whole, I think I might do worse. 
 When a man grows to have an idee fixe which 
 nothing can turn to the right or to the left, 
 naturally, he can see and appreciate nothing 
 which does not in some way appertain to that 
 idea. Might this not perhaps be your present 
 case? I merely suggest the thought without 
 the slightest arriere pens^e. By a friend going 
 directly to Cannes I send you a little souvenir 
 worked with some rather good gold and coloured 
 embroidery ; just what it is I can hardly say, 
 you might perhaps use it as a purse, or merely 
 let it lie as a fine bit of delicate colour on your 
 table with the " relics " ; try the effect. Write 
 to me but do not scold me ; strive for a more 
 contented and less inquisitive disposition, and 
 leave the natives of this land and any little 
 
2.l6 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE coxxxiv 
 
 peculiarities which they may possess in an 
 undisturbed peace. Voire amie d^vou^e. 
 
 CCXXXIII 
 
 Algiers, 7 th January 1861. 
 I will answer your question at once about 
 the sacoches. They are to be had here, they do 
 come from Constantine, and they are mar- 
 vellously embroidered with silks of every shade. 
 Shall I get you some ? Further, there are 
 most lovely stuffs and soft silken draperies, and 
 a curious thing they call a gebira, a kind of case 
 or bag worked and inlaid with gold inside and 
 out. I will get you any or all of these things 
 if you will deign to let me know your pleasure 
 in the matter. It will be too late to catch the 
 post to-day if I write one line more, so I will 
 not delay the above information, but close this 
 fragment of a letter at once with every loyal 
 loving wish for the New Year upon which we 
 are entering ; may it bring you only good. 
 
 CCXXXIV 
 
 Algiers, "^oth January 1861. 
 Nizza la bella was a name so suited to the 
 place that I cannot share your enthusiasm in 
 finding it changed to Nice, a French annexation. 
 
ccxxxv PROSPER M^RIM^E'S 'INCONNUE' 237 
 
 although the absence of custom-house officers, 
 gendarmes and passports on the Pont de Var 
 must be a vast improvement. I am so glad 
 that you have been to see your friend Mr. 
 EUice at Nice, as I know your mutual admira- 
 tion for each other. If you decide to leave 
 Cannes about the 8th of February I will begin 
 to think of tearing myself away from my beloved 
 palms and the sad -faced Arabs, that we may 
 meet again after this long separation. Perhaps 
 I may tell you some of the things you so much 
 wish to know, and which I declined to put on 
 paper ; but this only if I find you very amiable, 
 and if we meet soon while the " details " are 
 fresh in my mind. 
 
 CCXXXV 
 
 Algiers, \oth March. 
 
 Really, that you should still need me to 
 remind you of your cousin's fete and the annual 
 etrennes for Madame Lagrene's daughters after 
 all these years is tm peu fort ; I believe you 
 merely say so to permit of my feeling the 
 pleasantness of being a necessity to you. I 
 accept the subtle flattery, and repay it with the 
 announcement that I have just the very thing 
 for your cousin, whom you can assure that only 
 the fact of my negligence in sending it earlier 
 prevented her receiving it in time. For the 
 books I fear you will have to make your own 
 
238 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccxxxvi 
 
 excuses, unless you would like me to send you 
 a few copies of the Koran ! 
 
 I am to meet the Duchess of Malakof to- 
 night at dinner, and will with pleasure speak of 
 you and the theatricals in Spain ; it will be a 
 capital opening subject of conversation. I am 
 tired with a long walk in the sun, therefore you 
 must forgive a short letter. Adieu. 
 
 CCXXXVI 
 
 29M March 1S61. 
 
 Your last letter proved you to be in such an 
 infamous temper against all men and things 
 that I feared your health might become seri- 
 ously affected through nervous agitation, and 
 I at the same time decided that this eternal 
 saying of adieu is not just the most profitable 
 occupation that we can indulge in. From this 
 decision to a steamer bound for France was but 
 a step, and me void, a little browner perhaps 
 than when you saw me last you would never 
 believe that I had been to Africa were not this 
 the case but neither fatter nor thinner, there- 
 fore you will have small difficulty in recognising 
 me. I think you will like the gebira, it is 
 rather a good one. We shall quarrel delight- 
 fully over Wagner's music ; I like it, while you 
 have evidently nearly died under it ; and you 
 will see Tannhdnser will yet be a success, in 
 
ccxLi PROSPER MJ^RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE' 239 
 
 spite of Auber and the Princess of Metternich 
 and your irascible self I must remain here 
 for a short time, that I may get my affairs into 
 some sort of order after so long an absence, 
 and then I propose seeing Paris and yourself 
 once more. With this hope strong within me 
 I write no more adieu, but with much pleasure 
 ate revoir. 
 
 (Letters inclusive from CCXXXVII to CCXL 
 missing.) 
 
 CCXLI 
 
 N , 
 
 Thursday^ \2ithjic7ie 1861. 
 
 Have you ever had a moment of such com- 
 plete aberration of intellect that in it you have 
 done a thing which had the greatest fool of 
 your acquaintance done you would be con- 
 vinced that he was attacked with a sudden 
 access of folly ? Have you ever, during this 
 same space of mental aberration, literally held 
 within your hand an object most difficult to 
 get, and which only by the greatest care and 
 skill you have succeeded in obtaining, and then, 
 always at this critical moment of the suspension 
 of every faculty tinged with reason or common 
 sense, have you allowed this ardently -desired 
 and dearly -bought object to slip from your 
 grasp? One moment will do it, and another 
 
240 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxn 
 
 moment will make you aware that you have 
 done it, while in the two moments combined 
 the object so hardly won has escaped you, it 
 may be for ever, and you have only yourself to 
 thank for your loss. 
 
 If you have ever suffered from a spasm of 
 lunacy such as this, perhaps you will kindly tell 
 me what you did to yourself by way of punish- 
 ment. I am literally suffocating with rage 
 against myself, and would willingly perform 
 any act of self-abasement if it would effectually 
 prevent me from a second attack upon any 
 future occasion of this same momentary in- 
 sanity. I can fancy being able to apply a 
 good many things which might be of salutary 
 effect were the delinquent any one but myself, 
 but I can find nothing sharp enough or effica- 
 cious enough to meet such a case when it 
 becomes personal. The whole story of the 
 sottise which I have committed is too long to 
 tell ; it may or may not be fatal to the ultimate 
 design which I contemplated, but its immediate 
 consequence is that I am obliged to stop on 
 here indefinitely, and in spite of my au revoir 
 I shall not be able to come to Paris or to meet 
 you just yet. En revanche I send you a cigar- 
 case which I had hoped to give you in person. 
 Write to me, if you can do so after what I have 
 just told you, as if I were still a reasonable 
 being, instead of what I feel myself to be, the 
 most imbecile idiot ever allowed to go at large ! 
 
ccxLiv PROSPER MARIM^E'S'INCONNUE' 241 
 
 CCXLII 
 
 N- , \2ihjuly 1 861. 
 
 When I tell you that the domestic event in 
 my sister-in-law's family is still awaited with 
 no little anxiety you will understand why I 
 have not written as regularly as usual. 1 
 devoutly hope that everything will soon be 
 satisfactorily over, for this state of suspense is 
 getting on my nerves, and the responsibility of 
 the entertainment is, malgri moi^ thrust upon 
 me. If you have any moments left between 
 the dinners and balls with which your time in 
 London is doubtless almost entirely taken up, 
 do write me something amusing ; I am bored 
 to death, as I was never intended for a garde- 
 malade. 
 
 CCXLIII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCXLIV 
 
 N , i7ih August i2>()i. 
 
 My next letter will be from D , as we 
 
 are just off at least the children and I are 
 to that place ; my sister-in-law is recovering 
 very slowly, and will remain here for some time 
 longer. Your account of the Bank of England 
 R 
 
242 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccxlv 
 
 made me feel quite avaricious of so much gold. 
 I have once or twice passed it the Bank, not 
 the gold when I had business calling me 
 into the City, and have been amused at the 
 magnificence of the porter at the door, 
 with his trimming of gold lace and his im- 
 posing hat ; farther than the door I have never 
 penetrated. 
 
 So this time Mr. Gladstone pleases you 
 more ; for me he is a wonderful man who will 
 go far. I meant to tell you another story of 
 
 Lord B , more amusing still than the one 
 
 you tell in your letter of i6th July ; but I quite 
 forgot it when I wrote, and on second thoughts 
 I think that it will tell the better if I can per- 
 sonally act the dramatic portions of it, which 
 could not be expressed on paper. Remind me 
 to do this when we meet. 
 
 Direct your next to D . 
 
 CCXLV 
 
 D , I'jih August 1 86 1. 
 
 Nonsense ! so you find that I have accus- 
 tomed myself to submit to oppression, and 
 that is why I enjoy having these children about 
 me. Well, there are theories and theories, and 
 the most amusing part about this particular 
 one is that to make me submit the oppression 
 must come from any one saving and excepting 
 
CCXLV PROSPER M^RI AIDE'S * INCONNUE ' 243 
 
 yourself!. Cest tm peu fort, par cxe^nple, but 
 all the same, as I said, amusing. I delight in 
 children, always have, and always shall. They 
 never bore me, and I like studying the still 
 undeveloped traits of the human animal when 
 very small. I like to play with children and 
 to have them about me, and I thank God from 
 the bottom of my heart that I have none of 
 my own ! The pleasure of them is very great, 
 but the responsibility of them is too great. To 
 begin with, they may be so satisfactory in every 
 way, and they may on the contrary be so 
 miserably disappointing. If a boy, one would 
 naturally wish him to be bright and plucky, 
 clever at his books, a thorough little gentleman, 
 honest and truthful, intelligent, responsive, 
 affectionate. Fancy one's dismay should he 
 turn out to be dull and sullen, awkward and 
 untidy, without ambition or interest in things 
 around him, given to a shifty sort of prevarica- 
 tion, unresponsive and selfish, a gloomy blot 
 in the household instead of a bit of glad happy 
 sunshine. If a girl, on the other hand, she 
 should be pretty, loving and winning, with 
 promise of future grace and accomplishments, 
 holding strictly to truth and virtue all of 
 which things, by the way, the little one who 
 
 so attracts me in Madame de P 's brood is 
 
 duly endowed with. Such a child is a constant 
 delight, but were she the opposite of this, quel 
 malheiir ! One human being less in the world 
 
244 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccxlv 
 
 would, under those circumstances, . suit me 
 better. No, no, mon ami, little people to be 
 enjoyed should suggest no personal responsi- 
 bility. Who is the moralist who writes that 
 but one woman in a hundred, at a very moderate 
 calculation, is really fitted to be a mother? 
 Think what the part of a conscientious mother 
 really is. A child's soul and mind is given 
 into her keeping a pure white blank like a 
 sheet of paper, easily impressed, responsive to 
 the first words written upon it You may 
 later, if you will, rub out, and perhaps so far as 
 the eye can see entirely efface, some of the 
 original precepts and ideas traced upon the 
 page, even successfully write others over them ; 
 but, if carefully examined, the smooth surface 
 of the paper will be found to be scratched and 
 roughened ; you can see the blurred spot by 
 holding it in the proper light, and beneath the 
 second writing will be found the first, faint and 
 colourless, but deeply marked. The ink or 
 carbon may have been quite rubbed off, but 
 the steel point of the pen or the weight of the 
 pencil has imprinted indelible lines. And to 
 whom but the mother is it given to write these 
 first teachings upon the little white soul, the 
 little blank heart and understanding ; and 
 among the many mothers how few, how terri- 
 fyingly few, are those who write in wisdom, 
 and firmness tempered with gentleness, and a 
 patience unending ? 
 
CCXLV PROSPER M^RIM^E'S' INCONNUE' 245 
 
 It is SO infinitely easier to spoil a child than 
 it is to train him wisely, to give him the thing 
 refused a moment before because he cries for 
 it, and the noise he makes is a nuisance. To 
 tell him crossly to hush up and not talk any 
 more because the little brain, puzzling over 
 many things and struggling to understand 
 some of the mysteries around it, will ask 
 troublesome and stupid questions just at the 
 moment when your book is most interesting or 
 your head aches. Heavens, the patience of all 
 the angels combined is needed to make one 
 perfect mother ! The responsibility has no 
 let up to it ; it is line upon line, and precept 
 upon precept, in season and out of season, and 
 even then suppose one should fail ? It must 
 be terrible for a parent to see the unrestrained 
 passions of a well -grown child, to watch his 
 violent temper if angered, his sullen sulkiness 
 if thwarted, his selfish uncheerful manner to 
 those around him, and to have conscience say 
 " That is all your work ; you spoiled him 
 because it was too much trouble to train him 
 properly. If you had instructed him in gentle- 
 ness and forgiveness and self-control, he could 
 never exhibit such ungoverned rage ; if you 
 had denied him things with firmness, and taught 
 him to bear disappointments, he would not to- 
 day make your heart ache with those black 
 looks and that sulky silence ; had you earlier 
 taught him to be generous in thought and in 
 
246 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccxlv 
 
 deed, and had impressed upon him that a 
 certain amount of cheery friendliness is due 
 one mortal from another, you would not have 
 been forced to blush for his loutish ungracious- 
 ness of demeanour." And I believe conscience 
 must say just this to parents very frequently. 
 Too much responsibility is it all when one 
 thinks of it seriously ; and did one so think, 
 the subject would grow in magnitude until few 
 would willingly face it. I have spoken only 
 of the temporal side of the question the child's 
 physical and mental training ; but think of 
 that other spiritual side, of the child's little 
 white soul which is to be guided and influ- 
 enced, and remember the quick imitativeness of 
 children, their retentive memories, the startling 
 clearness with which they see through humbug, 
 and the tenacity with which they remember 
 example. Ach lieber Himmel I let me play 
 with other people's pretty toddling things, but 
 save me the horror of ever knowing , that 
 through any neglect or carelessness on my 
 part I have made more difficult the life here, 
 or impossible the life hereafter, to any child of 
 my own ! 
 
 We spend our days in excursions, going for 
 long tramps, and eating our luncheon under 
 
 the trees. There are Madame de P and 
 
 myself, a clever little French artist who sketches, 
 and the small fry. A donkey- boy goes to 
 attend to the animals, as by turn the tired ones 
 
ccxLVii PROSPER MJ^RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 247 
 
 of the party ride on donkeys, and no less than 
 five dogs accompany us ; then the weather is 
 perfect for out-of-door hfe, and I never saw the 
 place looking so lovely. I wish you would 
 leave Paris. How you can stand that white 
 glare and the August smells I cannot under- 
 stand. Can you not get away to Biarritz? 
 Toujoiii's fidele, M. 
 
 CCXLVI 
 
 D , I ^th September. 
 
 Delighted, mon ami, that you are out of the 
 heat and glare of Paris and are being well 
 amused, as I know you always are, in these 
 visits to the empress. Write me a full account 
 of your life at the Villa Eugenie, and, above 
 all, tell me that you are feeling well and more 
 yourself there. My letter must be brief, for we 
 
 are just off to the R Valley for the day ; 
 
 even as I write the children are calling me, 
 and their combined voices make a noise which 
 you would pronounce insufferable ! Adieu. 
 
 CCXLVII 
 
 Paris, id November. 
 We reached here last evening. I am well 
 up in metaphysics. Let me know when I can 
 see you. 
 
248 WA AUTHOR'S LOVE COL 
 
 CCXLVIIl 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCXLIX 
 
 Paris, 19/// November 1861. 
 Your letter was delightful. The little Prince 
 Imperial must be a charming child, even if 
 sometimes rather terrible. I laughed heartily- 
 over his reason for bowing to the people, but 
 should fancy it must cause a smile when he 
 gives it in public ! By the dance which you 
 describe I presume that the Duke of Athole and 
 his companions treated you to the Highland 
 Fling, and am not astonished that you found it 
 alarming. Since many a long day your letters 
 have not been so like yourself as this last one. 
 I think our discussions on metaphysics must 
 have done you great good, cheered away 
 some of the cobwebs from your brain which 
 have bothered you lately. Is my supposition 
 correct ? 
 
 CCL 
 
 R , ^th January 1862, 
 
 Jamais de la vie ! Of what can you be 
 thinking? I know my Paris, know just what 
 it will stand, and just where it draws the line : 
 
OCL PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 249 
 
 know the narrow crooked escalier de service in 
 every appartement meiibU up which mounts so 
 much knowledge of ces messieurs so comme ilfaut 
 who decorously mount the broad steps of the 
 grand staircase. Mais, mon cher, vous etes fou I 
 N'en parlous plus. The lessons in botany have 
 evidently gone to your head ! Do you remem- 
 ber some lines of Heine I must repeat the first 
 four that you may understand the last two, and 
 had I space I would quote the whole 
 
 " Ich rief den Teufel und er kam, 
 Und ich sah ihm mit Verwund'rung an ! 
 Er ist nicht hasslich und ist nicht lahm, 
 Er ist ein lieber scharmanter Mann. 
 
 Und als ich recht besah sein Gesicht, 
 Fand ich in ihm einen alten Bekannten." ^ 
 
 There, mein Freund, you have the answer to 
 the last page of your letter in more expressive 
 language than any I could write. Ask me no 
 more. 
 
 Pray do not waste all your affection on that 
 cat which you seem to be so attentive to, or I 
 shall grow as jealous of it as I was of the 
 horrible beast you fed upon flies. It was really 
 quite a relief to my mind when that repulsive 
 
 ^ I called the devil and he came, 
 Can he be under heaven's ban ! 
 He is not ugly and is not lame, 
 He is a dear and charming man. 
 
 And as I looked him in the face 
 I found in him an old acquaintance. 
 
250 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccl 
 
 creature died. I begin to believe that you are 
 slightly jealous of these children who afford me 
 so much amusement. Poor little mites, they 
 have convinced me of one thing, and that is, 
 that grown-up people talk a great deal of 
 nonsense about the happy days of childhood. 
 I do not believe that children are half as happy 
 as they get the credit of being. Everything is 
 so terribly real to them, and they are so abso- 
 lutely ignorant that they have nothing to fall 
 back upon. To say to a child " Not now, some 
 other time you can do it," conveys to his mind 
 nothing but blank desolation, the crushing in- 
 finity of space and limitless ages. Each day I 
 feel more convinced that thoughtless words or 
 expressions, used by their elders, often give 
 children hours of bitter puzzled thought, simply 
 because the poor little things possess neither 
 the knowledge nor the experience which would 
 disentangle jest from earnestness. Further, to 
 break a promise, however slight, made to a 
 child I consider absolutely criminal, and another 
 sin almost beyond forgiveness in my opinion, 
 is to say to a little fellow, what only the other 
 day I heard a mother say to her son, " No, go 
 away, I cannot kiss a naughty boy good-night," 
 and the poor little man, too proud to cry, but 
 with a quivering lip, left the room and went to 
 bed with a heart swelling with a sense of injus- 
 tice, and his first baby realisation of what it is 
 to have your hand against every man and every 
 
CCL PROSPER M^RIMJ&E'S'INCONNUE' 251 
 
 man's hand against you. I saw him later lying 
 in his little cot, with hot flushed cheeks and 
 two great tear-drops on the dark eyelashes, and 
 even in sleep short sobs came now and then. 
 What hard thoughts must have come to the 
 sore smarting little soul after he had been left 
 alone in the dark and told to go to sleep. Poor 
 little fellow, he at least had not found childhood 
 all happiness. But you will call me maudlin if 
 I write much more about small humans. 
 
 I will look out for the book you refer to of 
 Max Muller, but doubt my intelligence being 
 equal to the finding of it without knowing the 
 title ; however, I will try. I am re-reading parts 
 of Shakespeare ; how was it possible for a man 
 to obtain the wonderful insight into human 
 nature which every sentence of his writings 
 shows ! A line in Jidiiis CcBsar has haunted 
 me all day, that one in Antony's speech to 
 " Friends, Romans, Countrymen," the line which 
 says " The evil that men do lives after them." 
 Ay, that's the worst of it. If only we could 
 keep our favourite sins for ourselves, have them 
 to live with us, and be decently buried with us, 
 it might be all very well, but to know that 
 when death, that one only certain thing in life 
 upon which we can count never to fail us, has 
 in turn come to us, laid us low, snuffed us out, 
 that then^ we helpless and gone, then our sins 
 rampage the world on their own account, we 
 powerless to check their vagaries, but always 
 
252 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccll 
 
 responsible for them ; this staggers one. Well, 
 here we are, put into the world, not at our own 
 asking, but all the same bound to act out our part 
 in the play as if we liked it. It seems endless 
 sometimes, and deadly wearisome, but, to quote 
 Shakespeare again, ** The night is long that 
 never finds the day." 
 
 Do not forget your cousin's fete ; do you want 
 me to look up anything for her in this part of 
 the world ? . . . I could not finish my letter until 
 to-day, the i 3th, having had no end of ennuis. 
 La petite has been very ill, and is only now 
 
 beginning to improve, and Madame de P 
 
 has been suddenly called away, leaving me more 
 responsibility than I quite fancy. The book 
 has been ordered. I finally succeeded in un- 
 earthing the thing you wanted. Do write and 
 give me some idea of when you think of return- 
 ing to Paris. Aufwiedersehn. 
 
 CCLI 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCLII 
 
 HOMBOURG, ^thjune. 
 
 In spite of the charms of this place which 
 
 I always delight in, I am " exceeding vexed " 
 
 with myself that I did not do as you advised, 
 
 put off the " cure " here until later, and go to 
 
ccLiii PROSPER MERIMAE'S ' INCONNUE' 253 
 
 London while you are there for the exhibition. 
 It really was very stupid of me to keep to my 
 original programme ; why did you not insist 
 upon changing it, and, whether I liked it or not, 
 prove to me how stupid I was ? Your letter 
 from London must come now in a few days, 
 and I know the reading of it will complete my 
 dissatisfaction with myself, and you, and the 
 world in general ! I am growing too cross to 
 write, so will say adieu. 
 
 CCLIII 
 
 HOMBOURG, loth June 1862. 
 Yours of the 6th has just come ; what a crass 
 idiot I was not to go to London ! but there is 
 no use abusing myself now, it is too late, you 
 are almost ready to return to Paris, where I 
 will try to meet you, and moreover, as I am 
 here I might as well get all the good I can from 
 the waters ; I fancy temper is hardly a good 
 assistant in establishing any sort of cure, so I 
 will keep calm, in spite of knowing myself to 
 have been a fool. It is provoking that the 
 exhibition should be so small a success after all 
 the trouble it seems to have given every one, 
 yourself included. The restaurant arrange- 
 ments I knew were quite safe to be bad they 
 always are in England. Did you ever try a 
 cup of tea (the national beverage, by the way) 
 
254 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccliii 
 
 at an English railway station ? If you have 
 not, I would advise you, as a friend, to continue 
 to abstain ! The names of the American drinks 
 are rather against them, the straws are, I think, 
 about the best part of them. You do not tell 
 me what you think of Mr. Disraeli. I once 
 met him at a ball at the Duke of Sutherland's 
 in the long picture gallery of Stafford House. 
 I was walking with Lord Shrewsbury, and with- 
 out a word of warning he stopped and introduced 
 him, mentioning with reckless mendacity that 
 I had read every book he had written and 
 admired them all, then he coolly walked off and 
 left me standing face to face with the great 
 statesman. He talked to me for some time, 
 and I studied him carefully. I should say he 
 was a man with one steady aim : endless 
 patience, untiring perseverance, iron concentra- 
 tion ; marking out one straight line before him 
 so unbending that despite themselves men stand 
 aside as it is drawn straightly and steadily on. 
 A man who believes that determination brings 
 strength, strength brings endurance, and en- 
 durance brings success. You know how often 
 in his novels he speaks of the influence of 
 women, socially, morally, and politically, yet his 
 manner was the least interested or deferential 
 in talking that I have ever met with in a man 
 of his class. He certainly thought this particular 
 woman of singularly small account, or else the 
 brusque and tactless allusion to his books may 
 
CCLV PROSPER M^RIM^E'S' INCONNUE' 255 
 
 perhaps have annoyed him as it did me ; but 
 whatever the cause, when he promptly left me 
 at the first approach of a mutual acquaintance, I 
 felt distinctly snubbed. Of the two men, Mr. 
 Gladstone was infinitely more agreeable in his 
 manner, he left one with the pleasant feeling of 
 measuring a little higher in cubic inches than 
 one did before, than which I know no more 
 delightful sensation. A Paris, bientot 
 
 CCLIV 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCLV 
 
 , Thursday^ 7.1 st August. 
 
 Methinks, mon cher, that we are growing old ; 
 going gently down the hill together, you and L 
 That one word together takes whatever sting 
 there may be from out the patent fact, for fact 
 I fear it is. How little we quarrel now, how 
 placid and tranquil we have grown. You say 
 far less about the splendour of my eyes, but 
 write instead about your doctor's diagnosis, and 
 the remedies he hopes to cure you with ; your 
 palpitations, sleeplessness, and want of appetite. 
 And I, not one whit behind you, tell you my 
 eyes are weak, and cry no longer in frantic 
 passion-thrilled tones that even conscience shall 
 
256 AxW A UTHOR 'S LOVE COLV 
 
 be drugged for your dear sake because I cannot 
 bring myself to say you nay in anything, only 
 write calmly of the " cure " at Hombourg and 
 the benefit I find from the use of mineral 
 waters. Alack-a-day, how times do change ! 
 A sure proof of advancing years on my part is 
 that I can no longer endure with even a 
 semblance of patience the petty jealousies and 
 squabbles in which the natives of this place pass 
 their petty little lives. It gets upon my nerves, 
 this constant wrangling and silly littleness ; soon 
 shall I quit the place and sever all connection 
 with it if this sort of thing continues. I always 
 knew that provincial life as a continued exist- 
 ence would be insupportable, but for a short 
 space of time I liked it, now it begins to bore 
 me inexpressibly. An American girl is singing 
 in the villa next to mine with her windows 
 wide open, and my poor unoffending ears are 
 being tortured with those pretty lines of Heine 
 pronounced too execrably 
 
 '' Dein Herzehen so siiss und so falsch und so klein, 
 Es kann nirgend was siiss' res und falscheres sein." 
 
 Over and over again the little Yankee shrieks 
 out the words, giving a worse intonation at 
 every fresh attempt. She is half in love with 
 a German baron who is here, and whether his 
 little heart is really the sweetest and falsest that 
 ever was, or whether by singing this statement 
 to him in the most rasping German she hopes 
 
CCLVII PROSPER Mi RIMER'S ' INCONNUE ' 257 
 
 to convince him that it ought to be, I know 
 not, I have merely the benefit of the practising. 
 Adieu, /leder alter Freiind. 
 
 CCLVI 
 
 , 5M September. 
 
 Was it because you objected to my sugges- 
 tions that we are neither of us quite so young 
 as we were that you not only ignore them, but 
 write two pages of natural history which you 
 know I shall dislike to read ? I am glad you 
 have at least the grace to say that you are con- 
 vinced I shall be furious at the stories you tell 
 me, but why waste your time upon them ? 
 Your letter really deserves no answer, and I 
 shall not tell you when I mean to be in Paris, 
 or any of my plans. 
 
 CCLVII 
 
 , \st October 1862. 
 
 We never shall agree as to Victor Hugo, so 
 it seems senseless to discuss him. I find his 
 language quite wonderful, even although he 
 may coin words of his own to better express 
 his thoughts. I read the speech he made at 
 Brussels, and to which you refer, and liked it, 
 but do let us leave him as a bone of contention 
 to any other dogs inclined to quarrel over him. 
 3 
 
258 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE CCLX 
 
 It was precisely Thiers's opinion of the great 
 Napoleon which I particularly liked in his 
 twentieth volume ; it struck me as being so just 
 and unbiassed. I do not find quite so much 
 time for reading as I could wish, for Madame 
 
 de P and the children are with me, and I 
 
 must make their visit as agreeable as possible. 
 My little niece grows lovelier day by day. 
 
 Write to me when you get back to Paris, and 
 tell me your plans. 
 
 CCLVIII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCLIX 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCLX 
 
 Paris, \oth December 1862. 
 Merely cher anil^ for a charming letter dated 
 Cannes, 5th December. It is delightful merely 
 to hear of all the flowers, and open windows, 
 and floods of sunshine, and smiling country, 
 while Paris is treating us rather harshly so far 
 as temperature is concerned. But the winter 
 promises to be a gay one ; there are quantities 
 of strangers here, and skating out at the Bois 
 has become the rage. Their Majesties often 
 
CCLXI PROSPER M^RIM^E'S'INCONNUE' 259 
 
 honour the ice sports with their presence, and 
 even take part in them. The empress seems 
 to be more admired than ever, and is certainly 
 an extremely beautiful woman. The little 
 prince is looked after with affectionate eyes 
 whenever he appears, and the emperor is keep- 
 ing all classes in Paris busy. New streets and 
 boulevards are being opened, workmen are kept 
 employed with building, the shopkeepers are 
 pleased at the impetus given to trade by the 
 fetes and entertainments at the Tuileries, society 
 has already begun with dinners and small 
 dances, and innumerable balls are to follow 
 later. No one has time to grumble, and France 
 seems at last contented and happy. God grant 
 she may remain so, and close her history in 
 peace. I will look up the Russian name about 
 which you wish information. Milk tendresses. 
 
 CCLXI 
 
 Paris, gth January 1863. 
 Well, I will read Salammbd if you really wish 
 it, but I do so detest horrors and executions in 
 books, which ought only to rest, or amuse, or 
 instruct. I will also look out for the Revue 
 des DeiLx Mondes of the i 5 th, and read M. Tour- 
 guenief 's " Les Peres et les Enfants." And for 
 you I have a delightful new book to recom- 
 mend, George Eliot's Romola^ which I have 
 
26o AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cclxi 
 
 just finished. I will send you two short, very- 
 short, extracts from it, both of which have a 
 bearing upon our last conversation together, 
 which I feel tolerably sure you have not for- 
 gotten. The first quotation is as follows : 
 "As a strong body struggles against fumes 
 with the more violence when they begin to be 
 stifling, a strong soul struggles against phan- 
 tasies with all the more alarmed energy when 
 they threaten to govern in the place of thought." 
 And the second one answers a question which 
 you put to me during our farewell walk, in 
 words far more to the point than any I could 
 find at the moment : " Savonarola said, with 
 keener emotion than he had yet shown, * Be 
 thankful, my daughter, if your own soul has 
 been spared perplexity ; and judge not those 
 to whom a harder lot has been given,' ... * I 
 do not believe!' said Romola, her whole frame 
 shaken with passionate repugnance. * God's 
 kingdom is something wider, else let me stand 
 outside it with the beings that I love!'" But 
 you must read the book ; it is powerfully 
 written, and George Eliot cannot be judged by 
 extracts. 
 
 No, do not change the date of coming. The 
 20th or 2 1st will suit me equally well. By 
 that time I shall be able to get through the 
 almost endless commissions with which absent 
 friends honour me. Very flattering it may be 
 for people to write that they have such perfect 
 
CCLXiii PROSPER MARIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 261 
 
 confidence in my taste that they are quite 
 willing to leave the selection of their winter 
 wardrobe entirely to me, but very trying it 
 certainly is to spend hours in these crowded 
 shops and dance attendance on fashionable 
 dressmakers. Oh, why did Eve eat the apple 
 and condemn us to wear clothes ! gracefully 
 draped fig-leaves might have been made so 
 becoming, and would have shown off the figure 
 to such advantage. Au revoir^ I shall count 
 the hours until the 20th. 
 
 CCLXII 
 
 Paris, ^ist January. 
 I am too much disappointed to write, for 
 up to the last moment I had felt confident 
 that you could come. Do be more careful in 
 future ; what is a sunset worth, the most 
 exquisite one ever seen, if it must be an ex- 
 change for an illness ? " le suis Hen tristCy 
 bien desappomtee^ 
 
 CCLXIII 
 
 Rome, ist May 1863. 
 How right you were in your description of 
 this place ; of how impossible it is to carry 
 out any premeditated plan for seeing the thou- 
 sand and one things one ought to see, because 
 
262 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cclxiii 
 
 of the " unexpected " which at every corner of 
 the street distracts one's attention, and draws 
 one on from sensation to sensation. I agree 
 with you also in thinking it far wiser to have 
 one wide, soul-filling memory of a great whole 
 than to carry away a crowd of smaller details 
 which must at a distance be more or less con- 
 fusing. But how one's senses reel here with 
 the souvenirs of the past which crowd through 
 the mind and appeal to the eye, while an 
 almost hopeless feeling comes over one of the 
 utter impossibility of taking in half of what there 
 is to appreciate. I went to St. Peter's as you 
 advised, just as the day was falling, when the 
 great distances inside the building were dim 
 and shadowy, and the light before the altar 
 was but half defined. The cherubs holding 
 shells of holy water near the door were barely 
 outlined, and the few kneeling figures scattered 
 about looked like bowed phantoms. All colour 
 in the mosaics was of course lost, and no details 
 of the vast edifice could be seen, but I know 
 why you told me to go at this hour ; I think 
 I felt what you wished me to feel when you 
 thought of it. We have wandered through 
 acres of picture galleries, and seen endless 
 palaces and ruins, the coliseum, many of the 
 churches ; in fact, all the things that every one 
 sees. And to attempt to describe Rome would 
 be only ancient history to you. Be content 
 with knowing that I enjoy it as I have seldom 
 
cuLXiv PROSPER M&RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE' 263 
 
 enjoyed anything, and you may add that the one 
 drawback to my perfect contentment is the fact 
 that you are not with me. We are going to 
 the Catacombs to-morrow, and if my courage 
 is equal to the experiment of putting out my 
 candle and remaining quite alone in one of the 
 little corridors I will try it, but it sounds a 
 rather gruesome and uncanny proceeding. 
 Adieu. 
 
 CCLXIV 
 
 L , loth June. 
 
 Yes, like the giant in a child's fairy tale, I 
 am coming nearer with alarming speed. That 
 I shall be able to write a comprehensive letter 
 I much doubt, so dazed am I mentally by all 
 that I have seen. I have not in any way 
 " taken in " half of it. Whether a clearer com- 
 prehension will come with time, I cannot say ; 
 at present my mind is one great blur, one con- 
 fused jumble of sights and sounds and impres- 
 sions. Perhaps I may realise it all in the 
 coming winter evenings by a sympathetic fire, 
 which will burn low and darkly as I think of 
 all the stains upon Pagan, and Christian, and 
 Imperial Rome, all the dark blots on the his- 
 tory of Italy in olden days and the present 
 time ; and then will leap into glowing blaze 
 as the wonders of art and skill wrought in the 
 proud city of the seven hills come clearly 
 
264 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE CCLXV 
 
 defined in a brilliant array of mind-pictures, 
 and great names made sacred by the touch of 
 genius stand out boldly from the common herd, 
 and the memory of mighty deeds which have 
 lived in fame thrills my soul with the know- 
 ledge that men worthy of the great gift of life 
 have once lived ! The fire will burn on with 
 vivid heat and light as reminiscences such as 
 these thicken and multiply, and I shall come 
 at last really to understand what I now only 
 dimly feel. 
 
 Your poor friend Bucci at Civita Vecchia 
 tore himself in two for us. I never met such 
 a complaisant, self-sacrificing individual. Your 
 name acted like an open sesame with him, and 
 he abjectly laid himself and his treasures at 
 our feet. 
 
 CCLXV 
 
 Paris, iZth June 1.863. 
 I believe these hurried meetings are almost 
 more unsatisfactory than actual absence, what 
 is your sage view on the subject ? I never 
 did quite agree with the opinion that half a 
 loaf is better than no bread, but on the contrary 
 have clung to the tout on rieti principle. That 
 my mind is in an extremely vacuous state you 
 will have already perceived, and lest I should 
 be tempted to string a still longer chaplet of 
 worn-out old proverbs, as an English clergyman 
 
CCLXVI PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 265 
 
 who is not gifted with the art of sermon-making 
 strings texts, I will close with the assurance that 
 your Cosaque has pleased me immensely, and I 
 prophesy for it un grand succes. 
 
 CCLXVI 
 
 Dieppe, loth August 1863. 
 I have been wondering this morning which 
 were the most to be envied people with strong 
 capacities for enjoyment, and the corresponding 
 powers of suffering ; or people of a stolid, 
 phlegmatic nature, feeling neither joy nor 
 sorrow very keenly, taking things as they come, 
 not eating their hearts out with intense antici- 
 pation, or exhausting them with devouring 
 possession, or feeling them ache beyond bearing 
 with the Weltschmerz which Goethe tells of in 
 such comprehensive words that world-weari- 
 ness for which he tried every known cure, yet 
 which cursed so large a part of his life ? The 
 natural disposition of man is to be happy, and 
 if one thing fails in giving him happiness he 
 tries another ; only some do this in a calm 
 methodical way, with no expense of heart's 
 blood and the wine of life ; while others drain 
 both at one mad straining venture to compel 
 fate to slake their burning thirst, no matter 
 what may be the consequences. Dregs alone 
 cannot be pleasant food and drink later on, 
 
266 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE coi-xviii 
 
 when the thirst and hunger come again, especi- 
 ally if the years are long through which they 
 must serve as daily sustenance. A short life 
 and a merry one ; is that, I wonder, the message 
 which the cool salt sea brings as it rolls in on 
 crested waves, leaving little lines of pearly foam 
 on the sand at my feet ? How I wish I could 
 clearly decipher the meaning of the sea, with 
 its many-toned voices and its hoary wisdom of 
 all time! It knows so much, if only it would 
 speak. 
 
 Write to me from London, which place you 
 will, I fear, find almost empty, save for the 
 millions of toilers who, by the conceited decree 
 of a select few hundred, are ignored, and not 
 supposed to exist. Adieu, cher ami. 
 
 CCLXVII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCLXVIII 
 
 , \st October 1863. 
 
 Three people lately have asked me if I have 
 read the book you mentioned in your last letter, 
 Une Saison d Paris, which did not particularly 
 tempt me after your little story of its author 
 and her curious attempt to make a favourable 
 impression on his Majesty. I remember you 
 
ccLXix PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 267 
 
 fancied that this story might cause me to make 
 the sign of the cross, which should I make 
 each time your stories suggest its beneficial 
 effect, would, I fear, be brought into contempt 
 by too frequent application. La Vie de Jesus ^ 
 by Renan, I mean to read so soon as a little 
 tranquillity creeps into my life again ; it has 
 lately been one continued racket, not conducive 
 to anything so serious as this book. I wonder 
 if Renan will explain a point which has always 
 puzzled me ; why, if Jesus in mercy really came 
 into the world to save all sinners, does He so 
 relentlessly limit the number to a paltry few ? 
 
 You must by this time be at Cannes, or 
 certainly ett route for that place, so I will send 
 these few lines there in hopes of a long letter 
 full of news. 
 
 CCLXIX 
 
 , 20/// October 1863. 
 
 Pas possible to be in Paris in November. I 
 have made an engagement with Madame de 
 
 C to go wherever she fancies for that 
 
 month. She is far from well, but always such 
 a good friend that I would do much to keep 
 her friendship. Besides, do I not know by sad 
 experience what your ^^ peut-etre" means when 
 applied to Compiegne or to any of the Royal 
 residences ? You are growing to be too good 
 a courtier, and in consequence I suffer. Is this 
 
268 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE CCLXX 
 
 not so ? own it frankly, and you will have a 
 better chance of forgiveness. 
 
 I was reading only this morning what 
 Stendhal says of Don Juan, that it must always 
 be a popular poem because in it " il y a dti 
 diable et de Vamoitrr Odd, is it not, how 
 often those two words find themselves in a 
 close proximity? I do not feel in the least 
 affectionate to-day the softer passions look a 
 little fade in the hard brightness of the autumn 
 sunshine. You have grown to be such a sage 
 I scarcely know you for my friend of the 
 stormy days when our chief delight lay in the 
 childish tormenting of each other. When you 
 grow less wise perchance my affection for you 
 may return. 
 
 CCLXX 
 
 2(ith Novembe? 1863. 
 You can no longer, mon ami, monopolise all 
 the ills that flesh is heir to. I have a wretched 
 cold, and am as hoarse as a revolutionist who 
 has injured his vocal cords for life by shouting 
 a has la tyrannie I Par exemple, votes vous 
 amusez Men at Compiegne in your new role of 
 impresario. What did I say about your ^^ peut- 
 etre"? and of what earthly use would it have 
 been for me to come to Paris in order to see 
 you, while you passed your time some dozens 
 of miles away in instructing young ladies how 
 
CCLXX PROSPER M^RIMEE'S ' INCONNUE' 269 
 
 to rival ballet dancers? You might judge 
 from my style of writing that I am not only 
 cross but jealous, in which, however, you would 
 be entirely mistaken. I am delighted that you 
 are enjoying your visit, and your story of your 
 young lady with jambes like deux flageolets 
 made me laugh heartily ; but the Hauptsache, 
 as the Germans say, is that you are well, and 
 that your too attentive aches and pains seem 
 for the moment to have forgotten you. Be 
 careful, however ; do not overdo it, and lay up 
 a nice little crop of consequences for future dis- 
 comfiture. You complain that I write too 
 laconically, and do not answer your questions ; 
 that I commit an indefinite number of other 
 indiscretions, including a non- mention of the 
 charming child who so interests me. How 
 difficult it is to please people ! The tender 
 conscience I possess having reproached me 
 with writing too much about the little one, I 
 have purposely abstained from boring you with 
 her perfections, or dwelling upon my love for 
 
 her. She spent some time with me at , 
 
 delighting me as usual with her growing intel- 
 ligence and beauty. At present certainly there 
 seems no danger of her being sotte, and if any 
 influence I possess can save her from that awful 
 fate you may count upon its being exerted to 
 do so. What a future contact with society in 
 its present state may do for her it is of course 
 impossible to say. Adieu. 
 
270 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cuLXXil 
 
 CCLXXI 
 
 Paris, 2)(^ January 1864. 
 We arrived here yesterday, just missing New 
 Year's Day, which I am rather glad to have 
 escaped. I had hoped to find a letter from 
 you, but there is none, and I am most anxious 
 to hear how you are. Do write at once. I am 
 reading Aristophane, but expect to be much 
 shocked by it. Did the Athenian women in 
 olden times assist at public repr Mentations ? 
 In mad haste. M. 
 
 CCLXXII 
 
 Paris, \6th Jatmary. 
 First of all, are you better ? In pity answer 
 yes, for I suffer with you to the extent of being 
 miserable when you tell me that you are ill. 
 For my idea as to ^^ fHe of la Sainte Eulalie^ 
 la void: I am obliged to send to London very 
 soon for several things, let me include your gift 
 to your cousin, and try and find something quite 
 different from your former offerings, something 
 made in England and essentially English. Let 
 me know what you think of this. Yes, we are 
 freezing here, and banked in snow. There has 
 been horrible suffering among the poor, and the 
 empress as usual has been the first to make an 
 effort to relieve it. Naturally with such a lead 
 
ccLXXiii PROSPER M^RIMEE'S 'INCONNUE' 271 
 
 many have followed suit from reasons best 
 known to themselves, but, whatever the reasons, 
 the result has been favourable, and a fair share 
 of organised charity is working well and doing 
 much good. How fortunate that you are not 
 here, but are instead basking in scented sun- 
 shine ; your constant mention of the quantities 
 of flowers, and the balmy air at Cannes, makes 
 me long to go there some time in the near 
 future. So soon as I am a little settled and 
 have leisure for anything really worth doing, I 
 will read Les Nu^es^ and pay particular attention 
 to the dialogue du Juste et de Hnjuste which 
 you mention, trusting it may be less shocking 
 than this terrible Aristophane, which is, I grant, 
 spiritual, but with an esprit encased in mud ! 
 Adieu ami toiijours cher. 
 
 CCLXXIII 
 
 Paris, 20th February 1864. 
 But of course you shall have your things 
 from London whenever you like. Send your 
 order to Poole, and let me know when he will 
 have the clothes ready, the rest I can manage 
 easily. The gift for the Sainte Eulalie is already 
 ordered. I am more distressed than I can say 
 at what you tell me of your cough, which I had 
 hoped was much better in the Cannes sunshine. 
 Do not think of venturing near Paris at present ; 
 
272 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cclxxv 
 
 les grippes sont partottty as you have heard, and 
 you would run great risk in coming here. I 
 am off to London in a day or two, but trust I 
 may not be detained there longer than a fort- 
 night Adieu. 
 
 CCLXXIV 
 
 Paris, 
 Saturday y i()th March 1864. 
 
 It was good to pass once again a long happy 
 afternoon with you, and from now until the 1 2th 
 of April, almost a month, we shall be able to 
 prove that the best of letters is a bad substitute 
 for " live intercourse." Only do not let us spoil 
 these hours of possession in dwelling upon the 
 swift -coming ones of separation. That is a 
 betise we have more than once committed, and 
 is unworthy of two such highly -gifted mortals 
 as we profess to be ! A demain, 
 
 CCLXXV 
 
 \']thjuly 1864. 
 
 Merely a line to beg a commission should 
 you go off to Madrid before I see you again. 
 You remember the moucJioirs de Nipi I am 
 most anxious for some, and you are so good 
 about getting me all sorts of out-of-the-way 
 objects which no one else would be able to dis- 
 cover that I do not hesitate to remind you of 
 these. Please do not forget them. At a 
 
CCLXXVI PROSPER m RIMER'S ' INCONNUE ' 273 
 
 venture I will send this to the British Museum, 
 London, where you are probably working far 
 harder than you ought to work. If amiably 
 inclined you might send me your actual address ; 
 it is not every letter that I should care to send 
 off as a chance shot ! 
 
 CCLXXVI 
 
 Wednesday^ i^th July 1864. 
 What marvels you write me about Lady 
 
 F P 's marriage. No wonder it has 
 
 caused a sensation, but personally I should be 
 
 inclined to think Mr. C rather fortunate 
 
 in discovering the tendency of the lady's pre- 
 dilections before instead of after matrimony with 
 
 himself I once saw Lady H , as I suppose 
 
 one must now call her, and found her very 
 
 lovely to look at, but most of the P s 
 
 are credited with possessing beauty ; perhaps 
 it is their strongest recommendation. Other 
 characteristics which they possess it is as well 
 
 to keep strictly within the limits of the P 
 
 family circle. As you are returning so quickly 
 to Paris I will not write again to London unless 
 I hear that you are still there. 
 
 CCLXXVII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 T 
 
274 ^^ ^ UTHOR 'S LOVE cclxxx 
 
 CCLXXVIII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCLXXIX 
 
 Paris, 29/^ December 1864. 
 Impossible to write to-day, as I have taken 
 cold in my eyes. No handkerchiefs as yet. 
 Shall hope to send you a longer letter on New 
 Year's Day. 
 
 CCLXXX 
 
 Paris, New Year's Day ^ 1865. 
 
 The rain and hail are hurtling against the 
 windows, the trees, snow-sheeted and spectral, 
 are gleaming white against a low-hung despond- 
 ent sky, and the hooting wind sounds like owls 
 at play in the chimneys. A more utterly dreary 
 day could not well be imagined ; and while 
 shivering and depressed myself, I rejoice that 
 you are probably enjoying sunshine and a 
 cheerful beginning of the year 1865. Your 
 constant mention of ill health distresses me 
 beyond measure, and T hope much from the 
 climate of Cannes, which always suits you. 
 
 Who do you think has taken the apartment 
 
 above us ? Mr. G and his erratic wife, and 
 
 his eight still more erratic children I Only to 
 
CCLXXX PROSPER M^RIMJ^E'S ' INCONNUE' 275 
 
 know that the same house contains them and 
 me is enough to induce mental collapse upon my 
 part, and I devoutly wish that they had estab- 
 lished themselves and their erraticness anywhere 
 else. It is, I know, always a mistake to feel 
 more for people than they feel for themselves ; 
 but in this case it is so difficult not to believe 
 that they must on the face of things feel a very 
 great deal, and yet how can they, and still con- 
 tinue to go on in the same senselessly erratic 
 way ? Poor things, I am sorry for them, but 
 they irritate me, and I should be so glad if 
 they would live in some other house, and some 
 other town, and some other country ! 
 
 Do not worry over those handkerchiefs. 
 They will probably turn up all right, and if 
 they do not, no great harm will be done. I 
 will go out just as soon as this mad wind and 
 rain have finished their wild games, and find 
 you a nice lot of English books, for you are 
 quite right, at Christmas-time there are gener- 
 ally plenty to choose from, good, bad, and in- 
 different, mostly the latter. I too have been 
 reading Madame du Deffand's Letters^ which I 
 found amusing. She must have been a delight- 
 fully witty and wicked old woman. Her 
 opinions and readings of character are some- 
 times uncommonly shrewd. I hope that you 
 finished the thirty-five letters still left for you 
 to write after concluding your last to me. Is 
 it strange that the rest you go away to obtain 
 
276 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cclxxxi 
 
 does you little or no good ? How can it 
 benefit you in any way when you will persist 
 in working whether you feel equal to it or not ? 
 Come now, begin this New Year wisely, take 
 care of yourself first, and let work come second. 
 Ah love, love, remember that you are yourself 
 In all this crowded world no one could ever 
 take your place in any way, least of all in the 
 heart and devotion of Mariquita. 
 
 CCLXXXI 
 
 Paris, i^^d January. 
 I have heard nothing in regard to your works 
 or the proofs. Shall I go to Michel Ldvy and 
 make inquiries or in any way hurry them ? I 
 did not like to do so without asking you. I 
 once told you that the actual meaning of the 
 word aggravation was an English lawyer, but I 
 was wrong ; make it publisher every time, choos- 
 ing any nationality you like, one seems as bad 
 as another. They are maddening, infuriating, 
 exasperating. Let me hear at once just what 
 steps you would like me to take. Delighted as 
 I should be at seeing you back here, do not, I 
 beg of you, run any risk in leaving Cannes too 
 soon. You will find me here whenever you 
 come, because I shall wait here for you, but do 
 get all the good that Cannes air and Cannes 
 sunshine can give. 
 
ccLxxxii PROSPER MArIM&E'S 'INCONNUE' 277 
 
 CCLXXXII 
 
 Paris, i^th April 1865. 
 Cher ami, your letter has caused me such 
 unhappiness that I think I could not bear the 
 same were it to come often. It is cruel that 
 you of all men should be thus doomed to a life 
 of suffering, and I would not blame you for 
 feeling neither courage nor resignation, even if 
 this were true, whereas I know how much in- 
 justice you do yourself by saying that it is. 
 There are such relative degrees of courage, and 
 such different phases of resignation. But you 
 will see, I feel quite sure of it, that this return 
 of steady fine weather will make a difference. 
 You must be better when it is dry and sunny 
 than when there is wind and rain, and it is, 1 
 feel convinced, from the ill effects of the long- 
 continued bad weather that you are still suffer- 
 ing ; just the first few fine days cannot counter- 
 act that at once, but you will see, as it continues 
 fine you will continue steadily to improve. It 
 must be so. You know that really you have 
 immense courage, more than most people, your 
 depression is merely the effect of this unusual 
 state of the atmosphere at Cannes, where by all 
 the rules of equity and justice there ought to be 
 only the bluest and sunniest and most beautiful 
 effects. All unusual things upset one, the 
 human animal being naturally unpliable and set 
 in his ways, to use a good old-time expression. 
 
278 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE coLxxxiii 
 
 Your account of the scandal connected with 
 Lord Brougham interested me, as I know 
 several members of the family. When the 
 English do indulge in scandals what monsters 
 they are ! None of your little petty delin- 
 quencies or half-hearted misdemeanours, but the 
 w\\o\q flagrante delicto ; no reading between the 
 lines, but the complete three -volume novel ; 
 large print, wide margin, brilliant cover, with 
 the price marked in legible figures. They go 
 in pretty thoroughly for the comprehensive 
 saying that one might as well be hung for a 
 sheep as for a lamb, and I think it is perhaps a 
 question whether they are not tolerably right. 
 
 Send me better news as soon as you feel up 
 to writing, but never attempt a letter to me 
 unless you are sure that a chat will do you 
 good, and the act of chatting not do you harm. 
 
 CCLXXXIII 
 
 Munich, i$thjuly. 
 We have followed strictly the plan of voyage 
 which you laid out, going by Bale, Constance, 
 Lindau, and Kempton, and now for the past ten 
 days we have been settled at the Hotel Bavi^re, 
 " doing " Munich most conscientiously but 
 spending most of our time in the galleries, the 
 new and the old Pinacothek. Do you remember 
 in the former such a pretty little modern pic- 
 
ccLXXXiii PROSPER M^RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 279 
 
 ture called " The First Snow," where the old 
 grandfather holds up a baby wrapped in a 
 blanket, while a second child stands beside him, 
 and the soft star flecks fall over them all ? It 
 is a most simple composition, but for some 
 reason it touched me, perhaps because as a 
 child I always had dreamy fancies about the 
 snow. I saw so much in the star-shaped flakes, 
 and it seemed so wonderful to me that such 
 small soft things could mass together into broad 
 white silvery sheets, covering field and meadow 
 and all trace of path and road, and could go on 
 mounting higher and higher and packing 
 closer and closer, and all so silently ; the little 
 feathery stars coming finally to resist in their 
 cold white strength powerful men, and beasts, 
 and iron ploughs. I think my first realisation 
 of accumulated strength from small beginnings 
 came from this childish impression of the snow, 
 which, like so many other impressions, fall into 
 the mind and lie hidden there until some 
 practical application hunts them out. They 
 told us too, such wonderful nursery tales about 
 the snow, that Mother Carey was picking her 
 chickens when it fell ; or that downy feathers 
 from angels' wings were fluttering through the 
 skies ; or that all the plants and fruits were 
 dead and Dame Nature made them every year 
 a shroud to cover them for the winter's burial. 
 What an odd conglomeration of wisdom and 
 nonsense children's minds are fed on ! Poor 
 
28o AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cclxxx \s 
 
 little wretches, life is puzzling enough to their 
 half- awakened minds without confusing them 
 still further by the rubbish grown-up people 
 seem to think the only food suited to their poor 
 little starving mental stomachs. But I have 
 wandered very far from Munich and the present 
 time, and all because of having looked at a 
 little wistful child gazing at the snow. 
 
 I laugh whenever I see a pair of green 
 woollen stockings and the "jambes bavaroises " 
 encased within them ! Should you really like 
 to see me wear such things ? fen doiite. 
 
 CCLXXXIV 
 
 Berne, 29/A August. 
 
 Your letter from London has been forwarded 
 to me here, where we are detained on account 
 
 of Madame de C having sprained her 
 
 ankle. Why in your account of your visit to 
 Mr. Gladstone did you not tell me more of the 
 man himself? You know the immense interest 
 which I take in him, the intense admiration 
 which I have for him. If ever a man had a 
 future it is he, and one of his characteristics 
 appeals peculiarly to me, I mean his strong 
 personal influence, magnetism it may almost be 
 called, so great a hold does it take upon one's 
 imagination. I felt it myself during the one 
 or two days when I met him long ago at Lady 
 
ccLXXXiv PROSPER M^RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE' 281 
 
 -'s, I should feel it again, I am certain, if 
 
 I could again be in his society. A man with 
 that gift must, I think, always be a leader of 
 men. What do you mean by the sentence you 
 use in describing him, that ^^ II y a en lui de 
 I' enfant^ de Vhomme d'J^tat et du Fou " ? What 
 a combination ! I think I know what you 
 mean by the touch of the child about him ; it is 
 a trait which I have noticed more than once 
 accompanying great intellect and genius. The 
 signs of a madman were certainly not discern- 
 ible when I saw him ; they may have developed 
 since. If you really return to Paris next week 
 I will try my best to meet you there. My 
 doing so, however, will depend entirely on the 
 
 state of Madame de C *s ankle, which is a 
 
 positive nuisance. And it was so quickly done 
 and so senselessly. We were watching the 
 bears in the pit ; the creatures were so absurd 
 that we grew quite excited over their ungainly 
 antics. There was a crowd around the place 
 as usual, and in trying to get nearer to the edge 
 in order to look over at a fascinating little 
 beast quite at the bottom of the great round 
 space, where he was hugging a little brother as 
 if he held his worst enemy to his heart, and 
 did not mean to release him until every bone 
 
 cracked, poor Madame de C stepped on a 
 
 loose stone, and, presto change ! the deed was 
 done, she was laid up a prisoner, and I neces- 
 sarily am a captive with her. 
 
282 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cclxxx v 
 
 CCLXXXV 
 
 Bale, 5M October 1865. 
 
 How good of you to keep a proof for me of 
 your article on the Life of ftdius Ccesar ; I 
 shall prize it highly ; I like the outline you 
 give me of your treatment of the subject, and 
 so far as I can judge it seems to me you have 
 cleverly attained the juste milieu, a most diffi- 
 cult point to reach in anything. No, frankly, 
 I do not understand a word of your story of 
 
 the son of Prince C who died at Rome. 
 
 The wording of his will would certainly incline 
 one to think him a little mad, but who is not, 
 upon one point or another? It strikes me 
 altogether as being a mad world, peopled by 
 madmen. Looking at things in general from 
 this standpoint, one may be able to comprehend 
 one's fellows, not otherwise. Does it not, for 
 instance, argue acute mania as the malady from 
 which I suffer, that years may come and years 
 may go and Time go on for ever, yet still, in 
 spite of all, my creed never changes, and can 
 still be read in three short words " I love 
 you " ? Would any college of physicians 
 hesitate to declare this madness of the most 
 hopeless kind ? Are you, too, not mad in trust- 
 ing to my love? Surely you never can have 
 read that wise proverb " Trust your dog to the 
 end, a woman till the first opportunity." Much 
 
CCLXXXV PROSPER mARIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 283 
 
 wisdom is here condensed in quantity, but 
 eloquent with truth. Mad, mad, mad ! yes, all 
 the world is mad, and all the men and women 
 in it ! Only little children are really sane, and 
 they merely because the shock has not yet 
 come which will knock reason from her throne. 
 They have not yet trusted and been deceived ; 
 not yet loved and been deserted ; not yet 
 learned that civility means self-interest ; that 
 fame is in reality only a worthless tinsel badge ; 
 that honour, in the eyes of men, may be bought 
 at the cost of self-respect ; that gold can turn 
 to rust, and success grow bitter as the apples 
 of Sodom ; that all earth's promises, which 
 glitter so temptingly, never yet have stood the 
 test of time. When knowledge such as this 
 comes home to the human breast, then all that 
 is childlike and sane falls tremblingly away, 
 and men grow mad with knowing what life 
 really is. Perchance a few may find an honest 
 thing to take the place of life's delusions. If 
 so, no longer mad, but happy trusting fools, 
 they would show rare wisdom could they hold 
 it tight, trust to it, believe in it, love it, pray 
 to it, live by it, die in its blessed hope of rest 
 and eternal good with holy confidence in its 
 reality. 
 
 Mad friend, good-night. So madly have I 
 loved you, ay, so love you still, that the mere 
 fact of writing it proves me mad ! 
 
28+ AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cclxxxvii 
 
 CCLXXXVI 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCLXXXVII 
 
 Paris, New Year's Eve, 1866. 
 Are you lost, mon ami? Do you never 
 mean to write to me again ? That you are 
 not suffering I feel almost sure, so strong a 
 belief have I in the fact that ill news never 
 tarries in the telling. Let me begin the coming 
 year with the assurance of your wellbeing and 
 your continued affection for myself; no other 
 commencement of this fresh era of existence 
 would suit my mood. Not a line have I had 
 from you since your letter dated somewhere in 
 the early existence of the month of November, 
 when you asked me conundrums about Victor 
 Hugo's mental state. Some time ago. I told 
 you all the world was mad, why should you 
 wish to isolate the poet from this list ? You 
 know well, however, that you did not mean 
 what you said when writing that you were 
 inclined to think he had always been "fou." 
 I have more than once heard you express a 
 very different opinion of him and of his works. 
 As to the Chansons des Rues et des Bois, I grant 
 you, there is a good deal of feebleness about 
 parts of them, but there is still sufficient matter 
 
ccLXXxvii PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 285 
 
 left in the subject of Victor Hugo and his 
 madness to afford us several battles royal when 
 we meet, if that happy event ever again takes 
 place. You speak in joke about the book 
 dealing with Moses, David, and Saint Paul, but 
 there is more truth than you imagine in a later 
 sentence of your letter where you say that you 
 know I do not like conversation upon such 
 subjects. No, it may be weak, and doubtless 
 shows great want of intellect upon my part, 
 but the only faith I have any faith in, is the 
 blind unquestioning one of a child. Did I 
 once seriously investigate it, once apply the 
 tests of reason, intellect, common sense if you 
 will, to the foundations of it, I should be lost 
 in the hopeless labyrinth of it. The vision of 
 that Anglican priest I met in such curious 
 
 fashion at D comes before me as I write 
 
 this. Tempt me not. If I could honestly 
 believe the teachings of the Catholics and their 
 Church, then would I unhesitatingly be of them ; 
 but as yet I cannot, therefore in pity leave me 
 what you call the silly credulity to which I yet 
 cling the old devil with cloven hoof, the cruci- 
 fied God man Christ Jesus, a hell where bad 
 people go, and a heaven peopled with good 
 angels. Crude it may be, utterly senseless you 
 believe it to be ; all quite true the child thinks 
 
 it. She is again with me, Madame de P 
 
 having consented to the plan, and I delight in 
 her. 
 
286 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cclxxxviii 
 
 I have heard P^re Hyacinthe several times 
 lately, and find him both earnest and eloquent. 
 Adieu, tachez d^^crire plus souvent d voire ainie 
 toujourSf M. 
 
 CCLXXXVIII 
 
 Paris, i stk February. 
 
 Oh, how lazy you are to write so seldom ; 
 you deserve that my letters should cease en- 
 tirely ; but a forgiving disposition forbids my 
 treating you with such severity. I will try 
 other means, will be so seductive in my language 
 and withal so chary of my news, that in very 
 self-defence you will " beg for more." There 
 are more ways than one of treating refractory 
 mortals, and always there remains the old 
 saying to fall back upon " Birds that can sing, 
 and won't sing, must be made to sing." Eh 
 Men, mon oiseau, chantez. Tell me of yourself, 
 your occupations, your surroundings. It is odd 
 that I have never been to Cannes, never been 
 tempted there even by your presence. I know 
 the place is delightful, the society, as a rule, 
 charming, the climate perfection ; still, as I say, 
 it has never yet tempted me. 
 
 On reading this production of my pen I find 
 it quite as insipid as I intended to make it 
 no news, and nothing in the least entertaining ; 
 but when I tell you that my thoughts by day 
 
CCLXXXix PROSPER M^RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE'' 2S7 
 
 and my dreams by night are all tinged with 
 rosy -tinted hopes of hearing from you, of re- 
 ceiving a letter quickly, telling of repentance 
 upon your part for the past, and resolution of 
 amendment for the future, I know that you will 
 show by your speedy answer that I have not 
 written in vain. 
 
 CCLXXXIX 
 
 Paris, 2 2,d February. 
 
 Endlich, as the Germans say. At last a 
 letter of the right sort with but the one draw- 
 back where you tell me in it that you have 
 found means to take fresh cold in spite of the 
 fine weather. Badly managed this, my friend, 
 very badly ; still you assure me in the same 
 sentence that you are better this year than you 
 were last, and that, at least, is something. Yes, 
 for the moment crinoline and the monstrosities 
 in which it has indulged during the past few 
 months are condemned ; you will find us all 
 far less voluminous on your return, mais toujours 
 femmes ! Your letter deserved a far longer and 
 more worthy answer, but it is the old story, 
 my wretched eyes have given out, and I dare 
 not tax them too severely. 
 
288 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxo 
 
 ccxc 
 
 Chateau de 
 
 Midfiight^ \ 2th April. 
 
 Ah but worse, ten thousand times worse than 
 mere fatalite ! I find no word in my dictionary 
 strong enough to describe the situation. Not 
 to meet for months, and then to miss each 
 other in the same spot by just two hours No, 
 no expression I have ever heard is adequate to 
 tell what I think of this. My visit is spoiled, 
 ^ela va sans dire^ but it will soon be over, which 
 is a cause for thankfulness. And you are right 
 in your supposition that I shall return to Paris 
 at once, contrary to the customs of common 
 mortals at this season of the year. To those 
 who will the country and all its delights, Paris 
 holds at present that which I most care for, 
 and to Paris my steps will follow my already 
 departed heart as promptly as the decencies of 
 social life permit, and I can say adieu to my 
 pleasant host and hostess. I fear they find me 
 but tepidly exciting as a guest ! To-night so 
 many memories come to me, fresh and living, 
 not as ghosts of the past. " Only one thing 
 really counts," this they say one and all the 
 same. " Only one thing ; love. It's the only 
 thing that tells in the long-run ; nothing else 
 endures to the end ; nothing else is of any 
 worth." And to-night I think with them ; to- 
 night I firmly believe that there are more 
 
ccxci PROSPER M&RIM^E'S ' INCONNUE' 289 
 
 deeply-dyed sins than those of love ; I believe 
 that many sins can be washed away by love or 
 become purified and redeemed. What is there 
 that love cannot hallow ? Barren places of the 
 earth blossom and become green if love smiles 
 upon them ; darkness turns to light ; loneliness 
 to a peopled world of sympathy and union ; 
 doubts become blessed truths ; all things mortal 
 and tangible, shadowy and unreal, touched by 
 the magic of love, lose every power of evil and 
 turn each ill to good. To-night I say I believe 
 all this. Should I doubt it when day brings 
 the sun and piercingness, I will think how few 
 the hours now are which still remain to die 
 before I and conviction are reunited, for \i once 
 we meet again, you and I, face to face, love's 
 triumph is assured, and all things else must fall 
 helplessly defeated. 
 
 CCXCI 
 
 Tours, 24/^ August 1866. 
 My very best congratulations ; the little red 
 rosette of the Legion d'Honneur has never been 
 more appropriately bestowed ; I am most 
 anxious to see it in your button-hole. Pray 
 do not grow conceited as these increasing 
 honours are showered upon you ! I have always 
 believed that a moment comes in the successful 
 V 
 
290 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccxci 
 
 life of a mortal, man or woman, when if it is 
 passed with wisdom and dignity, that mortal 
 becomes delightful ; he has deserved all that 
 fortune has brought him, and can bear without 
 embarrassment fortune's favours ; or else he 
 becomes odious, if this critical turning has not 
 been well passed ; and his nature develops a 
 weak spot which success has proved too much 
 for. The time that we have just spent together 
 was, I think, almost the happiest of my life. 
 Ah, love me, mon atni, whatever comes, love 
 me ! Has the world changed since men thought 
 it good to love, natural to trust, wise to believe ? 
 I sometimes think it has when I am away from 
 you, and hear men talk with cynical scepticism 
 of all that I hold most sacred and most dear. 
 But I know that one man at least is wise, and 
 natural, and good, when I am with you, and 
 feel the strong affection which has lasted through 
 long years and remained unchanged. 
 
 Tell me what is best worth seeing in this 
 part of the world. Have you restored any of 
 the buildings here, and if so, which are they ? 
 I will visit them and see what I think of 
 your restorations. Do you not tremble at 
 the thought of a critic who does not know the 
 A B C of architecture ? 
 
 I feel rather lost in this place, so write 
 quickly and tell me what I ought to see. 
 
ccxcii PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 291 
 
 CCXCII 
 
 D , 19M September. 
 
 I write to Paris not knowing whether you 
 have yet left there for Biarritz. Something odd 
 always happens to me at this place ; invariably 
 I meet people here who interest me beyond the 
 common herd. Will you be kind to a little 
 friend of mine who has stupidly ruined her life ? 
 You remember the pretty little Mademoiselle 
 
 G who was a good deal in Paris the winter 
 
 before last ? I am certain that I have spoken to 
 you of her often, even if you never met her. 
 She was one of the most fascinating little 
 beings I have ever encountered, extremely 
 pretty, with a sad plaintive voice which, 
 whether she spoke or sang, carried one's heart 
 with it. She married Mr. T , a cold un- 
 interesting Englishman who was sadly in need 
 of a wife with a dot. Fond as I was of Louise 
 T both before and after her marriage, I 
 was perfectly aware that she was not very 
 clever, that is, she had no worldly wisdom of 
 any kind, and a good deal more heart than 
 head. The end proved this, for one fine morning 
 about eighteen months after her marriage she 
 went off to Biarritz with the young Comte de 
 
 B who had been dangling about her for 
 
 years. You know the sort of man he is, with 
 a list of conquests rather longer than Don 
 Giovanni's mille e tre^ and you can understand 
 
292 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cc xc ii 
 
 a pretty little simpleton being as wax in his 
 hands. To my thinking the husband is very 
 much to blame. He never in any way looked 
 after his wife, or tried to amuse her, or make 
 her any sort of companion, but left her entirely to 
 herself, or to the seductive charms of the Comte 
 
 de B . It was not difficult to foresee who 
 
 would win in that race, and I am sometimes 
 
 tempted to believe that Mr. T was well 
 
 content to let things take their course. Poor 
 Louise, I can see her now as I write, with her 
 sweet face and loving heart, her great wide 
 innocent eyes like a child's, and her low touching 
 voice which thrilled with a passion she herself 
 could hardly have understood. Well, it was 
 the old story, only if possible the Comte de 
 
 B after ruining her life treated her a little 
 
 worse than they generally do in old stories. 
 He simply planU her after spending all the 
 money he happened to have about him, left her 
 as he would have hesitated to leave a third- 
 class actress, and telegraphed his wife that he 
 was coming home. The prodigal of the Scrip- 
 tures met with a no less flattering welcome 
 back ; the fatted calf was killed, and Monsieur 
 was feted by a dutiful wife and admiring family 
 and a host of friends and acquaintances, while 
 my poor little Louise is left to eat her heart 
 out at Biarritz while her husband gets his 
 divorce. Will you not go and see her and say 
 some friendly words to her for me ? It was 
 
ccxcm PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 293 
 
 here at D that I first met her, and where 
 
 I now hear what has happened to her. I wrote 
 at once when I heard it, and her answer was 
 such a sad, heart-broken little letter that I long 
 to do something for her. She is far more 
 sinned against than sinning, but as usual the 
 punishment falls upon the one least guilty. I 
 much fear that her own family will not be very 
 kind to her in her trouble, and how she is to 
 pass the rest of her young ruined life alone, 
 God knows ! 
 
 CCXCIII 
 
 D , 2'jth September 1866. 
 
 Our letters must have crossed each other, 
 for the one from you just received bears the 
 date of the 24th, the very day I wrote. By this 
 time you have mine begging you to play the 
 good Samaritan as far as it is possible to my 
 poor unhappy little misguided friend. Be very 
 gentle with her for my sake. 
 
 Your account of your visit to the grotto was 
 charming. I am sure that Biarritz will do you 
 immense good, for you have to be out in the 
 open air so much of the time when there ; you 
 cannot say no, and plead work as an excuse, 
 when the empress commands your attendance, 
 as I have known you capable of doing when a 
 more humble mortal begged for your company ! 
 Au fondy I believe I am just a trifle jealous 
 
294 AN author's LOVE ccxcvi 
 
 of your beautiful empress. I fear me there is 
 little chance this year of my being in Paris in 
 October, or even November ; I have half pro- 
 mised to join some friends in a trip to the 
 Italian Lakes. 
 
 CCXCIV 
 
 Paris, \st Jaimajy 1867. 
 Only one word to say that I still live ; and, 
 in spite of your long and strange silence, I wish 
 you every good thing in the coming New Year. 
 
 M. 
 
 ccxcv 
 
 Paris, 
 Wednesday^ 2,d April 1867. 
 
 I have just arrived from London, and much 
 hope that you will get here to-morrow. You 
 did not write to me that you were coming, and 
 my only information is from the newspapers, 
 which assure me that you have left Cannes, 
 and will reach Paris on the 4th. 
 
 CCXCVI 
 
 Paris, 
 Thursday f 2<^th April. 
 
 I could not come to you to-day, cher ami^ 
 as I promised, for my sister-in-law and two of 
 her children are ill, and take up all my time. 
 
ccxcix PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 295 
 
 It is the first day that I have missed seeing 
 you since our expedition to the gallery of the 
 Louvre on Friday the 5 th of April, a day 
 marked in my calendar with red letters spell- 
 ing happiness. To-morrow I will meet you 
 at our old and favourite trysting-place, unless I 
 hear that you are unable to come. 
 
 Mariquita. 
 
 CCXCVII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCXCVIII 
 
 Paris, I'jthjune. 
 Do try and get tickets for the distribution 
 of the prizes ; I am most anxious to see the 
 ceremony. The sultan and all the foreign 
 princes are to be present, and the whole affair 
 is, they say, to be very brilliant. 
 
 CCXCIX 
 
 Paris, &,thjuly. 
 But where were you ? I searched everywhere, 
 and was much disappointed at not seeing you. 
 I was amused, and everything went off very well, 
 but I missed you. 
 
296 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE 0C501 
 
 ccc 
 
 , 22,dju!y 1867. 
 
 The state of your health is at present the 
 subject nearest to my heart, therefore let us 
 begin at once upon that. Are you still con- 
 fined to your room, still suffering, still low- 
 spirited ? Oh, mon ami, these last happy months 
 have proved more vividly than ever before 
 how dear you are to me. Get well quickly ; 
 there is so much still left in life for both of 
 us. I have only just arrived, my maid is ill, and 
 I cannot find anything I want, but I do not 
 even stop to dress before writing to you, so 
 anxious am I for better news than when I left 
 you. Write to me as soon as you feel equal 
 to the exertion. 
 
 CCCI 
 
 I St September iSSy. 
 
 I do indeed pity you with all my heart, but 
 pity is such a poor, unsatisfactory sort of thing 
 when one does nothing, can do nothing, to 
 better the pain and suffering. Cannot some- 
 thing be done for this dreadful sleeplessness ? 
 What are doctors worth if they cannot find 
 some help for you ? Why did you send off 
 the miniature of Marie Antoinette to the em- 
 press before I had the chance of seeing it ? 
 
end PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUP. * 297 
 
 You know my adoration for that most unhappy 
 queen, and my great interest in anything and 
 everything relating to her. I have not your 
 horror of sad antiquities. Quite right are you 
 to abuse me for my stupidity about the proofs, 
 but when I say, like the children, " I am so 
 sorry, and will never do it again," you will, I 
 am sure, be merciful. I make a note of the 
 articles you wish me to read. You ask when 
 I return to Paris. Just so soon as I can pos- 
 sibly do so, and in the meantime I will look 
 up everything of interest that I can find which 
 may amuse you. Yes, Luther did hate the 
 devil with a good deal of honest consistency. 
 Which old castle is it in Germany where they 
 show you a large splash of ink on the wall, 
 and tell you that the Reformer threw his ink- 
 bottle at his Satanic majesty, who came to 
 tempt him as he worked away at his perfected 
 Bible? I have seen the ink-stain, but forget 
 the name of the Schloss, I shall hope for a 
 better account of you in a day or two. Your 
 last letter made almost the tour du monde 
 before it reached me, which must explain the 
 length of time I have seemingly taken to 
 answer it. 
 
 CCCII 
 (Letter missing) 
 
298 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE ccciii 
 
 CCCIII 
 
 , 2 zd October 1867. 
 
 Cher ami, could you see me you would never 
 recognise me, for I am fast turning into a 
 vegetable. I no longer have ideas. My brain 
 has either shrivelled up, or evaporated, or tout 
 bonnenient died ; it certainly gives no sign of 
 existence. It is a dreadful thing to stand by 
 and watch your own brain depart, and yet it 
 rather fascinates me. As a prisoner counts the 
 hours by the sunlight on the wall of his cell 
 mounting higher and higher, I count the time 
 still left to my mental being by finding each 
 day more ideas wanting, more empty spaces 
 left. I should like to choose my vegetable 
 when the moment comes for the final trans- 
 formation scene. I would not be a potato, for 
 the little elevations on its brown skin always 
 look to me like warts ; neither woiild I be 
 a red tomato, its veins are sometimes hideous ; 
 peas, beans, Brussels sprouts, all these are 
 mesquin ; beets are too winey, spinach much 
 too soft, carrots look bilious ; no, on the whole, 
 I choose corn, it is so clean, with smooth, 
 pearly-white, even grains, and it has some pre- 
 sence about it while growing, with its dark 
 green leaves so tall and cool, and itself so 
 closely folded in the tasselled silk and outer 
 protection cover. Pray choose corn also, if 
 
ccciv PROSPER M&RIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 299 
 
 the day ever comes when you too, from force 
 of circumstances, grow to be a vegetable. 
 
 Do what I will, I cannot get away at present, 
 and in this dreary spot my one only comfort 
 is hearing from you. Go at once, I implore 
 you, to Liebreich, and see what the trouble 
 really is with your eyes. It is so foolish to 
 neglect or put off a thing of this kind, when a 
 few minutes might make everything all right. 
 But do not contemplate any such horror as losing 
 your sight. I do not believe there is anything 
 serious the matter with your eyes, and no 
 danger of such a calamity as this. You are 
 over-worked, and the nerves of the eye are 
 very sensitive to too long-continued action of 
 the brain ; that is all, I feel certain, but all the 
 same, do not lose another day before consulting 
 Liebreich. 
 
 CCCIV 
 
 -, 2d November 1867. 
 
 Of course I read the first part of Tourguenief's 
 romance in the Correspondefit after you told me 
 in your last letter about correcting the proofs, 
 but your extreme care in retaining all the im- 
 proprieties which the piously- inclined Prince 
 Augustin Galitzin had in his translation pur- 
 posely left out, called for no comment. I saw 
 that your effort to be immoral had been snubbed 
 as it deserved to be, when in the printed story 
 
30O A ^ AUTHOR'S LOVE cccv 
 
 that interview between Litvinof and Irene was 
 cut down to an hour, although as a matter of 
 fact I should think the exact time might under 
 the circumstances be an unimportant detail, 
 one, or two hours, the result would probably 
 have been the same. For your sake I much 
 regret M. Fould's death, but I cannot agree 
 with the idea suggested by your words that his 
 exit from life was too sudden a one. To fall 
 asleep here and awake in whichever world we 
 are destined to inhabit hereafter, is surely the 
 best and least troublesome way of making the 
 exchange of domicile. One gives no trouble 
 to one's friends, there is no time for any hurried 
 making up with Providence, which to my mind 
 is simply offering Providence a gratuitous insult, 
 and there are no heart-breaking good-byes. 
 If you are ready to die, death does not find you 
 unprepared ; if you are not ready, no frightened 
 entreaties at the last moment can help you. 
 No, could I choose, I would not hesitate between 
 a lingering illness and a sudden death, I would 
 ask humbly for the latter. Devoutly hoping 
 to reach Paris before you leave, always your 
 loyal friend. 
 
 CCCV 
 
 Paris, \oth December 1867. 
 I have not yet recovered from the disappoint- 
 ment of arriving here just as you had left, but 
 
cccv PROSPER M&RIMAE'S'INCONNUE' 301 
 
 you were so right to go when the sudden cold 
 came. Are the Pope, Garibaldi, and M. de 
 Bismarck still the three fates who are to decide 
 your destiny ? if so, from the present outlook of 
 affairs your work is cut out for you. Why 
 France continues to dorloter His Holiness while 
 he treats her devotion so cavalierly I cannot 
 understand. Paris is detestable. 
 
 My poor old friend M. D is very ill, 
 
 and I think the chances are that he will bid 
 this world adieu very shortly, and without 
 getting any farther on his journey to Rome 
 than this place where he now is. After all, he 
 is eighty years old and his life is a burden, yet 
 the poor old boy still clings to this mortal coil 
 as though youth and pleasure were both at his 
 command. It is passing strange this love of 
 life for mere life's sake, yet one sees it every 
 day in wretched infirm diseased creatures who, 
 one would think, might be only too glad to 
 exchange it for anything else. It is the old 
 story, I suppose, of a comfortable familiarity with 
 the ills one is accustomed to, and the dread of 
 a bad bargain if they are given up for something 
 unknown and uncomprehended, even with the 
 chance of its being better. M. 
 
 CCCVI 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
302 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccvii 
 
 CCCVII 
 
 Paris, id February 1868. 
 CJier ami, I have sustained a great loss in the 
 
 death of my poor old friend M. D , and 
 
 although I had small hopes of his recovery I 
 did not think he would leave us quite so soon 
 as he has. A still larger space is now left in 
 my heart which your love and friendship alone 
 can fill ; a still larger share of affection is left 
 for me to bestow, and I give it all to you. I 
 do indeed know you well enough to understand 
 how this daily dragging monotony of suffering 
 must try you and be far more difficult to bear 
 than a sharper but less continued pain. Oh, 
 what would I not give to be able to do some- 
 thing to lessen this trial for you ! I can only 
 try and help you to bear it by cheering you as 
 much as possible, and I feel sure one smile at 
 least will come to your lips when I tell, you that 
 I once in travelling met a Mormon Elder, and 
 nothing Dixon can say in his New America, 
 which you tell me you have just been reading, 
 can possibly be more funny than were the " little 
 ways" of this animal. He was a long lank 
 Yankee, loose-jointed, fishy-eyed, and altogether 
 about as unattractive a looking specimen of the 
 genus man as it is possible to imagine. With 
 him were perhaps a dozen women and girls of 
 different ages, and one pretty delicate young 
 thing of about nineteen with sweet large blue 
 
crcvii PROSPER M&RIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 303 
 
 eyes, whose manner and appearance proved her 
 condition in life to be far above that of the rest 
 of the party. To this girl the Elder's whole 
 attention was devoted ; the other recruits for 
 Salt Lake City experienced but scant considera- 
 tion from the saint, as he spent his time in in- 
 structing the beauty of the party in the doctrines 
 of the Mormon faith. A fellow-traveller of 
 mine grew much interested in the state of 
 affairs, and finally interviewed the Elder and 
 learned several curious facts. To begin with, 
 very many of the unfortunate females who go 
 out to Utah and join the Mormons are respect- 
 able English girls from the large manufacturing 
 towns, who are persuaded to do so by just such 
 brethren as this lank -limbed specimen whose 
 gift of speech by the way must very greatly 
 have outweighed his charms of person. Once 
 arrived at the Mormon settlement, Brigham 
 Young has the first choice of the new aspirants 
 for the place of wife ; after he has chosen, the 
 Elders follow in order of rank and select the 
 new members of their households. My fellow- 
 traveller asked the saint in question if he meant 
 to marry the pretty girl he was so attentive to, 
 and looking very sheepish the great awkward 
 fellow said, if Brigham Young did not take her 
 for himself he certainly meant to speak for her ! 
 No, Talleyrand's mot about the Americans was 
 severe, but I rather fancy the severity to have 
 been tempered with justice. 
 
304 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccviii 
 
 I was much pleased with your tartine sur 
 Pouchkine. Trusting that this may find you 
 really better, your friend always, M. 
 
 CCCVIII 
 
 Paris, \^th February 1868. 
 
 I sincerely hope that you will find me in 
 Paris when you return, and I shall make all my 
 arrangements with that object in view. You 
 are far too melancholy at present to be left to 
 your own devices, and it shall be my first care 
 to amuse you ; also, we must try and have 
 some walks as in the olden days. What a 
 difference there is in the way different people 
 and things, even memories, grow old. Some 
 events, which at the time they happened seemed 
 to be the veriest trifles, grow unpleasant, repul- 
 sive, absolutely loathsome, as time passes and 
 they persistently take their places in our life 
 as unmovable hateful souvenirs ; while others 
 equally unimportant at the time of happening 
 grow more tender, more winning, and infinitely 
 more dear with each day that separates them 
 from the actual moment of occurrence, until to 
 part with them would be pain inexpressible. 
 
 I shall like Fimi^e in book form, milk 
 remerciments for having it bound for me ; but 
 do not send it, keep it and bring it with you ; 
 when I thank people whom I like, it is a 
 
cccix PROSPER MArIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 305 
 
 pleasure to thank them in person. Do you 
 know, I begin to think that we have had too 
 much pen, ink, and paper in our mutual lives 
 you and I. Once, long ago, I asked you if 
 you did not think a friendship based upon those 
 three things rather too much of an experiment. 
 As an experiment, I am fain to confess that it 
 has succeeded ; but I have an idea which rather 
 haunts me, that we could have been just as 
 good and loyal friends without this triple group 
 with fewer letters and less absence from one 
 another. What think you? does your fear of 
 too close companionship bringing weariness and 
 satiety shrink at this idea ? Have you already 
 exclaimed, ^^ Jamais de la vie ! Elle est folW" ? 
 It is only an idea, which, as I said, rather 
 haunts me, but the very fact of its being' 
 haunting proves it to be of another spirit world, 
 the wandering ghost of a lost and dead possi- 
 bility. Let it pass unharmed. 
 
 CCCIX 
 
 \6th June 1868. 
 
 I am here to attend the marriage of Madame 
 
 de C 's niece a timid, gentle little thing, 
 
 who is bound to be miserable with the man 
 who has been chosen for her a boiilevardier of 
 the most pronounced type. When she weeps, 
 as weep she most assuredly will, long and often, 
 
 X 
 
3o6 AN A UTHOR 'S LO VE cccx i 
 
 let US hope the vicomtesse's coronet embroidered 
 in the corner of the handkerchief with which 
 she dries her eyes will bring her consolation 
 solid enough to make up for a life which I 
 should not call worth living. Chaciin a son 
 gout ! What a mercy it is that every one has 
 not the same tastes. But to marry for the 
 mere sake of marrying seems to be the craze 
 of the moment, and if people like to take jumps 
 in the dark, why should one officiously torment 
 them with turning up the gas? The 15th of 
 July will find me in Paris ; that is, at this 
 moment I see nothing which can possibly pre- 
 vent me from going there ; but it seems to me 
 that lately le diable lui-meme se mile de nos 
 affaires^ so often has the unexpected and 
 unwished-for arrived to prevent us from meet- 
 ing ; however, I hope for the best. And now 
 to go and wish happiness to the little bride 
 who, I know for a certainty, is going to be 
 miserable ! 
 
 CCCX 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCCXI 
 
 Boulogne, 'jth August 1868. 
 You ask whether our last promenade left an 
 impression on my mind ? Let me repeat your 
 
cccxi PROSPER MARIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 307 
 
 own words and say that I find it a " tres-doux 
 souvenir'' one of those memories which steal 
 over one as the long summer twilight deepens, 
 and the first pale stars come shyly out into 
 heaven's blue ; which makes one long to be 
 quiet and alone, that no word may disturb the 
 after -glow of a deep warm joy which has 
 passed, but which has left a light of happiness 
 like the lurid fire of red gold lighting an even- 
 ing sky after the sun that caused it has sunk 
 out of sight. Ah, love, how well you have 
 loved me back ! 
 
 Every one I ever knew or heard of who has 
 indulged in the uncertain pleasure of living 
 beyond his income I now find established in 
 
 this place. Lord Henry P and his pretty 
 
 wife are here, absolutely bankrupt ; and from 
 the number of captains and colonels one meets 
 I should judge that the better part of the 
 English army live in fear of arrest for debt. 
 The rock you ask about is, as you say, a 
 monstrosity, but just what it was intended for 
 I do not know. I will ask some of these 
 valiant officers who know the place. 
 
 Did you, when passing through Boulogne, 
 ever visit the Aquarium ? It amuses me 
 extremely, and you who delight in uncanny 
 creatures of all kinds would positively revel in 
 some of the distorted and demon-like fish and 
 crabs which nearly give me the nightmare. I 
 have arranged to remain here until the 3d of 
 
3o8 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cccxi i r 
 
 next month, when I must go to London for at 
 least a fortnight on business. 
 
 CCCXIl 
 
 London, 4//^ September 1868. 
 Frankly, I do not like your story of the 
 Ours. It is in its ideas as distorted and 
 unpleasant as the nightmare crabs I told you 
 of Do change the plot the composition is 
 too good to be expended upon such a subject ; 
 at least modify the experiences of the Ours^ and 
 leave out some of the suggestive phrases. Oh 
 no, the idea is too awful ; how could you 
 imagine such a plot ? I am so afraid that you 
 will publish it at once that I stop to write no 
 other word, and send these hurried lines to beg 
 you to reconsider the story. Direct to me No. 
 Clarges Street, Piccadilly. 
 
 CCCXIII 
 
 London, 1st October 1868. 
 I am still detained here, and am very 
 impatient at the delay. Do tell me where a 
 person can with the greatest propriety insult 
 another? Etiquette forbids that it should be 
 in the house of the one insulted ; common 
 politeness, not to say decency, decrees that it 
 
cccxiii PROSPER MERIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 309 
 
 may not be in the habitation of the insulter ; 
 and still less is it possible for the process to be 
 accomplished at the dwelling of a mutual friend. 
 What spot, then, is available, save the open 
 street or the high seas, both of which would 
 present manifest difficulties, the foremost of 
 them being the slender chance of encountering 
 the person for whom the insult is all prepared 
 and ready before time has a chance of lessening 
 the wholesome effect intended to be wrought 
 by it! 
 
 Still another question my mind is, you 
 see, in an inquiring, mood to-night who 
 originated the expression "false as hell"? 
 Whoever did so had not, to my thinking, 
 a logical brain. Surely hell is more consistent 
 and true in its promises than are most things 
 in this mutable world of ours. It pledges 
 itself to punish, and we are distinctly given to 
 understand that we obtain punishment at its 
 hands. It clearly states upon what terms a 
 dwelling within its precincts can be obtained, 
 and those fulfilling the conditions are apt to 
 find themselves denizens of its halls. It says 
 plainly, in the words of the poet, " Leave hope 
 behind all ye who enter here," and once inside 
 the gates, hope and hell's inmate are parted for 
 ever. It stipulates that evil shall take the place 
 of good, that despair shall drive out trustful 
 confidence, that eternal woe shall stand in the 
 place of everlasting joy, and in which of these 
 
310 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccxiii 
 
 agreements does it fail us? Not one. False 
 as hell ! should the saying not rather be " true 
 and certain as hell, steadfast as Satan"? 
 
 Why I ask you these questions I cannot tell, 
 unless it is that in thinking of this lengthened 
 absence from you, such a bitter aching loneliness 
 has swept over my whole being that I feel en- 
 gulphed, choked, swallowed up in it, while all 
 the solid foot-holding landmarks in life seem at 
 the same time to be swept away by it It 
 appals me when I remember how few out of 
 the millions of human beings who exist in the 
 world, would care if I were literally annihilated 
 and wiped out from the face of the earth. 
 Would one single one? would you, tried friend 
 as you are ? Look how quickly the gaps are 
 filled up ; see the short space of time it takes 
 men and women to forget. They glibly put 
 all responsibility of replacing the lost upon 
 Time, poor old Time, with his back already 
 bowed and bent, who yet must bear all that 
 coming generations may elect to put upon him. 
 In turn they flatter and abuse him, trust to 
 him to heal all wounds, and effusively give him 
 the credit when the scars grow fainter and 
 fainter until they are lost to sight ; or else 
 belabour him, and say it is he who with relent- 
 less and unseemly haste demands that new 
 faces shall replace the old, fresh lives fill the 
 void left by those that are ended. Poor, patient 
 old Time. But abused as he is, how many 
 
cccxtii PROSPER M&RIM^E'S 'INCONNUE' 311 
 
 lessons he can teach ; how many rough corners 
 grow smooth under his care, what jagged edges 
 are polished down, and how wise we grow, and 
 tolerant with a great weariness which is too 
 tired to care very much for anything. What 
 does it matter, we cry bitterly, when it must all 
 end ? Satan is true and death is certain, and 
 no man can tell what comes after. Now be 
 cheerful (if you can) ; make plans, take keen 
 interest in the trifling petty things around you, 
 force them to grow to great matters of import- 
 ance big with possibilities ; set your whole mind 
 upon obtaining some paltry thing which you 
 know secretly is not worth a single thought ; be 
 ready to circumvent others who are fighting to 
 outwit you in the great social game ; bring all 
 your intelligence, your intellect, if you chance 
 to have any, to bear upon social effects and 
 success ; emulate and outdo the struggling 
 striving wretches around you who are spurring 
 on in the mad race which all hope to win. To 
 " get on in life," that is what they are, one and 
 all, trying to do ; get on, no matter by what 
 means. If rudeness pays, be rude ; snub your 
 best and oldest friend ; forget the kindly deed 
 another may have done you long ago if now he 
 stands in your way ; put aside and crush under 
 foot relentlessly ; be blind and deaf when people 
 from whom you can obtain nothing, and for 
 whom you have no further use, are within sight 
 and hearing. On on at any cost to self-respect, 
 
312 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccxtii 
 
 or conscience, or manhood, or true womanhood ; 
 what are these but mere high-sounding phrases 
 which mean nothing to sensible creatures whose 
 aim in Hfe is to " get on ; " wise prudent souls 
 who know what they want, and mean to obtain 
 it by fair means or foul ! Doubtless you are 
 wondering why I should rave in this manner, 
 and probably you have already decided that I 
 am delirious. I begin my letter by asking at 
 what place I can best insult a fellow -mortal, 
 and continue by a scathing denunciation of 
 people who after all are only living up to what 
 they have chosen as their ideal. A recent 
 insight into the utter hoUowness and heartless- 
 ness of London life has suggested this train of 
 thought, not that I did not know it all before 
 the vanity of vanities of London's social 
 struggle ; but a friend came to see me to-day 
 who gravely undertook to prove that it was 
 right, and wise, and just as it should .be ; and 
 the worst of it all is that he honestly believes 
 what he says, and with zeal worthy of a better 
 cause religiously endeavours to live up to his 
 creed " Get on at any cost." It all seemed 
 so pitifully small and narrow that it depressed 
 me, and induced this sensation of overwhelming 
 loneliness which I ought not to have attributed 
 solely to your absence. The solitude which 
 separation from you brings, has never the acrid 
 tinge of bitterness which my dreary loneliness 
 of to-night is weighted with. But London 
 
cccxiii PROSPER' M&RIM&E'S 'INCONNUE' 313 
 
 social life is too intricate a subject to be treated 
 lightly. It is a fiercely hardening process, and 
 if the rule of demand and supply can be 
 adapted to it as it can to most things, the 
 hardening is necessary in order to withstand 
 the pressure. The great social machine grinds 
 on steadily and relentlessly, and if the material 
 brought under its sharp points and heavy 
 weights is soft and yielding, it is simply crushed 
 to shapeless pulp and disappears, while the 
 hard resisting substance, on the contrary, grows 
 bright and polished. In the slang used by the 
 English lower animals, i.e. the domestic servants, 
 you must " stand up " to London society if you 
 intend to hold your own against its insolent 
 aggressiveness. Belinda is the romantic name 
 of the lodging-house " slavey " who is at present 
 the presiding genius of my apartment. Now 
 slaveys ought, by every rule of English life, to 
 restrict their remarks to " Yes'm," " No ma'am," 
 and " Thank you," this latter upon all occasions 
 and a propos to nothing at all ; Belinda, how- 
 ever, is an original, and difficult to suppress. 
 She will talk, and you may just as well make 
 up your mind to the fact, and take it as you 
 would the screeching of a steam-engine stop 
 your ears and let it blow. I close my mental 
 ears while the girl tells me of her grievances 
 against her mistress, the smooth-tongued land- 
 lady who to me is all subservient civility. This 
 morning my understanding caught a phrase 
 
314 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccxiii 
 
 while the girl was speaking which remained 
 with me "You must just stand up to her, 
 ma'am, or she'll grind you." Yes, Belinda has 
 supplied me with the words which describe best 
 how London society must be treated. I shall 
 certainly watch Belinda carefully during the 
 remainder of my stay here, and see how this 
 " stand up to " process works. But oh, how all 
 this makes me long still more for my peaceful 
 cheery little pied a terre in Paris, and my half 
 Bohemian, wholly pleasant life ! Let others 
 struggle if they will, and '' get on " until there 
 is no farther goal to reach, but, for myself, I 
 would choose a few good tried friends and a 
 free existence. 
 
 Such a delightful story has just been told 
 me of an old Quaker, one of the " Society of 
 Friends," who said to his wife "All the world 
 is queer except thee and me, and thee is a 
 little queer." 
 
 What a dear that old Quaker must have 
 been. You cannot say in regard to this letter 
 what you wrote in yours of 2d September 
 " Ne Idchez pas taut vos lettres^ de fa^on a ne 
 mettre que trois mots a la ligite." If you only 
 do not find my epistle of to-night too long and 
 rambling, I shall be content. Write to me 
 quickly that the baths at Montpellier are doing 
 you no end of good. A vous de cceur. 
 
 Mariquita. 
 
cccxiv PROSPER M^RIMAE'S " INCONNUE' 315 
 
 CCCXIV 
 
 -, 1st December 1868. 
 
 Mercil You are really very amiable to 
 make the changes in the story, and it may be, 
 after all, that your Ours will not be so hor- 
 rible. I think you were wise, however, not to 
 send so dangerous an animal to roam at will 
 among the brilliant company at Compiegne ; 
 the empress might not have been particularly 
 gratified by your attention. 
 
 I am here until Christmas, and quite a plea- 
 sant party are staying at the chdteau. About 
 
 the 27th of December Madame de T and 
 
 I are going by a circuitous route to Italy, 
 making Florence our final destination. I feel 
 sure that some of your letters have miscarried, 
 for I refuse to believe that you have not been 
 well enough to write. Cher ami, do you some- 
 times think that I do not write minutely 
 enough of your health, or refer often enough 
 to what you tell me of it ? Would you know 
 the truth ? it is that there are some thoughts I 
 cannot think, some words which even to myself 
 I dare not speak. I am so grieved that the 
 baths at Montpellier did not help you as much 
 this second time as they did the first, and it 
 makes my heart ache when you tell me of your 
 continued fight with this terrible cough and 
 the fits of suffocation. Do not dread so that 
 
3i6 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccxv 
 
 the winter may prove a cold one ; only enjoy 
 the fine weather while you have it, and remem- 
 ber how often it continues through the whole 
 year at Cannes. You could not be in a better 
 place, and I hope much from its climate, which 
 always suits you. Dieu votes garde. Rosini's 
 death was sad. I had not heard of the illness 
 of Lamartine and Berryer. I send you not 
 only the name of one amusing book, as you 
 ask for, but a whole list, almost all of which I 
 find more than readable. 
 
 CCCXV 
 
 Florence, 6th January 1869. 
 
 One sentence of your letter makes me forget 
 all the rest " Que faut-il faire ? je n'en sais 
 rietiy mais souvent fai grand desir que cela 
 finis sey 
 
 O mo7i ami, do you know what that means 
 to me ? So often now thoughts come to me 
 which I dare not put in words, but they haunt 
 me after reading that you suffer, that you make 
 no progress, that you grow worse ; and now 
 you tell me this, that you wish the end might 
 come. Oh, love, love, love, I could not live 
 without you ! Do you know what the world 
 would be for me with you not here ? A leadf 
 sky, with stars and moon and sun gone ou 
 flowers without scent or colour, trees bare c 
 
cccxv PROSPER M^RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE' 317 
 
 foliage, birds with no note of song, all glad 
 things turned to mocking memories ; days of 
 utter weariness, with longing, aching arms 
 stretched out to empty space ; a heart starved 
 and hungry, with only stones for food ; nights 
 when lying dreams would cheat me to believe 
 that once again you clasped me in a warm, 
 living embrace, only that when the waking 
 came my sense of loss might grow anew with 
 double bitterness ! Surely hell has no torture 
 greater than a heart can feel when its other 
 better, dearer self is taken, and it is left with 
 all the tired restlessness and weary, poisoned, 
 passionate pain. If we could but go together, 
 you and I, hand in hand through the dark 
 valley and down into the deep, dark waters 
 which lead to the great unknown. Dear God, 
 was it good to decree this awful, final trial of 
 tearing asunder lives grown to one, of wrench- 
 ing nerves and fibres joined and twined together 
 with years of daily loving sympathy, only that 
 one may go forth bruised and bleeding to a 
 new, uncomprehended life all solitary, while 
 the other is left to live on the old existence, 
 with all its charm crushed out and ended? It 
 is so hard, so terribly hard, to believe the words 
 spoken by a voice never yet heard, as it says 
 to the first, " Be not afraid, for I am with you," 
 and to the other, " Weep not, I will comfort 
 you." We know so well the voice we have 
 loved and lived with, and feel so certain that 
 
3 1 8 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cccxv 
 
 it understands our every want, that if we might 
 only go together we must be happy, whatever 
 strange, new thing be waiting for us, but this 
 grave, far-off, unseen One who promises. Him 
 we cannot really know, and we fear to meet 
 Him all alone. No, I cannot, will not, live 
 without you. Every night will I pray that if 
 there be a God in heaven merciful and loving, 
 let Him take me first, that I may never know 
 the irremediable loss of losing you. I could 
 not bear the torture. I should go mad with 
 grief, and do some frantic, senseless thing far 
 better left undone. No, you must not die 
 before me ; it cannot, shall not be ! 
 
 Wer besser liebt ? You asked this once, and 
 I promptly answered that I loved best ; but as 
 I think of that, another thought comes with it. 
 Shall I leave to you the pain I am afraid to 
 bear myself? You have told me more than 
 once that you could not now, after so long, 
 live your life without me ; and, ill and suffering 
 as you are, I would pray to leave you here 
 alone, because I cannot face the coming years 
 should you go first ! Wer besser liebt ? Oh, 
 is it not the one who up to the last would tend 
 and cheer, and guard from extra pain of mind 
 or body, bearing her own woe silently, that no 
 tear or sob may disturb the few short hours 
 left, or distress the heart to which she has long 
 since given her own ? Would this not be more 
 loyal love and friendship than to save herself 
 
cccxix PROSPER MArIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 319 
 
 from pain and leave the loneliness to him she 
 loves ? 
 
 Ah, love ! I would bear it all, and say no 
 word, if by so doing you might be saved one 
 hour of weary solitude. 
 
 CCCXVl 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCCXVII 
 
 Paris, 20th April 1869. 
 
 I have returned here, as I could not remain 
 so far away with such continued bad news 
 from you. If you are not well enough to 
 come to Paris I will join you at Cannes. I 
 am very anxious, and long to see you. DieiL 
 voiis benisse, Mariquita. 
 
 CCCXVl II 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCCXIX 
 
 Paris, 
 Monday^ 2,d May 1869. 
 
 They told me that they thought you were 
 sleeping when I called this afternoon, so I 
 would not allow them to disturb you, and 
 
320 A AT A UTHOR 'S LO I'E cccxi x 
 
 merely left the book. Are you rested after 
 your journey, and better? I have so many 
 plans and ideas for amusing you, and no end 
 of funny stories to tell you. You remember 
 
 Mr. X , whom you met in London ; that 
 
 handsome, clever, agreeable man. Well, his 
 son came to see me yesterday, so absurdly like 
 his father, and so disappointingly unlike. Do 
 you not hate an inferior copy of a good ori- 
 ginal, be it of man, beast, or thing ? I do ; I 
 detest it, as I mortally detest anything verging 
 on a sham. A mistake which this promising 
 youth made in his French positively convulsed 
 me; it is too good not to repeat. He has 
 come here to remain some time, has taken an 
 apartment in the Boulevard Malesherbes, and 
 was telling me of his experiences with French 
 fournisseiirs, and the difficulty he had had in en- 
 gaging servants. The valet de pied, he thought, 
 asked him too high wages, but after a good deal 
 of haggling he consented to give hini so much 
 par mois, et la blanchisseuse ! After telling me 
 the story, during the telling of which my 
 guardian angel kindly kept my face straight 
 for me, I having lost all control over its expres- 
 sion, cet imbecile, with the greatest calmness, 
 assured me that the French language did not 
 trouble him in the least ; he found it perfectly 
 easy ! 
 
 I will come and see you whenever you wish 
 me to. 
 
cccxxi PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE 321 
 
 cccxx 
 
 Paris, 
 Friday Evenings 1 1 th JiiJie. 
 
 The weather is so threatening at present that 
 I much fear our little expedition for to-morrow 
 does not stand a very good chance. Let me 
 know in the morning how you feel, and what 
 you would like to do. With this I send you 
 some violets, and devoutly trusting that you 
 did not take cold at the Exposition yesterday, 
 am yours lovingly and loyally. 
 
 CCCXXI 
 
 26th June 1869. 
 
 Naturally I am cross at being obliged to 
 leave you in Paris in order to see about an 
 unpleasant business here ; but as it is one of 
 those things which is nobody's fault, and is dis- 
 agreeable with an abstract, impersonal kind of 
 disagreeableness, there is absolutely nothing to 
 be done but bear the affliction with as good a 
 grace as possible. I think matters can be 
 settled between the conflicting parties, only it 
 may take time besides, . . . Do not tell me 
 that you have the same detestable weather in 
 Paris that we have here, it would be really 
 too cruel. Is not hypocrisy the most dis- 
 pleasing quality allo\yed for the use of mortals, 
 or do I overrate its unpleasantness ? 
 Y 
 
322 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccxxiii 
 
 CCCXXII 
 
 , Zdjuly. 
 
 And so to-day, in the year of grace 1869, 
 you think it a miracle that it is possible for 
 people to talk of love in the woods when the 
 weather is bad ! How I laughed, as a few 
 mausing dates came to my mind. One, a 
 certain day when after hours spent out at 
 Versailles in a pouring rain, I was asked upon 
 coming home whether I had a fever. And 
 again, a windy afternoon at Saint Germain ; 
 and still another stormy morning, when we 
 found the gardens of the Luxembourg a 
 paradise ! Have you forgotten ? No, nor have 
 I ; and a miracle like this will be worked for 
 generations yet to come, as it was worked for 
 us, and for those long long before us. Happy 
 miracle, ever new and for ever unforgetable ! 
 
 But it is, I repeat, too cruel that just when 
 you most need sunshine this miserable weather 
 should last so persistently ; let us hope that it 
 is almost over. I am so glad that you are 
 going to Saint Cloud ; when there pensez un 
 pen d nioi. 
 
 cccxxni 
 
 , 15M August 1869. 
 
 " Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse !" It is 
 not a cheerful quotation, but how unpleasantly 
 
nccxxiii PROSPER MRIME'S ' INCONNUE ' 323 
 
 true it is ! You must have met that pretty 
 
 little Blanche H , who threatened to go 
 
 into a rapid decline if she were not allowed to 
 
 marry Sir Harry ; and the popular M. de 
 
 G , who threatened a general extermination 
 
 of the race if he were not permitted to wed the 
 beauty of the London season, Lady Violet 
 
 . Well, just these two particulars sat 
 
 directly behind me at the play the last time I 
 was in Paris ; not, Men entendu^ with their 
 corresponding halves, for whom they had been 
 ready to undergo so much ; not at all, but with 
 each other a devoted couple ; while the hus- 
 band of Blanche and the wife of Sir Harry 
 were God knows where. Are we really a 
 remarkable example, cher ami, in that our 
 affection has so well stood the test of time, and 
 can it be that it has done so from the reason 
 you so unhesitatingly give . . . ? It is a 
 queer world, a very queer one. Should there 
 really be no other life after this, as you would 
 have me believe, I query much whether one 
 makes just the best use of it, or gets all the 
 most out of it. I am delighted that your visit 
 to Saint Cloud has done you so much good ; 
 this eucalyptus remedy may be the very thing, 
 have faith in it, I beseech you, and never 
 mind the man who fell from the fifth story and 
 grew philosophical while descending. 
 
 It is a bad day for me to give you my honest 
 opinion about the Ours, as the beginning of 
 
324 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cccxx i ii 
 
 my letter may suggest to you, and you will not 
 be pleased at it. Why try and circulate a 
 thing you know to be risqu^ merely because 
 you find the riskiness so cleverly veiled that an 
 ordinary reader would fail to discover it ? You 
 who with your pen might so easily make men 
 better, not worse instruct them as well as 
 amuse. Of course you are disgusted with this 
 idea, and will call it narrow-minded, not 
 moving with the times, etc. etc. Well, do 
 not give it a second thought ; to-morrow, or, 
 no, the next time I see you, I may think 
 differently ; it would not be the first time that 
 a few words from you had changed my ideas, 
 would it? 
 
 The last sentence of your letter reproaches 
 me as I re-read it. You ask me to write you 
 semething gay, because you are very melan- 
 choly, and instead I plainly show you that blue 
 devils and I are tres-li^e to-day, and that any- 
 thing further removed from " gay " than is the 
 state of my personality it would be hard to 
 imagine. If I cannot cheer I had better not 
 depress you, which I feel that I am doing with 
 every line I write ; so I will say adieu before I 
 do further harm. 
 
 CCCXXIV 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
cccxxv PROSPER M&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 325 
 
 cccxxv 
 
 Paris, ^d December 1869. 
 Madame Dosne as a mother-in-law certainly 
 proved the exception to the general rule, and 
 like so many exceptions to rules, grammatically 
 speaking, was a far more valuable thing than 
 the rule itself. Poor M. Thiers must indeed be 
 quite lost without her. To me it is a thing not 
 possible to understand that the wife of a man 
 should not share in his ambitions and plans ; 
 should not help them in every way, make her- 
 self perfectly au fait of the situation whatever 
 it may be, and aid her husband in every known 
 manner permissible ; I had almost added " or 
 not permissible." It is my belief that a woman 
 can do so much, accomplish such marvels, in 
 assuring the success of a man if she will but 
 devote her mind to doing so use her tact, her 
 common sense, every fascination she may possess, 
 to win friends and influential support for her 
 husband in whatever line of life he may happen 
 to find himself It is a pet theory of mine, 
 I believe in it thoroughly. I know it is pos- 
 sible for a woman to do all this, and surely 
 there could be no better way for her to employ 
 any talents which may have been bestowed 
 upon her. And yet look how the generality of 
 men's wives hamper rather than help them. 
 Look at Madame Thiers herself To me it is 
 inexplicable ; I gaze at women in a sort of 
 
326 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccxxvi 
 
 stupefaction, they seem so blind to their oppor- 
 tunities. Thank God ! I can honestly lay the 
 flattering unction to my soul that while I had 
 a husband I was true to him in both letter and 
 spirit, and did for him in every sense " the best 
 that in me lay." It is not a bad memory to 
 have stored in a quiet corner of my mind, that 
 when the end came he still called me the best 
 friend that he had ever had. And I told you 
 once that I thought I could be a good friend ; 
 have I proved my words ? 
 
 Tell me that you are better, and that you 
 suffer less. Would that I could give you my 
 health and strength, and suffer in your place. 
 
 There is an uneasiness in the political air 
 which grows steadily, at least so it appears to 
 me. A half-defined restlessness, an uncertainty, 
 that is almost impossible to seize in words, but 
 which one feels in every vein. O this France, 
 *' unstable as water " ! Will there neyer be a 
 permanent quiet for her a more solid basis ? 
 I doubt it. 
 
 CCCXXVI 
 
 Paris, \oth January 1870. 
 
 Your letter has almost broken my heart. 
 
 La mort ! dear God, I cannot say that name 
 
 and yours together ! I am blinded as I merely 
 
 write the letters which have no meaning for me, 
 
cccxxvi PROSPER Mj&RIM&E'S ' INCONNUE ' 327 
 
 blinded with salt smarting tears which burn my 
 brain before they fill my eyes, and scorch and 
 sear my heart ; your heart it is, and with you 
 gone how can it beat again or ever throb, save 
 to a dull dead agony which means a ghastly 
 living death ! " Une mort leiite et tres doulou- 
 rezise" you say, and I read the words but 
 cannot grasp the sense. Not this for you ! 
 Oh no, it cannot, cannot be ! Let it be mine 
 if you will ; I will bear it all and more, if by so 
 doing I can save you from one single pang ; 
 but not this for you ! With your brilliant intel- 
 lect, your keen fancy, your delicate appreciation, 
 your love of life ! It is again this sudden cold 
 which makes you feel worse, and once passed, 
 and with warmth and sunshine back again, you 
 will be better. Tell me it is nothing more 
 than this, take back those dreadful words and 
 think no more of them ; I cannot give you up ! 
 You wish me une bonne ann^e could any 
 year be good or any gift it brought me be 
 worth the having if only ill were the portion it 
 gave to you ? O heart, dear heart of mine, 
 take away the mortal sadness your words bring 
 me ; tell me that this fear of yours has no 
 foundation in reality, that it is a mere fancy 
 which the chill of the east wind and the icy 
 breath of the frost have cruelly breathed over 
 you, and which the first glad burst of sunshine 
 will melt and thaw away, when you will be 
 yourself again, brilliant and well and loving as 
 
328 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE ccoxx v 1 1 
 
 of old. It must be so ; no other thing is 
 possible. 
 
 CCCXXVII 
 
 Paris, \^th February 1870. 
 I try to think that much wisdom lies con- 
 cealed in the old saying, "No news is good 
 news," and to fancy you almost strong again, 
 and not sad and suffering. The ^meute^ with 
 so pitiful a hero as Victor Noir, must have 
 confirmed your opinion of the general degener- 
 acy of the times. The word revolution is one 
 not unmentioned now, and the under-current of 
 restlessness of which I spoke to you some time 
 ago seems to pervade all classes, taking various 
 forms of expression. At the Tuileries, every- 
 thing is gay and insouciant^ outwardly at least ; 
 but there are those who pretend that the gaiety 
 is assumed, and the carelessness more of a mask 
 than a reality. The world and men seem more 
 mad than ever, and seem not to know what 
 thing they really want. Some speak of a 
 plebiscite. I have been reading Motley's Dutch 
 Republic^ renewing my contempt for the Duke 
 of Alva and my pity for Count Egmont and 
 Count Horn. Their tragic death was the first 
 thing I thought of when I stood in the great 
 square at Brussels, whose architectural effects 
 suggest, as Motley says, '' in some degree the 
 meretricious union between Oriental and a 
 
cccxxix PROSPER MARIM^E'S ' INCONNUE ' 329 
 
 corrupt Grecian art, accomplished in the medise- 
 val midnight ; " with the splendid H6tel de Ville 
 and its daring spire, the " graceful but incoher- 
 ent " faqade of the Brood-huis^ and the lesser 
 palaces and buildings near. 
 
 You say that you are writing for yourself, 
 and perhaps for me, a little history where love 
 plays the principal part. Would it be possible 
 for you to write such a tale for yourself alone, 
 leaving me out ? Ah no, not if your fiction is 
 founded upon truth. Two lives entwined with 
 mutual hopes and joys, sorrows shared together, 
 pleasures doubled by being divided, love glori- 
 fied and intensified by reflection from heart to 
 heart, faith and loyalty made living truths from 
 a great mutual trust is not this the motif of 
 your history, and could it treat of only one 
 alone ? 
 
 CCCXXVIII 
 
 (Letter missing) 
 
 CCCXXIX 
 
 Paris, 20M May 1870. 
 
 I have, I think, found just the apartment you 
 wish for, not far from me, ati premier^ no entresol^ 
 and with a moderate amount of steps. Shall I 
 have your books, etc., moved for you before 
 you come, and all things, so far as possible, in 
 
330 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cccxxx 
 
 readiness for you ? I had promised to spend 
 the entire summer with my sister-in-law at 
 
 P ^ but have written to her that I will 
 
 instead join her at once, as I must get back to 
 Paris about the middle of June ; thus I shall 
 be here when you return. Later, if you are 
 better, I can rejoin her and remain with her 
 during the autumn. Let me know of any 
 changes you may wish made in regard to the 
 apartment, and I will do my best to have 
 everything comfortable for you. 
 
 CCCXXX 
 
 P , \ St July 1870. 
 
 Oh, to be kept here day after day when all 
 my thoughts are with you, and I long with 
 every fibre of my being to follow them ! It is 
 very, very hard, yet I cannot leave when my 
 poor brother depends so entirely upon me in 
 his trouble. To lose two children within a 
 fortnight, and to have your wife at death's door, 
 is too great a trial for a man to be left to 
 bear alone. I must remain with my brother 
 for the present ; it would be heartless to desert 
 him, but nothing less than this would detain 
 me an hour longer from your side. 
 
 You must be glad to be in Paris at this 
 moment of excitement, with the keen interest 
 which you take in the political situation. Do 
 
cccxxxi PROSPER MERIMEE'S ' INCONNUE' 331 
 
 you think it possible that war with Prussia can 
 be avoided ? I tremble at the thought of it, 
 and at the remembrance of the military man- 
 oeuvres which I witnessed in Germany. Can 
 French soldiery stand an attack from such 
 machines of war as all Prussians wearing 
 uniforms are ? It is a terrible question when 
 one thinks what it really means, and what the 
 result must be if the answer is unfavourable. 
 
 CCCXXXI 
 
 P , i^th July 1870. 
 
 Cher ami, do not dwell so much upon the 
 coming cold which you always seem to dread ; 
 there cannot be two successive winters as severe 
 as the last one, and once at Cannes you will 
 certainly be better. 
 
 My poor sister-in-law is still dangerously ill, 
 and her husband is wellnigh distracted with the 
 loss of his children, to whom he was devoted. 
 The world looks very bleak and drear to me 
 to-day in spite of summer sunshine, and my 
 courage begins to fail me. I am not by nature 
 superstitious, yet, when for the first time I 
 wrote 1870, the figures seemed to enclose 
 some sinister meaning, some warning of woe 
 which made me shudder even as I smiled at 
 the foolish silliness of the fancy. Perhaps this 
 atmosphere of danger in the political world, 
 
332 AN A UTHOR 'S LOVE cccxxxi i 
 
 added to the depressing effect of illness all 
 about me, is the cause of this odd sense of 
 impending sorrow. I am sorry that you think 
 the war with Prussia cannot be prevented ; 
 alas, will France never be content to let well 
 alone ! 
 
 The assurance of the physicians that you 
 are better is a great comfort to me ; they must 
 know, and even if you yourself cannot see the 
 change there must still be one and on the 
 favourable side. Thank God for this encour- 
 aging news ; it removes part at least of the 
 heavy weight on my heart, and I begin to 
 dream of happy days still in store for us, long 
 walks, and heart-communing as in the earlier 
 times when love came smiling with so many 
 promises. To-day it is good to know that with 
 the love still ours, there is also rich fruition of 
 the promises ; deep fulness of perfected love 
 is as much dearer than its dawning dreams as 
 the flower in perfect beauty is lovelier than the 
 opening bud, or as the hope fulfilled is better 
 than the first faint half- formed wish. Tried, 
 true, and perfect friend, good-night. 
 
 CCCXXXII 
 
 19//^ August 1870. 
 
 There is but little change in my sister-in- 
 law, whose health still causes us the very gravest 
 
cccxxxii PROSPER MARIMAE'S ' INCONNUE ' 333 
 
 anxiety. The war news is the great topic of 
 interest here, as I presume it must be throughout 
 France. It is well for the country to be hopeful, 
 but it strikes me that there is an over-confidence 
 in the tone taken. I never believe in under- 
 rating an enemy, and that I think is precisely 
 the danger now to be feared. It seems terrible 
 that at this late day in the civilisation of the 
 world so much bloodshed is necessary among 
 such nations as Germany and France ; the fact 
 appears to be an ironical comment upon modern 
 progress and nineteenth century Christianity. 
 
 The longing to be with you grows on me ; 
 I feel each day a stronger wish to be near you, 
 to see you, and to hear your voice, to feel your 
 hand in mine and to look into your eyes as 
 you tell me it is good to meet again. Only a 
 little time now and all this will be. A change 
 must soon come in my poor brother's wife ; if 
 for the better, I shall leave at once and come 
 to you ; if an end comes to the poor thing's 
 sufferings, my brother will at once join his 
 regiment, and then equally will I come to you 
 if you wish me to do so. Je vous embrasse de 
 cceiir, cher ami, trusting that this may find you 
 stronger and better, no blue devils, no melan- 
 choly, no bodily pain. I linger before writing 
 the word adieu ; we have said it too often, dear 
 friend, let us erase it from our dictionary, and 
 until we choose another to take its place say 
 only ate revoir. 
 
334 AN AUTHOR'S LOVE cccxxxiii 
 
 CCCXXXIII 
 
 -, \6th September 1870. 
 
 Do you recollect my once telling you that if 
 you should join the Immortals (in verity and 
 truth) the light of life would cease to shine for 
 me? Why, I wonder, does the remembrance 
 of that saying obtrude itself so persistently 
 upon my thoughts to-day? Your last letter 
 was so much more like your old self, and in it 
 you tell me that for some days past you have 
 felt better, and you write with so much interest 
 of the exciting events going on around us. If 
 only our letters did not take so long in going 
 and coming ! It is hard to wait patiently for 
 news of you, but I feel sure that you are really 
 improving, and that we shall meet again shortly. 
 I will follow your advice and remain for the 
 present at this place, but if I thought you were 
 not so well, nothing could keep me from you. 
 It would be cruel of you not to tell me should 
 this be the case. Would it not be better for 
 you to go to Cannes even if the journey is a 
 long one ? Do think of it seriously. I will 
 join you there if you like, and in fancy we will 
 live the old days over again, the happy old 
 days of storm and sunshine, quarrels and loving 
 reconciliations. Let me hear soon, and remem- 
 ber that to-day as in long days past I am 
 always MariQUITA. 
 
PROSPER MARIMEE'S ' INCONNUE ' 335 
 
 Even as she wrote these words, the beautiful 
 Inconnue^ her other self to whom she spoke was 
 fast nearing the dusky horizon, where eternal 
 night was drawing on apace. The eyes she 
 had kissed so often were soon to feel that last 
 soft kiss, unlike all others, which seals from tears 
 and soothes to everlasting dreamless sleep. He 
 would read her words, perchance press the fast 
 paling lips to the characters her hand had traced, 
 and then would pen once more an answer, 
 but only once. It is no good-bye, this last 
 response of his, only a few words saying that he 
 is ill, but mentioning at the same time a slight 
 improvement. He tells her that he will write 
 to her soon again, and adds that she must send 
 to his house at Paris for some books which he 
 ought to have sent her before his departure, 
 but there is not much in the short letter, and 
 none of his usual wit or sparkle. He writes as 
 though tired, very tired. The last words are, 
 " Adieu, je vous embrasse" 
 
 A footnote to the Letters states that two 
 hours later Prosper Merimee died ; thus almost 
 his last thought, perhaps his very last, was for 
 his love, his faithful friend, U Incoimue. 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
Epilogue 
 
 By the tideless sea at Cannes on a summer 
 day I had fallen asleep, and the plashing of 
 the waves upon the shore had doubtless made 
 me dream. When I awoke the yellow paper- 
 covered volumes of Prosper Merimee's Lettres 
 d une Inconmie lay beside me ; I had been 
 reading the book before I fell asleep, but the 
 answers had they ever been written, or had I 
 only dreamed ? 
 
 THE AUTHOR, 
 
^^ 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
 .^ 
 
 A 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, 
 or on the date to which renewed. Renewals only: 
 
 Tel. No. 642-3405 
 Renewals may be made 4 days i>rior to date doe. 
 Renewed books are subjea to immediate recall. 
 
 - 'Pi 1Q73 C 
 
 
 7 
 
 l\i^\jAP,('l'^f 
 
 ^'D CIRC DEPT RB ^^ S 'U a 
 
 LD21A-30m-10,'73 
 (R3728sl0)476 A-30 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
Tj 
 
 \ -