“What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every five months. You must be laughing at me.
“Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no career but that which you yourself chose. It is too late to alter now.”
To J. d’Ortigue.
“January 1854.—Yes, dear d’Ortigue, you are right. It is my ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble, all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings.
“You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have another love quite as ardent—the love of love.
“And when for some idea, some misunderstanding, I feel that my love may be lessened, something within me bursts asunder, and I cry like a child with a broken toy.
“I know it is puerile, but it is true, although I do my best to cure myself. Like a true Christian, you have punished me by returning good for evil.
“Your notes are capital, and I think I shall be able to use them, though never did I feel less in the mood for writing.
“I cannot make a beginning. And I am sad—so sad! Life is slipping away. I long to work, and am obliged to drudge in order to live. Adieu, adieu.”