Did I tell you that I went to Hungary? I was in Pesth for three days, and imagined I was in Spain, or rather in Turkey. While there my modesty was excessively shocked, for I was taken to a public bath, where I saw the Hungarian men and women helter-skelter in a court-bouillon of hot mineral water. I noticed there a lovely Hungarian woman who concealed her face in her hands, not having, like Turkish women, a covering with which to veil her face. This spectacle cost me six kreutzer, namely, four half-pennies.
I went to the Hungarian theatre to see La Dame de Saint-Tropez, not having wit enough to recognise a French melodrama under the title Saint-Tropez à Unôz. I heard some Bohemian musicians play Hungarian melodies, which were strange beyond measure. This music sets the natives mad. It begins with something intensely mournful, and ends in an allegro con spirito, which completely captivates the audience, who stamp on the floor, break their glasses, and dance on the tables. Foreigners, however, are not so affected by this marvellous music. Finally, and I have reserved the best for the last, I have seen a collection of very old Magyar jewels of exquisite workmanship. If I could have brought you one of these you would have come to meet me at Cologne in order to have it the sooner.
During my entire journey I have been unusually well. The weather is delightful, but cold at night. I have no dread of the cold during my travels, for I have bought an enormous pelisse that cost me seventy-five florins. You could find here magnificent furs for nothing. They are, I think, the only things in this country that are cheap. I have gone bankrupt on cabs and dinners down town. The custom is here to pay the servants for one’s dinner: upon leaving you pay the porter; indeed, you pay at every step, but only a trifle at a time.
Good-bye. I am not any too well pleased with your last letter, except when you tell me of your approaching return to Paris. Although I am bringing you no Magyar chains, I hope you will give me a welcome. I am beginning to long for my own hearthstone, and the evenings seem to me a little tedious. I expect to reach Cologne in less than a week, and to be in Paris from the 10th to the 15th.
CLXII
Paris, Sunday, November 27, 1854.
It is very sad to lose one’s friends, but it is a calamity which may be avoided only by a greater calamity, which is to love no one. Moreover, one must not forget the living for the dead. You should have come to see me instead of writing. The weather is magnificent. We could have conversed philosophically on the vanities of the world. I have remained all day by my fireside, in a despondent and misanthropic mood, and, still worse, in great bodily suffering. I feel somewhat better to-night, but I shall be worse again if I do not see you to-morrow.
CLXIII
London, July 20, 1856.
I received your letter last evening, and it was very welcome. If I were not afraid that I was dreaming, I might say something affectionate at this time. I shall go in a few days to Edinburgh, where I am to consult a Scotch wizard. My friends wish to take me to see a real chieftain, who wears no breeches, and has never worn them. He has no stairway in his house, and he has his bard and his wizard. Is all this not worth the trouble of making the journey?