I hope to go next week to Cannes, where you will kindly write to me, general delivery. To bring to a close the chapter on my health, I think I shall soon feel much better. Nevertheless, I have had another of those attacks of dizziness, which upset me a good deal, but not so much as in Paris. A physician here tells me that they are nervous convulsions, and that I must take much exercise. This I am doing, but am sleeping no better than I did in Paris, although I go to bed at eleven o’clock. I should have only to say the word to be a lion (in the English sense); every one here is bored. I have been besieged with English cards and Russian cards, and some one wished to present me to the grand duchess Hélène, an honour which I promptly declined.
To furnish us gossip, we have a countess Apraxine, who smokes, wears round hats, and keeps a goat in her drawing-room, which she has had covered with grass and weeds. But the most amusing person here is Lady Shelley, who commits some new absurdity every day. Yesterday she wrote to the French consul: “Lady S. informs Mr. P. that she will give to-day a charming English dinner, and that she will be delighted to see him afterwards, at five minutes after nine.” She wrote to Madame Vigier, formerly Mademoiselle Cruvelli: “Lady Shelley would be charmed to see Madame Vigier, if she would kindly bring her music along.” To which the ex-Cruvelli replied: “Madame Vigier would be charmed to see Lady Shelley if she would kindly come to her house, and conduct herself there like a well-bred woman.”
And now, you—how are you spending your time? I am quite sure you seldom think of Versailles, because you have no souvenirs to recall it to you. I hope we shall go there in March to see the first primroses. Was it all real, that wonderful evening and morning at Versailles?
Good-bye. Write to me soon at Cannes.
CLXIX
Lausanne, August 24, 1857.
I found your letter at Berne on the evening of the 22d, because my excursions in the Oberland have been prolonged far beyond the limit I had set. I am uncertain where to address this. You must ere this have left Geneva. I am going to send it to Venice, where you will probably stop longest.
You might, I think, have varied your enthusiastic effusions on the delights of travelling by one or two words of flattering commendation, by way of consolation for those who are not privileged to accompany you. I forgive you, however, on account of your inexperience in travelling. You anticipate being on your way three weeks only; this seems to me to be almost impossible, and I will give you a month. I beg you, however, to consider that September 28th is an inauspicious anniversary for me, because it dates from so far in the past. It was the 28th of September that I came into the world. It would be signally agreeable to me to spend that day in your company. A word to the wise is sufficient.
I have enjoyed my little excursion very much indeed. It has rained but one day. I did not escape a drop of it, to be sure, during the two hours I was making the descent of the Wengern Alp on a jade that slid over the rocks, and did not advance a step. I drank some champagne which we had brought over the Mer de Glace, and which I iced on the very glacier. My guide assured me that I was the first one to have that brilliant idea. I am at this moment in the presence of the Gemmi and the Valois range, which are lacking in the superb outlines of the Jungfrau and her associates. We might have met at Geneva, I believe, and have made some excursion together. It is sad to think of this. I shall expect to find a letter from you in Paris, where I shall be the 28th.
Good-bye. Enjoy yourself, and do not over-fatigue yourself. Think sometimes of me. If you will give me your exact itinerary, I will write to you from Paris. It is deuced hard to write here. The pens of this country are what you see.