The interest which you manifest in that Etruscan stone is truly delightful to see! How many cakes do you think it is worth? You have never even asked about the inscription it bears. It is a man turning a ewer. I should say an amphora, which is a Greek word and more high-sounding. In former times, perhaps, the seal belonged to a potter; there is, indeed, a mythological allusion which I might explain to you if I would. As for the other seal, it has a strange history. I found it in the chimney-place, as I was poking the fire, in the rue d’Alger; it is a very large, heavy bronze ring, and the characters on it are mystical. It is supposed to have been used by a magician, or even by the gnostics. You have noticed on it a small man, a sun, a moon, etc. Is it not a curious thing to find in the ashes in the rue d’Alger? Who knows if it is not to the mysterious power of this ring that I owe your song of Claire?
I am really ill, but that is no reason why I should not go out. If, for instance, you wished to receive the Etruscan ring from my own hand, I would give it to you with the greatest pleasure; while it would be conspicuous and cause gossip if I should send it in a letter by your bearer. But I do not want to ask anything more from you, for you become more despotic every day, and you have acquired the most odious subtleties of coquetry. It appears that you do not appreciate eyes without any white, and that you admire blue-white eyes. You take good care, also, to remind me of your own eyes, which I remember quite well, although I have seen them so seldom.
Who has taught you this peculiarity, which you dare to tell me you did not know? Was it your Greek teacher, or your German teacher? Or am I to believe that you learned by yourself to write German script, as you did the Greek? Another article of faith to add to your aversion to mirrors! You ought to cultivate a German flower called die Aufrichtigkeit.
I have just written the word End at the close of a piece of very learned writing, which I composed in the worst possible humour; it remains to be seen whether this word does not signify dulness and prolixity. However, now that it is finished, I feel relieved of a burden and much happier, which explains my blandness and amiability towards you; otherwise I should have told you some sharp truths about yourself.
You should see me, if it were only to escape from the atmosphere of flattery in which you live. We must go some day to the Museum to see the Italian paintings. It would be a compensation for the journey you failed to take, and to have me for a guide is an inestimable privilege. This is not a condition on which I shall give you my Etruscan stone. Say how, and you shall have it.
XXVIII
Paris, November, 1842.
M. de Montrond says that we should beware of our first impulses, because they are usually trustworthy. One would suppose that you had given much consideration to this beautiful maxim, for you practise it with rare constancy. When a good resolution occurs to you, you postpone it indefinitely. If I were at Civita Vecchia I should seek among the gems of my good friend Bucci for some Etruscan Minerva; it would be the most appropriate seal for you. Meanwhile, my potter is all ready, and I still say, like Leonidas: Μολὡν λαβἑ. I think I shall keep it for some time still, until the eve of your departure.
I must tell you that I am feeling much better, and am less a prey to the blue devils. I find pleasure even in my work, which I have not done for a long time. I am forming great plans for the winter, which is a sign of better spirits. This is why I write so cheerfully, for if I had written immediately after receiving your German letter I should have criticised your faults in my most severe style. You will not be deprived of this even now, because if I see the world to-day through rose-coloured glasses, that is all the more reason why they will soon reflect a darker hue.
I should be glad to know what you are doing, and how you occupy your time. When I see you so learned in Greek and in German, I conclude that you are very lonely at ..., and that you are spending your life among your books, with some wise professors to explain them to you. Yet I wonder whether it is not otherwise in Paris, and I fancy the days there passed in amusements of another kind. If I had not lived so long in the strictest solitude, I should know all about your actions and movements, and the reports that I should hear would give me an impression of you very unlike the one I receive from your letters.