Paris, January 21, 1843.
You are very kind, and I thank you for your first letter, which has given me more pleasure than the second, for the latter has a flavour of second impulses. It is not bad, however. But you must write more legible German. I am sadly in need of the commentaries which you offer me—verbal ones, of course, for they are the best kind. At first I read heilige Empfindung, then afterwards I thought it should read selige. But there are two meanings. Does it mean a sensation of happiness, or sentiment that is dead, past? If I had seen you writing, I should have guessed, probably, from your expression what you intended to say. That was double coquetry on your part, coquetry in writing, coquetry of ambiguity.
Alas! you overrate my knowledge in matters of dress. I have, however, very positive ideas on that subject. I will submit them to you, if you like; but I do not understand most of the beautiful things that should be admired, unless they are explained to me. If you will point them out to me, I shall understand immediately, I assure you. But when, and where? These two questions engage my attention quite as much as your why and wherefore.
Do you not look back longingly to the beautiful warm days of the spring? No danger then of wetting those wonderful little boots! If you will tell me that you have remembered them, and that you still think of them, you will give me renewed patience; but you must do something more than think; you must resolve. I have no desire to recall your promises, for I hope you will add to your good faith by fulfilling them graciously, and not keep them waiting too long. I was so utterly overcome with dismay by that storm, and by its consequences, that I have become entirely sugared over with suavity and self-sacrifice. I have now sufficient confidence in you to believe that you will not take advantage of it to become tyrannical. You have, I regret to say, strong leanings in that direction. That was formerly a fault of mine—tyranny, I mean—but I flatter myself I have overcome it. Good-bye, then, dearest! Think of me sometimes.
XLIV
January 27, 1843.
Hear what happened to me. I was feeling very ill this morning, but was obliged to go out on business. Returning about five o’clock in a hideous mood, I fell asleep before the fire as I was smoking my cigar and reading Dr. Strauss. Now it seemed to me that I was still seated in my arm-chair, fully awake, and reading, when you entered the room, and said to me, “Is not this the simplest way to see each other?” “Not the best way,” I replied, for it seemed to me there were two or three other persons in the room. However, we conversed as if that made no difference; whereupon I awoke, and found that some one had brought a letter from you. See how lucky it was I fell asleep!
I am not conscious of having written you anything out of the way, consequently I have no apology to offer. It would be your place rather to apologise, but you do so with so little penitence, and with so much irony, that it is very evident you have lost that veneration with which you formerly honoured me. I can not, however, harbour resentment against you in spite of my resolutions, so I resign myself to remain your victim, only do not take advantage of my generosity; that would be neither handsome nor generous.
You speak of the sunshine, and remind me of it almost as if it were the Greek calends. Probably we shall have more sunshine next June, but must we wait until then? It is true that you are escarmentada of cloudy weather, but while using due precautions, might we not take advantage of the first fair weather? I would not have you catch cold on my account. Be sure to wear your overshoes. No matter in what old costume, to see you is always pleasure enough for me.
What is this pain in the side of which you speak so lightly? Do you know that pneumonia begins that way? You went to the ball, and probably caught cold going out into the air. Relieve my mind at once, I beg of you. I would rather think of you cross, than ill. If you are entirely well and in good spirits, and if the weather is never so little fine Saturday, why should we not take that walk? We could go somewhere, far away from everybody, and then walk and talk.