Letters to an Unknown. Prosper Merimee

would be on your part even more friendly, and what you do not suggest in your letter, would be to tell me when and where I might see you. I am not counting on this, however, and I know you too well to expect any such proof of your courage. I rely on chance only, which may give me some talisman or clew.

      I am writing to you lying on a couch, suffering tortures; colour that of a sun-scorched meadow. I refer to my own colour, not that of the couch. You must know that the sea makes me very ill, and that the glad waters of the dark blue sea are pleasant to me only when I watch them from the shore. The first time I went to England I was so ill that it was a fortnight before I regained my usual colour, which is that of the pale horse of the Apocalypse. One day when I was dining opposite to Madam V., she exclaimed suddenly, “Until to-day I thought you were an Indian.” Do not be frightened, and do not take me for a ghost.

      Forgive me for referring so often to the diamond. What must be the feelings of a man who is not a connoisseur in gems, to whom the jewellers have said, “This stone is an imitation,” and who nevertheless sees it sparkle brilliantly; who sometimes says to himself, “Suppose the jewellers are not good judges of diamonds! Suppose they are mistaken, or else wish to deceive me!” I look at my diamond from time to time (as seldom as I can), and every time I see it it seems to me genuine in every respect. What a pity that I am unable myself to make a conclusive chemical analysis! What do you think about it? If I could see you, I should explain what is obscure in this matter, and you would give me some wise advice; or, better still, you would make me forget my diamond, genuine or false, for there is no diamond that can stand comparison with two lovely black eyes.

      Good-bye. I have a terrible pain in my left elbow, on which I am leaning to write to you; besides, you do not deserve three closely written pages. You send me only a few lines, carelessly written, and when you write three lines two of them are certain to throw me in a rage.

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      You are charming, dear Mariquita, too charming even. I have just received the schizzo, and I now possess both your portrait and your confidence, a double happiness. You were in an agreeable mood the day you wrote, for your letter was long and kind, but it has one fault, that is, it is indefinite. Shall I see you, or not? That is the question. I know well enough how it may be solved, but you do not want to come to a decision. You are, as you will be all your life, vacillating between your own temperament and the habits you acquired in the convent. That is the cause of all the trouble.

      I swear to you that if you will not permit me to call and see you, I shall go to Madam D. and ask her to give me some news of you. In this connection, Madam D. might give you a satisfactory proof of my discretion, for I even resisted the desire which made my fingers tingle to open the package containing the picture. Applaud me.

      Why are you unwilling that I should see you on the promenade, for example, or, better still, at the British Museum or the Ingerstein Gallery? I have a friend with me who is exceedingly curious about the large package which I untied while his back was turned, and also about the change in my spirits due to its arrival. I have not told him a word that approaches the truth, but I think he is on the scent.

      Good-bye. I wished to tell you of the safe arrival of the picture, and of the very great pleasure it has given me. Let us write frequently in London, even if we are not to see each other there.

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      London, December 10.

      Tell me, in the name of God, “if you are of God,” querida Mariquita, why you have not answered my letter. Your letter before the last, and especially the picture which accompanied it, threw me into such a flutter that the note I wrote you on the spot did not have any too much common sense. Now that I am calmer, and have had several days in London to refresh my mind, I shall try to reason with you.

      Why do you not wish to see me? No one of your friends knows me, and my visit would seem entirely natural. Your principal motive seems to be the dread of doing something improper, as they say here. I do not take seriously what you say concerning your fear of losing your illusions upon closer acquaintance with me. If this were the real ground of your hesitation, you would be the first woman, the first human being, whom such a consideration prevented from gratifying her inclination or her curiosity.

      Let us consider the impropriety of it. Is the thing improper in itself? No, for nothing is more open and above-board. You know in advance that I shall not eat you. The thing, then, is improper, admitting that it is improper, only in the eyes of society. Observe in passing that this word society makes us miserable from the day when we put on clothes that are uncomfortable, because society so orders it, until the day of our death....

      In sending me your portrait, it seems to me that you gave me a proof of your faith in my discretion. Why, then, believe in it no longer? A man’s good judgment, and mine in particular, is the greater the more is expected of him. This granted, and being fully convinced of my discretion, you may see me, and society will be none the wiser, consequently it can not exclaim at the impropriety. I will even add, with my hand on my heart—that is, on my left side—that so far as I am concerned I see not the slightest impropriety in it. I will say more: if this correspondence is to continue without our ever meeting, it becomes the most absurd thing in the world. All these thoughts I leave to your reflection.

      If I were vainer, I should rejoice at what you say of my diamond. But we can never fall in love—with each other, I mean. Our acquaintance did not begin in a manner to lead to that point: it is far too romantic for that. As for the diamond, my travelling companion, while smoking his cigar, spoke of it without knowing my interest in the matter, and said some very deplorable things. He seems to have no doubt of its falseness. Dear Mariquita, you say you would never wish to be a “crown diamond,” and you are quite right. You are worth more than that. I offer you a sincere friendship, which, I hope, may some day be of value to us both.

      Good-bye.

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      Paris, February, 1842.

      An hour ago I read your letter, which has been on my table ever since Tuesday, concealed under a pile of papers. Since you did not disdain my gifts, I send you some conserves of roses, jessamine, and bergamot. You might offer a jar of it to Madame de C., with my best respects. It seems that I once offered you a pair of Turkish slippers, and you have persisted in refusing them, so that I should like to send them to you anyway. But since my return I have been robbed. No sign of any slippers; I can not find them high or low. Will you accept this instead? Perhaps this Turkish mirror will please you better; for you seem to me to be even more coquettish than you were in the year of grace 1840. It was in the month of December, and you wore striped silk stockings. That is all that I remember.

      It is for you to decide the protocol of which you speak. You do not believe in my gray hair. Here is a sample in proof of it.

      I give nothing without expecting a return. Before you go to Naples, you will be good enough to take my directions and to bring me back what I shall tell you. I might give you a letter to the director of the Pompeiian excavations, if you are interested in such things.

      You make of your precious self such a dazzling portrait that I see the time of our next meeting postponed to the Greek Kalends. Allah kerim! I am writing in the midst of such an infernal racket that I do not know exactly what I am saying. I have a great many things to say, however, about ourselves, which I shall defer until after I have heard from you. Meanwhile, good-bye, and preserve that splendid bearing, that radiant countenance, which I admired.

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