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Avignon, July 20, 1842.

Since you take that view of it, upon my word, I capitulate. Give me brown bread; it is better than none at all. Only, allow me to say that it is brown, and continue to write to me. You will observe how humble and submissive I am!

Your letter reached me when I was steeped in melancholy, caused by the sad news of the death of the duc d’Orleans, which I had just learned upon returning from a trip into the mountains. I was sadly in need of a letter of another character; such as it was, your letter has at any rate proved a diversion.

I shall reply to it item by item. The figure of rhetoric of which you think yourself the inventor, has been known for a long time. With the aid of Greek, one might give it a new and whimsical name. In French it is called by the less stately name of a lie. Employ it with me as little as you can. Do not overtax it with others. It should be kept for unusual occasions. Do not make too great an effort to find the world silly and ridiculous. It is, alas! only too much so. You ought, on the contrary, to endeavour to imagine it as it is not. It is better to have too many illusions than not to have any at all. I still have a few, some of which are not very sound, but I make strenuous efforts to retain them.

Your story is very familiar. “There was once an idol.” Read Daniel; but he was mistaken—the head was not of gold; it was of clay, like the feet. But the idolater held a lamp in his hand, and the reflection from this lamp gilded the idol’s head. If I were the idol (you will observe that I do not on this occasion assume the attractive rôle), I should say: “Is it my fault that you have extinguished your lamp? Is that any excuse for destroying me?” It seems to me that I am becoming somewhat of an Oriental. So be it!

If you knew Madame de M. you would love her to distraction. She does not give me white bread, but she gives me something that takes its place. She is not a baker’s wife; she is a baker.

I grieve to see that you are becoming more and more affected. I am fully informed about your piety. I thank you for your prayers, if you do not mean them for a figure of speech. As to your blue cashmere, I am rather sceptical of your piety, because piety in 1842 is a fashion, just as blue cashmeres are. You will fail to understand the connection, but it is perfectly clear notwithstanding.

I regret very much that you are reading Pope’s translation of Homer. Read the translation of Dugas Montbel, which is the only one worth reading. If you had the courage to brave ridicule, and time to spare, you would get Planche’s Greek Grammar and his Dictionary. For a month the grammar would put you to sleep, but its effect would be seen later. After two months you would enjoy looking up the Greek words, translated usually almost literally by M. Montbel. Two months later still you would be able to guess fairly well, by the awkwardness of his expression, when the translator has failed to reproduce clearly the Greek phrase. By the end of a year you would read Homer as you read a melody with its accompaniment: the melody being the Greek, the accompaniment the translation. It is possible that you might then wish to study Greek seriously, in which case you would have the pleasure of reading many delightful books.

But I am supposing that your time is not absorbed in the selection of toilettes, or in displaying them before your friends. Everything in Homer is remarkable. The epithets, which in the French translation seem so strange, are wonderfully correct. I remember that he speaks of the sea as purple. I never understood what he meant until last summer, when I was in a little boat on the Gulf of Lepanto, going to Delphi. It was just at sunset. Immediately afterwards, the sea took on a magnificent deep violet tint, which lasted for ten minutes. To see this effect requires the atmosphere, the sea, and the sun of Greece. I hope that you will never become enough of an artist to recognise with pleasure that Homer was a great painter.

The final words of your letter are full of enigmas. You tell me that you will write to me no more, which would be a great misfortune. However, I yield to your decision, and you will hear nothing more from me except compliments. I believe I have already addressed to you several of these. You solicit one, I imagine, when you say you have neither feeling nor imagination. By continually denying their existence you may bring ill luck on yourself. One should not trifle with such things. But I have an idea that you intended only to try the experiment of your rhetorical figure on me. Fortunately I know how much to believe.

If you can think of anything pleasant to say to me, you might write. I shall remain here for a fortnight still. I want to add one word about the life I am leading, tramping the fields without meeting any other obstacle than rocks. Farewell. I hope you find me this time sufficiently submissive and well-behaved, Signora Fornarina?