March, 1843. I was as tired as if I had walked four or five leagues, but the fatigue was so agreeable that I should like to repeat it. All was so successful, that while I am accustomed to the success of a well-arranged plan, nevertheless I share your astonishment. To be so free, and so far away from the world, and that, too, by making use of the benefits of civilisation, is it not amusing? Do you know why I took only one blossom of those pretty white hyacinths? It was because You were charming. You told me nothing I did not know in saying that you returned to me what I had given you; but to hear you say this is a joy to me, for it proves that you did not mean the cruel things you said on one of our ill-omened days. I have forgotten them all to-day. Will you not, also, forget my anger and my rudeness? You ask whether I believe in the existence of the soul. Not altogether. Nevertheless, when I reflect upon certain things, I find an argument in favour of that hypothesis. It is this: How can two animate substances give and receive a sensation by a union which would be insipid but for the sentiment attached to it? This is an extremely pedantic way of saying that when two lovers kiss each other the sensation they receive is altogether different from that felt in kissing the softest of satin. But the argument has its value. We will discuss metaphysics, It is half past four, and I must rise before ten o’clock. |