Paris, April 15, 1843.

I have suffered such intense pain in my eyes yesterday and this morning that I could not write to you. I am a little better to-night, and the weeping has almost stopped. Your letter is somewhat amiable, which is most unusual. There are even a few expressions of affection, without any “buts” or second thoughts. We look at many things from different standpoints. You fail to understand my generosity in sacrificing myself for you. You ought to thank me as an encouragement. But you believe that all is due to you. Why is it that we agree so seldom in our point of view?

You acted sensibly in not speaking of Catullus. He is not an author whom one should read during Holy Week, and in his works are many passages impossible to translate in French. It is easy to see what love meant in Rome fifty years before Christ. It was a little better, however, than love at Athens in the time of Pericles. Women had already gained a little importance, and compelled men to do silly things. The position of woman is due not to Christianity, as it is customary to say, but to the influence exerted on Roman society by the barbarians of the North. The Germans were idealists. They worshipped the soul. The Romans cared only for the body. Women, it is true, for many ages had no souls. They have none still in Oriental countries, which is most unfortunate. You know how two souls can hold converse. But yours is not willing to listen to mine.

I am glad to know you enjoyed those verses of Musset. You are right in your comparison of him to Catullus. Catullus, I believe, used better language. Musset made the mistake of denying the existence of the soul, just as Catullus had done. For the latter, however, there was some excuse, on account of the age in which he lived. It is a most unseasonable hour. I must stop in order to bathe my eye. As I write I weep constantly. Good-bye until Monday. Pray for sunshine. I shall bring you a book. Wear your seven-league boots.