was properly possessed by the
'Mysteres de Paris') and carry it till my arms ache. The plays and
vaudevilles he knows far more of than I do, and always maintains
they are the happiest growth of the French school--setting aside the
_masters_, observe--for Balzac and George Sand hold all their honours;
and, before your letter came, he had told me about the 'Kean' and the
other dramas. Then we read together the other day the 'Rouge et Noir,'
that powerful book of Stendhal's (Beyle), and he thought it very
striking, and observed--what I had thought from the first and again
and again--that it was exactly like Balzac _in the raw_, in the
material and undeveloped conception. What a book it is really, and so
full of pain and bitterness, and the gall of iniquity! The new Dumas
I shall see in time, perhaps, and it is curious that Robert had just
been telling me the very story you speak of in your letter, from the
'Causes Celebres.' I never read it--the more shame! Dearest friend,
all this talk of French books and no talk about _you_--the _most_
shame! You don't tell me enough of yourself, and I want to hear,
because (besides the usual course of reasons) Mr. Chorley spoke of you
as if you were not as cheerful as usual; do tell me. Ah! if you fancy
that I do not love you as near, through being so far, you are unjust
to me as you never were before. For myself, the brightness round me
has had a cloud on it lately by an illness of poor Wilson's.... She
would not go to Dr. Cook till I was terrified one night, while she was
undressing me, by her sinking down on the sofa in a shivering fit. Oh,
so frightened I was, and Robert ran out for a physician; and I could
have shivered too, with the fright. But she is convalescent now,
thank God! and in the meanwhile I have acquired a heap of practical
philosophy, and have learnt how it is possible (in certain conditions
of the human frame) to comb out and twist up one's own hair, and lace
one's very own stays, and cause hooks and eyes to meet behind one's
very own back, besides making toast and water for Wilson--which last
miracle, it is only just to say, was considerably assisted by Robert's
counsels 'not quite to set fire to the bread' while one was toasting
it. He was the best and kindest all that time, as even _he_ could be,
and carried the kettle when it was too heavy for me, and helped me
with heart and head. Mr. Chorley could not have praised him too much,
be very sure. I, who always rathe