here--that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me. You will,
perhaps, reply, it is easy to say it; but the thing is to make people
believe you! And, then, I don't want any second-hand, spurious
sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace--that leaves strange
scars and stains and reveries behind it! But I am afraid I shock you,
perhaps even frighten you.

If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street circle, be sure
you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. For yourself; you
will know that I have always had an intense desire to see something of
_real French life_. You are acquainted with my great sympathy with the
French; with my natural tendency to enter into the French way of looking
at life. I sympathise with the artistic temperament; I remember you used
sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament too artistic.
I don't think that in Boston there is any real sympathy with the artistic
temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong. And
in Boston one can't _live--on ne peut pas vivre_, as they say here. I
don't mean one can't reside--for a great many people manage that; but one
can't live aesthetically--I may almost venture to say, sensuously. This
is why I have always been so much drawn to the French, who are so
aesthetic, so sensuous. I am so sorry that Theophile Gautier has passed
away; I should have liked so much to go and see him, and tell him all
that I owe him. He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at
that time I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not aesthetic, and
who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my artistic temperament. If I
had gone to see the great apostle of beauty, I should have had to go
clandestinely--_en cachette_, as they say here; and that is not my
nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, _naivement, au grand
jour_. That is the great thing--to be free, to be frank, to be _naif_.
Doesn't Matthew Arnold say that somewhere--or is it Swinburne, or Pater?