I fancy I have never written to you before, and here I am writing to
you now.... I have chosen a curious time to begin, haven't I? I'll tell
you what gave me the impulse. Mon cousin Théodore was with me to-day,
and...how shall I put it?...and he confided to me as the greatest
secret (he never tells one anything except as a great secret), that he
was in love with the daughter of a gentleman here, and that this time
he is firmly resolved to be married, and that he has already taken the
first step--he has declared himself! I made haste, of course, to
congratulate him on an event so agreeable for him; he has been longing
to declare himself for a great while...but inwardly, I must own, I was
rather astonished. Although I knew that everything was over between
you, still I had fancied.... In short, I was surprised. I had made
arrangements to go out to see friends to-day, but I have stopped at
home and mean to have a little gossip with you. If you do not care to
listen to me, fling this letter forthwith into the fire. I warn you I
mean to be frank, though I feel you are fully justified in taking me
for a rather impertinent person. Observe, however, that I would not
have taken up my pen if I had not known your sister was not with you;
she is staying, so Théodore told me, the whole summer with your aunt,
Madame B---. God give her every blessing!
And so, this is how it has all worked out.... But I am not going to
offer you my friendship and all that; I am shy as a rule of
high-sounding speeches and 'heartfelt' effusions. In beginning to write
this letter, I simply obeyed a momentary impulse. If there is another
feeling latent within me, let it remain hidden under a bushel for the
time.
I'm not going to offer you sympathy either. In sympathising with
others, people for the most part want to get rid, as quick as they can,
of an unpleasant feeling of involuntary, egoistic regret.... I
understand genuine, warm sympathy ... but such sympathy you would not
accept from just any one.... Do, please, get angry with me.... If
you're angry, you'll be sure to read my missive to the end.
But what right have I to write to you, to talk of my friendship, of my
feelings, of consolation? None, absolutely none; that I am bound to
admit, and I can only throw myself on your kindness.
Do you know what the preface of my letter's like? I'll tell you: some
Mr. N. or M. walking into the drawing-room of a lady who doesn't in the
least expect him, and who does, perhaps, expect some one else.... He
realises that he has come at an unlucky moment, but there's no help for
it.... He sits down, begins talking...goodness knows what about:
poetry, the beauties of nature, the advantages of a good
education...talks the most awful rot, in fact. But, meanwhile, the
first five minutes have gone by, he has settled himself comfortably;
the lady has resigned herself to the inevitable, and so Mr. N. or M.
regains his self-possession, takes breath, and begins a real
conversation--to the best of his ability.
In spite, though, of all this rigmarole, I don't still feel quite
comfortable. I seem to see your bewildered--even rather wrathful--face;
I feel that it will be almost impossible you should not ascribe to me
some hidden motives, and so, like a Roman who has committed some folly,
I wrap myself majestically in my toga, and await in silence your final
sentence....
The question is: Will you allow me to go on writing to you?--I remain
sincerely and warmly devoted to you,