SAD REFLECTIONS
I am a coward; I suffer and I dare not cauterize the wound. I feel that
Pâquerette and Jacques are right, that I cannot live amid the frightful
torment which is rending me. I must, if I do not wish to die of it, tear
love from my bosom. But I am like the dying who are frightened by the
unknown and the annihilation of the body. I know what is the anguish of
my heart, full as it is of Laurence; I know not what would be its pain
were this woman to leave it empty. I prefer the sobs of my agony to the
death of my love; I recoil before the mysterious horrors of a soul
widowed by affection.
It is with despair that I feel Laurence escaping from me. I press her in
my arms like a horse hair shirt which brings the blood, which gives me a
bitter delight. She tears me, and yet I love her. I love her for all the
darts she drives into my flesh; I experience the painful ecstasy of
those monks who die beneath the rods with which they strike themselves.
I love and I sob. I do not wish to refuse to sob, if I ought to refuse
to love.
And yet I realize that this sharp and biting nightmare must come to an
end. The crisis is approaching. I do not know which of us is going to
die. It seems as if anguish kept me awake, warned me of a coming
misfortune. Heaven will take pity on me: it will cure my mind and leave
me my heart; it will choose me for death rather than choose my
tenderness.
This morning, I met a young man and a young woman, who were walking in
the bright sunshine. With arms closely locked, they advanced slowly,
forgetting the crowd. The young woman leaned her head upon the young
man's shoulder; she gazed at him, moved and smiling, while he, in a
glance, returned her emotion, her smile. This youthful couple absolutely
sparkled with devotion and happiness, with pure love and genuine
delight.
True youthful love then exists. While I live miserably in the deep
gloom, torn and devoured by a horrible nightmare, a fearful incubus,
there are, amid the sunbeams of May, true lovers who live deliciously. I
did not know that people could love each other thus, I believed that
kisses must of necessity be biting and poignant.
But, I remember now. Young lovers stroll along, two by two, in the
moonlight, amid the first streaks of dawn. They are clad in light
garments. They embrace each other at every step in a tender, dreamy
fashion; they live amid the grass, among the crowd, and they are always
alone. Heaven smiles upon them, the earth is discreet, the universe is
their accomplice. Young lovers exchange their hearts, they live in each
other's lives.
As for me, I am shut up here. I cannot have everything. I have the
tears, the despair, of solitary love; I have the silence, the dead eyes,
of Laurence. What need have I of spring and youthful love? I have my
grief, if others have their joy.
Oh! my God, have pity! Do not deprive me of my suffering. Prevent this
woman from curing me by killing my love. Let her remain where she is, at
my side; let her remain there, cold and indifferent, to prolong my
torment. I no longer know why I love her; I love her, setting aside all
justice and all truth; I love her for the delight of loving her, and I
do not wish to be disturbed amid the reckless madness of my devotion. My
entire being is crushed by the idea that she may quit me; I am afraid of
the dire desolation into which her absence would surely plunge me. In
losing her, I would lose my family, all my affection, everything which
yet binds me to this earth. My God, do not permit her to abandon me!