You know that all I wish to say to those about you; my regards, my
respects, will have more value by passing through your lips.
[Footnote 1: Delphine de Girardin made many attempts to recover him,
and did so, finally. In spite of his estrangement from her house she
was always loyal to him; and during the time of his quarrel with her
husband she wrote many kind things of him in "La Presse."--TR.]
FRAPESLE, near ISSOUDUN, April 10, 1834.
MADAME,--Since I had the pleasure of writing to you I have been very
ill. My night work, my excesses, have been paid for. I fell into a
state of prostration which did not allow me to read or write or even
to listen to a sustained discussion. My bodily weakness equalled
the intellectual weakness. I could not move. What has frightened me
most is that for the last two years these attacks of debility have
increased. At first, after a month of toil, I would feel one or two
hours' weakness; then five hours, then a whole day. Since then the
weakness has become excessive, lasting two days, three days. This time
it came near death; but for the last ten days I am convalescent.[1] The
doctor ordered me change of air, absolute repose, no occupation, and
nourishing food. So I am here for ten days in Berry, at Issoudun, with
Madame Carraud.
To-day, April 10th, I am better; I can write to you and tell you of my
little death-struggle, my despair, for, feeling no force, no thought
within me, I wept like a child. But to-day I recover courage; _passato,
pericolo, gabbato il santo_. I shall laugh at the doctor who said to
me:--
"You will die like Bichat, like Béclard, like all those who abuse by
their brain the human forces; and what is so extraordinary in this
is that you--you the most energetic _forbidder_ of emotion, you the
apostle who preach the absence of thought, you who pretend that life
goes off in the passions and by the action of the brain more than by
bodily motions,--you will be dead for having neglected the formulas you
formulated!"
From all this has resulted, madame, a good and beautiful project of
opposing to each month of toil a full month of amusement. So, from the
10th or 12th of May, I shall take twenty days in which to go and see
you for two or three days wherever you are in Italy. If you are willing
to see Saint Peter's at Rome in June, we will see Rome together. Then,
after admiring Rome for five days, I will come back and take up my
yoke. Next, having spent July and August on new _pensums_, I will go
to see Germany, and salute you once more in Vienna, for I don't know
anything sweeter than to give a purpose of friendship to a journey of
pure amusement, to go in search of two or three gentle evenings, and
make you laugh, and chase away the "blue devils."
You have not written to me; do you know that there is ingratitude in
you? it is you who have a "French" heart. What! not the smallest little
line! Nothing from Genoa, nothing from Florence. You received, I hope,
in Florence, my third Part, and the third _dizain_ to make M. Hanski
laugh.
Just now I am completing the third Part, and doing a
master-work,--"César Birotteau,"--the brother of him whom you know,
victim like his brother, but victim of Parisian civilization, whereas
his brother is the victim of a single man. It is another "Médecin de
campagne," but in Paris; it is Socrates _stupid_, drinking, in shadow
and drop by drop, his hemlock; an angel trodden underfoot, an honest
man misjudged. Ah! it is a great picture; it will be grander, more vast
than anything I have yet done. I want, if you forget me, that my name
should be cast to you by Fame, as a reproach.
Do you know, madame, that you are very seriously in my prayers of night
and morning,--you and all those you care for? You do not truly know
the heart which chance has made you meet. A desire to boast possesses
me--but no; time will be to you a too constant, too noble eulogy on me.
I do not wish to add to it.
As soon as "Birotteau" is printed, the third Part out, the _dizain_ in
the light, I shall rush joyously to Italy to seek your approbation as a
sweet reward. Maître Borget cannot come with me; you will see him, no
doubt, in Venice; but the artist moves slowly, he sips all, whereas I
am forced to go like the wind and return like a vapour. Borget is here,
and returns with me to Paris, April 20.
Poor Madame Carraud is very unwell, and is causing alarm to her
friends. She confided to me the secret of her sufferings. She is
perhaps pregnant, and another child would be her death. She has hardly
strength to live.
I beg of you, write me in detail about your travelling life, that I
may know all your joys and even your disappointments. I have so much
admired the splendid face of Mickiewicz; what a noble head! Write me
what you think of the "Duchesse de Langeais." Kiss Anna on the forehead
for me, her poor _horse_. Present my regards to M. Hanski; how does
Italy suit him? My respects to Mademoiselle Séverine. To you, madame,
my most affectionate thoughts.
I must bid you adieu for to-day, because work calls me. In ten days,
after "Birotteau" is done, I will write you a long letter and make up
arrears. I will tell you my past troubles, my sufferings laid to rest,
and my sensations, inasmuch as you deign to take an interest in your
poor literary moujik. Your beautiful Séraphita is very mournful; she
has folded her wings and awaits the hour to be yours. I will not have
a single rival thought disturb that thought you have adopted. Perhaps
I will bring her to Rome that she may be done, little by little, under
your eyes. Each day enlarges the picture and _magnifies it_.
I have not had time to answer Madame Jeroslas ...; she cannot be
pleased with me; truly it is not possible for me to write except to you
and the persons who are nearest to my heart. One has but three friends
in the world, and if one is not exclusive for them, what good is it to
love? When I have an instant to myself I am too tired to write; but
I think; I carry my thoughts back to Geneva, I utter, mechanically,
"tiyeuilles," and I illusion myself. Then a proof arrives, and I return
to my sad condition of workman, of manual labour.
Well, adieu. Be happy; see the beautiful scenery, the fine pictures,
the masterpieces, the galleries, and say to yourself if some gnat hums,
or the fire sparkles, or a flame darts up, it is a friend's thought
coming from my heart, from my soul toward you; and that I, too,--I
would like my share in those beautiful enjoyments of art, but that I am
here in my galley, having nought to offer you except a thought--but a
constant thought.
I wrote you on the day I felt recovered; therefore have no fear if you
take an interest in my health. I have no more weakness except in the
eyes.
[Footnote 1: This letter in the French volume is dated April 10, which
is, of course, wrong, or else the previous letter is misdated.--TR.]
PARIS, April 28, 1834.
MADAME,--I have just received your good letter of the 20th, written in
Florence; and you know by this time that it is impossible for me to go
there. You must have received my little line from Issoudun, in which I
asked you with great cries for Saint Peter's in Rome. For that trip I
can answer. At that time all my affairs will be arranged. But Madame
Bêchet needs me and my Parts, otherwise she will be compromised.
I hope you have not mingled anything personal in your reflections on:
"it was only a poem" [conclusion of the "Duchesse de Langeais"]. You
feel, of course, that a _Thirteener_ must have been a man of iron. You
would not accuse an author of thinking all he writes?
If painters, poets, artists were sharers in all they represent, they
would die at twenty-five. No, my duchess is not my Fornarina. When
I have her--but _I have_ a Fornarina--I shall never paint her. Her
adorable spirit may animate my soul, her heart may be in my heart, her
life in my life, but paint her, show her to the public!--I would sooner
die of hunger, for I should die of shame.
I am very glad that you do not yet know me fully; because now you may,
perhaps, love me better some day. _Mon Dieu!_ what you tell me of your
health and that of Monsieur Hanski made me bound in my chair. Madame,
in the name of the sentiment, the sincere affection I bear you, I
implore you when you or Monsieur Hanski or your Anna are ill, write
to me. Don't laugh at what I am going to say to you. Recent facts at
Issoudun proved to me that I possess a great magnetic power, and that
either by a somnambulist, or by myself, I can cure those who are dear
to me. Therefore, have recourse to me. I will leave everything to go to
you. I will devote myself with the pious warmth of true devotion to the
care that illness needs, and I can give you undeniable proofs of that
singular power. Therefore, put me in the way of knowing how you are.
Don't deceive me, and don't laugh at this.
Your _romances_ afflict me. Why have such dark suppositions? _Mon
Dieu!_ as for me, when I dream, I dream of happiness only.
Yesterday, some one told me the secret of my journeys was discovered,
and that I had been to join Queen Hortense. I laughed much at that.
You make me weep with rage when I read what you say of Florence. Shall
I ever meet with all that again? Oh! make me very supplicating to M.
Hanski for the eight days I can be in Rome. See! it is possible. Saint
Peter's day is the 23rd of June. I can leave Paris on the 12th for
Lyon, and reach Marseille the l5th, whence a steamboat takes you in
forty-eight hours to Civita Vecchia. I could stay eight or ten days
in Rome without doing any harm to my affairs; for all, doctors and
somnambulists, are unanimous in beseeching me to balance a month's work
by a month's amusement. Now there is nothing that takes me so out of
my work as music and travel--in Paris no interest excites my soul; I
live in a desert; I am, as it were, in a convent; the heart is moved
by nothing. Rome would be a grand and beautiful distraction if I were
there alone, but with you for _cicerone_ what would it be! And this is
not said from gallantry, _à la_ "charming Frenchman." No, it is said
from heart to heart, to the woman of the North, to the barbarian!
I have broken with everybody; I was tired of grimaces. I have but two
unalterable friendships here which are true, and to which I at times
confide. Then, I have work into which I fling myself daily.
This letter will still reach you in Florence. It will tell you feebly
my regrets, which are boundless. This heavy material life, which I so
largely escaped in Geneva, oppresses me here. I thirst for my liberty,
for freedom, and if you knew what prodigies of will, what creating
persistence is needed to secure no more than my twenty-four days in
June and July, you would say, like one of my friends who has perceived
a little of the intellectual working of my furnace (and you know more
than a mere acquaintance), that Napoleon never showed as much will, or
as much courage.
What you have written me about Montriveau [in the "Duchesse de
Langeais"] worries me, for you are _a little_ epigrammatic, and it
would be a great grief to me to be ill judged or misunderstood by you.
You are the second person to whom I have shown my mind in its truth. I
like to let no one penetrate it, because if they do, what is there to
give to those we love? You did not mean to wound me, did you?
I like your judgments on Florence and works of art much; and I would
greatly like, if you will be so good to your moujik, that you should
study Rome, so that when I come I may not stop to look at bagatelles,
but see in my eight days all that there is of really fine, and good,
and masterly, which goes to the soul. Do not say "Montriveau" to me
again. Remember that I have the life of the heart and the life of the
brain; that I live more by sentiments than by the caprices of the mind;
that I would rather feel than express ideas; and that neither way does
wrong to the other. One needs a little intellect to love.
I write you as it comes, without premeditation; for I must tell you
that I am in the midst of "Les Chouans," which I am printing with
extreme rapidity, _causa metalli_, to put an end to some debts. But
no matter! my scribbling will surely tell you that a loving thought
follows you wherever you go, and that there is at a fireside near the
Observatoire a poet who takes interest in your steps, is troubled by
your cough, and made uneasy by Monsieur Hanski's illness. I was already
uneasy enough at receiving no letters from you. I belong to you like a
moujik, and if M. Hanski gives wheat to his, you owe to me, moujik of
Paulowska, a few straws of affection, here and there. You might have
written to me _three times_ since Turin.
I will tell you nothing of my combats; I am occupied solely by my work
and by a life which is also a work for me; not a poem, madame, but all
that there is of good and beautiful upon this earth. Thus, everything
here, politics, men, and things, seem to me very paltry beside what I
feel in heart and brain.
I am every day more grieved to have been forced to abandon "Séraphita;"
but in Rome it shall be the work of my choice. It belongs to you and
it ought to be done beneath your eyes.
_Mon Dieu!_ if you are better, tell me so quickly. Throw into the post
these words only: "I am," or "We are better." It is so good to see
the writing, the painting, of a thought escaped from the heart of a
friend! You don't know how, in the evening, when I am very weary, my
castle in the air, my novel, my own, is Diodati; but a Diodati without
the deceptions of your novels; a Diodati without bitterness in its
dénouement. Of us two, am I indeed the younger and the one most full
of illusions? There are days when I say _tiyeuilles_, laughing like a
child, and those who take me for a grave man would be stupefied. Come,
don't knock down my dreams, my castles. Let me believe in a cloudless
sky. Since I exist I have lived by unalterable beliefs only, and you
are one of those beliefs. Don't cough and look dark; may the troubles
of _spleen_ never come either to you or to M. Hanski, to whom my letter
is half addressed; take it only as a talk full of affection.
Our Exhibition has nothing regrettable. M. Hanski would not have bought
much there; but if I were rich I should like to send you one picture,
an Algiers interior, which seems to me excellent. Borget is preparing
for his journey; you will see him in Venice perhaps, for he moves
slowly.
I beg of you, madame, tell me whether, according to this new
arrangement, we can meet in Rome; for I begin to perceive that I am
writing to you to know that. You would be very good if you would
torment M. Hanski in order to obtain it. In the first place, if you
torment him you will amuse him; you will substitute for his blue devils
real annoyances; next, you will create a little conjugal drama, in
which you will be victorious; and it is so good to triumph, especially
over a husband.
Well, once more adieu. To all those who are near you give the
remembrances of a poor workman in letters, who subscribes himself your
affectionate, your wholly devoted servant and friend,