PARIS, July 13, 1834.
It is now a long time, madame, since I beheld your pretty writing,
and my solitude seems to me deeper, my toil more heavy. I gaze with a
gloomy air at that box in which you sent me jujubes, which now holds my
wafers.
Are you in Venice? Are you at Trieste? Are you travelling? Are you
resting? You see, I think of you, and I do not want to waste all the
reveries into which I plunge, so I send you one. Oh! I am so bored in
Paris! Never did its atmosphere so weigh upon me. I breathe in fancy
the air you breathe with an enthusiastic jealousy! It is, they say, so
light, it would suit my lungs so well. _Mon Dieu!_ work is crushing
me, and for all hippogriff I have only that jujube-box and Anna's
dog-inkstand, poor little dear!
I am writing at this moment a fine work, the "Recherche de l'Absolu;" I
tell you nothing about it; I want you to read it without bias, and with
all the freshness of ignorance of its subject. Where will you be then?
My business affairs are cursed. Nothing comes to a conclusion. That
ambulating roast-beef, into whom God has thrown all the thoughts that
make for silliness, called Gosselin, stops us by petty things. Next
Tuesday we may end the matter, perhaps; I will immediately write to
you. Put on one side thirty-seven thousand francs to pay, and on the
other side twenty-eight francs' worth of paper, a bottle of ink, and
a few quill-pens I have just bought, and you will have an idea of my
position, assets, and debts. To reach an equilibrium, I need iron
health, not talent, but _luck_ in my talent. Six volumes more for the
said Bêchet to publish, and twenty-five 12mos for the first edition of
the "Études Philosophiques"! After all that is done, I shall have a few
crowns left and "liberty on the mountain." When I say on the mountain,
I mean plain, for the Ukraine is, you say, a flat country.
There are my affairs, madame. As for sentiments, they are, by reason of
restraint, a thousand times more violent than you ever knew them since
you have consented to be my confidant. But that person would be very
content if she knew all that I hide from her, for it is very difficult
to express sentiments that lie at the bottom of one's heart. They
need, not only a tête-à-tête, but a heart-to-heart. Mingle with this
fury of work a _furia d'amore_ and a fury of business and a few good
memories which come to me when I listen to good music--trying not to
hear the Duke of Brunswick, who germanizes in my box sometimes; for
this dethroned prince, being no longer a lion, makes himself a tiger
with us. (You will not catch that poor joke if I did not tell you that
our box is called the _tiger_ box. Forgive the digression, but I know
how you like to know all the little details of Parisian life.) So now
you have an exact view of the meagre existence your moujik lives;
he is, for the rest, as virtuous as a young girl. The "Recherche de
l'Absolu" will tell you that; "Séraphita" better still.
Truly, I am writing with a gay pen, and I am sad; but my sadness
is so great that I am afraid to send you the expression of it. I
would sell my fame and all my literary baggage (if I had no debts)
for the pebbles on the road to Ferney. If you would buy my books in
bulk I would write them for you little by little, or tell them to
you in the chimney-corner. Make M. Hanski buy a principality, for I
should not like to be jester to any but a prince; self-loves should
be conciliated. You could give me such pretty caps and bells! As for
salary, I would take it in the laughs that would come from your lips.
But you would be expected to give me eulogies and lodgings, cakes and
bells. No Barkschy; I make conditions. But a fool would have to hide
his heart. Well, well, you would not want me. _Mon Dieu!_ how often in
my life I have envied Prince Lutin! [Puck.]
I wish you all enjoyments of your journey. I must now go and finish a
"Conte Drolatique" while you are getting into the carriage and saying,
perhaps: "I did not think that this Frenchman whom I accused of levity
on our way to the lake of Bienne was so sincere when he told me he was
capable of attachment." Ah! madame, poor men have only a heart, and
they give it; I am a poor man, a manual labourer who works in phrases
as others carry a hod.
If I were free, I should bathe to-night in the Adriatic, and then go
and tell you some joyous tale, review the ducal houses in the "Almanach
de Gotha," or play patience. You made me adore patience--and I live by
patience. But I drudge, I suffer much.
PARIS, July 15, 1834.
I wish you to find this letter on your arrival in Vienna. Day before
yesterday I posted a letter to you in Trieste, and ten minutes
later your good long letter from Trieste came. Ah! that, indeed, is
writing! That is making some one happy! Boor Alphonse Royer, who wrote
"Venezia la bella," did not tell me in two volumes what you have told
me about Venice in two pages. I said to a friend who came in just
as I was putting your letter into the pretty box I have had made to
hold them,--for to me your letters are beings, fairies which bring
me a thousand delights; I am dainty for my fairy-letters,---I said
to him: "We are ninnies, we who think we can write. We ought to kiss
the slippers of certain women, the side where the slippers touch the
ground, for within, none but the angels are worthy of that!"
Thanks for your letter; how many things I want to answer and must put
off to another day, not wishing to speak now, except of things I have
much at heart.
You have not understood me about "Séraphita." I declare to you that
I have more jealousy of heart than you accuse me of; for if, after
promising me a testimonial of friendship, you were to forget it, I
should suffer in all that is most sensitive in heart and soul and body.
Therefore, I wanted to avoid the same suffering to you by explaining
that the _envoi_ would be in the last article, to make my happiness
the more transcendant. That last chapter, the "Transfiguration," is to
me what, in its own degree, the picture was to Raffaelle. Leave me the
right to put your name upon my picture at the moment when the almost
gigantic conception of that work is about to be comprehended. But,
after reading your letter, I think there was conceit in my thinking you
would suffer. _Basta!_ I will say no more about it.
The second number of "Séraphita" has been, for three weeks, in the
printing-office, and I have worked ten hours a day upon it. I will send
you the whole of it to Vienna, addressed to M. Sina. It will all be out
by the end of September.
Another quarrel. I would rather be happy in a corner than be Washington
in France, seeing that we have dozens of Washingtons in every street.
That means that I would rather be at Wierzchownia in January than
sputtering politics in the tribune of the Palais-Bourbon. This is by
way of answer to your sublime _retrocessa_, when you wish to efface
yourself behind France. As for me, I efface France beneath your sublime
forehead. France, madame, is never short of great orators, great
ministers, and great men in everything.
Well, the Gosselin affair is signed; I am quit to-day of that nightmare
of foolishness. The illustrious Werdet (who slightly resembles the
illustrious Gaudissart) buys from me the first edition of the "Études
Philosophiques,"--twenty-five 12mo volumes,--in five Parts, each of
five volumes, to appear, month by month, August, September, October,
November. You see that to carry this through, and do three Parts of
the "Études de Mœurs," still due to Madame Bêchet, requires Vesuvius
in the brain, a torso of iron, good pens, quantities of ink, not
the slightest blue devil, and a constant desire to see, in January,
Strasburg, Cologne, Vienna, Brody, etc., and to fight with snow-drifts.
I do not mention that bagatelle called _health_, nor that other
bagatelle called _talent_.
Now you know the programme of my life, and if I had _a lady of my
thoughts_ you must own she would be much to be pitied, unhappy woman!
Fortunately, she is, very sadly, the lady of my thoughts only; and I
know she is very joyful to find me hindered.
For all this fine work M. Werdet is to give me fifteen thousand francs,
and whatever of glorification I can catch above the bargain. This,
joined to the rest of the "Études de Mœurs," will free me entirely,
and leave me with a few crowns, which are in this low world, the wings
on which we fly o'er distances.
Do you know why I am so gay that there is gaiety in my grumblings?
It is that I have seen once more the pretty little scribble of your
writing; that I know you to be, except for the sufferings of travel,
perfectly well, and Anna too.
Adieu, a thousand tender feelings of the heart. Ah! be reassured.
Madame de C... insists that she has never loved any one but M. de M...,
and that she loves him still, that Artemisia of Ephesus. This evening I
say good-bye, at Liszt's, to Wolff, that young face from Geneva--where
I was so young!
When you write to me from Vienna, tell me, I entreat you, how long you
stay. Something tells me that I shall see Vienna with you; that means
that I shall like Vienna. You must tell me what the Germans think of
"Séraphita." You will receive, in Vienna, the third Part of the "Études
de Mœurs," which leaves here, addressed to M. Sina (_mon Dieu!_ how I
do like that name!), about the end of this month. So you will have it
during the first ten days of August.
A thousand tender regards.
PARIS, July 30, 1834.
Oh! my angel, my love, my life, my happiness, my strength, my treasure,
my beloved, what horrible restraint! what joy to write to you heart to
heart! what shame to me if you do not find these lines at the time and
place! I have been into the country for six days to finish something in
a hurry.
_Ohimé_, I cannot start for the Baths of Baden before August 10; but
I will go like the wind; it is impossible to tell you more, for to be
able to go there needs giant efforts. But I love you with superhuman
force.
So from the 10th to the 15th I shall be on the road. I shall have only
three or four days to myself, but I bring you that drop of my ardent
life with a happiness which the infinite of heaven can alone explain.
_Mon Dieu!_ what hours full of you, of which you have only
presentiments! How I have followed you everywhere! How I have, at all
hours, desired you! Yes, my cherished Eve, my celestial flower, my
beautiful life, stay at the Baths till September. If it takes eight
days to get there, and I leave here August 15th, I shall only arrive
on the 23rd, and I must be here for the first days in September. All
depends on my work and my payments. The desire to be free, to be yours,
has made me undertake things beyond my strength. But my love is so
great; it sustains me.
Your "Séraphita" is beautiful, grand, and you will enjoy that work in
three months. I need three months for the last chapter; but perhaps
I will finish it near you. You warmed up my heart for the first; you
ought to hear the last song!
Oh! dear, dearest adored one, tell yourself well that the love you
have inspired in me is the infinite. Have neither fear nor jealousy.
_Nothing_ can destroy the charm under which I wish to live. Yes, there
have been many melancholies, many sadnesses: I was a displanted tree.
To see you in August restores to me happiness and courage.
Now, to come to Baden I must bring out in the "Revue de Paris" "Le
Cabinet des Antiques," of which you know the beginning. To work to go
to see you, oh, what enjoyment! There is no work, there is joy in every
line.
Did you receive the "Chouans" at Trieste? But you cannot answer me.
You will receive this August 8 in Vienna, and the 10th I shall start.
What are Neufchâtel and Geneva in comparison with Baden? Were there six
months of desires, of repressed love, of works written in your name,
oh, my life, my thought? One must be strong to sustain a joy so long
awaited. Oh, yes, be alone!
It is impossible to write you a long letter; it would take a day more,
as I only arrived this morning, and I feared that Marie de Verneuil
might not find it and be vexed with him who adores her as an angel
loves God. To be separated from you by only eighteen days; it is all,
and it is nothing. Your little letter has made me crazy. It will be a
great imprudence to go to Baden, for I have a thousand ducats to pay in
September, but to see you one day, to kiss that idolized forehead, to
smell that loved hair, which I wear about my neck, to take that hand so
full of kindness and love, to see you! that is worth all glories, all
fortunes. If it were not upon us, upon a longer time of separation that
this folly falls, it would not be a folly, it would be quite simple.
Dear angel, do you know what happiness there is for me in these
eighteen days, and the journey, _mon Dieu!_ I adore you night and
morning, I send you all the thoughts of my soul, I surround you with
my heart,--do you feel nothing? And my sufferings in not going to
Florence, in short, I will tell you all.
Dear angel, be happy if the most ardent love, the most infinite that
man can feel, is the life you have desired to have, give, receive.
_À bientôt_, then. Oh! what a word! Three or four days of happiness
will make the months of absence more supportable. Oh! my treasure, what
an abyss for me is tenderness. You are the principle of this frightful
courage. Will you love my white hairs? Every one is astonished that any
one can produce what I produce, and says that I shall die. No; three
days near you is to recover life and strength for a thousand years!
Adieu; a thousand kisses. I have held this bit of vinca between my lips
while writing. To thee, my white _minette_, and soon. A thousand tender
caresses, and in each a thousand more![1]
[Footnote 1: This is the last of these odious and ridiculous letters.
It belongs properly to the series which ended March 11, 1834. In my
opinion it has been concocted and placed under this date to convey the
idea that it is one of the letters which Balzac mentions in his letter
to M. Hanski of September 16 (see p. 199); and, furthermore, this is
done with the intention of convincing the reader that the whole series
of forged letters (which are plainly identical in character with this
letter) were written by Balzac.
Putting aside, for a moment, the _proofs_ of deception which I have
produced, I must say in conclusion that I think no one of literary
judgment will believe that the author of the "Comédie Humaine" wrote
these spurious letters.
From this date the letters go on in Balzac's characteristic
manner,--expansive, impulsive, boyish at times, and too full,
certainly, of his debts and his troubles; but with it all is the strong
underflow of a great and dauntless soul allied to things pure and
noble. The story is tragic; and not the least tragic part of it is the
wicked present attempt of degenerate men to degrade a hero.
I here place a letter of the same date from Monsieur Hanski to Balzac,
which will serve to show the sort of man he was, and how he regarded
his own and his wife's friendship for Balzac.