_Mio maestro_," I said to him; "then we can understand each other."
"What, you too!" he said, smiling.
I lowered my head; then I showed him all that brilliant Paris which was
present, and said:--
"To cast one's diamonds and pearls into that mud--"
And at that moment my eyes fell upon "Delmar's" box.
Monday, December 1.
My letter has remained for eight days on, in, and underneath "Le Père
Goriot." I have had a thousand money worries, but I am getting out of
them. Never have I been so powerful to get through this business by my
firm will. Another few months, and I am saved.
Within a few days a little joy has come to me. After much pressing,
and receiving no for an answer for the last three years, they have
consented to sell me "La Grenadière." So I shall have a retreat for
study, and the furniture, books, and arrangements I should make will
remain mine. I could live there six months, incognito, without seeing
any one. So here I am, very happy--so far as a material thing can give
happiness.
You have been proud of "Père Goriot." My friends declare that it is
comparable to nothing, and is above all my other compositions.
Do you know that I am uneasy on what your last letter said relating to
depth of heart, to which no man could ever attain. Those few words make
me think you do not know me well, and it grieves me, because you cannot
love me as well as I might be loved if I were known better. _Mon Dieu!_
I am the object of a thousand calumnies, each more ignoble than the
others, and I pay no more attention to them than he who is above the
Jura listens to Pictet. Is that a merit? But a word from you puts alarm
into my brain, into my heart.
Well, adieu. It is now eight days that I have been conversing with
you. I will write a little more regularly in future. The doctors have
obtained that I shall change my way of life. I am going to bed at
midnight to rise at six in the morning, and work from then till three
in the afternoon. I shall have from three to five for my pleasures, and
I will write you each day a little line. After which I am ordered to go
and amuse myself for six hours till midnight.
_Mon Dieu!_ I have the same difficulty in quitting my pen that I had in
quitting the Maison Mirabaud when the master forced me to go by going
to bed himself. A thousand prettinesses to Anna, my friendly regards to
M. Hanski, if you don't keep them all for yourself.
PARIS, December 15, 1834.
Oh! how long it is since I have seen your writing! Have I fallen again
into disgrace? Are you displeased with my long letters written at
intervals? I can only give you--offer you a day here and there; it is
a day of respite in the midst of my long combat. It is the moment when
I, poor dove without a branch, rest my feet beside the living spring,
the source where she dips her thirsty beak into the pure waters of
affection.
Yes, all is enlarging--the circus and the athlete. To face all, I must
imitate the French soldier during the first campaigns in Italy: never
recoil before impossibilities, and find in victory the courage to beat
back the morrow's enemy.
Last week I took in all but ten hours' sleep. So that yesterday and
to-day I have been like a poor foundered horse on his side,--in my
bed, not able to do anything, or hear anything. The fact is, the
first number of "Père Goriot" made eighty-three pages in the "Revue
de Paris," equivalent to half an octavo volume. I had to correct the
proofs of those eighty-three pages three times in six days. If it is
any glory, I alone could make that tremendous effort. But none the less
must my other works be carried on.
Forgive me, therefore, the irregularity of my correspondence. To-day
one flood, to-morrow another flood sweeps me along. I bruise myself
against one rock, I recover, and am thrown upon a reef. These are
struggles that no one can appreciate. No one knows what it is to change
ink into gold!
I have begun to tremble. I am afraid that fatigue, lassitude, impotence
may overtake me before I have erected my building. I need, from time to
time, good little words said out of France, some great distractions,
and the greatest come from the heart, do they not?
However, "Père Goriot" is an unheard-of success; there is but one
voice: "Eugénie Grandet," the "Absolu," are surpassed. I am, so far, at
the first number only, and the second is beyond that. _Tiyeuilles_ has
made people laugh. I return you that success.
But you, what has become of you? No letters! nothing! A few days
more, and I hope my work will be rewarded by reaching your ear like
a reproach. I did believe you would periodically cast me a smile,
a letter, a gracious dew of words written to refresh the brow, the
heart, the soul, the will of your moujik. Which of us can dispose of
our time? You. Who writes oftenest? I. I have most affection, that is
natural; you are the most lovable, and I have more reasons to bear you
friendship than you have to grant it to me. There is but one thing
that pleads for me; misfortune, misery, toil; and as you have all the
compassions of woman and of angel, you should think of me a little
oftener than you do. In that, I am right. Write to me every week, and
do not be vexed with me if I can only answer you twice a month. This
torrential life is my excuse. Once I am freed, and you shall judge of
me. Yes, forgive much to him who loves and toils much. Reckon to me
as something nights without sleep, days without pleasures, without
distractions. Madame Mitgislas ... invited me, but I did not accept; I
have neither the time nor the wish to do so. Society gives so little
and wants so much! and I am so ill at ease in it! I am so embarrassed
on receiving silly compliments, and _true sounds_ of the heart are so
rare!
Since I wrote to you there has been nothing but work in my life,
slashed with a few little good debauches of music. We have had "Moïse"
and "Semiramide" mounted and executed as those operas have never
been before, and every time that either is given I go. It is my only
pleasure. I do not meddle in politics. I say, like some grammarian,
I don't know who, "Whatever happens, I have six thousand verbs
conjugated." I bring daily, like an ant, a chip to my pile. There
are days when the memory of the Île Saint-Pierre gives me frenzies;
I thirst for a journey, I writhe in my chains. Then, the next day, I
think that I have fifty ducats to pay at the end of the month, and I
set to work again!
Will you like me with long hair? Everybody here says I look ridiculous.
I persist. My hair has not been cut since my sweet Geneva. In order
that you may know what I mean by "my sweet Geneva," you ought to see
Chariot's caricature on "my sweet Falaise": a conscript on Mount Blanc,
not seeing an apple-tree, calls it "Land of evil!"
At this moment I am working at two things: "La Fleur du Poix," and
"Melmoth réconcilié." Then I have also to do the counterpart of "Louis
Lambert," "Ecce Homo," and the end of the "Enfant Maudit," besides that
of "Séraphita" (which belongs to you), and that of "Le Père Goriot,"
which will end the year 1834, just as the end of "Séraphita" began it.
You understand that all my time is fully employed, nights and days;
for, besides these things, I have proofs of my reprints which are
always going on. Sandeau is horrified. He says that fame can never pay
for such toil, and that he would rather die than undertake it. He has
no other feeling for me than the pity we give to sick people.
I shall see you, no doubt, in Vienna. I have very solidly determined
within myself to go there in March, so as to be able to make a
reconnoissance of the battlefields of Wagram and Essling. I shall start
after the carnival.
Did I tell you that I am to have the Grenadière?
_Mon Dieu!_ I return to your silence; you do not know how uneasy I am
about you, your little one, and M. Hanski. It would not cost you much
just to say: "We are all well, and we think of you."
Well, I must say adieu, send you a thousand gracious thoughts, and beg
you to offer my respects to M. Hanski, keeping my homage at your feet.