"Oh! Monsieur de Balzac!"
But in such a lamentable accent that I was struck by it. Then she
turned to my sister, who was laughing heartily, and said:--
"Well, then, between you and me, madame."
My sister told me afterwards that this mask was neither well dressed
nor well shod.
There's my adventure, the sole and only one I shall probably ever have
at a masked ball; for I have never before gone to one, and, doubtless,
shall never go to another. I do not see what good they are. If two
people love each other, the ball is useless. If they go in search of
what are called _bonnes fortunes_ I think them very bad, and I ask
myself if it isn't rather Jeroslas, that is to say, Jesuitical (this
between ourselves), to satisfy, under a mask, a passion we will not own.
If I can leave on the first days of March, the sovereign of Paulowska
will have had letters enough from me to let her know it. God grant that
for one month more I may not be ill or ill-inspired! I shall make my
preparations joyously. Be kind enough to write me a line in answer to
the following: I should like, in order to go quickly and without care,
to have no luggage. If I clear in the custom-house here for Vienna, to
the address of Baron Sina, my personal effects, books, manuscripts,
etc., will they be opened in Vienna without my presence? Will they
get there without being opened on the way? Can I, without fear, put
in all the things I want for my own use? And finally, how many days
does it take for packages to go from Paris to Vienna? I would like to
travel without stopping, and have only my own person to fling from one
carriage to another till I get there.
Adieu; forty days are almost nothing to me now, and I tell myself that
forty days hence I shall be in the mail-cart for Strasburg. I shall see
Vienna, the Danube, the fields of Wagram, the island of Lobau; I don't
say anything about the Landstrasse. As a faithful moujik I know nothing
that is grander than those who inhabit it.
Do you still go into society? But of us two, the one who is busiest and
the least rich in time is the one who writes oftenest. I growl, like a
poor neglected dog, but to whom it suffices to say, "Here, Milord!" to
make him happy.
PARIS, February 10, 1835.
Though I have scarcely time to write, I cannot be silent about the
pleasure I felt yesterday at a fête given by Madame Appony, when
Prince Esterhazy, having asked to see me, began to talk of a certain
Madame Hanska, _née_ Rzewuska, whose mind, graces, and knowledge had
astonished him, and who had given him the desire to see me. With what
joy I said before seven or eight women, who all have pretensions,
that I had never met in my life but two women who could match you for
learning without pedantry, womanly charm, and lofty sentiments--I will
not tell you all I said; I should seem to be begging a favourable
glance from the sovereign of Paulowska. But all the women made faces,
especially when the prince agreed with me about your beauty, and told
how everybody knew that your wit did not make you spiteful, for you
were graciously kind. I could have hugged that good little prince!
Well, a few days more, and I shall have the pleasure of seeing you.
I have just returned from Nemours. Alas! Madame de Berny is no better.
The malady makes frightful progress, and I cannot express to you how
that soul of my life was grand, and noble, and touching in those days
measured by illness, and with what fervour she desires that another
should be to me what she has been. She knows the inward spring and
nobility that the habit of carrying all things to an idol gives me. My
God is on earth. I have judged myself hourly by her. I say to myself
in everything, "What would she think of this?" and this reflection
corroborates my conscience, and prevents me from doing anything petty.
However violent attacks and calumnies may be, I march higher up. I
answer nothing. Oh! madame, there was a memory, and a sense of horrible
pain which rent me during the ten days I rested after "Père Goriot."
I will tell you that that work was done in forty days; in those forty
days I did not sleep eighty hours. But I must triumph.
I am going once more to risk, as the doctor says, my "intelligential
life" in order to finish the second delivery to Werdet, the fourth to
Madame Bêchet, and "Séraphita." As soon as that is done, I shall buy
La Grenadière, and, the deeds signed, I shall fly to Vienna, see the
battle-field of Essling, and from there, something of the Landstrasse,
where you are. I shall come in search of a little praise--if you think
that my year of toil deserves any; and you know that the words that
escape you are put where I put those of _la dilecta_. Though she is
ill, her children will stay with her during my absence, and she could
not have me then, so I make this journey without remorse. Besides, she
knows it is necessary, as diversion, for the weariness of my head.
So, unless I am ill between now and the 20th of March, which is not
probable, I shall work with the sweet interest of going, my work
accomplished, toward that Vienna where all my troubles will be
forgotten. The atmosphere of Paris kills me; I smell toil, debt,
enemies! I need an oasis. On the other hand, "Le Père Goriot" has
created an excitement; there never was such eagerness to read a
book; the booksellers advertise it in advance. It is true that it is
grandiose. But you will judge.
As for the "Lettre aux Écrivains," alas! I cannot look at it without
pain, for _la dilecta_ thought it so fine, so majestic, so varied, that
she had palpitations of the heart which injured her, and I don't like
those pages any more.
You know that one of the qualities of the bengali is illimitable
fidelity. Poor bird of Asia, without his rose, without his peri, mute,
sad, but very loving, the desire seizes me to write his story. I have
begun it in the "Voyage à Java."
Adieu; this scrap of a letter is scribbled on a pile of proofs that
would frighten even a proof-reader. A thousand homages, and kindly
present my obeisances to M. Hanski. I return to my work with fury, and
I wish you the realization of all the wishes you make. Find here the
expression of the most sincere and most respectful of attachments.
PARIS, March 1, 1835.
I have received, madame, the letter in which you announce to me your
departure for your lonely Wierzchownia. I shall therefore not see you
in Vienna. I shall delay my trip to Essling and Wagram till the end of
the summer, so that when I go, I can push on to the Ukraine.
Well, you will be accompanied by the sincerest prayers for your
happiness and for that of those about you. As for me, after a few days'
diversion, necessitated by lassitude, I have just returned to the
deepest seclusion, in order to finish up my two agreements with Madame
Bêchet and Werdet, and to grow, to enlarge myself, to raise my name
to the height of the esteem you give to it, that you be not proud in
vain of having granted me a few days of gracious friendship; my pride,
mine, will ever be legitimate enough. I tell you once more, with a sort
of religious emotion, that you are, together with her of whom I have
so often spoken, the most beauteous soul, the noblest heart, the most
attractive person that I have seen in this world, the most superior
mind and the best instructed. Let me tell you this that I think, at the
moment when you are about to put as great a distance of time between us
as there is already.
I have been measuring the amount of work that remains for me to do;
it will take six months to finish it. For six months, therefore,
I shall try to rise higher, to send you fine works, the flowers
of my brain,--the only flowers that can cross that great distance
unwithered,--which will reach you, like those I have sent already, in
their coarse germ and their first dress. Accept them always as a proof
of my respect and admiration, as a proof of that constancy that you
yourself advise, as the pledge of a pure and holy friendship, and as a
testimony in favour of calumniated France, accused of levity, but where
are still to be found chivalrous souls, lofty, strong, who do not treat
lightly true affections. You have given me the desire to raise, to
improve myself; let me be grateful in my own way.
On returning to my retreat, I found Grosclaude on the threshold. He
asked me to let him make my portrait, full length, in my working-dress.
He told me that in case he did it, you and Monsieur Hanski had asked
for a copy. You will not refuse the person painted when you already
possess the first impulsion of his thought in manuscript. I am so happy
in this friendship of which you and M. Hanski do not reject the proofs.
We are so far off! Let me approach you as materially as I can. You will
say yes, will you not?
I have just broken all the threads by which Lilliput-Paris held me
garoted; I have made myself a secret retreat, where I shall live six
months [rue des Batailles, Chaillot]. I was seized with profound
emotion on entering it; for it is here that my last battle will be
fought, here that I must grasp the sceptre. If I succumb! If I should
not succeed! If (in spite of a regimen prescribed by doctors who have
traced me a manner of living so that I may struggle without danger
through my work), _if_ I fall ill! A crowd of such thoughts seized me,
inspired by the gravity of the things I am undertaking. At last, in the
early morning, I went to the window, and I saw, shining above my head,
the star of that delicious hour. I had confidence, I was joyful as a
child, after being feeble as a child; I went back to my table, crying
out the "Ha, ha!" of the horse of Scripture. Then I determined to begin
by writing you these lines. Bring me luck, you and the star, will you?
The second thing I have to do is the end of "Séraphita," an immense
work, that I have meditated for three or four months, and which rises
ever higher. I have now only to write it. You know it belongs to you.
You ought, at this moment when I am writing, to have read "Le Père
Goriot." How shall I send you my manuscripts when you are in Russia?
You must tell me. As for the books, it will be equally difficult. You
must give me your instructions. Mine to you are that you shall be well
in health, that M. Hanski be gay, have no black butterflies, that his
enterprises shall prosper, that Anna shall jump and laugh and grow
without accidents; and that all about you be well and happy.
At the beginning of the autumn, therefore, if it please God, and if I
have fruitfully worked, you will see a pilgrim arriving and ringing
at your castle gate, asking for a few days' hospitality, who would
fain repay you by laying at your feet the laurels won in the literary
tournament--as if glory could ever be anything else than a grain of
incense on the altar of friendship! One word is worth more than these
puffs of wind; and that word of gratitude I shall ever say to you.
The inclosed autograph is that of a friend of mine who may become
something some day; there is one remarkable thing about him which will
recommend him to your _heraldicomaniacal_ favour; he is descended from
Jeanne d'Arc, through her brother Gautier. His name is Edouard Gautier
d'Arc, Baron du Lys, and he bears the arms of France, supported by
a woman, on his shield. Is not that one of the finest things in the
present day? Well, of a man whom we ought to make peer of France with
a fine entailed estate, we have made a consul at Valentia! He has
ambition.
PARIS, March 11, 1835.
I have just received your good letter of the 3rd instant. It has given
me pleasure and pain. Pleasure, you are better; pain, you have been
ill. You see, I had the time to go to Vienna, and now I cannot. I
shall go and see you at Wierzchownia for after taking measures for "La
Bataille" at Wagram, I shall not think anything of a few hundred more
leagues to say good-day to you.
You are always so good you will let me take you for confessor, tell you
all, be confiding, and have in you a soul?
You will find inclosed the dedication of "Séraphita." Have the kindness
to answer me by return courier, that I may know if you approve it.
In a thing of this kind there must be no point left to object to;
dedications cannot be _corrected_. "Séraphita" will be finished by the
first Sunday in April, therefore you have time to throw a "yes" into
the post on receiving this letter. Your silence will mean disapproval.
The "Revue de Paris" is horribly anxious to get this end; it has
received complaints without number.
When the number is out I will send it to you through Sina; but I own
that I do not like to risk the manuscript. What shall I do, therefore?
You will receive the fourth Part of the "Études de Mœurs," the second
edition of "Goriot," "Melmoth réconcilié," the manuscripts of "La
Fille aux yeux d'or," and the "Duchesse de Langeais," and, perhaps,
that of "Séraphita;" perhaps also the second Part of the "Études
Philosophiques."
What shall I tell you about all this? The finishing of "Séraphita"
kills me, crushes me. I have fever every day. Never did so grand a
conception rise before any man. None but myself can know what I put
into it; I put my life into it! When you receive this letter the work
will have been cast.
There never was a success equal to that of "Goriot." This stupid Paris,
which neglected the "Absolu," has just bought twelve hundred copies of
the first edition of "Goriot" [in book form], before its announcement.
Two other editions are in press. I will send you the second.
Here I am, with piles of gold, compared to my late situation; for I
still have seven thousand ducats to pay [70,000 frs.], but in three
months "Goriot" gives one thousand ducats. During the last three months
I have regularly paid off four thousand ducats a month with the product
of my pen![1]
Besides "Séraphita," I am finishing "L'Enfant Maudit," remaking
"Louis Lambert," and completing "La Fille aux yeux d'or." I have
finished a rather important work, entitled, "Melmoth réconcilié,"
and I am preparing a great and beautiful work, called "Le Lys dans
la Vallée," the figure of a charming woman, full of heart and having
a sulky husband, but virtuous. This will be, under a form purely
human, terrestrial perfection, just as "Séraphita" will be celestial
perfection. The "Lys dans la Vallée" is the last picture in the "Études
de Mœurs," just as "Séraphita" will be the last picture in the "Études
Philosophiques." Then, the third _dizain_.
You will have received the letter in which I tell you of my seclusion.
It is deep. No one comes here. No, no more Lormois. Why do you trouble
yourself about things I pay no heed to? I have renounced pleasures.
No more Opera, no more Bouffons, no more anything; solitude and work.
Séraphita! There, will be my great stroke; there, I shall receive the
cold mockery of Parisians, but there, too, I shall strike to the heart
of all privileged beings. In it is a treatise on prayer, headed "The
Path to God," in which are the last words of the angel, which will
surely give desire to live by the soul. These mystical ideas have
filled me. I am the artist-believer. Pygmalion and his statue are no
longer a fable to me. "Goriot" could be done every day; "Séraphita" but
once in a lifetime.
So, then, since my last letter I have had no events in my material
life, but many in the life of my heart, because my heart is involved in
this majestic occupation.
I have to do the "Mémoires d'une jeune Mariée," a work in filagree,
which will be a wonder to the little women who find the pinions of
"Séraphita" incomprehensible.
No, I cannot buy La Grenadière as yet; I need seven or eight thousand
francs for that, which I don't possess. Though my cane with its
ebullition of turquoises has made me notorious as a new Aboulcasem,
I have nothing but debts. When I am free of those, I will see about
getting the money for La Grenadière.
If I were in Vienna, I would make you laugh; oh, yes! I don't laugh
now except with those who love me. Judge, therefore, how precious our
friendship has become to me. Other laughs are compromising. I am taken
seriously; so much so that Dantan has caricatured me. Would you like to
see it? I will send it with the volumes I have for you. I have never
lost any time in transmitting to you those of my poor works that you
have the goodness to like.
My sobriety and regularity of life can alone save me under the ardent
work I have to complete to win that liberty so longed-for. It is
now twenty days that I have risen at midnight and gone to bed at
six o'clock. I shall persevere until I am delivered from the Bêchet
contract, and the fourth Part is given to Werdet.
I hope I can send the box to you April 17. I shall address it, in any
case, to Baron Sina.
Madame Delphine P... was at the Opera Sunday, and gave birth to a child
Monday.
I thank you for your glimpses of Viennese society. What I have learned
about Germans in their relations elsewhere confirms what you say of
them. Your story of General H... comes up periodically. There has been
something like it in all countries, but I thank you for having told it
to me. The circumstances give it novelty.
I respect your wishes in sending you the manuscript of "Goriot" in its
dirty condition. It bears the trace of many worries and much fatigue.
Madame de Berny is a little better, but alas! this is only obtained
by digitalis. I hope I may still keep that light of my life, that
conscience so pure, that tenderness so delicate.
Madame Carraud is safely confined of a son.
I saw Borget this morning, returned from Italy, and I have your letter;
so this has been a good day.
Well, I must say adieu; but remember that while writing a book that
bears your name, I do not quit you.
The Emperor of Russia has prohibited "Goriot;" probably on account of
Vautrin.
There is pleasure in breaking all one's bonds to society; one has no
remorse; society does not cling to you, and one can only pity those who
cling to it. I am happy. I can march on in solitude, led by a beautiful
and noble thought.
I am sorry you have not seen the satirical preface I put to "Goriot;"
you shall have it later. I won't make a package of that only.
I have a hundred thousand things to say, but when I begin to talk with
you I seem to see you; I forget my ideas. However, I intend to begin a
journal-letter, and put in every day some of my ideas.
At this moment I am a little drunk with work; my hand is tired; the
heart is full, but the head is empty; you will get neither mind nor
gaiety, but all that affection has of truest, all that memory has of
freshest, and the tenderest gratitude.
You ask me what becomes of Madame de Nucingen. She will be, and so will
her husband, a most comic dramatic personage in "Une Vue du Monde" long
advertised by the "Revue de Paris." It is called "La Faillite de M. de
Nucingen." But I need time for all these conceptions, and especially
for their execution; above all when (as for Séraphita) I work often
a year or two in thought before taking a pen. _Adoremus in æternum_
means for me, "Toil ever."
You speak of the stage. The stage might bring me in two hundred
thousand francs a year. I know, beyond a doubt, that I could make my
fortune there in a short time; but you forget that I have not six
months to myself, not one month; and if I had I should not write a
play, I should go and see you. Six months of my time represent forty
thousand francs; and I must have that money in hand before I can do
either "La Grande Mademoiselle" or "Philippe le Discret." Where the
devil am I to get it? Out of my ink-pot. There is no Leo X. in these
days. Work is the artist's bank.
If you knew the annoyances that Madame Bêchet's business embarrassments
cause me. She cannot pay unless my numbers appear. So, when I am
inspired for "Séraphita," when I listen to the music of angels, when I
am sick with ecstasy, I must come down to corrections, I must finish
that stupidity "La Fille aux yeux d'or," etc. It is horrible suffering.
I would like to do the comedy of "La Grande Mademoiselle," but no!
I must work for Werdet, who is ripping himself open to give me the
money for my payments, my livelihood. Honesty has made a galley of my
study. That is something you ought to know well. I have not a minute
to myself, and I never take any distraction except when my brain comes
down like a foundered horse.
You know all that my heart contains of affection and good wishes for
yours. Affectionate compliments to M. Hanski, and take all you will for
yourself of my most devoted feelings.
Grosclaude is coming to make my full-length portrait. I have never
dared to ask for a sketch of yours.