"MADAME,--Here is the work you asked of me; and to you I dedicate it,
happy in being able thus to prove the respectful and constant affection
which you permit me to feel for you. But read it as some bad transcript
of a hymn dreamed from my childhood; the fervent rhythm of which,
heard on the summits of the azure mountains, and its prophetic poesy,
revealed here and there at times in Nature, it is impossible to present
in human language.
"If I have risked being accused of impotence in thus attempting a
sacred book which demands the light of Orient beneath the translucent
veil of our noble language, was it not you who urged me to the effort,
by saying that the most imperfect drawing of that figure would still be
something that would please you? Here, then, it is, that something. I
could wish that this book were read by none but minds preserved, like
yours, from worldly pettiness by solitude; such as they alone know how
to complete this poem; to them it may be, perhaps, a stepping-stone,
or else a rough and humble flag on which to kneel and pray within the
temple!
"I am, with respect, your devoted servant."
[Footnote 1: Ducat: gold coin, value from ten to twelve francs,
according to country (Littré).--TR.]
PARIS, March 30, 1835.
Do not be vexed with me for the irregularity of my letters. I am
overwhelmed with work, and I feel the necessity of getting through
with it if I want my dear liberty. Madame Bêchet has become singularly
ill-natured and will hurt my interests much. In paying me, she charges
me with corrections which amount on the twelve volumes to three
thousand francs, and also for my copies, which will cost me fifteen
hundred more. Thus four thousand five hundred francs less, and my
discounts, diminish by six thousand the thirty-three thousand. She
could not lose a great fortune more clumsily, for Werdet estimates at
five hundred thousand francs the profits to be made out of the next
edition of the "Études de Mœurs."
I find Werdet the active, intelligent, and devoted editor that I
want. I have still six months before I can be rid of Madame Bêchet;
for I have three volumes more to do, and it is impossible to count on
less than two months to each volume. Thus you see I am held here till
September. Between now and then I ought to give Werdet three Parts
of the "Études Philosophiques," and do much work for the Revues. For
the last twenty days I have worked steadily twelve hours a day on
"Séraphita." The world is ignorant of this immense toil; it only sees,
and should only see, results. But I have had to master the whole of
mysticism to formulate it. "Séraphita" is a consuming work for those
who believe. Unhappily, in this sad Paris the Angel may chance to
furnish the subject for a ballet. I shall meet with sarcasm, but I will
not go into society. I will stay here tranquilly and do "La Fleur des
Poix," "L'Enfant Maudit," "Sœur Marie des Anges," and "Les Mémoires
d'une jeune Mariée."
What has tired me horribly the last few days is the reprinting of
"Louis Lambert," which I have tried to bring to a point of perfection
that would leave me in peace as to that work; and Lambert's thoughts
when he was at Villenoix remained to be done. I had put, as it were,
a hat on that place to keep it, or the cover on a dish at a meal.
However, it is all done now; it is a new formula for humanity, which is
the tie that binds "Louis Lambert" to "Séraphita."
Next, I have twenty days' work in remaking the "Comtesse à deux Maris"
["Colonel Chabert"]. I think it detestable, wanting in taste and truth;
and I have had the courage to begin it all over again on the press. It
was in that way I did my last work on the "Chouans." At this rate my
hair turns frightfully white. No, you will never recognize me.
Madame de Berny is rather better,--much better, she says. But she still
has sudden attacks which show that the cause is there. I have wept much
over her; I have prepared myself for a grief which will act upon my
whole life. In May I shall go and spend a month with her.
I need seven or eight thousand francs to buy the Grenadière, and I
cannot yet put my hand on that sum. If I finish "La Fleur des Poix"
in April and go to Touraine in May, I may possibly return with the
sacred title of land-owner. On the 20th of May (my birthday) or the
16th of May (my fête-day) we shall baptize my brother's child. I am
godfather, with my niece Sophie as godmother. I always swore I would
never be godfather to any child; but my brother is so unfortunate it is
impossible to refuse. I should like to complete the fête by buying the
Grenadière. It would be a first sign of prosperity.
I will put into my parcel of April 17th the two caricatures of me in
plaster by Dantan, who has caricatured all the great men. The chief
point of mine is the famous cane bubbling with turquoise on a chased
gold knob, which has had more success in France than all my works.
As for me, he has caricatured my stoutness. I look like Louis XVIII.
These two caricatures have had such success that I have not as yet been
able to get them. It is true that I go out little, and sit at my work
for twenty hours. You can't imagine what success this jewelled cane
has had; it threatens to become European. Borget, who has returned
from Italy, and who did not say he was my friend, told me he heard of
it in Naples and Rome. All the dandies in Paris are jealous, and the
little journals have been supplied with items for six months. Excuse
me for telling you this, but it seems to me it is biographical; and if
they tell you on your travels that I have a fairy-cane, which summons
horses, erects palaces, and spits diamonds, do not be surprised, but
laugh as I do. Never did the tail of Alcibiades' dog wag harder. But I
have three or four other tails of the same kind for the Parisians.
Our exhibition of paintings is quite fine this year. There are seven
or eight leading masterpieces. Grosclaude's picture is much liked.
He is honourably hung in the large Salon. But they think he has only
colour and drawing, and lacks soul and composition. Gérard, however,
thinks he is really a man of talent. He told him so sincerely; and
repeated the same to me, adding that there was nothing for a man like
him to do but to produce; he calls this a good and fine picture. There
is much good luck for him in appearing without disadvantage in the
large Salon, where there are ten or twelve splendid pictures. There is
a landscape by Brascassat in which is a bull, which could be bought
for six thousand francs, and may be worth a hundred thousand. It is,
like Pagnest's "Portrait," the despair of artists. Brascassat is,
like Pagnest, a poor young consumptive. He is a shepherd, taken, like
Foyatier the sculptor, from his flocks, and, if he lives, he will be
a great painter. Our nineteenth century will be great. We cannot doubt
it. There is a deluge of talent here.
I regretted you much. I should have liked to see you in Paris this
winter. The Exhibition, and the Italian opera have offered an
unheard-of combination: Lablache, Tamburini, Rubini. Then Beethoven,
executed at the Conservatoire as he is nowhere else. Besides which,
Paris is being cleaned and completed, thanks to Louis-Philippe's
trowel. But there's a hundred years' work still to do at the Louvre.
When I pass along the quay of the Tuileries, my artist-heart bleeds
to see the stones placed by Catherine de' Medici, corroded by the sun
before being carved--and this for three hundred years.
Adieu! it is two in the morning. Here is an hour and a half stolen from
"Séraphita." She groans, she calls; I must finish her, for the "Revue
de Paris" groans too; it has advanced me nineteen hundred francs, and
"Séraphita" must settle the account.
Adieu! imagine how I think of you in finishing the work that is yours.
It is time it appeared. Literature here has decided that I shall never
finish that work; they say it is impossible.
Graceful things to Anna, my respects to Mademoiselle Séverine, my
regards to M. Hanski; and to you nothing, for all is yours. It would be
giving you a bit of your own property to send you anything, and I have,
in this low world, too few friendships to diminish the truest of them
all.
PARIS, May 1, 1835.
MADAME,--I greeted M. le Prince de Schonberg as I never did any one,
for he came from you. "Séraphita" exacts more work. I had hoped to send
you the manuscript by the prince, but it cannot be finished before my
fête-day, May 16, and the prince starts to-day or to-morrow. I cannot
even profit by his journey to write you in detail about my life and
occupations. I have perhaps presumed too far upon my strength in
supposing I could do so many things in so little time. I shall be lucky
indeed if I can get off and divert myself in September. But nothing
shall hinder me when my obligations have been met.
When I have finished with Madame Bêchet and Werdet, yes, then I shall
have six months before me. On that day I shall owe nothing to any
one, for the approaching reissue of the "Études de Mœurs" enlarged
by what will be added to them, will release me of all, even my debt
to my mother. Wealth will come both for her and for me, in 1837, when
my works will be issued as the "Études Sociales." There is my future
sketched out. There is my hope and my toil.
If sometimes the grief of not possessing the happiness that I dream
saddens and consumes me, the hope of one day seeing my mother happy
through me, and my fortune built up, all by myself, without help,
sustains me. But what are the hopes of material life compared to the
disappointment of the prayers of the heart? And so, now that I advance
toward the graver life, and doubt at times of affections, finding
myself so changed by toil, there come moments of cruel melancholy and
gray hours. Then the weather clears; the azure sky we saw upon the Alps
comes back; Diodati, that image of a happy life, reappears, like a star
for a moment clouded, and I laugh--as you know I can laugh. I tell
myself that so much work will have its recompense, and that I shall
some day have, like Lord Byron, my Diodati, and I sing in my bad voice:
"Diodati! Diodati!"
What grief for me to delay that glorious apparition of "Séraphita."
I tremble lest you should have left Vienna before the prince arrives
there. But if so, Sina will forward all.
Be happy on your journey; may no untoward event distress you; return
to your penates, and I, under my pressure here, I see that dwelling as
an object ... [The letter is unfinished.]
PARIS, May 3, 1835.
I have this instant received yours of April 24. I have written you by
the Prince de Schonberg, who was to carry to you all that remains of
the manuscript of the "Duchesse de Langeais," of which part was lost
in the printing-office, the part I cared for most, that which I did in
Geneva beside you, laughing and explaining to you proof corrections.
How many things I have to answer in your last letter. But before doing
so I must tell you something that is the best of all answers. You do
not leave till May 15th; well, don't leave till the 25th. I have my
passports, and you will receive my farewells. I cannot let you plunge
back into your desert until I have pressed your hand. I will not commit
to any one the manuscript of "Séraphita." I shall bring it to you
myself. I want ten days more to print the rest. The 16th, my fête-day,
I shall start for Vienna; I can get there in ten days; I shall be there
on the 25th or 26th. If I can arrive sooner, I shall be there sooner.
Wait for me; give credit for ten days to a friend. I shall stay four
days in Vienna, see Essling and Wagram, and return.
I cannot tell you more, for I must spend the days and nights in getting
all things in order here, and in finishing the books begun. "Séraphita"
must have eight days and nights for herself alone.
I say nothing to M. Hanski, as I shall see you all so soon. I am
joyous as a child at the escapade. Quit my galley and see new lands!
Well, well, _à bientôt_. I send my things to Sina. Ask him, if they
arrive before me, to wait till I come before opening my trunk at the
custom-house. It is proper that you should see the cane for which you
blame me, and I confide it to the customs.
_Addio._ Kiss Anna on the forehead for her horse.
VIENNA, May, 1835.
Can you lend me your _valet de place_ again this morning?--for I still
have not obtained one.
I think you have not read "Obermann;" I send it to you; but I shall
want it in two or three days. It is one of the finest books of the
period.
A thousand heart compliments.
VIENNA, May, 1835.
My cold is precisely the same. It is nothing at all. I have just
received a letter from M. Hammer. I think he is annoyed, for he uses
towards me that wealth of civility which is often the irony of great
souls.
Did you know that the French are very _coustumiers_ to the fact of
bartering Austrian uniforms against victories, but that this ruins
young empires?
I shall stay in town only the time necessary to fulfil your Majesty's
orders.
I entreat you don't worry about me. People are never ill when they are
happy. I do nothing; I let myself go to the happiness of living, and
that is so rare with me that when it is so I don't know what could hurt
me.
A thousand heart assurances.
VIENNA, May, 1835.
The heat has so prostrated me that I don't know what will become of me;
but as for the illness itself, it has ceased. A thousand thanks for
your kindness.
I shall rush with the celerity of your valet, who is a veritable kid,
and this is difficult for a Mar [Balzac's nickname among his friends
was Dom Mar] whose paunch is worthy of all the illustrious paunches
your cousin used to laugh at.
I have dreamed _ta_, I have dreamed _ti_, I have dreamed _tchef_, and
of his _casalba_. I have come to breathe in the Walter-garten, and I
send you "Lauzun" to convince you of the reality of the comedy that
could be made of his amours with Mademoiselle, for I think you do not
know the book.
VIENNA, May, 1835.
You know, madame, that if anything can equal the respectful attachment
that I feel for you it is the will that I am forced to display to keep
within the limits that my work imposes on my pleasures.
Here, as in Paris, my life must be completely _inharmonious_ with the
life of society. To get my twelve hours of work, I must go to bed at
nine o'clock in order to rise at three; and this truly monastic rule,
to which I am compelled, dominates everything. I have yielded something
of my stern observance to you, by giving myself three hours' more
freedom here than in Paris, where I go to bed at six; but that is all I
can do.
However sweet and gracious are the invitations, and however flattering
the eagerness of which I feel the full value, I am obliged to be the
enemy of my dearest pleasures. You know that the persons who love me,
and who have every right to be exacting, conform to my ways of going
nowhere; and treat me as a spoilt child.
These explanations have a conceited aspect which I dislike, and which
would make me ridiculous if you did not constrain me to give my true
reasons.
So, I count upon your precious friendship to explain them, and save
me from their accompanying dangers. You have long known that I am a
soldier on a battlefield, swept onward, without other liberty than that
of fighting the enemy and all the difficulties of my position.
You will give--will you not?--what value you can to my regrets, and
I shall thus have another obligation to add to the hundred thousand
I already owe you. But you are so noble there is no fear in being
indebted to you.
Yes, I am altogether better. I have recovered from the fatigues of the
journey, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your dear and
delicate attentions. A thousand affectionate compliments to M. Hanski.
As for you, I should have to express too many things, and, as you see,
paper is lacking. Here begin the things of the heart.
VIENNA, May, 1835.
It is impossible for me to work if I have to go out, and I never work
merely for an hour or two. You arranged so well that I did not go to
bed till one o'clock. Consequently, I did not rise till eight; so from
nine till one I have only time to pay you a visit in order to put
the visit to the prince between two good things which may weaken the
diplomatic influence.
I want to go and see the Prater in the morning, in its solitude. If
you will, it would be very gracious; for by not beginning on the "Lys
dans la Vallée" till to-morrow I must then work fourteen hours to make
up for time lost. I have sworn to myself to do that work in Vienna, or
else--throw myself into the Danube.
So, in twenty minutes I shall be with you to ask counsel. As for the
seductions of the prince, he caught me once, but I have too much pride
to be caught again; I should pass for a ninny.
A thousand heart-felt regards.
VIENNA, May, 1835. I am incapable of writing the nothings that I see
come naturally to very intelligent persons; I simply put down just what
comes into my head; and what came into my head was one of the things
that I have at heart. Excuse me to the countess, and assure her that
this is the second time I have failed over an album, and that not
having the habit--and even having a horror--of them, I hope she will be
indulgent to me.
Though I am not dirty, I am decidedly stupid, for I don't understand a
word of what you do me the honour to say about Madame Sophie. I entreat
you, have pity on my mental infirmities, and, when you make romances,
put them on the level of my intellectual faculties. This may seem
impertinent--it is only artless.
I have still another hour to work, and then I will come. I am busy with
planning rather than writing, and I can see you _while thinking_; which
is not the same as thinking of other things than you while _seeing_ you.
A thousand gracious and humble thoughts before your August Despotism.
VIENNA, May, 1835.
I cannot wait till one o'clock to know if you are better, whether your
hoarseness and oppression have lessened, whether the foot-bath was
efficacious--in short, whether all is well. Have the charity to send me
a word on these important matters--for it is important to subjects to
know how their princes are.