When I leave the prison I shall go and see Madame Kisseleff. That will
be number two of my chances.
Apropos, if you find a safe opportunity remember my tea, for there is
none good in Paris. I tasted yours (Russian, I mean) a few days ago,
and I am shameless enough to remind you of this. "Norma" has had little
success here.
The gracefulness you have put into your last letter received here,
to console me for the grief of knowing that the "Lys" was published
in its first proof [in Russia] I cannot accept as author. The French
language admits nothing that comforts the heart of M. Honoré de Balzac.
You will say so with me when you hold the book and read it. However it
be, the Apollo and the Diana are more beautiful than blocks of marble.
The young man, the Oaristes, is more graceful than a skeleton, and we
prefer the peach to the peach-stone, though that may contain a million
of peaches.
I have much distress, even enormous distress in the direction of Madame
de Berny; not from her directly, but from her family. It is not of a
nature to be written. Some evening at Wierzchownia, when the wounds are
scars, I will tell it to you in murmurs that the spiders cannot hear,
for my voice shall go from my lips to your heart. They are dreadful
things, that scoop into life to the bone, deflowering all, and making
one doubt of all, except of you for whom I reserve these sighs.
Oh! what repressions there are in my heart! Since I left Vienna all my
sufferings, of all kinds, of all natures, have redoubled. Sighs sent
through space, sufferings endured in secret, sufferings unperceived! My
God! I who have never done ill, how many times have I said to myself,
"One year of Diodati, and the lake!" How often have I thought, "Why not
be dead on such a day, at such an hour?" Who is in the secret of so
many inward storms, of so much passion lost in secret? Why are the fine
years going, pursuing hope, which escapes, leaving nought behind but an
indefatigable ardour of re-hoping? During this burning year, when at
every moment all seems ending, and no end comes, desires lay hold upon
me to flee this crater which makes me fear a withered end--to flee it
to the ends of the earth.
I am the Wandering Jew of Thought, always afoot, always marching,
without rest, without enjoyments of the heart, with nothing but that
which leaves a memory both rich and poor, with nothing that I can wrest
from the future. I beg from the future, I stretch my hands to it. It
casts me--not an obole, but--a smile that says, "To-morrow."
PARIS, May 1, 1836.
This is the day on which last year I said to myself, "I am going
there!" Last evening, I left my window for sadness overcame me. Sleep
drove away the grief.
I have worked much to-day. I shall close this letter this evening; I
will see if I have forgotten to tell you any facts of the last twenty
days, when I have been like a shuttlecock between two battledores.
I am going to set to work at the difficult passages in the "Lys." I
must finish the chapter entitled, "First Loves." I think that I have
undertaken literary effects that are extremely difficult to render.
What work! What ideas are buried in this book! It is the poetic
pendant of the "Médecin de campagne." I like all you write to me of
the little events of your existence at Kiew: the name of Vandernesse,
the little lady, etc. But I would like your letters still better if
you would write me ten lines a day; no, not ten lines, but a word, a
sentence. You have all your time, and I have only hours stolen from
sleep to offer you. You are the luxury of the heart, the only luxury
that does not ruin, but brings with it nature's own simplicity, riches,
poverty,--in short, all!
Alas! not being at home to-day I cannot enclose to you any autograph,
and I have some interesting ones: Talma, Mademoiselle Mars, all sorts
of people; I shall have one of Napoleon, one of Murat, etc. You
will see that when a matter concerns the documentary treasures of
Wierzchownia we have great constancy in our ideas.
To-day I have worked much; I shall spend the night on the completion
of the "Lys;" for I have still thirty _feuilles_ of my writing to
do, which is one quarter of the book. After that I must finish the
"Héritiers Boirouge" for Madame Bêchet, who is married and become
Madame Jacquillart; and next, give "La Torpille" in June to the
"Chronique," without which we go to the bad. You see it is impossible
that I should budge from here before September; there is nothing to
be said; those things must be done. After that I shall have no money,
I shall only have fulfilled my engagements. So I don't know which way
to turn; what with notes falling due, no receipts, and no friend to
advance me funds, what will become of me? Either some lucky chance or
perish. Hitherto luck has served me.
Just now I am particularly overwhelmed because I counted on the
conclusion of the affair of the "Cent Contes Drolatiques" which gave
me thirty thousand francs and would have quieted everything. But the
longer it goes, the less it ends. I am more than disheartened, I am
crazy about it.
There, then, are my affairs. Much work to finish, no money to receive,
much money to pay. Am I to be stopped in the midst of my career? What
can I attempt?
My brother-in-law came back this morning. M. Lainé de Villevêque asks
to reflect upon this sale, he asks three days; and that is the least
a man should take to decide so important a matter. I have offered him
twenty thousand ducats for his position as grantee, but in ready money.
I hope that Rossini will get Aguado to lend it to me, and that I can
then resell the position to Rothschild for the double or treble, out
of which those scamps will still make five or six millions. There's a
pretty smile; the first that fortune has bestowed upon me.
You see that in my next letter I shall have very interesting things to
tell you: the canal affair; my lawsuit and the "Lys," and finally "Les
Drolatiques," which will be either a complete failure or a piece of
business done; in such matters I must have a "yes" or a "no."
Adieu, _cara_; do not make yourself unhappy about all this. I have
broad shoulders, the courage of a lion, strength of character, and if,
at times, melancholy lays hold upon me, I look at the future, I believe
in something good--though the years do pass with cruel rapidity; and
what years! Ah, the beautiful years! Shall I ever again see the Lake of
Geneva, or Neufchâtel?
Well, adieu; till ten days hence. You will know all that should be said
for me and of me to those about you.