So, after a silence of two years, you are pricked by curiosity, and want
to know why I have not written. My dear Renee, there are no words, no
images, no language to express my happiness. That we have strength to
bear it sums up all I could say. It costs us no effort, for we are in
perfect sympathy. The whole two years have known no note of discord in
the harmony, no jarring word in the interchange of feeling, no shade of
difference in our lightest wish. Not one in this long succession of
days has failed to bear its own peculiar fruit; not a moment has passed
without being enriched by the play of fancy. So far are we from dreading
the canker of monotony in our life, that our only fear is lest it should
not be long enough to contain all the poetic creations of a love as rich
and varied in its development as Nature herself. Of disappointment not
a trace! We find more pleasure in being together than on the first day,
and each hour as it goes by discloses fresh reason for our love. Every
day as we take our evening stroll after dinner, we tell each other that
we really must go and see what is doing in Paris, just as one might talk
of going to Switzerland.
"Only think," Gaston will exclaim, "such and such a boulevard is
being made, the Madeleine is finished. We ought to see it. Let us go
to-morrow."
And to-morrow comes, and we are in no hurry to get up, and we breakfast
in our bedroom. Then midday is on us, and it is too hot; a siesta seems
appropriate. Then Gaston wishes to look at me, and he gazes on my face
as though it were a picture, losing himself in this contemplation,
which, as you may suppose, is not one-sided. Tears rise to the eyes
of both as we think of our love and tremble. I am still the mistress,
pretending, that is, to give less than I receive, and I revel in this
deception. To a woman what can be sweeter than to see passion ever held
in check by tenderness, and the man who is her master stayed, like a
timid suitor, by a word from her, within the limits that she chooses?
You asked me to describe him; but, Renee, it is not possible to make
a portrait of the man we love. How could the heart be kept out of the
work? Besides, to be frank between ourselves, we may admit that one of
the dire effects of civilization on our manners is to make of man in
society a being so utterly different from the natural man of strong
feeling, that sometimes not a single point of likeness can be found
between these two aspects of the same person. The man who falls into the
most graceful operatic poses, as he pours sweet nothings into your ear
by the fire at night, may be entirely destitute of those more intimate
charms which a woman values. On the other hand, an ugly, boorish,
badly-dressed figure may mark a man endowed with the very genius of
love, and who has a perfect mastery over situations which might baffle
us with our superficial graces. A man whose conventional aspect accords
with his real nature, who, in the intimacy of wedded love, possesses
that inborn grace which can be neither given nor acquired, but which
Greek art has embodied in statuary, that careless innocence of the
ancient poets which, even in frank undress, seems to clothe the soul as
with a veil of modesty--this is our ideal, born of our own conceptions,
and linked with the universal harmony which seems to be the reality
underlying all created things. To find this ideal in life is the problem
which haunts the imagination of every woman--in Gaston I have found it.
Ah! dear, I did not know what love could be, united to youth, talent,
and beauty. Gaston has no affectations, he moves with an instinctive and
unstudied grace. When we walk alone together in the woods, his arm round
my waist, mine resting on his shoulder, body fitting to body, and head
touching head, our step is so even, uniform, and gentle, that those who
see us pass by night take the vision for a single figure gliding over
the graveled walks, like one of Homer's immortals. A like harmony exists
in our desires, our thoughts, our words. More than once on some evening
when a passing shower has left the leaves glistening and the moist grass
bright with a more vivid green, it has chanced that we ended our walk
without uttering a word, as we listened to the patter of falling drops
and feasted our eyes on the scarlet sunset, flaring on the hilltops or
dyeing with a warmer tone the gray of the tree trunks.
Beyond a doubt our thoughts then rose to Heaven in silent prayer,
pleading as it were, for our happiness. At times a cry would escape
us at the moment when some sudden bend on the path opened up fresh
beauties. What words can tell how honey-sweet, how full of meaning, is
a kiss half-timidly exchanged within the sanctuary of nature--it is as
though God had created us to worship in this fashion.
And we return home, each more deeply in love than ever.
A love so passionate between old married people would be an outrage on
society in Paris; only in the heart of the woods, like lovers, can we
give scope to it.
To come to particulars, Gaston is of middle height--the height proper
to all men of purpose. Neither stout nor thin, his figure is admirably
made, with ample fulness in the proportions, while every motion is
agile; he leaps a ditch with the easy grace of a wild animal. Whatever
his attitude, he seems to have an instinctive sense of balance, and this
is very rare in men who are given to thought. Though a dark man, he has
an extraordinarily fair complexion; his jet-black hair contrasts finely
with the lustreless tints of the neck and forehead. He has the tragic
head of Louis XIII. His moustache and tuft have been allowed to grow,
but I made him shave the whiskers and beard, which were getting too
common. An honorable poverty has been his safeguard, and handed him over
to me, unsoiled by the loose life which ruins so many young men. His
teeth are magnificent, and he has a constitution of iron. His keen
blue eyes, for me full of tenderness, will flash like lightning at any
rousing thought.
Like all men of strong character and powerful mind, he has an admirable
temper; its evenness would surprise you, as it did me. I have listened
to the tale of many a woman's home troubles; I have heard of the moods
and depression of men dissatisfied with themselves, who either won't get
old or age ungracefully, men who carry about through life the rankling
memory of some youthful excess, whose veins run poison and whose eyes
are never frankly happy, men who cloak suspicion under bad temper, and
make their women pay for an hour's peace by a morning of annoyance, who
take vengeance on us for a beauty which is hateful to them because they
have ceased themselves to be attractive,--all these are horrors unknown
to youth. They are the penalty of unequal unions. Oh! my dear, whatever
you do, don't marry Athenais to an old man!
But his smile--how I feast on it! A smile which is always there, yet
always fresh through the play of subtle fancy, a speaking smile which
makes of the lips a storehouse for thoughts of love and unspoken
gratitude, a smile which links present joys to past. For nothing is
allowed to drop out of our common life. The smallest works of nature
have become part and parcel of our joy. In these delightful woods
everything is alive and eloquent of ourselves. An old moss-grown oak,
near the woodsman's house on the roadside, reminds us how we sat there,
wearied, under its shade, while Gaston taught me about the mosses at our
feet and told me their story, till, gradually ascending from science to
science, we touched the very confines of creation.
There is something so kindred in our minds that they seem to me like
two editions of the same book. You see what a literary tendency I have
developed! We both have the habit, or the gift, of looking at every
subject broadly, of taking in all its points of view, and the proof we
are constantly giving ourselves of the singleness of our inward vision
is an ever-new pleasure. We have actually come to look on this community
of mind as a pledge of love; and if it ever failed us, it would mean as
much to us as would a breach of fidelity in an ordinary home.
My life, full as it is of pleasures, would seem to you, nevertheless,
extremely laborious. To begin with, my dear, you must know that
Louise-Armande-Marie de Chaulieu does her own room. I could not bear
that a hired menial, some woman or girl from the outside, should become
initiated--literary touch again!--into the secrets of my bedroom. The
veriest trifles connected with the worship of my heart partake of its
sacred character. This is not jealousy; it is self-respect. Thus my
room is done out with all the care a young girl in love bestows on her
person, and with the precision of an old maid. My dressing-room is no
chaos of litter; on the contrary, it makes a charming boudoir. My keen
eye has foreseen all contingencies. At whatever hour the lord and master
enters, he will find nothing to distress, surprise, or shock him; he is
greeted by flowers, scents, and everything that can please the eye.
I get up in the early dawn, while he is still sleeping, and, without
disturbing him, pass into the dressing-room, where, profiting by my
mother's experience, I remove the traces of sleep by bathing in cold
water. For during sleep the skin, being less active, does not perform
its functions adequately; it becomes warm and covered with a sort
of mist or atmosphere of sticky matter, visible to the eye. From a
sponge-bath a woman issues ten years younger, and this, perhaps, is the
interpretation of the myth of Venus rising from the sea. So the cold
water restores to me the saucy charm of dawn, and, having combed
and scented my hair and made a most fastidious toilet, I glide back,
snake-like, in order that my master may find me, dainty as a spring
morning, at his wakening. He is charmed with this freshness, as of a
newly-opened flower, without having the least idea how it is produced.
The regular toilet of the day is a matter for my maid, and this takes
place later in a larger room, set aside for the purpose. As you may
suppose, there is also a toilet for going to bed. Three times a day, you
see, or it may be four, do I array myself for the delight of my husband;
which, again, dear one, is suggestive of certain ancient myths.
But our work is not all play. We take a great deal of interest in our
flowers, in the beauties of the hothouse, and in our trees. We give
ourselves in all seriousness to horticulture, and embosom the chalet in
flowers, of which we are passionately fond. Our lawns are always green,
our shrubberies as well tended as those of a millionaire. And nothing
I assure you, can match the beauty of our walled garden. We are regular
gluttons over our fruit, and watch with tender interest our Montreuil
peaches, our hotbeds, our laden trellises, and pyramidal pear-trees.
But lest these rural pursuits should fail to satisfy my beloved's mind,
I have advised him to finish, in the quiet of this retreat, some plays
which were begun in his starvation days, and which are really very fine.
This is the only kind of literary work which can be done in odd moments,
for it requires long intervals of reflection, and does not demand
the elaborate pruning essential to a finished style. One can't make a
task-work of dialogue; there must be biting touches, summings-up, and
flashes of wit, which are the blossoms of the mind, and come rather by
inspiration than reflection. This sort of intellectual sport is very
much in my line. I assist Gaston in his work, and in this way manage to
accompany him even in the boldest flights of his imagination. Do you see
now how it is that my winter evenings never drag?
Our servants have such an easy time, that never once since we were
married have we had to reprimand any of them. When questioned about us,
they have had wit enough to draw on their imaginations, and have given
us out as the companion and secretary of a lady and gentleman supposed
to be traveling. They never go out without asking permission, which they
know will not be refused; they are contented too, and see plainly that
it will be their own fault if there is a change for the worse. The
gardeners are allowed to sell the surplus of our fruits and vegetables.
The dairymaid does the same with the milk, the cream, and the fresh
butter, on condition that the best of the produce is reserved for us.
They are well pleased with their profits, and we are delighted with an
abundance which no money and no ingenuity can procure in that terrible
Paris, where it costs a hundred francs to produce a single fine peach.
All this is not without its meaning, my dear. I wish to fill the place
of society to my husband; now society is amusing, and therefore his
solitude must not be allowed to pall on him. I believed myself jealous
in the old days, when I merely allowed myself to be loved; now I know
real jealousy, the jealousy of the lover. A single indifferent glance
unnerves me. From time to time I say to myself, "Suppose he ceased to
love me!" And a shudder goes through me. I tremble before him, as the
Christian before his God.
Alas! Renee, I am still without a child. The time will surely come--it
must come--when our hermitage will need a father's and a mother's care
to brighten it, when we shall both pine to see the little frocks and
pelisses, the brown or golden heads, leaping, running through our
shrubberies and flowery paths. Oh! it is a cruel jest of Nature's, a
flowering tree that bears no fruit. The thought of your lovely children
goes through me like a knife. My life has grown narrower, while yours
has expanded and shed its rays afar. The passion of love is essentially
selfish, while motherhood widens the circle of our feelings. How well
I felt this difference when I read your kind, tender letter! To see you
thus living in three hearts roused my envy. Yes, you are happy; you have
had wisdom to obey the laws of social life, whilst I stand outside, an
alien.
Children, dear and loving children, can alone console a woman for the
loss of her beauty. I shall soon be thirty, and at that age the dirge
within begins. What though I am still beautiful, the limits of my
woman's reign are none the less in sight. When they are reached, what
then? I shall be forty before he is; I shall be old while he is still
young. When this thought goes to my heart, I lie at his feet for an hour
at a time, making him swear to tell me instantly if ever he feels his
love diminishing.
But he is a child. He swears, as though the mere suggestion were an
absurdity, and he is so beautiful that--Renee, you understand--I believe
him.
Good-bye, sweet one. Shall we ever again let years pass without writing?
Happiness is a monotonous theme, and that is, perhaps, the reason why,
to souls who love, Dante appears even greater in the _Paradiso_ than in
the _Inferno_. I am not Dante; I am only your friend, and I don't
want to bore you. You can write, for in your children you have an
ever-growing, every-varying source of happiness, while mine... No more
of this. A thousand loves.