"THAT WHICH BRINGS SATISFACTION TO THE HEART"
I
When Victor Hugo grasped the full extent of the national disaster in
August 1870, he started immediately for Belgium. On the proclamation of
the Republic, he proceeded to the frontier, where a few official friends
awaited him.
The scene that took place on his arrival was impressive, though somewhat
theatrical. The "sublime outlaw" asked for the bread and wine of France.
After he had eaten and drunk, he begged Juliette to preserve a fragment
of the bread, and buried his face in his hands with the gesture of one
who is dazzled by too much light. Juliette relates that big tears flowed
through his clenched fingers. The bystanders stood in silence, awed by
his emotion....
The poet and our heroine stayed with Paul Meurice at Avenue Frochot for
a time, and then went to the Hôtel du Pavillon de Rohan. Finally they
settled, he in a small furnished apartment at 66, Rue de la
Rochefoucauld, and she close by, in a fairly spacious _entresol_ rented
at fourteen hundred francs, at 55, Rue Pigalle.
[Illustration: VICTOR HUGO, HIS FAMILY, AND JULIETTE DROUET AT
HAUTEVILLE HOUSE.]
But hardly had they resumed the peaceful tenor of their ways when they
were forced to uproot again. On February 8th, 1871, Victor Hugo was
elected a member of the Assemblée Nationale, and, as he could not
bear to be parted any longer from his grandchildren, he removed his
whole household to Bordeaux, including his son Charles, his mistress
Juliette, and the little heroes of _L'Art d'être grandpère_. They
started on February 13th, and the poet took his seat on the 15th. On
March 8th he felt it his duty to resign, on account of the refusal of
his colleagues to allow Garibaldi to be naturalised a Frenchman. He was
about to leave, when a fresh sorrow struck him down: this was the sudden
death of Charles Hugo, on March 13th.
The body of the unfortunate and charming young man was taken back to
Paris, and the funeral took place on the 18th, in the sinister scenario
of the rising insurrection. On the 21st, Victor Hugo went to Belgium to
make arrangements for his grandchildren's future. Two months and a half
later, he was expelled from Brussels, for rewarding its hospitality by
throwing his house open as a refuge to the political miscreants who had
just fired Paris and shed the blood of their compatriots. He was the
object of a violently hostile demonstration on May 27th, 1871, and
afterwards received the decree of expulsion. He went to Vianden, in the
Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, and returned definitely to Paris in September
1871. Juliette had accompanied him everywhere.
No sooner was the luggage unpacked, than she bravely undertook to amuse
him, by forming a small circle of his friends and admirers, in her
drawing-room at Rue Pigalle. But the undertaking was beyond her powers.
Her long sojourn in a solitary island and her complete absorption in one
sole object, had resulted in the loss of what might be termed her
social talent. In France, and especially in Paris, everything was new
to her, everything caused her agitation.
The state of her health was not such as to restore her equanimity. She
suffered from gout and heart-disease, was growing stout, walked with
difficulty, slept badly, and was terribly weary: "I am so tired," she
writes, "that I feel as if even eternity would fail to rest me."
Victor Hugo, therefore, gave up the entertainments at Rue Pigalle; the
boxes were repacked, and on August 14th, 1872, the party returned to
that island where everything spoke to the exile of former joys, from the
anemones he loved, to the cherry-tree he had planted himself.
In the mornings, at half-past eleven, Victor Hugo used to make his
joyous appearance at Hauteville Féerie, and escort his friend to
Hauteville House, where the luncheon-table was proudly attended by
Georges and Jeanne. In the afternoon, a family drive was organised. The
largest carriage on the island was hardly big enough to contain the dear
beings by whom he loved to be surrounded. The hours drifted peacefully
towards dusk.
While our heroine lived on future hopes and past memories, Victor Hugo
enjoyed the present more than ever. Every one knows of his gallantry,
and the bold front he offered to advancing age. Amongst other comforting
illusions, he chose to believe that women prefer old men, and he gloried
in proving his theory. With more sense than she has been credited with,
Juliette sometimes managed to close her eyes and ears; at other times
she gently rallied him, congratulating him on the success of his most
recent exploit. But more often it must be admitted that her temper was
not equal to the nobility of her nature. To jealousy was presently added
the pain of humiliation and offended dignity, caused by a vulgar
intrigue, conducted under her very eyes, at her own fireside.
At last, at the end of the visit to Guernsey, which had turned out so
differently from her expectations, Juliette came to a grave decision.
She resolved to abandon the field to the frail beauties whom chance,
desire, or self-interest, gathered around her poet, and to retire to
live at Brest with her sister, or at Brussels with her friends the
Luthereau.
Having borrowed 200 frs. from some one, Juliette actually started on
September 23rd, 1873, without leaving the smallest note of farewell for
Victor Hugo. But he lost no time in despatching a letter of recall, and
he couched it in terms so eloquent, and so pathetic, that once more the
poor woman was fain to overlook the past. She returned to Rue Pigalle on
September 27th. She subsequently wrote to the kind hosts with whom she
had taken refuge: "I have been very foolish, very cruel, very stupid;
but I am rewarded. If one could hope for a second resurrection like
this, one might be almost tempted to go through it all again."
II
Shortly after Juliette's act of defiance, her friend imposed the fatigue
of a new removal upon her. The author of _L'Art d'être grandpère_ had
just lost his son, François Victor. More than ever he turned to his
little grandchildren for consolation, and at the end of 1873, he decided
to join households with them and their mother. For a rental of 6,000
frs. a year, he took two apartments, one above the other, at 21, Rue de
Clichy. On April 28th, 1874, Juliette took possession of the third floor
with her maid, while Madame Charles Hugo, her children, and the poet,
settled in the fourth.
The receptions and dinners began again almost at once. At first they
were weekly, then bi-weekly, and finally daily. The table was large and
well attended. In addition to the five people forming the family party,
including Juliette, there were rarely fewer than seven guests. Our
heroine, in her capacity of chief steward, usually provided for twelve.
She liked the fare to be simple and substantial: _sole Normande_,
_côtelettes Soubise_, and _poulets au cresson_ were the chief items of
the repast.
Housekeeping on this scale demanded a staff of competent servants.
Juliette had five, for whom she was responsible. She superintended their
expenditure, their purchases, and the use to which they put the
provisions; she commended good work and reproved faults, and in fact
fulfilled the functions of a majordomo in a situation where the daily
expenditure exceeded £4 for food, and approximated £2 for wines and
spirits. She also had to supervise the department of the invitations,
draw up lists, and sort the guests of each day, so as to temper the
solemnity of a Sch[oe]lcher or a Renan, with the wit and froth of a
Flaubert or a Monselet. Juliette assumed this charge, submitted the
names to Victor Hugo, wrote the letters, opened the answers, and
classified them. If anybody failed at the last moment, she telegraphed
to some one on the "subsidiary list," as she called it, and only ceased
her efforts when she was assured of being able to offer to the
gratified master a full table and a numerous and docile court.
She was now at the head of that court, but it must not be supposed that
it was by her own desire. On the contrary, she practised the most severe
self-effacement. Clad in black, wearing as her only jewel a cameo set in
gold, representing Madame Victor Hugo, and bequeathed to her in the
latter's will, she usually sat at the chimney-corner in a large
arm-chair. Fatigued by her laborious preparations, it frequently
happened that she fell asleep in the drawing-room, as Madame Victor Hugo
had been wont to do. This lapse of manners so covered her with
confusion, that she made a vow either to bring her health up to the
level of her devotion or else to disappear from view. She did, in fact,
redouble her activities, to an extent astonishing in a septuagenarian.
She undertook to follow the aged poet whenever he mingled with crowds.
At Quinet's and Frédéric Lemaître's funerals, she was present in the
throng, an infirm old woman, watching from a distance, over a Victor
Hugo, upright as a dart, and full of vitality. Did he wish to make an
ascent in a balloon, she was there; when he conducted a rehearsal, or
read one of his early dramas to his modern interpreters, it was she who
led the applause, declared that the voice of Olympio had retained all
its strength and beauty, and that he had never read better.
In the period between 1874 and 1878 it must be conceded that Victor Hugo
did his best to secure to his friend a greater degree of mental
tranquillity than she had ever enjoyed before. He was careful to conceal
his infidelities from her, and often succeeded in averting scenes and
reproaches; or, if denial seemed impossible, he tried to palliate his
fault and gain indulgence by addressing to her one of those poetical
odes in which he excelled, and from which she derived such pride and
joy.
But these were only passing revivals of youthful emotions, in the poet
as well as in his friend. They resemble those bonfires of dead leaves,
lighted by labourers in autumn on the summit of bare hills--their flame
can ill withstand the slightest puff of wind. Such a puff blew upon the
old couple in the course of the year 1878.
Juliette was greatly troubled about the state of her health. She wrote
to the poet, on January 8th: "I feel that everything is going from me
and crumbling in my grasp: my sight, my memory, my strength, my
courage."
On June 28th of the same year, at one of those copious banquets to which
he still did full justice, and in the midst of an argument with Louis
Blanc concerning Voltaire and Rousseau, Victor Hugo had a cerebral
attack which alarmed his friends exceedingly. His speech faltered, he
gesticulated feebly. Two doctors summoned in haste failed to give
reassurance, and prescribed absolute rest in the country. On July 4th,
the poet was escorted to Guernsey by a large retinue consisting of his
grandchildren, the Meurice family, Juliette, Monsieur and Madame
Lockroy, Richard Lesclide, and another friend, Pelleport. But no sooner
had they reached the island, than Victor Hugo began to show symptoms of
agitation. It could not be on account of his illness, for he was living
quietly and comfortably, rejoicing at the amusement the season afforded
his friends, and taking his own share of it. But, according to the
testimony of one who has published a book concerning the master as witty
as it is frank,[56] the reason was that he had left behind him in Paris
the heroines of several intrigues; amongst others, the young person
whose behaviour had occasioned Juliette's fit of anger and departure for
Brest,[57] and he was fearful lest the post should convey to Guernsey
the forlorn cooings of the deserted doves, and that some echo of them
should reach Juliette.
Our heroine was certainly informed of some of the circumstances, for on
August 20th, 1878, while still at Guernsey, she wrote the old man a
letter which is a revelation of the changed character of their
intercourse. Victor Hugo answered somewhat crossly and contemptuously,
and nicknamed Juliette "the schoolmistress."
On his return to Paris on November 10th, he consented to remove to the
little house at Avenue d'Eylau where he ended his days, and which was
then almost in the country. Juliette took the first floor, and he
occupied the second. But presently she arranged to spend the nights in a
spare room next to his, so that she might be at hand to attend upon him
if necessary.
From that moment it may be said that her life declined into
uninterrupted sadness and servitude. She was suffering from an internal
cancer, and knew that she was condemned to die of slow starvation!
Nevertheless, she played her part of sick nurse with a devotion and a
minute attention to detail to which all witnesses tender their homage.
She it was who entered the poet's chamber each morning, and woke him
with a kiss; she, who put a match to the fire ready laid on the hearth,
and prepared the eggs for his breakfast; she, who waited on the old man
while he ate, opened his letters, made extracts from them when
necessary, and answered the most important. It was she, again, who
undertook to keep her beloved friend company until midday, and to amuse
him, and acquaint him with the current political and literary news.
The task was heavy enough to weary a much younger brain. Juliette found
it almost beyond her strength. In 1880 she was so overwrought that she
had become nervous, irritable, and restless. At night, when her offices
of reader and sick nurse were over, it must not be supposed that she was
able to sleep. From her bed in the adjoining room, with eyes fixed, and
ear on the stretch, she watched the slumber of her dear neighbour, under
the great Renaissance baldachino, with its crimson damask curtains. Did
he cough, she rose hurriedly and administered a soothing drink; but if
she coughed herself, and thus ran the risk of awaking him, she was
furious, longed for a gag, and tried to suppress the labouring of her
suffering breast. She cursed the years that had made her love a burden
to its object, and chid her body for a bad servant no longer subservient
to her will.
Severe as were the physical sufferings she bore so patiently under
shadow of the night, Juliette preferred them to the sadness she endured
during the long, solitary afternoons, while her former companion was at
the Senate, at the Académie, or elsewhere.
[Illustration: JULIETTE DROUET IN 1883.
From the picture by Bastien Lepage.]
We must picture her at that period, not as Théodore de Banville
represents her in his formal description, but as Bastien Lepage painted
her with more truth, about the same time. Disease has made cruel inroads
on the grave, serene, once goddess-like features. Her poor countenance
is worn and wasted, covered with a fine network of wrinkles, each one of
which tells its tale of suffering. Her hair, whose sheen was formerly
likened by poets to the satin petals of a lily, and which once fell
naturally into crown-like waves, is roughened and harsh, and has assumed
that yellowish tinge which so often presages death. Her lips, no longer
revived by kisses, are pale, her eyes heavy and anguished, her smile
faded.
Seated by the fire in winter, and at the open window overlooking the
Avenue d'Eylau in summer, she who was the "Princesse Négroni," now
presents the woeful appearance of a grandmother without grandchildren.
Sometimes she tries to pray. She calls death to her aid, she complains
of the slowness with which the bonds of the soul loose those of the
body.
In September 1882, she made a short journey with Victor Hugo to Veules,
to stay with Paul Meurice, and to Villequier, to stay with Auguste
Vacquerie. She took to her bed immediately on her return. By a great
effort of will, she got up once more, to attend the revival of _Le Roi
s'amuse_ on November 25th; then she finally returned to her chamber and
never left it again.
Neither her body nor her mind was capable of assimilating nourishment.
She waved happy memories aside.
Every afternoon the old poet paid her a visit. He disliked any mention
of death, and could not bear the sight of suffering. If we are to
believe Juliette, he had made a rule that every one must forswear
melancholy, and shake off sad thoughts, before appearing in his
presence. Docile as ever, the sick woman endeavoured to smile when he
entered her room. She listened submissively to the arguments by which he
sought to persuade her that she did not really suffer, that there is no
such thing as suffering. Up till May 11th, 1883, the very day of her
death, there remained thus about one hour of the day during which she
still had to play her part, restrain her moans, and look cheerful. She
did it to the best of her power, and doubtless, in the triumph of that
daily victory gained over torture by her indomitable spirit, she found
at last the answer that the poet should have put into the mouth of
Maffio--she discovered that "That which brings satisfaction to the
heart" is neither desire, nor caresses, nor even love: it is
self-sacrifice.[58]
PART II
_LETTERS_
_Sunday, 8.30 p.m. (1833)._
Before beginning to copy or count words,[59] I must write you one line
of love, my dear little lunatic. I love you--do you understand, I love
you! This is a profession of faith which comprises all my duty and
integrity. I love you, _ergo_, I am faithful to you, I see only you,
think only of you, speak only to you, touch only you, breathe you,
desire you, dream of you; in a word, I love you! that means everything.
Do not therefore give way any more to melancholy; permit yourself to be
loved and to be happy. Fear nothing from me, never doubt me, and we
shall be blissful beyond words.
I am expecting you shortly, and am ready with warm and tender caresses
which, I hope, will cheer you.
Your JUJU.
(1833).
Since you left me I carry death in my heart. If you go to the ball
to-night, it must be at the cost of a definite rupture between us. The
pain I suffer at imagining you moving among that throng of fascinating,
careless women, is too great for you to be able to inflict it without
incurring guilt towards me. Write to me "Care of Madame K...." If I do
not hear from you before midnight, I shall understand that you care very
little for me ... that all is over between us ... and for ever.
J.
_Wednesday, 2.30 p.m. (1833)._
I cannot refrain, dearly beloved, from commenting upon the profound
melancholy you were in this morning, and upon the doubt you manifest on
every occasion as to the sincerity of my love. This unjustifiable
suspicion on your part disheartens me beyond all expression. It
intimidates me and makes me fear to confide to you the incidents my
dubious position exposes me to. To-day, for instance, I concealed from
you the visit of a creditor, who presented himself to the porter, but
was not shown up. I paid him out of my own resources, without your
knowledge, because you are always telling me _I do not love you_. This
expression from you makes me feel that you hold a shameful opinion of me
and my character, rendered possible perhaps by my situation, but none
the less false, unjust, and cruel.
I love you _because_ I love you, because it would be impossible for me
not to love you. I love you without question, without calculation,
without reason good or bad, faithfully, with all my heart and soul, and
every faculty. Believe it, for it is true. If you cannot believe, I
being at your side, I will make a drastic effort to force you to do so.
I shall have the mournful satisfaction of sacrificing myself utterly to
a distrust as absurd as it is unfounded.
Meanwhile, I ask your pardon for the guilty thought that came to me this
morning, and which may possibly recur, if you continue to see in my love
only a mean-spirited compliance and an unworthy speculation. This letter
is very lengthy, and very sad to write. I trust with all my soul, that I
may never have to reiterate its sentiments.
I love you. Indeed I love you. Believe in me.
JULIETTE.
_Wednesday, 8.15 p.m. (1833)._
Here is a second letter. Forgive my epistolary extravagance. Honestly, I
imagine you must soon tire, to put it as mildly as possible, of this
superabundance of letters.
The reason of my writing again is no novel one: it is merely to repeat
that I love you every day and every instant more and more; that I feel
convinced you are only too eager to return my sentiments, but that
between your desire and your capacity there stands a wall a hundred feet
high, entitled "suspicion." Suspicion leads to contempt, and when that
exists, no real love is possible. There is no answer to what I have just
stated. I feel it, and am crushed by my sorrow. I know not what to do,
where to go, what plans to make. I can only suffer, just as I can only
love you.
JULIETTE.
If ever this letter is found, it will be seen that my love was
insufficient in your eyes to atone for my past.
_2 a.m. (1833)._
MY VICTOR,
I love you truly, and neither know, nor can conceive, any personality
more deserving of devotion than yourself.
I look up to you as a faithful, reliable friend, as the noblest and most
estimable of men.
It hurts me to feel that my past life must be an obstacle to your
confidence. Before I cared for you, I felt no shame for it, I made no
attempt to conceal or alter it; but, since I have known you, this
attitude of mind has changed in every respect. I blush for myself, and
dread lest my love have not the strength to erase the stains of the
past. I fear it even more, when you suspect me unjustly.
My Victor, it is for your love to sanctify me, for your esteem to renew
in me all that once was good and pure.
I care for you so much that all this is possible. I will become worthy
of you, if you will only help me.
Farewell. You are my soul, my life, my religion; I love you.
JULIETTE.
Your appreciation of my letters is one of the best proofs of love you
have yet given me. I will set to work to reconstruct them. Nothing has
happened since you left me yesterday, except that my love for you has
increased.
(1833.)
Before reading this letter, look upon me once more with affection.
My poor friend, I am about to grieve and surprise you greatly. Yet it
has to be done. I no longer have the courage to bear up against your
unjust and suspicious jealousy, and your continued mistrust of a
sentiment as pure and true as that which one cherishes towards God. They
wear me out and make me wretched to the last degree. I would rather
leave you, than expose myself to fresh grief, which might end in
destroying either my reason or my love. This resolve is dictated by the
excess of my affection. Even if you suffer, forgive me, and bless me
before you leave me for ever. I love you.
J.
(1833.)
Since you insist upon a denial of offences which exist only in your
imagination, I owe it to you to make it comprehensive and without
restriction. It is not true that I have tried to offend you by
reproaches unworthy of yourself and of me. It is not true that I have
ever held any opinion of you, but this one, that I esteem you above all
men.
The real and irrevocable cause of our estrangement, is the certainty
that your love for me is incomplete. I am more persuaded of it every
day, and particularly to-day, when you have actually told me that you
thought I had misled you as to the state of my affections.
This is a grave offence towards a woman who has never deceived you on
the subject of her heart, and whose only fault is to love you too much;
for her very excess in this respect, has given her the sad courage to
risk losing your esteem, in order to preserve your love one day longer.
But I am unwilling to think you intended to hurt me by allowing me to
see the canker in your heart. I prefer to believe that we are equally
the victims of a calamity, under which our only resource, is to separate
from one another. Possibly our wounds will heal when they are no longer
exposed to the continual friction of carping suspicion.
Good-bye. Forgive me if I have offended you. I am loath to hurt you.
J.
I beg you not to attempt to see me again. This is the last sacrifice I
will ask of you.[60]
_(June 1833.)_
MY DEAR VICTOR, MY BELOVED,
Do not be anxious! I am as well as a poor woman, who has lost her
happiness and the sole joy of her existence, can expect to be. If I
could let you know my place of refuge without exposing us both, but more
particularly myself, to useless wretchedness, I would do so. Confidence,
the indispensable ingredient in a union such as ours, no longer exists
in your mind. God is my witness that I have never once deceived you in
matters of love, during the past four months. Any concealment I have
been guilty of, has only been with the intention of sparing us both
unnecessary worry, in view of the attitude of mind we have been in
lately.
I may have been wrong; the purity of my intention must be my excuse.
[Illustration: CLAIRE PRADIER.
From an unpublished drawing by Pradier.]
_9.45 p.m. Saturday, August 13th (1833)._
While you are on your travels, dearest, my thoughts follow you in all
love. Though I still feel somewhat sore, I will strive to control
myself, and speak only those gentle words you like to hear.
It was dear of you to allow me to come to your house.[61] It was far
more than a satisfaction to my curiosity, and I thank you for having
admitted me to the spot where you live, love, and work. Yet, to be
entirely frank with you, my adored, I must tell you that the visit
filled me with sadness and dejection. I realise more than ever, the
depth of the chasm that gapes between your life and mine. It is no fault
of yours, beloved, nor of mine; but so it is. It would be unreasonable
of me to call you to account for more than you are responsible for, yet
I may surely tell you, dearly beloved, that I am the most miserable of
women.
If you have any pity for me, dear love, you will assist me to rise
superior to the lowly and humble position which tortures my spirit as
well as my body.
Help me, my good angel, that I may believe in you and in the future.
I beg and implore you.
J.
(1833.)
It is not quite six o'clock in the evening. I have just finished copying
the verses you gave me yesterday. I am not very familiar with the forms
of compliment in usage in fashionable society. All I can tell you is
that I wept and admired when I heard you read them, that I wept and
admired when I read them to myself, and that once more I weep and admire
in recalling them. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having
thought of me when you were writing them. Thank you, my beloved, for the
benign sentiments that inspired you. Your beautiful lines have had the
effect you anticipated, for they have acted both as a cordial and a
sedative to my sick spirit. Thank you! thank you! and again, thank you!
You are not only sublime--you are kind, and, what is better still, you
are indulgent, you who have so much right to be severe.
I love you. My heart melts in admiration and adoration. There is more
rapture of love in my poor bosom than it is capable of containing. Come
then, and receive the superabundance of my ecstasy.
If you only knew how I long for you, and desire you! If you knew _more
still_, you would come, I am very sure! Come, come, I beg you, come! You
shall have a kiss for every step, a recompense for every effort, more
smiles, and more joy, than you will encounter fog and cold.
JULIETTE.
I am writing this a little later because, before turning to business, I
had to unburthen my heart. I came home yesterday, read your poetry,
dined, did my accounts, and went to bed. I read the newspapers you sent,
went to sleep, dreamed of you, and woke up this morning at 8 o'clock. I
rose almost immediately, did some housework, and mended yesterday's
frock. In the middle of breakfast Lanvin arrived, bringing the
newspapers and a letter from M. Pradier and some of Mademoiselle
Watteville's luggage. He asked whether we should want him to see us off.
He left again at 1 p.m., taking Claire's things with him and some of his
wife's. When he had gone, I washed and did my hair, did the same for
Claire, and at 2.30 I sat down to copy, and now I am writing to you.
This, Colonel, is my report. Are you satisfied? Then, so is the Corporal
of the Guard! After dinner I shall hear the children their lessons, and
count the lines of _Feuilles d'Automne_.
_After dinner._
I have heard the children's lessons, and been obliged to punish your
_protégée_, Claire, who is the laziest and idlest of all the pupils. I
have just read your poem to Madame Lanvin; she was deeply moved. The
poor thing understands you, therefore I need not explain that she loves
you. Good-night, until to-morrow, I hope.
I suppose you did not come to-day because you had arrangements to make
for our journey; that is why I am able to possess my soul in patience.
J.
_Sunday, 4 p.m. (1833)._
I have just come in sad and depressed. I suffer, I weep, I wail aloud
and moan under my breath, to God and to you. I long to die, that I might
put an end once and for all, to this misery and disappointment and
sorrow. It really seems as if my happiness had disappeared with the fine
weather. It would be folly to expect to see either again. The season is
too far advanced for fine weather or for happy days. You poor silly,
who wonder that I should deplore so bitterly the loss of one day's
happiness, it is easy to see that you had not to wait for the privilege
of loving and being loved till you were twenty-six years old! You poet,
who wrote _Les Feuilles d'Automne_ in an atmosphere of love, laughter of
children, eyes azure and black, locks brown and gold, happiness in full
measure! You have had no cause to notice how one day of gloom and rain,
like this, can make the greenest of leaves wither and fall to the
ground. You cannot therefore know how twenty-four hours robbed of bliss
can undermine one's self-confidence and strength for the future. It is
evident that you do not, for you wonder when I weep; you are almost
annoyed at my grief. You see, therefore, that you do not realise the
measure of my devotion. Surely I have good reason for regretting that I
love you so ardently, when I see that love uncalled for and unwelcome!
Oh, yes, I love you, it is true! I love you in spite of myself, in spite
of you, in spite of the whole world, in spite of God, in spite even of
the Devil, who mixes himself up in it.
I love you, I love you, I love you, happy or unhappy, merry or sad. I
love you! Do with me what you will, I still shall love you.
J.
_Monday, 1.50 a.m., 1833._
I have been standing at the window all this time, my soul stretched
towards you, my ear attentive to every sound, fearing always lest your
courage should fail you before the end of your weary walk. It is half an
hour since you left; I have listened hard, but no sound has reached me
that could make me apprehend you had not the strength to reach your own
house. I trust that while I am penning these lines, you are already
experiencing the relief that bed and repose will bring to your
suffering. No words of mine can suffice to express to you my regret, my
sorrow, my despair, for what happened to-night. I do not acquit you
altogether of guilt, but I ask you to pardon your own, as well as mine.
Forgive me for having yielded to you after what had passed between us. I
ought to have foreseen what would happen, and what did happen. God
knows, I had resisted as long as I could, and had given way only upon
the solemn promise you made me, never to refer to the stains of my
former life, so long as my conduct towards you should remain honest and
pure.
The last seven months of my life have been absolutely honest and pure!
Yet, have you kept your word?
If I were the only one to suffer I should be more resigned, but you are
as unhappy as I; you are as ashamed of the insults you heap upon me, as
I am, of receiving them.
Now that I perceive fully the canker that lies at the root of our
position, it is my part to arrest the progress of the evil by cutting
out my soul and my life, to preserve what can still be saved of yours
and mine.
Listen, Victor, I urge you not to refuse me your assistance in carrying
out the plan I think indispensable for the honour of us both.
If anything can give you courage it must be the knowledge that I have
been faithful to you alone, these seven months. Ah, truly I have never
deceived you! Truly! truly! Yet in the course of these same months, how
many mortifying scenes such as that of to-night have taken place!
Surely you can see that we must no longer hesitate! I will go away by
the first Saumur omnibus. The health of my little girl can serve as a
pretext. When I am with her, I shall be able to reflect upon my
position, and see what I can do in order to render it tolerable. If, as
probably may be necessary, I were to leave the theatre, the furniture
would cover my debt to Jourdain, and if you were unwilling to be
worried, I could request any man of business to sell it, up to the
amount of my bill to Jourdain, which is the only one for which you are
responsible.
I shall go abroad. Such as I am, I am still capable of earning my
living, which is all that is necessary.
But all this is beside the question. The important point is that I ought
to start as soon as possible, to-day even, in order to protect us both
from ourselves.
Before going, I hope to see you once more, unless your condition should
become worse--which is a horrifying thought when I consider that I am
the cause of it.
But whether I see you or not, whether you are the victim of my temper or
not, I leave with you all my love and all my happiness. I do not reserve
even hope; I give into your keeping my soul, my thoughts, my life. I
take only with me my body, which you have no cause to regret.
JULIETTE.
(_December 20th, 1833._)
MY BELOVED VICTOR,
I have been very unjust to you. You have had cause to call me ungrateful
and unworthy. You will soon hate me--soon also, you will have forgotten
me. I feel it. You see, there can be no thought or sentiment of yours
that I do not understand and apprehend. At this moment, even while I am
writing to you, you are blaming me for suffering. You are annoyed with
me for idolising you with an extravagance which renders me mad and
jealous. You are tired of my love. It cramps you, fatigues you. You
meditate flying from me. My bad luck frightens you; you fear to share it
longer. You dread the responsibility--say, rather, you love me less,
perhaps not at all. Oh, what suffering that fear gives me! My head is
aching. I wish I could die. It must be my fault. I have been wrong to
show you the hideous wound in my heart, the jealousy which lacerates and
destroys it. Yes, I ought to have concealed my sufferings from you. I
ought never to fly into those rages that betray the depth of my love and
grief.
My Victor, do not leave me! I beg you on my knees, not to be daunted
before a public responsibility. Who has the right to demand from you an
account of the measure of the sacrifices you have made for me? What does
it matter if you are denied the justice you deserve? What matter that
you should be held responsible in part for my troubles? The point to be
considered before all others, is your private relations with me. The
responsibility you must accept is towards me only; it concerns only our
two selves. If you repudiate it, it will kill me, for my whole life is
wrapped up in you and your presence. I breathe only through your lips,
see only with your eyes, live only in your heart. If you withdraw
yourself from me, I must die.
Reflect! This is not a threat, to keep you near me. I am not
exaggerating the extent to which you are necessary to my very
existence--I am only telling you what I feel. It is the truth, but the
truth under restriction, for I hardly dare acknowledge it in its
entirety, even to myself. _I need you! Only you! I cannot exist without
you._ Think of it. Try to love me enough to accept the charge of my
life, with all its attendant bad luck.
JULIETTE.
_2 a.m., January 1st, 1834._
TO THEE, MY VICTOR!
I dare not say anything. Guess what I am feeling and do with me what you
will!
I love you ... the memory of what has gone before, and my fears for the
future, prevent me from describing my emotions as freely as formerly.
Forget the past, take the future into your own hands, and I shall regain
the faculty of saying "I love you," as earnestly as I mean it.
I love you.... JULIETTE.
_Saturday morning, 1834._
TO MONSIEUR VICTOR HUGO,
IN TOWN.
[Illustration: JULIETTE DROUET ABOUT 1830.
From Champmartin's picture (Victor Hugo Museum).]
It is a quarter to one. I have been to your printing-works, numbers 16
and 19; you had not been seen. I went on to your house; you had not come
in. I wrote you a line; I waited for you.... At last I came home hoping
to find you; but you had not been here. My thanks to you for treating me
like a vagrant dog. You had informed me that you were going to the
printing-works, that you might go back to your house, that you would
certainly go to mine.
You forgot your promises at once, and you apparently hold my love very
cheap.
If you, indifferent though you may be, could see me in imagination, as I
sit writing to you, you would be horrified at the condition your
injustice and disdain have reduced me to.
It is evident that you no longer love me, and that you are only bound to
me by the fear of causing some great calamity if you desert me. It is
indeed grievous that this should be the only sentiment which links you
to me, and I am unwilling to accept a devotion so hollow and
humiliating. I give you back your freedom. From this moment you have no
responsibility towards me, although my heart is broken, although my soul
is still fuller of love than it is able to contain, although my eyes, as
I write, are drenched with bitter tears. I shall still have the courage
necessary to bear my life as it will be, when bereft of happiness and
laughter.
You have been very cruel to me. I forgive you. Forgive also my tempests
of rage. I am ashamed of them, and thoroughly wretched. I swear to you
by that which I hold most sacred in life, namely my child, that I am
unable to explain how I can have been guilty yesterday of a thing I
utterly disapprove of, and which seems to me the acme of effrontery. I
swear I never saw those men. I am innocent of any crime. I can say no
more. You have crushed me by referring again to my past life, and even
while I am assuring you of my love and repentance, and while I still
hope for a reconciliation, I tremble to feel that you can suspect me so
unjustly. My heart shrinks from the sorrow still in store for it ... my
pen fails me ...
Farewell! May you enjoy greater tranquillity and happiness than will
fall to my lot. Do not forget that, for a whole year, we were happy
solely by means of our love.
Good-bye! I have indeed received my full meed of punishment for the
imaginary crime of yesterday.
Farewell. Think of me without bitterness.
JULIETTE.
_Monday, 2 a.m. (1834)._
I returned from the Place Royale about two hours ago. It was ten o'clock
when I arrived there, and I left at about midnight. I had hoped to bring
you back with me, or, failing to do so, to catch at least a glimpse of
you. I waited patiently all that time, hoping that you would become
aware of my presence, and reward me for it by one glance. But everything
remained dark and gloomy for me, though it was easy to see the lights
through the drawn blinds, and the shadows of many people moving about.
It will not be the last time, in all probability, that I shall have the
opportunity of seeing that, while I suffer and weep, you make merry.
Forgive me, my Victor, forgive me for this comparison of our respective
lots. It is the last time I shall make it, perhaps even the last time I
shall write to you, for you have said that you will not read any more of
my letters for a long time ... a long time signifies "for ever," for you
will forget me and I shall die. Your love was my whole life. To-night I
feel as miserable as I should be if you no longer loved me. God, how
sorely I need pity!
I have just obeyed your wishes by putting all your works away carefully.
As for my own relics of you, I have collected them in an English desk,
under lock and key, and hidden them under my bolster, where they shall
always remain.
Farewell, the performance of this duty has been a mournful satisfaction
to me.
_Saturday, 6 p.m., 1834._
TO THEE, MY BELOVED.
You promised that as soon as your work was finished, you would devote
all your time to me; you also said, when you were leaving me yesterday,
that you would come early this morning. Neither of these promises have
you kept; yet I have never longed for your presence and your love more
than at this moment, when anxiety seems to have taken up its abode with
me. I have been so worried that I do not know whether I could endure
another day like this.
I am thankful to leave this house; it is so haunted by ill-luck and
sadness, that to be quit of it will be a relief.
My Victor, what is going to become of us? What can we do to avert the
misfortune that threatens us?[62] Can you think of any way out of the
trouble? Do you love me? I love you so! in prosperity, and still more in
adversity. Oh, God be merciful to me! Without your help I am done.
JULIETTE.
I have no other refuge or I should not go to Madame K. I cannot wander
about alone, for that would make you anxious; yet I cannot stay here, I
am too miserable. I will wait for you at Madame K.'s house until nine
o'clock. I hardly know what I am writing, or have written. My reason and
will are in abeyance this morning.
I write because I am wretched, because I must make moan to someone or
something. I write because I shall soon be dead. These lines will be the
cold remains of my soul and thoughts and love, as my body will be the
corpse of my warm flesh and blood.
I write to declare my faith, to obtain pardon of my sins, to weep,
because my tears strangle me and will put an end to me.
I shall be in the street to-night. I shall remain there as long as my
strength holds out, without hope, but still, near you....
_Midnight, Saturday, August 2nd, 1834._
TO VICTOR.
Farewell for ever. You have decreed it thus. Farewell then, and may you
be as happy and admired as I shall be hapless and forlorn.
Farewell! This word comprises my whole life, and joy, and happiness.
JULIETTE.
I am going away with my child. I am just going out to fetch her and take
our places. The Comédie Française management has no claim on my services
until it has assigned me my parts. My maid has orders to open my
letters. If there should be one from the Comédie Française she would let
me know at once and everything could be arranged. I need not, therefore,
worry about it at present.
(1834.)
MADEMOISELLE MARIE,
C/O MADAME DROUET,
No. 4 bis, Rue de Paradis au Marais, Paris.
Enclosed is a letter for Monsieur Victor Hugo. If he should not come to
the house, try and manage to let him know that there is one awaiting him
at No. 4, Rue de Paradis au Marais, from Madame Kraftt. If he is still
in Paris I expect he will understand what you mean, and will either send
for it or fetch it himself. In any case, write to me by every post and
tell me about Monsieur Victor Hugo: whether you have seen him, what he
has said to you, whether he is still in Paris, or whether he has left;
in fact, tell me everything you can find out concerning him.
I am writing from Rennes, where I arrived very ill, with my child. I
hope, however, to be able to leave to-morrow and go to my sister. Write
to me there and address thus:
MADAME DROUET,
C/O M. LOUIS KOCK,
Saint Renan,
By Brest.
Please take good care of the house.
J. DROUET.
(ENCLOSURE)
RENNES,
_2.30 p.m., Monday (1834)._
MY DEAR VICTOR,
I am writing this letter on the chance of its reaching you, but with the
sad premonition that you will never read it.
My beloved, I love you more than ever. I cannot do without you. I would
willingly die for you, but I cannot consent to accept a devotion which
might endanger your health and your life. I was forced to fly from you.
It cost me much to resist your supplications and your wrathful glances.
I suffered frightfully; and now, alas, I know that, were you with me, I
could no longer withstand either your gentle pleading or your terrible
anger. I am very wretched. I love and bless you. Be happy!
JULIETTE.
One portion of your curse has already come to pass. My soul and body
have suffered severely. In addition, I have been harried to death by the
idiotic authorities, who are suspicious of every woman without a
passport. I have been at Rennes about half an hour. It is half-past two.
I leave again for Brest to-morrow morning at four o'clock; I expect to
arrive on Thursday at five in the evening. My Victor, I love you. I
could do anything for you. Have pity upon me. I love you better than
anything in life.
_August 5th, 1834._
MADEMOISELLE MARIE,
Care of MADAME DROUET,
No. 4 bis, Rue de Paradis au Marais, Paris.
Here is another letter for Monsieur Victor Hugo. Try to get it to him.
If he is in the country near Paris, let him know that there is something
at my house in the name of Madame Kraftt that will interest him.
I have spent a sad and sleepless night. I am afraid of falling really
ill. Answer this at once.
J. DROUET.
(ENCLOSURE)
RENNES,
_4 a.m., August 5th (1834)._
Victor, I love you. Victor, I shall die of this separation. I need you,
to be able to live. Since I told you everything, since the moment when
my eyes could no longer rest upon yours, I have felt as if all my veins
were being opened, and my life's blood slowly drained away. I feel
myself dying, and I know that I love you the better for every pang. My
Victor, can you forgive me? Do you still love me? Is it really true that
you hate me, that I am odious in your sight, that you despise me, that
you would grind my face to the pavement if I pressed my lips to your
feet, pleading for forgiveness? Oh, if you still love me, if you still
respect me, if you can forgive everything, only tell me so, and I will
do all you wish! Everything, I swear! Will you take me back?
I am very ill.
J.
_3 a.m. (1834)._
FOR MY VICTOR.
While I was expecting to see you I could not sleep. Now that the hope is
dead I still cannot sleep because I am unhappy. I grieve not to have
seen you; I grieve because I was cross and ill-tempered when you were
gentle and charming. I rehearse in imagination all the incidents of the
evening, and the pain at my heart grows unbearable. It is wicked of me
to torment you, yet I cannot help myself. My offence goes by the name of
"jealousy." Much as I dread displeasing you, I yet cannot avoid giving
way to that hideous passion. I make you miserable when I should like to
saturate you with happiness. Oh, it is horribly wrong of me! I am much
to be pitied, for I am jealous, and of whom? The most beautiful, the
most gentle, the most perfect of women ... your wife! Heaven forgive me!
My torment is surely sufficient expiation for my fault!
God, how I love you! how I love my Victor! All is contained in these
words. You do forgive me, do you not? and you love me as much as ever? I
hope so ... else, I should prefer to die.
JULIETTE.
_Sunday, 3 p.m. (1834)._
I have abandoned hope ... yet love remains. I no longer believe that any
happiness is possible for me in the future, but _you_ I love more every
day; better than the first day, better than yesterday, better than this
morning, better than a moment ago; and still I am not happy.
[Illustration: A PAGE OF JULIETTE DROUET'S NOTE-BOOK IN 1834.
The note-book belongs to M. Louis Barthou.]
You remember what I used to say to you when _Marie Tudor_ was in
rehearsal? "Those wretches have robbed me of my self-confidence; I dare
not, cannot rehearse any more; I feel paralysed."
To-day, it is not a theatrical part that is in question--it is my life.
Now that calumny has crushed me, now that my mode of life has been
condemned without my having a chance of self-defence, now that my health
and reason have been expended in this struggle without profit or glory,
now that I have been held up before the public as a woman without a
future, I dare not, cannot live longer ... this is absolutely true ... I
dare not live. This fear has brought me to the verge of suicide ... a
peculiar suicide. I do not propose to kill myself like other people. I
mean to sever myself from you, and, to me, such a severance signifies
death. Death certainly. I have already made one experiment of the kind,
therefore I am sure.
I am confirmed in this project by the reflection that you will thereby
be restored to liberty; that you will be free to direct your life and
your genius in the way best suited to your happiness; that I shall no
longer be an obstacle in your path, but an object of pity and
indulgence--pity for what I shall suffer, indulgence and forgiveness for
such of my faults as have made you suffer.
If the excess of my love and grief should bring me back to your side, do
not notice me ... shut your eyes, stop your ears, remain in your own
house ... thus you may learn to forget, while I ... I ... shall die. I
shall not suffer long. I shall soon be at rest.
It is raining hard at this moment, and I am in a raging fever. No
matter, I shall go out. I do not know whether you propose coming to
fetch me. If you do not, I cannot tell what time I shall return home. I
don't care, I am mad! I am in torture such as I have never yet endured!
yet I love you even more than I suffer. My love dominates my whole
being. I love you!
JULIETTE.
5.30 (1834).
You wish me to write to you in your absence. I am always unwilling to
accede to this desire, for when we are separated, my thoughts are so sad
and painful that I should prefer to hide them from you if possible.
You see, my Victor, this sedentary, solitary life is killing me. I wear
my soul out with longing. My days are spent in a room twelve feet
square. What I desire is not the world, not empty pleasures, but
_liberty_--_liberty_ to act, liberty to employ my time and strength in
household duties. What I want is a respite from suffering, for I endure
a thousand deaths every moment. I ask for life--life like yours, like
other people's. If you cannot understand this, and if I seem foolish or
unjust in your eyes, leave me, do not worry about me any more. I hardly
know what I am writing; my eyes are inflamed, my heart heavy. I want
air, I am suffocating! Oh, Heaven, have pity upon me! What have I done
to deserve such wretchedness? I love you, I adore you, my Victor; have
pity upon me. Kill me with one blow, but do not let me suffer as many
eternities as there are minutes in every one of your absences.
What am I saying? I am delirious, feverish. Oh God, have mercy on me!
JULIETTE.
_November 4th, 8.30 p.m. (1834)._
Yes, you are my support, the stable earth beneath my feet, my hope, my
joy, my happiness, my all! I do not know how these halting words of mine
can be expected to convey my thoughts to your mind, but this indeed is
truly and sincerely meant: that you are to me the noblest, most sincere,
most generous of men. I believe this, and have absolute confidence in
your power to frustrate the evil fate which holds me in its grip.
My dearly beloved, you were quite charming just now, and you are
perfectly right when you say that there is an element of vanity in your
nobility of conduct; for nothing could be more becoming than the elegant
and dignified manner in which you raised me just now from my knees. You
were really great. You were a king!
My darling little Toto, _chéri!_ I am going to bed now, because I am not
certain that you will come early enough to take me out; and, after all,
you are not the sort of man to be scandalised by finding a woman in bed,
especially ...
JULIETTE.
1834.
MY DEARLY BELOVED,
I am always wishing I were a great actress, because, if my soul and
intellect were equal to yours, another link would be forged between us;
but I wish it still more at such a time as this, for I should then be
able to relieve you of the annoyance of being at the mercy of an old
woman, whose conceit has made her aggressive.[63]
I need not finish this letter, for here you are!
1835.
It is long after 11 o'clock. I am no longer expecting you for a walk,
but I still hope to see you this evening. I write you these few lines as
an apology for the disappointment I feel each time you fail me. I am
miserable, but not angry; I shed tears, but do not reproach you; I am
often much to be pitied, but I never cease loving you to distraction. If
only you would believe this, I think I could bear my invidious position
with more resignation. I am afraid you misapprehend my love, and this
anxiety often makes the days seem long and sad.
But I must not forget that you are working and worn out, and that you
have neither strength nor leisure to listen, that is to say, to read of
my worries.
11.30 _p.m._
Here you are! I am finishing this letter more untidily even than usual.
Luckily one's character, and, more important still, one's heart, are not
exclusively interpreted by one's handwriting.
JULIETTE.
_Saturday, 3.15 p.m._ (1835).
MY POOR, DEAR, BELOVED TOTO,
When I see you so preoccupied with important business I am ashamed to
add to your fatigues by the reiteration of my devotion, which you
already know by heart. Did I not fear that you would misunderstand my
silence, I should put an end to these letters, which, after all, are
only a cold skeleton, a dull narrative of the generous, tender,
passionate feelings which fill my heart. I should stop them, I say,
until after the production of your play, reserving to myself the
privilege of taking my revenge afterwards by multiplying my words and
caresses. This is what I should do if you felt only a quarter as much
solicitude for your dear little person as I do.
It is nearly three o'clock. I hope by this time everything has gone off
well at rehearsal. It is high time, my admired, beloved, adored poet,
you left that wretched den they call the Théâtre Français. You will
leave it with full credit to yourself, notwithstanding the ill-will of
that jealous old wretch, and the stupidity, hatred, and malice of the
cabal against you.
You will see, my splendid lion, whether those hideous crows will dare
croak in face of your roaring. As for me, if anything could make me
prouder and happier, it would be that I alone understand you.
JULIETTE.
_Saturday, 1.30 p.m., April 11th (1835)._
Why were you so smart just now? It makes me dreadfully anxious,
especially in conjunction with your early morning walks to the Arsenal.
Toto ... Toto ... you do not know what I am capable of; take care! I do
not love you for nothing. If you deceived me the least bit in the world
I should kill you. But no, seriously, I am jealous when I see you so
fascinating. I do not feel as reassured as you would wish me to be. In
fact, I insist upon attending these rehearsals. I do not choose to
confide my dear lover to the discretion of nobody knows who. I wish to
keep my lover to myself, in the face of the nation and of all French
actresses.
That is my politic and literary resolve: I shall put it into execution,
from to-morrow.
By the way, this is my birthday. You did not even know it--or, rather, I
dare say you do not care whether I was ever born or not. Is it true that
you do not mind one little bit? That is all the importance you attach to
my love! And yet one thing is very certain: that I was created and put
into the world solely to love you, and God knows with what ardour I
fulfil my mission.
I love you--ah, yes, indeed, I love you--I love my Victor!
JULIETTE.
_Saturday, 8 p.m. (1835)._
I am more than ever resolved to separate our lives one from the other.
What you say about Mlle. Mars's increasing age and the impossibility of
obtaining a double success through her, literary as well as financial,
and about the necessity of securing the services of Madame Dorval or
some equally handsome and celebrated actress, makes me determined to
sever our connection as speedily as possible, no matter where I may have
to go, or under what pecuniary conditions. Your words to-night prove
that you have had private intelligence about Mlle. Mars, Madame Dorval,
and the theatre generally, that you have concealed from me, although it
must completely revolutionise the plans made by you for the first play
you were to give at this theatre. The secrecy you have maintained on the
subject, contrary to all your promises to conceal nothing from me,
grieves me more than the treachery of Monsieur Harel and Mlle. George,
more even than the wicked animosity of your enemies and the perfidy of
your intimate friends against myself. This silence is proof positive
that I am a hindrance to your interests; you dread my ambition and my
jealousy; you had already seen the propriety of giving a part to Madame
Dorval, but you did not dare tell me so, for fear of encountering
resistance and tears from me at this new distribution. You have only
partially averted these. I will not attempt to thwart you, on the
contrary; as for my tears, they are not worth wiping away, nor even
restraining.[64] From this very night we cease our communion of dramatic
interests. I go back to the position I ought never to have left: that of
a hack actress, who is given any part, and badly paid at that. You
resume your liberty without any impediment.
Let us hope this new resolution will conduce to our greater happiness.
JULIETTE.
_Tuesday, April 28th, 1835.
Four hours before the production of "Angélo."_
This is just to remind you of my love, and that it will only be purified
and augmented by the ill-luck and perfidy to which you are more exposed
than others, my noble poet, my king--king, indeed, of us all, though
lover only of me: is that not so? I have nothing to fear from you, have
I, my darling? You will take care of yourself and resist the advances of
that shameless woman. Promise me this. I would not allude to it to-day,
only I feel so uneasy at the thought of your spending the whole evening
in her society, that I would give my life to prevent it. If you
understood the greatness and quality of my love, you would appreciate my
alarm.
Think of poor me, sitting at the back of a box to-night, enduring all
the anguish of jealousy and love.
JULIETTE.
Madame Pierceau came at one o'clock, leaving Monsieur Verdier in a cab
below. He was desperate at the loss of his stall, which, he hears, was
taken from him by your orders. As I did not know what to say about it, I
advised Madame Pierceau to send him to you. Monsieur Pasquier, as I
anticipated, has not taken Madame Récamier's box. I wonder what you have
done with it. Did it reach you in time?
_Midnight, Tuesday, April 28th, 1835.
An hour after the triumph of "Angélo."_
My cup is full. Bravo! bravo!! bravo!!! bravo!!!! bravo!!!!! For the
first time I have been able to applaud you as much as I wished, for you
were not there to prevent it.
Thank you, my beloved! Thank you for myself, whose happiness you
increase with every second of my life, and thank you also for the crowd
that was there, admiring, listening, and appreciating you.
[Illustration: AUTOGRAPH LETTER FROM JULIETTE DROUET TO HER DAUGHTER
CLAIRE.]
[Illustration: AUTOGRAPH LETTER FROM JULIETTE DROUET TO HER DAUGHTER
CLAIRE (_continued_).]
I saw and heard everything, and will tell you all about it; although if
the applause, enthusiasm, and delirium could be measured by sheer
weight, my load would indeed be heavy. I will give you full details of
the performance, to-morrow, for I dare not hope to see you to-night; it
would be too much happiness for one day, and you do not want me to go
mad with joy!
Till to-morrow, then. If you knew how conscientiously I clapped Madame
Dorval, you would hesitate to say or do anything to add to the soreness
I already feel at the thought that another than I has been selected to
interpret your noble sentiments. There, now I am giving way to sadness
again, because you are with that woman!
Good-night, my beloved. Sleep well, my poet, if the sound of the great
chorus of praise does not prevent it. To your laurels I add my tender
caresses and thousands of kisses.
JULIETTE.
_Friday, 8 p.m. (1835)._
If I were a clever woman, my gorgeous bird, I could describe to you how
you unite in yourself the beauties of form, plumage, and song! I would
tell you that you are the greatest marvel of all ages, and I should only
be speaking the simple truth. But to put all this into suitable words,
my superb one, I should require a voice far more harmonious than that
which is bestowed upon my species--for I am the humble owl that you
mocked at only lately. Therefore, it cannot be. I will not tell you to
what degree you are dazzling and resplendent. I leave that to the birds
of sweet song who, as you know, are none the less beautiful and
appreciative.
I am content to delegate to them the duty of watching, listening and
admiring, while to myself I reserve the right of loving; this may be
less attractive to the ear, but it is sweeter far to the heart. I love
you, I love you, my Victor; I cannot reiterate it too often; I can never
express it as much as I feel it.
I recognise _you_ in all the beauty that surrounds me--in form, in
colour, in perfume, in harmonious sound: all of these mean _you_ to me.
You are superior to them all. You are not only the solar spectrum with
the seven luminous colours, but the sun himself, that illumines, warms,
and revivifies the whole world! That is what you are, and I am the lowly
woman who adores you.
JULIETTE.
If you are coming to fetch me, as you led me to expect, I shall see you
very soon now. I have never longed more ardently for you. Lanvin has
just come. I will tell you about it when I see you.
_Thursday, 7.30 p.m. (1835)._
TO MY DEAR ABSENT ONE.
I hardly saw you this morning. I have not seen you this evening, and God
knows what time it will be before you come to take me to _Angélo_--for I
do not admit the possibility of a single performance taking place
without my presence: besides, I am not sorry to know exactly how much
time you spend with these actresses of the sixteenth century, and those
of the nineteenth, who are no less dangerous. There, I am nearly as
cross as I am sad. I had vowed I would not write at length to-day, just
to teach you not to throw my letters aside without reading them.
Myself, my letters, forgotten! You certainly manage to be the most
worshipped and the least attentive of lovers. Oh, you do not care!
Never mind, I am sad. I am longing for you to-night, as the poor
prisoner hungers for his pittance at the hour he is accustomed to
receive it.
But you are indifferent--you can calmly let my soul die of inanition--do
you not love me, then? Tell me!
Well, I love _you_. I love you my Victor. I forgive you, because I hope
it is not your fault, and also, because I cannot prevent myself from
loving you.
JULIETTE.
_Tuesday, 8 p.m., 1835._
You hurt me a little bit just now, my Toto. While I was sacrificing the
happiness of being with you one moment longer, to your need of repose,
you were worrying about trifles, and not giving me a thought or a
farewell. In moments like these I am forced to realise that you do not
care for me as I care for you, and I feel wretched in consequence.
Another thing I have observed is that you never allude to my letters.
You neither notice the complaints I make nor the love I shower upon you
with every word. You have turned my happiness and content into sadness.
My Toto, _you do not love me as I love you_. You have exhausted your
faculty of loving. I tell myself that the enthusiastic and passionate
devotion you once cherished for me has degenerated into mere
partiality--then I mourn and mope, like a woman betrayed.
If you knew how I love you, my Toto, you would understand the anguish of
my eagerness, you would pity me, and, instead of leaving my letters
unanswered, you would fly to me the moment you have read them, to
reassure and comfort me if my fears are unfounded.
Never mind, I give you a thousand kisses. How many will you waste?
JULIETTE.
_Tuesday, 12.30 p.m. (1835)._
MY DEAR LITTLE TOTO,
You have written me a very charming letter. I cannot send you one as
fascinating; all I can do is to give you my whole heart and thoughts and
life.
You are quite right when you say that I shall soon give myself to you
again, regardless of the sorrows that may follow. It is true, for I
could sooner dispense with life than with your love.
But let me tell you again the joy, surprise, and happiness, your letter
caused me. You are better than I, and you are right when you think me an
old idiot. I am in the seventh heaven this morning. You have never given
me so much happiness, my dear little Toto. I am so grateful! I cannot
love you more in return, for that were impossible; but I can appreciate
in a higher degree your worth and the depth of your affection for me.
You are my dear little man, my lover, my god, my adored tyrant! I love
you, adore you, think of you, desire you, call upon you!
JULIETTE.
Which do you like best, quality or quantity?
_Monday, 8.20 p.m. (1835)._
I adore your jealousy when it gives me the pleasure of seeing you at an
unaccustomed hour; but when it simply consists in suspecting me without
advantage to ourselves, oh, how I detest it!
You were rather cross to-day, but you atoned so amply by coming as you
did, that I would willingly see you a little bit unjust to me every day,
if it entailed the pleasure of having you one minute longer in the
evening.
If you only knew how true it is that I love you, you could never be
jealous, or admit the possibility of my being unfaithful to you; and
again, if you knew how much I love you, you would come every moment of
the day and of the night, to surprise me in that occupation, and you
would ever be welcomed with transports of joy.
Yes, yes, I love you! I do not say so to force you to believe it, but
because I crave to repeat it with every breath, with every word, in
every tone. I adore you much more than you can ever wish. I love you
above all things.
JULIETTE.
You attach too little importance to my letters as a rule. You forget
that fine unguents are contained in small boxes, great love in trivial
words.
_Friday, 2 p.m. (1835)._
You want a huge long letter ... and yet another huge long letter ... you
are not very modest in your requirements. What would you say if I asked
as much?--you, who write to every one in the world except me. I have a
great mind to treat you according to your deserts, and write only as
much as you write, love you only as much as you love me. You would be
nicely punished if I did this. But do not fear; I should never play you
such a scurvy trick. I am too much in need of an outlet for the
superabundance of my heart, to venture to close the issue. I am too
anxious to tell you every day how much I adore you, to condemn myself to
silence. I long too much to get near you, in thought at all events, to
afford to cut off the way of communication. Now that you know why I
write so often, I will begin my letter.
My dear little Toto, although it is not long since I left you, I desire
you with all the impatience and all the inclination that comes of a long
separation. I should like to know where you are and what you are doing.
I should like to be wherever you are, and, above all, I should like to
be in your heart and thoughts, as you are in mine. I should like to be
you and you me, in respect of love. The rest becomes you and you only.
You are admired; I need to be loved. Are you capable, I ask you, of
loving me as much as I love you, or half as much? even that would be
immeasurable. If you only knew the extent of my love, you would treasure
me, only for that.
I love you, love you, love you, love you, love you!
This short little word, issuing from my heart, has impetus enough to
mount right up to the heavens. I love you!
JULIETTE.
I have received a letter from my daughter. This, combined with the
horrible weather, makes me quite happy.
_Friday, 9 p.m. (1835)._
You gave me a delicious afternoon. How delightfully you talked! I am not
alluding to your wit; a fly does not seek to raise an ingot of gold!
Neither do I speak of the happiness of leaning upon your arm, listening
to your voice, gazing into your eyes, breathing your breath, measuring
my steps by yours, feeling my heart beat in unison with yours.
There can be no happiness greater than that I enjoyed this afternoon
with you, clasped in your arms, your voice mingling with mine, your eyes
in mine, your heart upon my heart, our very souls welded together. For
me, there is no man on this earth but you. The others I perceive only
through your love. I enjoy nothing without you. You are the prism
through which the sunshine, the green landscape, and life itself, appear
to me. That is why I am idle, dejected, and indifferent, when you are
not by my side. I do not know how to employ either my body or my soul,
away from you. I only come to life again in your presence. I need your
kisses upon my lips, your love in my soul.
JULIETTE.
_Saturday, 11 a.m. (1835)._
GOOD MORNING, MY VICTOR!
Let me first kiss you. Of all the promises I made you yesterday, when we
separated, only one has been broken. I promised to love you as I loved
you at that moment--that is to say, more than all the world; but I do
not know how it happened, I have come to love you much more! and I feel
it will be so as long as I shall live. I beg you, my dear little Toto,
to make up your mind to this, as I have already done.
Do you know, my blessed Toto, you are a second little Tom Thumb, far
more marvellous than your prototype; for, not merely with pebbles or
crumbs of bread do you mark the roads along which you travel, but
actually with jewels and precious stones. I shall always recognise the
spot where you dropped an enormous ruby as big as a flint, yesterday,
with as much indifference as if it had been a piece of grit from
Fontainebleau.
What do you suppose must happen to an insignificant creature like myself
in the presence of so much wealth, in the midst of the enchantments of
your mind? Will she lose her reason? That is already done. As to her
heart, you stole it from her very easily, and therefore nothing remains
to the poor wight but what is already yours.
Her love, her admiration, her life, belong to you! My glances, words,
caresses, kisses, all, are yours!
JULIETTE.
(1835.)
It seems to be always my turn to write to you now. In the old days your
letters called forth my letters, your love mine--and it was meet that it
should be so, for, as you have often said, the man should be the pursuer
of the woman. It is always awkward when a change of _rôles_ occurs, and
I am acutely conscious of it. I feel that a caress from you gives me far
more happiness and security than thousands of those elicited by me.
It is already half-past eleven and you have not arrived. Perhaps you are
not coming, and the prohibition you laid upon me yesterday against
seeking you at the printing works redoubles my anxiety and jealousy. I
fear lest some untoward thing may have befallen you, or, worse still,
some agreeable invitation reached you. My heart is crushed as in a vice;
I think there is no greater suffering in this world than that of loving
yet fearing. We arrange our lives very badly. Since you are not a free
agent, and may be prevented from seeing me by thousands of circumstances
we cannot foresee, you should at least allow me the opportunity of
knowing what you are doing and where you are. It would satisfy me and
keep me content. Instead of this, I have to wait for you, a prey to
fears that tear at my heartstrings. Alas, I am to be pitied for loving
you so intensely. It is a superabundance that will surely kill the body
which bears it.
If you love me only moderately, I pray God to deprive me of one of two
things: either my life, or my love.
JULIETTE.
Nearly midnight. What a night I have before me! God pity me!
AT METZ,
_September 17th, Thursday, 8.15 a.m., 1835._
Good-morning, my Toto, good morning. It is magnificently fine, and we
are going to be enormously happy. We are about to resume our bird-life,
our life of love and freedom in the woods. I am enchanted. If only you
were here, I should kiss you with all my might and main, as a reminder.
What sort of a night did you have? Did you love me? Have you been
writing to me under the old chestnut-tree? I am sure you have not. You
scamp, I am afraid I go on loving you in proportion to the decrease of
your affection.
I was not able to read last night. I went to bed at a quarter past ten,
and had horrid dreams. I trust they will not come true, but I confess I
should be glad to get news of my poor little girl, whom we neglect far
too much. If two more days go by without a letter, I shall write to
Saumur, for I am really worried about her.
My dear little Toto, I am going to dress now, so as to get to you
earlier. I love you, I love you with all my strength and all my soul. I
kiss you! I adore you! Till this afternoon.
Your JULIETTE.
AT METZ,
_September 24th, Thursday, 8.45 a.m._
Good-morning, my darling Victor. I love you and am happy, for we are
going to be more absolutely together than was possible yesterday, or the
day before, when an inconvenient third disturbed our privacy. Also the
weather is glorious, and I am madly in love with you; so everything
around me glows radiant and beautiful.
I stayed in bed until 8.30, although I woke up at seven o'clock; but I
just rolled lazily about, thinking of you, and reading yesterday's
newspapers. I reached home exactly at seven o'clock last night,
undressed, tidied my things, dined, wrote to you, did my accounts, and
read _Claude Gueux_ till half-past ten. Then I put my hair into
curl-papers, and got into bed at eleven o'clock. I went to you in
spirit, and dreamt that I was kissing Baby Toto, and making big Toto
jealous. This is the complete history of my morning up to date; now I
shall dress, breakfast, and go for a walk in the meadows with the maid.
Farewell, dearest, until this afternoon's happiness. Always yours in
love and longing.
I love you with all my heart, I embrace you in spirit, I adore you with
my whole soul, I admire you with every faculty of my mind. Think of me,
come to me, come to me as soon as possible. My arms, my cheek, my whole
being, await you.
J.
AT METZ,
_Thursday, 8.45 p.m._
MY DEAR, GOOD TOTO,
I should have got back without adventure, had I not met an enormous and
horrific toad in the road, which sent me flying home, shrieking as if
the devil was at my heels. I was here by ten minutes past seven, began
my dinner at five minutes past eight, and am now sitting writing to you,
to thank you for all the bliss you lavish upon me. This day, drenched
with rain though it was, has been one of the most beautiful and happiest
of my whole life. If there had been rainbows in the sky, they would be
reflected in our hearts, linking our souls together in thought and
emotion.
I thank you for drawing my attention to so many lovely things I should
never notice without your assistance and the touch of your dear white
hand upon my brow; but there is one beauty greater and nobler than all
the combined ones of heaven and earth, for the recognition of which I
require no help--and that is yourself, my best beloved, your personality
that I adore, your intellect that enchants and dazzles me. Would that I
possessed the pen of a poet, to describe all I think and feel! But,
alas, I am only a poor woman in love, and such a condition is not
conducive to brilliancy of expression!
Good-night, my adored one; good-night, my darling. Sleep well. I send
you a thousand kisses.
J.
METZ,
_Monday, 11.5 a.m., September 24th, 1835._
Great indeed was our misfortune yesterday! I agree with you in that, my
Victor, because I love you. For over a year I have suffered much;
oftener than not, without complaint. I always trusted that my love and
fidelity would engender in you feelings of esteem and confidence, but
now that hope is for ever at an end; for, far from diminishing, your
suspicion and contempt have grown to terrible dimensions. You love me, I
know, and I worship you with all the strength of my being. _You are the
only man I have ever loved, the only one to whom I have ever given this
assurance._ Yet I now implore you on my knees to let me go. I cannot
urge this too strongly. You see, my dear, I am so wretched, so
humiliated, and I suffer so acutely, that I shall have to leave you,
even against your will; so it would be kinder of you to give your
consent, that I may at least have the sad satisfaction, if I must
forsake you, of knowing that I have not disobeyed you.
Farewell, my joy; farewell, my life; farewell, my soul! I leave you,
for the very sake of our love--I offer this sacrifice on behalf of us
both. Later, you will understand. But before bidding you a last
good-bye, I swear to you that, during the last year, I have not
committed one single action I need blush for, nor harboured one guilty
thought. I tell you this from the bottom of my heart. You may believe
it.
I shall go to my child, for I am anxious about her since she has been at
Saumur. Perhaps I may bring her back with me. I think I was very wrong
to send her away. I mean to repair my fault if there is yet time. The
pretext of her health will be sufficient before the world. My heart
shall be dumb upon all that concerns you. I will keep everything to
myself. I must get work. If you can do anything to help me find some, it
will be good of you. I mention this for the first and last time, for, if
you were to forget me, you know very well that I should be the last to
venture to recall myself to you.
Good-bye again, my friend; good-bye, for ever! I have been copying your
little book, hoping you would be generous enough to leave it with me.
Good-bye! good-bye! Do not suffer, do not weep, do not think, do not
accuse yourself! I love and forgive you.
JULIETTE.
METZ,
_Saturday, 7.30 p.m. (October 1835)._
You were in a great hurry to leave me to-night, my best-beloved. If
consideration for me was your motive, it was high-handed and blundering
of you, for I never enjoyed myself more than this evening, and, until
the moment you left me so abruptly, I had never so savoured the
happiness of being with you in the highways and byways.
I therefore returned home sadly and thoughtfully. I have begun my letter
to-night with diminished joy and confidence in the future, for your
hurry to leave me weighs upon me, and I cannot explain it satisfactorily
to myself.
I came in at a quarter past six, suffering greatly from indigestion. The
maid told me some one had called for the dog--two gentlemen, who seemed
much attached to it. Poor brute, it was a wrong instinct that led it to
follow us. I have no doubt it is expiating its offence in hunger and
cold at this very moment. I am somehow unduly interested in the fate of
the poor thing. I feel something beyond ordinary pity for it; it makes
me think of the fate and future in store for a poor girl we both know.
She also follows step by step a master who will have no scruple in
casting her adrift when his duty to society proves as pressing and
sacred as that which called him away to-night.
I am depressed, my dear friend, and unwell. The oppression on my chest
is increasing. I hope your sore throat will diminish in proportion to
what I am enduring. Providence is too just to allow such cumulation of
suffering. Good-night--sleep well and think of me if you can. As for
loving me, that is another question; one's emotions cannot grow to
order. I love you.
J.
_Sunday, 8 p.m., 1835._
My dear darling, I cannot describe to you the rapture with which I
listened to the two sublime poems you recited to me, one on the first
Revolution and the other on the two Napoleons.
But where can your equal be found on earth!... My dear little Toto, do
not laugh at me. I feel so many things I cannot express, much less
write. I love and revere you, and when I reflect upon what you are, I
marvel! Since you left me, I have read again _Napoleon the Second_. I
shall never tire of it. It is going to bed with me now.
You told me to wait for you till 9.30; after that hour I shall go to
bed. If you should happen to come later, I will open the door to you
myself, as you have forgotten the key. I want to do so, that I may not
lose one second of the happiness of having you with me. Sleep
well--good-night--do not suffer--do not work--sleep!
JULIETTE.
_Wednesday, 8.30 p.m., 1835._
I am half afraid of taking too literally your request for a daily
letter. Tell me seriously how I am to interpret it, so that I may not
make myself ridiculous, by overwhelming you with letters you do not
want. Tell me the truth once for all, so that I may know where I am, and
may give myself up without restraint to the pleasure of telling you, and
writing to you, that I love you with all my heart, and that you alone
constitute my sole joy, my sole happiness, and my sole future. If you
can experience only one quarter of the bliss in reading, that I shall
feel in inditing my scribble, you shall receive some of my prose every
day, but in limited quantities, calculated not to wear out your
patience.
And, in order to demonstrate my powers of self-restraint, I will limit
myself to six trillions of kisses for your beautiful mouth. Besides,
here you come! I love you.
JULIETTE.
_Wednesday, 8 p.m., December 2nd, 1835._
MY BELOVED,
When one is ill and feverish, everything tastes bitter to the lips and
palate. I am in that position. I am abominably miserable, and all the
sweet words you lavish upon me seem tainted. But I have enough sense
left to realise that it is my condition that prevents me from relishing
the full meed of happiness you are able to give me in one moment.
Forgive me for suffering, and for not having the strength or generosity
to conceal it from you; it is only because I suffer too much, and love
you too much, which is the same thing.
I promise to be very cheerful to-night, and to disguise my feelings. I
have read everything concerning you in the papers, and I cannot help
suspecting that a passage about you and your work has been purposely cut
out. If this is so, you had much better tell me, for I am quite equal to
bearing the truth, and even to hearing lies; so I beg you to tell me
what was in that newspaper, and thus spare me the trouble of procuring
another copy. You must indeed be happy and proud on behalf of the person
to whom you are supposed to have dedicated your sublime poem.
[Illustration: VICTOR HUGO.]
The article by Monsieur F. Dugué seems singularly well-informed about
your restoration to the _domestic hearth_. I am apparently not the only
one who notices that for the last year you have been changing your
habits and feelings, though I am probably the only one who will die of
grief in consequence--but what matter, so long as the domestic hearth
remains _cheerful_ and the _family_, _happy_.
I hope you will do your best to come and see me to-morrow, during the
intervals of the performance unless the salutations you have to make,
and the compliments and admiration you must acknowledge should detain
you against your will; in which case I hope I may be brave enough not to
worry about such a trifle, and reasonable enough not to let the
magnitude of my love depend upon so slight a pleasure.
You see, my dear angel, I bow to the arguments you impress on me. I am
no longer sad, neither do I suffer. I love you; that is the truest word
of all.
JULIETTE.
_Tuesday, 8.45 p.m., December 15th, 1835._
Of course, my darling, you did right to come back, whatever your reason
might be; but the pleasure of your visit was quite spoilt by your
inquiry as to how I spend my time, when it is self-evident that my
conduct is irreproachable.
It may surprise you that I should have borne the inquisition you
habitually subject me to, with less equanimity to-day than usual. I own,
my poor angel, that I do not know why it should be so. Perhaps I am like
the cripple, who feels pain in the leg which has been cut off, long
after he has lost it. I often suffer over my past life, though the
present is so widely different. I suffer, not from variations of
temperature, but from the variations of your love, which seems to grow
daily colder and more gloomy. If I am mistaken, forgive and pity me; but
if, as I fear, I make no error, tell me so frankly, and I shall be
grateful for your sincerity. You see, my poor friend, I cannot believe
that your jealousy is other than an insulting mistrust of us both. I
have watched you carefully for the last six months, and I can see quite
well that, although your love is gradually waning, your supervision
becomes ever more active and more fidgety. If I were absolutely sure of
what I suspect, I should not say this to you--I should go away at once,
and you would never hear of me again; but if by chance I were wrong, and
you still care for me, such a course would entail frightful sorrow upon
us both. Therefore I remain, preferring to incur your hatred and
contempt, rather than run the risk of grieving you.
There, my poor angel, is the attitude of mind and heart in which you
found me this evening; it will explain why I received your question so
badly, although I was grateful for your presence. You see, my head and
heart are weary. If you are not careful, some calamity, resulting from
this condition, will overtake and crush you, at a moment when neither
you nor I will be able to prevent it. I give you this warning in all
sincerity, but with the intimate conviction that it will not affect you.
As long as you feel I belong to you wholly and entirely, you are as
indifferent to my sufferings as to my happiness.
J.
_Wednesday, 8.30, February 3rd, 1836._
If I have grieved you, my beloved, I beg you to forgive me, for I know
your position is awkward and demands much consideration, especially from
me. Besides, why should I complain of my mode of life more to-day, than
yesterday? I accept my position without regret; therefore there is no
reason for questioning an arrangement which only you can alter.
I cannot help noticing that your love is not what it was. I may say I am
sure of it, if I may judge by the impatient words you occasionally
utter, half against your will, and by other signs it would take too long
to commit to paper. I certainly possess a _devoted_ Victor, but no
longer the _lover_ Victor of former days. If it is as I fear, it becomes
your duty to leave me at once; for I have never wished to live with you
otherwise than as an adored mistress--certainly not as a woman dependent
upon a man whose passion is spent. I want no pension. I demand my place
in your heart, apart from any feeling of duty or gratitude. That is what
I desire, as earnestly as I long to be a faithful woman, submissive to
your every whim, whether just or unjust.
If I have hurt your feelings, my dearly beloved, I plead for pardon from
the bottom of my heart. If you have to acknowledge a decrease in your
love, be brave enough to do so frankly, and do not leave to me the
frightful task of guessing it; but if you care for me as much as ever,
say it again and again, for I doubt it, alas, and, in love, doubt is
more painful a thousand times than the most heartbreaking certainty.
Farewell, I worship you.
J.
_Wednesday, 8.15 p.m., February 17th, 1836._
You must think me either very cruel or very blind, my beloved. I think,
perhaps, it would be best for you to accept the latter hypothesis. I
love you, which means that I am jealous; but, as my jealousy is in
proportion to my love, my doubts and frenzy are more vivid, more bitter,
than those of ordinary women, who are only capable of an ordinary
affection. Very well--I am cruel! So be it! I detest every woman upon
whom your glances rest. I feel capable of hating all women, young or
old, plain or handsome, if I suspect that they have dared raise their
eyes to your splendid and noble features. I am jealous of the very
pavement upon which you tread, and the air you breathe. The stars and
sun alone are beyond my jealousy, because their radiance can be eclipsed
by one single flash from your eyes.
I love you as the lioness loves her mate. I love you as a passionate
woman, ready to yield up her life at your slightest gesture. I love you
with the soul and intelligence God has lent His creatures to enable them
to appreciate exceptional men like yourself. That is why, my glorious
Victor, at one and the same moment, I can rage, weep, crawl, or stand
erect; I bow my head and venerate you!
There are days when one can fix one's gaze upon the sun itself without
being blinded: thus it is with me now. I see you, I am dazzled,
entranced, and I grasp your beauty in all its splendour.
JULIETTE.
_Thursday, 8 p.m., August 15th, 1836._
Since you leave me here all by myself, my beloved, I shall think only of
you, and in proof of this, I will scribble all over this virgin sheet
of white paper. It is barbarous of you to let me grow fatter than I
already am, by leaving me to dawdle at my fireside, instead of taking me
out to walk and get thin.
I am in love with you, but you do not care a bit. I am very sad not to
have you with me, doubly so, when I think that it is on account of a
play in which I am to have no part, after all the time I have waited and
endured. When I reflect seriously upon this, my despair makes me long to
fly to the uttermost ends of the world. It is so necessary that I should
think of my future. I have wasted so much time waiting, that it almost
spells ruin to me that you should produce a piece in which I may not
play. You see, my dearest, I am not as generous as you thought. I am
afraid I can no longer disguise from you the injury it does me to be
three years out of the theatrical world, while you are bringing out
plays. Forgive me, but I have a horror of poverty, and would do anything
in reason to evade it. I love you.
JULIETTE.
_Friday, 8.30 p.m., March 11th, 1836._
DEAR LITTLE SOUL,
You are quite happy, I hope, now that you possess the keys of Paradise.
I had a few more difficulties to encounter after you went away, but they
were of no consequence. Now that our little palace is nearly finished,
my soul, I hope we shall celebrate the event in the usual way; but I
must first rest a little, and nurse myself up, for I am really quite
worn out with the dirt and litter. I am afraid to look at you or touch
you in your beauty and purity and charm, while I am so ugly and untidy
and exhausted that I hardly know myself as your Juju. But it will not
last. My foulness will fall from me, and reveal me dressed, as in the
fairy-tale, in garments of blue, bordered with golden stars, and a
prince will marry me after tasting of my cooking. Splendid! But
meanwhile you must graciously permit me to go on loving you, stains and
all! Shut your eyes to the common lamp that guards the flame. If you
will wait, you shall see that when we reach the heaven above us, I shall
be as resplendent as yourself. Meanwhile, I drop a kiss upon your shoes,
even if it entails your having them blacked again.
J.
_Wednesday, 7.45 p.m., March 23rd, 1836._
No doubt, dear angel, I ought to disguise in your presence the sadness
that overwhelms me when I have to wait too long for you; but the late
hour at which you generally come, makes it difficult for me to forget
the weary suspense I have already been through, and am to endure again
shortly. I love you, my dear--indeed, I love you too much. We often say
this lightly, but I assure you that this time I state it in full gravity
and knowledge, for I feel it to the very marrow of my bones. I love you.
I am jealous. I hate being poor and devoid of talent, for I fear that
these deficiencies will cost me your love. Still, I am conscious of
something within me, greater than either wealth or intellect; but is it
powerful enough to rivet you to me for ever? I ask myself this question
night and day, and you are not at hand to soothe my unrest; hence the
sadness that wounds you, the jealousy that amazes you, the mental
torment you are incapable of understanding.
But I love you all the same, and am happy in the midst of my pain. I
smile through my tears, for I love you.
JULIETTE.
_Saturday, 8 a.m., March 26th, 1836._
Good-morning, my little darling Toto.
I am up at cock-crow, though very tired; but I want to be ready to
witness your new triumph--for, beloved Toto of mine, you are the _great_
Toto, the greatest man on earth.
How I love you, my Victor! I am jealous. Even your success makes me
uneasy with the dread that, amongst so much adulation, you may overlook
the humble homage of your poor Juju. I fear that these universal
acclamations may drown my lowly cry of--_I love you!_ This apprehension
becomes an obsession on such a day as this, when everything is at your
feet, caresses, adoration, frenzy. Ah, why are you not insignificant and
unknown like myself! I should then have no need to fear that the torch
of my love will be eclipsed by that immense illumination.
Try, beloved, to keep a little place in your heart for the love and
admiration of your poor mistress, who has loved you from the day she
first set eyes upon you, and who will worship you as long as the breath
remains in her body.
JULIETTE.
_Saturday, 6.15 p.m., March 26th, 1836._
Let me tell you once again that I love you, my Victor. Presently,
thousands of voices will be raised in a chorus of _praise_. I alone
say: I _love_ you. You are my joy, the light of my eyes, the treasure of
my life, you are _YOU_. This evening, my adored one, whatever you say or
do, I must be jealous and wretched. Be merciful to me; do not let me
suffer too cruelly. If you think of me when you are absent, I shall be
conscious of it--if you love me, I shall feel it upon my heart like
beneficent balm upon a raw wound.
Farewell, dear soul; _it is impossible to wish an increase of beauty to
the man, or more glory to the genius; so, if you are happy, so am I_.
Farewell, then, dearest; I cannot refrain from sending a word of love to
the lover, before going to applaud the poet. The heart must have its due
share.
Good-bye till later. For ever, for life and until death, love, nothing
but love!
J.
Sunday, 7.45 p.m., March 27th, 1836.
I hardly dare speak to you to-night of love. I feel humiliated by my
devotion, for all those women seem to be rivals, preferred before me. I
suffer, but I do not hold you responsible. I feel worse even than usual
this evening. I did not venture to ask what you had written to Madame
Dorval, for I was afraid to discover some fresh reason for bitterness
and jealousy; so I remained silent.
My dear treasure, you are very lucky not to be jealous: you have no
competition to fear with any other celebrity, for there is none besides
yourself, and _you_ know that I love you with my whole heart, whereas
all _I_ can be sure of is, that I love you far too much to hope to be
loved in proportion. In addition, I feel I shall never be capable of
raising the heavy stone under which my intellect slumbers.
Forgive me, I am sad. I am worse than sad--I am ashamed, because I am
jealous. I am an idiot, and consequently, I am in love!
JULIETTE.
_Thursday, 8.30 p.m., April 14th, 1836._
I love you, my dear Victor, and you make me very unhappy when you seem
to doubt it. It is still harder for me when you put your want of
confidence into words, for I can only attribute it to the sacrifices you
constantly make for me, and which probably cause you to think that an
ignoble motive constrains me to remain under your protection. In
addition to thus wounding me in the most sensitive part of my love, you
exasperate me to a point I cannot describe, because it is true that I
have not the wherewithal to live independently of you and your
influence. Therefore, my poor angel, when you show your suspicions of my
sincerity, I read into them more than jealousy and ill-will: I imagine a
reproach against my dependent position. I feel an overwhelming need to
prove to you, by any means, that you are mistaken in the woman and her
love. _Remember your burnt letters!_ You know what a doubt on your part
led me to do on one occasion. Well, angel, I tell you honestly that when
you question, not only my fidelity, but also my love, I long to fly to
the other side of the world, there to exist as best I can, and never
pronounce your name again for the rest of my life. This will be the last
proof of love I can give you, and at least you will not be able to
accuse me, then, of self-interest and self-love. You hurt me terribly
to-night; you often do, and generally when I am most tender and
demonstrative towards you.
Yet I love you.
J.
_Tuesday, 8 p.m., April 19th, 1836._
Beloved, I am perfectly certain you will not come to fetch me to see
_Lucrèce_, and I am already resigned. There is only one thing I shall
never submit to, and that is, the loss of your love. I know you are
devoted, that you lavish friendship upon me; but I feel that you have no
more love to give me, and I cannot bear it. During the four months I
have been alone, ill for the most part, I never knew whether the time
would come when you would be impelled to say to me: _Take courage, for I
love you_. I would have given life to find those words in your
handwriting at my bedside in the morning, or on my pillow at night. I
waited in vain, they never came; my sorrow grew, and now I am certain
that you have ceased to care for me.
I know what you will say, Victor--you will tell me that you are hard at
work, that you do everything for me, and do not let me want for
anything. To that I reply that I have been just as busy or busier than
you, yet have always found time to show you the outward signs of my
inward love. I may also tell you that, without your love, I _do_ want
for _everything_, and that my life is utterly wretched without it.
Lastly, I declare to you that if you continue to be so _reasonably_ kind
and attentive, I will release you from your self-imposed burden, at some
moment when you least expect it, and for evermore. I must have true
love or nothing.
JULIETTE.
_Monday, 7.45 p.m., May 2nd, 1836._
MY DEAR LITTLE BELOVED,
I am sorry to find that you are not as convinced as I am, of the
propriety of giving me your portrait.
I confess I feel the greatest disappointment when I realise, from your
daily evasion of my request, that I shall probably never become the
possessor of the picture which is so like you, nor even, perhaps, of a
copy of the original. I am sad and dejected. I think you do not care
enough for me, a poor disinherited creature, to do me the favour you
have already bestowed upon another, who already has her full meed of the
gifts of life. I am therefore greatly disappointed. I had counted upon
having the portrait, and had anticipated much happiness from its
possession. The contemplation of it would have so greatly contributed to
my courage and resignation, that it is very grievous to have to renounce
it thus suddenly, without any compensation.
If I wanted to speak of other things now, I could not; my heart is
heavy, my eyes overflow with tears. I can only find bitter words for the
expression of my wounded love.
I love you more to-day than I have ever done before, yet I am not happy.
JULIETTE.
_Friday, 7.45 a.m., May 20th, 1836._
GOOD MORNING, MY DEAR LITTLE TOTO.
You failed me again last night, so I shall never count upon you again. I
loved you with all my strength, and thought of you even in my sleep.
This morning I love you with my whole soul, and heartily long for you,
but I know you will not come, so I am cross and sad.
How fine the weather is, my Toto, and how happy we could be in the fresh
air, on the high road, in a nice little carriage, with a month of
happiness in prospect: it would be Paradise, but ... but ... I dare not
set my heart upon it, for I should go crazy with grief if the treat were
withheld. At all events, I am ready to start; my foot is well again, and
we can set off to-night, or to-morrow morning, at whatever time suits
you. I am quite ready, let us, therefore, seize our chance of the fine
weather.
My adored one, I am dying to make this expedition.... Do try to get free
at the earliest moment possible. I shall be so happy. I still love you,
ever so much. I need you terribly. My heart is more than ready for the
happiness you will give me during the whole time we shall be together.
JULIETTE.
_Thursday, 12.45 p.m., July 21st, 1836._
Once more I am reduced to writing all that is in my heart, my adored
one. It is but a slender satisfaction after the bliss we have been
enjoying. Nevertheless, we must take life as we find it, and it would be
ungracious of me to complain. A month like the one we have just spent
would compensate for a whole life-time of misfortune and worry. Poor
angel, since you left me I feel lost and alone in the world. You cannot
imagine the utter void, surrounded as you are at this moment by the
affection of charming children and devoted friends, while I am alone
with my love--that is to say alone in space--for my love has no limits.
I seek what consolation I can, by speaking to you, and writing to you.
Your handkerchief, breathing of you, lies by my side, with your adored
name embroidered in the corner. I caress and talk to it, and we
understand each other perfectly. For every kiss I press upon it, it
exhales your sweet aroma; it is as if I scented your very soul. Then I
weep, as one does in a beautiful dream from which one fears to awake.
Heavens, how I love you! You are my life, my joy! I adore you!
JULIETTE.
_Friday, 2.15 p.m., September 2nd, 1836._
My poor, beloved angel. The nearer the moment approaches, the more I
dread the inevitable parting which must follow the few days of happiness
you have just given me. I long for delay, but I know very well that,
however Providence may interpose in my favour, the day must come when
you will have to go to St. Prix. Lucky for me if it is not to-day. But,
putting aside all considerations of love and Juju, it would really not
be prudent for you to go to the country in this cold, foggy weather;
even this morning, in the warmth and repose of home, you felt a warning
twinge of rheumatism, which prescribes prudence on your part. I fear
your natural desire to kiss Toto on his donkey, and watch the other
little rogues at their holiday occupations, may draw you, in spite of
rain, wind, and the good counsel of your old Juju, to St. Prix. At any
rate, if you do this foolish thing, try to avoid chills, to think of me,
and to come back to my care and caresses as quickly as possible.
JULIETTE.
_Saturday, 6 p.m., 29th, 1836._
You torment me unjustly, as usual, my darling beloved. Yet you ought to
begin to know me, and not suspect my every action, down to the drinking
of a cup of coffee. The awkwardness of my position, the absolute
solitude in which I am compelled to live, and the many insults I have to
tolerate daily from you, exasperate me so, that I feel I would rather go
out of your life, than continue to exist like a woman condemned and
accursed.
It is your fault that I am so unhappy. Nobody else will ever love you so
well, or be so entirely devoted to you. But one is not bound to put up
with impossibilities, and I cannot live longer under a yoke which you
make more crushing every day. What am I to do, beloved? Run away from
you? I have scarcely enough money for my quiet Paris _routine_. Remain
here? If you have not the courage to abstain from visiting me, I
certainly shall never have enough to prevent you from coming.
The wound in my heart is raw and bleeding, thanks to the care you take
to keep it in that condition. The slightest additional twinge becomes
unbearable torture. I do not know what moral operation I would not
consent to, to be cured of it.
For the last three years you have really given me too much pain. I
implore you, from the bottom of my heart, to be less offensive with me,
or else to leave me for good and all. You may guess from this what I am
enduring.
JULIETTE.
_Sunday, 2 p.m., January 1st, 1837._
Your darling, adorable letter has reached me. I have devoured it with
caresses. Oh, how I love you! I have just sent my child out of the room,
so that I might read it on my knees in front of your picture. These
little pranks may seem foolish, but they contain a deeper, more sacred
significance, like the devotion that inspires them.
When you come, you will find me joyous and radiant, as I was on that
glorious day when you first revealed your love. My beloved, my heart, I
am very happy. I am in heaven, for you love me, my Toto ... your dear
letter has said it. Your eyes, your mouth, your soul, will tell me so
still better, presently. Yes, indeed I am happy, I am surfeited. There
is nothing left for me to desire or require--I have your love, a love
which God Himself might envy were He a _woman_.
Thank you, adored one, thank you from my heart and soul. I am as good as
gold, believe me.
JUJU.
_Tuesday, 7.30 p.m., February 21st, 1837._
Do not grieve, my precious, do not lament. I will not attempt
consolation, for you have better and more efficacious resources within
your own self; but I share your affliction. Whatever saddens you
saddens me: where you love, I love; when you mourn, I mourn. If I
conjure you not to give way to your grief, it is not because I hesitate
to bear my portion of it, but because I believe that your poor brother
himself would not now desire a return to this life.[65] I look upon his
death more as a blessing than a misfortune. Poor brother!
I love you, my adored Victor. In moments such as these, when sorrow
brings you nearer to my level, I feel that my affection for you is
absolutely true and purified from all dross. Try to come early this
evening. I will lavish caresses upon you silently, with my eyes and my
innermost self, without worrying you. You shall rest by my fireside, and
lean your dear head upon my shoulder, and read, and I shall be glad.
I am jealous of that woman who has dared to _steal_ your verses; such
things are not _lost_. It was a two-fold wickedness on her part, for she
caused _you_ the trouble of rewriting them, and _me_ the torment of
jealousy. I will not have you see her again, ever! Do you hear?
Oh, I love you, I love you far too much.
JULIETTE.
_Monday, 7.15 p.m., April 2nd, 1837._
[Illustration: CARICATURE OF MLLE. GEORGE, BY VICTOR HUGO.
Victor Hugo Museum.]
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF VICTOR HUGO BY HIMSELF.]
I have decided to get up, after all, thanks to the laundry-man; but for
him, I should have remained in bed, nursing my depression. I am sad
beyond everything, yet I cannot tell why--you are kind and affectionate,
and I love you with my whole soul; but that does not seem enough.
Esteem, the keystone of happiness, is lacking. I have worn myself out in
the endeavour to gain it during the last four years, yet it cometh not,
nor ever will come, now. I must turn my efforts in another direction. I
must try to break with you, tactfully, as you say, by quitting Paris,
and perhaps France. Will that be sufficient to stop the tongue of
scandal? I wish to leave you before you abandon me, because I do not
admit your right to inflict such a fearful blow upon me. There are
people, capable of committing suicide, who yet recoil at the thought of
being murdered--I am one. I can and will kill myself, but I shrink from
the injury you might possibly inflict upon me before long. My courage
does not outstrip your cruelty. I love you too much for happiness.
JULIETTE.
_Tuesday, 10.15 a.m., May 2nd, 1837._
Good morning, my well-beloved. Did you have a good night? You looked
overstrained and tired yesterday, and indeed there was enough to make
you so, you poor dear. I do not know how you can put up with it all.
Forgive me for adding to your burthen the exactions of a woman who
loves, and fears to recognise in lassitude an evidence of coldness.
Forgive me; if I did not occasionally doubt your love I should torment
you less, and would show more consideration for your occupations and
repose.
You hurt me very much last night by speaking as you did, yet I wanted to
know your true opinion of me. I have long been tormented by a mournful
curiosity on that point. Last night you satisfied it in full. I know
now that you pity without despising me. I accept your compassion, for I
need it, and ought to have it; but I should indignantly repudiate a
contempt I do not deserve. My past history is sad, but not disgraceful.
My life until I met you was the melancholy outcome of a poor girl's
first fault; but at least it was never soiled by those hideous vices
that deface the soul still more than the body. Even at the worst moments
of my trouble, I cherished within me an inner sanctuary, whither I could
betake myself, as to some hallowed spot. Since then, that sanctuary has
been open to you only, and you can testify whether you have found it
worthy of you; you know whether, since you have occupied its throne and
altar, I have ever failed, one single day or minute, to prostrate myself
on my knees before you in adoration, or have ever turned my gaze or my
soul away from you. This proves, my beloved, that my former backsliding
was only superficial, not inherently vicious; that my wound was
accidental, not a loathsome, devouring canker; that I love you now, and
am thereby made whole.
JULIETTE.
_Tuesday, 10.45 a.m., May 2nd, 1837._
I am following up my letter immediately with another, because I am
alone, and the moment is propitious for me to open my heart to you from
the very bottom. Racket and pleasure are a hindrance to meditation, and
at this moment I am rapt in contemplation of you and your beloved image.
I see you as you are, that is to say, a God-made man to redeem and
rescue me from the infamous life to which I had so long been enslaved.
What Christ did for the world you have done for me: like Him, you saved
my soul at the expense of your repose and life. May you be as blessed
for this generous action as you are adored by me for it. I should have
loved you, devil or angel, bad or good, selfish or devoted, cruel or
generous--I must have loved you, for at the mere sight of you my whole
being cries out: _I love you!_ Would that I might proclaim it on my
knees, with hands clasped and heart on lips: _I love you! I love you!_
The talk we had last night kept me from sleeping, but I do not complain;
there are moments when sleep is a misfortune. I needed to rehearse one
by one all your words, to collect carefully those which must remain for
ever enshrined in my bosom as treasures of consolation and love; the
less generous ones you uttered, I have consumed in the flame of my soul;
nothing remains of them but ashes, dead as the ashes of my past.
Do not turn away in disgust from the scratches I have sustained in
falling from my pedestal, as you might from hideous and incurable
wounds. I repeat again, my beloved, because it is the truth: misfortune
there has been in my life, but neither debauchery nor moral turpitude.
Henceforth there can be nothing but a sacred, pure love for you. I am
worthy of pardon and affection. Love me; I crave it of you.
JULIETTE.
_Thursday, 11.15 a.m., May 11th, 1837._