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 LIX
Paris, Saturday night, March, 1843.
Your letter does not show the least sign of repentance. I regret the loss of
the amber pipe which you selected. There is something particularly
agreeable in carrying often in my mouth a gift from you. But let it be as you
wish. I say this very frequently, and yet there is never any reward for my
resignation.
I am completely hardened by my present occupation. The Cathedral
presses like a dead weight upon my shoulders, to say nothing of the
responsibility which I accepted in a moment of zeal, and which I now
repent from the depths of my soul. I envy women their lot, for they have
nothing to do but to make themselves beautiful, and to prepare for the effect
which they seek to produce on others. The word others has an ugly sound,
but I imagine that it engages your attention more than it does mine. I am
very much vexed with you, without knowing exactly the reason, still there
must be some good reason, for I could not be in the wrong. It seems to me
you become more egotistical every day. When you speak of us, you mean
only yourself. The more I think of this the more deplorable it appears.
If you have not written to London for that book, do not write; it is absurd
to give a woman such a commission. While I value very greatly a rare book,
I should not wish you to cause the least shadow of embarrassment by asking
for it. The editor of the book is, I am told, a worthy Quaker, who has found
some recent proofs that the Spanish Catholics of the fifteenth century were
devoid of all morality, notwithstanding the Inquisition, and, it may be,
because of it. The original copy, and the only one in existence, cost fifteen
hundred pounds sterling. It has a hundred pages and more. I was wrong to
mention it to you, and still more wrong to realise so tardily the absurdity of
the thing. Good-bye....
I was about to send you this letter when I received yours. I have been so
engrossed in my reports and investigations that it has been impossible to
write sooner. I proposed a walk for Tuesday, on condition that we should
have an hour more together. Tell me if you are unengaged Tuesday. Your
absent-mindedness is very attractive, but have I anything to do with it? That
is the question. What have you to ask my pardon for? Your sentiments are
not at all like mine.
We are so unlike that it is hardly possible to understand each other. All
this does not prevent me from anticipating the pleasure of seeing you. I
thank you for your last letter; it is very sweet. You did not say where you
were going in the country, or when you expected to start. I shall go to
Rouen in a few days. Again, good-bye. I hope to see you Tuesday, and that
you will be in good spirits, and less downcast than I am to-day.
 LX
Monday night, March 21, 1843.
I am terribly blue, and full of remorse for my anger to-day. The only
excuse I can offer is that the transition between our delicious stop in that
wonderful resting-place and the remainder of our walk was too abrupt. It
was like falling from heaven into hell. If I distressed you, I am as repentant
as I can be, but I hope I have not caused you to suffer as much as I have
myself. You have reproached me oftentimes for being indifferent to
everything; I suppose you meant only that I was undemonstrative. When I
am not myself, it is because I am in bodily anguish. Admit that it is sad,
after so long an acquaintance, and after having become the friends we are,
to see you always suspicious of me. The weather to-day has been like our
mood. It will clear to-night, I think. The stars shine brighter than I have ever
seen them. Let us arrange some less stormy excursion. Good-bye. No more
quarrels! I shall try to be more reasonable. Do you try to be ruled more by
your first impulses.
 LXI
March, 1843.
I was as tired as if I had walked four or five leagues, but the fatigue was
so agreeable that I should like to repeat it. All was so successful, that while
I am accustomed to the success of a well-arranged plan, nevertheless I share
your astonishment. To be so free, and so far away from the world, and that,
too, by making use of the benefits of civilisation, is it not amusing?
Do you know why I took only one blossom of those pretty white
hyacinths? It was because I wished to save some for another time. What do
you think of that? Besides, after consulting my map, I discovered that we
had mistaken the distance, and were about a quarter of a league out of the
way. We ought to have gone farther on, but we need regret nothing, and
next time we shall know better. For the first time it was not bad.
You were charming. You told me nothing I did not know in saying that
you returned to me what I had given you; but to hear you say this is a joy to
me, for it proves that you did not mean the cruel things you said on one of
our ill-omened days. I have forgotten them all to-day. Will you not, also,
forget my anger and my rudeness?
You ask whether I believe in the existence of the soul. Not altogether.
Nevertheless, when I reflect upon certain things, I find an argument in
favour of that hypothesis. It is this: How can two animate substances give
and receive a sensation by a union which would be insipid but for the
sentiment attached to it? This is an extremely pedantic way of saying that
when two lovers kiss each other the sensation they receive is altogether
different from that felt in kissing the softest of satin. But the argument has
its value. We will discuss metaphysics, if you like, next time I see you. It is
a subject which I find very interesting, because it can never be exhausted.
You will write to me, will you not, before Monday to say where we shall
meet? We must be there on the hour, not on the half hour. Be sure and
remember it; consequently, we must start on the half hour. This is clear, is it
not?
It is half past four, and I must rise before ten o’clock.
 LXII
Friday, March 29, 1843.
I divine, by one of those intuitions of the mind’s eye, that we shall have
fine weather for several days, but it will be followed by a long siege of bad
weather. On the other hand, our last walk, which was almost a failure, we
should consider as not having taken place. The bears alone are the better for
it. I envy them the interest you take in their welfare, and I am thinking of
having me a costume made which will give me some of their charms.
Hitherto, we have always walked from the east towards the south, and it
might be a good idea to try the opposite direction. First we should find our
starting-point, and the muddy stream that flows near it, and we will end our
walk where we usually begin it. It is devilish hard that just now I am
uncommonly busy; however, if Saturday, at three o’clock, would be
convenient, we could go on our voyage of discovery until half past five; if
not, we shall be obliged to postpone it until Monday, which is a long time to
wait.
If you knew how sweet you were the other day, you would never again
be the tease you are sometimes. I wish you had been less reserved with me.
At the same time, while your words were more ambiguous than the
Apocalypse, I seemed to read your thoughts clearly. I wish you had the
hundredth part of the pleasure which I have in following your thoughts.
There are two persons in you, so you see you no longer resemble Cerberus.
From three, you have come to be two. One, the better one, is all heart and
soul. The other is a pretty statue, highly polished by society, gracefully
draped in silk and cashmere, a charming automaton, the springs of which
are adjusted with infinite skill. When one thinks he is speaking to the first,
he finds he is speaking to the statue. Why must this statue be so attractive?
If it were not for this, I should hope that, like the Spanish oaks, you would
lose your outer bark as you grow older.
It is better for you to remain as you are, but let the first person take the
precedence over the automaton. I am getting all tangled up with my
metaphors.
At this moment I am reminded of a white hand. It seems to me that I
wished to scold you, but I can not remember the reason. It is I this time who
am suffering with my back. The pain attacked me after my return the other
day, but I can not, like you, find relief in a twelve-hours sleep. The fact is, I
am not as careful of my strength as you are. I hope to have a letter from you
to-morrow, but you must write another also to tell me whether it is to be
Saturday or Monday. Here is a third combination: Saturday, until four
o’clock, and again Monday, from two until five. This, I think, would be a
perfect arrangement. I must not fail to have your reply before noon
Saturday.
 LXIII
Friday night, April 8, 1843.
For two days I have had a horrible headache, and you write me all sorts
of dreadful things. The worst is that you have no remorse, and I had some
hope that it would be otherwise. I am so downcast that I have not even the
energy to abuse you.
What, then, is this miracle of which you speak? It would be a miracle to
make you less self-willed, but I shall never accomplish that. It is beyond my
power. I shall have to wait, therefore, until Monday to hear the solution of
the enigma, since you can not come to-morrow. Do you know it will have
been a week since I saw you? It has been a long time since that has
happened before. To make amends, we must take a long walk, and try to
avoid disputes. Two o’clock, if that suits you. I shall expect you promptly to
the minute. Your idea about Wilhelm Meister is rather pretty, but, after all, it
is only a sophism.
One might as well say that the memory of a pleasure is a variety of pain.
This is especially true of half-pleasures, by which I mean pleasures
unshared with another. You shall have those verses, if you insist upon it.
You shall have, also, your portrait in Turkish dress, which I have begun. I
have placed a nargile in your hand, to add to the local colour. When I say
you shall have all this, I mean, of course, if you pay for it. But if you will
not pay up gracefully, I am going to take a terrible revenge. I was asked
yesterday for a drawing for an album which is to be sold for the benefit of
the earthquake sufferers, and I shall give your portrait. What do you say to
it? I ask myself sometimes what I shall do in five or six weeks from now,
when I shall see you no longer. I can not realise yet that it is to be.
 LXIV
Paris, April 15, 1843.
I have suffered such intense pain in my eyes yesterday and this morning
that I could not write to you. I am a little better to-night, and the weeping
has almost stopped. Your letter is somewhat amiable, which is most
unusual. There are even a few expressions of affection, without any “buts”
or second thoughts. We look at many things from different standpoints. You
fail to understand my generosity in sacrificing myself for you. You ought to
thank me as an encouragement. But you believe that all is due to you. Why
is it that we agree so seldom in our point of view?
You acted sensibly in not speaking of Catullus. He is not an author
whom one should read during Holy Week, and in his works are many
passages impossible to translate in French. It is easy to see what love meant
in Rome fifty years before Christ. It was a little better, however, than love at
Athens in the time of Pericles. Women had already gained a little
importance, and compelled men to do silly things. The position of woman is
due not to Christianity, as it is customary to say, but to the influence exerted
on Roman society by the barbarians of the North. The Germans were
idealists. They worshipped the soul. The Romans cared only for the body.
Women, it is true, for many ages had no souls. They have none still in
Oriental countries, which is most unfortunate. You know how two souls can
hold converse. But yours is not willing to listen to mine.
I am glad to know you enjoyed those verses of Musset. You are right in
your comparison of him to Catullus. Catullus, I believe, used better
language. Musset made the mistake of denying the existence of the soul,
just as Catullus had done. For the latter, however, there was some excuse,
on account of the age in which he lived. It is a most unseasonable hour. I
must stop in order to bathe my eye. As I write I weep constantly. Good-bye
until Monday. Pray for sunshine. I shall bring you a book. Wear your seven-
league boots.
 LXV
Paris, May 4, 1843.
I am unable to sleep, and am as cross as a bear. There are several things I
should like to say about your letter, but I shall say none of them, on account
of my bad humour, or rather, I shall try to restrain it a little. Your distinction
between the two egos is very pretty, and is a proof of your profound
selfishness. You love only yourself, and that is why you feel a sort of
affection for the ego which resembles yours. Several times, day before
yesterday, I was shocked to see this. I was thinking of it sadly enough,
while you were completely absorbed in admiring the trees.
You are right to enjoy travelling on the railroad. In a few days it will be
possible to go to Rouen and to Orléans in three hours. Why should we not
go to see Saint Ouen? Yet what could be more beautiful than the woods
where we were the other day? Only, I think you should have remained there
longer. When one has sufficient imagination to give a plausible explanation
for that branch of ivy, one should not be at a loss for occupation to last
some time. I wonder if you have that ivy in your hair this evening? If you
have, I am sure that it will add to your coquettishness.
I am so vexed with you that you will think, it may be, that the I which
you admire is too much in evidence. In fact, I am thinking seriously of
putting into execution the threat I made you one day.
How did you enjoy the fireworks? I was at the house of an “Excellency”
who has a lovely garden, from where we had a good view of them. The
crowning piece was fine. They are really far more wonderful than a
volcano, for art is always more beautiful than nature. Good-bye. Try to
think of me occasionally.
Our walks have now become a part of my life, and I can hardly realise
how I lived without them. It seems to me you take them very
philosophically. But how will it be when we see each other no longer? Six
months ago we resumed our conversation at the very same point where it
had been interrupted. Shall we do the same again? I have an indefinable
fear that I shall find you changed. Every time we meet you are enveloped in
an armour of ice, which melts only after a quarter of an hour. By the time I
return you will have amassed a veritable iceberg. Well, it is better not to
cross the bridge until you come to it. Let us continue our dreams.
Should you suppose a Roman capable of saying pretty things, and of
showing affection? I will show you Monday some Latin verses, which you
shall translate for yourself, and which fit our habitual disputes like a glove.
You shall see that the ancients are a great deal better than your Wilhelm
Meister.
 LXVI
Wednesday, June, 1843.
Your letter was so kind and affectionate that it has blown away the last
remaining cloud of the recent storm. But I feel that we shall not be sure of
having forgotten it until we have buried our quarrel beneath other
memories.
Why should we not take a walk Friday? If it will not inconvenience you,
it will give me the greatest pleasure. I hope we shall have fine weather. You
promised, moreover, to tell me something which must be too important to
be deferred. I shall bring along a Spanish book, and, if you like, we will
read.
You have not yet told me whether you would pay me for my lessons. The
time which we spend otherwise than in what you are pleased to call talking
nonsense, seems to me so ill-employed that I ought at least to earn
something for my pains. Why should I not give you Spanish lessons at your
house? I could call myself Don Furlano, or something else, and bring you a
letter of introduction from Madame de P. describing me as victim of
Espartero’s tyranny.
I am beginning to find our dependence on sunshine and rain somewhat
irksome. I want, also, to paint your portrait. You have promised often to
invent some plan of meeting. You pretend to govern, but, as a fact, you
discharge your duties very badly, and I can judge very unfairly, therefore, of
your possibilities and your impossibilities. If you were to reflect upon the
delicate problem of how to see each other as often as possible, would you
not be doing a worthy action? There are many other things I wish to say to
you, but it would be necessary to refer to our quarrel, and I desire to blot it
altogether from my memory. I want to remember only our reconciliation,
which you seem to regret. That would be unkind in you. I am sorry, indeed,
that I must owe so much happiness to such an unfortunate cause.
Good-bye. Consider your statue, and animate without first harassing it.
 LXVII
Paris, June 14, 1843.
I am delighted to learn that you are better, and very sorry that you should
have wept. You misunderstand invariably the meaning of my words. You
interpret as anger or unkindness what is only sadness. I can no longer recall
what I said on that occasion, but I am sure that I intended to express but one
thing, which was that you had grieved me sorely. All these quarrels prove
how very unlike we are, and since, notwithstanding this difference, there
exists between us a strong affinity—it is the Wahlverwandschaft of Goethe
—there results inevitably a struggle in which I suffer keenly. When I say
that I suffer, do not understand it as a reproach against you. Things which a
moment ago seemed rose-colour to me, now look black. You know
perfectly well how to efface with two words this blackness; and as I read
your letter to-night I feel that, perhaps, after all, the sun is not hidden
forever.
But your system of government is still the same; you make me lose my
temper, after having given me moments of exquisite happiness. One more
philosophical than I would enjoy the happiness when it comes, and not
trouble himself about the unhappiness. It is my misfortune to have a
temperament that remembers all the wretchedness of the past when I am
unhappy; but, on the other hand, I recall all the joy when I am happy. For
nearly three weeks I have tried hard to forget you, but I have not succeeded
any too well. The perfume which your letters breathe has proved a great
barrier to my self-imposed task. Do you recollect how I noticed that Indian
perfume one day when we had offended each other grievously, and were
afterwards reconciled?
I am head over ears in business matters. Write to me promptly. I have
been working hard, and upon some absurd affairs. I will tell you about them
when I see you.
 LXVIII
Paris, Saturday night, June 23, 1843.
I was beginning to be extremely anxious about you. I have been afraid
that you had suffered from being in the dampness so long, and blamed
myself for being so tedious in telling you that silly story. Since you did not
catch cold, and are not angry with me, I can now remember with pleasure
every moment that we spent together. I agree with you that on that day we
were more perfectly—if perfection can be compared—happy than we had
ever been before. Why was it? We said nothing, or did nothing
extraordinary, unless it was that we did not quarrel. And observe, if you
please, that our quarrels always begin with you. I have yielded to you on an
infinite number of points, but for all that I have not been sullen about it. I
should be delighted if the pleasant memory of that day would be profitable
to you in the future. Why do you not tell me at once what your letter
explains only so so, and yet with a certain frankness that pleases me?...
I am flattered to know that my story amused you. At the same time, my
author’s vanity is wounded that you are satisfied with my sketchy outline,
for I had hoped that you would ask to read it, or to have it read to you.
Since you do not care for it, however, I must be resigned. Nevertheless, if
the weather is fine Tuesday, what is to prevent our sitting on our rustic
bench while I read it to you? It will take but an hour. Better still, let us
simply walk. Are you willing? It must be understood that there are to be no
arguments. Write me your final decision. I went to the station to meet
Madame de M. and her daughters, all three looking splendidly. There is
nothing definite as to my departure, although, judging from the indications,
it will probably be very soon. You need not expect me, however, to say
good-bye next time I see you.
 LXIX
Paris, July 9, 1843.
You are right to forget quarrels, if you can. As you say, very sensibly, the
closer you examine them the more important they grow. It is best to dream
as long as possible, and as we can always repeat the same dream, it
becomes almost a reality. I am feeling better since yesterday, and slept all
last night, which I had not been able to do for a long time. I believe, too,
that my spirits have been lighter ever since I let off steam the other day.
It is a pity we can not meet the day after having a quarrel, for I am sure
we should be in a perfectly amiable frame of mind. You promised to appoint
a day, but it has not occurred to you to do so, or else, what would be even
more unkind, you thought it would be an indecorous thing to do. It is this
constant preoccupation of yours which is so often a cause of disagreement
between us. As the hour of our separation draws near, I become more
discontented with myself, and the result is I behave as if I were
discontented with you. I might have said that you hold yourself too much in
check in order to please me. I catch myself incessantly flying into a rage
against this restraint, which, even in its most agreeable aspect, conceals an
underlying basis of sadness. But dream, therein lies wisdom. When? That is
the whole question.
You ought to translate for me a German book which gets on my nerves.
Nothing is more irritating than a German professor who thinks he has
discovered an idea. The title is alluring. It is: das Provocations-verfahren
der Römer.
 LXX
Paris, July, 1843.
Your letter is very kind, almost affectionate, indeed. I would I were in a
less melancholy mood, that I might enjoy it to perfection. The best I can do
is to express my appreciation of all that it contains of graciousness, and to
repress the somewhat gloomy thoughts that fill my mind concerning it. It is
unfortunate that I can not become so completely absorbed in my dreams as
you do. But let us leave this subject and talk of something else.
I am going away in ten days. I went to the country yesterday to make a
visit, and returned very weary and very blue; weary, because I was tired out,
and blue, because of the thought that it was a beautiful day wasted. Do you
never chide yourself for a similar reason? I hope not. Sometimes I believe
that you feel all that I feel, then come drawbacks, and I doubt everything.
Good-bye. If I write any more I shall say something that you will
misunderstand....
 LXXI
Thursday night, July 28, 1843.
I have read your letter (the former one, I mean) at least twenty times
since receiving it, and each reading has given me a new and a sorrowful
sensation, but at no time have I felt the least anger. I have tried in vain to
find an answer to it. I have come to any number of decisions, to no purpose,
and to-night I am just as uncertain and just as downcast as when I first read
it. You have guessed my thoughts well enough, perhaps not entirely. You
could never divine them altogether. I am so capricious, moreover, that what
is true at one moment ceases to be so a little later.
You are wrong in your self-accusations. You have, I imagine, no other
cause for self-reproach than that which I myself have. We allow ourselves
to dream on, without wishing to awake. You and I are too old, perhaps, to
let ourselves dream thus purposely. I, for my part, agree with the sentiment
of that Turk; but to be nothing, could anything be worse than that? I have
changed my opinion very much on this point.
I have been tempted several times not to write to you, not to see you.
This would be quite reasonable, and the reason could be very well
supported. The execution would be more difficult. By the way, you are
mistaken in accusing me of not wanting to see you. I intimated no such
thing. Is this another of my thoughts which you have misinterpreted? You,
on the other hand, tell me so most explicitly. There is still another thing we
might do: that is, not to write to each other while I am away. We may think
of each other, or of any one else, and on my return meet again or not, just as
inclination shall counsel. This is reasonable enough, but its execution might
be embarrassing. When I am not thinking about your letter, and only of your
loveliness, do you know what I should like? I should like to see you once
more.
This Hôtel de Cluny affair has retarded my departure. I ought to be now
on the way, and am very much afraid that I shall not be able to sign an
abominable report, where it is necessary for my name to appear, before
Monday. Since you wished to see me Monday, perhaps you would have no
objections to saying a final good-bye Saturday. I am wrong, it may be, to
suggest this. God only knows in what sort of mood you are! After all, you
are free to say yes or no. I promise you not to be angry.
 LXXII
Paris, Thursday night, August 2, 1843.
I am not as poetical as you. The χθὡν εὑρυοδεἱη, that is to say, the broad
earth, in spite of the mackintosh, was colder even than you, and I caught
cold; but I bear no malice. To do that I should have to read all that you say,
and that you consider agreeable. How many buts there are always! How
clever you are to deprive others of the charm which may belong to them,
and to absorb it for yourself! I say charm, but I am wrong, doubtless, for I
do not believe that marmots have any. You were one of those pretty
creatures before Brahma transmitted your soul into a woman’s body.
To do you justice, you wake up sometimes, and, as you say yourself, it is
to fall out with me. Be kind and gracious, as you know so well how to be.
Notwithstanding my crossness, I had rather see you with your grand,
indifferent airs than not to see you at all. I told you wisely that all that
botanical collection was no good, but you will always have your own way. I
have discovered things much more curious than those found in country
rambles, and from less evident indications too. Take my advice, throw all
those faded flowers in the fire, and let us go and look for fresh ones. Good-
bye.
 LXXIII
Paris, August 5, 1843.
I was awaiting your letter with great impatience, and the longer it
delayed the more I expected evidences of second thoughts, with all their
unpleasant consequences. As I was prepared for all manner of injustice
from you, your letter affected me more favourably than it would have done
at another time. You tell me that you, too, have been happy, and this
assurance cancels all the others that precede and follow it. This is the best
thing you have said to me for an age, and it is almost the only time when I
have thought you had a heart not unlike others.
What a glorious walk that was! I am not at all ill, and I was happy
enough the other day to store up health and good spirits for a long time to
come. If happiness is of short duration, it can be renewed. Unfortunately,
the weather is bad, and besides you speak of going away. Perhaps this rainy
weather has destroyed your desire to travel. From me it takes even the
energy to form new plans. If, however, there should come a good day
before you leave, would it not be well for us to take advantage of it, and to
say a long farewell to our park and our woods? I shall not see their trees
again this year, at least, and the thought saddens me. I hope that you, too,
feel the same regret. When you discover a ray of sunshine let me know, and
we will visit once more our chestnut trees and our mountain. You gave me
and ourselves a passing thought for one brief moment, but will the memory
of it not remain for a long, long time?
 LXXIV
Vézelay, August 8, 1843, at night.
I thank you for having written a word to me before my departure. It is
the kind intention that has pleased me, not what your letter tells me. You say
such extraordinary things. If you mean half of what you say it would be the
wisest course for us not to meet again. The affection which you have for me
is only a sort of mental pastime. You are all intellect. You are one of those
chilly women of the North who are governed only by the mind. There are
things I could say to you, but you would not understand. I prefer to assure
you again of my sincere regret for having caused you pain. It was entirely
unintentional, and I hope you will forgive me. Our temperaments are as
unlike as our stamina. How can it be helped? You may divine my thoughts
sometimes, but you will never be able to understand them.
Here I am in this horrible little town, perched on the top of a mountain,
bored to death by the townspeople, and hard at work on a speech that I am
to make to-morrow. I am in politics, and you know me well enough to
realise how odious I find the business of a political campaign.
For consolation, I have a most congenial travelling companion, and an
admirable church to look upon. The first time I saw this church was soon
after having seen you at.... I asked myself to-day whether we were more
foolish then than we are now.
What is certain is that we had formed, probably, a very different
impression of each other from the one we have to-day. If we had known
then how often we should quarrel, do you suppose we would have cared to
meet again? It is frightfully cold, with rain and lightning at intervals. I have
a ream of official prose to spin off, and will leave you all the more
cheerfully because the things I should write to you are not particularly
affectionate. It is, however, the force of circumstances that irritates me
most.
I go to Dijon in a few days. It would please me if you would write to me
there, especially if your pen could find something less cruel to write than it
did last time. You can not form an idea of one of our evenings at the inn.
One of the most charming plans of which I have thought is to go
somewhere in Italy to spend the time that must intervene between my
political tour and the trip to Algiers. You, I fancy, are thinking of some way
to be in the country when I return to Paris. What will be the result of all
these plans?
As I was leaving Paris I met M. de Saulcy, who had just received a letter
from Metz. Your brother was spoken of in the highest terms, which is very
gratifying to those who recommended him. I should have written this earlier
but for the thousand and one annoyances incident to my departure.
Good-bye. I believe this little talk with you has made me feel better. If I
had more paper, and not so many reports to prepare, I think I might be
capable now of saying something affectionate. As you are aware, my
attacks of temper usually end in that way.
At Dijon, General Delivery, and do not forget my titles and degrees!
 LXXV
Avallon, August 14, 1843.
I expected to be in Lyons the 10th, and am not within sixty leagues of
that place. I shall not have any news from you until I reach Autun. If you
want to be kind you will write to me again at Lyons.
Vézelay pleases me more and more. The view from there is superb, and
besides it is sometimes a pleasure to be alone. As a usual thing I find myself
rather dreary company, but when I am depressed, with no good reason for
being so, and when this depression has in it no vestige of anger, it is then
that I enjoy complete solitude. This was my mood during the last few days
of my stay at Vézelay. I took long walks, or lay down on the edge of a
natural terrace, which a poet might well call a precipice, and there I
philosophised on the Ego, and on Providence, on the hypothesis that there
be a Providence. I thought of you also, which was more agreeable than
thinking of myself. But even the thought of you was not the most cheerful,
because no sooner did it come to me than it occurred to my mind how
happy I should be to see you here in this obscure corner of the world. And
then—and then, it all ended with this other disheartening thought, that you
were far, far away, that it was not easy to see you, and not even certain that
you would care to see me.
My presence at Vézelay greatly mystified the population. Whenever I
sketched, especially in a well-lighted room, large groups of people would
assemble around me, and every one had some conjecture as to my
occupation. This distinction proved a great bore, and I should like to have
had a janissary beside me to keep back the curious. Here I have become
once more one of the multitude. I came to visit an old uncle whom I
scarcely knew, and with whom I am obliged to stay two days. To entertain
me, he has taken me to see several mutilated heads found in the excavations
made nearby. I am not fond of relatives. You are compelled to be on
familiar terms with people you have never seen, simply because they
happen to be descended from the same grandfather that you have. My
uncle, however, is a most worthy man, not especially provincial, and if we
had two ideas in common I might even find him agreeable.
 The women here are as homely as the women in Paris; and they have,
moreover, ankles big as stumps. At Nevers the women had extremely pretty
eyes. They wear no national costumes. Besides our moral perfections, we
have the advantage of being the most stunted and the ugliest people of
Europe.
I send you an owl’s feather which I found in a gap of the Abbot’s Church
of the Madeleine at Vézelay. The former owner of the feather and I found
ourselves for a moment face to face, each one equally startled by our
unexpected encounter. The owl was less brave than I, and flew away. She
had a formidable beak, and eyes that were terrifying, besides two feathers
shaped like horns. I am sending this feather to you that you may admire its
softness, and also because I have read somewhere in a book of magic that
when one gives a woman an owl’s feather, and she places it under her
pillow, she dreams of him. Will you tell me your dream? Good-bye.
 LXXVI
Saint-Lupicin, August 15, 1843, at night.
Six hundred metres above the sea-level;
in the midst of an ocean of lively and
famished fleas.
Your letter is diplomatic. You practise the axiom that language has been
given to man that he may conceal his thoughts. Fortunately for you, your
postscript disarmed me. Why do you say in German what you think in
French? Is it because you think only in German, that is, that you do not
think at all? I am unwilling to credit it. At the same time, there are things in
you which irritate me to the last degree. Why are you still shy with me?
Why have you never wished before to tell me anything that would have
given me so much pleasure? Do you suppose that there are synonyms in a
foreign language?
You can not form any conception of this place. Saint Lupicin is in the
Jura mountains. It is extremely ugly, dirty, and inhabited by fleas. In a little
while I shall be obliged to go to bed, where I shall repeat my experience of
the nights spent at Ephesus. Unfortunately, however, when I awake there
will be neither laurels nor Grecian ruins to meet my eye. What a hideous
country! I think often that if the railroads were more comfortable we might
go together to some such place, and then it would seem beautiful. There are
flowers here in the greatest profusion; the air is remarkably pure and
vigorous, so that the human voice can be heard at a distance of a league.
To prove that I am thinking of you, here is a little flower which I plucked
in my walk at sunset. It is the only kind that I can send. All other varieties
are colossal.
What are you doing? Of what are you thinking? You never tell me what
you really think, and it is folly for me to ask you. I have had but few
comfortable moments since I came away. Skies of leaden gray, all sorts of
accidents, and all sorts of discomforts; a broken wheel, a bruised eye—but
they are all patched up now in some sort of fashion. But what I find most
difficult to become accustomed to is solitude. I believe this year it is more
unendurable than ever before. I mean solitude in the midst of life and
animation. It seems to me that if I were in prison I should be more
comfortable than I am tramping over the country. Nothing is more
depressing. I long for our walks more than anything else. It cheers me to
have you say that you still love our woods. Although my tiresome absence
is to be prolonged indefinitely, nevertheless I hope we shall visit them
again.
The Department of the Jura, with its mountains and cross-cuts, delays
me more than ten days. I have one disappointment after another. It is as if I
were still crossing my first mountain. I have not the least desire to go to
Italy. It is pure imagination on your part. Your letter pleased me at times,
and at others enraged me. I read sometimes between the lines the sweetest
things in the world, and again you seem more chilly than usual. It is only
the postscript that satisfies me. I saw it only the last thing. It is at such a
great distance from the rest of the letter! If you write immediately, send it to
Besançon; if not, address it to me in Paris. I do not know where I shall be a
week from this time.
 LXXVII
Paris, September, 1843.
I am terribly dull without you, to use an expression that you affect. I did
not realise the other day, clearly at least, that we were saying farewell for a
long, long time. Is it true now that we shall see each other no more? We
separated without speaking, almost without looking at each other. It was
almost like a former occasion. I felt a sort of calm happiness, which is not
usual to me. It seemed to me for a few moments that I desired nothing
more. Now, if we can experience that happiness again, why should we
refuse it? It is true that we may quarrel again, as we have done so many
times. But what is the memory of a quarrel compared to that of a
reconciliation? If you feel about this half as I do you must be anxious to go
again for one of our walks. I am going away on a short journey next week.
Saturday, if you like, or even the Tuesday following, we might meet.
I have not written sooner because I had persuaded myself that the
suggestion to revisit our woods would come from you. I was mistaken, but I
am not very much offended. You possess the secret of making me forget
many things, and of making sentiment take the place of reason. Let me see
you once more. I shall have no reproaches for you. One is fortunate to be
able thus to dream.
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