“For a whole week I’ve been thinking sadly of to-morrow. The little circle of people I know best were to play a little comedy for the King of Poland. I thought that the 16th was the day they had fixed on. The idea came into my head at a party—a supper-party, on Thursday evening, at the Prince Kowakin’s. I never like to speak of my feelings and my memories; one must suffer in silence. I was quite determined not to go, Charlotte; you won’t, I hope, imagine that I debated that for a moment; but I was worried, for I didn’t quite know how I was going to get out of it without saying why. A lady, who is always very very kind to me, saw by my face that I was unhappy about something. ‘What is it, chou?’ she said to me. ‘You’re sad.’ I said, ‘Oh no! it’s nothing.’ ‘But I see you; I see there’s something wrong.’ And at last I had to tell her.... The little entertainment came off yesterday. It was charming, but it made me so sad that I could not hide my sadness. All things of that kind have a most curious effect upon me quite different from what they have of other people. Still, I must admit (the Comedy was well acted, by people whom I see a great deal of), I was interested—very much insulted; and yet, when it was over, there was nothing but melancholy in my heart. I came home to bed, and to thoughts of Her and you; and this morning, I had an immense letter from you which I’ll answer to-morrow. I have read it; and I was very near being late for a long long mass—it took two hours. This evening, I had intended to spend here, all by myself. I refused a supper invitation from a kind young woman of whom M. de Cl. will tell you; and I meant to return here. Another lady (the one I mentioned first) sent her husband to tell me that she was ill, and that she would be alone and would I not come? So when I had been to a tea-party that I was engaged for, I did go there, but indeed I was very sad, and more silent than usual. (How people can treat me as they do in this country, I don’t know—they are certainly most kind). I was determined, at any rate, to leave the party before ten o’clock. They tried to prevent me, but I insisted. At ten o’clock I put on my gloves, but they said: ‘You shan’t go!’ and at last the mistress of the house, thinking of what I had confided to her a couple of days before, said to me: ‘What day is to-day?’... Seeing that she had guessed, I said, turning away with my poor heart swelling: ‘Don’t speak to me of the day!’... I came back here alone to weep for my Queen, and to implore God to make me worthy to be with her again, and that soon—if he will indeed permit me to see her again, where she surely is. I have much to atone for—I feel it, know it; but I do in truth even now atone for much. I swear to you, Charlotte, I have never dared to put into words with you what you speak of to me to-day,—and with an ‘again’ underlined. Do you think that I wished it to be so—tell me, do you? No, no; Charlotte could never think that! If I did ever tell you, Charlotte, all that I could tell you, it’s because I love you with all my heart, and because I’m sad, and haunted by memories.... To-morrow, I shall be alone all day; I won’t see my brother-in-law, or any one else. My door will be fast shut, and I shall return to you, and tell you all I am feeling.”
St. Petersburg, October 16, 1797.
“The date, my dear Charlotte, will be enough to tell you what I am mournfully thinking of. I began my day by going to church to hear a mass for Her; and to listen there to those dear sacred names of Hers. The mass was said by two Trappists, and I was very sorry that I had not asked the Abbé to say it.... What odd incidents there are in the history of our revolution! I await the portrait with a respectful interest, and I thank you in advance for all the pleasure it will give me. Ah, my dear Charlotte, what a sad day! My heart aches so deeply and feels so heavy that it’s as if I were carrying a load, and if I don’t think clearly, I am soon enough reminded of everything by the pain of it. I can’t speak of anything but Her. To-day is mail-day; so I must defer until next time my answer to your last letter, for I must go and talk about her to some other friends, who loved her too. I have the dress, and it’s charming. That’s all I can say about it, Adieu. I love you for Her and for yourself, with all my heart.”
St. Petersburg, October 16, 1797.
“When I stopped writing to you last night, I went to bed and to rest my poor head. I read for half an hour that lovely romance of Paul and Virginia. My candle went out. Just like that, four years ago, some hours earlier—one of the world’s choicest treasures went out to.... I gave myself up to sad thoughts; I imagined to myself all that she, so lowly tormented, must have suffered then. But somehow I fell asleep, and I slept on until the fatal hour when She must have realized how few more hours were left to her on that earth where she was so worshipped. All my thoughts were fixed on her, I lay awake for several hours in great agitation; then I went to sleep again, and at eight o’clock I was awakened so as to go to hear the mass where her loved name should fall once more upon my ears. I set off, accompanied by a French nobleman, whom I love and esteem, because he regrets his Sovereigns as I do. His kind heart comforted mine; the time I spent with him instilled solace into my soul, and I was not so unhappy when I came back from mass. I constantly read over with him all that I have written, especially all that I remember her having said in and before the days of her long martyrdom. He will put it all in order, and make these fragments as interesting as they ought to be. I was interrupted in this occupation by a man who belongs to this place, and whom I met in France, when LL.MM.II. came there to see the objects of my love and sorrow. This man—whom I like better than any other I have met here—has given me a thousand proofs of his interest in me, which I prize as coming from a heart like his. He knew the anniversary, and spoke to me reverently of it; he is the only person I have seen to-day. But my dear Charlotte, I must shut out all extraneous thoughts and think only that She exists no more, and that her end was hastened by the villany and foul revenge of human beings, formerly her subjects, formerly her worshippers, beings with hearts—no! they had no hearts, since they shed ... since they put an end to that existence ... when her rank, her character, her face....
“Last year I was with you all through this day; we wept together for the Queen of Love; to-day, alone with my sad heart, I can only write to you. Distance separates our bodies; but our souls and our thoughts and our feelings are the same, and I know that Charlotte and Louise are together to-day.”
After dinner.
“I dined alone. I ate little, Charlotte. Last year, I dined at your bedside, and I remember that when our dinner had been served, you told me an anecdote about the little Prince which made me cry. This year I did not cry at dinner; but I felt even sadder than I had felt then. The solitude and isolation, and the want of intimate friends, made me doubly sad. But I must not let myself think of myself. A voice ordered me to do as I did and I was bound to follow it—’twas the voice of Right and Well-doing.”