Adieu. I have so little time that you must absolve me. There are but three persons whose letters I answer. This sounds a little like French conceit, and yet it is really most delicate in the way of modesty. More than that, I meant to tell you that you are almost alone in my heart, grandparents excepted.
Adieu. If my rose-tree were not out of bloom I would send you a petal. If you were less fairy-like, less capricious, less mysterious, I would say "write to me often."
P. S. The black seal was an accident. I was not at home, and the friend with whom I was staying at Angoulême was in mourning.
[1] This letter is inconsistent with the preceding one, also dated January, 1833. A system of arbitrary dating is thus shown.—TR.
Paris, February 24, 1833.
Certainly there is some good genius between us; I dare not say otherwise, for how else can one explain that you should have sent me the "Imitation of Jesus Christ" just when I was working night and day at a book in which I have tried to dramatize the spirit of that work by conforming it to the desires of the civilization of our epoch. How is it that you had the thought to send it to me when I had that of putting its meditative poesy into action, so that across wide space the saintly volume, accompanied by an escort of gentle thoughts, should have come to me as I was casting myself into the delightful fields of a religious idea; coming too, at a moment when, weary and discouraged, I despaired of being able to accomplish this magnificent work of charity; beautiful in its results—if only my efforts should not prove in vain. Oh! give me the right to send you in a month or two my "Médecin de campagne" with the Chénier and the new "Louis Lambert," in which I will write the last corrections. My book will not appear till the first of March. I do not choose to send you that ignoble edition. A few weeks after its appearance I shall have still another ready, and I can then offer you something more worthy of you. The same line of thought presented itself to me in all of them,—poesy, religion, intellect, those three great principles will be united in these three books, and their pilgrimage toward you will be fulfilled; all my thoughts are assembled in them, and if you will draw from that source there will be for you, in me, something inexhaustible.
Now I know that my book will please you. You send me the Christ upon the cross, and I, I have made him bearing his cross. There lies the idea of the book: resignation and love; faith in the future and the shedding of the fragrance of benefits around us. What joy for a man to have at last been able to do a work in which he can be himself, in which he may pour out his soul without fear of ridicule, because in serving the passions of the mob he has conquered the right, dearly bought, of being heard in a day of grave thought. Have you read "Juana"? Tell me if she pleases you.
You have awakened many diverse curiosities in me; you are capable of a delightful coquetry which it is impossible to blame. But you do not know how dangerous it is to a lively imagination and a heart misunderstood, a heart full of rejected tenderness, to behold thus nebulously a young and beautiful woman. In spite of these dangers, I yield myself willingly to hopes of the heart. My grief is to be able to speak to you of yourself as only a hope, a dream of heaven and of all that is beautiful. I can therefore tell you only of myself; but I abandon myself with you to my most secret thoughts, to my despairs, to my hopes. You are a second conscience; less reproachful perhaps and more kindly than that which rises so imperiously within me at evil moments.
Well, then! I will speak of myself, since it must be so. I have met with one of those immense sorrows which only artists know. After three months' labour I re-made "Louis Lambert." Yesterday, a friend, one of those friends who never deceive, who tell you the truth, came, scalpel in hand, and we studied my work together. He is a logical man, of severe taste, incapable of doing anything himself, but a most profound grammarian, a stern professor, and he showed me a thousand faults. That evening, alone, I wept with despair in that species of rage which seizes the heart when we recognize our faults after toiling so long. Well, I shall set to work again, and in a month or two I will bring forth a corrected "Louis Lambert." Wait for that. Let me send you, when it is ready, a new and fine edition of the four volumes of the Philosophical tales. I am preparing it. "La Peau de chagrin," already corrected, is to be again corrected. If all is not then made perfect, at least it will be less ugly.