Twenty years later, in 1896, forty years after its first publication by the person who received it, the same letter appears in "Un Roman d'Amour," introduced by the following words (pp. 76, 77, 78):—
"Happily, a unique document, and exceptionally precious in relation to this first interview, that at Neufchâtel [with Madame Hanska], is in our hands. It is precise, and fixes, from Balzac's own pen, his immediate impressions of Madame Hanska and the five days he spent near her. This document consists of an autograph letter, almost entirely unpublished, addressed to his sister, Madame Surville; this letter is certainly the most important which, until now, has been brought to light on the opening of that celebrated passion. We shall quote it here. In it will be found many other unknown details of the most extreme interest, which confirm what we have already said as to the rôle which the feminine element always played in the life of the master.... Here is the complete text [texte complet] of this letter, certainly written very rapidly, for we find several words omitted, and more than one obscurity. To make the meaning clearer we have made, according to our custom in such cases, some additions [adjonctions], placed, as usual, between brackets."[1]
[1] One of these "adjonctions" is the signature!—0TR.
[Paris] Saturday, 12 [October, 1833].
My Dear Sister,—You understand that I could not speak to you before Eugénie, but I had all my journey to relate to you.
I have found down there all that can flatter the thousand vanities of that animal called man, of whom the poet is certainly the vainest species. But what am I saying? vanity! No, there is nothing of all that. I am happy, very happy in thoughts, in all honor as yet. Alas! a damned husband never left us for one second during five days. He kept between the petticoat of his wife and my waistcoat. [Neufchâtel is] a little town where a woman, an illustrious foreigner, cannot take a step without being seen. I was, as it were, in an oven. Constraint does not suit me.
The essential thing is that we are twenty-seven years old, beautiful to admiration; that we possess the handsomest black hair in the world, the soft, deliciously delicate skin of brunettes, that we have a love of a little hand, a heart of twenty-seven, naïve; [in short, she is] a true Madame de Lignolles, imprudent to the point of flinging herself upon my neck before all the world.
I don't speak to you of colossal wealth. What is that before a masterpiece of beauty, whom I can only compare to the Princess Belle-Joyeuse, but infinitely better? [She possesses] a lingering eye [œil traînant] which, when it meets, becomes of voluptuous splendor. I was intoxicated with love.
I don't know whom to tell this to; certainly it is not [possible] either to her, the great lady, the terrible marquise, who, suspecting the journey, comes down from her pride, and intimates an order that I shall go to her at the Duc de F.'s [Fitz-James], [nor] is it [possible to tell it either] to her, poor, simple, delicious bourgeoise, who is like Blanche d'Azay. I am a father,—that's another secret I had to tell you,—and at the head of a pretty little person, the most naïve creature that ever was, fallen like a flower from heaven, who comes to me secretly, exacts no correspondence, and says: "Love me a year; I will love you all my life."
It is not [either] to her, the most treasured, who has more jealousy for me than a mother has for the milk she gives her child. She does not like L'Étrangère, precisely because L'Étrangère appears to be the very thing for me.
And, finally, it is not to her who wants her daily ration of love, and who, though voluptuous as a thousand cats, is neither graceful nor womanly. It is to you, my good sister, the former companion of my miseries and tears, that I wish to tell my joy, that it may die in the depths of your memory. Alas, I can't play the fop with any one, unless [apropos of] Madame de Castries, whom celebrity does not frighten. I do not wish to cause the slightest harm by my indiscretions. Therefore, burn my letter.
As it will be long before I see you,—for I shall go, no doubt, to Normandy and Angoulême, and return to see her at Geneva,—I had to write you this line to tell you I am happy at last. I am [joyous] as a child.
Mon Dieu! how beautiful the Val de Travers is, how ravishing the lake of Bienne! It was there, as you may imagine, that we sent the husband to attend to the breakfast; but we were in sight, and then, in the shadow of a tall oak, the first furtive kiss of love was given. Then, as our husband is approaching the sixties, I swore to wait, and she to keep her hand, her heart for me.
Isn't it a pretty thing to have torn a husband—who looks to me like a tower—from the Ukraine, to come eighteen hundred miles to meet a lover who has come only four hundred, the monster![1]
I'm joking; but knowing my affairs and my occupation here, my four hundred count as much as the eighteen hundred of my fiancée. She is really very well. She intends to be seriously ill at Geneva, which require [will require the care of] M. Dupuytren to soften the Russian ambassador and obtain a permit to come to Paris, for which she longs; where there is, for a woman, liberty on the mountain. However, I've enchanted the husband; and I shall try next year to get three months to myself. I shall go and see the Ukraine, and we have promised ourselves a magnificent and splendid journey in the Crimea; which is, you know, a land where tourists do not go, a thousand times more beautiful than Switzerland or Italy. It is the Italy of Asia.
But what labor between now and then! Pay our debts! Increase our reputation!
Yesterday I went to Gérard's. Three German families—one Prussian, one from Frankfort, one from Vienna—were officially presented to me. They came faithfully to Gérard's for a month past to see me and tell me that nothing was talked of but me in their country [chez eux]; that amazing fame began for me on the frontier of France, and that I had only to persevere for a year or two to be at the head of literary Europe, and replace Byron, Walter Scott, Goethe, Hoffmann!
Ma foi! as they were good Germans I let myself believe [all] that. It restored to me some courage, and I am going to fire a triple shot on the public and on the envious. During this fortnight, at one flash [I shall] finish "Eugénie Grandet," and write the "Aventures d'une idée [heureuse]" and "Le Prêtre catholique," one of my finest subjects. Then will come the fine third dizain, and after that I shall go and seek my reward at Geneva, after having paid a good slice of debts. There, sister. I have now resumed my winter life. I go to bed at six, with my dinner in my mouth, and I sleep till half-past twelve. At one o'clock Auguste brings me a cup of coffee, and I go at one flash, working from one in the morning till an hour after midday. At the end of twenty days, that makes a pretty amount of work!
Adieu, dearest sister. If your husband has arrived, tell him the "Aventures d'une idée [heureuse]" are on the ways, and he will perhaps read them at Montglat, for I will send you the paper in which they appear if you stay till the end of the month.
The affair of the "Études de Mœurs" is going on well. Thirty-three thousand francs of author's rights will just stop all the big holes. I shall [then] only have to undertake the repayment to my mother, and after that, faith! I shall be at my ease. I hope to repay you the remaining thousand francs at the end of the month; but if my mother wants all her interests [at once] I shall be obliged to put you off [till] the first fortnight in November.
Well, adieu, my dear sister. If you have any heart, you will answer me. What the devil are you doing at Montglat? However, you are free; this is not a reproach, it is curiosity. Between brother and sister it is pardonable. Much tenderness. You won't say again that I don't write to you.
Apropos, the pain in my side continues; but I have such fear of leeches, cataplasms, and to be tied down in a way that I can't finish what I have undertaken, that I put everything off. If it gets too bad we will see about it, I and the doctor, or magnetism.
Addio, addio. A thousand kind things. Correct carefully the "Médecin [de Campagne]," or rather tell me all the places that seem to you bad, and put the great pots into the little pots; that is to say, if a thing can be said in one line instead of two, try to make the sentence.
Adieu, sister. [Honoré.]
[1] Monsieur Hanski hired the house in Neufchâtel early in the spring of 1833 and took his family there in May. Balzac was not invited, or, at any rate, did not go there till September 25th.
Now there are three points here to be noticed and studied:—
1. The letters all state the purpose for which they were written. The versions of 1856 and 1876 give the same purpose. That given in "Roman d'Amour" is totally different.
2. The "Roman d'Amour" letter claims to be the complete text [texte complet]. How comes it, therefore, to have such variations from the original letter published by the sister who received it, and republished authoritatively in the Édition Définitive?
3. These variations are not merely omissions or additions of passages; they are the total reconstruction of many, and very characteristic, sentences.