Brussels,
Monday, 1 p.m., March 22nd, 1852.
You may give me something to copy for you now if you like. I have nearly finished that foolish scrawl, so if you want to utilise my time, you can send me anything you like. I am quite at your disposal. Meanwhile, I am mending your underlinen and my own, and watching the clouds sail above my narrow horizon. I envy them without having the courage to follow their example and allow myself to be driven by chance winds or caprice. I am too lazy, bodily and mentally, to move. I recline in my chimney corner, cosily humped up, and my soul lies torpid within me. I am not exactly unhappy, neither am I sad in the true meaning of the word—but I am uneasy and depressed. I feel a threatening influence in the atmosphere about me. What it is, I cannot precisely say, but I am under some evil thrall. I am sure there is a mystery between us that you are trying to conceal, and that fate will force me to discover sooner or later. Perhaps it would be safer not to try to hide things from me—it would certainly be more loyal and generous; but as neither prayers nor tears can induce you to give me your full confidence, I will await my fate with resignation. After all, as long as you arrange your life to suit your own feelings and tastes, I have no right to complain. I have never meant to force myself upon you in any case; therefore, my Victor, whatever happens, you may be sure I shall place no obstacle in the way of your happiness and glory. I love you with all the pride of my inferiority.
Juliette.
Brussels,
Sunday morning, July 18th, 1852.
Good-morning, my Victor. I will do exactly as you like. So long as my love is not called into question, what does it matter how, and when, my body changes its habitat and moves from Brussels to Jersey? Therefore, my Victor, I make no objection to starting at the same time as you. Between the pain of a twenty-four hours’ separation, and the mortification of travelling with you as a total stranger, my poor heart would find it hard to choose. It is quite natural that I should sacrifice myself to appearances, and respect the presence of your sons by this painful incognito, but it seems cruelly unjust and ironical that it should be required of my devotion and fidelity and love, when it was never thought of in the case of that other woman, whose sole virtue consisted in possessing none. For her, the family doors were always open, the deference and courteous protection of your sons exacted; your wife extended to her the cloak of her consideration, and accepted her as a friend, a sister, and more. For her, indulgence, sympathy, affection—for me, the rigorous application of all the penalties contained in the code of prejudice, hypocrisy, and immorality. Honours for the shameless vices of the society lady—only indignities for the poor creature who sins through honest devotion and love. It is quite simple. Society must be considered. I will leave for Jersey when and how you will.
I am quite ready to copy for Charles. I fear he may find my bad writing more tiresome than useful, but I shall do my best, and I will get some better pens. He had better send me the manuscript as soon as possible. From now till then I am, my Victor, at your absolute disposal.
Juliette.
Jersey,
Thursday, 9 a.m., December 2nd, 1852.