Good morning, my beloved. In full daylight and glorious sunshine, in love and happiness, good morning. Again I greet you, like that first day thirty years ago, when my eyes followed you along the Boulevard after you left me. My soul winged flights of kisses to you when you looked round for one more glance at my window before turning into the Rue du Temple. That picture remains for ever graven upon my mind; I can assert with truth that everything remains the same in my heart as the night I first became yours. These thirty years of love have passed like one day of uninterrupted adoration, and I feel now younger, more virile, and more capable of loving you, than ever before—heart, body, soul, all are yours, and live only by you and through you. I smile upon you, bless you, adore you.
Juliette.
Guernsey,
Sunday, 10.30 a.m., April 26th, 1863.
Good morning, unutterably dear one. May all the blessings of heaven and earth rest upon you and those you love. I slept very well and hope you did the same. My headache has gone and I feel as sturdy as an oak-tree. I do not in the least desire a great house whence I shall not be able to see you in the mornings, and I should much prefer to keep my own little perch upon which my heart poises so happily while I watch you moving about your home. Having made my protest, beloved, you shall dictate to me the letter I must write to notify the landlord that he need not move out to-morrow. We can settle when you come, what time I must be ready, so as not to lose one second of our little walk up the hill. I am so happy at the thought of remaining near you, that I feel as if I had already substituted youthful wings for my old legs. Even my garden is gay, and cries out to me by the mouths of its lovely flowers: don’t go away! Health is where happiness is, and happiness means loving each other, side by side, eyes upon eyes, soul with soul. Therefore, I shall stay here. That is quite settled.
Guernsey,
Friday, 7.30 a.m., October 30th, 1863.
Good morning, good morning, and again, good morning, my dear, wide-awake person. You must be very well to-day, judging by the energy with which you are shaking your rugs to the four winds. I hope that signifies a good night, good health, lively love, and all the rest of it. As for myself, I slept little, but soundly. I got up before gun-fire this morning, and had already finished my dressing when I saw you on your balcony. What a privation it will be for me, my adored man, when I can no longer watch you in the mornings, moving about your house. I do not feel as if I should ever get accustomed to it, and I think of it with apprehension, for there is a proverb that says, “Out of sight, out of mind.” If you gave up loving me, or worse, loved me less, what should I make of life in that great empty drawing-room?
At this moment, I am trying to numb these reflections by the contemplation of the marvels you are creating in that future house of mine; but at the bottom of my heart, I know I shall always mourn this poor little lodging, where my eyes could watch over you, caress you, guard you, preserve you, and adore you. The more I think of it, the more oppressed I feel, and the more I blame myself for having exchanged the happiness of every moment, for a comfort I shall hardly have leisure to appreciate, and for health which did not require amelioration. My poor beloved, forgive these regrets which are only dictated by love, and this anxiety which also means love. Try not to let the separation of our houses entail that of our hearts; try to love me as heartily there as here, and do not let yourself be enticed away from me by anybody. On those conditions I promise to live happily in the splendid rooms you have prepared for me.
J.
Guernsey,
Wednesday, 1.30 p.m., June 15th, 1864.
Dearly beloved, I cannot forsake this little home where we have loved each other for eight years, without imprinting a kiss of gratitude upon its threshold. I have just gazed my supreme farewell at your beautiful house, which has so long been to me the polar star of my heart’s wanderings. Alas, I am lengthening out the moments as much as possible; I cannot bring myself to leave this dear little house, which I had made the shrine of my cult for you. I should like to carry away the walls against which you have leaned, the floors you have trodden, and even the dust your feet have spurned. I fear lest my sadness be observed by those who cannot understand it, and the efforts I make to seem unconcerned increase the constriction of my heart, and drench my eyes with tears. Oh, my adored beloved, how you will have to love me and give me all the time at your disposal, to console me for the immense grief I am experiencing to-day in quitting your neighbourhood, that is to say, in losing sight of it! How you will have to double and treble and quadruple your love, to replace the dear memories I leave behind me! May God protect me and may the dear souls of our angels follow us to the new home, and bless us till our last hour!