Good morning, my well-beloved. Did you have a good night? You looked overstrained and tired yesterday, and indeed there was enough to make you so, you poor dear. I do not know how you can put up with it all. Forgive me for adding to your burthen the exactions of a woman who loves, and fears to recognise in lassitude an evidence of coldness. Forgive me; if I did not occasionally doubt your love I should torment you less, and would show more consideration for your occupations and repose.
You hurt me very much last night by speaking as you did, yet I wanted to know your true opinion of me. I have long been tormented by a mournful curiosity on that point. Last night you satisfied it in full. I know now that you pity without despising me. I accept your compassion, for I need it, and ought to have it; but I should indignantly repudiate a contempt I do not deserve. My past history is sad, but not disgraceful. My life until I met you was the melancholy outcome of a poor girl’s first fault; but at least it was never soiled by those hideous vices that deface the soul still more than the body. Even at the worst moments of my trouble, I cherished within me an inner sanctuary, whither I could betake myself, as to some hallowed spot. Since then, that sanctuary has been open to you only, and you can testify whether you have found it worthy of you; you know whether, since you have occupied its throne and altar, I have ever failed, one single day or minute, to prostrate myself on my knees before you in adoration, or have ever turned my gaze or my soul away from you. This proves, my beloved, that my former backsliding was only superficial, not inherently vicious; that my wound was accidental, not a loathsome, devouring canker; that I love you now, and am thereby made whole.
Juliette.
Tuesday, 10.45 a.m., May 2nd, 1837.
I am following up my letter immediately with another, because I am alone, and the moment is propitious for me to open my heart to you from the very bottom. Racket and pleasure are a hindrance to meditation, and at this moment I am rapt in contemplation of you and your beloved image. I see you as you are, that is to say, a God-made man to redeem and rescue me from the infamous life to which I had so long been enslaved. What Christ did for the world you have done for me: like Him, you saved my soul at the expense of your repose and life. May you be as blessed for this generous action as you are adored by me for it. I should have loved you, devil or angel, bad or good, selfish or devoted, cruel or generous—I must have loved you, for at the mere sight of you my whole being cries out: I love you! Would that I might proclaim it on my knees, with hands clasped and heart on lips: I love you! I love you! The talk we had last night kept me from sleeping, but I do not complain; there are moments when sleep is a misfortune. I needed to rehearse one by one all your words, to collect carefully those which must remain for ever enshrined in my bosom as treasures of consolation and love; the less generous ones you uttered, I have consumed in the flame of my soul; nothing remains of them but ashes, dead as the ashes of my past.
Do not turn away in disgust from the scratches I have sustained in falling from my pedestal, as you might from hideous and incurable wounds. I repeat again, my beloved, because it is the truth: misfortune there has been in my life, but neither debauchery nor moral turpitude. Henceforth there can be nothing but a sacred, pure love for you. I am worthy of pardon and affection. Love me; I crave it of you.
Juliette.
Thursday, 11.15 a.m., May 11th, 1837.
Good morning, my dear little man; I have bad weather to announce: rain, snow, hail, wind, and, in addition, an abominable cold in my head which does not help to resign me to a day already filled with clouds. I love you—do you know that? and I admire you for your beautiful soul. It is splendid of you, my great Toto, to have raised your voice so powerfully in defence of the poor, dead King.[66] You alone had the right, for you only are above suspicion; you only are influential enough to compel the impious, pitiless world to listen to your indulgent and religious voice. If it were possible for me to love you more, I should do so for this; but from the first day I saw you I have given my whole heart and thoughts and soul unreservedly into your keeping.
How I love you, my adored Victor, how I love you! In that short and much-misused word is contained all my soul, all the bloom of a devotion that has opened out under the sun of your gaze. Good-bye, my own.