Pont-de-l'Arche (Eure).
PARIS, 24th May, 18—,
Your letter did me good, my dear Edgar, because it came unexpected, from the domain of epistolary consolation. From any friend but you I would have received a sympathizing re-echo of my own accents of despair. From you I looked for a tranquillizing sedative, and you surprise me with a reanimating restorative.
Your charming philosophy has indeed invented for mortals a remedy unknown to the four faculties.
Thanks to you, I breathe freely this morning. 'Tis necessary for us to take breath during ardent crises of despair. A deep breath brings back the power of resignation to our hearts. Yet I am not duped by your too skilful friendship. I clearly perceive the interest you take in my situation in spite of your artistically labored adroitness to conceal it. This knowledge induces me to write you the second chapter of my history, quite sure that you will read it with a serious brow and answer it with a smiling pen.
Young people of your disposition, either from deep calculation or by happy instinct, substitute caprice for passion; they amuse themselves by walking by the side of love, but never meet it face to face. For them women exist, but never one woman. This system with them succeeds for a season, sometimes it lasts for ever. I have known some old men who made this scheme the glory of their lives, and who kept it up from mere force of habit till their heads were white.
You, my dear Edgar, will not have the benefit of final impenitence. At present the ardor of your soul is tempered by the suave indolence of your disposition.
Love is the most merciless and wearisome of all labors, and you are far too lazy to toil at it. When you suddenly look into the secret depths of your self, you will be frightened by discovering the germ of a serious passion; then you will try to escape on the wings of fancy to the realms of easy and careless pleasure. The fact of my having penetrated, unknown to you, this secret recess of your soul, makes me venture to confide my sorrows to you; continue to laugh at them, your railing will be understood, while friendship will ignore the borrowed mask and trust in the faithful face beneath.
Paris is still a desert. The largest and most populous city becomes obscure and insignificant at your feet when you view it from the heights of an all-absorbing passion. I feel as isolated as if I were on the South Sea or on the sands of Sahara. Happily our bodies assume mechanical habits that act instead of the will. Without this precious faculty of matter my isolation would lead me to a dreamy and stupid immobility. Thus, in the eyes of strangers, my life is always the same. They see no change in my manners and appearance; I keep up my acquaintances and pleasures and seek the society of my friends. I have not the heart to join a conversation, but leave it to be carried on by others. My fixed attention and absorbed manner of listening convey the idea that I am deeply interested in what is being said, and he who undertakes to relate anything to me is so satisfied with my style of listening that he prolongs to infinity his monologue. Then my thoughts take flight and travel around the world; to the seas, archipelagoes, continents and deserts I have visited. These are the only moments of relief that I enjoy, for I have the modesty to refrain from thinking of my love in the presence of others. I still possess enough innocence of heart to believe that the four letters of this sweetest of all words would be stamped on my brow in characters of fire, thus betraying a secret that indifference responds to with pitying smiles or heartless jeers.
The thousand memories sown here and there in my peregrinations pass so vividly before me, that, standing in the bright sunlight, with eyes open, I dream over again those visions of my sleepless nights in foreign lands.