The Best Works of Balzac. Оноре де Бальзак

by its style and by its length the many emendations, the heartfelt alarms, the innumerable terrors caused by a desire to please; the changes of expression and the hesitation between the whirl of ideas that beset a man as he indites his first love-letter—a letter he never will forget, each line the result of a reverie, each word the subject of long cogitation, while the most unbridled passion known to man feels the necessity of the most reserved utterance, and like a giant stooping to enter a hovel, speaks humbly and low, so as not to alarm a girl's soul.

      No antiquary ever handled his palimpsests with greater respect than I showed in reconstructing these mutilated documents of such joy and suffering as must always be sacred to those who have known similar joy and grief.

       I

      "Mademoiselle, when you have read this letter, if you ever should

       read it, my life will be in your hands, for I love you; and to me,

       the hope of being loved is life. Others, perhaps, ere now, have,

       in speaking of themselves, misused the words I must employ to

       depict the state of my soul; yet, I beseech you to believe in the

       truth of my expressions; though weak, they are sincere. Perhaps I

       ought not thus to proclaim my love. Indeed, my heart counseled me

       to wait in silence till my passion should touch you, that I might

       the better conceal it if its silent demonstrations should

       displease you; or till I could express it even more delicately

       than in words if I found favor in your eyes. However, after having

       listened for long to the coy fears that fill a youthful heart with

       alarms, I write in obedience to the instinct which drags useless

       lamentations from the dying.

       "It has needed all my courage to silence the pride of poverty, and

       to overleap the barriers which prejudice erects between you and

       me. I have had to smother many reflections to love you in spite of

       your wealth; and as I write to you, am I not in danger of the

       scorn which women often reserve for profession of love, which they

       accept only as one more tribute of flattery? But we cannot help

       rushing with all our might towards happiness, or being attracted

       to the life of love as a plant is to the light; we must have been

       very unhappy before we can conquer the torment, the anguish of

       those secret deliberations when reason proves to us by a thousand

       arguments how barren our yearning must be if it remains buried in

       our hearts, and when hopes bid us dare everything.

       "I was happy when I admired you in silence; I was so lost in the

       contemplation of your beautiful soul, that only to see you left me

       hardly anything further to imagine. And I should not now have

       dared to address you if I had not heard that you were leaving.

       What misery has that one word brought upon me! Indeed, it is my

       despair that has shown me the extent of my attachment—it is

       unbounded. Mademoiselle, you will never know—at least, I hope you

       may never know—the anguish of dreading lest you should lose the

       only happiness that has dawned on you on earth, the only thing

       that has thrown a gleam of light in the darkness of misery. I

       understood yesterday that my life was no more in myself, but in

       you. There is but one woman in the world for me, as there is but

       one thought in my soul. I dare not tell you to what a state I am

       reduced by my love for you. I would have you only as a gift from

       yourself; I must therefore avoid showing myself to you in all the

       attractiveness of dejection—for is it not often more impressive

       to a noble soul than that of good fortune? There are many things I

       may not tell you. Indeed, I have too lofty a notion of love to

       taint it with ideas that are alien to its nature. If my soul is

       worthy of yours, and my life pure, your heart will have a

       sympathetic insight, and you will understand me!

       "It is the fate of man to offer himself to the woman who can make

       him believe in happiness; but it is your prerogative to reject the

       truest passion if it is not in harmony with the vague voices in

       your heart—that I know. If my lot, as decided by you, must be

       adverse to my hopes, mademoiselle, let me appeal to the delicacy

       of your maiden soul and the ingenuous compassion of a woman to

       burn my letter. On my knees I beseech you to forget all! Do not

       mock at a feeling that is wholly respectful, and that is too

       deeply graven on my heart ever to be effaced. Break my heart, but

       do not rend it! Let the expression of my first love, a pure and

       youthful love, be lost in your pure and youthful heart! Let it die

       there as a prayer rises up to die in the bosom of God!

       "I owe you much gratitude: I have spent delicious hours occupied

       in watching you, and giving myself up to the faint dreams of my

       life; do not crush these long but transient joys by some girlish

       irony. Be satisfied not to answer me. I shall know how to

       interpret your silence; you will see me no more. If I must be

       condemned to know for ever what happiness means, and to be for

       ever bereft of it; if, like a banished angel, I am to cherish the

       sense of celestial joys while bound for ever to a world of sorrow

       —well, I can keep the secret of my love as well as that of my

       griefs.—And farewell!

       "Yes, I resign you to God, to whom I will pray for you, beseeching

       Him to grant you a happy life; for even if I am driven from your

       heart, into which I have crept by stealth, still I shall ever be

       near you. Otherwise, of what value would the sacred words be of

       this letter, my first and perhaps my last entreaty? If I should

       ever cease to think of you, to love you whether in happiness or in

       woe, should I not deserve my punishment?"

       II

      "You are not going away! And I am loved! I, a poor, insignificant

       creature! My beloved Pauline, you do not yourself know the power

       of the look I believe in, the look you gave me to tell me that you

       had chosen me—you so young and lovely, with the world at your

       feet!

       "To enable you to understand my happiness, I should have to give

       you a history of my life. If you had rejected me, all was over for

       me. I have suffered too much. Yes, my love for you, my comforting

       and stupendous love, was