Part 16

Truly, I am writing with a gay pen, and I am sad; but my sadness is so great that I am afraid to send you the expression of it. I would sell my fame and all my literary baggage (if I had no debts) for the pebbles on the road to Ferney. If you would buy my books in bulk I would write them for you little by little, or tell them to you in the chimney-corner. Make M. Hanski buy a principality, for I should not like to be jester to any but a prince; self-loves should be conciliated. You could give me such pretty caps and bells! As for salary, I would take it in the laughs that would come from your lips. But you would be expected to give me eulogies and lodgings, cakes and bells. No Barkschy; I make conditions. But a fool would have to hide his heart. Well, well, you would not want me. _Mon Dieu!_ how often in my life I have envied Prince Lutin! [Puck.]

I wish you all enjoyments of your journey. I must now go and finish a "Conte Drolatique" while you are getting into the carriage and saying, perhaps: "I did not think that this Frenchman whom I accused of levity on our way to the lake of Bienne was so sincere when he told me he was capable of attachment." Ah! madame, poor men have only a heart, and they give it; I am a poor man, a manual labourer who works in phrases as others carry a hod.

If I were free, I should bathe to-night in the Adriatic, and then go and tell you some joyous tale, review the ducal houses in the "Almanach de Gotha," or play patience. You made me adore patience--and I live by patience. But I drudge, I suffer much.

PARIS, July 15, 1834.

I wish you to find this letter on your arrival in Vienna. Day before yesterday I posted a letter to you in Trieste, and ten minutes later your good long letter from Trieste came. Ah! that, indeed, is writing! That is making some one happy! Boor Alphonse Royer, who wrote "Venezia la bella," did not tell me in two volumes what you have told me about Venice in two pages. I said to a friend who came in just as I was putting your letter into the pretty box I have had made to hold them,--for to me your letters are beings, fairies which bring me a thousand delights; I am dainty for my fairy-letters,---I said to him: "We are ninnies, we who think we can write. We ought to kiss the slippers of certain women, the side where the slippers touch the ground, for within, none but the angels are worthy of that!"

Thanks for your letter; how many things I want to answer and must put off to another day, not wishing to speak now, except of things I have much at heart.

You have not understood me about "Séraphita." I declare to you that I have more jealousy of heart than you accuse me of; for if, after promising me a testimonial of friendship, you were to forget it, I should suffer in all that is most sensitive in heart and soul and body. Therefore, I wanted to avoid the same suffering to you by explaining that the _envoi_ would be in the last article, to make my happiness the more transcendant. That last chapter, the "Transfiguration," is to me what, in its own degree, the picture was to Raffaelle. Leave me the right to put your name upon my picture at the moment when the almost gigantic conception of that work is about to be comprehended. But, after reading your letter, I think there was conceit in my thinking you would suffer. _Basta!_ I will say no more about it.

The second number of "Séraphita" has been, for three weeks, in the printing-office, and I have worked ten hours a day upon it. I will send you the whole of it to Vienna, addressed to M. Sina. It will all be out by the end of September.

Another quarrel. I would rather be happy in a corner than be Washington in France, seeing that we have dozens of Washingtons in every street. That means that I would rather be at Wierzchownia in January than sputtering politics in the tribune of the Palais-Bourbon. This is by way of answer to your sublime _retrocessa_, when you wish to efface yourself behind France. As for me, I efface France beneath your sublime forehead. France, madame, is never short of great orators, great ministers, and great men in everything.

Well, the Gosselin affair is signed; I am quit to-day of that nightmare of foolishness. The illustrious Werdet (who slightly resembles the illustrious Gaudissart) buys from me the first edition of the "Études Philosophiques,"--twenty-five 12mo volumes,--in five Parts, each of five volumes, to appear, month by month, August, September, October, November. You see that to carry this through, and do three Parts of the "Études de Mœurs," still due to Madame Bêchet, requires Vesuvius in the brain, a torso of iron, good pens, quantities of ink, not the slightest blue devil, and a constant desire to see, in January, Strasburg, Cologne, Vienna, Brody, etc., and to fight with snow-drifts. I do not mention that bagatelle called _health_, nor that other bagatelle called _talent_.

Now you know the programme of my life, and if I had _a lady of my thoughts_ you must own she would be much to be pitied, unhappy woman! Fortunately, she is, very sadly, the lady of my thoughts only; and I know she is very joyful to find me hindered.

For all this fine work M. Werdet is to give me fifteen thousand francs, and whatever of glorification I can catch above the bargain. This, joined to the rest of the "Études de Mœurs," will free me entirely, and leave me with a few crowns, which are in this low world, the wings on which we fly o'er distances.

Do you know why I am so gay that there is gaiety in my grumblings? It is that I have seen once more the pretty little scribble of your writing; that I know you to be, except for the sufferings of travel, perfectly well, and Anna too.

Adieu, a thousand tender feelings of the heart. Ah! be reassured. Madame de C... insists that she has never loved any one but M. de M..., and that she loves him still, that Artemisia of Ephesus. This evening I say good-bye, at Liszt's, to Wolff, that young face from Geneva--where I was so young!

When you write to me from Vienna, tell me, I entreat you, how long you stay. Something tells me that I shall see Vienna with you; that means that I shall like Vienna. You must tell me what the Germans think of "Séraphita." You will receive, in Vienna, the third Part of the "Études de Mœurs," which leaves here, addressed to M. Sina (_mon Dieu!_ how I do like that name!), about the end of this month. So you will have it during the first ten days of August.

A thousand tender regards.

PARIS, July 30, 1834.

Oh! my angel, my love, my life, my happiness, my strength, my treasure, my beloved, what horrible restraint! what joy to write to you heart to heart! what shame to me if you do not find these lines at the time and place! I have been into the country for six days to finish something in a hurry.

_Ohimé_, I cannot start for the Baths of Baden before August 10; but I will go like the wind; it is impossible to tell you more, for to be able to go there needs giant efforts. But I love you with superhuman force.

So from the 10th to the 15th I shall be on the road. I shall have only three or four days to myself, but I bring you that drop of my ardent life with a happiness which the infinite of heaven can alone explain.

_Mon Dieu!_ what hours full of you, of which you have only presentiments! How I have followed you everywhere! How I have, at all hours, desired you! Yes, my cherished Eve, my celestial flower, my beautiful life, stay at the Baths till September. If it takes eight days to get there, and I leave here August 15th, I shall only arrive on the 23rd, and I must be here for the first days in September. All depends on my work and my payments. The desire to be free, to be yours, has made me undertake things beyond my strength. But my love is so great; it sustains me.

Your "Séraphita" is beautiful, grand, and you will enjoy that work in three months. I need three months for the last chapter; but perhaps I will finish it near you. You warmed up my heart for the first; you ought to hear the last song!

Oh! dear, dearest adored one, tell yourself well that the love you have inspired in me is the infinite. Have neither fear nor jealousy. _Nothing_ can destroy the charm under which I wish to live. Yes, there have been many melancholies, many sadnesses: I was a displanted tree. To see you in August restores to me happiness and courage.

Now, to come to Baden I must bring out in the "Revue de Paris" "Le Cabinet des Antiques," of which you know the beginning. To work to go to see you, oh, what enjoyment! There is no work, there is joy in every line.

Did you receive the "Chouans" at Trieste? But you cannot answer me. You will receive this August 8 in Vienna, and the 10th I shall start. What are Neufchâtel and Geneva in comparison with Baden? Were there six months of desires, of repressed love, of works written in your name, oh, my life, my thought? One must be strong to sustain a joy so long awaited. Oh, yes, be alone!

It is impossible to write you a long letter; it would take a day more, as I only arrived this morning, and I feared that Marie de Verneuil might not find it and be vexed with him who adores her as an angel loves God. To be separated from you by only eighteen days; it is all, and it is nothing. Your little letter has made me crazy. It will be a great imprudence to go to Baden, for I have a thousand ducats to pay in September, but to see you one day, to kiss that idolized forehead, to smell that loved hair, which I wear about my neck, to take that hand so full of kindness and love, to see you! that is worth all glories, all fortunes. If it were not upon us, upon a longer time of separation that this folly falls, it would not be a folly, it would be quite simple.

Dear angel, do you know what happiness there is for me in these eighteen days, and the journey, _mon Dieu!_ I adore you night and morning, I send you all the thoughts of my soul, I surround you with my heart,--do you feel nothing? And my sufferings in not going to Florence, in short, I will tell you all.

Dear angel, be happy if the most ardent love, the most infinite that man can feel, is the life you have desired to have, give, receive.

_À bientôt_, then. Oh! what a word! Three or four days of happiness will make the months of absence more supportable. Oh! my treasure, what an abyss for me is tenderness. You are the principle of this frightful courage. Will you love my white hairs? Every one is astonished that any one can produce what I produce, and says that I shall die. No; three days near you is to recover life and strength for a thousand years!

Adieu; a thousand kisses. I have held this bit of vinca between my lips while writing. To thee, my white _minette_, and soon. A thousand tender caresses, and in each a thousand more![1]

[Footnote 1: This is the last of these odious and ridiculous letters. It belongs properly to the series which ended March 11, 1834. In my opinion it has been concocted and placed under this date to convey the idea that it is one of the letters which Balzac mentions in his letter to M. Hanski of September 16 (see p. 199); and, furthermore, this is done with the intention of convincing the reader that the whole series of forged letters (which are plainly identical in character with this letter) were written by Balzac.

Putting aside, for a moment, the _proofs_ of deception which I have produced, I must say in conclusion that I think no one of literary judgment will believe that the author of the "Comédie Humaine" wrote these spurious letters.

From this date the letters go on in Balzac's characteristic manner,--expansive, impulsive, boyish at times, and too full, certainly, of his debts and his troubles; but with it all is the strong underflow of a great and dauntless soul allied to things pure and noble. The story is tragic; and not the least tragic part of it is the wicked present attempt of degenerate men to degrade a hero.

I here place a letter of the same date from Monsieur Hanski to Balzac, which will serve to show the sort of man he was, and how he regarded his own and his wife's friendship for Balzac.

I now leave the whole subject to the judgment of the reader.--TR.]

FROM M. HANSKI TO M. HONORÉ DE BALZAC.

VIENNA, August 3, 1834.

I have just received, monsieur, the copy of the "Médecin de campagne,"--that one of your works which I like best; the real merit of which I could wish were felt and recognized at its just value. I allowed myself, some time ago, to write to you fully on the impression this book made upon me; therefore I will not return to it, but simply beg you to receive my thanks for so precious a souvenir of your good friendship. My wife has told you, no doubt, of the way I was taken in by the "Moniteur." But explain to us who your legitimist homonym is who is made deputy from Villefranche? We thought there was for France, as for us, only one M. de Balzac; and, in that conviction, I was preparing a long letter of congratulation. In it I spoke of a _certain cause_ [he means that of the Duchesse de Berry, then imprisoned at Blaye], of which, knowing your generous heart, I hoped to see you the champion. But, at the sweetest moment of these illusory dreams, my wife brought me your letter, and told me that you were not a deputy. Disappointed, I cursed the fatality that presides over the things of this world; I consigned my fine epistle to the flames, and the blue devils returned in troops to assail me.

But adieu, monsieur; my wife is, no doubt, writing you a long gossip. More at this time would bore you. I therefore end, assuring you of all my friendship.

VENCESLAS HANSKI.

To MADAME HANSKA.

PARIS, August 1--August 4, 1834.

I have received your letter, written from Vienna, madame. You have probably received two from me, addressed to J. Collioud, with the "Chouans" and the "Médecin de campagne." Distances are so little calculable. I believe that up to the present time I have had such true sympathies that my inspirations have always been like those of my friends. I have forgotten nothing,--neither Marie de Verneuil, nor your "Chouans," nor M. Hanski, who will have his "Médecin de campagne."

I am a little chagrined. The imbeciles of Paris declare me crazy in view of the second number of "Séraphita," whereas the elevated minds are secretly jealous of it. I am worn out with work. Too much is too much. For three days past I have been seized by unconquerable sleep, which shows the last degree of cerebral weariness. I dare not tell you what an effort I am making now to write to you. I have a plumophobia, an inkophobia, which amount to suffering. However, I hope to finish my third Part by August 15. It will have cost me much. And for that reason I am afraid of some heaviness in the style and in the conception. You must judge.

The "Cabinet des Antiques" will appear in the "Revue de Paris," between the second number of "Séraphita" and the last, for the "Revue" makes the sacrifice of holding the latter back till I can finish it. You know the beginning of the "Cabinet des Antiques." It made one of our good evenings in Geneva.

Let M. Hanski console himself; I shall be deputy in 1839, and then I can better, being free of all care and all worries, act so as to render my country some service, if I am worth anything. Between now and then I expect to be able to rule in European questions by means of a political publication. We will talk about that.

I have had many troubles. My brother made a bad marriage in the Indies, and the poor boy has neither spirit, energy, nor talent. Men of will are rare!

I shall go to see you in Vienna if I can get twenty days to myself; a pretty watch given at the right moment to Madame Bêchet may win me a month's freedom. I am going to overwhelm her with gifts to get peace.

I have many troubles, many worries. The kind M. Hanski would not have his black butterflies if he were in my place. My second line of operations is now to be drawn out. I shall have the first Part of the "Études Philosophiques" printed within ten days. It will appear at the same time as the third Part of the "Études de Mœurs." There is but God and I, and the third person, who is never named, who are in the secret of these works which affright literature. I have sixty thousand volumes this year in the commerce of publishers, and I shall have earned seventy thousand francs. Hence, hatreds. But, alas! of those seventy thousand francs nothing will remain to me but the happiness of being free of all debt after being ruined by it.

You are very fortunate, madame, to be able to take the Danube baths; but write me soon if they are removing those frightful nervous headaches which frightened me so much. Do not suffer. Preserve your health. When you walk, do not wear those little shoes that let in water, as they did the day we went to Ferney.

Do you know I feel a little vexed with you that you can think that a man who has _my faith and my will_ can change, after all I have written to you. In the matter of money alone I do not do all I would; but in whatever belongs to the heart, to the feelings, in all that is _the man_ you can have few reproaches to make to me.

Write me, very legibly, your addresses in Vienna and Baden, for I find it impossible to make out the name of the hotel where you are now.

I am to see, some day soon, an illustrious Pole, Wronsky, great mathematician, great mystic, great mechanician, but whose conduct has irregularities which the law calls swindling; though, if closely viewed, they are seen to be the effects of dreadful poverty and a genius so superior that one can hardly blame him. He has, they say, one of the most powerful intellects in Europe.

Monday, 4.

I have been forced to interrupt my letter for a day and a half; I have not had two minutes to myself to collect my thoughts. There has been a deluge of hurried proofs and corrections; ouf! I beg you to recall me to the memory of all who compose your caravan.

Our Paris is very flat, very sad. MM. Thiers and Rigny have, they say, lost five millions at the Bourse, in consequence of the invasion that Don Carlos has made all alone. Every one talks war here, but no one believes in it. The king has dismissed Soult in order to remain at peace.

Adieu. I hope, madame, that you will amuse yourself at the Baths, and gain health; but you must walk a little. My life is so monotonous that I can tell you little of myself that is worth telling. One thought and work, that is the life of your moujik. You--you are seeing countries, you have the movement of travel which occupies and diverts. Ah! if I could travel, I would go to Moravia.

Adieu. If you hear anything in the air, if a pebble rolls at your feet, if a light sparkles, tell yourself that my spirit and my heart are frolicking in Germany. Wholly yours,

HONORÉ.

PARIS, August 11, 1834.

Thank you, madame, for your good and amiable letter of the 3rd of this month. The envelope delighted me with its hieroglyphics, in which you have put such religious ideas.

I have many answers to give you. But a thousand million wafts of incense for your ideas on "Philippe le Discret." You share my sentiments on Schiller and my ideas of what I ought to do.

Oh! spend the winter in Vienna? I shall be there, yes--You have the books? Good.

No, I see no one, neither man nor woman. My _tigers_ bore me; they have neither claws nor brains. Besides, I seldom go to the Opera now.

How sweet your letter is! with what happiness I have read it! that description of your house, the flowers, the garden, your life so well arranged, even the blue devils on the watch for M. Hanski. Thank you for all the details you give me.

At the moment when I was reading the religious part of your letter, that where the good thoughts went to my heart, my Carmelite nuns, who had opened the windows of their chapel on account of the heat, began to sing a hymn which crossed our little street and my courtyard. I was strangely moved. Your writing gleamed in my eyes and softly entered my heart, more living than ever. This is not poesy, but one of those realities that are rare in life.

"La Recherche de l'Absolu" kills me. It is an immense subject; the finest book I can do, say _some_. Alas! I shall not be through with it before the 20th of this month, in nine days. After that, I spread my wings and take a three weeks' furlough, for my head cannot sustain another idea. On the 21st I shout: "Vive l'Almanach de Gotha!" God grant that ten days later I present to you myself the "Absolu." I will not tell you anything about it. That's an author's coquetry, which you will pardon when you lay down the book.

My life, it is fifteen hours' toil, proofs, author's anxieties, phrases to polish; but, there's a distant gleam, a hope which lights me.

At last, France is beginning to bestir itself about my books. Fame will come too late; I prefer happiness. I want to be something great to increase the enjoyments of the person loved. I can only say that to you. You understand me and you will not be jealous of that thought.

Madame de Castries is dying; the paralysis has attacked the other leg. Her beauty is no more; she is blighted. Oh! I pity her. She suffers horribly and inspires pity only. She is the only person I go to see, and then for one hour every week. It is more than I really can do, but that hour is compelled by the sight of that slow death. She lives with a cataplasm of Burgundy pitch from the nape of the neck to the loins. I give you these details because you ask for them.

So, constant labour, sundry griefs, the condition of Madame de Berny, who, on her side, droops her head like a flower when its calyx is heavy with rain. She cannot bear up under her last sorrows. Never did a woman have more to endure. Will she come safely out of these crises? I weep tears of blood in thinking that she is necessarily in the country, while I am necessarily in Paris. Great sorrows are preparing for me. That gentle spirit, that dear creature who put me in her heart, like the child she most loved, is perishing, while our affection (that of her eldest son, and mine) can do nothing to allay her wounds? Oh! madame, if death takes this light from my life, be good and generous, receive me. I could think only of going to weep near you. You are the only person (Borget and Madame Carraud excepted) in whom I have found the true and sanctifying friendship. In case she dies, France would be horrible to me. Borget is away; Madame Carraud has not, in herself, the feminine softness that one needs. Hers is an antique rectitude, a reasoning friendship which has its angles. You _feel_, you!

Yes, I am overwhelmed by this sorrow which approaches; and that divine soul prepares me for it, so to speak, in the few lines she is able to write to me. Yes, I have only your heart into which I can shed the tears that are in my eyes while writing this in Paris.[1] I am horribly alone; no one knows the secrets of my heart. I suffer, and before others I smile. Neither my sister nor my mother comprehend me.

These are sad pages. I have some hope. Mme. de Berny has such a rich constitution; but her age makes me tremble; a heart so young in a body that is nearly sixty, that is, indeed, a violent contrast. She has dreadful inflammations between the heart and lungs. My hand, when I magnetize her, increases the inflammation. We were obliged, therefore, to renounce that means of cure; for, as I wrote you, I was able to spend ten days with her the last of July. Oh! be well yourself! you and yours! Let me not tremble for the only beings who are dear to me, for all, at once!