I stayed in bed until 8.30, although I woke up at seven o’clock; but I just rolled lazily about, thinking of you, and reading yesterday’s newspapers. I reached home exactly at seven o’clock last night, undressed, tidied my things, dined, wrote to you, did my accounts, and read Claude Gueux till half-past ten. Then I put my hair into curl-papers, and got into bed at eleven o’clock. I went to you in spirit, and dreamt that I was kissing Baby Toto, and making big Toto jealous. This is the complete history of my morning up to date; now I shall dress, breakfast, and go for a walk in the meadows with the maid. Farewell, dearest, until this afternoon’s happiness. Always yours in love and longing.

I love you with all my heart, I embrace you in spirit, I adore you with my whole soul, I admire you with every faculty of my mind. Think of me, come to me, come to me as soon as possible. My arms, my cheek, my whole being, await you.

J.

At Metz,
Thursday, 8.45 p.m.

My dear, good Toto,

I should have got back without adventure, had I not met an enormous and horrific toad in the road, which sent me flying home, shrieking as if the devil was at my heels. I was here by ten minutes past seven, began my dinner at five minutes past eight, and am now sitting writing to you, to thank you for all the bliss you lavish upon me. This day, drenched with rain though it was, has been one of the most beautiful and happiest of my whole life. If there had been rainbows in the sky, they would be reflected in our hearts, linking our souls together in thought and emotion.

I thank you for drawing my attention to so many lovely things I should never notice without your assistance and the touch of your dear white hand upon my brow; but there is one beauty greater and nobler than all the combined ones of heaven and earth, for the recognition of which I require no help—and that is yourself, my best beloved, your personality that I adore, your intellect that enchants and dazzles me. Would that I possessed the pen of a poet, to describe all I think and feel! But, alas, I am only a poor woman in love, and such a condition is not conducive to brilliancy of expression!

Good-night, my adored one; good-night, my darling. Sleep well. I send you a thousand kisses.

J.

Metz,
Monday, 11.5 a.m., September 24th, 1835.

Great indeed was our misfortune yesterday! I agree with you in that, my Victor, because I love you. For over a year I have suffered much; oftener than not, without complaint. I always trusted that my love and fidelity would engender in you feelings of esteem and confidence, but now that hope is for ever at an end; for, far from diminishing, your suspicion and contempt have grown to terrible dimensions. You love me, I know, and I worship you with all the strength of my being. You are the only man I have ever loved, the only one to whom I have ever given this assurance. Yet I now implore you on my knees to let me go. I cannot urge this too strongly. You see, my dear, I am so wretched, so humiliated, and I suffer so acutely, that I shall have to leave you, even against your will; so it would be kinder of you to give your consent, that I may at least have the sad satisfaction, if I must forsake you, of knowing that I have not disobeyed you.

Farewell, my joy; farewell, my life; farewell, my soul! I leave you, for the very sake of our love—I offer this sacrifice on behalf of us both. Later, you will understand. But before bidding you a last good-bye, I swear to you that, during the last year, I have not committed one single action I need blush for, nor harboured one guilty thought. I tell you this from the bottom of my heart. You may believe it.

I shall go to my child, for I am anxious about her since she has been at Saumur. Perhaps I may bring her back with me. I think I was very wrong to send her away. I mean to repair my fault if there is yet time. The pretext of her health will be sufficient before the world. My heart shall be dumb upon all that concerns you. I will keep everything to myself. I must get work. If you can do anything to help me find some, it will be good of you. I mention this for the first and last time, for, if you were to forget me, you know very well that I should be the last to venture to recall myself to you.

Good-bye again, my friend; good-bye, for ever! I have been copying your little book, hoping you would be generous enough to leave it with me. Good-bye! good-bye! Do not suffer, do not weep, do not think, do not accuse yourself! I love and forgive you.

Juliette.

Metz,
Saturday, 7.30 p.m. (October 1835).

You were in a great hurry to leave me to-night, my best-beloved. If consideration for me was your motive, it was high-handed and blundering of you, for I never enjoyed myself more than this evening, and, until the moment you left me so abruptly, I had never so savoured the happiness of being with you in the highways and byways.

I therefore returned home sadly and thoughtfully. I have begun my letter to-night with diminished joy and confidence in the future, for your hurry to leave me weighs upon me, and I cannot explain it satisfactorily to myself.

I came in at a quarter past six, suffering greatly from indigestion. The maid told me some one had called for the dog—two gentlemen, who seemed much attached to it. Poor brute, it was a wrong instinct that led it to follow us. I have no doubt it is expiating its offence in hunger and cold at this very moment. I am somehow unduly interested in the fate of the poor thing. I feel something beyond ordinary pity for it; it makes me think of the fate and future in store for a poor girl we both know. She also follows step by step a master who will have no scruple in casting her adrift when his duty to society proves as pressing and sacred as that which called him away to-night.

I am depressed, my dear friend, and unwell. The oppression on my chest is increasing. I hope your sore throat will diminish in proportion to what I am enduring. Providence is too just to allow such cumulation of suffering. Good-night—sleep well and think of me if you can. As for loving me, that is another question; one’s emotions cannot grow to order. I love you.

J.

Sunday, 8 p.m., 1835.

My dear darling, I cannot describe to you the rapture with which I listened to the two sublime poems you recited to me, one on the first Revolution and the other on the two Napoleons.

But where can your equal be found on earth!... My dear little Toto, do not laugh at me. I feel so many things I cannot express, much less write. I love and revere you, and when I reflect upon what you are, I marvel! Since you left me, I have read again Napoleon the Second. I shall never tire of it. It is going to bed with me now.

You told me to wait for you till 9.30; after that hour I shall go to bed. If you should happen to come later, I will open the door to you myself, as you have forgotten the key. I want to do so, that I may not lose one second of the happiness of having you with me. Sleep well—good-night—do not suffer—do not work—sleep!

Juliette.

Wednesday, 8.30 p.m., 1835.

I am half afraid of taking too literally your request for a daily letter. Tell me seriously how I am to interpret it, so that I may not make myself ridiculous, by overwhelming you with letters you do not want. Tell me the truth once for all, so that I may know where I am, and may give myself up without restraint to the pleasure of telling you, and writing to you, that I love you with all my heart, and that you alone constitute my sole joy, my sole happiness, and my sole future. If you can experience only one quarter of the bliss in reading, that I shall feel in inditing my scribble, you shall receive some of my prose every day, but in limited quantities, calculated not to wear out your patience.

And, in order to demonstrate my powers of self-restraint, I will limit myself to six trillions of kisses for your beautiful mouth. Besides, here you come! I love you.

Juliette.

Wednesday, 8 p.m., December 2nd, 1835.

My Beloved,

When one is ill and feverish, everything tastes bitter to the lips and palate. I am in that position. I am abominably miserable, and all the sweet words you lavish upon me seem tainted. But I have enough sense left to realise that it is my condition that prevents me from relishing the full meed of happiness you are able to give me in one moment. Forgive me for suffering, and for not having the strength or generosity to conceal it from you; it is only because I suffer too much, and love you too much, which is the same thing.

I promise to be very cheerful to-night, and to disguise my feelings. I have read everything concerning you in the papers, and I cannot help suspecting that a passage about you and your work has been purposely cut out. If this is so, you had much better tell me, for I am quite equal to bearing the truth, and even to hearing lies; so I beg you to tell me what was in that newspaper, and thus spare me the trouble of procuring another copy. You must indeed be happy and proud on behalf of the person to whom you are supposed to have dedicated your sublime poem.



VICTOR HUGO.
VICTOR HUGO.

The article by Monsieur F. Dugué seems singularly well-informed about your restoration to the domestic hearth. I am apparently not the only one who notices that for the last year you have been changing your habits and feelings, though I am probably the only one who will die of grief in consequence—but what matter, so long as the domestic hearth remains cheerful and the family, happy.

I hope you will do your best to come and see me to-morrow, during the intervals of the performance unless the salutations you have to make, and the compliments and admiration you must acknowledge should detain you against your will; in which case I hope I may be brave enough not to worry about such a trifle, and reasonable enough not to let the magnitude of my love depend upon so slight a pleasure.

You see, my dear angel, I bow to the arguments you impress on me. I am no longer sad, neither do I suffer. I love you; that is the truest word of all.

Juliette.

Tuesday, 8.45 p.m., December 15th, 1835.

Of course, my darling, you did right to come back, whatever your reason might be; but the pleasure of your visit was quite spoilt by your inquiry as to how I spend my time, when it is self-evident that my conduct is irreproachable.

It may surprise you that I should have borne the inquisition you habitually subject me to, with less equanimity to-day than usual. I own, my poor angel, that I do not know why it should be so. Perhaps I am like the cripple, who feels pain in the leg which has been cut off, long after he has lost it. I often suffer over my past life, though the present is so widely different. I suffer, not from variations of temperature, but from the variations of your love, which seems to grow daily colder and more gloomy. If I am mistaken, forgive and pity me; but if, as I fear, I make no error, tell me so frankly, and I shall be grateful for your sincerity. You see, my poor friend, I cannot believe that your jealousy is other than an insulting mistrust of us both. I have watched you carefully for the last six months, and I can see quite well that, although your love is gradually waning, your supervision becomes ever more active and more fidgety. If I were absolutely sure of what I suspect, I should not say this to you—I should go away at once, and you would never hear of me again; but if by chance I were wrong, and you still care for me, such a course would entail frightful sorrow upon us both. Therefore I remain, preferring to incur your hatred and contempt, rather than run the risk of grieving you.

There, my poor angel, is the attitude of mind and heart in which you found me this evening; it will explain why I received your question so badly, although I was grateful for your presence. You see, my head and heart are weary. If you are not careful, some calamity, resulting from this condition, will overtake and crush you, at a moment when neither you nor I will be able to prevent it. I give you this warning in all sincerity, but with the intimate conviction that it will not affect you. As long as you feel I belong to you wholly and entirely, you are as indifferent to my sufferings as to my happiness.

J.

Wednesday, 8.30, February 3rd, 1836.

If I have grieved you, my beloved, I beg you to forgive me, for I know your position is awkward and demands much consideration, especially from me. Besides, why should I complain of my mode of life more to-day, than yesterday? I accept my position without regret; therefore there is no reason for questioning an arrangement which only you can alter.

I cannot help noticing that your love is not what it was. I may say I am sure of it, if I may judge by the impatient words you occasionally utter, half against your will, and by other signs it would take too long to commit to paper. I certainly possess a devoted Victor, but no longer the lover Victor of former days. If it is as I fear, it becomes your duty to leave me at once; for I have never wished to live with you otherwise than as an adored mistress—certainly not as a woman dependent upon a man whose passion is spent. I want no pension. I demand my place in your heart, apart from any feeling of duty or gratitude. That is what I desire, as earnestly as I long to be a faithful woman, submissive to your every whim, whether just or unjust.

If I have hurt your feelings, my dearly beloved, I plead for pardon from the bottom of my heart. If you have to acknowledge a decrease in your love, be brave enough to do so frankly, and do not leave to me the frightful task of guessing it; but if you care for me as much as ever, say it again and again, for I doubt it, alas, and, in love, doubt is more painful a thousand times than the most heartbreaking certainty. Farewell, I worship you.

J.

Wednesday, 8.15 p.m., February 17th, 1836.

You must think me either very cruel or very blind, my beloved. I think, perhaps, it would be best for you to accept the latter hypothesis. I love you, which means that I am jealous; but, as my jealousy is in proportion to my love, my doubts and frenzy are more vivid, more bitter, than those of ordinary women, who are only capable of an ordinary affection. Very well—I am cruel! So be it! I detest every woman upon whom your glances rest. I feel capable of hating all women, young or old, plain or handsome, if I suspect that they have dared raise their eyes to your splendid and noble features. I am jealous of the very pavement upon which you tread, and the air you breathe. The stars and sun alone are beyond my jealousy, because their radiance can be eclipsed by one single flash from your eyes.

I love you as the lioness loves her mate. I love you as a passionate woman, ready to yield up her life at your slightest gesture. I love you with the soul and intelligence God has lent His creatures to enable them to appreciate exceptional men like yourself. That is why, my glorious Victor, at one and the same moment, I can rage, weep, crawl, or stand erect; I bow my head and venerate you!

There are days when one can fix one’s gaze upon the sun itself without being blinded: thus it is with me now. I see you, I am dazzled, entranced, and I grasp your beauty in all its splendour.

Juliette.

Thursday, 8 p.m., August 15th, 1836.

Since you leave me here all by myself, my beloved, I shall think only of you, and in proof of this, I will scribble all over this virgin sheet of white paper. It is barbarous of you to let me grow fatter than I already am, by leaving me to dawdle at my fireside, instead of taking me out to walk and get thin.

I am in love with you, but you do not care a bit. I am very sad not to have you with me, doubly so, when I think that it is on account of a play in which I am to have no part, after all the time I have waited and endured. When I reflect seriously upon this, my despair makes me long to fly to the uttermost ends of the world. It is so necessary that I should think of my future. I have wasted so much time waiting, that it almost spells ruin to me that you should produce a piece in which I may not play. You see, my dearest, I am not as generous as you thought. I am afraid I can no longer disguise from you the injury it does me to be three years out of the theatrical world, while you are bringing out plays. Forgive me, but I have a horror of poverty, and would do anything in reason to evade it. I love you.

Juliette.

Friday, 8.30 p.m., March 11th, 1836.

Dear little Soul,

You are quite happy, I hope, now that you possess the keys of Paradise. I had a few more difficulties to encounter after you went away, but they were of no consequence. Now that our little palace is nearly finished, my soul, I hope we shall celebrate the event in the usual way; but I must first rest a little, and nurse myself up, for I am really quite worn out with the dirt and litter. I am afraid to look at you or touch you in your beauty and purity and charm, while I am so ugly and untidy and exhausted that I hardly know myself as your Juju. But it will not last. My foulness will fall from me, and reveal me dressed, as in the fairy-tale, in garments of blue, bordered with golden stars, and a prince will marry me after tasting of my cooking. Splendid! But meanwhile you must graciously permit me to go on loving you, stains and all! Shut your eyes to the common lamp that guards the flame. If you will wait, you shall see that when we reach the heaven above us, I shall be as resplendent as yourself. Meanwhile, I drop a kiss upon your shoes, even if it entails your having them blacked again.

J.

Wednesday, 7.45 p.m., March 23rd, 1836.

No doubt, dear angel, I ought to disguise in your presence the sadness that overwhelms me when I have to wait too long for you; but the late hour at which you generally come, makes it difficult for me to forget the weary suspense I have already been through, and am to endure again shortly. I love you, my dear—indeed, I love you too much. We often say this lightly, but I assure you that this time I state it in full gravity and knowledge, for I feel it to the very marrow of my bones. I love you. I am jealous. I hate being poor and devoid of talent, for I fear that these deficiencies will cost me your love. Still, I am conscious of something within me, greater than either wealth or intellect; but is it powerful enough to rivet you to me for ever? I ask myself this question night and day, and you are not at hand to soothe my unrest; hence the sadness that wounds you, the jealousy that amazes you, the mental torment you are incapable of understanding.

But I love you all the same, and am happy in the midst of my pain. I smile through my tears, for I love you.

Juliette.

Saturday, 8 a.m., March 26th, 1836.

Good-morning, my little darling Toto.

I am up at cock-crow, though very tired; but I want to be ready to witness your new triumph—for, beloved Toto of mine, you are the great Toto, the greatest man on earth.

How I love you, my Victor! I am jealous. Even your success makes me uneasy with the dread that, amongst so much adulation, you may overlook the humble homage of your poor Juju. I fear that these universal acclamations may drown my lowly cry of—I love you! This apprehension becomes an obsession on such a day as this, when everything is at your feet, caresses, adoration, frenzy. Ah, why are you not insignificant and unknown like myself! I should then have no need to fear that the torch of my love will be eclipsed by that immense illumination.

Try, beloved, to keep a little place in your heart for the love and admiration of your poor mistress, who has loved you from the day she first set eyes upon you, and who will worship you as long as the breath remains in her body.

Juliette.

Saturday, 6.15 p.m., March 26th, 1836.

Let me tell you once again that I love you, my Victor. Presently, thousands of voices will be raised in a chorus of praise. I alone say: I love you. You are my joy, the light of my eyes, the treasure of my life, you are YOU. This evening, my adored one, whatever you say or do, I must be jealous and wretched. Be merciful to me; do not let me suffer too cruelly. If you think of me when you are absent, I shall be conscious of it—if you love me, I shall feel it upon my heart like beneficent balm upon a raw wound.

Farewell, dear soul; it is impossible to wish an increase of beauty to the man, or more glory to the genius; so, if you are happy, so am I. Farewell, then, dearest; I cannot refrain from sending a word of love to the lover, before going to applaud the poet. The heart must have its due share.

Good-bye till later. For ever, for life and until death, love, nothing but love!

J.

Sunday, 7.45 p.m., March 27th, 1836.

I hardly dare speak to you to-night of love. I feel humiliated by my devotion, for all those women seem to be rivals, preferred before me. I suffer, but I do not hold you responsible. I feel worse even than usual this evening. I did not venture to ask what you had written to Madame Dorval, for I was afraid to discover some fresh reason for bitterness and jealousy; so I remained silent.

My dear treasure, you are very lucky not to be jealous: you have no competition to fear with any other celebrity, for there is none besides yourself, and you know that I love you with my whole heart, whereas all I can be sure of is, that I love you far too much to hope to be loved in proportion. In addition, I feel I shall never be capable of raising the heavy stone under which my intellect slumbers.

Forgive me, I am sad. I am worse than sad—I am ashamed, because I am jealous. I am an idiot, and consequently, I am in love!

Juliette.

Thursday, 8.30 p.m., April 14th, 1836.

I love you, my dear Victor, and you make me very unhappy when you seem to doubt it. It is still harder for me when you put your want of confidence into words, for I can only attribute it to the sacrifices you constantly make for me, and which probably cause you to think that an ignoble motive constrains me to remain under your protection. In addition to thus wounding me in the most sensitive part of my love, you exasperate me to a point I cannot describe, because it is true that I have not the wherewithal to live independently of you and your influence. Therefore, my poor angel, when you show your suspicions of my sincerity, I read into them more than jealousy and ill-will: I imagine a reproach against my dependent position. I feel an overwhelming need to prove to you, by any means, that you are mistaken in the woman and her love. Remember your burnt letters! You know what a doubt on your part led me to do on one occasion. Well, angel, I tell you honestly that when you question, not only my fidelity, but also my love, I long to fly to the other side of the world, there to exist as best I can, and never pronounce your name again for the rest of my life. This will be the last proof of love I can give you, and at least you will not be able to accuse me, then, of self-interest and self-love. You hurt me terribly to-night; you often do, and generally when I am most tender and demonstrative towards you.

Yet I love you.

J.

Tuesday, 8 p.m., April 19th, 1836.

Beloved, I am perfectly certain you will not come to fetch me to see Lucrèce, and I am already resigned. There is only one thing I shall never submit to, and that is, the loss of your love. I know you are devoted, that you lavish friendship upon me; but I feel that you have no more love to give me, and I cannot bear it. During the four months I have been alone, ill for the most part, I never knew whether the time would come when you would be impelled to say to me: Take courage, for I love you. I would have given life to find those words in your handwriting at my bedside in the morning, or on my pillow at night. I waited in vain, they never came; my sorrow grew, and now I am certain that you have ceased to care for me.

I know what you will say, Victor—you will tell me that you are hard at work, that you do everything for me, and do not let me want for anything. To that I reply that I have been just as busy or busier than you, yet have always found time to show you the outward signs of my inward love. I may also tell you that, without your love, I do want for everything, and that my life is utterly wretched without it. Lastly, I declare to you that if you continue to be so reasonably kind and attentive, I will release you from your self-imposed burden, at some moment when you least expect it, and for evermore. I must have true love or nothing.

Juliette.

Monday, 7.45 p.m., May 2nd, 1836.

My dear little Beloved,

I am sorry to find that you are not as convinced as I am, of the propriety of giving me your portrait.

I confess I feel the greatest disappointment when I realise, from your daily evasion of my request, that I shall probably never become the possessor of the picture which is so like you, nor even, perhaps, of a copy of the original. I am sad and dejected. I think you do not care enough for me, a poor disinherited creature, to do me the favour you have already bestowed upon another, who already has her full meed of the gifts of life. I am therefore greatly disappointed. I had counted upon having the portrait, and had anticipated much happiness from its possession. The contemplation of it would have so greatly contributed to my courage and resignation, that it is very grievous to have to renounce it thus suddenly, without any compensation.

If I wanted to speak of other things now, I could not; my heart is heavy, my eyes overflow with tears. I can only find bitter words for the expression of my wounded love.

I love you more to-day than I have ever done before, yet I am not happy.

Juliette.

Friday, 7.45 a.m., May 20th, 1836.

Good morning, my dear little Toto.

You failed me again last night, so I shall never count upon you again. I loved you with all my strength, and thought of you even in my sleep. This morning I love you with my whole soul, and heartily long for you, but I know you will not come, so I am cross and sad.

How fine the weather is, my Toto, and how happy we could be in the fresh air, on the high road, in a nice little carriage, with a month of happiness in prospect: it would be Paradise, but ... but ... I dare not set my heart upon it, for I should go crazy with grief if the treat were withheld. At all events, I am ready to start; my foot is well again, and we can set off to-night, or to-morrow morning, at whatever time suits you. I am quite ready, let us, therefore, seize our chance of the fine weather.

My adored one, I am dying to make this expedition.... Do try to get free at the earliest moment possible. I shall be so happy. I still love you, ever so much. I need you terribly. My heart is more than ready for the happiness you will give me during the whole time we shall be together.

Juliette.

Thursday, 12.45 p.m., July 21st, 1836.

Once more I am reduced to writing all that is in my heart, my adored one. It is but a slender satisfaction after the bliss we have been enjoying. Nevertheless, we must take life as we find it, and it would be ungracious of me to complain. A month like the one we have just spent would compensate for a whole life-time of misfortune and worry. Poor angel, since you left me I feel lost and alone in the world. You cannot imagine the utter void, surrounded as you are at this moment by the affection of charming children and devoted friends, while I am alone with my love—that is to say alone in space—for my love has no limits. I seek what consolation I can, by speaking to you, and writing to you. Your handkerchief, breathing of you, lies by my side, with your adored name embroidered in the corner. I caress and talk to it, and we understand each other perfectly. For every kiss I press upon it, it exhales your sweet aroma; it is as if I scented your very soul. Then I weep, as one does in a beautiful dream from which one fears to awake. Heavens, how I love you! You are my life, my joy! I adore you!

Juliette.

Friday, 2.15 p.m., September 2nd, 1836.

My poor, beloved angel. The nearer the moment approaches, the more I dread the inevitable parting which must follow the few days of happiness you have just given me. I long for delay, but I know very well that, however Providence may interpose in my favour, the day must come when you will have to go to St. Prix. Lucky for me if it is not to-day. But, putting aside all considerations of love and Juju, it would really not be prudent for you to go to the country in this cold, foggy weather; even this morning, in the warmth and repose of home, you felt a warning twinge of rheumatism, which prescribes prudence on your part. I fear your natural desire to kiss Toto on his donkey, and watch the other little rogues at their holiday occupations, may draw you, in spite of rain, wind, and the good counsel of your old Juju, to St. Prix. At any rate, if you do this foolish thing, try to avoid chills, to think of me, and to come back to my care and caresses as quickly as possible.

Juliette.

Saturday, 6 p.m., 29th, 1836.

You torment me unjustly, as usual, my darling beloved. Yet you ought to begin to know me, and not suspect my every action, down to the drinking of a cup of coffee. The awkwardness of my position, the absolute solitude in which I am compelled to live, and the many insults I have to tolerate daily from you, exasperate me so, that I feel I would rather go out of your life, than continue to exist like a woman condemned and accursed.

It is your fault that I am so unhappy. Nobody else will ever love you so well, or be so entirely devoted to you. But one is not bound to put up with impossibilities, and I cannot live longer under a yoke which you make more crushing every day. What am I to do, beloved? Run away from you? I have scarcely enough money for my quiet Paris routine. Remain here? If you have not the courage to abstain from visiting me, I certainly shall never have enough to prevent you from coming.

The wound in my heart is raw and bleeding, thanks to the care you take to keep it in that condition. The slightest additional twinge becomes unbearable torture. I do not know what moral operation I would not consent to, to be cured of it.

For the last three years you have really given me too much pain. I implore you, from the bottom of my heart, to be less offensive with me, or else to leave me for good and all. You may guess from this what I am enduring.

Juliette.

Sunday, 2 p.m., January 1st, 1837.

Your darling, adorable letter has reached me. I have devoured it with caresses. Oh, how I love you! I have just sent my child out of the room, so that I might read it on my knees in front of your picture. These little pranks may seem foolish, but they contain a deeper, more sacred significance, like the devotion that inspires them.

When you come, you will find me joyous and radiant, as I was on that glorious day when you first revealed your love. My beloved, my heart, I am very happy. I am in heaven, for you love me, my Toto ... your dear letter has said it. Your eyes, your mouth, your soul, will tell me so still better, presently. Yes, indeed I am happy, I am surfeited. There is nothing left for me to desire or require—I have your love, a love which God Himself might envy were He a woman.

Thank you, adored one, thank you from my heart and soul. I am as good as gold, believe me.

Juju.

Tuesday, 7.30 p.m., February 21st, 1837.

Do not grieve, my precious, do not lament. I will not attempt consolation, for you have better and more efficacious resources within your own self; but I share your affliction. Whatever saddens you saddens me: where you love, I love; when you mourn, I mourn. If I conjure you not to give way to your grief, it is not because I hesitate to bear my portion of it, but because I believe that your poor brother himself would not now desire a return to this life.[65] I look upon his death more as a blessing than a misfortune. Poor brother!

I love you, my adored Victor. In moments such as these, when sorrow brings you nearer to my level, I feel that my affection for you is absolutely true and purified from all dross. Try to come early this evening. I will lavish caresses upon you silently, with my eyes and my innermost self, without worrying you. You shall rest by my fireside, and lean your dear head upon my shoulder, and read, and I shall be glad.

I am jealous of that woman who has dared to steal your verses; such things are not lost. It was a two-fold wickedness on her part, for she caused you the trouble of rewriting them, and me the torment of jealousy. I will not have you see her again, ever! Do you hear?

Oh, I love you, I love you far too much.

Juliette.

Monday, 7.15 p.m., April 2nd, 1837.



CARICATURE OF MLLE. GEORGE, BY VICTOR HUGO. Victor Hugo Museum.

PORTRAIT OF VICTOR HUGO BY HIMSELF.
CARICATURE OF MLLE. GEORGE, BY VICTOR HUGO.
Victor Hugo Museum.		    PORTRAIT OF VICTOR HUGO BY HIMSELF.

I have decided to get up, after all, thanks to the laundry-man; but for him, I should have remained in bed, nursing my depression. I am sad beyond everything, yet I cannot tell why—you are kind and affectionate, and I love you with my whole soul; but that does not seem enough. Esteem, the keystone of happiness, is lacking. I have worn myself out in the endeavour to gain it during the last four years, yet it cometh not, nor ever will come, now. I must turn my efforts in another direction. I must try to break with you, tactfully, as you say, by quitting Paris, and perhaps France. Will that be sufficient to stop the tongue of scandal? I wish to leave you before you abandon me, because I do not admit your right to inflict such a fearful blow upon me. There are people, capable of committing suicide, who yet recoil at the thought of being murdered—I am one. I can and will kill myself, but I shrink from the injury you might possibly inflict upon me before long. My courage does not outstrip your cruelty. I love you too much for happiness.

Juliette.

Tuesday, 10.15 a.m., May 2nd, 1837.

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.

Juliette.

Friday, 8.30 p.m., June 2nd, 1837.

My little Man,

You must make up your mind to take my love or leave it. Compare my life with yours, and see whether I do not deserve that you should pity and love me with all your might. I am all alone, I have neither family nor fame, nor the thousand and one distractions that surround you. As I say, I am alone, always alone; it even seems probable that I shall not see you to-night, while you will be spending your evening in feasting, talking, and visiting your uncle, whom may the devil fly away with. Everybody can get you except me; the exception is flattering and well chosen. I am so unhappy that I am going to bed and shall probably cry my eyes out—I am more inclined for that than for laughing. If you succeed in cheering me up to-night, I shall know you for a great man, and a still greater sorcerer; but you will not attempt it. I may be as sad and miserable as I like, and I am certain you will never interfere.

Good-night, Toto; I am going to bed. Good-night, be happy and gay and content; your poor Juju will be unhappy enough for both. I love you, Toto.

Juliette.

Wednesday, 1.30 p.m., June 10th.

I love you before all things, and after all things. I love you, love you, love you! I have just written to Mother Pierceau that I shall send Suzanne to her to-morrow. I forgot to ask you exactly how much money you brought me yesterday, and also for cash, for yesterday’s expenses. I will do so to-night. I try hard to keep my accounts accurately, yet I am always in a muddle at the end of the month, and always either above or below what I ought to have. I do my best, but nothing seems to bring my sums out right.

I think there is going to be a big storm. The sky is lowering like yesterday, and the weather still more oppressive. Try not to get wet, and come and fetch your umbrella before it begins to pour.

What a delightful afternoon we spent yesterday! I wish we could have it over again, even if we had to be soaked to the skin. I shall never forget the Bassin du Titan.[67] The pretty turtledove that came to slake its thirst in it seemed to recognise us, and wait for its drink, until you scattered drops of poetry into the mossy, flowery grooves, surrounding its edges.

Heavens! what precious pearls you squandered yesterday in that magnificent garden, at the feet of those peerless goddesses, which seem to come to life when your glance rests upon them—what flowers upon those lawns, peopled with joyous children! How all those gods and goddesses, heroes, kings, queens, women, nymphs, and children, must have quarrelled over the treasure you lavished upon them! I was sorry to go away. I should have liked to go back in the moonlight and gather up all those jewels upon which you set so little store. Oh, I must return there very soon, and we will at the same time revisit our Metz, where we have enjoyed so much bliss. That journey will bring us happiness, and I long to make it. I love you, my great Toto. Forgive this scribble; it looks absurd now, and indeed it must needs be so, for I was inebriated with love when I wrote it. My thoughts stagger and fall upon the paper, because they have drunk too deeply of my soul, and know not where they are.

Juliette.

Thursday, 3.45 p.m., July 27th, 1837.

I must contribute my scribble in acknowledgment for the delightful lines you have just written in my little book.[68] My voice will sound like the cackle of a hen after the song of a nightingale; but that is the law of nature, so I do not see why I should be silent, because I have heard you. It was rash of you, my dear little man, to put down the date you suppose was that of my birth; but, as I am too honest to contradict you, I accept it and affirm that, since those days when you were a little boy studying Quintus Curtius, you have developed, and far outstripped all those you revered and admired when you were an urchin of seven—while I have remained the poor, uncultured girl you know. It is pretty certain that education could have added but little to my barren nature; the weeds of the sea-shore do not gain much from cultivation. On that point, thank Heaven, I have nothing to complain of. No one worried much about me until you appeared upon the scene; but you came, my great and sublime poet, and you did not disdain to cull the little scentless flower prinking itself at your feet, to attract the sunshine of your glance. I bless you for your goodness. I know that a father and mother look down upon you from the realms above, and love you for the happiness you have given to the poor little daughter they left solitary on earth. I weep as I write, for it is the first time I have really looked into my innocent past, and my loving heart. I bless you, my generous man, on earth, as you will be blest in heaven. May all those dear to you participate in this benediction, and in the joys and riches of this world and the next!

Juliette.

Thursday, 9 a.m., September 21st, 1837.

Good morning, my Beloved.

The anniversary of our return to Paris has been sadder still than the day itself, since you have not been with me at all, either last night or this morning. I am upset in consequence. I have not yet taken off my nightcap. I am cross. Shall you be at Auteuil all day? What a disappointment for poor Juju, not to speak of Claire, who has to take her chance of my temper when I am cross, and that idiot Madame Guérard, who has put me to the expense of a stamp merely to say that she thinks she is getting fat, and that she wishes you good morning. How thrilling!

I love you, dearest Toto; I love you too much, for I am miserable when you are away. I wish I could care comfortably, like you, for instance, who feel neither better nor worse, whether I am near or far. You are always the same; love never makes you miss the point of a joke, or a hearty laugh, nor fail to notice a grey cloud, the Great Bear, a frog, a sunset, the earth, water, gale, or zephyr. You see everything, enjoy everything, without a thought for poor old Juju, who is being bored to desperation in her solitary corner. Which of us two is the best lover, eh? Answer that it is I, Juju, and you will be speaking the truth. Yes, I love you. Try not to stay away from me all day. Love me for being sad in your absence.

Juliette.

Saturday, 6.30 p.m., September 23rd, 1837.

You are making yourself more and more of a rarity, my beautiful star, so that I become chilled, and gloomy as an antique, moss-grown statue, abandoned in the wilds of some deserted garden. I am not angry with you, but I do wish you were less busy and more lover-like. You have quickly resumed your fine Paris appearance, my beloved little man, whilst I still cling to my travelling disguise. You ought surely to have waited for me to take the initiative, if only for the sake of manners. Whom are you so anxious to please, my bright boy? Who is the favoured one you aspire to put in my place? In any case, I warn you that I shall not be sly like Granier,[69] but that I shall fall upon your respective carcases with frank blows of a cudgel, mind that! Now you may go in search of your charmer, if you are prepared to see your bones ground to powder for my use.

If you come early this evening I shall be so happy, so cheery, so content and good, that you will never wish to leave me again; but, if you delay, I shall be exactly the reverse, and you will have to coax and love me with all your might to comfort me.

You are letting your letter-box get over-full again. Toto, Toto, I shall make a bonfire of its contents if you do not come quick and secure them. Mind what you are about!

Juliette.

Wednesday, 12.45 p.m., November 22nd, 1837.

I really believe you do it on purpose; but you may be certain that I shall pay you back in the same kind: indifference for indifference; donnant donnant is my motto.

Now let us talk of other things. What do you think of the taking of Constantine? I cannot believe the present Ministry will survive long as at present constituted; Thiers and Barot may be called upon at any moment to form a new cabinet. What is your opinion? The commercial crisis is still making itself felt in the markets; oils of every description have gone down; for instance, rape oil which was at 47 is now only at 45. A recovery is looked for next year, but I have my doubts about it, haven’t you?[70]

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Do you not agree with me that all this points to a revolution in the near future, which will entail sinister results for Wailly’s Government? For my part, I view with consternation the removal of the Carlists from St. Jean Pied de Port to Paimbœuf, after a sojourn at St. Ménéhould. I am already sick of the recital of the horrors which disturb the digestion and the tranquillity of the citizens, of whom you are the chief ornament. Pray accept the expression of my distinguished consideration.

Juliette.

December 5th, 5 p.m., 1837.

How kind you are, my Toto, to have come and relieved the suspense I was in as to what had happened in Court.[71] Heavens, how well you spoke! I was so moved and so convinced while I listened, that I forgot even to admire you, yet I have never known you finer or more eloquent. Why must the case be adjourned for a week? Is it to allow time for intrigues against the incorruptible consciences of my lords the judges? I should have given worlds for the verdict to have been delivered to-day; first because it would relieve you of an anxiety as annoying as it is fatiguing, secondly because I myself crave repose, and since this devil of a lawsuit has come on the scene I cannot sleep at night, and lastly because I shall then see you oftener, or at least so I hope.

While I was waiting for you just now I copied a few passages from the letters of Mdlle. de Lespinasse about the C. D.[72] and the S.[73] of her period. Her opinions then, fit our own times absolutely: the same absurdities, the same platitudes, and the same petty triumphs! It would be pitiable were it not so grotesque. Nothing seems to have altered in the last sixty years; there are the identical bourgeois in the identical Rue Saint Denis, the same men and women of the world—nothing is missing. They have not grown old, they are still in good health. Stupidity and bad taste are the best agents for the maintenance of society in all its pristine foolishness. Here am I drivelling on just as if I knew what I was talking about. It would be a nice set-out if I attempted to write! I might just as well present myself as a candidate for the Senate. Please forgive me. Your lawsuit is the cause of my chatter, but I will not transgress again. I love you far too much to go out of my way to make a fool of myself.

Juliette.

Receipts for the Month of December 1837
Dec.Frs.Sous. Liards.
Cash in hand403
  1. Money earned by my Toto5140
  4. Cash from my darling5100
  6. Money earned by my dear one4400
  9. Cash from my Toto’s purse1000
12. ” ” ” ” ” ”500
13. ” ” ” ” ” ”700
14. Money earned by my darling4500
17. Cash from my adored one1020
18. ” ” ” ” ” ”420
19. Money earned by my beloved6000
22. Cash from my Toto200
24. ” ” ” ” ”1000
26. ” ” ” ” ”300
28. Money earned by my Toto102120
30. Money earned by my darling10090
      Plus the money for the earring and ring200
Total466193
Expenditure for the Month of December 1837
 Frs.Sous.Liards.
Food and wine9923
Coal110
Lighting2160
Household expenses and postage1600
Baths, illness810½
General expenditure2980
Incidental expenses and pocket-money580½
Dress4150
Incidental expenses and pocket-money580½
Dress4150
Washing1650
Debts and pawnbroker15160½
Wages20130
To the Lanvins420½
Total413195
Cash in hand5300
 466195[74]

To Toto: 9 luncheons.

Dinners to 10 persons.

In all, about 19.

Sunday, 1.45 p.m., January 21st, 1838.

Good-morning, my dear one, good-morning, my big Toto. How did you manage to fit into your bed? You must have curled yourself up into five or six hundred curves. One grows at such a pace in the space of an evening like last night[75] that you must have become gigantic by this morning, though you were already greater than any one else in the world. I have grown, too, for my love equals your beauty, equals the praises and admiration lavished upon you; so, unless one is prepared to state, against all logic, that the container is smaller than the contents, I must have grown and even surpassed you—without vanity. Love exalts as much as glory does, and I love you more than you are great. Yes my Toto, yes my dear Victor, I dare affirm it because it is true. I love you more than you are great.

How did you spend the night, adored one? I hope you did not work, tired out as you were, and in that horrible little icehouse. I cannot think of that room without shivering from head to foot. I shall be very glad when I hear that it is closed and warmed. Unfortunately that does not promise to be soon, and meanwhile you suffer and freeze, and I torment myself about you.

I adore you, my beloved Toto. I would die for you if you would promise always to think lovingly of me; even without that condition I adore you, my Victor.

Juliette.

Sunday, 5.45 p.m., January 21st, 1838.

Must it always be my lot to wait, dearly beloved? I thought I had given proofs sufficient of courage and resignation all this time, to have earned my reward now. Of course I know you must have had the whole of Paris in your house to-day, but if you cared for me as I do for you, you would leave all Paris, and the world itself, for me. What good is the back door, if not to enable you to evade importunate people, and fly to the poor love who awaits you with so much longing and affection? Why carry four keys in your pocket, like the gaoler in a comic opera, if you do not make use of them on the proper occasion? I am very sad, my Toto. I do not think you care for me any more. You are as splendidly kind and generous as ever, but you are no longer the ardent lover of old days. It is quite true although you will not admit it out of compassion for me. I am very unhappy. Some day I shall do something desperate to rid you of me, for I cannot bear to realise the coldness of your heart, and at the same time to accept your generous self-sacrifice.

You know I have always told you that I will accept nothing from you if you do not love me! I love you so much that if I could inspire you with my feelings, there would be nothing left for me to desire in this world.

Juliette.

Monday, Noon, February 12th, 1838.

Good-morning, my dear little man. How are you this morning? I am very well, but I should be still better if I had seen you and breakfasted with you.... I am arranging to go to Hernani to-night. I hope there will be no hitch, and that the promise of the bills will at last be fulfilled. I am longing for the moment. It is such ages since I have seen my Hernani, and it is such a beautiful creation! I wish it were already night, and I were in my little box, with dear little Toto sitting at the back, where I might reward him with eyes and lips for every beautiful line. You are not jealous? Yes, I want you to be jealous! I want you to be jealous, even of yourself, or else I shall not believe that you love me.

Good-morning, Toto. All this nonsense simply means that I dote on you and think you beautiful and great and adorable. You did not come last night—probably because there was to be a rehearsal this morning. Try and behave properly at it, for I have Argus eyes and shall come down upon you myself, like a thunderbolt, in the midst of your antics. Meanwhile, take care of yourself; do not get cold feet or a headache like mine; it would be a great nuisance.

Dear soul, if you had the least regard for your health, you would have your flannel underclothing made at once. I assure you you would find it very comfortable. I am sorry now that I let you take the stuff away, for if I had it still, I should force you to do all this. It is not that I want to worry you, my adored one, for I know how many other important things you have to think of, but this is one of the most pressing; that is why I should like it done. I love you, my Toto, with all my strength, and more yet. I press my lips in spirit upon your eyes and hair.

Juliette.

Wednesday, 12.15 p.m., March 7th, 1838.

Good-morning, my dear little beloved. How are your eyes, my Toto? It torments me to know that you are suffering so much, for however brave and uncomplaining you may be, I can see quite well that you are in pain.

If you knew how I love you, my dear one, you would understand my trouble and grief when you suffer. I suppose you are going to the rehearsal this morning. I wish the first performance[76] was to be this evening, for I am trembling already. Generally, I only begin to shiver on the day itself, but this time my terrors have set in twenty-four hours in advance. I hope my fears will have been vain, like so often before, and that your beautiful poetry will prove all-conquering as ever. To-morrow my soul will animate the spectators. I shall inspire enthusiasm in the discriminating, and strangle, by sheer force of love, the hatred and envy of the scum who would dare criticise your magnificent Marion, for whom I have so special a partiality.



AUTOGRAPH AND DRAWING BY JULIETTE DROUET.
AUTOGRAPH AND DRAWING BY JULIETTE DROUET.

I express myself awkwardly, but I feel all this acutely.

Juliette.

Wednesday, 7.30 p.m., March 7th, 1838.

My Darling,

I see you very seldom, but it is not your fault, I know. I look constantly into my heart, whence you are never absent, and there I see you growing daily nobler, greater, and dearer. So to-morrow is the great day! Ardently as I have desired its advent, I now dread it more than I can say. However, up till now I have always been very frightened, and nothing has happened, so I hope it may be the same this time. Besides, how could the disapproval of a few miserable wretches and idiots affect the magnificent verses of Marion? It will only prompt the sincere and intelligent portion of the audience to do you instant and brilliant justice. I am no longer afraid. I am as brave and strong as love itself. Put me where you like—I do not care—all places are equally good to applaud from, just as all moments are suitable for adoring you. Good-bye, my love.

Juliette.

Thursday, 12.45 p.m., March 8th, 1838.

Good-morning, blessed one. I am quite upset. If your success to-night is in proportion to my fright, you will have the most magnificent triumph of your life. I hardly know what I am doing; I am shaking like a leaf, I cannot grasp my pen. I must try to pull myself together for this evening. It is absurd of me to be such a little craven; besides, what harm can a cabal do you? None! It can only enhance your greatness, if such a thing be possible; so, I am ashamed of my cowardice. I am horribly stupid to dread a thing which certainly will not happen, and if it did, would not injure you. Now that is enough! I will not fear again, and I will admire and applaud my Marion in the very face of the cabal. I will give them a hot time to-night! Bravo! bravo!! bravo!!! I feel as if I were there already, and the happiest of women.

My little darling man, are you not soon coming to me? I do so long for you. I feel as if you had been very cold to me lately. In the old days, a first performance did not prevent your coming to make love to me. Heavens, what torture it is to have to doubt you at a moment when I am so desperately in need of you! I love you!

Juliette.

Friday, 1.45 p.m., March 9th, 1838.

You are adorable, my great Victor. I wish I could express myself as earnestly as I feel, but that is impossible; I am tongue-tied. So the great performance is over! What a fool I was to be frightened, and how rightly I placed my confidence in that great noodle the public, which is so slow and so hard to work up, but when once started, boils over so satisfactorily. What a magnificent success, and how thoroughly justified! What a beautiful piece, what lovely verses! and the fascinating poet! Everything was understood, applauded, admired. It was delightful. My soul was raised heavenward with the Play. Dear God, how magnificent it was!!!!!!!!!!! I must be there again to-morrow, and every night. Surely I have the right!

I love you, my Toto, I adore you with all the strength of my soul. I wish I could go out—it is such a fine day. I kiss your beloved hands.

Juliette.

Sunday, 12.15 a.m., March 11th, 1838.

Good-morning, my beloved one, good-morning, handsomest and greatest of men. I cannot speak as well as some of the people who pay you such beautiful and sincere homage, but I feel from the bottom of my soul that I admire and love you more than any one in the world. All the same, I am sad and discouraged. I can see that you place no reliance on my intelligence, that my last years are flying by without earning what they easily might: a position, and a provision for the future. I am not angry with you. It is not your fault if you are prejudiced against me to the point of allowing me, without regret, to waste the last few years of my youth. Possibly my desire to create for myself an independent position, and to remain ever at your side, has given birth to the delusion that I possess a great talent which only requires scope. However that may be, I am in despair, and I love you more than ever. You are good to look at, my adored one, you are great in intellect, my Victor, and yet I dare proffer my devotion, for it is as genuine as your beauty and as deep as your genius. I adore you.

Juliette.

Tuesday, 11.30 a.m., April 10th, 1838.

Good-morning, my soul, my joy, my life. How are your adored eyes, my Toto? I cannot refrain from asking, because it interests me to hear, more than anything in the world. I am always thinking about them. I long for the 15th of this month, for then I shall have the right to insist upon your resting, and I shall certainly exercise it. My dear love, what joy it will be for me to feel your dear head leaning against mine, to kiss your beautiful eyes, and to make certain that you do not work. The weather is lovely this morning. It carries my thoughts back to our dear little annual trip, when we were so happy and so cosy together. We are not to have that felicity this year, and really I do not know how I shall endure it when the time comes at which we used to start. It will be very hard and difficult, and I doubt whether my courage and reason will suffice to enable me to bear the greatest sacrifice I have ever made in my life. My dear one, it will be sad indeed; I wonder whether I shall be equal to it.