Mordreux, January 2, 1834

The evening before last I ended a letter to Frédéric in this way:

‘I write to you in the last hours of 1833. There is some solemn sadness I cannot name in this agony of the year. My heart is full of strange, lamentable thoughts, for the storm roars outside, and the year expires in the convulsions of a dark and stormy night.’

I suffered strangely throughout that evening. The incredible swiftness of life’s flight, the mystery of our destinies, the terrible questions doubt sometimes addresses to men most firmly established in their belief, finally that state which returns to me rather often, in which the soul, like Lenore, feels itself carried at full gallop toward some mournful regions I cannot name, all this had taken hold of me. The same evening I received confirmation of a piece of news that had been murmuring around us for several days: the defeat of a great man who surrendered his pen as brave men surrender their swords, indignation in his heart and tears in his eyes. Poor M. Féli! You often pressed me to your breast; I breathed your soul, and my timid, unworthy gaze plunged to the depths of your heart; for there were days when you became so transparent, so clear, that one could see to the bottom of you, as into the clearest spring. Oh, what sorrow seizes me when I see you so misunderstood, suffering so much harm for all the good you wished to do! What man could better have said to the Lord: ‘Zeal for your house devours me’? And you were counted among those Satan sends to raise the alarm in the Lord’s house! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

At Le Val, January 20, 1834

I spent three weeks at Mordreux within a family, the most peaceful, most united, most blessed by heaven imaginable. Yet amid this calm, this gentle monotony of family life, my days were inwardly so stirred that I do not believe I have ever felt such unrest of heart and mind. Some strange tenderness had seized my whole being and drew tears from my eyes over nothing, as happens to little children and old people. My breast swelled at every moment, and my soul poured itself out within itself in inward surges, in effusions of tears and unspoken words. I felt something like a soft fatigue weighing upon my eyes and sometimes binding all my limbs. I ate only reluctantly, though hunger pressed me; for I followed thoughts that intoxicated me with such sweetness, and my soul’s happiness communicated to my body some ease so palpable that it recoiled from an act degrading it from so noble a delight. I did strive to resist this dangerous exaltation, this impetuosity of feeling whose peril I sensed; but I was too much its prey to save myself, and to all appearances it would have been the end of me had I not found a powerful diversion in contemplating nature. I began to consider her even more attentively than usual, and by degrees the ferment softened, for from fields, waves, and woods came a soothing, beneficent virtue which penetrated me and turned all my transports into melancholy dreams. This fusion of nature’s calm impressions with the heart’s stormy reveries engendered a disposition of soul I would like to retain long, for it is among the most desirable for a restless dreamer like me. It is like a tempered, tranquil ecstasy carrying the soul outside itself without depriving it of the consciousness of a permanent, somewhat stormy sadness. It also happens that the soul is gradually penetrated by a languor which lulls all the liveliness of its intellectual powers and puts it to sleep in a half-slumber empty of thought, in which it nevertheless feels the power to dream the most beautiful things. At other times it is like a cloud of soft hues spreading over the soul and casting there that gentle shade which invites inward stillness and rest. Then the anxieties, the ardors, the whole turbulent crowd murmuring in the inward city falls silent, sometimes begins to pray, and always ends by arranging itself for rest. Nothing could represent this state of soul more faithfully than the evening falling at this moment. Gray clouds, lightly silvered at their edges, are spread evenly across the whole face of the sky. The sun, which withdrew a few moments ago, left behind enough light to temper the black shadows for a while and soften, in a sense, night’s fall. The winds are silent, and when I go to listen at the threshold of the door, the peaceful Ocean sends me only a melodious murmur pouring into the soul like a beautiful wave upon the shore. The birds, the first to be won over by night’s influence, head toward the woods and send their wings whistling through the clouds. The coppice covering the whole slope of Le Val’s shore, resounding all day with the kinglet’s song, the green woodpecker’s cheerful whistle, and the varied cries of a multitude of birds, has no sound left in its paths or beneath its thickets except the sharp little cry of blackbirds playing and chasing one another, while the other birds already have their necks beneath their wings. The noise of men, always the last to fall silent, fades across the fields. The general murmur dies away, and scarcely any clamor reaches one except from the towns and hamlets, where, far into the night, children are crying and dogs barking. Silence envelops me; everything aspires to rest except my pen, which perhaps disturbs the sleep of some living atom asleep in the folds of my notebook, for it makes its little sound in writing these vain thoughts. Then let it stop: for what I write, what I have written, and what I shall write will never be worth an atom’s sleep.

Ten o’clock in the evening

Last walk, last visit to the sea, the coast, all that magnificent landscape which has enchanted me for two months. Winter smiles upon us with all spring’s grace, giving us days that make the birds sing and greenery grow upon the rosebushes in gardens, the wild roses in woods, and the honeysuckle along the walls and rocks it climbs. Toward two o’clock we took that path which winds so gracefully among flowering gorse and the rough turf of the cliffs, follows the wheat fields, slopes toward the ravines, slips between hedges, and leaps boldly toward the proudest rocks. Our walk’s destination was a promontory overlooking the Bay of Quatre-Vaux. The sea shone in all its brilliance and broke a hundred feet below us with sounds that passed through our souls on their way up to heaven. Toward the horizon, fishermen’s boats spread their dazzling white sails upon the blue, and our eyes traveled alternately from this little fleet to another, more numerous, swaying with songs nearer us; it was a countless crowd of seabirds cheerfully fishing and delighting our sight with the brilliance of their plumage and the elegance of their bearing upon the waves. These birds, these sails, the day’s beauty, the universal serenity gave the Ocean a festive air and filled my soul with joyful enthusiasm, despite the reserve of sad thoughts I had brought to our promontory. Yet I gave myself with all the strength of my gaze to contemplating the capes, rocks, islands, striving, as it were, to lift an imprint of them and carry it into my soul. On our return I trod religiously, with a regret at every step, that path which so often led me to such beautiful contemplations and in such sweet company. How full of charms that path is when it reaches the coppice and advances between hazels overarching it and a box hedge growing freely into brushwood! There the joy nature had communicated to me expired, and I was seized by the melancholy of departure. Tomorrow will turn this sea, these shores, these woods, so many charms I have tasted here, into a dream for me, a floating thought which I shall contemplate with another thought. And to take as much as I could from these sweet places, as though they had the power to give themselves to me, I inwardly begged them to engrave themselves upon my soul, to send something of themselves into me that would not pass away. At the same time I parted the branches of the box trees, the bushes, the thick undergrowth, thrusting my head inside to breathe the wild perfumes they conceal, enter their intimacy, and, as it were, speak into their hearts.

The evening passed as usual in conversation and reading. We returned to the happiness of past days. I have traced a faint image of it in this notebook; we contemplated it melancholically, like the image of one among the dearest, sweetest dead.

Hippolyte is in bed. I write this in the solitude and silence of night, beside a dying fire. I went to listen at the door to the sounds outside. There are few: the Ocean has withdrawn far away; it is calm, it sleeps, one cannot hear it. The Arguenon flows freely through the sands; the moon walks within its current, and its fords, where the waters swirl, send us a faint murmur. The breeze scarcely sighs in the wood, and all else is quiet.

Farewell, farewell, beloved dwelling! If you love me and doubt my constancy, listen to this, which will reassure you: I lose half my soul in losing solitude. I enter the world with a secret horror.

Caen, January 24, 1834

I have just passed through a few streets of this town by the light of a few pale street lamps. What did I see? The black phantoms of churches and their towers, of which I could grasp only the masses; but the mystery of night enveloping them, which does not set limits to their dimensions as daylight’s brilliance would, adds to their sacred character and penetrated me with a feeling which is worth more, I believe, than the feeling of forms. My thought rose indefinitely toward heaven with those spires which seemed never to end, and prowled in terror around those naves, mournful as tombs. That is all. There were crowds in the streets, but what is a crowd in the night, or even in the day? At night I prefer the sound of winds, and by day those great assemblies, now silent, now bellowing, called forests. Besides, I met some of those men who always make me flee and return indoors as quickly as possible, students going along proudly wearing their clothes, every feature breathing some expression I cannot name, which intimidates me and puts me to flight. Oh, my notebook! My gentle friend, how deeply I felt I loved you as I escaped that multitude. And here I am with you now, though the night is far advanced and I am utterly broken with fatigue; wholly yours, to tell you my sorrows and speak with you peacefully in secret. Could I ever return enough to memories still wholly drenched in my tears, which will always remain incorruptible within my soul? That good Hippolyte and his adorable Marie! I had said farewell to her; she answered me with a few words of the most touching kindness; I stammered a few more words and began descending the stairs quickly, believing she had not crossed the threshold of the door and that everything was over, when I heard another farewell coming to me from above; I raised my head and saw her leaning over the balustrade. I answered faintly, very faintly, for her voice had exhausted what strength remained to me for holding back my tears...

Paris, February 1, 1834

My God, close my eyes, keep me from seeing all this multitude whose sight raises in me thoughts so bitter, so discouraging. Grant that, as I pass through it, I may be deaf to the noise, beyond the reach of those impressions which overwhelm me when I walk among the crowd; and to this end place before my eyes an image, a vision of the things I love, a field, a valley, a heath, Le Cayla, Le Val, something of nature. I shall walk with my gaze fixed upon these gentle forms, and pass without feeling any hurt.