which Dante made the very element of his Paradiso,--a poem far superior to his Inferno. Strange, it is not myself that I doubt in the long reverie through which, like you, I follow the windings of a dreamed existence; it is you. Yes, dear, I feel within me the power to love, and to love endlessly,--to march to the grave with gentle slowness and a smiling eye, with my beloved on my arm, and with never a cloud upon the sunshine of our souls. Yes, I dare to face our mutual old age, to see ourselves with whitening heads, like the venerable historian of Italy, inspired always with the same affection but transformed in soul by our life's seasons. Hear me, I can no longer be your friend only. Though Chrysale, Geronte, and Argante re-live, you say, in me, I am not yet old enough to drink from the cup held to my lips by the sweet hands of a veiled woman without a passionate desire to tear off the domino and the mask and see the face. Either write me no more, or give me hope.
Let me see you, or let me go. Must I bid you adieu? Will you permit me to sign myself, Your Friend?
To Monsieur de Canalis,--What flattery! with what rapidity is the grave Anselme transformed into a handsome Leander! To what must I
attribute such a change? to this black which I put upon this white? to these ideas which are to the flowers of my soul what a rose drawn in charcoal is to the roses in the garden? Or is it to a recollection of the young girl whom you took for me, and who is personally as like me as a waiting-woman is like her mistress?
Have we changed roles? Have I the sense? have you the fancy? But a truce with jesting.
Your letter has made me know the elating pleasures of the soul;
the first that I have known outside of my family affections. What, says a poet, are the ties of blood which are so strong in ordinary minds, compared to those divinely forged within us by mysterious sympathies? Let me thank you--no, we must not thank each other for such things--but God bless you for the happiness you have given me; be happy in the joy you have shed into my soul. You explain to me some of the apparent injustices in social life. There is something, I know not what, so dazzling, so virile in glory, that it belongs only to man; God forbids us women to wear its halo, but he makes love our portion, giving us the tenderness which soothes the brow scorched by his lightnings. I have felt my mission, and you have now confirmed it.
Sometimes, my friend, I rise in the morning in a state of inexpressible sweetness; a sort of peace, tender and divine, gives me an idea of heaven. My first thought is then like a benediction.
I call these mornings my little German wakings, in opposition to my Southern sunsets, full of heroic deeds, battles, Roman fetes and ardent poems. Well, after reading your letter, so full of feverish impatience, I felt in my heart all the freshness of my celestial wakings, when I love the air about me and all nature, and fancy that I am destined to die for one I love. One of your poems, "The Maiden's Song," paints these delicious moments, when gaiety is tender, when aspiration is a need; it is one of my favorites. Do you want me to put all my flatteries into one?--well then, I think you worthy to be ME!
Your letter, though short, enables me to read within you. Yes, I
have guessed your tumultuous struggles, your piqued curiosity, your projects; but I do not yet know you well enough to satisfy your wishes. Hear me, dear; the mystery in which I am shrouded allows me to use that word, which lets you see to the bottom of my heart. Hear me: if we once meet, adieu to our mutual comprehension! Will you make a compact with me? Was the first disadvantageous to you? But remember it won you my esteem, and it is a great deal, my friend, to gain an admiration lined throughout with esteem. Here is the compact: write me your life in a few words; then tell me what you do in Paris, day by day, with no reservations, and as if you were talking to some old friend. Well, having done that, I will take a step myself--I will see you, I
promise you that. And it is a great deal.
This, dear, is no intrigue, no adventure; no gallantry, as you men say, can come of it, I warn you frankly. It involves my life, and more than that,--something that causes me remorse for the many thoughts that fly to you in flocks--it involves my father's and my mother's life. I adore them, and my choice must please them; they must find a son in you.
Tell me, to what extent can the superb spirits of your kind, to whom God has given the wings of his angels, without always adding their amiability,--how far can they bend under a family yoke, and put up with its little miseries? That is a text I have meditated upon. Ah! though I said to my heart before I came to you, Forward!
Onward! it did not tremble and palpitate any the less on the way;
