Letters of Two Brides

I have already seen hundreds of men, young and middle-aged; not one

has stirred the least feeling in me. No proof of admiration and

devotion on their part, not even a sword drawn in my behalf, would

have moved me. Love, dear, is the product of such rare conditions that

it is quite possible to live a lifetime without coming across the

being on whom nature has bestowed the power of making one's happiness.

The thought is enough to make one shudder; for if this being is found

too late, what then?

For some days I have begun to tremble when I think of the destiny of

women, and to understand why so many wear a sad face beneath the flush

brought by the unnatural excitement of social dissipation. Marriage is

a mere matter of chance. Look at yours. A storm of wild thoughts has

passed over my mind. To be loved every day the same, yet with a

difference, to be loved as much after ten years of happiness as on the

first day!--such a love demands years. The lover must be allowed to

languish, curiosity must be piqued and satisfied, feeling roused and

responded to.

Is there, then, a law for the inner fruits of the heart, as there is

for the visible fruits of nature? Can joy be made lasting? In what

proportion should love mingle tears with pleasures? The cold policy of

the funereal, monotonous, persistent routine of the convent seemed to

me at these moments the only real life; while the wealth, the

splendor, the tears, the delights, the triumph, the joy, the

satisfaction, of a love equal, shared, and sanctioned, appeared a mere

idle vision.

I see no room in this city for the gentle ways of love, for precious

walks in shady alleys, the full moon sparkling on the water, while the

suppliant pleads in vain. Rich, young, and beautiful, I have only to

love, and love would become my sole occupation, my life; yet in the

three months during which I have come and gone, eager and curious,

nothing has appealed to me in the bright, covetous, keen eyes around

me. No voice has thrilled me, no glance has made the world seem

brighter. Music alone has filled my soul, music alone has at all taken the place

of our friendship.

Sometimes, at night, I will linger for an hour by

my window, gazing into the garden, summoning the future, with all it

brings, out of the mystery which shrouds it. There are days too when,

having started for a drive, I get out and walk in the Champs-Elysees,

and picture to myself that the man who is to waken my slumbering soul

is at hand, that he will follow and look at me. Then I meet only

mountebanks, vendors of gingerbread, jugglers, passers-by hurrying to

their business, or lovers who try to escape notice. These I am tempted

to stop, asking them, "You who are happy, tell me what is love."