Louis Lambert

I

“Mademoiselle, when you have read this letter, if you ever should read it, my life will be in your hands, for I love you; and to me, the hope of being loved is life.  Others, perhaps, ere now, have, in speaking of themselves, misused the words I must employ to depict the state of my soul; yet, I beseech you to believe in the truth of my expressions; though weak, they are sincere.  Perhaps I ought not thus to proclaim my love.  Indeed, my heart counseled me to wait in silence till my passion should touch you, that I might the better conceal it if its silent demonstrations should displease you; or till I could express it even more delicately than in words if I found favor in your eyes.  However, after having listened for long to the coy fears that fill a youthful heart with alarms, I write in obedience to the instinct which drags useless lamentations from the dying.

“It has needed all my courage to silence the pride of poverty, and to overleap the barriers which prejudice erects between you and me.  I have had to smother many reflections to love you in spite of your wealth; and as I write to you, am I not in danger of the scorn which women often reserve for profession of love, which they accept only as one more tribute of flattery?  But we cannot help rushing with all our might towards happiness, or being attracted to the life of love as a plant is to the light; we must have been very unhappy before we can conquer the torment, the anguish of those secret deliberations when reason proves to us by a thousand arguments how barren our yearning must be if it remains buried in our hearts, and when hopes bid us dare everything.

“I was happy when I admired you in silence; I was so lost in the contemplation of your beautiful soul, that only to see you left me hardly anything further to imagine.  And I should not now have dared to address you if I had not heard that you were leaving.  What misery has that one word brought upon me!  Indeed, it is my despair that has shown me the extent of my attachment—­it is unbounded.  Mademoiselle, you will never know—­at least, I hope you may never know—­the anguish of dreading lest you should lose the only happiness that has dawned on you on earth, the only thing that has thrown a gleam of light in the darkness of misery.  I understood yesterday that my life was no more in myself, but in you.  There is but one woman in the world for me, as there is but one thought in my soul.  I dare not tell you to what a state I am reduced by my love for you.  I would have you only as a gift from yourself; I must therefore avoid showing myself to you in all the attractiveness of dejection—­for is it not often more impressive to a noble soul than that of good fortune?  There are many things I may not tell you.  Indeed, I have too lofty a notion of love to taint it with ideas that are alien to its nature.  If my soul is worthy of yours, and my life pure, your heart will have a sympathetic insight, and you will understand me!

“It is the fate of man to offer himself to the woman who can make him believe in happiness; but it is your prerogative to reject the truest passion if it is not in harmony with the vague voices in your heart—­that I know.  If my lot, as decided by you, must be adverse to my hopes, mademoiselle, let me appeal to the delicacy of your maiden soul and the ingenuous compassion of a woman to burn my letter.  On my knees I beseech you to forget all!  Do not mock at a feeling that is wholly respectful, and that is too deeply graven on my heart ever to be effaced.  Break my heart, but do not rend it!  Let the expression of my first love, a pure and youthful love, be lost in your pure and youthful heart!  Let it die there as a prayer rises up to die in the bosom of God!

“I owe you much gratitude:  I have spent delicious hours occupied in watching you, and giving myself up to the faint dreams of my life; do not crush these long but transient joys by some girlish irony.  Be satisfied not to answer me.  I shall know how to interpret your silence; you will see me no more.  If I must be condemned to know for ever what happiness means, and to be for ever bereft of it; if, like a banished angel, I am to cherish the sense of celestial joys while bound for ever to a world of sorrow —­well, I can keep the secret of my love as well as that of my griefs.—­And farewell!

“Yes, I resign you to God, to whom I will pray for you, beseeching Him to grant you a happy life; for even if I am driven from your heart, into which I have crept by stealth, still I shall ever be near you.  Otherwise, of what value would the sacred words be of this letter, my first and perhaps my last entreaty?  If I should ever cease to think of you, to love you whether in happiness or in woe, should I not deserve my punishment?”