To Evelina Hanka, 1833

To you, my love, a thousantenernesss. Yesterday, I have been rushing about the whole day; I found myself so fatigued that I allowed mysel to sleep all night, and then I made a mental prayer to my idol. I went to sleep in sweet thoughts of you, as if married, I should have slept in the arms of my well-beloved. Good heavens; I am terrified to see how much my life is yours. With what rapidity it rushes towards your heart. Your arteries beat as much for me as for yourself. Adored darling, how much good your letters do me. I believe in you, you see, as I believe in my respiration. I am with regard to this bliss like a child, like a man of science, like a fool taking care of tulips. I weep with rage at not being near you. I collect all my ideas in order to develop this love, and I am here watching incessantly for it to increase without obstructions. Is there not something in this of the child, the man of science, and the botanist?

I must, my angel, resume my drudgery; but it will not be without having laid before you here all the flowers of my heart, a thousand tenderness’s, a thousand caresses, all the vows of a poor solitary who lives between his thoughts and his love.

Goodbye, my cherished beauty; one kiss on those beautiful red lips, so fresh, so tender, a kiss which goes far, which encompasses you. I do not say goodbye to you. Oh! When shall I have your dear portrait? If you happen to get it mounted, let it be kept between two enamel plates and let the whole of it not be thicker than a five-franc piece, for I wish to wear it always over my heart. It will be my talisman; I shall feel it there; I shall gather strength and courage from it. From it will dart forth the rays of that fame which I want to be so great, so wide, so radiant, to envelope you in its light.

Well I must quit you, always with regret. But once free and without worries, what sweet pilgrimage. This is the   reason why I work so hard. Ah, God! How happy the rich are. They travel post haste and fly like swallows. But my thought travels more quickly, and every night it creeps around your heart, it covers you.

HONORE DE BALZAC (1799-1850)