Yes, I desire to wait for you — always. Why should I go
faster than you ? I should only weary myself and clog your
steps. I desire that no affections shall henceforth agitate me
painfully : it is too much. I know not how I have sufficed
so far. It is true that I have concentrated my strength on a
single point. All nature is dead for me, except certain objects
which fill and vivify every moment of my life. I exist for
nothing else: things, pleasures, distractions, vanity, social
opinion, all that is no longer of use to me ; I regret the time
that I gave to it — though indeed it was very short, for I knew
sorrow early, and it has this of good about it ; it averts many
follies. I was trained by that great teacher of men, misfor-
tune. That was the language that pleased you ; it touched
the feeling spot of your soul, from which dissipation and the
amiable social tone of this country is forever removing you.
You were glad to have me bring you back to what you once
loved, what you once suffered. Yes, there is a species of
suffering which has such charm, which brings such sweetness
into the soul, that we are ready to prefer that woe to all that
is called " pleasure." I taste that joy — or that poison —
twice a week ; and that sort of nourishment is more needful
to me than the air I breathe.
The Comtesse de Boufflers talks to me much of you and of what she writes to you ; she likes you because you wrote " Le Conn^table," and that is indeed enough on which to found a liking. Oh ! how small and narrow my soul is ! I hate the Patagonians and the Liliputians equally — but what are my likes and dislikes to you ?
You are very amiable to have thought of making your writ- ing larger ; but I am inclined to complain of it, for it cuts me off a few lines. In God's name, stay what you are ; scribble as you please, travel round the world, but begin in Paris ; in a word, do not change a hair from your style of being. I do
