by the handful, close
your eyes that you may not read a word, so that you may not recognize
some forgotten handwriting which may plunge you suddenly into a sea of
memories; carry these papers to the fire; and when they are in ashes,
crush them to an invisible powder, or otherwise you are lost--just as I
have been lost for an hour.

"The first letters which I read did not interest me greatly. They were
recent, and came from living men whom I still meet quite often, and
whose presence does not move me to any great extent. But all at once
one envelope made me start. My name was traced on it in a large, bold
handwriting; and suddenly tears came to my eyes. That letter was from
my dearest friend, the companion of my youth, the confidant of my hopes;
and he appeared before me so clearly, with his pleasant smile and his
hand outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my back. Yes, yes, the
dead come back, for I saw him! Our memory is a more perfect world than
the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.

"With trembling hand and dimmed eyes I reread everything that he told
me, and in my poor sobbing heart I felt a wound so painful that I began
to groan as a man whose bones are slowly being crushed.

"Then I travelled over my whole life, just as one travels along a river.
I recognized people, so long forgotten that I no longer knew their
names. Their faces alone lived in me. In my mother's letters I saw again
the old servants, the shape of our house and the little insignificant
odds and ends which cling to our minds.

"Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother's old gowns, the different
styles which she adopted and the several ways in which she dressed her
hair. She haunted me especially in a silk dress, trimmed with old lace;
and I remembered something she said one day when she was wearing this
dress. She said: 'Robert, my child, if you do not stand up straight you
will be round-shouldered all your life.'

"Then, opening another drawer, I found myself face to face with memories
of tender passions: a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief, even a garter,
locks of hair and dried flowers. Then the sweet romances of my life,
whose living heroines are now white-haired, plunged me into the deep
melancholy of things. Oh, the young brows where blond locks curl, the
caress of the hands, the glance which speaks, the hearts which beat,
that smile which promises the lips, those lips which promise the
embrace! And the first