RELICS OF THE PAST

My dear Colette,--I do not know whether you remember a verse of M.
Sainte-Beuve which we have read together, and which has remained fixed
in my memory; for me this verse speaks eloquently; and it has very
often reassured my poor heart, especially for some time past. Here it
is:

"To be born, to live, and die in the same house."

I am now all alone in this house where I was born, where I have lived,
and where I hope to die. It is not gay every day, but it is pleasant;
for there I have souvenirs all around me.

My son Henri is a barrister; he comes to see me twice a year. Jeanne
is living with her husband at the other end of France, and it is I who
go to see her each autumn. So here I am, all, all alone, but
surrounded by familiar objects which incessantly speak to me about my
own people, the dead, and the living separated from me by distance.

I no longer read much; I am too old for that; but I am constantly
thinking, or rather dreaming. I do not dream as I used to do long ago.
You may recall to mind any wild fancies, the adventures our brains
concocted when we were twenty, and all the horizons of happiness that
dawned upon us!

Nothing out of all our dreaming has been realized, or rather it is
quite a different thing that has happened, less charming, less poetic,
but sufficient for those who know how to accept their lot in this
world bravely.

Do you know why we women are so often unhappy? It is because we are
taught in our youth to believe too much in happiness! We are never
brought up with the idea of fighting, of striving, of suffering. And,
at the first shock, our hearts are broken; we look forward, with blind
faith, to cascades of fortunate events. What does happen is at best
but a partial happiness, and thereupon we burst out sobbing.
Happiness, the real happiness that we dream of, I have come to know
what that is. It does not consist in the arrival of great bliss, for
any great bliss that falls to our share is to be found in the infinite
expectation of a succession of joys to which we never attain.
Happiness is happy expectation; it is the horizon of hope; it is,
therefore, endless illusion; and, old as I am, I create illusions for
myself still, in fact, every day I live; only their object is changed,
my desires being no longer the same. I have told you that I spend my
brightest hours in dreaming. What else should I do?

I have two ways of doing this. I am going to tell y