s with
uniform heroism. You pained me deeply yesterday, when you advised me to
go out a little 'to distract my thoughts.' To distract my thoughts from
you, Edmee! What bitter mockery! Do not be cruel, sister; for then you
become my haughty betrothed of evil days again . . . and, in spite of
myself, I again become the brigand whom you used to hate. . . . Ah, if
you knew how unhappy I am! In me there are two men who are incessantly
waging a war to the death. It is to be hoped that the brigand will fall;
but he defends himself step by step, and he cries aloud because he feels
himself covered with wounds and mortally stricken. If you knew, Edmee,
if you only knew what struggles, what conflicts, rend my bosom; what
tears of blood my heart distils; and what passions often rage in that
part of my nature which the rebel angels rule! There are nights when I
suffer so much that in the delirium of my dreams I seem to be plunging
a dagger into your heart, and thus, by some sombre magic, to be forcing
you to love me as I love you. When I awake, in a cold sweat, bewildered,
beside myself, I feel tempted to go and kill you, so as to destroy the
cause of my anguish. If I refrain from this, it is because I fear that
I should love you dead with as much passion and tenacity as if you were
alive. I am afraid of being restrained, governed, swayed by your image
as I am by your person. Then, again, a man cannot destroy the being he
loves and fears; for when she has ceased to exist on earth she still
exists in himself. It is the lover's soul which serves as a coffin for
his mistress and which forever preserves her burning remains, that it
may feed on them without ever consuming them. But, great Heaven! what is
this tumult in my thoughts? You see, Edmee, to what an extent my mind is
sick; take pity on me, then. Bear with me, let me be sad, never doubt my
devotion. I am often mad, but I worship you always. A word, a look from
you, will always recall me to a sense of duty, and this duty will be
sweet when you deign to remind me of it. As I write to you, Edmee, the
sky is full of clouds that are darker and heavier than lead; the thunder
is rumbling, and doleful ghosts of purgatory seem to be floating in
the glare of the lightning. The weight of the storm lies on my soul; my
bewildered mind quivers like the flashes which leap from the firmament.
It seems as if my whole being were about to burst like the tempest. Ah,
could I but lift up to you a voice