酷兔英语

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Mademoiselle,--The admiration for fine works (allowing that my



books are such) implies something so lofty and sincere as to

protect you from all light jesting, and to justify before the



sternest judge the step you have taken in writing to me.

But first I must thank you for the pleasure which such proofs of



sympathy afford, even though we may not merit them,--for the maker

of verses and the true poet are equally certain of the intrinsic



worth of their writings,--so readily does self-esteem lend itself

to praise. The best proof of friendship that I can give to an



unknown lady in exchange for a faith which allays the sting of

criticism, is to share with her the harvest of my own experience,



even at the risk of dispelling her most vivid illusions.

Mademoiselle, the noblest adornment of a young girl is the flower



of a pure and saintly and irreproachable life. Are you alone in

the world? If you are, there is no need to say more. But if you



have a family, a father or a mother, think of all the sorrow that

might come to them from such a letter as yours addressed to a poet



of whom you know nothing personally. All writers are not angels;

they have many defects. Some are frivolous, heedless, foppish,



ambitious, dissipated; and, believe me, no matter how imposing

innocence may be, how chivalrous a poet is, you will meet with



many a degenerate troubadour in Paris ready to cultivate your

affection only to betray it. By such a man your letter would be



interpreted otherwise than it is by me. He would see a thought

that is not in it, which you, in your innocence, have not



suspected. There are as many natures as there are writers. I am

deeply flattered that you have judged me capable of understanding



you; but had you, perchance, fallen upon a hypocrite, a scoffer,

one whose books may be melancholy but whose life is a perpetual



carnival, you would have found as the result of your generous

imprudence an evil-minded man, the frequenter of green-rooms,



perhaps a hero of some gay resort. In the bower of clematis where

you dream of poets, can you smell the odor of the cigar which



drives all poetry from the manuscript?

But let us look still further. How could the dreamy, solitary life



you lead, doubtless by the sea-shore, interest a poet, whose

mission it is to imagine all, and to paint all? What reality can



equal imagination? The young girls of the poets are so ideal that

no living daughter of Eve can compete with them. And now tell me,



what will you gain,--you, a young girl, brought up to be the

virtuous mother of a family,--if you learn to comprehend the



terrible agitations of a poet's life in this dreadful capital,

which may be defined by one sentence,--the hell in which men love.



If the desire to brighten the monotonousexistence of a young girl

thirsting for knowledge has led you to take your pen in hand and



write to me, has not the step itself the appearance of

degradation? What meaning am I to give to your letter? Are you one



of a rejected caste, and do you seek a friend far away from you?

Or, are you afflicted with personal ugliness, yet feeling within



you a noble soul which can give and receive a confidence? Alas,

alas, the conclusion to be drawn is grievous. You have said too



much, or too little; you have gone too far, or not far enough.

Either let us drop this correspondence, or, if you continue it,



tell me more than in the letter you have now written me.

But, mademoiselle, if you are young, if you are beautiful, if you



have a home, a family, if in your heart you have the precious

ointment, the spikenard, to pour out, as did Magdalene on the feet



of Jesus, let yourself be won by a man worthy of you; become what

every pure young girl should be,--a good woman, the virtuous



mother of a family. A poet is the saddest conquest that a girl can




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