Friday, 8 p.m. (1835).
If I were a clever woman, my gorgeous bird, I could describe
to you how you unite in yourself the beauties of form, plumage
and song! I would tell you that you are the greatest marvel of
all ages, and I should only be speaking the simple truth. But
to put all this into suitable words, harmonious than that which
is bestowed upon my species, for I am the humble owl that you
mocked at only lately. Therefore, it cannot be. I will not tell
you to what degree you are dazzling and resplendent; I leave
that to the birds of sweet song who, as you know, are none the
less beautiful and appreciative.
I am content to delegate to them the duty of watching, listening
and admiring, while to myself I reserve the right of loving;
this may be less attractive to the ear, but it is sweeter far
to the heart. I love you, I love you, my Victor; I cannot reiterate
it too often; I can never express it as much as I feel it.
I recognize you, in all the beauty that surrounds me - in form,
in color, in perfume, in harmonious sound; all of these mean
you to me. You are superior to them all. You are not only the
solar spectrum with the seven luminous colors, but the sun himself,
that illumines, warms, and revivifies the whole world! That is
that you are, and I am the lowly woman who adores you.
If you are coming to fetch me as you lead me to expect, I shall
see you very soon now. I have never longed more ardently for
you. Lanvin has just come. I will tell you about it when I see
Juliette, over the course of her lifetime
had written over 25,000 correspondence to Victor Hugo. She wrote
everywhere--from her box at the theater, from a chance cafe,
or from a friend's house. For her tender scribbles (as
she calls them), any scrap of paper would serve, even an envelope
or the margin of a newspaper; and for instrument a pencil, a
blackened pin, even a steel pen.
Of the forms of letters, she takes little
heed. No lexicon is needed to say that one loves. A woman in
the throes of passion does not worry about grammar. Juliette
is of that opinion, and that is why her early letters aer so
full of charm. They exhale the perfume of love, and also its
Her letters were not merely a means of
gving vent to her feelings, they seemed to her the only occupation
fit for a sweetheart worthy of the name, when the lover was absent
or delayed. When her heart feels an immense void, she filled
that void and beguile that desire that she took up the habit
of writing to him.