Sunday.—
You do not write to me, I never see you, you never
come, so I must suppose that you have ceased to love
me. But why? What have I done? Pray
tell me, my own dear love. I love you so much,
so dearly! I should like always to have you near
me, to kiss you all day while I called you every tender
name that I could think of. I adore you, I adore
you, I adore you, my beautiful cock.—Your
affectionate hen,
SOPHIE.
* * * *
*
Monday.—
My dear friend,
You will absolutely understand nothing of what I am
going to say to you, but that does not matter, and
if my letter happens to be read by another woman,
it may be profitable to her.
Had you been deaf and dumb, I should no doubt have
loved you for a very long time, and the cause of what
has happened is, that you can talk; that is all.
In love, you see, dreams are always made to sing,
but in order that they might do so, they must not
be interrupted, and when one talks between two kisses,
one always interrupts that frenzied dream which our
souls indulge in, unless they utter sublime words;
and sublime words do not come out of the little mouths
of pretty girls.
You do not understand me at all, do you? So much
the better, and I will go on. You are certainly
one of the most charming and adorable women whom I
have ever seen.
Are there any eyes on earth that contain more dreams
than yours, more unknown promises, greater depths
of love? I do not think so. And when that
mouth of yours, with its two round lips, smiles, and
shows the glistening white teeth, one is tempted to
say that there issues from this ravishing mouth ineffable
music, something inexpressibly delicate, a sweetness
which extorts sighs.
It is then that you quietly call out to me, my great
and renowned “lady-killer,” and it then
seems to me as though I had suddenly found an entrance
into your thoughts, which I can see is ministering
to your soul—that little soul of a pretty,
little creature, yes, pretty, but—and that
is what troubles me, don’t you see, troubles
me more than tongue can tell. I would much prefer
never to see you at all.
You go on pretending not to understand anything, do
you not? I calculate on that.
Do you remember the first time you came to see me
at my residence? How gaily you stepped inside,
an odor of violets, which clung to your skirts, heralding
your entrance; how we regarded each other, for ever
so long, without uttering a word, after which we embraced
like two fools.... Then ... then from that time
to this, we have never exchanged a word.
But when we separated, did not our trembling hands
and our eyes say many things, things ... which cannot
be expressed in any language. At least, I thought
so; and when you went away, you murmured:
