IN THE first enchantments of inspiration, I invited Lucile to imitate me. We spent our days in constant dialogue, telling each other what we had done and what we had intended to do. We undertook works in common. Guided by our instincts, we translated the saddest and loveliest passages of Job and Lucretius: the Taedet animam meam vitae meae, “my soul is weary of my life,” the Homo natus de muliere, “man that is born of woman,” the Tum porro puer, ut saevis projectus ab undis navita, “then the newborn, like a sailor thrown upon the waves,” and so on.[8] Lucile’s thoughts were indistinguishable from feelings, and they emerged with difficulty from her soul; but once she had succeeded in expressing them, there was nothing more sublime. She has left behind some thirty manuscript pages, and it is impossible to read them without being deeply moved. The elegance, the sweetness, the dreaminess, the impassioned sensibility of these pages combine the spirit of the Greeks and the spirit of the Germans.
DAWN
What sweet radiance comes to illuminate the East! Is it young Aurora who half opens her lovely eyes still heavy with languorous sleep? Nimble Goddess, go! Leave your nuptial bed and assume your purple robe; let a smooth sash enwrap you in its bow; let no sandals confine your delicate feet; let no ornaments profane your lovely hands which open the doors toward day. But you have already risen on the shadowy hill. Your golden hair falls in moist tresses upon your rosy neck. From your mouth you breathe a pure and perfumed air. Tender Goddess, all Nature smiles at your presence; you alone shed tears and give birth to flowers.
TO THE MOON
Chaste Goddess, so pure that not even the rosy blush of modesty mingles with your clear and tender light, I dare to take you into my confidence. I have no more reason than you to blush at my heart’s desires. But sometimes the memory of the blind and biased judgments of man encircles my brow with clouds, like those that flock around your own. Like you, the errors and miseries of this world inspire my dreams. But happier than I, fair citizen of the heavens, you always preserve your serenity; the tempests and storms that stir up this globe of ours glide over your peaceful disc. O Goddess, still friendly to my sadness, pour your cold quietude into my heart.
INNOCENCE
Daughter of heaven, amiable Innocence, if I dared to draw a feeble portrait of a few of your features, I should say that you occupy the place of virtue in childhood, of wisdom in the springtime of life, of beauty in old age, and of happiness in misfortune; I should say that, a stranger to our errors, you shed none but pure tears, and that your smile comes wholly from heaven. Lovely Innocence! but how danger surrounds you; desire addresses all its appeals to you: and do you tremble, modest Innocence? Do you seek to surrender to the dangers that menace you? No, I see you there asleep, your head leaning on the altar.
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Once in a while, my brother accorded the hermits of Combourg a few brief moments of his time. He had taken to bringing with him a young councilor from the High Court of Brittany, M. de Malfilâtre, a cousin of the unfortunate poet of that name. I think that Lucile, unknown to herself, harbored a secret passion for my brother’s friend, and that this stifled passion was at the bottom of my sister’s melancholy. She had, moreover, Rousseau’s mania, though without his pride: she believed that everyone was conspiring against her. She moved to Paris in 1789, accompanied by my sister Julie, whose loss she mourned with a tenderness tinged with sublimity. All who knew her admired her, from M. de Malesherbes to Chamfort. Thrown into the Revolutionary crypts in Rennes, she was almost reincarcerated in the Château de Combourg, which became a dungeon during the Terror. When she was released from prison, she married M. de Caud, who widowed her within a year. It was not until I returned from my exile in England that I saw the friend of my childhood again. I shall soon say how she disappeared, when it pleased God to afflict me.