DEAREST Solange:
You were utterly mistaken. I have waited till now, till I was quite certain, before telling you so; and now I can tell you in all honesty—“I can really tell you” as the worthy Madame de Caulaincourt puts it. To imagine that I could not bear to live here for longer than a week! Solange, this is heaven on earth. And think of this: I have been here for nearly two months. If you only knew, my dearest, how I bless the inspiration that brought me to this place—my uncle’s inspiration, too, in doing his duty by dying at the right time. Say what you will, my uncertain budget was hardly aided by the Empress’s balls, or by my frequent visits to the Palais Royal. Here, the delightful and the sensible are united. I taste, for example, the pleasures of possessions—or rather, of property—in a way impossible with Parisian bankers, who do what they please with your money when they see that you know nothing of finance. In any case, I cannot leave everything in the hands of the agent here. I do not wish to speak ill of my late uncle’s régime; but the agent has already bought himself two houses in the village, and a piece of land in the neighborhood. But I did not mean to speak of this matter; and it is certainly not for this reason that I bless my resolution. My poor Solange, how can you know, how can I tell you, of the unsullied joys of country life, of this delicious new world?
In short, picture me, the happy mistress of a real castle and of a large estate—and the conscientious administrator of the latter. I often wander in my carriage through my woods, which the autumn is already beginning to touch with gold. I often go to the village, which, I may add, also belongs to me, with its simple inhabitants (the agent’s affairs are in hand). I confess that the carriage creaks a little; and that the coachman and his groom have not the philosophical air and the carefully cultivated mustaches of their Parisian colleagues—and I cannot understand a word they say. But, by way of compensation, their liveries are far more attractive.
Paris! Of course I will return there sometimes, perhaps often. But—dare I say it?—the whole world of Paris now seems to me like a bad dream.
You should not think that I am afflicted by solitude. The more or less noble landowners of the district have hastened to call on me; most of them, of course, are insupportably provincial, stupid and bigoted. But among them there is one . . . a man who . . . I might as well speak plainly. He is young, dashing, romantic. He rides like an Englishman. He reads the poets and recites them ardently . . . well, why not? After all, he bears one of the oldest names of the region. Like me, he is free and independent. But I can hear you ask, “What do you mean: why not?” Well, my love, I can tell you no more of this now.
This letter has already continued too long. Will you have time, I wonder, between your entertainments and balls to read it? Certainly not to meditate over it; nor dare I hope that you will be able to tear yourself for a few days away from the maelstrom of your life in Paris and allow me to embrace you again. Farewell, then, I will send you more news of me very soon.
Anne
2
Darling Solange, it is I. So much time has passed since we met, and even since we last corresponded. But I have had so many and such pleasant things to do.
Very well, you want to know how the people here start to hibernate at the beginning of winter—and we are almost there. It is easily said: they do nothing in particular; they make no preparations—except a solemn feast, with appropriate potations, the day before they settle down. There are no lits embaumés, no ointments, no purging of blood or vapors, no injections, no attendants, no fussy quarantine, none of the many operations usual at our (but now I should say “your”) maisons de léthargie. And without any of this things seem to go excellently by themselves—though you would find it hard to convince the Paris specialists! And do you know where they hibernate? Certainly not in “carefully conditioned surroundings,” or wrapped in a “softly reacting substance which . . .” etc., etc., but simply where they happen to be, or where they will—in the kitchen, perhaps, or the hayloft—wrapped in a goatskin, of the kind they use for wineskins or bagpipes. More precisely, it seems that they have themselves suspended, or suspend themselves, from beams in the ceiling—and so good night! I have in fact seen, a few days ago, some of these goatskins, or rather bags made of skins (for one skin would not be enough for a child), hanging from a beam, when I was visiting a large and needy family. They were empty, of course; but their use was explained to me. The hairy side is turned inward, and, at one extremity, there is an extension for the legs. In these bags they remain seated, or almost so; so that, with the softer parts of their bodies weighing down, they hang there like so many kitchen vessels. I will give you further details of this, for I feel that it will not be long before the hibernation begins. Another thing: the number of people in Paris who hibernate is severely limited—for all I know, negligible. Indeed, among us (I mean, among you) nobody hibernates except those who are so poor that they have not even a dry crust to eat, or some old general in retirement, or some hysterical woman who cannot bear the cold, and so on. But here the practice is by far more common and extends even to the young, even to children.
Well, we will see. I will keep you informed; but I have nothing more of interest to tell you now. Remember me.
A
Dear Solange:
The winter is advancing with giant strides, indeed it has already arrived in these parts; and the people here are beginning to hibernate. I can no longer keep count of the bags hanging from the beams during my visits of charity. They—the bags, I mean—give off a foetid odor like bladders of lard, and soot is already gathering on their surface, for they are nearly all in the kitchens. The spectacle is certainly repellent—but, above all, surprising. Besides I must timidly confess that I have never before seen a human being hibernating. Yes, yes, I know that you will laugh at me; after being very wise about it in my last letter, I now remember that, at one time in Paris, the practice was quite fashionable among unhappy lovers (who even tried to prolong the period of insensibility indefinitely); so that one who has ever been a woman of the world should almost feel ashamed not to be minutely informed about it. But, with humility, I repeat that I had never seen a human being hibernating. In truth one cannot be said to see them hibernating here, since they hang like blocks of wood; one cannot even hear them breathe. How strange these people are, who do not hesitate to subtract the entire winter from their span of life!
In my admitted ignorance, I wonder whether this practice is really a practice, in the sense of a habit? Or whether it is in some way connected with the nature of these people and of all those, in general, given to hibernation? Or is it a habit which has become second nature to them? I do not know what to think, or even, as you see, how to frame the question properly. If we are to judge by the unhappy lovers of Paris, we may conclude that hibernation is a voluntary action; and yet. . . . But why do I burden myself with these reflections . . . unless it is another consequence of living here? In any case, listen to this.
A few days ago I saw, in one of the poor houses, a tiny and charming little boy, whom I already knew—one of my little friends, in fact. They were preparing him for hibernation. He was yawning and rubbing his eyes, and did not seem in the least discontented. But I could not bear the thought that four or five months of that young life would be thrown away. I spoke to the family and told them that I was prepared to take him with me for the winter. I meant not only that I would relieve them of a mouth to feed, but also that I would try to keep him awake and maintain his interest in life. They only understood part of my meaning. The little boy was consulted; he mumbled something indistinct but did not seem to oppose my suggestion. To cut a long story short, I took him with me to the castle. It would be quite useless to try to describe to you the efforts which I made to keep him lively and in good spirits, or even awake—I mean, literally, awake. I failed completely. Nothing amused him, nothing interested him; he yawned continually and seemed to desire nothing but to fall asleep. Indeed he did go to sleep all over the house, in my arms when I was talking to him, while he was eating the rarest delicacies. And he was by no means a stupid child, as I had been able to observe before this languor had overcome him. In the end, I had to take him back, sound asleep, to his family, who, with a smile hinting that they had expected no other outcome, returned him without further ado into his bag—and added: “Shall we talk about it again—in April?”
Well, what do you say to that? Ah, why do you write to me so seldom? Why do you tell me nothing of Paris and of your life? Do you think that I have become altogether a savage? Farewell—write to me soon.
A
4
Solange, my dear:
I begin to be alarmed; I can no longer hide it either from myself or from you. An unbelievable number of people here have already fallen asleep. Wherever I go, I see nothing but hideous, foetid bags hanging from the ceilings. And one incident sums it up. Do you remember that in my first letter I spoke of a noble and romantic young man who . . . who was paying his addresses to me? Very well then, he—yes, he . . . oh, Solange! Yesterday we were in my drawing room. I had played a little. He, in his turn, had recited a poem, written by himself, whose inspiration only modesty prevents me from revealing to you. The hour was propitious for our hearts to declare themselves. I was at that very moment thinking that the time had come when I could give him some grounds for hope, that there was no reason in the world why I should not do so. He had seized my hand, and I had abandoned it to him, when . . . ah, my friend, how can I tell you? Behind his gaze, I saw with horror the beginning of a sort of languor, not of the kind you would have imagined, but terribly like a sort of dullness, even of indifference—the indifference of a man who is on the point of falling asleep. Think, Solange, at that very moment of all moments he was beginning to fall asleep! For a little while he held my hand in his, doing nothing, gazing at me ever more childishly, apparently oblivious of our critical conjuncture and of everything else. Then he drew back a little, dropped my poor damp hand, yawned (still, I confess, with urbanity), walked to the window, tapped on the glass, protested something about a headache, mumbled something else incomprehensible, and, without even taking his leave (I was too dismayed to speak) took to his heels. This is the whole story. Today I am told that he has started to hibernate. Oh, no doubt his bag will be made of sables. My God! What else can I say but “My God”?
And the others! I do not remember if I have ever spoken to you about certain of my relations, or rather my uncle’s relations. I went to call on them last evening, in part to recover my spirits. I found them all seated around a table, in solemn silence. One glanced occasionally at a newspaper thrown on the table; but not so much at the newspaper as at the advertisements in it. Another was smoking a cigar and staring at his nails; but he was not smoking it so much as occasionally lighting it. A third had his elbows on the table and was doing nothing whatever.
They were silent, or spoke with difficulty of the weather. At the back of their eyes I could see that languor which I have come to recognize. It is not difficult to prophesy that soon they will all have fallen sound asleep.
Meanwhile, this morning a terrified procession of peasants paraded before me, having insisted on seeing me, carrying presents in kind. I was given a confused explanation to the effect that these offerings were always, by tradition, made on this day of the year, and were “for hibernation”—though it is given a different name here. A terrible suspicion crossed my mind: did my uncle hibernate as well? And, in truth, I seem to remember that he used to wait till the spring before answering my winter letters, though he was so precise in all his other dealings. But no! What am I imagining? And yet I recently discovered in the cellar—which I had never visited—an entire store of the horrible bags, and some already full! It seemed to me that I had not seen certain of the servants for some days. But the agent is as lively as ever, and the old butler holds up well, although he is always somewhat dull by nature; and the same may be said of the first housemaid. But the cook has for some time. . . .
But tell me, Solange: do you think it possible that they will all fall asleep? They all tell me—all the survivors, that is—that those who have work to do remain awake. But what advice could you give me in such a matter?
The snow has fallen in profusion and blankets the fields as far as the eye can reach. It is beautiful, but it is a little sad.
What are you doing in Paris? Will you at last make up your mind to write to me? But in Paris, at this very hour, the carriages are beginning to draw up to the Opera; bejewelled beauties cast their glances to left and to right; their lovers approach them closely at the entrance; everything in Paris lives and trembles with movement, the very air trembles.
Ah! Do you think that I ache with nostalgia for all that? You would be mistaken. It is only my nerves playing a treacherous game with me. I must be resolute—I have sworn to be resolute. Farewell.
A
5
Solange:
My Solange, my only friend, listen to me, you must save me now, instantly. The very instant that you receive these lines you must take your traveling carriage; you must run, you must fly to save me. Solange, do you love me? Dear God, I cannot write calmly. I can hear his horse trampling and snorting in the courtyard below me—I mean the hussar’s horse. Yes, they have all fallen asleep, every last one, in the castle, in the village, everywhere, all of them. Even the agent, even the old butler a few hours ago. He was the only one left, and I could find no way of keeping him awake—with brandy or with offers of money; he did his best, but in the end it was stronger than he. I have no time to tell you. I sped outside: the silent desert of the snow. It was like a fairy tale—no, there is always a kindliness about fairy tales; it seemed liked a fearful nightmare . . . but I am wasting precious time, and his horse is trampling ever more loudly. At last, after an infinite time, I saw him far, far away in the snow, a speck of black which swiftly grew larger. It was a handsome young hussar—he whom, for whatever reason, the Lord has sent me. He was galloping madly. He stopped unwillingly. I begged him, I implored him to carry me with him on the saddle. He replied, “I am carrying orders, Mademoiselle.” If you knew what I had to do and to say to induce him to delay for ten minutes, not more than ten minutes (and he took out his watch), just the time to write to you these despairing lines, which he has promised on his honor to have delivered to you by the swiftest means. There are only two minutes left. Understand me well, Solange. I cannot prepare my food, I cannot do anything, there is nothing in the house, I am frightened of the horses, I could not ride them to safety—even if they too are not asleep. I shall die here if you do not save me. Solange, Solange, do you hate me? Yes, you were right after all, but now there is not an instant to lose . . . and if . . . if anything should happen to him on the road? Great heavens, I hear his voice calling me . . . Solange, my soul, what can I say to you? Save your wretched
A
Translated by John Longrigg