LOVE, HAPPINESS AND ART
91
each morning) i-if you grant that it is possible to be
in
love and
yet realize how immensely pitiful are the rewards of love as com–
pared with the rewards of art, and feel an amused and bitter scorn
for everything that drags you down to earth i-if you admit that
it
is possible to be in love and yet feel that a line of Theocritus is
more intoxicating than your most precious memories, and feel too
that you are quite willing to make big sacrifices (I mean of the
things generally considered the most precious: life, money) whereas
you would refuse to make small compromises-then: YES.
Ah, when I saw you, poor pretty darling, setting sail on this
ocean (remember my first letters), didn't I warn you: "No ! Stay
where you are! Stay on shore, arid though your existence may be!"
1847
You reproach me for speaking of art with you, "as though we
had nothing more important in common."
Am
I to gather that you
are in the habit of speaking about art with people you care nothing
about? For you the subject of art is of minor importance, a kind
of entertainment, something between politics and the day's news?
Not for me! The other day I saw a friend who lives outside France.
We were brought up together; he reminisced about our childhood,
my father, my sister, the lycee, etc. Do you think that I spoke to
him about the things that are closest to me, or at least that I have
the highest regard for- about my loves and my enthusiasms? I was
careful not to, I assure you, for he would have trampled them under–
foot. The spirit observes the proprieties too, you know. He bored
me to death, and at the end of two hours I was longing for him
to go--which doesn't mean that I'm not devoted to him, and don't
love him, if you call it loving. What is there worth talking about
except Art? But who is there to talk about Art with? The first person
who happens along? You are luckier than I,
jf
such is the case with
you, for I never meet anyone with whom I can discuss it.
You wish me to be frank? Very well, then, I will be. One day,
our day together in Mantes, under the trees, you told me that you
"would not exchange your happiness for the fame of Corneille." Do
you remember that? Is my memory correct?
If
you knew how those
words shocked me, how they chilled the very marrow of my bones!
Fame! Fame! What is fame? Nothing, a mere noise, the external
