Translations:CP 02830/30/en

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your letter, an imperishable memorial to kindness and friendship. But Bize is completely mistaken if he thinks that a certificate will exempt me from anything whatsoever. Perhaps a certificate from Pozzi, a lieutenant-colonel at Val-de-Grâce, might do it (but I don’t know). But with charming manners and perfect protocol he evaded the question and refused. I shall bring you up to date with my military misadventures as they happen. My dear little one it is very sweet of you to think that Cabourg must have been painful to me on account of Agostinelli. To my shame I must confess that it was not as painful as I had thought, and that this trip has rather marked a first stage of detachment from my grief, a stage after which, fortunately, I have gone back, once I had returned, to my initial suffering. But finally, in Cabourg, without being any the less heartbroken nor feeling any less regret about him, there were moments, hours even, when he had vanished from my thoughts. My dear little one, don’t judge me too harshly for that (as harshly as I judge myself!). And don’t take that to signify any lack of loyalty in my affections, just as I was wrong to assume that of you when I saw that you hardly missed society people who I thought you cared about a great deal. I assumed that you had less fondness than I had thought. And I understood afterwards that it was because these were people who you did not truly love. I truly loved Alfred. It’s not enough to say that I loved him, I adored him. And I don’t know why I write it in the past tense because I still love him. Because in spite of everything, in our regrets there is one part that is involuntary and one part duty that determines the involuntary and assures its duration. But this duty did not exist in relation to Alfred who behaved very badly towards me. I feel regrets towards him that I cannot do other than feel towards him, but I don’t feel that I am constrained by any sense of duty, such as the one that binds me to you, which will bind me to you even if I needed you a thousand times less, if I loved you a thousand times less. So if I have had a few weeks of relative inconstancy in Cabourg, don’t judge me as inconstant and blame the person who was incapable of deserving fidelity. In any case it was a joy to me to see that my sufferings had returned; but at times they are so strong that I miss a little their abatement of a month ago. But I also have the sadness of feeling that however strong they might be, they are still perhaps less tormenting than a month and a half or two months ago. It is not because others have died that the grief diminishes, but because one dies oneself. And it requires great vitality to maintain and keep alive and intact the “self” of a few weeks ago. His friend has not forgotten him, poor Alfred. But he has rejoined him in death and his successor, the “self” of today, loves Alfred but did not know him other than through the reports of the other. It is a secondhand tenderness. (Don’t talk about this to anybody I beg you; if the general character of these truths tempts you to read out any extracts of this to Gregh or others, you would be causing me a great deal of pain. If I ever want to formulate such ideas as these it will be under the pseudonym of Swann. For a long time now life has no longer offered me anything but events that I have already described. When you read the third volume of my book the one that in part will be called “A l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs”, you will recognize the anticipation and the sure prophesy of what I have felt since.)