y, at least
reflect his state of mind--Paul de Musset says, what everybody who has read
his brother's writings carefully will feel to be true, that neither in the
hero nor any other single personage must we look for Alfred's entire
individuality. In the complexity of his character and emotions, and the
contradictions which they united, are to be found the eidolon of every
young man in his collection, even "the two heroes of _Les Caprices de
Marianne_, Octave and Coelio," says Paul, "although they are the antipodes
of one another." Neither is it as easy as it would seem on the surface to
trace the thread of any one incident of his life through his writings.
Although containing some irreconcilable passages, the four "Nights"
appeared to have been born of the same impulse and to exact the same
dedication: it is undeniably a shock to have their inconsistencies
explained by hearing that while the "Nuits de Mai," "d'Aout" and
"d'Octobre" refer to his passion for Madame Sand, the "Nuit de Decembre"
and "Lettre a Lamartine," which naturally belong to this series, were
dictated by another attachment and another disappointment. I will not stop
to moralize upon this: the story of De Musset's life is really only the
story of his loves. His brother says that he was always in love with
somebody: it was a necessity of his nature and his genius. Before he was
twenty-seven, six different love-affairs are enumerated, without taking
into account numerous affairs of gallantry; nor was the sixth the last. The
"Nuit d'Octobre" was written two years and a half after his return from
Italy, and its terrible malediction is the outbreak of the rankling memory
of his wrong and suffering. It was psychologically in order that while his
love (which does not die in an hour, like trust and respect) survived, it
should surround its object with lingering tenderness, but that as it slowly
expired indignation, scorn and the sense of injury should increase: this is
their final utterance, followed by pardon, a vow of forgetfulness and
farewell, but not a final farewell. That was spoken years afterward, in
1841, when, once again seeing by chance the forest of Fontainebleau, and
about the same time casually encountering Madame Sand, he poured forth his
"Souvenir," a poem of matchless sweetness and beauty, vibrating with
feeling and most musical in expression--an exquisite combination of lyric
and elegy. In this he calls her

Ma seule amie a jamais la plus c