Another bit of Thiébault's early love life that Arthur John Butler chose to excise (... that word choice feels very inappropriate right now).
My constitution gave me a particular affinity for music; I was highly
enthusiastic, electrified by all the domains of fame and glory; I
adored my parents more than I loved them, and I cherished my friends
to a point they could not reciprocate; with all of this, it was only
natural that love should blossom into me before the time it usually
does. And indeed, by the time I left Berlin, at the end of my
fourteenth year, I had already had mistresses (one of whom married an
artillery major three years later) and a great passion.
Do not think that this word of passion is exaggerated; it is exact,
and the delight brought by this pure and spotless love accompanied me
through my whole life, still bound to the name of Philippine
Hoffmann, who breathed it into me. Indeed, at fifteen, she was
lovely, and so was her figure. She had a blonde’s softness without
any of the blandness. White like lilies, fresh like morning, she was
also endowed with this embonpoint without which voluptuousness seems
inconceivable to me; lastly, she was both clever and kind, with a
tactful spirit and a bewitching voice. There was truly nothing this
ravishing creature lacked; but what Nature had given her was much
more than it took to kindle fires in my heart, which time fuelled
even as they grew hopeless, and which eventually turned into a tender
and eternal fondness.
I met her in the garden of the Comte de Reuss. One of my mother’s
friends (Mme Morel) spent her summers there; the Hoffmann had also
rented an apartment there for the season; we went there every day
after dinner. I noticed this young Philippine from the first days.
The season, the place, everything added to my delight, and it was a
motive to desire to approach her; but from the motives to the means,
there is a large enough distance that a thirteen-year-old may be
forgiven for finding it difficult to cross. Philippine had a brother,
whom I already mentioned, and it took me only a few days to strike a
friendship with him, and also with his intimate friend, the son of
the philosopher Nicolaï. Having taken this first step, I managed to
establish a few ties between the object of my first adoration and my
sister. I fostered this relationship, and by the time winter brought
everyone back to Berlin, we could visit each other. This was how a
friendship was born and became so tight that, even though our parents
did not see each other, Philippine, her elder sister and her brother
went to our house as often as we went to theirs.
One of this young girl’s triumphs was to make me dance. Until then,
I had stayed away from balls, even those that my father organised
quite often to please my sister, who danced very well, and my mother,
who loved dancing. To jump on one foot, then the other, and to twist
oneself trying to look graceful always felt ridiculous to me, and I
still thought it was absurd; but to become Philippine’s partner,
even for an instant, to hold her hand, to interlock my arms with
hers, to be able to talk to her without constraint, all such small
pleasures made me enjoy this torture.
Thus I danced during my last winter in Berlin; I even kept dancing
for similar reasons, and despite my aversion for dancing, I ended up
mastering the entrechats, jetés and brisés of 1786 with some
distinction.
My departure from Berlin at the height of my passion left me truly
dismayed; I cried bitter tears, and when I heard of her marriage two
years later, I fell ill with chagrin.
I do not know whether she had all the happiness she deserved; but
Fortune did favour her. She had three sons. At the time of France’s
prosperity, she was enthusiastic over our glory, and some of her
narrow-minded fellow countrymen, unable to rise to the level of her
ideas and feelings, blamed her instead. Since 1784, I have only seen
her twice in 1807, and even then those were mere glances; the first
time was when I came from Fulda to Tilsitt, the second time on the
way from Tilsitt to Paris. Under too many respects, after finding
her, I was still looking for the one whose presence I had wished for
so many times. After all, everything had changed for us; the
difference in our ages had played against me in 1784, and now it was
a misfortune for her. I was still relatively young, and no doubt she
was not old; but my memories, rekindled by my imagination, were
necessary for the illusion of my first feelings. What a painful
situation that one where, after a long separation, after yearning for
this reunion, we are left saying: “Alas! What happened to their
beauty, my ardour, and most of all these hopes for a life that has now
mostly flowed and withered away!”
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