There is in me a worship of woman, and a need of loving, which has
never been completely satisfied. Despairing of ever being loved
and understood as I desire, by the woman I have dreamt of (never
having met her, except under one form--that of the heart), I have
thrown myself into the tempestuous region of political passions
and into the stormy and parching atmosphere of literary glory.
. . . If ever I should find a wife and a fortune, I could resign
myself very easily to domestic happiness; but where are these
things to be found? Where is the family which would have faith in
a literary fortune? It would drive me mad to owe my fortune to a
woman, unless I loved her, or to owe it to flatteries; I am
obliged, therefore, to remain isolated. In the midst of this
desert, be assured that friendships such as yours, and the
assurance of finding a shelter in a loving heart, are the best
consolations I can have. . . . To dedicate myself to the happiness
of a woman is my constant dream, but I do not believe marriage and
love can exist in poverty. . . . I work too hard and I am too much
worried with other things to be able to pay attention to those
sorrows which sleep and make their nest in the heart. It may be
that I shall come to the end of my life, without having realized
the hopes I entertained from them. . . . As regards my soul, I am
profoundly sad. My work alone keeps me alive. Will there never be
a woman for me in this world? My fits of despondency and bodily
weariness come upon me more frequently, and weigh upon me more
heavily; to sink under this crushing load of fruitless labor,
without having near me the gentle caressing presence of woman, for
whom I have worked so much!"

Though Balzac and his mother were never congenial, he became very
lonely after she left him in 1832. In the autumn of that year he had a