who read his books and delighted in his genius, somehow or other
seemed to forget the lonely Prometheus on the mattress-rock at No.
3 Avenue Matignon. It was 1854 when Heine was painfully removed
there. It was so long ago as the May of 1848 that he had walked out
for the last time. His difficult steps had taken him to the Louvre,
and, broken in body and nerves--but never in spirit--he had burst
into tears before the Venus of Milo. It was a characteristic
pilgrimage--though it was only a "Mouche" who could have taken Heine
seriously when he said that he loved only statues and dead women.
There was obviously a deep strain of the macabre and the bizarre in
Heine's nature; but it must never be forgotten that he loved his
Mathilde as well.

That Heine was under no illusion about Mathilde, his letters show.
He would laugh at her on occasion, and even be a little bitter; but
if we are not to laugh at those we love, whom are we to laugh at?
So, at all events, thought Heine. Superior people might wonder that
a man with Heine's "intellect," et cetera, could put up, day after
day, with a little bourgeoise like Mathilde. But Heine might
easily have retorted: "Where anywhere in the world are you going to
find me a woman who is my equal, who is my true mate? You will
bring me cultivated governesses, or titled ladies who preside over
salons, or anemic little literary women with their imitative verse
or their amateurish political dreams. No, thank you. I am a man.
I am a sick, sad man. I need a kind, beautiful woman to love and
take care of me. She must be beautiful, remember, as well as kind--
and she must be not merely a nurse, hut a woman I can love. If she
shouldn't understand my writings, what does it matter? We don't
marry a wife for that. I am not looking for some little patronizing
blue-stocking--who, in her heart, thinks herself a better writer