VIVIEN Renée (Pauline Tarn, known as) [London, 1877 - Paris, 1909], English woman of letters of French expression. Set of 10 autograph letters signed, addressed to Kérimé: [1906]; 4 pages in-8°. "My last evening in Constantinople Very Exquisite .... I am alone with you, with our memories. A strangely showering sadness overwhelms and enchants me. I am alone, with your eyes ... your eyes that are soft and dear to me like the night ... your eyes of warm darkness... How shall I live now, far from your sweetness, far from your languid grace! I love your sadness of exiled queen, of captive lover... I adore your loneliness and your melancholy... But above all, I adore your omnipotence on my submissive heart. What do you want from me, Beloved? Order, so that you are satisfied. I will always be what you want me to be. [Your kisses and the tender look of your eyes, after the pleasure, will remain in me, as long as I can remember and will fade from my being only with the memory itself. [1906]; 3 pages in-8°. "I have spent these last moments alone with your magical and dominating thought. You do not know what almost intolerable pain grips my heart at the moment of departure. And, O cruelty of fate! O final irony! Eva writes to me (poor thing!) that my health is dearer to her than anything else, and that she allows me to stay in Constantinople until I am completely well. I receive the good news just when it is too late... But I am leaving, madly in love and infinitely grateful for the wonderful moments that I dreamed under your gaze full of voluptuous darkness. And I return in the regions of the prose the soul drunk again of supreme poetry. " [1906]; 2 1/2 pages in-8°. "My love, I love you tonight, with a love so furious, so desperate! Your memory pursues me with a tenacious bitterness. The echoes of its voice reach my poor temporary and trembling solitude. And just now, it will be the brutal entry and the rupture of my dream, of my poor dream. How sad I am tonight, in a failure of all the being! Sad to cry, sad to die ... but one does not die. " [1906]; 8 pages in-8°. "I did not write to you earlier, my beautiful one, because I was angry, because I was holding a grudge. You were foolishly imprudent in sending Dimitri to the station, and if the miracle had not taken place (such a benevolent chance can only be a miracle), I don't know what would have happened to me. I don't dare to think about it. Finally, poets are sometimes protected by benevolent Goddesses. [Your last letter is enigmatic. P.R. [Paule Riversdale] never believed when you wrote her that we were lover and mistress. She simply thought that, cloistered as you are, deprived of all free pleasures, you were cheating your boredom by a platonic tenderness. [You are unfair, you are mean. I would like not to love you anymore. I suffer and I have not deserved your hostile words. You don't love me, you don't love me anymore and I am sorry to love you". [1906]; 5 1/2 pages in-8°. "Your poor postcards have upset me, Dearest, and also your sad letter. You think of death, and yet you are loved! Loved painfully, desperately with all the passion, anguish and tenderness. I read your letter again. How unfair you are, Dearest, how unfair you are, Dearest, how unfair you are! Eva was, at first, terribly jealous of you. And, since you want details, you should know that I only appeased Eva's jealousy by convincing her that you were ugly, too brown, dry, that you had rotten teeth, bad breath and, finally, that all Turkish women should, according to Islamic law, have the door locked at home. [1906]; 8 pages in-8°. "Dear and cruel Aimée, I cannot tell you how much your letter tore my heart. Certainly, I deserved all the reproaches that you address to me. Because voluntarily, I had abstained from writing you. I still had the story of Paule Riversdale on my heart. But today I think only of the divine minutes of there, of our balcony so mysteriously entwined with lianas, of the room where we abyssed in absolute voluptuousness. I see again your eyes of ecstatic dying, I hear again your soft sigh: "that the pleasure is sad"! [1906]; 4 pages in-8°. "My perfumed sweetness, I send you my most beautiful memories. I am currently copying a poem I composed for you. And I am sending you right away an issue of the Censor where you will find an article by me and a review where they say good things about your servant and lover. (I don't want you to be ashamed of me). This said, my infinite Sweetness, know that I love you beyond all things, that you are my obsession, my fear, my hope." [1906]; 4 pages in-8°. "My beautiful Dream, I am sending you these photographs e