December 29.
Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as —— has just
informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I
take advantage of it to inclose you
— — — — —
How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which
obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be
content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into
this wearisome labyrinth? I know very well that you have been
imperceptibly drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or
abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid
poverty? I am contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to
escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And let me tell
you, I have my project also—and, if you do not soon return, the little
girl and I will take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your
cold kindness—your distant civilities—no; not we.
This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire
which —— manifests to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk
to you?—if he can persuade you let him!—for, if you are not happier with
me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal
projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason, as well as
affection seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will
occur to you—and you will act accordingly.
Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have
heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another,
about the age of my ——, a fine little creature. They are still but
contriving to live —— earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but
just above poverty, I envy them. She is a tender affectionate
mother—fatigued even by her attention. However she has an affectionate
husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her
pleasure.
I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I
grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here,
to observe with me how her mind unfolds and her little heart becomes
attached!—These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer
them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy. It is your own
maxim to “live in the present moment.”—_If you do_—stay, for God’s sake;
but tell me truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and let
me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.
Adieu! I am a little hurt. I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort
me.
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