Meu amigo verdadeiro, quem me vos levou tão longe? ... Como vós vos
fostes, tudo se tornou tristeza; nem parece ainda, senão que estava
espreitando já que vos fosseis.
BERNARDIM RIBEIRO, _Saudades_, cap. i.
Do but think, my love, how much thou wert wanting in foresight. Ah!
unfortunate, thou wert betrayed, and thou didst betray me with illusive
hopes. A passion on which thou didst rest so many prospects of pleasure
now only causes thee a deadly despair, which is like nothing else
but the cruelty of the absence which occasions it. What! must this
absence, to which my sorrow, all ingenious though it be, cannot give
a sad enough name, deprive me for ever of a sight of those eyes in
which I was wont to see so much love, which made me feel so full of
joy, which took the place of all else to me, and which, in a word,
were all that I desired? Mine eyes, alas! have lost the only light
that gave them life, tears alone are left them, and ceaseless weeping
is the sole employment I have given them since I learned that you were
bent upon a separation so unbearable to me that it must soon bring
about my death. But yet it seems to me that I cling in some sort to
the sorrows of which you are the sole cause. I consecrated my life
to you from the moment when I first saw you, and I feel a certain
pleasure in sacrificing it to you. I send you my sighs a thousand
times each day, they seek you everywhere, and as sole recompense of so
much disquietude they bring me back a warning too true, alas, of my
unhappiness: an unhappiness which is cruel enough to prevent me from
flattering myself with hope, and which is ever calling to me--Cease,
cease to wear thyself out in vain, ill-fated Marianna, cease looking
for a lover whom thou wilt never see again, who has crossed the seas
to fly from thee, who is now in France in the midst of pleasures, who
is not thinking for one moment on thy sorrows, who would not thank
thee for these pangs for which he feels no gratitude. But no, I cannot
make up my mind to think so ill of you, and I am too much concerned
that you should right yourself. I do not even wish to think that you
have forgotten me. Am I not unhappy enough already without torturing
myself with false suspicions? And why should I try so hard to forget
all the care you took to prove your love for me? I was so enchanted
with it all that I should be ungrateful indeed were I not still to love
you with the same transports that my passion lent me when I enjoyed
the pledges of your love. How can the memory of moments so sweet have
become so bitter? And, contrary to their nature, must they serve only
to tyrannise over my heart? Alas, poor heart! your last letter brought
it into a strange state; it endured such strong pangs that it seemed
to be trying to tear itself from me to go and seek for you. I was so
overcome by all these violent emotions that I was beside myself for
more than three hours.[25] It was as though I refused to come back to a
life which I feel bound to lose for you since I cannot preserve it for
you. In spite of myself, however, I became myself again; I flattered
myself with the feeling that I was dying of love, and besides, I was
well pleased at the thought of being no longer obliged to see my heart
torn by grief at your absence. Ever since those first symptoms I have
suffered much from ill-health, but can I ever be well again until I
see you? And yet I am bearing it without a murmur since it comes from
you. What! is this the reward you give me for loving you so tenderly?
But it matters not; I am resolved to adore you all my life and to care
for no one else, and I tell you that you too will do well to love no
other. Could you ever content yourself with a love colder than mine?
You will perhaps find more beauty elsewhere (yet you told me once that
I was very beautiful), but you will never find so much love: and all
the rest is nothing. Do not fill any more of your letters with trifles:
and do not write and tell me again to remember you. I cannot forget
you, and as little do I forget the hope you gave me that you would come
and spend some time with me. Alas! why are you not willing to pass your
whole life at my side? Could I leave this unhappy cloister I should
not await in Portugal the fulfilment of your promises. I should go
fearlessly over the whole world seeking you, following you, and loving
you. I dare not flatter myself that this can be. I do not care to feed
a hope that would certainly give me some pleasure, while I wish to
feel nothing but sorrow. Yet I confess the chance of writing to you
which my brother gave me suddenly aroused in me a certain feeling of
joy, and checked for a time the despair in which I live. I conjure you
to tell me why you set yourself to bewitch me as you did, when you well
knew that you would have to forsake me. Why were you so bent on making
me unhappy? Why did you not leave me at peace in my cloister? Had I
done you any wrong? But I ask your pardon. I am not accusing you. I am
not in a state to think on vengeance, and I only blame the harshness of
my fate. It seems to me that in separating us it has done us all the
harm that we could fear from it. It will not succeed in separating our
hearts,--for love, more powerful than it, has united them for ever. If
you take any interest in my lot write to me often. I well deserve your
taking some pains to let me know the state of your heart and fortune.
Above all, come and see me. Good-bye. I cannot make up my mind to part
from this letter. It will fall into your hands: would I might have
the same happiness! Ah, how foolish I am! I know so well that this is
impossible. Good-bye. I can no more. Good-bye. Love me always and make
me suffer still more.