... Que este pequeno penhor de meus longos suspiros vá ante
os seus olhos. Muitas outras cousas desejo, mas esta me seria
assaz.’--BERNARDIM RIBEIRO, _Saudades_, cap. i.
What will become of me, and what would you have me do? How far I am now
from all that I had looked forward to! I hoped that you would write me
from every place you passed through, and that your letters would be
very long ones,--that you would feed my love by the hope of seeing
you again, that full trust in your fidelity would give me some sort of
rest, and that I should then remain in a state bearable enough, and
without the extremes of sorrow. I had even thought of some poor plans
of endeavouring, as far as possible, my own cure, in case I could but
once assure myself that you had entirely forgotten me. The distance
which you are at, certain impulses of devotion, the fear of entirely
destroying the remainder of my health by so many wakeful nights and
so many cares, the improbability of your return, the coldness of your
love, and your last good-byes, your departure based on such cruel
pretexts, and a thousand other reasons which are only too good and
too useless, seemed to offer me a safe refuge if I needed one. Having
indeed only myself to reckon with, I could never have been on my guard
against all my weaknesses, nor foresee all that I now suffer. Ah! how
pitiful it is for me,--I that am not able to share with you my sorrows,
and must be all alone in my grief! This thought is killing me, and I
almost die of horror when I think that you were never really affected
by all the bliss that we shared. Yes, I understand now the untruth of
all your transports. You betrayed me every time you told me that your
supreme delight was to be alone with me. It is to my importunities
alone that I owe your warmth and passion. Deliberately and in cold
blood you formed a design to kindle my love; you only regarded my
passion as your triumph, and your heart was never deeply touched. Are
you not very wretched? and have you so little delicacy that you made no
other use of my love but this?
How then can it be that with such love I have not been able to make
you entirely happy? It is solely for love of you that I regret the
infinite pleasures you have lost. Can it be that you did not care to
enjoy them? Ah! if you only knew them you would doubtless find them
much greater than that of having deceived me, and you would have
experienced how much happier it is, and how much more poignant it is
to love violently than to be loved. I know not what I am, or what I do,
or what I wish for. I am torn asunder by a thousand contrary emotions.
Can a more deplorable state be imagined? I love you to distraction,
and therefore I spare you sufficiently not to dare to wish that the
same emotions should trouble you. I should kill myself or die of grief
without were I to be assured that you were never having any rest, that
your life was as anxious and disturbed as mine, that you were weeping
ceaselessly, and that everything was hateful to you. I cannot bear my
own sufferings, how then could I support the sorrow a thousand times
more grievous which yours would give me? I cannot, on the other hand,
make up my mind to wish that you should think no more of me; and to
speak frankly, I am furiously jealous of all that gives you pleasure,
and comes near to your heart and fancy in France. I know not why I
write to you. I perceive that you will only pity me, and I wish for
none of your pity. I hate myself when I look back on all that I have
sacrificed for you. I have lost my honour. I have exposed myself to the
anger of my parents, to all the severity of the laws of this country
against religious, and finally to your ingratitude, which has seemed
to me the greatest of all my evils. Withal, I feel that my remorse
is not real, and that I would willingly, with all my heart, have run
the greatest risks for the love of you, and that I experience a sad
pleasure in having risked my life and honour in your service. Ought not
all that I hold most dear to be at your disposal? Ought I not to be
satisfied at having employed it as I have done? Methinks, even, I am
not at all content with my sorrows, or the excess of my love, although
I cannot, alas! flatter myself sufficiently to be content with you. I
live, unfaithful that I am; I do as much to preserve my life as to lose
it. Ah! I am dying of shame. Is my despair then only in my letters? If
I loved you, as I have told you a thousand times, should I not have
been dead long ago? I have deceived you, and you may rightly complain
of me. Alas! why do you not complain of me? I saw you leave, I can
never hope to see you come back, and in spite of all I yet breathe! I
have deluded you. I ask your pardon, but do not grant it me. Treat me
harshly--say my love for you is too weak; be more hard to please; tell
me that you would have me die of love for your sake. Help me thus, I
conjure you, to overcome the weakness of my sex, and to put an end to
all my wavering in real despair. Doubtless a tragic end would force you
to think of me often, my memory would become dear to you, and perhaps
you would be really touched by so uncommon a death. Would not death be
better than the state to which you have brought me? Good-bye. How I
wish that I had never seen you. Ah! I feel how false this phrase is,
and I know at the very moment in which I write it that I had far rather
be unhappy in my love for you than never have seen you. Willingly, and
without a murmur, I consent to my evil fate, since it has not been your
wish to make it happier. Good-bye; promise me a few tender regrets if
I die of grief, or at least that you will let the violence of my love
give you a disgust and repulsion for everything else. This consolation
will suffice me, and if I must leave you for ever, I would wish not to
leave you to another woman. Would it not be very cruel indeed of you to
make use of my despair to render yourself more agreeable, and to let
it be seen that you have inspired the greatest passion in the world?
Good-bye once again. My letters are too long, and I do not regard you
sufficiently. I ask your pardon, and dare hope that you will show some
indulgence to a poor mad woman who was not so, as you know, before
she loved you. Good-bye. Methinks I too often speak to you of the
insufferable state in which I am, yet I thank you from the bottom of my
heart for the despair which you cause me, and I hate the peace which I
lived in before I knew you.
Good-bye! My love grows stronger each moment. Oh what a world of things
I have to tell you of!