Cecilia Volanges _to_ Sophia Carnay.
What, my Sophia, you blame beforehand the step I intend to take! I had
uneasiness enough already, but you add considerably to it. You say,
I certainly ought not to answer his letter; you are quite, at your
ease, and can give advice; but you know not how I am circumstanced,
and are not able, not being on the spot, to give an opinion. Sure I
am, were you so situated, you would act as I do. Certainly, according
to etiquette, I should not answer his letter; and by my letter of
yesterday, you may perceive my intention was not to reply; but I don’t
think any one was ever so circumstanced as I am.
And, then, to be left to my own discretion! For Madame de Merteuil,
whom I depended on seeing in the evening, did not come. Every thing
is against me; she is the cause of my knowing him. In her company, it
has almost always been, that I have seen and spoke to him. It is not
that I have any ill-will towards her for it—but I’m left to myself
when I want her advice most. Well, I’m greatly to be pitied! Only
think, yesterday he came as usual. I was so confused I could not look
at him; he could not speak to me, for Mamma was with us. I knew he
would be vexed when he found I had not wrote to him; I did not know
how to appear. He immediately asked me if I had a mind he should bring
my harpsichord. My heart beat so I could scarcely say yes. When he
returned it was much worse. I just glanced at him. He did not see me,
but looked as if he was ill; that made me very unhappy. He tuned my
harpsichord, and said, with a sigh, Ah, Miss! He spoke but those two
words; and in such a tone as threw me into the greatest confusion. I
struck a few chords without knowing what I did: Mamma asked him to
sing; he excused himself, saying, he was not well; but I had no excuse,
and was forced to sing. I then wished I had no voice; and chose, on
purpose, a song that I did not know; for I was certain I could not sing
any one, and some notice would have been taken.
Fortunately a visitor came; and as soon as I heard a coach coming, I
stopped, and begged he would put up my harpsichord. I was much afraid
he would then go away, but he returned. Whilst Mamma and the lady, who
came, were chatting together, I wished to look at him for a moment; I
met his eyes, and I could not turn mine from him. That instant I saw
his tears flow, and he was obliged to turn his head aside to hide them.
I found I could not withstand it; and that I was also ready to weep. I
retired, and instantly wrote with a pencil on a slip of paper, “I beg
you’ll not be so dejected; I promise to answer your letter.”—Surely
you can’t say there was any harm in this; I could not help it. I put
my note in the strings of my harpsichord, as his was, and returned to
the saloon. I found myself much easier, and was impatient until the
lady went away. She was on her visits, and soon retired. As soon as
she was gone, I said I would again play on my harpsichord, and begged
he would bring it. I saw by his looks he suspected nothing; but when he
returned, oh, he was so pleased! In laying the instrument before me, he
placed himself in such a manner that Mamma could not see, and squeezed
my hand—but it was but for a moment: I can’t express the pleasure I
received; I drew it away however; so that I have nothing to reproach
myself with.
Now, my dear friend, you see I can’t avoid writing to him, since I have
promised; and I will not chagrin him any more I am determined; for I
suffer more than he does. Certainly, as to any thing bad, I would not
be guilty of it, but what harm can there be in writing, when it is to
prevent one from being unhappy? What puzzles me is, that I shall not
know what to say; but that signifies nothing; and I am certain its
coming from me will be quite sufficient.
Adieu, my dear friend! If you think me wrong, tell me; but I don’t
believe I am. As the time draws near to write to him, my heart beats
strangely; however, it must be so, as I have promised it.
_From ——, Aug._ 20, 17—.