Chevalier Danceny _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
In expectation of the happiness of seeing you, I indulge myself, my
tender friend, in the pleasure of writing to you; and thus by occupying
myself with you, I dispel the gloom that otherwise would be occasioned
by your absence. To delineate to you my sentiments, to recall yours
to my mind, is a true enjoyment to my heart; and thus even the time
of privation affords me a thousand ideas precious to my love—Yet,
if I am to believe you, I shall not obtain any answer from you, even
this letter shall be the last, and we shall abandon a correspondence
which, according to you, is dangerous, _and of which we have no
need_—Certainly I shall believe you if you persist; for what can
you desire that does not of course become my desire? But before you
ultimately decide upon it, will you not permit a slight conversation on
the subject.
Of the head of danger you are the only judge—I can frame no
calculation of it—and I shall confine myself to requesting you would
look to your own safety, for I can have no tranquillity while you are
disquieted—As to this object, it is not we two that are but one, it is
thou that art us both.
As to the matter of necessity, we can have but one thought; and if we
differ in opinion, it can only rise from a want of proper explanation,
or from not understanding one another. I shall therefore state to you
what I think is my sensation.
Without doubt a letter appears very unnecessary when we can see one
another freely—What could it say that a word, or look, or even
silence itself, could not express? A hundred times before, this
appeared to me so clear, that in the very moment that you spoke to me
of not writing any more, that idea my mind immediately adopted—It was
a restraint upon it perhaps, but did not affect it—Thus, when I have
offered a kiss upon your bosom, and found a ribband or piece of gauze
in my way, I only turn it aside, and have not the least sentiment of an
obstacle.
But since we have separated, and you are no longer there, this idea
of correspondence by letters has returned to torment me—What is the
reason, I have said to myself, of this additional privation? Why is it,
because we are at some distance, we have nothing more to say to each
other? Suppose that a fortunate concurrence of circumstances should
bring us together for a day, shall we then employ in conversation the
time that ought to be wholly dedicated to enjoyment, which letters
between us would prevent? I say enjoyment, my dear friend; for with you
the very moments of repose furnish, too, a delicious enjoyment; in a
word, whenever such a happy opportunity offers, the conclusion is still
separation; and one is so solitary, it is then a letter becomes truly
precious: if not read, it is sure to be the only object that employs
the eye. Ah! there can be no doubt, but one may look at a letter
without reading it; as I think that I even could have some pleasure at
night by barely touching your portrait.
Your portrait have I said? but a letter is the portrait of the soul; it
has not, like a cold image, that degree of stagnation so opposite to
love; it yields to all our actions by turns; it becomes animated, gives
us enjoyment, and sinks into repose—All your sentiments are precious
to me; and will you deprive me of the means of becoming possessed of
them?
Are you quite sure that a desire to write to me will never torment
you? If in the midst of your solitude your heart should be too much
compressed or desolated; if a joyous emotion should pass to your soul;
if an involuntary sadness should disturb it for a moment, it would
not then be in the bosom of your friend that you would pour out your
happiness or distress; you would then have a sensation he should not
share; and you would punish him to wander in solitude and distrust far
from you. My friend, my dearest friend! you are to pronounce—I have
only proposed to myself to discuss the question with you, and not to
over-rule you—I have only offered you reasons—I dare hope I should
have stood on stronger ground if I had proceeded to entreaties—I
shall endeavour, then, if you should persist, not to be afflicted; I
shall use my efforts to tell myself what you would have wrote to me;
but you would tell it better than I, and I should have a much higher
gratification in hearing it from you.
Adieu, my charming friend! The hour approaches at last, when I shall
be able to see you: I fly from you with the more haste, in order the
sooner to meet you again.
_Paris, Dec._ 3, 17—.