THE PRINCESS LANGUISHES FOR WANT OF PEKUAH.
NEKAYAH, being thus reconciled to herself, found that no evil is
insupportable but that which is accompanied with consciousness of wrong.
She was from that time delivered from the violence of tempestuous sorrow,
and sunk into silent pensiveness and gloomy tranquillity. She sat from
morning to evening recollecting all that had been done or said by her
Pekuah, treasured up with care every trifle on which Pekuah had set an
accidental value, and which might recall to mind any little incident or
careless conversation. The sentiments of her whom she now expected to
see no more were treasured in her memory as rules of life, and she
deliberated to no other end than to conjecture on any occasion what would
have been the opinion and counsel of Pekuah.
The women by whom she was attended knew nothing of her real condition,
and therefore she could not talk to them but with caution and reserve.
She began to remit her curiosity, having no great desire to collect
notions which she had no convenience of uttering. Rasselas endeavoured
first to comfort and afterwards to divert her; he hired musicians, to
whom she seemed to listen, but did not hear them; and procured masters to
instruct her in various arts, whose lectures, when they visited her
again, were again to be repeated. She had lost her taste of pleasure and
her ambition of excellence; and her mind, though forced into short
excursions, always recurred to the image of her friend.
Imlac was every morning earnestly enjoined to renew his inquiries, and
was asked every night whether he had yet heard of Pekuah; till, not being
able to return the Princess the answer that she desired, he was less and
less willing to come into her presence. She observed his backwardness,
and commanded him to attend her. “You are not,” said she, “to confound
impatience with resentment, or to suppose that I charge you with
negligence because I repine at your unsuccessfulness. I do not much
wonder at your absence. I know that the unhappy are never pleasing, and
that all naturally avoid the contagion of misery. To hear complaints is
wearisome alike to the wretched and the happy; for who would cloud by
adventitious grief the short gleams of gaiety which life allows us, or
who that is struggling under his own evils will add to them the miseries
of another?
“The time is at hand when none shall be disturbed any longer by the sighs
of Nekayah: my search after happiness is now at an end. I am resolved to
retire from the world, with all its flatteries and deceits, and will hide
myself in solitude, without any other care than to compose my thoughts
and regulate my hours by a constant succession of innocent occupations,
till, with a mind purified from earthly desires, I shall enter into that
state to which all are hastening, and in which I hope again to enjoy the
friendship of Pekuah.”
“Do not entangle your mind,” said Imlac, “by irrevocable determinations,
nor increase the burden of life by a voluntary accumulation of misery.
The weariness of retirement will continue to increase when the loss of
Pekuah is forgot. That you have been deprived of one pleasure is no very
good reason for rejection of the rest.”
“Since Pekuah was taken from me,” said the Princess, “I have no pleasure
to reject or to retain. She that has no one to love or trust has little
to hope. She wants the radical principle of happiness. We may perhaps
allow that what satisfaction this world can afford must arise from the
conjunction of wealth, knowledge, and goodness. Wealth is nothing but as
it is bestowed, and knowledge nothing but as it is communicated. They
must therefore be imparted to others, and to whom could I now delight to
impart them? Goodness affords the only comfort which can be enjoyed
without a partner, and goodness may be practised in retirement.”
“How far solitude may admit goodness or advance it, I shall not,” replied
Imlac, “dispute at present. Remember the confession of the pious hermit.
You will wish to return into the world when the image of your companion
has left your thoughts.”
“That time,” said Nekayah, “will never come. The generous frankness, the
modest obsequiousness, and the faithful secrecy of my dear Pekuah will
always be more missed as I shall live longer to see vice and folly.”
“The state of a mind oppressed with a sudden calamity,” said Imlac, “is
like that of the fabulous inhabitants of the new-created earth, who, when
the first night came upon them, supposed that day would never return.
When the clouds of sorrow gather over us, we see nothing beyond them, nor
can imagine how they will be dispelled; yet a new day succeeded to the
night, and sorrow is never long without a dawn of ease. But they who
restrain themselves from receiving comfort do as the savages would have
done had they put out their eyes when it was dark. Our minds, like our
bodies, are in continual flux; something is hourly lost, and something
acquired. To lose much at once is inconvenient to either, but while the
vital power remains uninjured, nature will find the means of reparation.
Distance has the same effect on the mind as on the eye; and while we
glide along the stream of time, whatever we leave behind us is always
lessening, and that which we approach increasing in magnitude. Do not
suffer life to stagnate: it will grow muddy for want of motion; commit
yourself again to the current of the world; Pekuah will vanish by
degrees; you will meet in your way some other favourite, or learn to
diffuse yourself in general conversation.”
“At least,” said the Prince, “do not despair before all remedies have
been tried. The inquiry after the unfortunate lady is still continued,
and shall be carried on with yet greater diligence, on condition that you
will promise to wait a year for the event, without any unalterable
resolution.”
Nekayah thought this a reasonable demand, and made the promise to her
brother, who had been obliged by Imlac to require it. Imlac had, indeed,
no great hope of regaining Pekuah; but he supposed that if he could
secure the interval of a year, the Princess would be then in no danger of
a cloister.