“There may be, indeed, one moment of happiness, which must be the finding one worthy of exciting a passion which one should dare own to himself. That would, indeed, be a moment worth living for! but that can never happen—I am sure not to me—the men are so low, so vicious, so worthless! No, there is not one such to be found!”
What a strange girl! I could do little more than listen to her, from surprise at all she said.
“If, however,” she continued, “I had your talents I could, bad as this world is, be happy in it. There is nothing, there is nobody I envy like you. With such resources as yours there can never be ennui; the mind may always be employed, and always be gay! Oh, if I could write as you write!”
“Try,” cried I, “that is all that is wanting! try, and you will soon do much better things!”
“O no! I have tried, but I cannot succeed.”
“Perhaps you are too diffident. But is it possible you can be serious in so dreadful an assertion as that you are never happy? Are you sure that some real misfortune would not show you that your present misery is imaginary?”
“I don't know,” answered she, looking down, “perhaps it is so,—but in that case 'tis a misery so much the harder to be cured.”
“You surprise me more and more,” cried I; “is it possible you can so rationally see the disease of a disordered imagination, and yet allow it such power over your mind?”
“Yes, for it is the only source from which I draw any shadow of felicity. Sometimes when in the country, I give way to my imagination for whole days, and then I forget the world and its cares, and feel some enjoyment of existence.”
“Tell me what is then your notion of felicity? Whither does your castle-building carry you?”