I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderneſs for my little girl, I grow ſad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to obſerve with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached!—Theſe appear to me to be true pleaſures—and ſtill you ſuffer them to eſcape you, in ſearch of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own maxim to "live in the preſent moment."—If you do—ſtay, for God's ſake; but tell me the truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to ſee you, and let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow ſick at heart.
Adieu! I am a little hurt.—I muſt take my darling to my boſom to comfort me.
* * * *
LETTER XXXI
December 30.
Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I only take advantage of every occaſion, that one out of three of my epiſtles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ———'s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the neceſſity of your ſtaying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual inquietude—and, entre nous, I am determined to try to earn ſome money here myſelf, in order to convince you that, if you chuſe to run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourſelf—for the little girl and I will live without your aſſiſtance, unleſs you are with us. I may be termed proud—Be it ſo—but I will never abandon certain principles of action.
The common run of men have ſuch an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts, and proſtitute their perſons, following perhaps a guſt of inebriation, they ſuppoſe the wife, ſlave rather, whom they maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the ſultan, whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred promiſcuous amours during his abſence.
I conſider fidelity and conſtancy as two diſtinct things; yet the former is neceſſary, to give life to the other—and ſuch a degree of reſpect do I think due to myſelf, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end of all my hopes of happineſs—I could not forgive it, if I would.
I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of men in general; you know that I think them ſyſtematic tyrants, and that it is the rareſt thing in the world, to meet with a man with ſufficient delicacy of feeling to govern deſire. When I am thus ſad, I lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am ſorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever ſown with thorns.
