Feb. 19.
When I firſt received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite time, I felt ſo hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the quickeſt effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the ſadder I grow. Society fatigues me inexpreſſibly—So much ſo, that finding fault with every one, I have only reaſon enough, to diſcover that the fault is in myſelf. My child alone intereſts me, and, but for her, I ſhould not take any pains to recover my health.
As it is, I ſhall wean her, and try if by that ſtep (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my only ſolace) I can get rid of my cough. Phyſicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a woman has ſuckled for ſome months. They lay a ſtreſs alſo on the neceſſity of keeping the mind tranquil—and, my God! how has mine been harraſſed! But whilſt the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind of heaven not ſuffered to viſit them too rudely," I have not found a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off ſorrow or care from my boſom.
What ſacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not reſpect!—But I will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not underſtand you. You ſay that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here—and I know that it will be neceſſary—nay, is. I cannot explain myſelf; but if you have not loſt your memory, you will eaſily divine my meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of ſeparations? and am I only to return to a country, that has not merely loſt all charms for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almoſt amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!
Why is it ſo neceſſary that I ſhould return?—brought up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed ſome plans of uſefulneſs that have now vaniſhed with my hopes of happineſs.
In the bitterneſs of my heart, I could complain with reaſon, that I am left here dependent on a man, whoſe avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered him callous to every ſentiment connected with ſocial or affectionate emotions.—With a brutal inſenſibility, he cannot help diſplaying the pleaſure your determination to ſtay gives him, in ſpite of the effect it is viſible it has had on me.
Till I can earn money, I ſhall endeavour to borrow ſome, for I want to avoid aſking him continually for the ſum neceſſary to maintain me.—Do not miſtake me, I have never been refuſed.—Yet I have gone half a dozen times to the houſe to aſk for it, and come away without ſpeaking——you muſt gueſs why—Beſides, I wiſh to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have ſacrificed my peace—not remembering—but I will be ſilent for ever.——
LETTER XXXVIII
April 7.