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LETTER XXXV.
August 30.
WRETCH that I am, do I not take pleasure in deceiving myself, and
am I not without understanding? -- What will become of this
ardent and unbounded passion? -- I address no prayers but to
Charlotte; my imagination sees nothing but her; all that
surrounds me is of no account, but as it relates to her. -- And
in this state I enjoy some happy hours, till I am obliged to tear
myself from her: and to that, alas! my heart often forces me.
When I have been sitting by her for two or three hours, quite
absorbed by her figure, her attitudes, her divine expressions,
the sentiment by degrees takes possession of me, and is worked up
to the highest excess: my sight is confused; my breathing is
oppressed; I hear nothing; my veins swell; a palpitation seizes
my heart, and I scarcely know where I am, or whe- {98} ther I
exist. Then, if soft sensations do not prevail, as it sometimes
happens, -- if Charlotte does not at least allow me the
melancholy consolation to bathe her hand with my tears, I am
obliged to leave her, and run and wander about the country. I
climb steep rocks; I break my way through copses, amongst thorns
and briars which tear me to pieces, and I feel a little relief.
Sometimes I lie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue,
and dying with thirst: sometimes, late in the night, when the
moon shines upon my head, I lean against a bending tree in some
sequestered forest, to ease my wrung feet; and, quite worn out
and exhausted, I sleep till break of day. Oh, my friend! the
dismal cell, the sackcloth, the girdle with sharp points of iron,
would be indulgence and luxury in comparison of what I now
suffer. -- Adieu. -- I see no end to these torments but the
grave.
