Letter lxxvi.
_Madame de P---- to Lady Olivia._
Paris, -- 18, --.
Really, my dear Olivia, this is too childish. What! make a complaint in form against me for taking a lover off your hands when you did not know what to do with him! Do you quarrel in England every time you change partners in a country dance? But I must be serious; for the high-sounding words _treachery_ and _perfidy_ are surely sufficient to make anybody grave. Seriously, then, if you are resolved to be tragical, _et de me faire une scene_, I must submit--console myself, and, above all things, take care not to be ridiculous.
Your letters, as you desire it so earnestly, and with so much reason, shall be returned by the first safe conveyance; but excuse me if I forbear to restore your _souvenirs_. With us Parisians this returning of keepsakes has been out of fashion since the days of Moliere and _Le depit amoureux_.
Adieu, my charming Olivia! I embrace you tenderly, I was going to say; but I believe, according to your English etiquette, I must now conclude with
I have the honour to be, Madam, Your most obedient, Humble servant, Gabrielle de P----.
Letter lxxvij.
_From Olivia to Mr L----._
Tuesday morning.
Come not to Richmond to-day; I am not in spirits to see you, my dearest L----. Allow me to indulge my melancholy retired from every human eye.
Olivia.
Letter lxxviij.
_From Lady Olivia to Mr L----._
Tuesday evening.
"Explain to you the cause of my melancholy"--Vain request!--cruel as vain! Your ignorance of the cause too well justifies my sad presentiments. Were our feelings in unison, as once they were, would not every chord of your heart vibrate responsively to mine?
With me love is an absorbing vortex of the soul, into which all other thoughts, feelings, and ideas are irresistibly impelled; with you it is but as the stranger stream that crosses the peaceful lake, and as it flows wakens only the surface of the slumbering waters, communicating to them but a temporary agitation. With you, my dear, but too tranquil-minded friend, love is but one amid the vulgar crowd of pleasures; it concentrates not your ideas, it entrances not your faculties; it is not, as in my heart, the supreme delight, which renders all others tasteless, the only blessing which can make life supportable; the sole, sufficient object of existence. Alas! how cruelly different is the feeble attachment that I have inspired from that all-powerful sentiment to which I live a victim! Countless symptoms, by you unheeded, mark to my love-watchful eye the decline of passion. How often am I secretly shocked by the cold carelessness of your words and manner! How often does the sigh burst from my bosom, the tear fall from my eye, when you have left me at leisure to recall, by memory's torturing power, instances of your increasing indifference! Seek not to calm my too well-founded fears. Professions, with all their unmeaning, inanimate formality, but irritate my anguish. Permit me to indulge, to feed upon my grief in silence. Ask me no more to explain to you the cause of my melancholy. Too plainly, alas! I feel it is beyond my utmost power to endure it. Amiable Werter--divine St Preux--you would sympathize in my feelings! Sublime Goethe--all-eloquent Rousseau--you alone could feel as I do, and you alone could paint my anguish.
The miserable Olivia.