for writing to me before you reached Vienna. I meant
to answer you, not speak to you from myself.
Of your praises I accept none, and I shall amaze you ; the reason is that they do not praise me. What matters it to me that you judge I am not silly ? It is strange, but never- theless true, that you are the man in the world whom I least care to please. Explain to me that singularity ; explain to me why I judge you with intolerable severity; why I find myself continually unjust to you; why, not believiag iu your friendship, I cavil at all its expressions ; why, in short, having reason to praise you, I am so tempted to find fault ? My reason tells me I ought to ask your pardon because my thoughts insult you constantly, and my soul revolts at the mere feeling that you may be showing mercy to me. No, no ! I do not want it ; judge me severely ; see my injustice, my inconsistency, and let yourself follow the impulse that such a sight must inspire in you. Ah ! as I have already told you, we cannot make of all this the friendship of Montaigne and La Béotie. They were calm ; they simply gave themselves up to the sweet and mutual impressions they received ; but we — we are ill, yet with this difference, that you are a sick man full of strength and reason, who will act in a manner to soon enjoy the best of health ; while I — I am attacked by a fell disease in which all the reliefs that I have sought have turned to poison, and have served only to render my sufferings more acute. These are strange indeed; they deprave my reason, they lead astray my judgment, for I do not desire to be cured ; I am conscious only of the want to die. Ah ! my God ! how sorry I should be to travel, to devour a hundred volumes in two months of time ! how grieved I should be to be worth as much as you, to be destined to such success, such glory ! If you only knew how small my soul is ! it sees but one thing only in all the world
