William Congreve către Arabella Hunt (problematizarea)

Iată o scrisoare de dragoste de la sfârșitul secolului al șaptesprezecelea. Arabella Hunt a fost o talentată vocalistă și muziciană (specializată pe lăută, i-a predat lecții de muzică inclusiv unei regine). Ea a stârnit dragostea dramaturgului și poetului William Congreve (tot un domn cu perucă albicioasă și cârlionțată precum Farquhar). Scrisoarea este captivantă prin problematizarea pas cu pas pe care autorul ei o comite. Este vorba despre o hiperbolă gradată, care se auto-interoghează, de fapt, consacrându-se demonstrativ figurii hiperbolizate – Arabella.

Dear Madam,

     Not believe that I love you? You cannot pretend to be so incredulous. If you do not believe my tongue, consult my eyes, consult your own. You will find by yours that they have charms, by mine that I have a heart which feels them. Recall to mind what happened last night. That at least was a lover’s kiss. Its eagerness, its fierceness, its warmth, expressed the God its parent. But oh! Its sweetness, and its melting softness expressed him more. With trembling my limbs, and fevers in my soul I ravished it. Convulsions, pantings, murmurings shewed the mighty disorder within me: the mighty disorder increased by it. For those dear lips shot through my heart and through my bleeding vitals, delicious poison, and an avoidness but yet charming ruin.

     What cannot a day produce? The night before I thought muself a happy man, in want of nothing, and in fairest expectation of fortune; approved of by men of wit, and applauded by others. […]

     But Love, almighty Love, seems in a moment to have removed me to a prodigious distance from every object but you alone. In the midst of crowds I remain in solitude. Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you. I appear transported to some foreign desert with you (oh, that I were really thus transported!), where, abundantly supplied with everything, in thee, I might live out an age of uninterrupted extasy.

     The scene of the world’s great stage seems suddenly and sadly changed. Unlovely objects are all around me, excepting thee; the charms of all the world appear to be translated to thee. Thus in this said but oh, too pleasing state! My soul can fix upon nothing but thee; thee it contemplates, admires, adores, nay depends on, trusts on you alone.

     If you and hope forsake it, despair and endless misery attend it.