readers with the repetition, any more than I was satiated with the
enjoyment? Again, if all this consisted of facts, actions, or words, I
could somehow or other convey an idea of it; but how shall I describe
what was neither said nor done, nor even thought, but enjoyed, felt,
without being able to particularize any other object of my happiness than
the bare idea? I rose with the sun, and was happy; I walked, and was
happy; I saw Madam de Warrens, and was happy; I quitted her, and still
was happy!--Whether I rambled through the woods, over the hills, or
strolled along the valley; read, was idle, worked in the garden, or
gathered fruits, happiness continually accompanied me; it was fixed on no
particular object, it was within me, nor could I depart from it a single
moment.

Nothing that passed during that charming epocha, nothing that I did,
said, or thought, has escaped my memory. The time that preceded or
followed it, I only recollect by intervals, unequally and confused; but
here I remember all as distinctly as if it existed at this moment.
Imagination, which in my youth was perpetually anticipating the future,
but now takes a retrograde course, makes some amends by these charming
recollections for the deprivation of hope, which I have lost forever.
I no longer see anything in the future that can tempt my wishes, it is a
recollection of the past alone that can flatter me, and the remembrance
of the period I am now describing is so true and lively, that it
sometimes makes me happy, even in spite of my misfortunes.

Of these recollections I shall relate one example, which may give some
idea of their force and precision. The first day we went to sleep at
Charmettes, the way being up-hill, and Madam de Warrens rather heavy, she
was carried in a chair, while I followed on foot. Fearing the chairmen
would be fatigued, she got out about half-way, designing to walk the rest