Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII. Swedenborg
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of self-collection, my hour of prayer, my
matins.
Now I must sacrifice it all, and give up my
most innocent pleasure. The powers compel me
to renounce this last and purest enjoyment. My
little daughter wishes to accompany me. I
embrace her tenderly, and tell her why I wish to
be alone, but she does not understand it. She
cries, and I have not the heart to sadden her
to-day, but make a firm resolve not to allow
her again to misuse her rights. She is certainly
thoroughly fascinating as a child, with her originality,
her cheerfulness, her gratitude for trifles,
that is, when one has leisure to be occupied with
her. But when one is absent-minded and distracted,
it is intensely annoying to be plagued
with endless questions and changes of mood
about mere nothings.
My little one is as jealous as a lover about
my thoughts; she seems to watch for the exact
opportunity to destroy a carefully-woven web
of thought with her prattle—but no, it is not
she who does it; she is only an instrument, but
I seem to be the object of deliberate attacks
by a poor little innocent. I go on with slow
steps; I don’t seek to escape any more, but my
soul is a prisoner, and my brain exhausted by
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