_A plain statement of facts_
Pisa, 17 _Nov_. 1821,
I have to acknowledge the receipt of 'Ada's hair', which is very soft
and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve years
old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta's
possession, taken at that age. But it don't curl,--perhaps from its
being let grow.
I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name, and I will
tell you why;--I believe that they are the only two or three words of
your handwriting in my possession. For your letters I returned; and
except the two words, or rather the one word, 'Household', written
twice in an old account book, I have no other. I burnt your last
note, for two reasons:--firstly, it was written in a style not
very agreeable; and, secondly, I wished to take your word without
documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people.
I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's
birthday--the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six,
so that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting
her;--perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business
or otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or
nearness;--every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a
period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have one
rallying-point as long as our child exists, which I presume we both
hope will be long after either of her parents.
The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably
more than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much longer
one of our prior acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake; but now
it is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my part, and a
few years less on yours, though it is no very extended period of life,
still it is one when the habits and thought are generally so formed as
to admit of no modification; and as we could not agree when younger,
we should with difficulty do so now.
I say all this, because I own to you, that, notwithstanding
everything, I considered our reunion as not impossible for more than
a year after the separation;--but then I gave up the hope entirely and
for ever. But this very impossibility of reunion seems to me at least
a reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can arise
between us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much of
its kindness as people who are never to meet may preserve perhaps more
easily than nearer connexions. For my own part, I am violent, but not
malignant; for only fresh provocations can awaken my resentments. To
you, who are colder and more concentrated, I would just hint, that
you may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and a
worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I bear you _now_ (whatever
I may have done) no resentment whatever. Remember, that _if you have
injured me_ in aught, this forgiveness is something; and that, if I
have _injured you_, it is something more still, if it be true, as the
moralists say, that the most offending are the least forgiving.
Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or on
yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect upon any but two things,--viz.
that you are the mother of my child, and that we shall never meet
again. I think if you also consider the two corresponding points with
reference to myself, it will be better for all three.