London, November 27.
The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you
returned, did not meet my eyes till just now. I had thrown the letters
aside—I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.
My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with
anger—under the impression your departure, without even a line left for
me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to
expect much attention to my sufferings.
In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has
almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know where I
am, or what I do. The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel
recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to
conceal in total solitude. My life therefore is but an exercise of
fortitude, continually on the stretch—and hope never gleams in this
tomb, where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, “that
I shall judge more cooly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But
is it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does
mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so
“exalted,” as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification?
In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but
that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have
fostered and the expectations you have excited?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart. I know you are not what you
now seem—nor will you always act or feel as you now do, though I may
never be comforted by the change. Even at Paris, my image will haunt
you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will
drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.
I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your
_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am
miserable!
It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the
strictest principles of justice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have social
feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my
whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return—and that
existence is a burthen without it.
I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the offer of your friendship,
you still only mean pecuniary support—I must again reject it.—Trifling
are the ills of poverty in the scale of misfortune.—God bless you!
* * * *
I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand what is generosity.—You
seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless whether
you dashed me to atoms by the fall. In truth I have been rudely handled.
_Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those
capricious feelings “the most refined,” which would undermine not only
the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You
would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no such thing as a
father!—If your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it is certainly
the most easy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to
please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!
Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from
you—and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ——’s conduct. I am
convinced you will not always justify your own.
Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your
mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to
gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do truth and principle
require such sacrifices?