The day fixed for the departure of Mr Harley, for London, now drew
near--I had anticipated this period with the most cruel inquietude. I
was going to lose, perhaps for ever, my preceptor, my friend! He, from
whom my mind had acquired knowledge, and in whose presence my heart had
rested satisfied. I had hitherto scarcely formed a wish beyond that of
daily beholding, and listening to him--I was now to gaze on that beloved
countenance, to listen to those soothing accents, no longer. He was
about to mix in the gay world--to lose in the hurry of business, or of
pleasure, the remembrance of those tender, rational, tranquil, moments,
sacred to virtue and friendship, that had left an indelible impression
on my heart. Could I, indeed, flatter myself, that the idea of the timid,
affectionate, Emma, would ever recur to his mind in the tumultuous
scenes of the crouded metropolis, it would doubtless quickly be effaced,
and lost in the multiplicity of engagements and avocations. How should
I, buried in solitude and silence, recall it to his recollection, how
contrive to mingle it with his thoughts, and entangle it with his
associations? Ah! did he but know my tenderness--_the desire of being
beloved_, of inspiring sympathy, is congenial to the human heart--why
should I hesitate to inform him of my affection--why do I blush and
tremble at the mere idea? It is a false shame! It is a pernicious system
of morals, which teaches us that hypocrisy can be virtue! He is well
acquainted with the purity, and with the sincerity, of my heart--he will
at least regard me with esteem and tender pity--and how often has 'pity
melted the soul to love!' The experiment is, surely, innocent, and
little hazardous. What I have to apprehend? Can I distrust, for a
moment, those principles of rectitude, of honour, of goodness, which
gave birth to my affection? Have I not witnessed his humanity, have I
not experienced his delicacy, in a thousand instances? Though he should
be obliged to wound, he is incapable of insulting, the heart that loves
him; and that, loving him, believed, alas! for a long time, _that it
loved only virtue_!
The morning of our separation, at last, arrived. My friend, too much
indisposed to attend the breakfast table, took leave of her son in her
own apartment. I awaited him, in the library, with a beating heart, and,
on his departure, put into his hands a paper.--
'Read it not,' said I, in a low and almost inarticulate tone of voice,
'till arrived at the end of your journey; or, at least, till you are ten
miles from hence.'
He received it in silence; but it was a silence more expressive than
words.
'Suffer me,' it said, 'for a few moments, to solicit your
candour and attention. You are the only man in the world, to
whom I could venture to confide sentiments, that to many
would be inconceivable; and by those, who are unacquainted
with the human mind, and the variety of circumstances by
which characters are variously impressed and formed--who are
accustomed to consider mankind in masses--who have been used
to bend implicitly, to custom and prescription--the deviation
of a solitary individual from _rules_ sanctioned by usage, by
prejudice, by expediency, would be regarded as romantic. I
frankly avow, while my cheeks glow with the blushes of
_modesty_, not of shame, that your virtues and accomplishments
have excited in my bosom an affection, as pure as the motives
which gave it birth, and as animated as it is pure.--This
ingenuous avowal may perhaps affect, but will scarcely (I
suspect) surprise, you; for, incapable of dissimulation,
the emotions of my mind are ever but too apparent in my
expressions, and in my conduct, to deceive a less penetrating
eye than yours--neither have I been solicitous to disguise
them.
'It has been observed, that,' "the strength of an affection
is generally in the same proportion, as the character of the
species, in the object beloved, is lost in that of the
individual,"[5] and, that individuality of character is the
only fastener of the affections. It is certain, however
singular it may appear, that many months before we became
personally acquainted, the report of your worth and high
qualities had generated in my mind, an esteem and reverence,
which has gradually ripened into a tenderness, that has, at
length, mixed itself with all my associations, and is become
interwoven with every fibre of my heart.
[Footnote 5: Wolstonecraft's Rights of Woman.]
'I have reflected, again and again, on the imprudence of
cherishing an attachment, which a variety of circumstances
combine to render so unpromising, and--What shall I say?--So
peculiar is the constitution of my mind, that those very
circumstances have had a tendency directly opposite to what
might reasonably have been expected; and have only served to
render the sentiment, I have delighted to foster, more
affecting and interesting.--Yes! I am aware of the tenure
upon which you retain your fortunes--of the cruel and
unnatural conditions imposed on you by the capricious
testator: neither can I require a sacrifice which I am unable
to recompence. But while these melancholy convictions
deprive me of hope, they encourage me, by proving the
disinterestedness of my attachment, to relieve my heart by
communication.--Mine is a whimsical pride, which dreads
nothing so much as the imputation of sordid, or sinister
motives. Remember, then--should we never meet again--if in
future periods you should find, that the friendship of the
world is--"a shade that follows wealth and fame;"--if,
where you have conferred obligations, you are repaid
with ingratitude--where you have placed confidence, with
treachery--and where you have a claim to zeal, with coldness!
Remember, _that you have once been beloved, for yourself
alone_, by one, who, in contributing to the comfort of your
life, would have found the happiness of her own.
'Is it possible that a mind like yours, neither hardened by
prosperity, nor debased by fashionable levity--which vice has
not corrupted, nor ignorance brutalized--can be wholly
insensible to the balmy sweetness, which natural,
unsophisticated, affections, shed through the human heart?
"Shall those by heaven's own influence join'd,
By feeling, sympathy, and mind,
The sacred voice of truth deny,
And mock the mandate of the sky?"
'But I check my pen:--I am no longer--
"The hope-flush'd enterer on the stage of life."
'The dreams of youth, chaced by premature reflection, have
given place to soberer, to sadder, conclusions; and while I
acknowledge, that it would be inexpressibly soothing to me
to believe, that in happier circumstances, my artless
affection might have awakened in your mind a sympathetic
tenderness:--this is the extent of my hopes!--I recollect you
once told me "It was our duty to make our reason conquer the
sensibility of our heart." Yet, why? Is, then, apathy the
perfection of our nature--and is not that nature refined and
harmonized by the gentle and social affections? The Being who
gave to the mind its reason, gave also to the heart its
sensibility.
'I make no apologies for, because I feel no consciousness of,
weakness. An attachment sanctioned by nature, reason, and
virtue, ennoble the mind capable of conceiving and cherishing
it: of such an attachment a corrupt heart is utterly
incapable.
'You may tell me, perhaps, "that the portrait on which my
fancy has dwelt enamoured, owes all its graces, its glowing
colouring--like the ideal beauty of the ancient artists--to
the imagination capable of sketching the dangerous
picture."--Allowing this, for a moment, _the sentiments it
inspires are not the less genuine_; and without some degree
of illusion, and enthusiasm, all that refines, exalts,
softens, embellishes, life--genius, virtue, love itself,
languishes. But, on this subject, my opinions have not been
lightly formed:--it is not to the personal graces, though
"the body charms, because the mind is seen," but to the
virtues and talents of the individual (for without intellect,
virtue is an empty name), that my heart does homage; and,
were I never again to behold you--were you even the husband
of another--my tenderness (a tenderness as innocent as it is
lively) would never cease!
'But, methinks, I hear you say,--"Whither does all this tend,
and what end does it propose?" Alas! this is a question I
scarcely dare to ask myself!--Yet, allow me to request, that
you will make me one promise, and resolve me one
question:--ah! do not evade this enquiry; for much it imports
me to have an explicit reply, lest, in indulging my own
feelings, I should, unconsciously, plant a thorn in the bosom
of another:--_Is your heart, at present, free?_ Or should
you, in future, form a tender engagement, tell me, that I
shall receive the first intimation of it from yourself; and,
in the assurance of your happiness, I will learn to forget my
own.
'I aspire to no higher title than that of the most faithful
of your friends, and the wish of becoming worthy of your
esteem and confidence shall afford me a motive for
improvement. I will learn of you moderation, equanimity, and
self-command, and you will, perhaps, continue to afford me
direction, and assistance, in the pursuit of knowledge and
truth.
'I have laid down my pen, again and again, and still taken it
up to add something more, from an anxiety, lest even you, of
whose delicacy I have experienced repeated proofs, should
misconstrue me.--"Oh! what a world is this!--into what false
habits has it fallen! Can hypocrisy be virtue? Can a desire
to call forth all the best affections of the heart, be
misconstrued into something too degrading for expression?"[6]
But I will banish these apprehensions; I am convinced they
are injurious.
'Yes!--I repeat it--I relinquish my pen with reluctance. A
melancholy satisfaction, from what source I can scarcely
define, diffuses itself through my heart while I unfold to
you its emotions.--Write to me; be _ingenuous_; I desire, I
call for, truth!
'EMMA.'
[Footnote 6: Holcroft's Anna St Ives.]