and all your taste for love, to the grand object. The Czar must not have
the slightest cause for jealousy. These Czars make nothing, you know, of
cutting off their mistresses’ pretty heads upon the bare suspicion of
an intrigue. But you must do what is still more difficult than to be
constant, you must yield your will, and, what is more, you must never
let this Czar guess that his will is not always your pleasure. Your
humour, your tastes, your wishes, must be incessantly and with alacrity
sacrificed to his. You must submit to the constraint of eternal court
ceremony, and court dissimulation. You must bear to be surrounded
with masks, instead of the human face divine; and instead of
fellow-creatures, you must content yourself with puppets. You will have
the amusement of pulling the wires: but remember that you must wear
a mask perpetually as well as others, and never attempt to speak, and
never expect to hear the language of truth or of the heart. You must
not be the dupe of attachment in those who call themselves friends,
or zealous and affectionate servants, &c. &c. You must have sufficient
strength of character to bear continually in mind that all these
professions are mere words, that all these people are alike false,
and actuated but by one motive, self-interest. To secure yourself from
secret and open enemies, you must farther have sufficient courage to
live without a friend or a confidante, for such persons at court are
only spies, traitors in the worst forms. All this is melancholy and
provoking, to be sure; but all this you must see without feeling, or
at least without showing a spark of indignation. A sentimental
misanthropist, male or female, is quite out of place at court. You must
see all that is odious and despicable in human nature in a comic point
of view; and you must consider your fellow-creatures as objects to
be laughed at, not to be hated. Laughter, besides being good for the
health, and consequently for the complexion, always implies superiority.
Without this gratification to our vanity, there would be no possibility
of enduring that eternal penance of hypocrisy, and that solitary state
of suspicion, to which the ambitious condemn themselves. I fear, my
romantic Olivia, that you, who are a person used to yield to first
impressions, and not quite accustomed to subdue your passions to your
interest, will think that politics require too much from you, almost as
much as constancy or religion. But consider the difference! for Heaven’s
sake, my dear, consider the greatness of our object! Would to God that
I had the eloquence of Bossuet! and I would make you a convert from
love and a proselyte to glory. Dare, my Olivia, to be a martyr to
ambition!--See! already high in air she holds a crown over your head--it
is almost within your grasp--stretch out your white arm and seize
it--fear not the thorns!--every crown has thorns--but who upon that
account ever yet refused one? My dear empress, I have the honour to kiss
your powerful hands.
GABRIELLE DE P----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXVII.
MR. L---- TO GENERAL B----.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
You need not hurry yourself to come to town on my account, for by this
change of ministry my embassy will be delayed some weeks.
A few days ago this delay would have been a terrible disappointment to
me; yet now I feel it a respite. A respite! you will exclaim. Yes, my
dear friend--so it is. Such is the heart of man!--so changeable, so
contradictory, so much at variance with itself from day to day, from
hour to hour. I believe, from what I now feel, that every man under
the dominion of passion is reduced to a most absurd and miserable
condition.--I have just been reading some letters from Leonora, which
have wrung my heart; letters addressed to her mother, laying open every
feeling of her mind for some months. My dear friend, what injustice have
I done to this admirable woman! With what tenderness, with what delicacy
has she loved me! while I, mistaking modesty for coldness, fortitude
for indifference, have neglected, injured, and abandoned her! With what
sweetness of temper, with what persevering goodness has she borne with
me, while, intoxicated with passion, I saw every thing in a false point
of view! How often have I satisfied myself with the persuasion, that
she scarcely observed my attachment to Olivia, or beheld it unconcerned,
secure by the absence of love from the pangs of jealousy! How often have
I accused her of insensibility, whilst her heart was in tortures! Olivia
was deceived also, and confirmed me in this cruel error. And all that
time Leonora was defending her rival, and pleading her cause! With what
generosity, with what magnanimity she speaks of Olivia in those letters!
Her confidence was unbounded, her soul above suspicion; to the very last
she doubted and blamed herself--dear, amiable woman! blamed herself for
our faults, for feeling that jealousy, which no wife who loved as she
did could possibly subdue. She never betrayed it by a single word or
look of reproach. Even though she fainted at that cursed fête champêtre,
yet the moment she came to her senses, she managed so, that none of
the spectators could suspect she thought Olivia was her rival. My dear
general, you will forgive me--as long as I praise Leonora you will
understand me. At last you will acknowledge that I do justice to the
merits of my wife. Justice! no--I am unworthy of her. I have no heart
like hers to offer in return for such love. She wishes to go with me to
Petersburg; she has forborne to make this offer directly to me; but I
know it from her last letter to her mother, which now lies before me.
How can I refuse?--and how can I accept? My soul is torn with violence
different ways. How can I leave Leonora! and how can I tear myself from
Olivia!--even if her charms had no power over my heart, how could I with
honour desert the woman who has sacrificed every thing for me! I will
not shield myself from you, my friend, behind the word honour. See me
as you have always seen me, without disguise, and now without defence. I
respect, I love Leonora--but, alas! I am in love with Olivia!
Yours ever,
F. L----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXVIII.
MR. L---- TO OLIVIA.
Triumphant as you are over my heart, dear enchanting Olivia! you cannot
make me false. I cannot, even to appease your anger, deny this morning
what I said last night. It is inconsistent with all your professions,
with your character, with your generous disposition, to desire me to
“_abjure Leonora for ever!_” it would be to render myself for ever
unworthy of Olivia. I am convinced that had you read the letters of
which I spoke, you would have been touched, you would have been struck
by them as I was: instead of being hurt and displeased by the impression
that they made upon me, you would have sympathized in my feelings, you
would have been indignant if I had not admired, you would have detested
and despised me if I could have been insensible to “_so much goodness
and generosity_.” I repeat my words: I will not “_retract_,” I cannot
“_repent of them_.” My dear Olivia! when you reflect upon what is past,
I am persuaded you will acknowledge that your sensibility made you
unjust. Indeed, my love, you did not show your usual candour; I had just
read all that Leonora had written of you, all that she had urged against
her mother in your defence; even when she had most cause to be irritated
against us, I could not avoid being shocked by the different manner in
which you spoke of her. Perhaps I told you so too abruptly: if I had
loved you less, I should have been more cautious and more calm--if I had
esteemed you less, calmer still. I could then, possibly, have borne to
hear you speak in a manner unbecoming yourself. Forgive me the pain I
gave you--the pain I now give you, my dearest Olivia! My sincerity is
the best security you can have for my future love. Banish therefore this
unjust, this causeless jealousy: moderate this excessive sensibility for
both our sakes, and depend upon the power you have over my heart. You
cannot conceive how much I have felt from this misunderstanding--the
first we have ever had. Let it be the last. I have spent a sleepless
night. I am detained in town by provoking, tiresome, but necessary
business. Meet me in the evening with smiles, my Olivia: let me behold
in those fascinating eyes their wonted expression, and hear from your
voice its usual, its natural tone of tenderness and love.
Ever devotedly yours,
F. L----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXIX.
OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
You have spoken daggers to me! Come not to Richmond this evening! I
cannot--will not see you! Not for the universe would I see you with my
present feelings!
Write to me more letters like that which I have just received. Dip your
pen in gall; find words more bitter than those which you have already
used. Accuse me of want of candour, want of generosity, want of every
amiable, every estimable quality. Upbraid me with the loss of all of
which you have bereft me. Recollect every sacrifice that I have made,
and, if you can, imagine every sacrifice that I would still make for
you--peace of mind, friends, country, fortune, fame, virtue; name them
all, and triumph--and disdain your triumph! Remind me how low I am
fallen--sink me lower still--insult, debase, humble me to the dust.
Exalt my rival, unroll to my aching eyes the emblazoned catalogue of
her merits, her claims to your esteem, your affection; number them
over, dwell upon those that I have forfeited, those which can never be
regained; tell me that such merits are above all price; assure me that
beyond all her sex you respect, you admire, you love your wife; say it
with enthusiasm, with fire in your eyes, with all the energy of passion
in your voice; then bid me sympathize in your feelings--bid me banish
jealousy--wonder at my alarm--call my sorrow anger--conjure me to
restrain my sensibility! Restrain my sensibility! Unhappy Olivia! he is
tired of your love. Let him then at once tell me the dreadful truth,
and I will bear it. Any evil is better than uncertainty, than lingering
hope. Drive all hope from my mind. Bid me despair and die--but do not
stretch me on the rack of jealousy!--Yet if such be your cruel pleasure,
enjoy it.--Determine how much I can endure and live. Stop just at the
point where human nature sinks, that you may not lose your victim, that
she may linger on from day to day, your sport and your derision.
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER LXX.
MR. L---- TO GENERAL B----.
My Dear General,
You will rejoice to hear that Olivia and I have been in a state of
warfare for some days past, and you will be still more pleased when
you learn the cause of our quarrel. On the day that I had been reading
Leonora’s letters I was rather later at Richmond than usual. Olivia,
offended, insisted upon knowing by what I could possibly have been
detained. Her anger knew no bounds when she heard the truth. She made
use of some expressions, in speaking of my wife, which I could not, I
hope, have borne at any time, but which shocked me beyond measure at
that moment. I defended Leonora with warmth. Olivia, in a scornful tone,
talked of my wife’s coldness of disposition, and bid me compare Lady
Leonora’s love with hers. It was a comparison I had it more in my power
to make than Olivia was aware of; it was the most disadvantageous moment
for her in which that comparison could be made. She saw or suspected
my feelings, and perceived that all she had said of my Leonora’s
_incapability of loving_ produced an effect directly contrary to
her expectations. Transported by jealousy, she then threw out hints
respecting the Prince. I spoke as I felt, indignantly. I know not
precisely what I said, but Olivia and I parted in anger. I have since
received a passionately fond note from her. But I feel unhappy. Dear
general, when will you come to town?
Yours truly,
F. L----
* * * * *
LETTER LXXI.
MRS. C---- TO THE DUCHESS OF ----.
MY DEAR MADAM,
Your grace’s cautions and entreaties to Lady Leonora not to over-exert
and fatigue herself were, alas! as ineffectual as mine. From the time
she heard that Mr. L---- had accepted this embassy to Petersburg, she
was so eager to set out on her journey to town, and so impatient to see
him, that neither her mind nor her body had one moment’s tranquillity.
She waited with indescribable anxiety for your grace’s answer to her
letter; and the instant she was secure of your approbation, her carriage
was ordered to the door. I saw that she was ill; but she would not
listen to my fears; she repeated with triumph, that her mother made no
objection to her journey, and that she had no apprehensions for herself.
However, she was obliged at last to yield. The carriage was actually at
the door, when she was forced to submit to be carried to her bed. For
several hours she was in such danger, that I never expected she could
live till this day. Thank God! she is now safe. Her infant, to her great
delight, is a boy: she was extremely anxious to have a son, because Mr.
L---- formerly wished for one so much. She forbids me to write to Mr.
L----, lest I should communicate the account of her _sudden illness_ too
abruptly.
She particularly requests that your grace will mention to him this
_accident_ in the least alarming manner possible. I shall write again
next post. Lady Leonora has now fallen asleep, and seems to sleep
quietly. Who should sleep in peace if she cannot? I never saw her equal,
My dear madam,
I am,
With respect and attachment,
Your grace’s
Sincerely affectionate,
HELEN C----.
It is with extreme concern I am forced to add, that since I wrote this
letter the child has been so ill that I have fears for his life.--His
poor mother!
* * * * *
LETTER LXXII.
MR. L---- TO GENERAL B----.
MY DEAR GENERAL,
All is upon velvet again. Poor Olivia was excessively hurt by my letter:
she was ill for two days--seriously ill. Yesterday I at length obtained
admittance. Olivia was all softness, all candour: she acknowledged that
she had been wrong, and in so sweet a voice! She blamed herself till
I could no longer think her blamable. She seemed so much humbled and
depressed, such a tender melancholy appeared in her bewitching eyes,
that I could not resist the fascination. I certainly gave her some
cause for displeasure that unfortunate evening; for as Olivia has strong
passions and exquisite sensibility, I should not have been so abrupt.
A fit of jealousy may seize the best and most generous mind, and
may prompt to what it would be incapable of saying or thinking in
dispassionate moments. I am sure that Olivia has, upon reflection, felt
more pain from this affair than I have. My Russian embassy is still in
_abeyance_. Ministers seem to know their own minds as little as I know
mine. Ambition has its quarrels and follies as well as love. At all
events, I shall not leave England till next month; and I shall not go
down to L---- Castle till I have received my last instructions from
our court, and till the day for my sailing is fixed. The parting with
Leonora will be a dreadful difficulty. I cannot think of it steadily.
But as she herself says, “is it not better that she should lose a year
of my affections than a life?” The Duchess is mistaken in imagining
it possible that any woman, let her influence be ever so great over my
heart, could prejudice me against my amiable, my admirable wife.
What has just passed between Olivia and me, convinces me that it is
impossible. She has too much knowledge of my character to hazard in
future a similar attempt. No, my dear friend, be assured I would not
suffer it. I have not yet lost all title to your esteem or to my own.
This enchantress may intoxicate me with her cup, but shall never degrade
me; and I should feel myself less degraded even by losing the human form
than by forfeiting that principle of honour and virtue, which more nobly
distinguishes man from brute.
Yours most sincerely,
F. L----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXIII.
GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
It is well that I did not answer your letter of Saturday before I
received that of Monday. My congratulations upon your quarrel with
your fair one might have come just as you were kissing hands upon a
reconciliation.
I have often found a great convenience in writing a bad hand; my letters
are so little like what they are intended for, and have among them such
equality of unintelligibility, that each seems either; and with the
slightest alteration, each will stand and serve for the other. My _m_,
_n_, and _u_, are convertible letters; so are the terms and propositions
of your present mode of reasoning, my dear L----, and I perceive
that you find your account in it. Upon this I congratulate you; and I
congratulate Lady Leonora upon your being detained some weeks longer in
England. Those who have a just cause need never pray for victory; they
need only ask the gods for time. Time always brings victory to truth,
and shame to falsehood. But you are not worthy of such fine apophthegms.
At present “you are not fit to hear yourself convinced.” I will wait for
a better opportunity, and have patience with you, if I can.
You seem to plume yourself mightily upon your resolve to do justice to
the merits of your wife, and upon the courage you have shown in stuffing
cotton into your ears to prevent your listening to the voice of the
siren: but pray take the cotton out, and hear all she can say or sing.
Lady Leonora cannot be hurt by any thing Olivia can say, but her own
malice may destroy herself.
In the mean time, as you tell me that you are upon velvet again, I am to
presume that you are perfectly at ease; and I should be obliged to you,
if, as often as you can find leisure, you would send me bulletins
of your happiness. I have never yet been in love with one of these
high-flown heroines, and I am really curious to know what degree of
felicity they can bestow upon a man of common sense. I should be glad to
benefit by the experience of a friend.
Yours truly,
J.B.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXIV.
OLIVIA TO MADAME DE P----.
Richmond.
Accept my sincere thanks, inimitable Gabrielle! for having taken off my
hands a lover, who really has half-wearied me to death. If you had dealt
more frankly with me, I could, however, have saved you much superfluous
trouble and artifice. I now perfectly comprehend the cause of poor
R----‘s strange silence some months ago; he was then under the influence
of your charms, and it was your pleasure to deceive me even when there
was no necessity for dissimulation. You knew the secret of my growing
attachment to L----, and must have foreseen that R---- would be
burthensome to me. You needed therefore only to have treated me with
candour, and you would have gained a lover without losing a friend:
but Madame de P---- is too accomplished a politician to go the simple
straight road to her object. I now perfectly comprehend why she took
such pains to persuade me that an imperial lover was alone worthy of
my charms. She was alarmed by an imaginary danger. Believe me, I am
incapable of disputing with any one _les restes d’un coeur_.
Permit me to assure you, madam, that your incomparable talents for
explanation will be utterly thrown away on me in future. I am in
possession of the whole truth, from a person whose information I cannot
doubt: I know the precise date of the commencement of your connexion
with R----, so that you must perceive it will be impracticable to make
me believe that you have not betrayed my easy confidence.
I cannot, however, without those pangs of sentiment which your heart
will never experience, reflect upon the treachery, the perfidy of one
who has been my bosom friend.--Return my letters, Gabrielle.--With
this you will receive certain _souvenirs_, at which I could never
henceforward look without sighing. I return you that ring I have so long
worn with delight, the picture of that treacherous eye,[1] which you
know so well how to use.--Adieu, Gabrielle.--The illusion is over.--How
many of the illusions of my fond heart have been dispelled by time and
treachery!
OLIVIA.
[Footnote 1: Certain ladies at this time carried pictures of the eyes of
their favourites.]
* * * * *
LETTER LXXV.
MADAME DE P---- TO MONSIEUR R----.
Paris, ---- 18, ----.
I have just received the most extravagant letter imaginable from your
Olivia. Really you may congratulate yourself, my dear friend, upon
having recovered your liberty. ‘Twere better to be a galley slave at
once than to be bound to please a woman for life, who knows not what she
would have either in love or friendship. Can you conceive anything so
absurd as her upbraiding me with treachery, because I know the value
of a heart, of which she tells me she was more than half tired? as if
I were to blame for her falling in love with Mr. L----, and as if I did
not know the whole progress of her inconstancy. Her letters to me give a
new history of the birth and education of Love. Here we see Love born of
Envy, nursed by _Ennui_, and dandled in turn by all the Vices.
And this Lady Olivia fancies that she is a perfect French woman! There
is nothing we Parisians abhor and ridicule so much as these foreign, and
always awkward, caricatures of our manners. With us there are many who,
according to a delicate distinction, lose their virtue without losing
their taste for virtue; but I flatter myself there are few who resemble
Olivia entirely--who have neither the virtues of a man nor of a woman.
One cannot even say that “her head is the dupe of her heart,” since
she has no heart. But enough of such a tiresome and incomprehensible
subject.
How I overvalued that head, when I thought it could ever be fit for
politics! ‘Tis well we did not commit ourselves. You see how prudent
I am, my dear R----, and how much those are mistaken who think that we
women are not fit to be trusted with secrets of state. Love and politics
make the best mixture in the world. Adieu. Victoire summons me to my
toilette.
GABRIELLE DE P----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXVI.
MADAME DE P---- TO LADY OLIVIA.
Paris,---- 18, ----.
Really, my dear Olivia, this is too childish. What! make a complaint in
form against me for taking a lover off your hands when you did not know
what to do with him! Do you quarrel in England every time you
change partners in a country dance? But I must be serious; for the
high-sounding words _treachery_ and _perfidy_ are surely sufficient
to make any body grave. Seriously, then, if you are resolved to be
tragical, _et de me faire une scène_, I must submit--console myself,
and, above all things, take care not to be ridiculous.
Your letters, as you desire it so earnestly, and with so much reason,
shall be returned by the first safe conveyance; but excuse me if I
forbear to restore your _souvenirs_. With us Parisians, this returning
of keepsakes has been out of fashion, since the days of Molière and _Le
dépit amoureux_.
Adieu, my charming Olivia! I embrace you tenderly, I was going to say;
but I believe, according to your English etiquette, I must now conclude
with
I have the honour to be,
Madam,
Your most obedient,
Humble servant,
GABRIELLE DE P----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXVII.
FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Tuesday morning.
Come not to Richmond to-day; I am not in spirits to see you, my dearest
L----. Allow me to indulge my melancholy retired from every human eye.
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXVIII.
FROM LADY OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Tuesday evening.
“Explain to you the cause of my melancholy “--Vain request!--cruel
as vain! Your ignorance of the cause too well justifies my sad
presentiments. Were our feelings in unison, as once they were, would not
every chord of your heart vibrate responsively to mine?
With me, love is an absorbing vortex of the soul, into which all other
thoughts, feelings, and ideas are irresistibly impelled; with you, it
is but as the stranger stream that crosses the peaceful lake, and, as it
flows, wakens only the surface of the slumbering waters, communicating
to them but a temporary agitation. With you, my dear, but too
tranquil-minded friend, love is but one amid the vulgar crowd of
pleasures; it concentrates not your ideas, it entrances not your
faculties; it is not, as in my heart, the supreme delight, which renders
all others tasteless, the only blessing which can make life supportable;
the sole, sufficient object of existence. Alas! how cruelly different
is the feeble attachment that I have inspired from that all-powerful
sentiment to which I live a victim! Countless symptoms, by you unheeded,
mark to my love-watchful eye the decline of passion. How often am I
secretly shocked by the cold carelessness of your words and manner! How
often does the sigh burst from my bosom, the tear fall from my eye,
when you have left me at leisure to recall, by memory’s torturing power,
instances of your increasing indifference! Seek not to calm my too
well-founded fears. Professions, with all their unmeaning, inanimate
formality, but irritate my anguish. Permit me to indulge, to feed upon
my grief in silence. Ask me no more to explain to you the cause of my
melancholy. Too plainly, alas! I feel it is beyond my utmost power to
endure it. Amiable Werter--divine St. Preux--you would sympathize in my
feelings! Sublime Goethe--all-eloquent Rousseau--you alone could feel as
I do, and you alone could paint my anguish.
The miserable
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXIX.
MR. L---- TO GENERAL B----.
Expect no bulletin of happiness from me, my friend. I find it impossible
to make Olivia happy. She has superior talents, accomplishments, beauty,
grace, all that can attract and fascinate the human heart--that could
triumph over every feeling, every principle that opposed her power: she
lives with the man she loves, and yet she is miserable.
Rousseau, it has been said, never really loved any woman but his own
Julie; I have lately been tempted to think that Olivia never really
loved any man but St. Preux. Werter, perhaps, and some other German
heroes, might dispute her heart even with St. Preux; but as for me, I
begin to be aware that I am loved only as a feeble resemblance of those
divine originals (to whom, however, my character bears not the slightest
similarity), and I am often indirectly, and sometimes directly,
reproached with my inferiority to imaginary models. But how can a plain
Englishman hope to reach
“The high sublime of deep absurd?”
I am continually reviled for not using a romantic language, which I
have never learned; and which, as far as I can judge, is foreign to all
natural feeling. I wish to make Olivia happy. There is nothing I
would not do to satisfy her of my sincerity; but nothing I can do will
suffice. She has a sort of morbid sensibility, which is more alive to
pain than pleasure, more susceptible of jealousy than of love. No
terms are sufficiently strong to convince her of my affection, but
an unguarded word makes her miserable for hours. She requires to be
agitated by violent emotions, though they exhaust her mind, and leave
her spiritless and discontented. In this alternation of rapture and
despair all her time passes. As she says of herself, she has no soul but
for love: she seems to think it a crime against sentiment, to admit of
relief from common occupations or indifferent subjects; with a sort of
superstitious zeal, she excludes all thoughts but those which relate to
one object, and in this spirit of amorous mysticism she actually makes
a penance even of love. I am astonished that her heart can endure this
variety of self-inflicted torments. What will become of Olivia when she
ceases to love and be loved? And what passion can be durable which is
so violent as hers, and to which no respite is allowed? No affection can
sustain these hourly trials of suspicion and reproach.
Jealousy of Leonora has taken such possession of Olivia’s imagination,
that she misinterprets all my words and actions. By restraining my
thoughts, by throwing obstacles in the way of my affection for my wife,
she stimulates and increases it: she forces upon me continually those
comparisons which she dreads. Till I knew Olivia more intimately
than the common forms of a first acquaintance, or the illusions of a
treacherous passion permitted, her defects did not appear; but now that
I suffer, and that I see her suffer daily, I deplore them bitterly. Her
happiness rests and weighs heavily on my honour. I feel myself bound
to consider and to provide for the happiness of the woman who has
sacrificed to me all independent means of felicity. A man without honour
or humanity may perhaps finish an intrigue as easily as he can begin it,
but this is not exactly the case of your imprudent friend,
F. L----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXX.
GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.
Wednesday.
AY, ay! just as I thought it would be. This is all the comfort, my dear
friend, that I can give you; all the comfort that wise people usually
afford their friends in distress. Provided things happen just as they
predicted, they care but little what is suffered in the accomplishment
of their prophecies. But seriously, my dear L----, I am not sorry that
you are in a course of vexation. The more you see of your charmer the
better. She will allay your intoxication by gentle degrees, and send you
sober home. Pray keep in the course you have begun, and preserve your
patience as long as possible. I should be sorry that you and Olivia
quarrelled violently, and parted in a passion: such quarrels of lovers
are proverbially the renewal of love.
“Il faut délier l’amitie, il faut couper l’amour.”
In some cases this maxim may be just, but not in the present instance. I
would rather wait till the knot is untied than cut it; for when once
you see the art with which it was woven, a similar knot can never again
perplex you.
Yours truly,
J. B.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXI.
FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Richmond, Saturday.
You presume too much upon your power over my heart, and upon the
softness of my nature. Know that I have spirit as well as tenderness--a
spirit that will neither be injured nor insulted with impunity. You were
amazed, you say, by the violence which I showed yesterday. Why did you
provoke that violence by opposing the warmest wish of my heart, and with
a calmness that excited my tenfold indignation? Imagine not that I am
a tame, subjugated female, to be treated with neglect if I remonstrate,
and caressed as the price of obedience. Fancy not that I am one of your
chimney-corner, household goddesses, doomed to the dull uniformity of
domestic worship, destined to to be adored, to be hung with garlands,
or undeified or degraded with indignity! I have been accustomed to a
different species of worship; and the fondness of my weak heart has not
yet sunk me so low, and rendered me so abject, that I cannot assert my
rights. You tell me that you are unconscious of giving me any just cause
of offence. Just cause!--How I hate the cold accuracy of your words!
This single expression is sufficient offence to a heart like mine. You
entreat me to be reasonable. Reasonable!--did ever man talk of reason to
a woman he loved? When once a man has recourse to reason and precision,
there is an end of love. No just cause of offence!--What, have I no
cause to be indignant, when I find you thus trifle with my feelings,
postpone from week to week, and month to month, our departure from this
hateful country--
“Bid me hope on from day to day,
And wish and wish my soul away!”
Yes, you know it to be the most ardent wish of my soul to leave England;
you know that I cannot enjoy a moment’s peace of mind whilst I am here;
yet in this racking suspense it is your pleasure to detain me. No, it
shall not be--this shall not go on! It is in vain you tell me that the
delay originates not with you, that you must wait for instructions, and
I know not what--paltry diplomatic excuses!
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXII.
MR. L---- TO GENERAL B----.
Richmond.
Amuse yourself, my good general, at my expense; I know that you are
seriously interested for my happiness; but the way is not quite so clear
before me as you imagine. It is extremely easy to be philosophic for
our friends; but difficult to be so for ourselves when our passions are
concerned. Indeed, this would be a contradiction in terms; you might as
well talk of a cold sun, or of hot ice, as of a philosopher falling in
love, or of a man in love being a philosopher. You say that Olivia will
wear out my passion, and that her defects will undo the work of her
charms. I acknowledge that she sometimes ravels the web she has woven;
but she is miraculously expeditious and skilful in repairing the
mischief: the magical tissue again appears firm as ever, glowing with
brighter colours, and exhibiting finer forms.
In plain prose, my dear friend--for as you ate not in love, you will
find it difficult to follow my poetic nights--in plain prose, I must
confess that Olivia has the power to charm and touch my heart, even
after she has provoked me to the utmost verge of human patience. She
knows her power, and I am afraid this tempts her to abuse it. Her
temper, which formerly appeared to me all feminine gentleness, is now
irritable and violent; but I am persuaded that this is not her natural
disposition; it is the effect of her present unhappy state of mind.
Tortured by remorse and jealousy, if in the height of their paroxysms,
Olivia make me suffer from their fury, is it for me to complain? I, who
caused, should at least endure the evil.
Every thing is arranged for my embassy, and the day is fixed for our
leaving England. I go down to L---- Castle next week.
Your faithful
F. L----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXIII.
JOSEPHINE TO VICTOIRE, MAD. DE P----‘s WOMAN.
Richmond.
I am in despair, dear Victoire; and unless your genius can assist me,
absolutely undone! Here is this romantic lady of mine determined upon
a journey to Russia with her new English lover. What whims ladies take
into their heads, and how impossible it is to make them understand
reason! I have been labouring in vain to convince my Lady Olivia that
this is the most absurd scheme imaginable: and I have repeated to
her all I learnt from Lady F----‘s women, who are just returned from
Petersburg, and whom I met at a party last night, all declaring they
would rather die a thousand deaths, than go through again what they have
endured. Such seas of ice! such going in sledges! such barbarians! such
beds! and scarcely a looking-glass! And nothing fit to wear but what one
carries with one, and God knows how long we may stay. At Petersburg the
coachmen’s ears are frozen off every night on their boxes waiting for
their ladies. And there are bears and wild beasts, I am told, howling
with their mouths wide open night and day in the forests which we are to
pass through; and even in the towns, the men, I hear, are little better;
for it is the law of the country for the men to beat their wives, and
many wear long beards. How horrid!--My Lady F----‘s woman, who is a
Parisian born, and very pretty, if her eyes were not so small, and
better dressed than her lady always, except diamonds, assures me, upon
her honour, she never had a civil thing said to her whilst she was in
Russia, except by one or two Frenchmen in the suite of the ambassadors.
These Russians think of nothing but drinking brandy, and they put pepper
into it! Mon Dieu, what savages! Put pepper into brandy! But that is
inconceivable! Positively, I will never go to Petersburg. And yet if
my lady goes, what will become of me? for you know my sentiments for
Brunel, and he is decided to accompany my lady, so I cannot stay behind.
But absolutely I am shocked at this intrigue with Mr. L----, and my
conscience reproaches me terribly with being a party concerned in it;
for in this country an affair of gallantry between married people is not
so light a thing as with us. Here wives sometimes love their husbands
seriously, as if they were their lovers; and my Lady Leonora L---- is
one of this sort of wives. She is very unhappy, I am told. One day at
L----Castle, I assure you my heart quite bled for her, when she gave me
a beautiful gown of English muslin, little suspecting me then to be her
enemy. She is certainly very unsuspicious, and very amiable, and I wish
to Heaven her husband would think as I do, and take her with him to
Petersburg, instead of carrying off my Lady Olivia and me! Adieu, mon
chou! Embrace every body I know, tenderly, for me.
Josephine.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXIV.
MRS. C---- TO THE DUCHESS OF ----.
MY DEAR MADAM,
I believe, when I wrote last to your grace, I said that I had no hopes
of the child’s life. From the moment of his birth there was but little
probability of his being any thing but a source of misery to his mother.
I cannot, on her account, regret that the struggle is over. He expired
this morning. My poor friend had hopes to the last, though I had none;
and it was most painful and alarming to see the feverish anxiety with
which she watched over her little boy, frequently repeating, “Mr. L----
used to wish so much for a son.--I hope the boy will live to see his
father.”
Last night, partly by persuasion, partly by compulsion, I prevailed with
her to let the child be taken out of her room. This morning, as soon as
it was light, I heard her bell ring; the poor little thing was at that
moment in convulsions; and knowing that Lady Leonora rang to inquire for
it, I went to prepare her mind for what I knew must be the event. The
moment I came into the room she looked eagerly in my face, but did not
ask me any questions about the child. I sat down by the side of her bed;
but without listening to what I said about her own health, she rang her
bell again more violently than before. Susan came in. “Susan!--without
my child!”--said she, starting up. Susan hesitated, but I saw by her
countenance that it was all over--so did Lady Leonora. She said not a
word, but drawing her curtain suddenly, she lay down, and never spoke or
stirred for three hours. The first words she said afterwards were to me:
“You need not move so softly, my dear Helen; I am not asleep. Have you
my mother’s last letter? I think my mother says that she will be here
to-morrow? She is very kind to come to me. Will you be so good as to
write to her immediately, and send a servant with your letter as soon
as you can to meet her on the road, that she may not be _surprised_ when
she arrives?”
Lady Leonora is now more composed and more like herself than she has
been for some time past. I rejoice that your Grace will so soon be here,
because you will be her best possible consolation; and I do not know any
other person in the world who could have sufficient influence to prevent
her from attempting to set out upon a journey before she can travel
with safety. To do her justice, she has not hinted that such were her
intentions; but still I know her mind so well, that I am certain what
her thoughts are, and what her actions would be. Most ladies talk more
than they act, but Leonora acts more decidedly than she talks.
Believe, me, dear madam,
With much respect,
Your Grace’s
Sincerely affectionate
HELEN C----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXV.
MR. L---- TO GENERAL B----.
I thank you, my excellent friend, for the kindness of your last letter
[1], which came to me at the time I wanted it most. In the whole course
of my life, I never felt so much self-reproach, as I have done since I
heard of the illness of Leonora and the loss of my son. From this blow
my mind will not easily recover. Of all torments self-reproach is the
worst. And even now I cannot follow the dictates of my own heart, and of
my better judgment.
In Olivia’s company I am compelled to repress my feelings; she cannot
sympathize in them; they offend her: she is dissatisfied even with my
silence, and complains of my being out of spirits. Out of spirits!--How
can I be otherwise at present? Has Olivia no touch of pity for a woman
who was once her friend, who always treated her with generous kindness?
But perhaps I am a little unreasonable, and expect too much from female
nature.
At all events, I wish that Olivia would spare me at this moment her
sentimental metaphysics. She is for ever attempting to prove to me that
I cannot love so well as she can. I admit that I cannot talk of love so
finely. I hope all this will not go on when we arrive at Petersburg.
The ministry at last know their own minds. I saw ---- to-day, and every
thing will be quickly arranged; therefore, my dear friend, do not delay
coming to town, to
Your obliged
F. L----.
[Footnote 1: This letter does not appear.]
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXVI.
GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.
Perhaps you are a _little_ unreasonable! Indeed, my dear friend, I do
not think you a _little_ unreasonable, but very nearly stark mad. What!
quarrel with your mistress because she is not sorry that your wife is
ill, and because she cannot sympathize in your grief for the loss of
your son! Where, except perhaps in absurd novels, did you ever meet with
these paragons of mistresses, who were so magnanimous and so generous as
to sacrifice their own reputations, and then be satisfied to share the
only possible good remaining to them in life, the heart of their lover,
with a rival more estimable, more amiable than themselves, and who has
the advantage of being a wife? This sharing of hearts, this union of
souls, with this opposition of interests--this metaphysical gallantry
is absolute nonsense, and all who try it in real life will find it so
to their cost. Why should you, my dear L----, expect such superlative
excellence from your Olivia? Do you think that a woman by losing one
virtue increases the strength of those that remain, as it is said that
the loss of one of our senses renders all the others more acute? Do you
think that a lady, by yielding to love, and by proving that she has not
sufficient resolution or forbearance to preserve the honour of her sex,
gives the best possible demonstration of her having sufficient strength
of character to rise superior to all the other weaknesses incident
to human, and more especially to female nature--envy and jealousy for
instance?
No, no, my good friend, you have common sense, though you lately have
been sparing of it in action. You had a wife, and a good wife, and you
had some chance of being happy; but with a wife and a mistress, granting
them to be both the best of their kind, the probabilities are rather
against you. I speak only as a man of the world: morality, you know,
is now merely an affair of calculation. According to the most approved
tables of happiness, you have made a bad bargain. But be just, at any
rate, and do not blame your Olivia for the inconveniences and evils
inseparable from the species of connexion that you have been pleased to
form. Do you expect the whole course of society and the nature of the
human heart to change for your special accommodation? Do you believe in
truth by wholesale, and yet in detail expect a happy exception in your
own favour?--Seriously, my dear friend, you must either break off this
connexion, or bear it. I shall see you in a few days.
Yours truly,
J. B.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXVII.
MRS C---- TO MISS B----
L---- Castle.
Leonora has recovered her strength surprisingly. She was so determined
to be well, that her body dared not contradict her mind. Her excellent
mother has been of the greatest possible service to us, for she has had
sufficient influence to prevent her daughter from exerting herself too
much. Her Grace had a letter from Mr. L---- to-day--very short, but very
kind--at least all that I heard read of it. He has set my heart somewhat
more at ease by the comfortable assurance, that he will not leave
England without seeing Lady Leonora. I have the greatest hopes from this
interview! I have not felt so happy for many months--but I will not
be too sanguine. Mr. L---- talks of being here the latter end of this
month. The duchess, with her usual prudence, intends to leave her
daughter before that time, lest Mr. L----should be constrained by her
presence, or should imagine that Leonora acts from any impulse but that
of her own heart. I also, though much against my inclination, shall
decamp; for he might perhaps consider me as an adviser, caballer,
confidante, or at least a troublesome spectator. All reconciliation
scenes should be without spectators. Men do not like to be seen on their
knees: they are at a loss, like Sir Walter Raleigh in “The Critic;” they
cannot get off gracefully. I am, dear Margaret,
Yours affectionately,
HELEN C----.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXVIII.
GENERAL B---- TO MR. L----.
MY DEAR L----, Friday.
Ask yourself, in the name of common sense, why you should go to
Petersburg with this sentimental coquette, this romantic termagant, of
whom I see you are already more than half tired. As to your being bound
to her in honour, I cannot see how. Why should you make honour, justice,
humanity, and gratitude, plead so finely all on one side, and that the
wrong side of the question? Have none of these one word to whisper in
favour of any body in this world but of a worthless mistress, who makes
you miserable? I think you have learned from your heroine to be so
expert in sentimental logic, that you can change virtues into vices, and
vices into virtues, till at last you do not know them asunder. Else why
should you make it a point of conscience to abandon your wife--just at
the moment, too, when you are thoroughly convinced of her love for you,
when you are touched to the soul by her generous conduct, and when your
heart longs to return to her?
Please to remember that this Lady Olivia’s reputation was not
unimpeached before her acquaintance with you, and do not take more glory
or more blame to yourself than properly falls to your share. Do not
forget that _poor_ R---- was your predecessor, and do not let this
delicate lady rest all the weight of her shame upon you, as certain
Chinese culprits rest their portable pillories on the shoulders of their
friends.
In two days I shall follow this letter, and repeat in person all the
interrogatories I have just put to you, my dear friend. Prepare yourself
to answer me sincerely such questions as I shall ask.
Yours truly,
J.B.
* * * * *
LETTER LXXXIX.
FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Monday, 12 o’clock.
For a few days did you say? To _bid adieu_? Oh! if once more you return
to that fatal castle, that enchanted home, Olivia for ever loses all
power over your heart. Bid her die, stab her to the heart, and she will
call it mercy, and she will bless you with her dying lips; but talk
not of leaving your Olivia! On her knees she writes this, her face all
bathed in tears. And must she in her turn implore and supplicate? Must
she abase herself even to the dust? Yes--love like hers vanquishes even
the stubborn potency of female pride.
Your too fond
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER XC.
FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
[Dated a few hours after the preceding.]
Monday, half-past three.
Oh! this equivocating answer to my fond heart! Passion makes and admits
of no compromise. Be mine, and wholly mine--or never, never will I
survive your desertion! I can be happy only whilst I love; I can love
only whilst I am beloved with fervency equal to my own; and when I cease
to love, I cease to exist! No coward fears restrain my soul. The word
suicide shocks not my ear, appals not my understanding. Death I consider
but as the eternal rest of the wretched--the sweet, the sole refuge of
despair.
Your resolute
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER XCI.
FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Tuesday.
Return! return! on the wings of love return to the calm, the prudent,
the happy, the transcendently happy Leonora! Return--but not to bid her
adieu--return to be hers for ever, and only hers. I give you back your
faith--I _give_ you back your promises--you have _taken_ back your
heart.
But if you should desire once more to see Olivia, if you should have
any lingering wish to bid her a last adieu, it must be this evening.
To-morrow’s sun rises not for Olivia. For her but a few short hours
remain. Love, let them be all thy own! Intoxicate thy victim, mingle
pleasure in the cup of death, and bid her fearless quaff it to the
dregs!--
* * * * *
LETTER XCII.
MR. L---- TO GENERAL B----.
Thursday.
My Dear Friend,
You have by argument and raillery, and by every means that kindness and
goodness could devise, endeavoured to expel from my mind a passion which
you justly foresaw would be destructive of my happiness, and of the
peace of a most estimable and amiable woman. With all the skill that
a thorough knowledge of human nature in general, and of my peculiar
character and foibles, could bestow, you have employed those
--“Words and spells which can control,
Between the fits, the fever of the soul.”
Circumstances have operated in conjunction with your skill to “medicine
me to repose.” The fits have gradually become weaker and weaker, the
fever is now gone, but I am still to suffer for the extravagances
committed during its delirium. I have entered into engagements which
must be fulfilled; I have involved myself in difficulties from which I
see no method of extricating myself honourably. Notwithstanding all the
latitude which the system of modern gallantry allows to the conscience
of our sex, and in spite of the convenient maxim, which maintains that
all arts are allowable in love and war, I think that a man cannot break
a promise, whether made in words or by tacit implication, on the faith
of which a woman sacrifices her reputation and happiness. Lady Olivia
has thrown herself upon my protection. I am as sensible as you can be,
my dear general, that scandal had attacked her reputation before our
acquaintance commenced; but though the world had suspicions, they had no
proofs: now there can be no longer any defence made for her character,
there is no possibility of her returning to that rank in society to
which she was entitled by her birth, and which she adorned with all the
brilliant charms of wit and beauty; no happiness, no chance of happiness
remains for her but from my constancy. Of naturally violent passions,
unused to the control of authority, habit, reason, or religion, and
at this time impelled by love and jealousy, Olivia is on the brink of
despair. I am not apt to believe that women die in modern times for
love, nor am I easily disposed to think that I could inspire a dangerous
degree of enthusiasm; yet I am persuaded that Olivia’s passion,
compounded as it is of various sentiments besides love, has taken such
possession of her imagination, and is, as she fancies, so necessary to
her existence, that if I were to abandon her, she would destroy that
life, which she has already attempted, I thank God! ineffectually. What
a spectacle is a woman in a paroxysm of rage!--a woman we love, or whom
we have loved!
* * * * *
Excuse me, my dear friend, if I wrote incoherently, for I have been
interrupted many times since I began this letter. I am this day
overwhelmed by a multiplicity of affairs, which, in consequence of
Olivia’s urgency to leave England immediately, must be settled with an
expedition for which my head is not at present well qualified. I do not
feel well: I can command my attention but on one subject, and on that
all my thoughts are to no purpose. Whichever way I now act, I must
endure and inflict misery. I must either part from a wife who has given
me the most tender, the most touching proofs of affection--a wife who
is all that a man can esteem, admire, and love; or I must abandon a
mistress, who loves me with all the desperation of passion to which she
would fall a sacrifice. But why do I talk as if I were still at liberty
to make a choice?--My head is certainly very confused. I forgot that I
am bound by a solemn promise, and this is the evil which distracts me. I
will give you, if I can, a clear narrative.
Last night I had a terrible scene with Olivia. I foresaw that she would
be alarmed by my intended visit to L---- Castle, even though it was but
to take leave of my Leonora. I abstained from seeing Olivia to avoid
altercation, and with all the delicacy in my power I wrote to her,
assuring her that my resolution was fixed. Note after note came from
her, with pathetic and passionate appeals to my heart; but I was still
resolute. At length, the day before that on which I was to set out for
L---- Castle, she wrote to warn me, that if I wished to take a last
farewell, I must see her that evening: her note concluded with,
“To-morrow’s sun will not rise for Olivia.” This threat, and many
strange hints of her opinions concerning suicide, I at the time
disregarded, as only thrown out to intimidate a lover. However, knowing
the violence of Olivia’s temper, I was punctual to the appointed hour,
fully determined by my firmness to convince her that these female wiles
were vain.
My dear friend, I would not advise the wisest man and the most
courageous upon earth to risk such dangers, confident in his strength.
Even a victory may cost him too dear.
I found Olivia reclining on a sofa, her beautiful tresses unbound, her
dress the perfection of elegant negligence. I half suspected that it
was studied negligence: yet I could not help pausing, as I entered, to
contemplate a figure. She never looked more beautiful--more fascinating.
Holding out her hand to me, she said, with her languid smile, and tender
expression of voice and manner, “You _are_ come then to bid me farewell.
I doubted whether... But I will not upbraid--mine be all the pain of
this last adieu. During the few minutes we have to pass together,
“‘Between us two let there be peace.’”
I sat down beside her, rather agitated, I confess, but commanding myself
so that my emotion could not be visible. In a composed tone I asked, why
she spoke of a last adieu? and observed that we should meet again in a
few days.
“Never!” replied Olivia. “Weak woman as I am, love inspires me with
sufficient force to make and to keep this resolution.”
As she spoke, she took from her bosom a rose, and presenting it to me
in a solemn manner, “Put this rose into water to-night,” continued she;
“to-morrow it will be alive!”
Her look, her expressive eyes, seemed to say, this flower will be alive,
but Olivia will be dead. I am ashamed to confess that I was silent,
because I could not just then speak.
“I have used some precaution,” resumed Olivia, “to spare you, my dearest
L----, unnecessary pain.--Look around you.”
The room, I now for the first time observed, was ornamented with
flowers.
“This apartment, I hope,” continued she, “has not the air of the chamber
of death. I have endeavoured to give it a festive appearance, that the
remembrance of your last interview with your once loved Olivia may be at
least unmixed with horror.”
At this instant, my dear general, a confused recollection of Rousseau’s
Heloise, the dying scene, and her room ornamented with flowers, came
into my imagination, and destroying the idea of reality, changed
suddenly the whole course of my feelings.
In a tone of raillery I represented to Olivia her resemblance to Julie,
and observed that it was a pity she had not a lover whose temper was
more similar than mine to that of the divine St. Preux. Stung to the
heart by my ill-timed raillery, Olivia started up from the sofa, broke
from my arms with sudden force, snatched from the table a penknife, and
plunged it into her side.
She was about to repeat the blow, but I caught her arm--she
struggled--“promise me, then,” cried she, “that you will never more see
my hated rival.”
“I cannot make such a promise, Olivia,” said I, holding her uplifted arm
forcibly. “I will not.”
The words “hated rival,” which showed me that Olivia was actuated more
by the spirit of hatred than love, made me reply in as decided a tone
as even you could have spoken, my dear general. But I was shocked, and
reproached myself with cruelty, when I saw the blood flow from her side:
she was terrified. I took the knife from her powerless hand, and she
fainted in my arms. I had sufficient presence of mind to reflect that
what had happened should be kept as secret as possible; therefore,
without summoning Josephine, whose attachment to her mistress I have
reason to suspect, I threw open the windows, gave Olivia air and water,
and her senses returned: then I despatched my Swiss for a surgeon. I
need not speak of my own feelings--no suspense could be more dreadful
than that which I endured between the sending for the surgeon and the
moment when he gave his opinion. He relieved me at once, by pronouncing
it to be a slight flesh wound, that would be of no manner of
consequence. Olivia, however, whether from alarm or pain, or from the
sight of the blood, fainted three times during the dressing of her side;
and though the surgeon assured her that it would be perfectly well in a
few days, she was evidently apprehensive that we concealed from her
the real danger. At the idea of the approach of death, which now took
possession of her imagination, all courage forsook her, and for some
time my efforts to support her spirits were ineffectual. She could not
dispense with the services of Josephine; and from the moment this French
woman entered the room, there was nothing to be heard but exclamations
the most violent and noisy. As to assistance, she could give none.
At last her exaggerated demonstrations of horror and grief ended
with,--“Dieu merci! an moins nous voilà delivrés de ce voyage affreux.
Apparemment qu’il ne sera plus question de ce vilain Petersburg pour
madame.”
A new train of thoughts was roused by these words in Olivia’s mind; and
looking at me, she eagerly inquired why the journey to Petersburg was to
be given up, if she was in no danger? I assured her that Josephine spoke
at random, that my intentions with regard to the embassy to Russia were
unaltered.
“Seulement retardé un peu,” said Josephine, who was intent only upon her
own selfish object.--“Sûrement, madame ne voyagera pas dans cet état!”
Olivia started up, and looking at me with terrific wildness in her eyes,
“Swear to me,” said she, “swear that you will not deceive me, or I
will this instant tear open this wound, and never more suffer it to be
closed.”
“Deceive you, Olivia!” cried I, “what deceit can you fear from me?--What
is it you require of me?”
“I require from you a promise, a solemn promise, that you will go with
_me_ to Russia!”
“I solemnly promise that I will,” said I: “now be tranquil, Olivia, I
beseech you.”
The surgeon represented the necessity of keeping herself quiet, and
declared that he would not answer for the cure of his patient on any
other terms. Satisfied by the solemnity of my promise, Olivia now
suffered me to depart. This morning she sends me word that in a few days
she shall be ready to leave England. Can you meet me, my dear friend,
at L---- Castle? I go down there to-day, to bid adieu to Leonora. From
thence I shall proceed to Yarmouth, and embark immediately. Olivia will
follow me.
Your obliged
F. L----.
* * * * *
LETTER XCIII.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
L---- Castle
Dearest Mother,
My husband is here! at home with me, with your happy Leonora--and his
heart is with her. His looks, his voice, his manner tell me so, and by
them I never was deceived. No, he is incapable of deceit. Whatever have
been his errors, he never stooped to dissimulation. He is again my own,
still capable of loving me, still worthy of all my affection. I knew
that the delusion could not last long, or rather you told me so, my
best friend, and I believed you; you did him justice. He was indeed
deceived--who might not have been deceived by Olivia? His passions were
under the power of an enchantress; but now he has triumphed over her
arts. He sees her such as she is, and her influence ceases.
I am not absolutely certain of all this; but I believe, because I hope
it: yet he is evidently embarrassed, and seems unhappy: what can be the
meaning of this? Perhaps he does not yet know his Leonora sufficiently
to be secure of her forgiveness. How I long to set his heart at ease,
and to say to him, let the past be forgotten for ever! How easy it is to
the happy to forgive! There have been moments when I could not, I fear,
have been just, when I am sure that I could not have been generous. I
shall immediately offer to accompany Mr. L---- to Russia; I can have
no farther hesitation, for I see that he wishes it; indeed, just now he
almost said so. His baggage is already embarked at Yarmouth--he sails
in a few days--and in a few hours your daughter’s fate, your daughter’s
happiness, will be decided. It is decided, for I am sure he loves me;
I see, I hear, I feel it. Dearest mother, I write to you in the first
moment of joy.--I hear his foot upon the stairs.
Your happy
LEONORA L----.
* * * * *
LETTER XCIV.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
L---- Castle.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
My hopes are all vain. Your prophecies will never be accomplished. We
have both been mistaken in Mr. L----‘s character, and henceforward your
daughter must not depend upon him for any portion of her happiness. I
once thought it impossible that my love for him could be diminished:
he has changed my opinion. Mine is not that species of weak or
abject affection which can exist under the sense of ill-treatment and
injustice, much less can my love survive esteem for its object.
I told you, my dear mother, and I believed, that his affections had
returned to me; but I was mistaken. He has not sufficient strength or
generosity of soul to love me, or to do justice to my love. I offered
to go with him to Russia: he answered, “That is
impossible.”--Impossible!--Is it then impossible for him to do that
which is just or honourable? or seeing what is right, must he follow
what is wrong? or can his heart never more be touched by virtuous
affections? Is his taste so changed, so depraved, that he can now be
pleased and charmed only by what is despicable and profligate in our
sex? Then I should rejoice that we are to be separated--separated for
ever. May years and years pass away and wear out, if possible, the
memory of all he has been to me! I think I could better, much better
bear the total loss, the death of him I have loved, than endure to feel
that he had survived both my affection and esteem; to see the person the
same, but the soul changed; to feel every day, every hour, that I must
despise what I have so admired and loved.
Mr. L---- is gone from hence. He leaves England the day after to-morrow.
Lady Olivia is to _follow_ him. I am glad that public decency is not to
be outraged by their embarking together. My dearest mother, be assured
that at this moment your daughter’s feelings are worthy of you.
Indignation and the pride of virtue support her spirit.
LEONORA L----.
* * * * *
LETTER XCV.
GENERAL B---- TO LADY LEONORA L----.
Yarmouth.
Had I not the highest confidence in Lady Leonora L----‘s fortitude, I
should not venture to write to her at this moment, knowing as I do that
she is but just recovered from a dangerous illness.
Mr. L---- had requested me to meet him at L---- Castle previously to his
leaving England, but it was out of my power. I met him however on the
road to Yarmouth, and as we travelled together I had full opportunity
of seeing the state of his mind. Permit me--the urgency of the case
requires it--to speak without reserve, with the freedom of an old
friend. I imagine that your ladyship parted from Mr. L---- with feelings
of indignation, at which I cannot be surprised: but if you had seen
him as I saw him, indignation would have given way to pity. Loving you,
madam, as you deserve to be loved, most ardently, most tenderly; touched
to his inmost soul by the proofs of affection he had seen in your
letters, in your whole conduct, even to the last moment of parting; my
unhappy friend felt himself bound to resist the temptation of staying
with you, or of accepting your generous offer to accompany him to
Petersburg. He thought himself bound in honour by a promise extorted
from him to save from suicide one whom he thinks he has injured, one who
has thrown herself upon his protection. Of the conflict in his mind at
parting with your ladyship I can judge from what he suffered afterwards.
I met Mr. L---- with feelings of extreme indignation, but before I had
been an hour in his company, I never pitied any man so much in my
life, for I never yet saw any one so truly wretched, and so thoroughly
convinced that he deserved to be so. You know that he is not one who
often gives way to his emotions, not one who expresses them much in
words--but he could not command his feelings.
The struggle was too violent. I have no doubt that it was the real cause
of his present illness. As the moment approached when he was to leave
England, he became more and more agitated. Towards evening he sunk into
a sort of apathy and gloomy silence, from which he suddenly broke into
delirious raving. At twelve o’clock last night, the night he was to have
sailed, he was seized with a violent and infectious fever. As to the
degree of immediate danger, the physicians here cannot yet pronounce.
I have sent to town for Dr. ----. Your ladyship may be certain that
I shall not quit my friend, and that he shall have every possible
assistance and attendance.
I am, with the truest esteem,
Your ladyship’s faithful servant,
J. B.
* * * * *
LETTER XCVI.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
DEAR MOTHER, L---- Castle.
This moment an express from General B----. Mr. L---- is dangerously
ill at Yarmouth--a fever, brought on by the agitation of his mind. How
unjust I have been! Forget all I said in my last. I write in the utmost
haste--just setting out for Yarmouth. I hope to be there to-morrow.
Your affectionate
LEONORA L----.
I open this to enclose the general’s letter, which will explain every
thing.
* * * * *
LETTER XCVII.
GENERAL B---- TO THE DUCHESS OF ----.
MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth.
Your Grace, I find, is apprised of Lady Leonora L----‘s journey hither:
I fear that you rely upon my prudence for preventing her exposing
herself to the danger of catching this dreadful fever. But that has been
beyond my power. Her ladyship arrived late last night. I had foreseen
the probability of her coming, but not the possibility of her coming so
soon. I had taken no precautions, and she was in the house and upon
the stairs in an instant. No entreaties, no arguments could stop her; I
assured her that Mr. L----‘s fever was pronounced by all the physicians
to be of the most infectious kind. Dr. ---- joined me in representing
that she would expose her life to almost certain danger if she persisted
in her determination to see her husband; but she pressed forward,
regardless of all that could be said. To the physicians she made no
answer; to me she replied, “You are Mr. L----‘s friend, but I am his
wife: you have not feared to hazard your life for him, and do you think
I can hesitate?” I urged that there was no necessity for more than one
person’s running this hazard; and that since it had fallen to my lot to
be with my friend when he was first taken ill--She interrupted me,--“Is
not this taking a cruel advantage of me, general? You know that I,
too, would have been with Mr. L----, if--if it had been possible.” Her
manner, her pathetic emphasis, and the force of her implied meaning,
struck me so much, that I was silent, and suffered her to pass on; but
again the idea of her danger rushing upon my mind, I sprang before her
to the door of Mr. L----‘s apartment, and opposed her entrance. “Then,
general,” said she, calmly, “perhaps you mistake me--perhaps you have
heard repeated some unguarded words of mine in the moment of indignation
... unjust ... you best know how unjust indignation!--and you infer
from these that my affection for my husband is extinguished. I deserve
this--but do not punish me too severely.”
I still kept my hand upon the lock of the door, expostulating with Lady
Leonora in your Grace’s name, and in Mr. L----‘s, assuring her that if
he were conscious of what was passing, and able to speak, he would order
me to prevent her seeing him in his present situation.
“And you, too, general!” said she, bursting into tears: “I thought you
were my friend--would you prevent me from seeing him? And is not he
conscious of what is passing? And is not he able to speak? Sir, I must
be admitted! You have done your duty--now let me do mine. Consider, my
right is superior to yours. No power on earth should or can prevent a
wife from seeing her husband when he is.... Dear, dear general!” said
she, clasping her raised hands, and falling suddenly at my feet, “let me
see him but for one minute, and I will be grateful to you for ever!”
I could resist no longer--I tremble for the consequences. I know your
Grace sufficiently to be aware that you ought to be told the whole
truth. I have but little hopes of my poor friend’s life.
With much respect,
Your grace’s faithful servant,
J.B.
* * * * *
LETTER XCVIII.
OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Richmond.
A mist hung over my eyes, and “my ears with hollow murmurs rung,” when
the dreadful tidings of your alarming illness were announced by your
cruel messenger. My dearest L----! why does inexorable destiny doom me
to be absent from you at such a crisis? Oh! this fatal wound of mine!
It would, I fear, certainly open again if I were to travel. So this
corporeal being must be imprisoned here, while my anxious soul, my
viewless spirit, hovers near you, longing to minister each tender
consolation, each nameless comfort that love alone can, with fond
prescience and magic speed, summon round the couch of pain.
“O that I had the wings of a dove, that I might fly to you!” Why must I
resign the sweetly-painful task of soothing you in the hour of sickness?
And shall others with officious zeal,
“Guess the faint wish, explain the asking eye?”
Alas it must be so--even were I to fly to him, my sensibility could
not support the scene. To behold him stretched on the bed of
disease--perhaps of death--would be agony past endurance. Let firmer
nerves than Olivia’s, and hearts more callous, assume the offices from
which they shrink not. ‘Tis the fate, the hard fate of all endued with
exquisite sensibility, to be palsied by the excess of their feelings,
and to become imbecile at the moment their exertions are most necessary.
Your too tenderly sympathizing
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER XCIX.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
Yarmouth.
My husband is alive, and that is all. Never did I see, nor could I have
conceived, such a change, and in so short a time! When I opened the
door, his eyes turned upon me with unmeaning eagerness: he did not know
me. The good general thought my voice might have some effect. I spoke,
but could obtain no answer, no sign of intelligence. In vain I called
upon him by every name that used to reach his heart. I kneeled beside
him, and took one of his burning hands in mine. I kissed it, and
suddenly he started up, exclaiming, “Olivia! Olivia!” with dreadful
vehemence. In his delirium he raved about Olivia’s stabbing herself, and
called upon us to hold her arm, looking wildly towards the foot of the
bed, as if the figure were actually before him. Then he sunk back, as
if quite exhausted, and gave a deep sigh. Some of my tears fell upon his
hand; he felt them before I perceived that they had fallen, and looked
so earnestly in my face, that I was in hopes his recollection was
returning; but he only said, “Olivia, I believe that you love me;” then
sighed more deeply than before, drew his hand away from me, and, as well
as I could distinguish, said something about Leonora.
But why should I give you the pain of hearing all these circumstances,
my dear mother? It is enough to say, that he passed a dreadful night.
This morning the physicians say, that if he passes this night--if--my
dear mother, what a terrible suspense!
LEONORA L----.
* * * * *
LETTER C.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
Yarmouth.
Morning is at last come, and my husband is still alive: so there is yet
hope. When I said I thought I could bear to survive him, how little I
knew of myself, and how little, how very little I expected to be so soon
tried! All evils are remediable but one, that one which I dare not name.
The physicians assure me that he is better. His friend, to whose
judgment I trust more, thinks as they do. I know not what to believe.
I dread to flatter myself and to be disappointed, I will write again,
dearest mother, to-morrow.
Your ever affectionate
LEONORA L----.
* * * * *
LETTER CI.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
Wednesday.
No material change since yesterday, my dear mother. This morning, as I
was searching for some medicine, I saw on the chimney-piece a note from
Lady Olivia ----. It might have been there yesterday, and ever since my
arrival, but I did not see it. At any other time it would have excited
my indignation, but my mind is now too much weakened by sorrow. My fears
for my husband’s life absorb all other feelings.
* * * * *
LETTER CII.
OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Richmond.
Words cannot express what I have suffered since I wrote last! Oh! why do
I not bear that the danger is over!--Long since would I have been
with you, all that my soul holds dear, could I have escaped from these
tyrants, these medical despots, who detain me by absolute force, and
watch over me with unrelenting vigilance. I have consulted Dr. ----, who
assures me that my fears of my wound opening, were I to take so long a
journey, are too well-founded; that in the present feverish state of my
mind he would not answer for the consequences. I heed him not--life I
value not.--Most joyfully would I sacrifice myself for the man I love.
But even could I escape from my persecutors, too well I know that to
see you would be a vain attempt--too well I know that I should not be
admitted. Your love, your fears for Olivia would barbarously banish her,
and forbid her your dear, your dangerous atmosphere. Too justly would
you urge that my rashness might prove our mutual ruin--that in the
moment of crisis or of convalescence, anxiety for me might defeat the
kind purpose of nature. And even were I secure of your recovery, the
delay, I speak not of the danger of my catching the disease, would,
circumstanced as we are, be death to our hopes. We should be compelled
to part. The winds would waft you from me. The waves would bear you to
another region, far--oh! far from your
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER CIII.
GENERAL B---- TO THE DUCHESS OF ----.
MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth, Thursday,--.
Mr. L---- has had a relapse, and is now more alarmingly ill than I
have yet seen him: he does not know his situation, for his delirium
has returned. The physicians give him over. Dr. H---- says that we must
prepare for the worst.
I have but one word of comfort for your Grace--that your admirable
daughter’s health has not yet suffered.
Your Grace’s faithful servant,
J.B.
* * * * *
LETTER CIV.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
MY DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth.
The delirium has subsided. A few minutes ago, as I was kneeling beside
him, offering up an almost hopeless prayer for his recovery, his eyes
opened, and I perceived that he knew me. He closed his eyes again
without speaking, opened them once more, and then looking at me fixedly,
exclaimed: “It is not a dream! You are Leonora!--_my_ Leonora!”
What exquisite pleasure I felt at the sound of these words, at the tone
in which they were pronounced! My husband folded me in his arms; and,
till I felt his burning lips, I forgot that he was ill.
When he came thoroughly to his recollection, and when the idea that his
fever might be infectious occurred to him, he endeavoured to prevail
upon me to leave the room. But what danger can there be for me _now_?
My whole soul, my whole frame is inspired with new life. If he recover,
your daughter may still be happy.
* * * * *
LETTER CV.
GENERAL B----TO THE DUCHESS OF----.
My Dear Madam,
A few hours ago my friend became perfectly sensible of his danger, and
calling me to his bedside, told me that he was eager to make use of
the little time which he might have to live. He was quite calm and
collected. He employed me to write his last wishes and bequests; and I
must do him the justice to declare, that the strongest idea and feeling
in his mind evidently was the desire to show his entire confidence in
his wife, and to give her, in his last moments, proofs of his esteem and
affection. When he had settled his affairs, he begged to be left alone
for some time. Between twelve and one his bell rang, and he desired to
see Lady Leonora and me. He spoke to me with that warmth of friendship
which he has ever felt from our childhood. Then turning to his wife,
his voice utterly failed, and he could only press to his lips that hand
which was held out to him in speechless agony.
“Excellent woman!” he articulated at last; then collecting his mind,
he exclaimed, “My beloved Leonora, I will not die without expressing my
feelings for you; I know yours for me. I do not ask for that forgiveness
which your generous heart granted long before I deserved it. Your
affection for me has been shown by actions, at the hazard of your life;
I can only thank you with weak words. You possess my whole heart, my
esteem, my admiration, my gratitude.”
Lady Leonora, at the word _gratitude_, made an effort to speak, and laid
her hand upon her husband’s lips. He added, in a more enthusiastic
tone, “You have my undivided love. Believe in the truth of these
words--perhaps they are the last I may ever speak.”
My friend sunk back exhausted, and I carried Lady Leonora out of the
room.
I returned half an hour ago, and found every thing silent: Mr. L---- is
lying with his eyes closed--quite still--I hope asleep. This may be a
favourable crisis. I cannot delay this letter longer.
Your Grace’s faithful servant,
J. B.
* * * * *
LETTER CVI.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth.
He has slept several hours.--Dr. H----, the most skilful of all his
physicians, says that we may now expect his recovery. Adieu. The good
general will add a line to assure you that I am not deceived, nor too
sanguine.
Yours most affectionately,
LEONORA L----.
_Postscript by General B----._
I have some hopes--that is all I can venture to say to your grace.
* * * * *
LETTER CVII.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth.
Excellent news for you to-day!--Mr. L---- is pronounced out of danger.
He seems excessively touched by my coming here, and so grateful for the
little kindness I have been able to show him during his illness! But
alas! that fatal promise! the recollection of it comes across my mind
like a spectre. Mr. L---- has never touched upon this subject,--I do all
in my power to divert his thoughts to indifferent objects.
This morning when I went into his room, I found him tearing to pieces
that note which I mentioned to you a few days ago. He seemed much
agitated, and desired to see General B----. They are now together,
and were talking so loud in the next room to me, that I was obliged to
retire, lest I should overhear secrets. Mr. L---- this moment sends
for me. If I should not have time to add more, this short letter will
satisfy you for to-day.
Leonora L----.
I open my letter to say, that I am not so happy as I was when I began
it. I have heard all the circumstances relative to this terrible affair.
Mr. L---- will go to Russia. I am as far from happiness as ever.
* * * * *
LETTER CVIII.
OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Richmond.
“Say, is not absence death to those that love?”
How just, how beautiful a sentiment! yet cold and callous is that heart
which knows not that there is a pang more dreadful than absence--far
as the death of lingering torture exceeds, in corporeal sufferance, the
soft slumber of expiring nature. Suspense! suspense! compared with thy
racking agony, even absence is but the blessed euthanasia of love.
My dearest L----, why this torturing silence? one line, one word, I
beseech you, from _your own hand_; say but _I live and love you, my
Olivia_. Hour after hour, and day after day, have I waited and waited,
and hoped, and feared to hear from you. Oh, this intolerable agonizing
suspense! Yet hope clings to my fond heart--hope! sweet treacherous
hope!
“Non so si la Speranza
Va con l’inganno unita;
So che mantiene in vita
Qualche infelici almen.”
Olivia.
* * * * *
LETTER CIX.
MR. L---- TO OLIVIA.
MY DEAR OLIVIA, Yarmouth.
This is the first line I have written since my illness. I could not
sooner relieve you from suspense, for during most of this time I have
been delirious, and never till now able to write. My physicians have
this morning pronounced me out of danger; and as soon as my strength is
sufficient to bear the voyage, I shall sail, according to my promise.
Your prudence, or that of your physician, has saved me much
anxiety--perhaps saved my life: for had you been so rash as to come
hither, besides my fears for your safety, I should have been exposed,
in the moment of my returning reason, to a conflict of passions which I
could not have borne.
Leonora is with me; she arrived the night after I was taken ill, and
forced her way to me, when my fever was at the highest, and while I was
in a state of delirium.
Lady Leonora will stay with me till the moment I sail, which I expect to
do in about ten days. I cannot say positively, for I am still very weak,
and may not be able to keep my word to a day. Adieu. I hope your mind
will now be at ease. I am glad to hear from the surgeon that your wound
is quite closed. I will write again, and more fully, when I am better
able. Believe me, Olivia, I am most anxious to secure your happiness:
allow me to believe that this will be in the power of
Yours sincerely,
F. L----.
* * * * *
LETTER CX.
OLIVIA TO MR. L----.
Richmond.
Barbarous man! with what cold cruelty you plunge a dagger into my heart!
Leonora is with you!--Leonora! Then I am undone. Yes, she will--she has
resumed all her power, her rights, her habitual empire over your heart.
Wretched Olivia!--But you say it is your wish to secure my happiness,
you bid me allow you to believe it is in your power. What phrases!--You
will sail, _according to your promise_.--Then nothing but your honour
binds you to Olivia. And even now, at this guilty instant, in your
secret soul, you wish, you expect from my offended pride, from my
disgusted delicacy, a renunciation of this promise, a release from all
the ties that bind you to me. You are right: this is what I ought to do;
what I would do, if love had not so weakened my soul, so prostrated
my spirit, rendered me so abject a creature, that _I cannot_ what _I
would_.
I must love on--female pride and resentment call upon me in vain. I
cannot hate you. Even by the feeble tie, which I see you long to break,
I must hold rather than let you go for ever. I will not renounce your
promise. I claim it. I adjure you by all which a man of honour holds
most sacred, to quit England the moment your health will allow you to
sail. No equivocating with your conscience!--I hold you to your word.
Oh, my dearest L----! to feel myself reduced to use such language to
you, to find myself clinging to that last resource of ship-wrecked
love, _a promise_! It is with unspeakable agony I feel all this; lower I
cannot sink in misery. Raise me, if indeed you wish my happiness--raise
me! it is yet in your power. Tell me, that my too susceptible heart has
mistaken phantoms for realities--tell me, that your last was not colder
than usual; yes, I am ready to be deceived. Tell me that it was only the
languor of disease; assure me that my rival forced her way only to your
presence, that she has not won her easy way back to your heart--assure
me that you are impatient once more to see your own
OLIVIA.
* * * * *
LETTER CXI.
LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.
MY DEAREST MOTHER, Yarmouth.
Can you believe or imagine that I am actually unwilling to say or to
think that Mr. L---- is quite well? yet this is the fact. Such is the
inconsistency and weakness of our natures--of my nature, I should say.
But a short time ago I thought that no evil could be so great as his
danger; now that danger is past, I dread to hear him say that he is
perfectly recovered. The moment he is able he goes to Russia; that is
decided irrevocably. The promise has been claimed and repeated. A solemn
promise cannot be broken for any human consideration. I should despise
him if he broke it; but can I love him for keeping it? His mind is at
this instant agitated as much as mine is--more it cannot be. Yet I
ought to be better able to part with him now than when we parted before,
because I have now at least the consolation of knowing that he leaves me
against his will--that his heart will not go from me. This time I cannot
be deceived; I have had the most explicit assurances of his _undivided_
love. And indeed I was never deceived. All the appearances of regret
at parting with me were genuine. The general witnessed the consequent
struggle in Mr. L----‘s mind, and this fever followed.
I will endeavour to calm and content myself with the possession of
his love, and with the assurance that he will return to me as soon as
possible. As soon as possible! but what a vague hope! He sails with the
first fair wind. What a dreadful certainty! Perhaps to-morrow! Oh, my
dearest mother, perhaps to-night!
LEONORA L----.
* * * * *
LETTER CXII.
GENERAL B---- TO THE DUCHESS OF ----.
MY DEAR MADAM, Yarmouth.
Today Mr. L----, finding himself sufficiently recovered, gave orders to
all his suite to embark, and the wind being fair, determined to go on
board immediately. In the midst of the bustle of the preparations for
his departure, Lady Leonora, exhausted by her former activity, and
unable to take any part in what was passing, sat silent, pale, and
motionless, opposite to a window, which looked out upon the sea; the
vessel in which her husband was to sail lay in sight, and her eyes were
fixed upon the streamers, watching their motion in the wind.
Mr. L---- was in his own apartment writing letters. An express arrived;
and among other letters for the English ambassador to Russia, there
was a large packet directed to Lady Leonora L----. Upon opening it,
the crimson colour flew into her face, and she exclaimed, “Olivia’s
letters!--Lady Olivia----‘s letters to Mad. de P----. Who could send
these to me?”
“I give you joy with all my heart!” cried I; “no matter how they
come--they come in the most fortunate moment possible. I would stake
my life upon it they will unmask Olivia at once. Where is Mr. L----? He
must read them this moment.”
I was hurrying out of the room to call my friend, but Lady Leonora
stopped my career, and checked the transport of my joy.
“You do not think, my dear general,” said she, “that I would for any
consideration do so dishonourable an action as to read these letters?”
“Only let Mr. L---- read them,” interrupted I, “that is all I ask of
your ladyship. Give them to me. For the soul of me I can see nothing
dishonourable in this. Let Lady Olivia be judged by her own words. Your
ladyship shall not be troubled with her trash, but give the letters to
me, I beseech you.”
“No, I cannot,” said Lady Leonora, steadily. “It is a great temptation;
but I ought not to yield.” She deliberately folded them up in a blank
cover, directed them to Lady Olivia, and sealed them; whilst I, half in
admiration and half in anger, went on expostulating.
“Good God! this is being too generous! But, my dear Lady Leonora, why
will you sacrifice yourself? This is misplaced delicacy! Show those
letters, and I’ll lay my life Mr. L---- never goes to Russia.”
“My dear friend,” said she, looking up with tears in her eyes, “do not
tempt me beyond my power to resist. Say no more.” At this instant Mr.
L----came into the room; and I am ashamed to confess to your Grace,
I really was so little master of myself, that I was upon the point of
seizing Olivia’s letters, and putting them into his hands. “L----,” said
I, “here is your admirable wife absurdly, yes, I must say it, absurdly
standing upon a point of honour with one who has none! That packet which
she has before her--”
Lady Leonora imposed silence upon me by one of those looks which no man
can resist.
“My dear Leonora, you are right,” said Mr. L----; “and you are almost
right, my dear general: I know what that packet contains; and without
doing anything dishonourable, I hold myself absolved from my promise; I
shall not go to Russia, my dearest wife!” He flew into her arms--and I
left them. I question whether they either of them felt much more than I
did.
For some minutes I was content with knowing that these things had
really happened, that I had heard Mr. L---- say he was absolved from
all promises, and that he would not go to Russia; but how did all this
happen so suddenly?--How did he know the contents of Olivia’s letters,
and without doing any thing dishonourable? There are some people who
cannot be perfectly happy till they know the _rationale_ of their
happiness. I am one of these. I did not feel “a sober certainty of
waking bliss,” till I read a letter which Mr. L---- received by the same
express that brought Olivia’s letters, and which he read while we were
debating. I beg your Grace’s pardon if I am too minute in explanation;
but I do as I would be done by. The letter was from one of the private
secretaries, who is, I understand, a relation and friend of Lady Leonora
L----. As the original goes this night to Lady Olivia, I send your Grace
a copy. You will give me credit for copying, and at such a time as this!
I congratulate your Grace, and
I have the honour to be, &c.,
J. B.
* * * * *
LETTER CXIII
TO MR. L----
[Private.]
London, St. James’s-street.
My Dear Sir,
In the same moment you receive this, your lady, for whom I have the
highest regard, will receive from me a valuable present, a packet of
Lady Olivia ----‘s letters to one of her French friends. These letters
were lately found in a French frigate, taken by one of our cruisers;
and, as _intercepted correspondence_ is the order of the day, these,
with all the despatches on board, were transmitted to our office to be
examined, in hopes of making reprisals of state secrets. Some letters
about the court and Emperor of Russia led us to suppose that we should
find some political manoeuvres, and we examined farther. The examination
fortunately fell to my lot, as private secretary. After looking them all
over, however, I found that these papers contain only family secrets:
I obtained permission to send them to Lady Leonora L----, to ensure
the triumph of virtue over vice--to put it into her ladyship’s power
completely to unmask her unworthy rival. These letters will show you by
what arts you have been deceived. You will find yourself ridiculed as _a
cold, awkward Englishman_; one who will _hottentot again, whatever pains
may be taken to civilize him; a man of ice_, to be taken as a lover from
_pure charity_, or _pure curiosity_, or the pure _besoin d’aimer_. Here
are many pure motives, of which you will, my dear sir, take your
choice. You will farther observe in one of her letters, that Lady Olivia
premeditated the design of prevailing with you to carry her to Russia,
that she might show her power _to that proudest of earthly prudes_, the
Duchess of ----, and that she might _gratify her great revenge against
Lady Leonora L----_.
Sincerely hoping, my dear sir, that these letters may open your eyes,
and restore you and my amiable relation to domestic happiness, I make no
apology for the liberty I take, and cannot regret the momentary pain
I may inflict. You are at liberty to make what use you think proper of
this letter.
I have it in command from my Lord ---- to add, that if your health,
or any other circumstances, should render this embassy to Russia less
desirable to you than it appeared some time ago, other arrangements can
be made, and another friend of government is ready to supply your place.
I am, my dear sir,
Yours, &c.
To F. L----, Esq. &c.
* * * * *
LETTER CXIV.
FROM LADY LEONORA ---- TO THE DUCHESS OF ----.
Yarmouth.
Joy, dearest mother! Come and share your daughter’s happiness!
_Continued by General B----._
* * * * *
Lady Olivia, thus unmasked by her own hand, has fled to the continent,
declaring that she will never more return to England. There she is
right--England is not a country fit for such women.--But I will never
waste another word or thought upon her.
Mr. L---- has given up the Russian embassy, and returns with Lady
Leonora to L---- Castle to-morrow. He has invited me to accompany them.
Lady Leonora is now the happiest of wives, and your Grace the happiest
of mothers.
I have the honour and the pleasure to be
Your Grace’s sincerely attached,
J. B----.
* * * * *
LETTER CXV.
THE DUCHESS OF ---- TO LADY LEONORA L----.
My beloved daughter, pride and delight of your happy mother’s heart, I
give you joy! Your temper, fortitude, and persevering affection, have
now their just reward. Enjoy your happiness, heightened as it must be by
the sense of self-approbation, and by the sympathy of all who know
you. And now let me indulge the vanity of a mother; let me exult in
the accomplishment of my prophecies, and let me be listened to with due
humility, when I prophesy again. With as much certainty as I foretold
what is now present, I foresee, my child, your future destiny, and I
predict that you will preserve while you live your husband’s fondest
affections. Your prudence will prevent you from indulging too far your
taste for retirement, or for the exclusive society of your intimate
friends. Spend your winters in London: your rank, your fortune, and, I
may be permitted to add, your character, manners, and abilities, give
you the power of drawing round you persons of the best information and
of the highest talents. Your husband will find, in such society, every
thing that can attach him to his home; and in you, his most rational
friend and his most charming companion, who will excite him to every
generous and noble exertion.
For the good and wise, there is in love, a power unknown to the ignorant
and the vicious, a power of communicating fresh energy to all the
faculties of the soul, of exalting them to the highest state of
perfection. The friendship which in later life succeeds to such love is
perhaps the greatest, and certainly the most permanent blessing of life.
An admirable German writer--you see, my dear, that I have no prejudices
against good German writers--an admirable German writer says, that “Love
is like the morning shadows, which diminish as the day advances; but
friendship is like the shadows of the evening, which increase even till
the setting of the sun.” ----
1805.
LETTER
From
A GENTLEMAN TO HIS FRIEND,
Upon the
BIRTH OF A DAUGHTER;
WITH THE ANSWER.
I congratulate you, my dear sir, upon the birth of your daughter; and I
wish that some of the fairies of ancient times were at hand to endow the
damsel with health, wealth, wit, and beauty. Wit?--I should make a long
pause before I accepted of this gift for a daughter--you would make
none.
As I know it to be your opinion that it is in the power of education,
more certainly than it was ever believed to be in the power of fairies,
to bestow all mental gifts; and as I have heard you say that education
should begin as early as possible, I am in haste to offer you my
sentiments, lest my advice should come too late.
Your general ideas of the habits and virtues essential to the perfection
of the female character nearly agree with mine; but We differ materially
as to the cultivation which it is necessary or expedient to bestow upon
the understandings of women. You are a champion for the rights of
woman, and insist upon the equality of the sexes: but since the days of
chivalry are past, and since modern gallantry permits men to speak,
at least to one another, in less sublime language of the fair; I may
confess to you that I see neither from experience nor analogy much
reason to believe that, in the human species alone, there are no marks
of inferiority in the female:--curious and admirable exceptions there
may be, but many such have not fallen within my observation. I cannot
say that I have been much enraptured, either on a first view or on a
closer inspection, with female prodigies. Prodigies are scarcely less
offensive to my taste than monsters: humanity makes us refrain
from expressing disgust at the awkward shame of the one, whilst
the intemperate vanity of the other justly provokes ridicule and
indignation. I have always observed in the understandings of women who
have been too much cultivated, some disproportion between the different
faculties of their minds. One power of the mind undoubtedly may be
cultivated at the expense of the rest; as we see that one muscle or limb
may acquire excessive strength, and an unnatural size, at the expense of
the health of the whole body: I cannot think this desirable, either
for the individual or for society.--The unfortunate people in certain
mountains of Switzerland are, some of them, proud of the excrescence
by which they are deformed. I have seen women vain of exhibiting mental
deformities, which to me appeared no less disgusting. In the course of
my life it has never been my good fortune to meet with a female whose
mind, in strength, just proportion, and activity, I could compare to
that of a sensible man.