Your affectionate mother,
Letter ix.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
Prepare yourself, my ever dear and charming Gabrielle, for all the
torments of jealousy. Know, that since I came to England I have formed a
new friendship with a woman who is interesting in the extreme, who has
charmed me by the simplicity of her manners and the generous sensibility
of her heart. Her character is certainly too reserved: yet even this
defect has perhaps increased her power over my imagination, and
consequently over my affections. I know not by what magic she has
obtained it, but she has already an ascendency over me, which would
quite astonish _you_, who know my wayward fancies and independent
spirit.
Alas! I confess my heart is weak indeed; and I fear that all the power
of friendship and philosophy combined will never strengthen it
sufficiently. O, Gabrielle! how can I hope to obliterate from my soul
that attachment which has marked the colour of my destiny for years? Yet
such courage, such cruel courage is required of me, and of such I have
boasted myself capable. Lady Leonora L----, my new friend, has, by all
the English eloquence of virtue, obtained from me a promise, which, I
fear, I shall not have the fortitude to keep--but I must make the
attempt----Forbid R*** to write to me----Yes! I have written the
words----Forbid R*** to write to me----Forbid him to think of me----I
will do more--if possible I will forbid myself henceforward to think of
him--to think of love--Adieu, my Gabrielle----All the illusions of life
are over, and a dreary blank of future existence lies before me,
terminated only by the grave. To-morrow I go to L---- Castle, with
feelings which I can compare only to those of the unfortunate la
Valliere when she renounced her lover, and resolved to bury herself in a
cloister.--Alas! why have not I the resource of devotion?
Your unhappy
Olivia.
Letter x.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Publish my travels!--Not I, my dear friend. The world shall never have
the pleasure of laughing at General B----'s trip to Paris. Before a man
sets about to inform others, he should have seen, not only the surface
but the bottom of things; he should have had, not only a _vue d'oiseau_,
but (to use a celebrated naval commander's expression) a _vue de
poisson_ of his subject. By this time you must have heard enough of the
Louvre and the Tuilleries, and Versailles, and la petit Trianon, and St
Cloud--and you have had enough of pictures and statues; and you know all
that can be known of Bonaparte, by seeing him at a review or a levee;
and the fashionable beauties and _celebrated characters_ of the hour
have all passed and repassed through the magic lantern. A fresh showman
might make his figures a little more correct, or a little more in
laughable caricature, but he could produce nothing new. Alas! there is
nothing new under the sun. Nothing remains for the moderns, but to
practise the oldest follies and newest ways. Would you, for the sake of
your female friends, know the fashionable dress of a Parisian
_elegante_, see Seneca on the transparent vestments of the Roman ladies,
who, like these modern belles, were generous in the display of their
charms to the public. No doubt these French republicanists act upon the
true Spartan principle of modesty: they take the most efficacious method
to prevent their influence from being too great over the imaginations of
men, by renouncing all that insidious reserve which alone can render
even beauty permanently dangerous.
Of the cruelties of the revolution I can tell you nothing new. The
public have been steeped up to the lips in blood, and have surely had
their fill of horrors.
But, my dear friend, you say that I must be able to give a just view of
the present state of French society, and of the best parts of it,
because I have not, like some of my countrymen, hurried about Paris from
one _spectacle_ to another, seen the opera, and the play-houses, and the
masked balls, and the gaming-houses, and the women of the Palais Royale,
and the lions of all sorts; gone through the usual routine of
presentation and public dinners, drunk French wine, damned French
cookery, and "come home content." I have certainly endeavoured to employ
my time better, and have had the good fortune to be admitted into the
best _private societies_ in Paris. These were composed of the remains of
the French nobility, of men of letters and science, and of families,
who, without interfering in politics, devote themselves to domestic
duties, to literary and social pleasures. The happy hours I have passed
in this society can never be forgotten, and the kindness I have received
has made its full impression upon an honest English heart. I will never
disgrace the confidence of my friends by drawing their characters for
the public.
Caesar, in all his glory, and all his despotism, could not, with
impunity, force a Roman knight[1] to go upon the stage: but modern
anecdote-mongers, more cruel and insolent than Caesar, force their
friends of all ages and sexes to appear, and speak, and act, for the
amusement or derision of the public.
My dear friend, is not my resolution, never to favour the world with my
tour, well grounded? I hope that I have proved to your satisfaction,
that I could tell people nothing but what I do not understand, or what
is not worth telling them, or what has been told them a hundred times,
or what, as a gentleman, I am bound not to publish.
Yours truly,
J. B.
[Footnote 1: Laberius.]
Letter xi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Friendship, my amiable and interesting Gabrielle, is more an affair of
the heart than of the head, more the instinct of taste than the choice
of reason. With me the heart is no longer touched, when the imagination
ceases to be charmed. Explain to me this metaphysical phenomenon of my
nature, and, for your reward, I will quiet your jealousy, by confessing
without compunction what now weighs on my conscience terribly. I begin
to feel that I can never love this English friend as I ought. She is
_too English_--far too English for one who has known the charms of
French ease, vivacity, and sentiment; for one who has seen the
bewitching Gabrielle's infinite variety.
Leonora has just the figure and face that you would picture to yourself
for _une belle Angloise_; and if our Milton comes into your memory, you
might repeat, for the quotation is not too trite for a foreigner--
"Grace is in all her steps, heaven in her eye,
In every gesture dignity and love."
But then it is grace which says nothing, a heaven only for a husband,
the dignity more of a matron than of a heroine, and love that might have
suited Eve before she had seen this world. Leonora is certainly a
beauty; but then a beauty who does not know her power, and who,
consequently, can make no one else feel its full extent. She is not
unlike your beautiful Polish princess, but she has none of the charming
Anastasia's irresistible transitions from soft, silent languor, to
brilliant, eloquent enthusiasm. All the gestures and attitudes of
Anastasia are those of taste and sentiment, Leonora's are simply those
of nature. _La belle nature_, but not _le beau ideal_. With a figure
that would grace any court, or shine upon any stage, she usually enters
a room without producing, or thinking of producing, any sensation; she
moves often without seeming to have any other intention than to change
her place; and her fine eyes generally look as if they were made only to
see with. At times she certainly has a most expressive and intelligent
countenance. I have seen her face enlightened by the fire of genius,
and shaded by the exquisite touches of sensibility; but all this is
merely called forth by the occasion, and vanishes before it is noticed
by half the company. Indeed, the full radiance of her beauty or of her
wit seldom shines upon any one but her husband. The audience and
spectators are forgotten. Heavens! what a difference between the effect
which Leonora and Gabrielle produce! But, to do her justice, much of
this arises from the different _organization_ of French and English
society. In Paris the insipid details of domestic life are judiciously
kept behind the scenes, and women appear as heroines upon the stage,
with all the advantages of decoration, to listen to the language of
love, and to receive the homage of public admiration. In England,
gallantry is not yet _systematised_, and our sex look more to their
families than to what is called society for the happiness of existence.
And yet the affection of mothers for their children does not appear to
be so strong in the hearts of English as of French women. In England
ladies do not talk of the _sentiment of maternity_ with that elegance
and sensibility with which you expatiate upon it continually in
conversation. They literally are _des bonnes meres de famille_, not from
the impulse of sentiment, but merely from an early instilled sense of
duty, for which they deserve little credit. However, they devote their
lives to their children, and those who have the misfortune to be their
intimate friends are doomed to see them half the day, or all day long,
go through the part of the good mother in all its diurnal monotony of
lessons and caresses. All this may be vastly right--it is a pity it is
so tiresome. For my part I cannot conceive how persons of superior taste
and talents can submit to it, unless it be to make themselves a
reputation, and that you know is done by writing and talking on the
general principles, not by submitting to the minute details of
education. The great painter sketches the outline, and touches the
principal features, but leaves the subordinate drudgery of filling up
the parts, finishing the drapery, &c., to inferior hands.
Upon recollection, in my favourite "Sorrows of Werter," the heroine is
represented cutting bread and butter for a group of children: I admire
this simplicity in Goethe; 'tis one of the secrets by which he touches
the heart. Simplicity is delightful by way of variety, but always
simplicity is worse than _toujours perdrix_. Children in a novel or a
drama are charming little creatures: but in real life they are often
insufferable plagues. What becomes of them in Paris I know not; but I am
sure that they are never in the way of one's conversations or reveries;
and it would be a blessing to society if English children were as
inaudible and invisible. These things strike me sensibly upon my return
to England, after so long an absence. Surely, by means of the machinery
of masters, and governesses, and schools, the manufacture of education
might be carried on without incommoding those who desire to see only the
finished production. Here I find the daughter of an English duke, a
woman in the first bloom of youth, of the highest pretensions in point
of rank, beauty, fashion, accomplishments, and talents, devoting herself
to the education of two children, orphans, left to her care by an elder
sister. To take charge of orphans is a good and fine action; as such it
touches me sensibly; but then where is the necessity of sacrificing
one's friends, and one's pleasures, day after day, and hour after hour,
to mere children? Leonora can persevere only from a notion of duty. Now,
in my opinion, when generosity becomes duty it ceases to be virtue.
Virtue requires free-will: duty implies constraint. Virtue acts from the
impulse of the moment, and never tires or is tired; duty drudges on in
consequence of reflection, and, weary herself, wearies all beholders.
Duty, always laborious, never can be graceful; and what is not graceful
in woman cannot be amiable--can it, my amiable Gabrielle? But I reproach
myself for all I have written. Leonora is my friend--besides, I am
really obliged to her, and for the universe would I not hint a thought
to her disadvantage. Indeed she is a most excellent, a faultless
character, and it is the misfortune of your Olivia not to love
perfection as she ought.
My charming and interesting Gabrielle, I am more out of humour with
myself than you can conceive; for in spite of all that reason and
gratitude urge, I fear I cannot prefer the insipid virtues of Leonora to
the lively graces of Gabrielle.
As to the cold husband, Mr L----, I neither know nor wish to know
anything of him; but I live in hopes of an agreeable and interesting
accession to our society to-day, from the arrival of Leonora's intimate
friend, a young widow, whose husband I understand was a man of a harsh
temper: she has gone through severe trials with surprising fortitude;
and though I do not know her history, I am persuaded it must be
interesting. Assuredly this husband could never have been the man of her
choice, and of course she must have had some secret unhappy attachment,
which doubtless preyed upon her spirits. Probably the object of her
affection, in despair at her marriage, plighted his faith unfortunately,
or possibly may have fallen a sacrifice to his constancy. I am all
impatience to see her. Her husband's name was so ruggedly English, that
I am sure you would never be able to pronounce it, especially if you
only saw it written; therefore I shall always to you call her Helen, a
name which is more pleasing to the ear, and more promising to the
imagination. I have not been able to prevail upon Leonora to describe
her friend to me exactly; she says only, that she loves Helen too well
to over-praise her beforehand. My busy fancy has, however, bodied forth
her form, and painted her in the most amiable and enchanting colours.
Hark! she is just arrived. Adieu.
Olivia.
Letter xij.
_From Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
* * * * * *
Having now had the honour of spending nearly a week in the society of
the celebrated enchantress, Lady Olivia, you will naturally expect that
I should be much improved in the art of love: but before I come to my
improvements I must tell you, what will be rather more interesting, that
Leonora is perfectly well and happy, and that I have the dear delight of
exclaiming ten times an hour, "Ay, just as I thought it would be!--Just
such a wife, just such a mistress of a family I knew she would make."
"_Not to admire_" is an art or a precept which I have not been able to
practise much since I came here. Some philosophers tell us that
admiration is not only a silly but a fatiguing state of mind; and I
suppose that nothing could have preserved my mind from being tired to
death but the quantity of bodily exercise which I have taken. I could if
I pleased give you a plan and elevation of this castle. Nay, I doubt not
but I could stand an examination in the catalogue of the pictures, or
the inventory of the furniture.
You, Helen!--you who could not remember the colour of Lady N----'s
_new_ curtains after you had seen them at least a hundred times!
Lady N---- was indifferent to me, and how could I hang up her curtains
in my memory? By what could they hold? Do you not know, Margaret. . . .
all the fine things that I could say, and that quartos have said before
me, about the association of ideas and sensations, &c.? Those we love
impart to uninteresting objects the power of pleasing, as the magnet can
communicate to inert metal its attractive influence.
Till Mr L---- was Leonora's lover I never liked him much. I do not mean
to call him inert. I always knew that he had many excellent qualities;
but there was nothing in his temper peculiarly agreeable to me, and
there was something in his character that I did not thoroughly
understand; yet since he is become Leonora's husband I find my
understanding much improved, and I dare say it will soon be so far
enlarged, that I shall comprehend him perfectly.
Leonora has almost persuaded me to like Lady Olivia. Not to laugh at her
would be impossible. I wish you could see the way in which we go on
together. Our first setting out would have diverted you. Enter Lady
Olivia breathless, with an air of theatric expectation--advances to
embrace Helen, who is laughing with Leonora--her back turned towards the
side of the stage at which Olivia enters--Olivia pauses suddenly, and
measures Helen _with a long look_. What passes in Lady Olivia's mind at
this moment I do not know, but I guess that she was disappointed wofully
by my appearance. After some time she was recovered, by Leonora's
assistance, from her reverie, and presently began to admire my vivacity,
and to find out that I was Clarissa's Miss Howe--no, I was Lady G.--no,
I was Heloise's Clara: but I, choosing to be myself, and insisting upon
being an _original_, sunk again visibly and rapidly in Olivia's opinion,
till I was in imminent danger of being _nobody_. Leonora again kindly
interposed to save me from annihilation; and after an interval of an
hour or two dedicated to letter-writing, Lady Olivia returned and seated
herself beside me, resolved to decide what manner of woman I was.
Certain novels are the touchstones of feeling and _intellect_ with
certain ladies. Unluckily I was not well read in these; and in the
questions put to me from these sentimental statute-books, I gave strange
judgments, often for the husband or parents against the heroine. I did
not even admit the plea of destiny, irresistible passion, or
_entrainement_, as in all cases sufficient excuse for all errors and
crimes. Moreover, I excited astonishment by calling things by obsolete
names. I called a married woman's having a lover _a crime_! Then I was
no judge of virtues, for I thought a wife's making an intimate friend of
her husband's mistress was scandalous and mean; but this I was told is
the height of delicacy and generosity. I could not perceive the
propriety of a man's liking two women at the same time, or a woman's
having a platonic attachment for half a dozen lovers; and I owned that I
did not wish divorce could be as easily obtained in England as in
France. All which proved that I have never been out of England--a great
misfortune! I dare say it will soon be discovered that women as well as
madeira cannot be good for anything till they have crossed the line. But
beside the obloquy of having lived only in the best company in England,
I was further disgraced by the discovery, that I am deplorably ignorant
of metaphysics, and have never been enlightened by any philanthropic
transcendental foreign professor of humanity. Profoundly humiliated, and
not having yet taken the first step towards knowledge, the knowing that
I was ignorant, I was pondering upon my sad fate, when Lady Olivia,
putting her hand upon my shoulder, summoned me into the court of love,
there in my own proper person to answer such questions as it should
please her ladyship to ask. For instance:--"Were you ever in love?--How
often?--When?--Where?--And with whom?"
Never having stood a cross-examination in public upon these points, I
was not quite prepared to reply; and I was accused of giving evasive
answers, and convicted of blushing. Mr L----, who was present at this
examination, enjoyed, in his grave way, my astonishment and confusion,
but said not one word. I rallied my spirits and my wits, and gave some
answers which gained the smile of the court on my side.
From these specimens you may guess, my dear Margaret, how well this lady
and I are likely to agree. I shall divert myself with her absurdities
without scruple. Yet notwithstanding the flagrancy of these, Leonora
persuades me to think well of Olivia; indeed I am so happy here, that it
would be a difficult matter at present to make me think ill of anybody.
The good qualities which Leonora sees in her are not yet visible to my
eyes; but Leonora's visual orb is so cleared with charity and love, that
she can discern what is not revealed to vulgar sight. Even in the very
germ she discovers the minute form of the perfect flower. _The Olivia_
will, I hope, in time blow out in full perfection.
Yours affectionately,
Helen C----.
Letter xiij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
Monday.
O my Gabrielle! this Helen is not precisely the person that I expected.
Instead of being a dejected beauty, she is all life and gaiety.
I own I should like her better if she were a little more pensive; a
tinge of melancholy would, in her situation, be so becoming and natural.
My imagination was quite disappointed when I beheld the quickness of her
eyes and frequency of her smiles. Even her mode of showing affection to
Leonora was not such as could please me. This is the first visit, I
understand, that she has paid Leonora since her marriage:--these friends
have been separated for many months.--I was not present at their
meeting; but I came into the room a few minutes after _Helen's_ arrival,
and I should have thought that they had seen one another but yesterday.
This _dear Helen_ was quite at ease and at home in a few moments, and
seemed as if she had been living with us for years. I make allowance for
the ease of well-bred people. Helen has lived much in the world, and has
polished manners. But the heart--the heart is superior to politeness;
and even ease, in some situations, shows a want of the delicate _tact_
of sentiment. In a similar situation I should have been silent,
entranced, absorbed, in my sensations--overcome by them,
perhaps--dissolved in tears. But in Helen there appeared no symptoms of
real sensibility--nothing characteristic--nothing profound--nothing
concentrated: it was all superficial, and evaporated in the common way.
I was provoked to see Leonora satisfied. She assures me that Helen has
uncommonly strong affections, and that her character rather exceeds than
is deficient in enthusiasm. Possibly; but I am certain that Helen is in
no danger of becoming romantic. Far from being abstracted, I never saw
any one seem more interested and eager about every present
occurrence--pleased, even to childishness, with every passing trifle. I
confess that she is too much of this world for me. But I will if
possible suspend my judgment, and study her a few hours longer before I
give you my definitive opinion.
* * * * *
Thursday.
Well, my Gabrielle, my _definitive opinion_ is that I can never love
this friend of Leonora. I said that she had lived much in the world--but
only in the English world: she has never seen any other; therefore,
though quite in a different style from Leonora, she shocks me with the
same nationality. All her ideas are exclusively English: she has what is
called English good sense, and English humour, and English prejudices of
_all sorts_, both masculine and feminine. She takes fire in defence of
her country and of her sex; nay, sometimes blushes even to awkwardness,
which one would not expect in the midst of her good breeding and
vivacity. What a difference between her vivacity and that of my charming
Gabrielle! as great as between the enlargement of your mind and the
limited nature of her understanding. I tried her on various subjects,
but found her intrenched in her own contracted notions. All new, or
liberal, or sublime ideas in morality or metaphysics she either cannot
seize, or seizes only to place in a ridiculous point of view: a certain
sign of mediocrity. Adieu, my Gabrielle. I must send you the pictures,
whether engaging or forbidding, of those with whom your Olivia is
destined to pass her time. When I have no events to relate, still I must
write to convey to you my sentiments. Alas! how imperfectly!--for I have
interdicted myself the expression of those most interesting to my
heart. Leonora, calmly prudent, coolly virtuous, knows not what it costs
me to be faithful to this cruel promise. Write to me, my sympathizing,
my tender friend!
Your ever unhappy
Olivia.
Letter xiv.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
July 10th.
Some very good people, like some very fine pictures, are best at a
distance. But Leonora is not one of these: the nearer you approach the
better you like her, as in arabesque-work you may admire the beauty of
the design even at a distance, but you cannot appreciate the delicacy of
the execution till you examine it closely, and discover that every line
is formed of grains of gold almost imperceptibly fine. I am glad that
the "small sweet courtesies of life" have been hailed by one sentimental
writer at least. The minor virtues are not to be despised even in
comparison with the most exalted. The common rose, I have often thought,
need not be ashamed of itself even in company with the finest exotics in
a hothouse; and I remember, that your brother, in one of his letters,
observed, that the common cock makes a very respectable figure even in
the grand Parisian assembly of all the stuffed birds and beasts in the
universe. It is a glorious thing to have a friend who will jump into a
river, or down a precipice, to save one's life: but as I do not intend
to tumble down precipices, or to throw myself into the water above half
a dozen times, I would rather have for my friends persons who would not
reserve their kindness wholly for these grand occasions, but who could
condescend to make me happy every day, and all day long, even by
actions not sufficiently sublime to be recorded in history or romance.
Do not infer from this that I think Leonora would hesitate to make
_great_ sacrifices. I have had sufficient experience of her fortitude
and active courage of mind in the most trying circumstances, whilst many
who talked more stoutly shrunk from _committing_ themselves by actions.
Some maxim-maker says, that past misfortunes are good for nothing but to
be forgotten. I am not of his opinion: I think that they are good to
make us know our winter from our summer friends, and to make us feel for
those who have sustained us in adversity that most pleasurable sensation
of human mind--gratitude.
But I am straying unawares into the province of sentiment, where I am
such a stranger that I shall inevitably lose my way, especially as I am
too proud to take a guide. Lady Olivia **** may perhaps be very fond of
Leonora: and as she has every possible cause to be so, it is but
reasonable and charitable to suppose that she is: but I should never
guess it by her manner. She speaks of her friendship sometimes in the
most romantic style, but often makes observations upon _the enviable
coolness and imperturbability of Leonora's disposition_, which convinces
me that she does not understand it in the least. Those who do not really
feel always pitch their expressions too high or too low, as deaf people
bellow or speak in a whisper. But I may be mistaken in my suspicions of
Olivia; for _to do the lady justice_, as Mrs Candour would say, she is
so affected that it is difficult to know what she really feels. Those
who put on rouge occasionally are suspected of wearing it constantly,
and never have any credit for their natural colour; presently they
become so accustomed to common rouge, that mistaking scarlet for pale
pink, they persist in laying on more and more, till they are like
nothing human.
Yours affectionately,
Helen C----.
Letter xv.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
I have found it! I have found it! dear Gabrielle, rejoice with me! I
have solved the metaphysical problem, which perplexed me so cruelly, and
now I am once more at peace with myself. I have discovered the reason
why I cannot love Leonora as she merits to be loved--she has obliged me;
and the nature of obligation is such, that it supposes superiority on
one side, and consequently destroys the equality, the freedom, the ease,
the charm of friendship. Gratitude weighs upon one's heart in proportion
to the delicacy of its feelings. To minds of an ordinary sort it may be
pleasurable, for with them it is sufficiently feeble to be calm; but in
souls of a superior cast, it is a poignant, painful sensation, because
it is too strong ever to be tranquil. In short--
"'Tis bliss but to a certain bound--
Beyond, 'tis agony."
For my own part, the very dread that I shall not be thought to express
enough deprives me of the power to speak, or even to feel. Fear, you
know, extinguishes affection; and of all fears the dread of not being
sufficiently grateful operates the most powerfully. Thus sensibility
destroys itself.--Gracious Heaven! teach me to moderate mine.
In the nature of the obligation with which Leonora has oppressed my
heart, there is something peculiarly humiliating. Upon my return to this
country I found the malignant genius of scandal bent upon destroying my
reputation. You have no idea of the miserable force of prejudice which
still prevails here. There are some women who emancipate themselves, but
then unluckily they are not in sufficient numbers to keep each other in
countenance in public. One would not choose to be confined to the
society of people who cannot go to court, though sometimes they take the
lead elsewhere. We are full half a century behind you in civilization;
and your revolution has, I find, afforded all our stiffened moralists
_incontrovertible_ arguments against liberty of opinion or conduct in
either sex.
I was thunderstruck when I saw the grave and repulsive faces of all my
female acquaintance. At first I attributed everything that was strange
and disagreeable to English reserve, of which I had retained a
sufficiently formidable idea: but I presently found that there was some
other cause which kept all these nice consciences at a distance from my
atmosphere.
Would you believe it, I saw myself upon the point of being quite
excluded from good society. Leonora saved me from this imminent danger.
Voluntarily, and I must say nobly, if not gracefully, Leonora came
forward in my defence. Vanquishing her natural English timidity, she
braved the eyes, and tongues, and advice of all the prudes and old
dowagers my enemies, amongst whom I may count the superannuated duchess
her mother, the proudest dowager now living. When I appeared in public
with a personage of Leonora's unblemished reputation, scandal, much
against her will, was forced to be silent, and it was to be taken for
granted that I was, in the language of prudery, perfectly innocent.
Leonora, to be consistent in goodness, or to complete her triumph in the
face of the world, invited me to accompany her to the country.----I have
now been some weeks at this superb castle. Heaven is my witness that I
came with a heart overflowing with affection; but the painful, the
agonizing sense of humiliation mixed with my tenderest sentiments, and
all became bitterness insufferable. O Gabrielle! you, and perhaps you
alone upon earth, can understand my feelings. Adieu!--pity me--I must
not ask you a single question about----I must not write the name for
ever dear--What am I saying? where are my promises?--Adieu!--Adieu!
Your unhappy
Olivia.
Letter xvi.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
July 16th.
As I have never thought it my duty in this mortal life to mourn for the
absurdities of my fellow-creatures, I should now enjoy the pleasure of
laughing at Lady Olivia, if my propensity were not checked by a serious
apprehension that she will injure Leonora's happiness. From the most
generous motives dear Leonora is continually anxious to soothe her mind,
to persuade and reason her into common sense, to re-establish her in
public opinion, and to make her happy. But I am convinced that Lady
Olivia never will have common sense, and consequently never can be
happy. Twenty times a day I wish her at the antipodes, for I dread lest
Leonora should be implicated in her affairs, and involved in her misery.
Last night this foolish woman, who unluckily is graced with all the
power of words, poured forth a fine declamation in favour of divorce. In
vain Leonora reasoned, expostulated, blushed. Lady Olivia cannot blush
for herself; and though both Mr L---- and I were present, she persisted
with that vehemence which betrays personal interest in an argument. I
suspect that she is going to try to obtain a divorce from her husband,
that she may marry her lover. Consider the consequences of this for
Leonora.--Leonora to be the friend of a woman who will brave the infamy
of a trial at Doctors' Commons! But Leonora says I am mistaken, and that
all this is only Olivia's way of talking. I wish then, that, if she does
not intend to act like a fool, she would not talk like one. I agree with
the gentleman who said that a woman who begins by playing the fool,
always ends by playing the devil. Even before me, though I certainly
never solicit her confidence, Lady Olivia talks with the most imprudent
openness of her love affairs; not, I think, from ingenuousness, but from
inability to restrain herself. Begin what subject of conversation I
will, as far from Cupid as possible, she will bring me back again to him
before I know where I am. She has no ideas but on this one subject.
Leonora, dear kind-hearted Leonora, attributes this to the temporary
influence of a violent passion, which she assures me Olivia will
conquer, and that then all her great and good qualities will, as if
freed from enchantment, re-assume their natural vigour.
_Natural!_--there is nothing natural about this sophisticated lady. I
wish Leonora would think more of herself and less of other people. As to
Lady Olivia's excessive sensibility, I have no faith in it. I do not
think either the lover or the passion so much to be feared for her, as
the want of a lover and the habit of thinking that it is necessary to be
in love. * * * * * * * * *
Yours affectionately,
_Helen C----._
Letter xvij.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Paris, Hotel de Courlande.
My dear L----,
When you ask a countryman in England the way to the next town, he
replies, "Where do you come from, master?" and till you have answered
this question, no information can you obtain from him. You ask me what I
know of Lady Olivia ----. What is your reason for asking? Till you have
answered this question, hope for no information from me. Seriously, Lady
Olivia had left Paris before I arrived, therefore you cannot have my
judgment of her ladyship, which I presume is all you could depend upon.
If you will take hearsay evidence, and if you wish me to speak to
general character, I can readily satisfy you. Common repute is loud and
unanimous in favour of her talents, beauty, and fashion: there is no
resisting, I am told, the fascination of her manners and conversation;
_but_ her opinions are fashionably liberal, and her practice as liberal
as her theories. Since her separation from her husband, her lover is
publicly named. Some English friends plead in her favour platonic
attachment: this, like benefit of clergy, is claimed of course for a
first offence: but Lady Olivia's Parisian acquaintance are not so
scrupulous or so old-fashioned as to think it an offence; they call it
an _arrangement_, and to this there can be no objection. As a French
gentleman said to me the other day, with an unanswerable shrug, "Tout le
monde sait que R*** est son amant; d'ailleurs, c'est la femme la plus
aimable du monde."
As to Lady Olivia's friend, Mad. de P----, she sees a great deal of
company: her house is the resort of people of various descriptions;
ministers, foreigners, coquettes, and generals; in short, of all those
who wish without scandal or suspicion to intrigue either in love or
politics. Her assemblies are also frequented by a few of _l'ancien
regime_, who wish to be in favour with the present government. Mad. de
P----, of a noble family herself, and formerly much at court, has
managed matters so as to have regained all her husband's confiscated
property, and to have acquired much influence with some of the leading
men of the day. In her manners and conversation there is an odd mixture
of frivolity and address, of the airs of coquetry and the jargon of
sentiment. She has the politeness of a French countess, with _exquisite_
knowledge of the world and of _les convenances_, joined to that freedom
of opinion which marks the present times. In the midst of all these
inconsistencies, it is difficult to guess what her real character may
be. At first sight, I should pronounce her to be a silly woman, governed
by vanity and the whim of the moment: but those who know her better than
I do believe her to be a woman of considerable talents, inordinately
fond of power, and uniformly intent upon her own interest, using
coquetry only as a means to govern our sex, and frivolity as a mask for
her ambition. In short, Mad. de P---- is a perfect specimen of the
combination of an _intrigante_ and an _elegante_, a combination often
found in Paris. Here women mingle politics and gallantry--men mix
politics and epicurism--which is the better mixture?
I have business of importance to my country to transact to-day,
_therefore_ I am going to dine with the modern Apicius. Excuse me, my
dear friend, if I cannot stay at present to answer your questions about
divorce. I must be punctual. What sort of a negociator can he make who
is too late at a minister's dinner? Five minutes might change the face
of Europe.
Yours truly,
J. B.
Letter xviij.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Paris.
My incomparable Olivia! your letters are absolutely divine. I am
_maussade_, I _vegetate_. I cannot be said to live the days when I do
not hear from you. Last Thursday I was disappointed of one of these dear
letters, and _Brave-et-tendre_ told me frankly that I was so little
amiable he should not have known me.--As to the rest, pardon me for not
writing punctually: I have been really in a chaos of business and
pleasure, and I do not know which fatigues most. But I am obliged to
attend the ministers every day, for the sake of my friends.
A thousand and a thousand thanks for your pictures of your English
friends: sketches by a masterly hand must be valuable, whatever the
subject. I would rather have the pictures than the realities. Your Helen
and your Lady Leonora are too good for me, and I pity you from my soul
for being shut up in that old castle. I suppose it is like an old castle
in Dauphiny, where I once spent a week, and where I was nearly
frightened to death by the flapping of the old tapestry behind my bed,
and by the bats which flew in through the broken windows. They say,
however, that our _chateaux_ and yours are something different. Of this
I have no clear conception.
I send you three comforters in your prison--a billet-doux, a new novel,
and a pattern of my sandal: a billet-doux from R*** says everything for
itself; but I must say something for the new novel. Zenobie, which I now
send you, is the declared rival of Seraphine. Parties have run high on
both sides, and applications were made and inuendoes discovered, and wit
and sentiment came to close combat; and, as usual, people talked till
they did not understand themselves. For a fortnight, wherever one went
the first words to be heard on entering every _salon_ were Seraphine and
Zenobie.--Peace or war.--Mlle. Georges and Mlle. Duchesnois were
nothing to Seraphine and Zenobie. For Heaven's sake tell me which you
prefer! But I fear they will be no more talked of before I have your
answer. To say the truth, I am tired of both heroines, for a fortnight
is too long to talk or think of any one thing.
I flatter myself you will like my sandals: they are my own invention,
and my foot really shows them to advantage. You know I might say, as Du
P*** said of himself, "J'ai un pied dont la petitesse echappe a la
vitesse de la pensee." I thought my poor friend Mad. Dumarais would have
died with envy, the other day, when I appeared in them at her ball,
which, by the by, was in all its decorations as absurd and in as bad
taste as usual. For the most part these _nouveaux riches_ lavish money,
but can never purchase taste or a sense of propriety. All is gold: but
that is not enough; or rather that is too much.--In spite of all that
both the Indies, China, Arabia, Egypt, and even Paris can do for them,
they will be ever out of place, in the midst of their magnificence: they
will never even know how to ruin themselves nobly. They must live and
die as they were born, ridiculous. Now I would rather not exist than
feel myself ridiculous. But I believe no one living, not even le petit
d'Heronville, knows himself to be an object of ridicule. There are no
looking-glasses for the mind, and I question whether we should use them
if there were. D'Heronville is just as you left him, and as much my
amusement as he used to be yours. He goes on with an eternal galimatias
of patriotism, with such a self-sufficient air and decided tone! never
suspecting that he says only what other people make him say, and that he
is listened to, only to find out what _some people_ think. Many will say
before fools what they would not hazard before wise men; not considering
that fools can repeat as well as parrots. I once heard a great man
remark that the only spies fit to be trusted are those who do not know
themselves to be such, who have no salary but what their vanity pays
them, and who are employed without being accredited.
But treve de politique!--My charming Olivia, I know, abhors politics as
much as I detest metaphysics, from all lips or pens but hers. Now I must
tell you something of your friends here.
O---- talks nonsense as agreeably as ever, and dances as divinely. 'Tis
a pity he cannot always dance, for then he would not ruin himself at
play. He wants me to get him a regiment--as if I had any power!--or as
if I would use it for this purpose, when I know that my interesting
friend Mad. Q---- would break her poor little heart if he were to quit
her.
_Mon Coeur_ is as pretty as ever; but she is now in affliction. She has
lost her dear little dog Corisonde. He died suddenly; almost in her
arms! She will erect a monument to him in her charming _jardin Anglois_.
This will occupy her, and then "Time, the comforter"--Inimitable
Voltaire!
Our dear _Brillante_ has just had a superb _hommage_ from her lover the
commissary--a necklace and bracelets of the finest pearls: but she
cannot wear them yet: her brother having died last week, she is in deep
mourning. This brother was not upon good terms with her. He never
forgave the divorce. He thought it a disgrace to have a sister _une
divorcee_; but he was full of prejudice, poor man, and he is dead, and
we need think no more of him or of his faults.
Our ci-devant chanoine, who married that little Meudon, is as miserable
as possible, and as ridiculous: for he is jealous of his young wife, and
she is a _franche-coquette_. The poor man looks as if he repented
sincerely of his errors. What a penitent a coquette can make of a
husband! Bourdaloue and Massillon would have tried their powers on this
man's heart in vain.
Did I tell you that Mad. G---- is a second time divorced? But this time
it is her husband's doing, not hers. This handsome husband has spent all
the immense fortune she brought him, and now procures a divorce for
_incompatibility of temper_, and is going to marry another lady, richer
than Mad. G----, and as great a fool. This system of divorce, though
convenient, is not always advantageous to women. However, in one point
of view, I wonder that the rigid moralists do not defend it, as the only
means of making a man in love with his own wife. A man divorces; the law
does not permit him to marry the same woman afterwards; of course this
prohibition makes him fall in love with her. Of this we have many
edifying examples besides Fanchette, who, though she was so beautiful,
and a tolerable actress, would never have drawn all Paris to the
Vaudeville if she had not been a _divorcee_, and if it had not been
known that her husband, who played the lover of the piece, was dying to
marry her again. Apropos, Mad. St Germain is acting one of her own
romances, in the high sublime style, and threatens to poison herself for
love of her perjured inconstant--but it will not do.
Madame _la Grande_ was near having a sad accident the other night: in
crossing the Pont-neuf her horses took fright; for there was a crowd and
_embarras_, a man having just drowned himself--not for love, but for
hunger. How many men, women, and children, do you think, drowned
themselves in the Seine last year? Upwards of two hundred. This is
really shocking, and a stop should be put to it by authority. It
absolutely makes me shudder and reflect; but _apres nous le deluge_ was
La Pompadour's maxim, and should be ours.
Mad. Folard _se coiffe en cheveux_, and Mad. Rocroix crowns herself with
roses, whilst all the world knows that either of them is old enough to
be my mother. In former days a woman could not wear flowers after
thirty, and was _bel esprit_ or _devote_ at forty, for it was thought
bad taste to do otherwise. But now everybody may be as young as they
please, or as ridiculous. Women have certainly gained by the new order
of things.
Our poor friend _Vermeille_ se meurt de la poitrine--a victim to tea and
late hours. She is an interesting creature, and my heart bleeds for her:
she will never last till winter.
Do you know, it is said, we shall soon have no wood to burn. What can
have become of all our forests? People should inquire after them. The
Venus de Medicis has at last found her way down the Seine. It is not
determined yet where to place her: but she is at Paris, and that is a
great point gained for her. You complained that the Apollo stands with
his back so near the wall, that there is no seeing half the beauties of
his shoulders. If I have any influence, Venus shall not be so served. I
have been to see her. She is certainly divine--but not French. I do not
despair of seeing her surpassed by our artists.
Adieu, my adorable Olivia. I should have finished my letter yesterday;
but when I came home in the morning, expecting to have a moment sacred
to you and friendship, who should I find established in an arm-chair in
my cabinet but our old countess _Ci-devant_. There was no retreat for
me. In the midst of my concentrated rage I was obliged to advance and
embrace her, and there was an end of happiness for the day. The pitiless
woman kept me till it was even too late to dress, talking over her
family misfortunes; as if they were anything to me. She wants to get her
son employed, but her pride will not let her pay her court properly, and
she wants me to do it for her. Not I, truly. I should shut my doors
against her but for the sake of her nephew _le roue_, who is really a
pretty young man. My angel, I embrace you tenderly.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xix.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
How melancholy to a feeling heart is the moment when illusion vanishes,
whether that illusion has been created by the magic of love or of
friendship! How many such moments, Gabrielle, has your unfortunate
friend been doomed to endure! Alas! when will treacherous fancy cease to
throw a deceitful brilliancy upon each new object!
Perhaps I am too delicate--but R***'s note, enclosed in your last, my
Gabrielle, was unlike his former letters. It was not passionate, it was
only reasonable. A man who can reason is no longer in love. The manner
in which he speaks of divorce shocked me beyond expression. Is it for
him to talk of scruples when upon this subject I have none? I own to you
that my pride and my tenderness are sensibly wounded. Is it for him to
convince me that I am in the wrong? I shall not be at ease till I hear
from you again, my amiable friend: for my residence here becomes
insupportable. But a few short weeks are past since I fancied Leonora an
angel, and now she falls below the ordinary standard of mortals. But a
few short weeks are past since, in the full confidence of finding in
Leonora a second self, a second Gabrielle, I eagerly developed to her my
inmost soul; yet now my heart closes, I fear never more to open. The sad
conviction, that we have but few ideas, and no feelings in common, stops
my tongue when I attempt to speak, chills my heart when I begin to
listen.
Do you know, my Gabrielle, I have discovered that Leonora is
inordinately selfish? For all other faults I have charity; but
selfishness, which has none to give, must expect none. O divine
sensibility, defend me from this isolation of the heart! All thy
nameless sorrows, all thy heart-rending tortures, would I a thousand
times rather endure. Leonora's selfishness breaks out perpetually; and,
alas! it is of the most inveterate, incurable kind: everything that is
immediately or remotely connected with self she loves, and loves with
the most provoking pertinacity. Her mother, her husband, she adores,
because they are her own; and even her sister's children, because she
considers them, she says, as her own. All and every possible portion of
self she cherishes with the most sordid partiality. All that touches
these relations touches her; and everything which is theirs, or, in
other words, which is hers, she deems excellent and sacred. Last night I
just hazarded a word of ridicule upon some of the obsolete prejudices of
that august personage, that duchess of old tapestry, her still living
ancestor. I wish, Gabrielle, you had seen Leonora's countenance. Her
colour rose up to her temples, her eyes lightened with indignation, and
her whole person assumed a dignity, which might have killed a
presumptuous lover, or, better far, might have enslaved him for life.
What folly to waste all this upon such an occasion. But selfishness is
ever blind to its real interests. Leonora is so bigoted to this old
woman, that she is already in mind an old woman herself. She fancies
that she traces a resemblance to her mother, and of course to dear self,
in her infant, and she looks upon it with such doting eyes, and talks to
it with such exquisite tones of fondness, as are to me, who know the
source from which they proceed, quite ridiculous and disgusting. An
infant, who has no imaginable merit, and, to impartial eyes, no charms,
she can love to this excess from no motive but pure _egotism_. Then her
husband--but this subject I must reserve for another letter. I am
summoned to walk with him this moment.
Adieu, charming Gabrielle.
Olivia.
Letter xx.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Paris, 180--.
My dear L----,
Enclosed I send you, according to your earnest desire, Cambaceres'
reflections upon the intended new law of divorce. Give me leave to ask
why you are so violently interested upon this occasion? Do you envy
France this blessing? Do you wish that English husbands and wives should
have the power of divorcing each other at pleasure for _incompatibility
of temper_? And have you calculated the admirable effect this would
produce upon the temper both of the weaker and the stronger sex? To bear
and forbear would then be no longer necessary. Every happy pair might
quarrel and part at a moment's notice--at a year's notice at most. And
their children? The wisdom of Solomon would be necessary to settle the
just division of the children. I have this morning been attending a
court of law to hear a famous trial between two husbands: the abdicated
lord a ci-devant noble, and the reigning husband a ci-devant
grand-vicaire, who has _reformed_. Each party claimed a right to the
children by the first marriage, for the children were minors entitled to
large fortunes. The _reformed_ grand-vicaire pleaded his own cause with
astonishing assurance, amidst the discountenancing looks, murmurs, and
almost amidst the groans of disapprobation from the majority of the
auditors. His powers of impudence, however, failed him at last. I sat on
the bench behind him, and saw that his ears had the grace to blush.
After another hearing, this cause, which had lasted four years, was
decided: and the first husband and real father was permitted to have the
guardianship of his own children. During the four years' litigation, the
friends of the parties, from the grandmother downwards, were all at
irreconcileable variance. What became of the children all this time?
Their mother was represented during the trial as she deserved to be, as
a wretch void of shame and gratitude. The father was universally pitied,
though his rival painted him as a coward, who during the revolution had
left his children to save himself by flight; and as a fool, who had left
his wife to the care of a profligate grand-vicaire. Divorce is not
countenanced by opinion in Paris, though permitted by law. With a few
exceptions in extraordinary cases, I have observed that _les divorcees_
are not received into good society.
To satiate your curiosity, I send you all the papers that have been
written lately on this subject, of which you will find that of
Cambaceres the best. The wits say that he is an impartial judge. I
presume you want these pamphlets for some foolish friend; for yourself
you can never want them, blessed as you are with such a wife as Lady
Leonora L----. I am not surprised that profligate men should wish for
freedom of divorce, because it would save them damages in Doctors'
Commons: but you rather astonish me--if a wise man should be astonished
at anything in these days--by assuring me that you have lately heard
this system eloquently defended by a female philosopher. What can women
expect from it but contempt? Next to polygamy, it would prove the most
certain method of destroying the domestic happiness of the sex, as well
as their influence and respectability in society. But some of the dear
creatures love to talk of what they do not understand, and usually show
their eloquence to the greatest advantage, by taking the wrong side of a
question.
Yours truly,
J. B.
Letter xxi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
From selfishness to jealousy there is but one step, or rather there is
none; for jealousy of a certain sort is but selfishness in another form.
How different this passion as I have felt it, and as I see it shown! In
some characters it is the symptom of amiable and exquisite sensibility;
in others of odious coldness and contraction of heart. In some of our
sex it is, you know, my Gabrielle, a delicate fear, a tender anxiety, a
proof of ardent passion; in others it is a mere love of power, a
disgusting struggle for the property of a heart, an absurd assertion of
rights and prerogatives. Surely no prejudice of education or institution
can be more barbarous than that which teaches a wife that she has an
indefeasible and exclusive right both to the affections and the fidelity
of her husband. I am astonished to hear it avowed by any woman who has
the slightest pretensions to delicacy of sentiment, or liberality of
mind. I should expect to find this vulgar prejudice only among the
downright dames, who talk of _my good man_, and lay a particular
emphasis on the possessive pronoun _my_; who understand literally, and
expect that their spouses should adhere punctually to every coarse
article of our strange marriage vow.
In certain points of view, my Gabrielle, jealousy is undoubtedly the
strongest proof of an indelicate mind. Yet, if I mistake not, the
delicate, the divine Leonora, is liable to this terrestrial passion.
Yesterday evening, as I was returning from a _stroll_ in the park with
Mr L----, we met Leonora; and methought she looked embarrassed at
meeting us. Heaven knows there was not the slightest occasion for
embarrassment, and I could not avoid being surprised at such weakness, I
had almost said folly, in a woman of Leonora's sense, especially as she
knows how my heart is attached. In the first moments of our intimacy my
confidence was unbounded, as it ever is in those I love. Aware as I was
of the light in which the prejudices of her education and her country
make her view such connexions, yet I scrupled not, with the utmost
candour, to confess the unfortunate attachment which had ruled my
destiny. After this confidence, do not suspicion and jealousy on her
part appear strange? Were Mr L---- and I shut up for life in the same
prison, were we left together upon a desert island, were we alone in the
universe, I could never think of him. And Leonora does not see this! How
the passions obscure and degrade the finest understandings. But perhaps
I do her injustice, and she felt nothing of what her countenance
expressed. It is certain, however, that she was silent for some moments
after she joined us, from what cause she knows best--so was Mr L----, I
suppose from English awkwardness--so was I, from pure astonishment. At
length, in pity of Leonora, I broke the silence. I had recourse to the
beauties of nature.
"What a heavenly evening!" said I. "We have been listening to the song
of the birds, enjoying this fresh breeze of nature's perfumes." Leonora
said something about the superiority of nature's perfumes to those of
art; and observed, "how much more agreeable the smell of flowers appears
in the open air than in confined rooms." Whilst she spoke she looked at
her husband, as she continually does, for assent and approbation. He
assented, but apparently without knowing what he was saying; and only by
one of his English monosyllables. I alone was at ease.
"Can anything be more beautiful," continued I, looking back, "than the
soft mellow foliage of those woods, and the exquisite tints of their
rich colouring? What delicious melancholy such an evening spreads over
the heart!--what reflections!--what recollections!--O Leonora, look at
the lights upon that mountain, and the deep shadows upon the lake below.
Just such scenes have I admired, by such have I been entranced in
Switzerland."
Leonora put her arm within mine--she seemed to have no objection to my
thoughts going back to Switzerland--I sighed--she pressed my hand
affectionately--I wiped the starting tear from my eye. Mr L---- looked
at me with something like surprise whilst I repeated involuntarily--
"I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you,
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew."
I paused, recollecting myself, struck with _the ridicule_ of repeating
verses, and of indulging feelings in which no one perhaps sympathized.
"Those are beautiful lines," said Leonora: "that poem has always been a
favourite of mine."
"And of mine, also," said Mr L----.
"I prefer Beattie's Hermit to all other hermits," said Leonora.
I was not in a mood calmly to discuss with her a point of criticism--I
walked on in reverie: but in this I was not allowed to indulge. Mr L----
asked if I could not recollect some more of the Hermit--I pleaded the
worst memory in the world--a memory that can never recollect any poem
perfectly by rote, only the touches of genius or sensibility that strike
me--and those are so few!
"But in this poem there are so many," said Leonora. I am sure she
insisted only to please her husband, and pleaded against her real
feelings purposely to conceal them. He persisted in his request, with
more warmth than usual. I was compelled to rouse myself from my reverie,
and to call back my distant thoughts. I repeated all that I could
recollect of the poem. Mr L---- paid me a profusion of compliments upon
the sweetness of my voice, and my taste in reciting. He was pleased to
find that my manner and tones gave an Italian expression to English
poetry, which to him was a peculiar charm. It reminded him of some
signora, whom he had known at Florence. This was the first time I had
learned that he had been abroad. I was going to explore the foreign
field of conversation which he thus opened; but just at that moment
Leonora withdrew her arm from mine, and I fancied that she coloured.
This might be only my fancy, or the natural effect of her stooping to
gather a flower. We were now within sight of the castle. I pointed to
one of the turrets over a Gothic window, upon which the gleams of the
setting sun produced a picturesque effect; my glove happened to be off,
and Leonora unluckily saw that her husband's eyes were fixed upon my
arm, instead of the turret to which I was pointing. 'Twas a trifle which
I never should have noticed, had she not forced it upon my attention.
She actually turned pale. I had the presence of mind not to put on my
glove.
I must observe more accurately; I must decide whether this angelic
Leonora is or is not susceptible of the mortal passion ycleped jealousy.
I confess my curiosity is awakened.
Adieu, my ever amiable Gabrielle.
Olivia.
Letter xxij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
When the passions are asleep we are apt to fancy they are dead. I verily
thought that curiosity was dead within me, it had lain so long dormant
while stronger and tenderer sentiments waked in full activity; but now
that absence and distance from their object lull them to temporary
repose, the vulgar subordinate passions are roused, and take their turn
to reign. My curiosity was so strongly excited upon the subject of
Leonora's jealousy, that I could not rest, without attempting to obtain
satisfaction. Blame me not, dearest Gabrielle, for in my situation you
would inevitably have done the same, only that you would have done it
with more address; with that peculiar, inimitable address, which I envy
above all your accomplishments. But address is a delicate native of
France, and though it may now and then exist as a stranger, I doubt
whether it can ever be naturalized in our rude climate. All the attempts
I have made are, however, encouraging enough--you shall judge. My object
was, to ascertain the existence or non-existence of Leonora's jealousy.
I set about it with a tolerably careless assurance, and followed up the
hint, which accident had thrown out for my ingenuity to work upon. You
remember, or at least I remember, that Leonora withdrew her arm from
mine, and stooped to gather a flower at the moment when her husband
mentioned Florence, and the resemblance of my voice to that of some
Italian charmer. The next day I happened to play some of my sweetest
Italian airs, and to accompany them with my voice. The music-room opens
into the great hall: Leonora and her husband were in the hall, talking
to some visitors. The voices were soon hushed, as I expected, by the
magic sounds, but, what I did not expect, Leonora was the first who led
the way into the music-room. Was this affectation? These _simple_
characters sometimes baffle all the art of the decipherer. I should have
been clear that it was affectation, had Leonora been prodigal of
compliments on my performance; but she seemed only to listen for her own
pleasure, and left it to Mr L---- to applaud. Whilst I was preparing to
play over again the air which pleased him most, the two little nephews
came running to beg Leonora would follow them to look at some trifle,
some coloured shadow, upon the garden-wall, I think they said: she let
them lead her off, leaving _us_ together. This did not seem like
jealousy. I was more at a loss than ever, and determined to make fresh
and more decisive experiments. Curiosity, you know, is heightened by
doubt. To cure myself of curiosity it is necessary therefore to put my
mind out of doubt. Admire the practical application of metaphysics! But
metaphysics always make you yawn. Adieu for to-day.
Olivia.
Letter xxiij.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
L---- Castle.
Dear Margaret, an uncle of mine, who ever since I can remember seemed to
me cut out for an old bachelor, writes me word that he is just going to
be married, and that I must grace his nuptials. I cannot refuse, for he
has always been very kind to me, and we have no right to cut people out
for old bachelors. That I am sorry to leave Leonora it is superfluous to
tell you; but this is the melancholy part of the business, on which I
make it a principle to dwell as little as possible.
Lady Olivia must be heartily glad that I am going, for I have been
terribly troublesome to her by my gaiety and my _simplicity_. I shall
lose all the pleasure I had promised myself in seeing the _denouement_
of the comedy of _The Sentimental Coquette_, or, _The Heroine Unmasked_.
I made Leonora almost angry with me this morning, by a hint or two I
gave upon this subject. She looked so very grave, that I was afraid of
my own thoughts, and I dared not explain myself farther. Intimate as I
am with her, there are points on which I am sure that she would never
make me her confidante. I think that she has not been in her usual good
spirits lately; and though she treats Olivia with uniform kindness, and
betrays not, even to my watchful eyes, the slightest symptom of
jealousy, yet I suspect that she sees what is going forward, and she
suffers in secret. Now if she would let me explain myself, I could set
her heart at ease, by the assurance that Mr L---- is only acting a part.
If her affection for her husband did not almost blind her, she would
have as much penetration as I have--which you will allow, my dear
Margaret, is saying a great deal.
Yours affectionately,
Helen C----.
Letter xxiv.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Congratulate me, my charming Gabrielle, upon being delivered from the
unfeeling gaiety of that friend of Leonora, that Helen of whom I
formerly sent you a too flattering portrait. Her departure relieves me
from many painful sensations. Dissonance to a musical ear is not more
horrid than want of harmony between characters to the soul of
sensibility. Between Helen and me there was a perpetual discord of ideas
and sentiments, which fatigued me inexpressibly. Besides, I began to
consider her as a spy upon my actions. But there, I believe, I did her
injustice, for she was too much occupied with her own trifling thoughts
to have any alarming powers of observation.
Since her departure we have been very gay. Yesterday we had a large
company at dinner; some of the neighbouring families, whom I expected to
find mere country visitors, that were come a dozen miles to show their
antediluvian finery, retire half an hour after dinner, spoil coffee with
cream, say nothing, but at their appointed hours rise, ring for their
superb carriages, and go home by moonlight. However, to my astonishment,
I found myself in a society of well-bred, well-informed persons; the
women ready to converse, and the men, even after dinner, not impatient
to get rid of them. Two or three of the company had travelled, and I was
glad to talk to them of Italy, Switzerland, and France. Mr L---- I knew
would join in this conversation. I discovered that he came to Florence
just as I was leaving it. I was to have been at our ambassador's one
evening when he was there; but a headache prevented me. These little
coincidences, you know, my Gabrielle, draw people closer together. I
remember to have heard of a Mr L---- at Florence, who was a passionate
admirer of our sex. He was then unmarried. I little thought that this
was the same person. Beneath a cold exterior these Englishmen often
conceal a wondrous quantity of enthusiasm--volcanoes under snow.
Curiosity, dear indefatigable curiosity, supported me through the labour
of clearing away the snow, and I came to indubitable traces of
unextinguished and unextinguishable fire. The character of L---- is
quite different from what I had imagined it to be. It is _an excellent
study_. We had a long and interesting conversation upon national
manners, especially upon those of the females of all nations. He
concluded by quoting the words of your friend M. le Vicomte de Segur,
"If I were permitted to choose, I should prefer a French woman for my
friend, an English woman for my wife, and a Polish lady for my
mistress."
From this, it seems, that I am mistaken about the Italian signora, or
else Mr L---- has an enlarged charity for the graces of all
nations.--More subject for curiosity.