steps of the great hall, looking at a fine effect of moonlight, and I
pointed out the shadow of the arches of a bridge. From moonlight we went
on to lamplight, and many pretty things were said about art and nature.
A gentleman, who had just returned from Paris, talked of the reflection
of the lamps in the Seine, which one sees in crossing the Pont-Royal,
and which, as he said, appear like a colonnade of fire. As soon as he
had finished _prosing_ about his colonnade, I turned to Mr L----, and
asked if he remembered the account which Coxe the traveller gives of
the Polish princess Czartoryski's charming _fete champetre_ and the
illuminated rustic bridge of one arch, the reflection of which in the
water was so strong as to deceive the eye, and to give the whole the
appearance of a brilliant circle suspended in the air. Mr L---- seemed
enchanted with my description, and eagerly said that he would some night
have a bridge in his improvements illuminated, that _we_ (half-gallant
Englishman!) might see the effect. I carelessly replied, that probably
it would have a good effect: I would then have talked on other subjects
to the lady next me: but an Englishman cannot suddenly change the course
of his conversation. Mr L---- still persisted in asking a variety of
questions about this Polish fete. I excused myself: for if you satisfy
curiosity you are no longer sublime; besides it is so pedantic to
remember _accurately_ anything one meets with in books. I assured him
that I had forgotten the particulars.
My countrymen are wondrous persevering, when once roused. This morning,
when I came down to breakfast, I found Mr L---- with a volume of Coxe's
travels in his hand. He read aloud to Leonora the whole description of
the illuminated gardens, and of a Turkish tent of curious workmanship,
and of a pavilion supported by pillars ornamented with wreaths of
flowers. Leonora's birthday is some time in the next month; and her
husband, probably to prevent any disagreeable little feelings, proposed
that the _fete champetre_ he designed to give should be on that day. She
seemed rather to discourage the thing. Now to what should this
indifference be attributed? To jealousy I should positively decide, but
that two reasons oppose this idea, and keep me in doubt. She was not
within hearing at the moonlight conference, and knew nothing of my
having mentioned the Polish fete, or of her husband's having proposed to
illuminate the bridge for me. Besides, I remember the other day when
she was reading the new French novel you sent me, she expressed great
dislike to the sentimental fetes which the lover prepares for his
mistress. I would give more than I dare tell you, my dear Gabrielle, to
be able to decide whether she is jealous of me or not. But where was
I?--Mr L----, who had set his heart upon the _fete champetre_,
persisted, and combatted her antipathy by reason. Foolish man! he should
have tried compliments, or caresses--if I had not been present.
"My dear Leonora," said he, "I think you carry your dislike to these
things too far. They are more according to the French than to the
English taste, I know; but we should not be influenced by national
prejudice. I detest the ostentation and the affectation of sentiment as
much as you can; but where the real feeling exists, every mode of
showing kindness is agreeable. You must let us have this little fete on
your birthday. Besides the pleasure it will give me, I really think it
is useful to mix ideas of affection with amusement."
She smiled most graciously, and replied, that she would with pleasure
accept of kindness in any form from him. In short, she was willing to
have the fete, when it was clearly explained that she was to be the
object of it. Is not this proof positive of jealousy? And yet my
curiosity is not thoroughly satisfied. I must go on; for Leonora's sake
I must go on. When I have been assured of the truth, I shall know how to
conduct myself; and you, who know my heart, will do me the justice to
believe, that when I am convinced of my friend's weakness, I shall spare
it with the most delicate caution: but till I am convinced, I am in
perpetual danger of blundering by my careless, inadvertent innocence.
You smile, Gabrielle; dear malicious Gabrielle, even in your malice you
are charming! Adieu! Pray for the speedy extinction of my curiosity.
Olivia.
Letter xxv.
_Leonora to her mother._
You say, my dearest mother, that of late my letters have been more
constrained and less cheerful than usual, and you conjure me not to
conceal from you anything which may concern my happiness. I have ever
found you my best and most indulgent friend, and there is not a thought
or feeling of my mind, however weak or foolish, that I desire to conceal
from you. No one in this world is more--is so much interested in my
happiness; and in every doubtful situation I have always been accustomed
to apply to your unerring judgment for assistance. Your strength of
mind, your enlightened affection, would support and direct me, would at
once show me how I ought to act, and inspire me with courage and
fortitude sufficient to be worthy of your esteem, and of my own. At no
period of my life, not even when my heart first felt the confused
sensations of a passion that was new to it, did I ever want or wish for
a friend so much as at this instant: and yet I hesitate whether I ought
to ask even your advice, whether I ought to indulge myself in speaking
of my feelings even to my mother. I refrained from giving the slightest
intimation of them to my dear Helen, though she often led to this
subject, and seemed vexed by my reserve. I thought it not right to
accept of her sympathy. From her kindness I had every consolation to
expect, but no assistance from her counsels, because she does not
understand Mr L----'s character, and I could plainly perceive that she
had an erroneous idea so fixed in her fancy, as to prevent her seeing
things in their true light. I am afraid of imputing blame where I most
wish to avoid it: I fear to excite unjust suspicions; I dread that if I
say the whole you will imagine that I mean much more than I say.
I have not been quite well lately, and my mind probably is more apt to
be alarmed than it would be if my health were stronger. All that I
apprehend may exist merely in my own distempered imagination. Do not
then suppose others are to blame, when perhaps I only am in fault. I
have for some time past been dissatisfied with myself, and have had
reason to be so; I do not say this from any false humility; I despise
that affectation; but I say it with a sincere desire, that you may
assist me to cure myself of a weakness, which, if it were to grow upon
my mind, must render me miserable, and might destroy the happiness of
the person I love best upon earth. You know that I am not naturally or
habitually of a suspicious temper, but I am conscious of having lately
felt a disposition to jealousy. I have been spoiled by the excessive
attention which my husband paid to me in the first year of our marriage.
You warned me not to fancy that he could continue always a lover. I did
not, at least I tried not to expect such an impossibility. I was
prepared for the change, at least I thought I was: yet now the time, the
inevitable time is come, and I have not the fortitude to bear it as I
ought. If I had never known what it was to possess his love, I might
perhaps be content with his friendship. If I could feel only friendship
for him, I should now, possibly, be happy. I know that I have the first
place in his esteem: I do believe--I should be miserable indeed if I
did not believe--that I have the first place in his affection. But this
affection is certainly different from what it once was. I wish I could
forget the difference. No: I retract that wish; however painful the
comparison, the recollection of times that are past is delightful to my
heart. Yet, my dear mother, if such times are never to return, it would
be better for me to forget that they have ever been. It would be wiser
not to let my imagination recur to the past, which could then tend only
to render me discontented with the present and with the future. The
FUTURE! how melancholy that word sounds to me! What a dreary length of
prospect it brings to my view! How young I am, how many years may I have
to live, and how little motive have I left in life! Those which used to
act most forcibly upon me, have now scarcely power to move my mind. The
sense of duty, it is true, raises me to some degree of exertion; I hope
that I do not neglect the education of the two children whom my poor
sister bequeathed to my care. When my mind was at ease, they were my
delight; but now I feel that I am rather interrupted than interested by
their childish gaiety and amusements.
I am afraid that I am growing selfish, and I am sure that I have become
shamefully indolent. I go on with certain occupations every day from
habit, not from choice; my mind is not in them. I used to flatter myself
that I did many things, from a sense of duty and of general benevolence,
which I am convinced were done merely from a particular wish to please,
and to make myself more and more beloved by the object of my fondest
affection. Disappointed in this hope, I sink into indolence, from which
the desire to entertain my friends is not sufficient to rouse me. Helen
has been summoned away; but I believe I told you that Mr and Mrs F**,
whose company is peculiarly agreeable to my taste, and Lady M***** and
her amiable daughters, and your witty friend *****, are with us. In such
society, I am ashamed of being stupid; yet I cannot contribute to the
amusement of the company, and I feel surprised at their animation and
sprightliness. It seems as if I was looking on at dances without hearing
any music. Sometimes I fear that my silence should be observed, and then
I begin to talk without well knowing what I am saying. I confine myself
to the most commonplace subjects, and hesitate, from the dread of saying
something quite foreign to the purpose. What must Mr L---- think of my
stupidity? But he does not, I believe, perceive it: he is so much
occupied with--with other objects. I am glad that he does not see all
that passes in my mind, for he might despise me if he knew that I am so
miserable. I did not mean to use so strong an expression; but now it is
written, I will not blot it out, lest you should fancy something worse
than the reality. I am not, however, yet so weak as to be seriously
_miserable_ when I have no real cause to be so. The truth is----. Now
you know this phrase is a tacit confession that all that has been said
before is false. The real truth is----. By my prefacing so long you may
be sure that I have reason to be ashamed of this real truth's coming
out. The real truth is, that I have been so long accustomed to be the
first and _only_ object of Mr L----'s thoughts, that I cannot bear to
see him think of anything else. Yes, _things_ I can bear, but not
_persons_--female persons; and there is one person here who is so much
more agreeable and entertaining than I am, that she engrosses very
naturally almost all his attention. I am not _envious_, I am sure; for I
could once admire all Lady Olivia's talents and accomplishments, and no
one could be more charmed than I was with her fascinating manners and
irresistible powers of pleasing; but when those irresistible powers may
rob me of the heart of my beloved husband--of the whole happiness of my
life--how can I admire them? All I can promise is to preserve my mind
from the meanness of suspicion. I can do my rival justice. I can
believe, and entreat you to believe, that she does not wish to be my
rival: that she is perfectly innocent of all design to injure me, and
that she is not aware of the impression she has made. I, who know every
change of Mr L----'s countenance, every inflexion of his voice, every
turn of his mind, can see too plainly what she cannot discern. I should
indeed have thought, that no woman, whom he distinguished or preferred
in any degree, could avoid perceiving it, his manner is so expressive,
so flattering; but perhaps this appears so only to me--a woman who does
not love him may see things very differently. Lady Olivia can be in no
danger, because her heart, fortunately for me, is prepossessed in favour
of another; and a woman whose heart is occupied by one object is
absolutely blind, as I well know, to all others. With this security I
ought to be satisfied; for I believe no one inspires a lasting passion
without sharing it.
I am summoned to give my opinion about certain illuminations and
decoration for a _fete champetre_ which Mr L---- is so kind as to give
in honour of my birthday--just at the time I am complaining of his
neglect!----No, dear mother, I hope I have not complained of _him_, but
of _myself_:--and it is your business to teach your daughter to be more
reasonable. Write soon and fully to
Your affectionate
Leonora.
Letter xxvi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
This fine fete champetre is over.--Expect no description of it from me,
Gabrielle, for I am horribly out of humour. The whole pleasure of the
evening was destroyed by the most foolish circumstance imaginable.
Leonora's jealousy is now evident to more eyes than mine. No farther
doubt upon the subject can remain. My curiosity is satisfied; but I am
now left to reproach myself for having gone so far to ascertain what I
ought to have taken for granted. All these good English wives are
jealous; so jealous, that no one, who has any pretensions to beauty,
wit, or _amiability_, can live with them. They can have no _society_ in
our sense of the word; of course they must live shut up in their own
dismal houses with their own stupid families, the faithful husband and
wife sitting opposite to each other in their own chimney corners,
yawning models of constancy. And this they call virtue! How the meanest
vices usurp the name of virtue! Leonora's is a jealousy of the most
illiberal and degrading species; a jealousy of the temper, not of the
heart. She is too cold to feel the passion of love.--She never could be
in love; of that I am certain. She is too reasonable, too prudish.
Besides, to imagine that she could be in love with her own husband, and
after eighteen months' marriage--the thing is absurd! the thing is
impossible! No, she deceives herself or him, or both, if she pretends
that her jealousy arises from love, from what you and I, Gabrielle,
understand by the word. Passion, and passion only, can plead a just
excuse for its own excesses. Were Leonora in love, I could pardon her
jealousy. But now I despise it. Yes, with all her high reputation, and
_imposing_ qualities, I must think of her with contempt. And now that I
have given vent to my feelings with that freedom in which I ever indulge
myself in writing to you, my amiable Gabrielle, chosen friend of my
heart, I will compose myself, and give you a rational account of things.
You know that I am said to have some taste. Leonora makes no pretensions
to any. Wishing, I suppose, that her fete should be as elegant as
possible, she consulted me about all the arrangements and decorations.
It was I that did everything. My skill and taste were admired by the
whole company, and especially by Mr L----. He was in remarkably good
spirits at the commencement of the evening; quite gay and gallant: he
certainly paid me a great deal of attention, and it was natural he
should; for besides being his guest, I was undoubtedly the most elegant
woman present. My fame had gone abroad; I found that I was the object of
general attention. To this I have been tolerably well accustomed all my
life; enough at least to prevent me from giving any visible sign of
being moved by admiration in whatever form it comes; whether in the
polite foreign glance, or the broad English stare. The starers enjoyed
their pleasure, and I mine: I moved and talked, I smiled or was pensive,
as though I saw them not; nevertheless the homage of their gaze was not
lost upon me. You know, my charming Gabrielle, one likes to observe the
_sensation_ one produces amongst new people. The incense that I
perceived in the surrounding atmosphere was just powerful enough to
affect my nerves agreeably: that languor which you have so often
reproached me for indulging in the company of what we call
_indifferents_ gradually dissipated; and, as poor R*** used to say of
me, I came from behind my cloud like the sun in all its glory. I was
such as you have seen me, Gabrielle, in my best days, in my best
moments, in my very best style. I wonder what would excite me to such a
waste of powers. L---- seemed inspired too: he really was quite
agreeable, and showed me off almost as well as R*** himself could have
done. I had no idea that he had this species of talent. You will never
know of what my countrymen are capable, for you are out of patience with
the statues the first half hour: now it takes an amazing time to animate
them; but they can be waked into life, and I have a pride in conquering
difficulties.--There were more men this night in proportion to the women
than one usually sees in English company, consequently it was more
agreeable. I was surrounded by an admiring audience, and my conversation
of course was sufficiently general to please all, and sufficiently
particular to distinguish the man whom I wished to animate. In all this
you will say there was nothing to put one out of humour, nothing very
mortifying:--but stay, my fair philosopher, do not judge of the day till
you see its end.--Leonora was so hid from my view by the crowd of
adorers, that I really did not discern her, or suspect her jealousy. I
was quite natural; I thought only of myself; I declined all invitations
to dance, declaring that it was so long since I had tried an English
country dance, that I dared not expose my awkwardness. French country
dances were mentioned, but I preferred conversation. At last L----
persecuted me to try a Polish dance with him--a multitude of voices
overpowered me. I have not the talent which some of my countrywomen
possess in such perfection, of being obstinate about trifles. When I can
refuse with grace, 'tis well; but when that is no longer possible, it is
my principle, or my weakness, to yield. I was surprised to find that
L---- danced admirably. I became animated. You know how dancing animates
me, when I have a partner who _can_ dance--a thing not very common in
this country. We ended by _waltzing_, first in the Polish, and
afterwards in the Parisian manner. I certainly surpassed myself--I flew,
I was borne upon the wings of the wind, I floated on the notes of the
music. Animated or languid in every gradation of grace and sentiment, I
abandoned myself to the inspiration of the moment; I was all soul, and
the spectators were all admiration. To you, my Gabrielle, I may speak
thus of myself without vanity: you know the sensation I was accustomed
to produce at Paris; you may guess then what the effect must be here,
where such a style of dancing has all the captivation of novelty. Had I
doubted that my _success_ was complete, I should have been assured of it
by the faces of some prudes among the matrons, who affected to think
that the waltz was _too much_. As L---- was leading, or rather
supporting me to my seat, for I was quite exhausted, I overheard a
gentleman, who was at no great distance from the place where Leonora was
standing, whisper to his neighbour, "Le Valse extreme est la volupte
permise." I fancy Leonora overheard these words, as well as myself, for
my eyes met hers at this instant, and she coloured, and directly looked
another way. L---- neither heard nor saw anything of all this: he was
intent upon procuring me a seat; and an Englishman can never see or
think of two things at a time. A few minutes afterwards, whilst he was
fanning me, a young awkward peasant girl, quite a stranger in this
country, came up to me, and dropping her novice curtsy, said, "Here's a
ring, my lady, I found on the grass; they tell me it is yours, my lady!"
"No, my good girl, it is not mine," said I.
"It is Lady Leonora's," said Mr L----.
At the sound of her name Leonora came forward.
The girl looked alternately at us.
"Can you doubt," cried Colonel A----, "which of these ladies is Mr
L----'s wife?"
"O no, sir; this is she, _to be sure_," said the girl, pointing to me.
What there was in the girl's accent, or in L----'s look, when she
pronounced the words, or in mine, or in all three together, I cannot
exactly describe; but Leonora felt it. She turned as pale as death. I
looked as unconscious as I could. L---- went on fanning me, without
seeing his wife's change of countenance. Leonora--would you believe
it?--sank upon a bench behind us, and fainted. How her husband started,
when he felt her catch by his arm as she fell! He threw down the fan,
left me, ran for water--"O, Lady Leonora! Lady Leonora is ill!"
exclaimed every voice. The consternation was wonderful. They carried her
ladyship to a spot where she could have free air. I was absolutely in an
instant left alone, and seemingly as much forgotten as if I had never
existed! I was indeed so much astonished, that I could not stir from the
place where I stood; till recollecting myself, I pushed my way through
the crowd, and came in view of Leonora just as she opened her eyes. As
soon as she came to herself, she made an effort to stand, saying that
she was quite well again, but that she would go into the house and
repose herself for a few minutes. As she rose, a hundred arms were
offered at once to her assistance. She stepped forward; and to my
surprise, and I believe to the surprise of everybody else, took mine,
made a sign to her husband not to follow us, and walked quickly towards
the house. Her woman, with a face of terror, met us, as we were going
into Lady Leonora's apartment, with salts and hartshorn, and I know not
what in her hands.
"I am quite well, quite well again; I do not want anything; I do not
want anything. I do not want you, Mason," said Leonora. "Lady Olivia is
so good as to assist me. I am come in only to rest for a few minutes."
The woman gave me an evil look, and left the room. Never did I wish
anything more than that she should have staid. I was absolutely so
embarrassed, so distressed, when I found myself alone with Leonora, that
I knew not what to say. I believe I began with a sentence about the
night air, that was very little to the purpose. The sight of some
baby-linen which the maid had been making suggested to me something
which I thought more appropriate.
"My dear creature!" said I, "why will you fatigue yourself so terribly,
and stand so much and so long in your situation?"
Leonora neither accepted nor rejected my interpretation of what had
passed. She made no reply; but fixed her eyes upon me as if she would
have read my very soul. Never did I see or feel eyes so expressive or so
powerful as hers were at this moment. Mine absolutely fell beneath them.
What deprived me of presence of mind I know not; but I was utterly
without common sense. I am sure I changed colour, and Leonora must have
seen it through my rouge, for I had only the slightest tinge upon my
cheeks. The consciousness that she saw me blush disconcerted me beyond
recovery; it is really quite unaccountable: I trembled all over as I
stood before her; I was forced to have recourse to the hartshorn and
water, which stood upon the table. Leonora rose and threw open the
window to give me fresh air. She pressed my hand, but rather with an air
of forgiveness than of affection; I was mortified and vexed; but my
pride revived me.
"We had better return to the company as soon as possible, I believe,"
said she, looking down at the moving crowd below.
"I am ready to attend you, my dear," said I coldly, "whenever you feel
yourself sufficiently rested and composed."
She left the room, and I followed. You have no idea of the solicitude
with which the people hoped she was _better_--and _well_--and _quite
well_, &c. What amazing importance a fainting fit can sometimes bestow!
Her husband seemed no longer to have any eyes or soul but for her. At
supper, and during the rest of the night, she occupied the whole
attention of everybody present. Can you conceive anything so provoking?
But L---- must be an absolute fool!--Did he never see a woman faint
before?--He cannot pretend to be in love with his wife--I do not
understand it.--But this I know, that he has been totally different in
his manner towards me these three days past.
And now that my curiosity is satisfied about Leonora's jealousy, I shall
absolutely perish with ennui in this stupid place. Adieu, dearest
Gabrielle! How I envy you! The void of my heart is insupportable. I must
have some passion to keep me alive. Forward any letters from poor R***,
if he has written under cover to you.
Olivia.
Letter xxvij.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
Take courage, my beloved daughter; take courage. Have a just confidence
in yourself and in your husband. For a moment he may be fascinated by
the arts of an unprincipled woman; for a moment she may triumph over his
senses, and his imagination; but of his esteem, his affection, his
heart, she cannot rob you. These have been, ought to be, will be yours.
Trust to your mother's prophecy, my child. You may trust to it securely:
for, well as she loves you--and no mother ever loved a daughter
better--she does not soothe you with mere words of doting fondness; she
speaks to you the language of reason and of truth.
I know what such a man as Mr L---- must esteem and love; I know of what
such a woman as my daughter is capable, when her whole happiness, and
the happiness of all that is dear to her, are at stake. The loss of
temporary admiration and power, the transient preference shown to a
despicable rival, will not provoke you to imprudent reproach, nor sink
you to helpless despair. The arts of an Olivia might continue to deceive
your husband, if he were a fool; or to please him, if he were a
libertine: but he has a heart formed for love, he cannot therefore be a
libertine: he is a man of superior abilities, and knows women too well
to be a dupe. With a penetrating and discriminative judgment of
character, he is a nice observer of female manners; his taste is
delicate even to excess; under a cold exterior he has a vivid
imagination and strong sensibility; he has little vanity, but a
superabundance of pride; he wishes to be ardently loved, but this he
conceals; it is difficult to convince him that he is beloved, and
scarcely possible to satisfy him by any common proofs of attachment. A
coquette will never attach Mr L----. The admiration which others might
express for her charms and accomplishments would never pique him to
competition: far from seeking "to win her praise whom all admire," he
would disdain to enter the lists with the vulgar multitude: a heart in
which he had a probability of holding only divided empire would not
appear to him worth the winning. As a coquette whatever may be her
talents, graces, accomplishments, and address, you have nothing
seriously to fear from Lady Olivia.
But, my dear, Mr L----'s mind may be in a situation to require
amusement. That species of apathy which succeeds to passion is not, as
the inexperienced imagine, the death of love, but the necessary and
salutary repose from which it awakens refreshed and revived. Mr L----'s
passion for you has been not only tender, but violent, and the calm
which inevitably succeeds should not alarm you.
When a man feels that his fondness for a wife is suspended, he is uneasy
in her company, not only from the sense of decreased pleasure, but from
the fear of her observation and detection. If she reproach him, affairs
become worse; he blames himself, he fears to give pain whenever he is in
her presence: if he attempt to conceal his feelings, and to appear what
he is no longer--a lover, his attempts are awkward; he becomes more and
more dissatisfied with himself; and the person who compels him to this
hypocrisy, who thus degrades him in his own eyes, must certainly be in
danger of becoming an object of aversion. A wife, who has sense enough
to abstain from all reproaches, direct or indirect, by word or look, may
reclaim her husband's affections: the bird escapes from his cage, but
returns to his nest.
I am glad that you have agreeable company at your house; they will amuse
Mr L----, and relieve you from the necessity of taking a share in any
conversation that you dislike. Our witty friend ***** will supply your
share of conversation; and as to your silence, remember that witty
people are always content with those who _act audience_.
I rejoice that you persist in your daily occupations. To a mind like
yours, the sense of performing your duty will, next to religion, be the
firmest support upon which you can rely.
Perhaps, my dear, even when you read this, you will still be inclined to
justify Lady Olivia, and to conceal from your heart the suspicions which
her conduct excites. I am not surprised that you should find it
difficult to believe that one to whom you have behaved so generously
should treat you with treachery and ingratitude. I am not surprised,
that you who feel what it is to love, should think that a woman whose
heart is occupied by attachment to one object must be incapable of
thinking of any other. But love in such a heart as yours is totally
different from what it is in the fancy of these heroines. In their
imagination the objects are as fleeting as the pictures in the clouds
chased by the wind.
From Lady Olivia expect nothing; depend only on yourself. When you
become, as you soon must, completely convinced that the woman in whom
your unsuspecting soul confided is utterly unworthy of your esteem,
refrain from all imprudent expressions of indignation. I despise--you
will soon hate--your rival; but in the moment of detection think of what
is due to yourself, and act as calmly as if you had never loved her. She
will suffer no pain from the loss of your friendship: she has not a
heart that can value it. Probably she is envious of you. All these women
desire to mortify those whom they cannot degrade to their own level: and
I am inclined to suspect that this malevolent feeling, joined to the
want of occupation, may be the cause of her present conduct. Her
manoeuvres will not ultimately succeed. She will be deserted by Mr
L----, disappointed and disgraced, and your husband will be more yours
than ever. When this happy moment comes, my Leonora; when your husband
returns, preferring yours to all other society, then will be the time to
exert all your talents, all your charms, to prove your superiority in
everything, but most in love. The soothings of female tenderness, in
certain situations, have power not only to calm the feelings of
self-reproach, but to diffuse delight over the soul of man. The oil,
which the skilful mariner throws upon the sea, not only smooths the
waves in the storm, but when the sun shines, spreads the most beautiful
colours over the surface of the waters.
My dear daughter, though your mother writes seemingly at her ease, you
must not fancy that she does not feel for you. Do not imagine, that in
the coldness of extinguished passions, and in the pride of counselling
age, your mother expects to charm agony with words. No, my child, I am
not so absurd, so cruel. Your letter forced tears from eyes, which are
not used like sentimental eyes to weep upon every trifling occasion. My
first wish was to set out immediately to see you; but whatever
consolation or pleasure my company might afford, I believe it might be
disadvantageous to you in your present circumstances. I could not be an
hour in the room with this Lady Olivia, without showing some portion of
the indignation and contempt that I feel for her conduct. This warmth of
mine might injure you in your husband's opinion. Though you would have
too strong a sense of propriety, and too much dignity of mind, to make
complaints of your husband to me, or to any one living; yet it might be
supposed that your mother was your confidante in secret, and your
partisan in public: this might destroy your domestic happiness. No
husband can or ought to endure the idea of his wife's caballing against
him. I admire and shall respect your dignified silence.
And now fare you well, my dearest child. May God bless you! If a
mother's prayers could avail, you would be the happiest of human beings.
I do, without partiality, believe you to be one of the best and most
amiable of women.
Letter xxviij.
_Leonora to her mother._
Had your letter, my dearest mother, reached me a few hours sooner, I
should not have exposed myself as I have done.
Yesterday, at our _fete champetre_, you would have been ashamed of me. I
am ashamed of myself. I did the very reverse of what I ought, of what I
would have done, if I had been fortified by your counsel. Instead of
being calm and dignified, I was agitated beyond all power of control. I
lost all presence of mind, all common sense, all recollection.
I know your contempt for swooning heroines. What will you say, when you
hear that your daughter fainted--fainted in public? I believe, however,
that, as soon as I recovered, I had sufficient command over myself to
prevent the accident from being attributed to--to--to the real cause,
and I hope that the very moment I came to my recollection, my manner
towards Lady Olivia was such as to preclude all possibility of her being
blamed or even suspected. From living much abroad, she has acquired a
certain freedom of manner, and latitude of thinking, which expose her to
suspicion; but of all serious intention to injure me, or to pass the
bounds of propriety, I totally acquit her. She is not to blame for the
admiration she excites, nor is she to be the sufferer for my weakness
of mind or of health.
Great and unreasonable folly I am sure I showed--but I shall do so no
more.
The particular circumstances I need not explain: you may be assured,
that wherever I think it right to be silent, nothing shall tempt me to
speak: but I understood, by the conclusion of your letter, that you
expect me to preserve an absolute silence upon this subject in future:
this I will not promise. I cannot conceive that I, who do not mean to
injure any human being, ought, because I am unhappy, and when I am most
in want of a friend, to be precluded from the indulgence of speaking of
what is nearest my heart to that dear, safe, most enlightened, and
honourable of friends, who has loved, guided, instructed, and encouraged
me in everything that is right from my infancy. Why should I be refused
all claim to sympathy? why must my thoughts and feelings be shut up in
my own breast? and why must I be an isolated being, prescribed from
commerce with my own family, with my beloved mother, to whom I have been
accustomed to tell every feeling and idea as they rose? No; to all that
is honourable I will strictly conform; but by the superstition of
prudence I do not hold myself bound.
Nothing could be kinder than my husband's conduct to me the evening
after I was taken ill. He left home early this morning; he is gone to
meet his friend, General B----, who has just returned from abroad. I
hope that Mr L---- will be absent only a few days; for it would be fatal
to my happiness if he should find amusement at a distance from home. His
home at all events shall never be made a cage to him; when he returns I
will exert myself to the utmost to make it agreeable. This I hope can be
done without obtruding my company upon him, or putting myself in
competition with any person. I could wish that some fortunate accident
might induce Lady Olivia to leave us before Mr L----'s return. Had I the
same high opinion of her generosity that I once formed, had I the same
perfect confidence in her integrity and in her friendship for me, I
would go this moment and tell her all that passes in my heart: no
humiliation of my vanity would cost me anything if it could serve the
interests of my love; no mean pride could stand in my mind against the
force of affection. But there is a species of pride which I cannot, will
not renounce--believing, as I do, that it is the companion, the friend,
the support of virtue. This pride, I trust, will never desert me: it has
grown with my growth; it was implanted in my character by the education
which my dear mother gave me; and now, even by her it cannot be
eradicated. Surely I have misunderstood one passage in your letter: you
cannot advise your daughter to restrain just indignation against vice
from any motive of policy or personal interest. You say to me, "In the
moment of detection think of what is due to yourself, and act as calmly
as if you had never loved her." If I _could_, I would not do this.
Contempt shown by virtue is the just punishment of vice, a punishment
which no selfish consideration should mitigate. If I were convinced that
Lady Olivia were guilty, would you have me behave to her as if I
believed her to be innocent? My countenance, my voice, my principles,
would revolt from such mean and pernicious hypocrisy, degrading to the
individual, and destructive to society.
May I never more see the smile of love on the lips of my husband, nor
its expression in his eyes, if I do so degrade myself in my own opinion
and in his! Yes, in his; for would not he, would not any man of sense
or delicacy, recur to that idea so common with his sex, and so just,
that if a woman will sacrifice her sense of honour to her passions in
one instance, she may in another? Would he not argue, "If she will do
this for me because she is in love with me, why not for a new favourite,
if time or accident should make me less an object of passion?" No; I may
lose his love--this would be my misfortune: but to forfeit his esteem
would be my fault; and, under the remorse which I should then have to
endure, I am persuaded that no power of art or nature could sustain my
existence.
So much for myself. As to the general good of society, that, I confess,
is not at this moment the uppermost consideration in my mind; but I will
add a few words on that subject, lest you should imagine me to be
hurried away by my own feelings. Public justice and reason are, I think,
on my side. What would become of the good order of society or the
decency of families, if every politic wife were to receive or invite, or
permit her husband's mistress to reside in her house? What would become
of conjugal virtue in either sex, if the wife were in this manner not
only to connive at the infidelity of her husband, but to encourage and
provide for his inconsistency? If she enters into bonds of amity and
articles of partnership with her rival, with that person by whom she has
been most injured, instead of being the dignified sufferer, she becomes
an object of contempt.
My dearest mother, my most respected friend, my sentiments on this
subject cannot essentially differ from yours. I must have mistaken your
meaning. Pray write quickly, and tell me so; and forgive, if you cannot
approve of, the warmth with which I have spoken.
I am your truly affectionate
And grateful daughter,
Leonora L----.
Letter xxix.
_Olivia to Madame P----._
My amiable Gabrielle, I must be faithful to my promise of writing to you
every week, though this place affords nothing new either in events or
sentiment. Mr L----'s absence made this castle insupportably dull. A few
days ago he returned home, and met me with an easy kind of indifference,
provoking enough to a woman who has been accustomed to excite some
sensation. However, I was rejoiced at this upon Leonora's account. She
was evidently delighted, and her spirits and affections seemed to
overflow involuntarily upon all around her; even to me her manner became
quite frank and cordial, almost caressing. She is really handsome when
she is animated, and her conversation this evening quite surprised me. I
saw something of that playfulness, those light touches, that versatility
of expression, those words that mean more than meet the ear; everything,
in short, that could charm in the most polished foreign society. Leonora
seemed to be inspired with all the art of conversation by the simple
instinct of affection. What astonished me most was the grace with which
she introduced some profound philosophical remarks. "Such pearls," said
Mr L----, "come from the deep."
With all these talents, what might not Leonora be in proper hands! But
now she is nothing except to her husband and a few intimate friends.
However, this is not my affair. Let me go on to what concerns myself.
You may believe, my dear Gabrielle, that I piqued myself upon showing at
least as much easy indifference as was shown to me: freedom encourages
freedom. As there was no danger of my being too amiable, I did not think
myself bound in honour or sentiment to keep myself in the shade; but I
could not be as brilliant as you have seen me at your _soirees_: the
magic circle of adorers, the inspiring power of numbers, the eclat of
public _representation_, were wanting. I retired to my own apartment at
night, quite out of humour with myself; and Josephine, as she undressed
me, put me still further out of patience by an ill-timed history of a
dispute she has had with Leonora's Swiss servant. The Swiss and
Josephine, it seems, came to high words in defence of their mistresses'
charms. Josephine provoked the Swiss by saying, that his lady might
possibly be handsome if she were dressed in the French taste; _mais
qu'elle etoit bien Angloise_, and would be quite another thing if she
had been at Paris. The Swiss retorted by observing, that Josephine's
lady had indeed learnt in perfection at Paris _the art of making herself
up_, which was quite necessary to a beauty _un peu passee_. The words
were not more agreeable to me than they had been to Josephine. I wonder
at her assurance in repeating them--"Un peu passee!" Many a woman in
England, ten, fifteen years older than I am, has inspired a violent
passion; and it has been observed, that power is retained by these
mature charmers, longer than conquest can be preserved by inexperienced
beauties. There are women who have learnt to combine, for their own
advantage, and for that of their captives, all the pleasure and
_conveniences_ of society, all that a thorough knowledge of the world
can give--women who have a sufficient attention to appearances, joined
to a real contempt of all prejudices, especially that of
constancy--women who possess that knowledge of the human heart, which
well compensates transient bloom; who add the expression of sentiment to
beautiful features, and who employ
"Gay smiles to comfort, April showers to move,
And all the nature, all the art of Love."
--"Un peu passee!" The Swiss is impertinent, and knows nothing of the
matter. His master knows but little more. He would, however, know
infinitely more if I could take the trouble to instruct him; to which I
am almost tempted for want of something better to do. Adieu, my
Gabrielle. R***'s silence is perfectly incomprehensible.
Olivia.
Letter xxx.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
So, my amiable Gabrielle, you are really interested in my letters,
_though written during my English exile_, and you are curious to know
whether any of my _potent spells_ can wake into life this man of marble.
I candidly confess you would inspire me with an ambition to raise my
poor countrymen in your opinion, if I were not restrained by the sacred
sentiment of friendship, which forbids me to rival Leonora _even_ in a
husband's opinion.
However, Josephine, who feels herself a party concerned ever since her
battle with the Swiss, has piqued herself upon dressing me with
exquisite taste. I am every day _mise a ravir_!--and with such
perfection of art, that no art appears--all is negligent simplicity. I
let Josephine please herself; for you know I am not bound to be
frightful because I have a friend whose husband may chance to turn his
eye upon my figure, when he is tired of admiring hers. I rallied
L----the other day upon his having no eyes or ears but for his wife. Be
assured I did it in such a manner, that he could not be angry. Then I
went on to a comparison between the _facility_ of French and English
society. He admitted that there was some truth and more wit in my
observations. I was satisfied. With these reasonable men, the grand
point for a woman is to amuse them--they can have logic from their own
sex. But, my Gabrielle, I am summoned to the _salon_, and must finish my
Letter another day.
* * * * *
Heaven! can it be a fortnight since I wrote a line to my
Gabrielle!--Where was I?--"With these reasonable men the grand point for
a woman is to amuse them." True--most true! L----, believing himself
only amused with my lively nonsense, indulged himself with it
continually. I was to believe only what he believed. Presently he could
not do without my conversation for more than two hours together. What
was I to do, my Gabrielle? I walked out to avoid him. He found me in the
woods--rallied me on my taste for solitude, and quoted Voltaire.
This led to a metaphysical conversation, half playful, half
serious:--the distinction which a man sometimes makes to his conscience
between thinking a woman entertaining, and feeling her interesting,
vanishes more easily, and more rapidly, than he is aware of--at least in
certain situations. This was not an observation I could make to my
companion in the woods, and he certainly did not make it for himself. It
would have been vanity in me to have broken off our conversation, lest
he should fall in love with me--it would have been blindness not to have
seen that he was in some danger. I thought of Leonora--and sighed--and
did all that was in my power to put him upon his guard. By way of
preservative, I frankly made him a confession of my attachment to R***.
This I imagined would put things upon a right footing for ever; but, on
the contrary, by convincing him of my innocence, and of my having no
designs on his heart, this candour has, I fear, endangered him still
more; yet I know not what to think--his manner is so variable towards
me--I must be convinced of what his sentiments are before I can decide
what my conduct ought to be. Adieu, my amiable Gabrielle; I wait for
something decisive with an inexpressible degree of anxiety--I will not
now call it curiosity.--Apropos, does R*** wish that I should forget
that he exists? What is this business that detains him? But why do I
condescend to inquire?
Olivia.
Letter xxxi.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
London.
My dear L----,
I send you the horse to which you took a fancy. He has killed one of his
grooms, and lamed two; but you will be his master, and I hope he will
know it.
I have a word to say to you on a more serious subject. Pardon me if I
tell you that I think you are a happy man, and excuse me if I add, that
if you do not keep yourself so I shall not think you a wise one. A good
wife is better than a good-for-nothing mistress.--A self-evident
proposition!--A stupid truism! Yes; but if every man who knows a
self-evident proposition when he sees it on paper always acted as if he
knew it, this would be a very wise and a very happy world; and I should
not have occasion to write this letter.
You say that you are only amusing yourself at the expense of a finished
coquette; take care that she does not presently divert herself at
yours.----"_You are proof against French coquetry and German
sentiment._"----Granted--but a fine woman?--and your own vanity?--But
you have no vanity.----You call it pride then, I suppose. I will not
quarrel with you for a name. Pride, properly managed, will do your
business as well as vanity. And no doubt Lady Olivia knows this as well
as I do. I hope you may never know it better.
I am, my dear friend,
Truly yours,
J. B.
Letter xxxij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Advise me, dearest Gabrielle; I am in a delicate situation; and on your
judgment and purity of heart I have the most perfect reliance. Know,
then, that I begin to believe that Leonora's jealousy was not so
absolutely absurd as I at first supposed. She understood her husband
better than I did. I begin to fear that I have made a serious impression
whilst I meant only to amuse myself. Heaven is my witness, I simply
intended to satisfy my curiosity, and that once gratified, it was my
determination to respect the weakness I discovered. To love Leonora, as
once I imagined I could, is out of my power; but to disturb her peace,
to destroy her happiness, to make use of the confidence she has reposed
in me, the kindness she has shown by making me an inmate of her
house--my soul shudders at these ideas. No--if her husband really loves
me I will fly. Leonora shall see that Olivia is incapable of
treachery--that Olivia has a soul generous and delicate as her own,
though free from the prejudices by which she is fettered. To Leonora a
husband is a lover--I shall consider him as such, and respect her
_property_. You are so little used, my dear Gabrielle, to consider a
husband in this point of view, that you will scarcely enter into my
feelings: but put yourself in my situation, allow for nationality of
principle, and I am persuaded you would act as I shall. Spare me your
raillery; seriously, if Leonora's husband is in love with me, would you
not advise me, my dearest friend, to fly him, "far as pole from pole?"
Write to me, I conjure you, my Gabrielle--write instantly, and tell me
whether R*** is now at Paris. I will return thither immediately if you
advise it. My mind is in such confusion, I have no power to decide; I
will be guided by your advice.
Olivia.
Letter xxxiij.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Paris.
Advice! my charming Olivia! do you ask me for advice? I never gave or
took advice in my life, except for _les vapeurs noirs_. And your
understanding is so far superior to mine, and you comprehend the
characters of these English so much better than I do, that I cannot
pretend to counsel you. This Lady Leonora is inconceivable with her
passion for her own husband; but how ridiculous to let it be suspected!
If her heart is so tender, cannot she, with all her charms, find a lover
on whom to bestow it, without tormenting that poor Mr L----. Evidently
he is tired of her: and I am sure I should be worn to death were I in
his place. Nothing so tiresome as love without mystery and without
obstacles. And this must ever be the case with conjugal love. Eighteen
months married, I think you say, and Lady Leonora expects her husband to
be still at her feet! And she wishes it! Truly she is the most
unreasonable woman upon earth--and the most extraordinary: but I am
tired of thinking of what I cannot comprehend.
Let us pass on to Mr L----. By your last letters I should judge that he
might be an agreeable man if his wife were out of the question.
Matrimonial jealousy is a new idea to me; I can judge of it only by
analogy. In affairs of gallantry I have sometimes seen one of the
parties continue to love when the other has become indifferent, and then
they go on tormenting one another and being miserable, because they have
not the sense to see that a fire cannot be made of ashes. Sometimes I
have found romantic young people persuade themselves that they can love
no more because they can love one another no longer; but if they had
sufficient courage to say--I am tired--and I cannot help it--they would
come to a right understanding immediately, and part on the best terms
possible; each eager to make a new choice, and to be again in love and
happy. All this to be done with decency, of course. And if there be no
scandal, where is the harm? Can it signify to the universe whether Mons.
Un-tel likes Mad. Une-telle or Mad. Une-autre? Provided there is love
enough, all the world is in good humour, and that is the essential
point; for without good humour, what becomes of the pleasures of
society? As to the rest, I think of inconstancy, or _infidelity_ as it
is called, much as our good La Fontaine did--"Quand on le sait c'est peu
de chose--quand on ne le sait pas ce n'est rien."
To promise to love one person eternally! What a terrible engagement! It
freezes my heart even to think of it. I am persuaded, that if I were
bound to love him for life, I should detest the most amiable man upon
earth in ten minutes--a husband more especially. Good Heavens! how I
should abhor M. de P---- if I saw him in this point of view. On the
contrary, now I love him infinitely--that is to say, as one loves a
husband. I have his interest at heart, and his glory. When I thought he
was going to prison I was in despair. I was at home to no one but
_Brave-et-Tendre_, and to him only to consult on the means of obtaining
my husband's pardon. M. de P---- is sensible of this, and on my part I
have no reason to complain of his liberality. We are perfectly happy,
though we meet perhaps but for a few minutes in the day; and is not this
better than tiring one another for four-and-twenty hours? When I grow
old--if ever I do--he will be my best friend. In the meantime I support
his credit with all my influence. This very morning I concluded an
affair for him, which never could have succeeded, if the intimate friend
of the minister had not been also my lover. Now, why cannot your Lady
Leonora and her Mr L---- live on the same sort of terms? But if English
manners will not permit of this, I have nothing more to say. Above all
things a woman must respect opinion, else she cannot be well received in
the world. I conclude this is the secret of Lady Leonora's conduct. But
then jealousy!--no woman, I suppose, is bound, even in England, to be
jealous in order to show her love for her husband. I lose myself again
in trying to understand what is incomprehensible.
As to you, my dear Olivia, you also amaze me by talking of _crimes_ and
_horror_, and _flying from pole to pole_ to avoid a man because you have
made him at last find out that he has a heart! You have done him the
greatest possible service: it may preserve him perhaps from hanging
himself next November--that month in which, according to Voltaire's
philosophical calendar, Englishmen always hang themselves, because the
atmosphere is so thick and their ennui so heavy. Lady Leonora, if she
really loves her husband, ought to be infinitely obliged to you for
averting this danger. As to the rest, your heart is not concerned, so
you can have nothing to fear; and as for a platonic attachment on the
part of Mr L----, his wife, even according to her own rigid principles,
cannot blame you.
Adieu, my charming friend! Instead of laughing at your fit of prudery, I
ought to encourage your scruples, that I might profit by them. If they
should bring you to Paris immediately, with what joy should I embrace my
Olivia, and how much gratitude should I owe to the jealousy of Lady
Leonora L----!
R*** is not yet returned. When I have any news to give you of him,
depend upon it you shall hear from me again. Accept, my interesting
Olivia, the vows of my most tender and eternal friendship.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xxxiv.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle, Tuesday.
Your charming letter, my Gabrielle, has at once revived my spirits and
dissipated all my scruples; you mistake, however, in supposing that
Leonora is in love with her husband: more and more reason have I every
hour to be convinced that Leonora has never known the passion of love;
consequently her jealousy was, as I at first pronounced it to be, the
selfish jealousy of matrimonial power and property. Else why does it
subside, why does it vanish, when, if it were a jealousy of the heart,
it has now more provocation, infinitely more than when it appeared in
full force? Leonora could see that her husband distinguished me at a
_fete champetre_; she could see what the eyes of others showed her; she
could hear what envy whispered, or what scandal hinted; she was
mortified, she was alarmed even to fainting by a public preference, by a
silly country girl's mistaking me for _the wife_, and doing homage to me
as to the lady of the manor; but Leonora cannot perceive in the object
of her affection the symptoms that mark the rise and progress of _a real
love_. Leonora feels not the little strokes, which would be fatal blows
to the peace of a truly delicate mind; she heeds not "the trifles light
as air," which would be confirmation strong to a soul of genuine
sensibility. My influence over the mind of L---- increases rapidly, and
I shall let it rise to its acme before I seem to notice it. Leonora,
reassured, I suppose, by a few flattering words, and more perhaps by an
exalted opinion of her own merit, has lately appeared quite at her ease,
and blind to all that passes before her eyes. It is not for me to
dissipate this illusion prematurely--it is not for me to weaken this
confidence in her husband. To an English wife this would be death. Let
her foolish security then last as long as possible. After all, how much
anguish of heart, how many pangs of conscience, how much of the torture
of pity, am I spared by this callous temper in my friend! I may indulge
in a little harmless coquetry without danger to her peace, and without
scruple enjoy the dear possession of power.
* * * * *
"Say, for you know," charming Gabrielle, what is the delight of
obtaining power over the human heart? Let the lords of the creation
boast of their power to govern all things; to charm these governors be
ours. Let the logicians of the earth boast their power to regulate the
world by reason; be it ours, Gabrielle, to intoxicate and humble proud
reason to the dust beneath our feet.--And who shall blame in us this
ardour for universal dominion? If they are men, I call them tyrants--if
they are women, I call them hypocrites--and the two vices which I most
detest are tyranny and hypocrisy. Frankly I confess, that I feel in all
its restless activity the passion for general admiration. I cannot
conceive--can you, Gabrielle?--a pleasure more transporting than the
perception of extended and extending dominion. The struggle of the rebel
heart for freedom makes the war more tempting, the victory more
glorious, the triumph more splendid. Secure of your sympathy, ma belle
Gabrielle, I shall not fear to tire you by my commentaries.
* * * * *
Male coquetry justifies female retaliation to any imaginable extent.
Upon this principle, on which I have seen you act so often, and so
successfully, I shall now intrepidly proceed. This man makes a show of
resistance; be it at his own peril: he thinks that he is gaining power
over my heart, whilst I am preparing torments for his; he fancies that
he is throwing chains round me, whilst I am rivetting fetters from which
he will in vain attempt to escape. He is proud, and has the insanity of
desiring to be exclusively beloved, yet affects to set no value upon the
preference that is shown to him; appears satisfied with his own
approbation, and stoically all-sufficient to his own happiness. Leonora
does not know how to manage his temper, but I do. The suspense, however,
in which he keeps me is tantalizing: he shall pay for it hereafter: I
had no idea, till lately, that he had so much self-command. At times he
has actually made me doubt my own power. At certain moments I have been
half tempted to believe that I had made no serious impression, that he
had been only amusing himself at my expense, and for Leonora's
gratification: but upon careful and cool observation I am convinced that
his indifference is affected, that all his stoicism will prove vain. The
arrow is lodged in his heart, and he must fall, whether he turns upon
the enemy in anger, or flies in dismay.
* * * * *
My pride is exasperated. I am not accustomed to such obstinate
resistance. I really almost hate this invincible man, and--strange
inconsistency of the human heart!--almost love him. Heaven and pride
preserve me from such a weakness! But there is certainly something that
piques and stimulates one's feelings in this species of male coquetry.
L----understands the business better than I thought he could. One moment
my knowledge of the arts of his sex puts me on my guard; the next my
sensibility exposes me in the most terrible manner. Experience ought to
protect me, but it only shows me the peril and my inability to escape.
Ah! Gabrielle, without a heart how safe we should be, how dangerous to
our lovers! But cursed with sensibility, we must, alas! submit to our
fate. The habit of loving, _le besoin d'aimer_, is more powerful than
all sense of the folly and the danger. Nor is the tempest of the
passions so dreadful as the dead calm of the soul. Why did R*** suffer
my soul to sink into this ominous calm? The fault is his; let him abide
the consequence. Why did he not follow me to England? Why did he not
write to me? or when he did write, why were his letters so cold, so
spiritless? When I spoke of divorce, why did he hesitate? Why did he
reason when he should have only felt? Tell him, my tender, my delicate
friend, these are questions which the heart asks, and which the heart
only can answer. Adieu.
Olivia.
Letter xxxv.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Paris.
Je suis excedee! mon coeur. Alive, and but just alive, after such a day
of fatigues! All morning from one minister to another! then home to my
toilette! then a great dinner with a number of foreigners, each to be
distinguished--then au Feydeau, where I was obliged to go to support
poor S----'s play. It would be really insupportable, if it were not for
the finest music in the world, which, after all, the French music
certainly is. There was a violent party against the piece; and we were
so late, that it was just on the point of perishing. My ears have not
yet recovered from the horrid noise. In the midst of the tumult I
happily, by a master-stroke, turned the fortune of the night. I spied
the shawl of an English woman hanging over the box. This, you know, like
scarlet to the bull, is sufficient to enrage the Parisian pit. To the
shawl I directed the fury of the mob of critics. Luckily for us, the
lady was attended only by an Englishman, who of course chose to assert
his right not to understand the customs of any country, or submit to any
will but his own. He would not permit the shawl to be stirred. A bas! a
bas: resounded from below. The uproar was inconceivable. You would have
thought that the house must have come down. In the meantime the piece
went on, and the shawl covered all its defects. Admire my generalship.
T---- tells me I was born for a general; yet I rather think my forte is
negociation.
But I have not yet come to your affairs, for which alone I could undergo
the fatigue of writing at this moment. Guess, my Olivia, what apparition
I met at the door of my box to-night. But the enclosed note will save
you the trouble of guessing. I could not avoid permitting him to slide
his billet doux into my hand as he put on my shawl. Adieu. I must refuse
myself the pleasure of conversing longer with my sweet friend. Fresh
toils await me. Mad. la Grande will never forgive me if I do not appear
for a moment at her soiree: and la petite Q---- will be jealous beyond
recovery if I do not give her a moment: and it is Mad. R----'s night.
There I must be; for all the ambassadors, as usual, will be there; and
as some of them, I have reason to believe, go on purpose to meet me, I
cannot disappoint their excellencies. My friends would never forgive it.
I am positively quite weary of this life of eternal bustle; but once in
the eddy, one is carried round and round; there is no stopping. Adieu,
adieu. I write under the hands of Victoire. O that she had your taste to
guide her, and to decide my too vacillating judgment: we should then
have no occasion to dread even the elegant simplicity of Mad. R----'s
toilette.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xxxvi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
My Gabrielle, I have read R***'s note enclosed in your charming
sprightly letter. What a contrast! So cold! so formal! A thousand times
rather would I not have heard from him, than have received a letter so
little in unison with my feelings. He talks to me of business. Business!
What business ought to detain a man a moment from the woman he loves?
The interests of his ambition are nothing to me. What are all these to
love? Is he so mean as to hesitate between them? then I despise him! and
Olivia can never love the being she despises!
Does R*** flatter himself that his power over my heart is omnipotent?
Does he imagine that Olivia is to be slighted with impunity? Does R***
think that a woman who has even nominally the honour to reign over his
heart cannot meditate new conquests? O credulous vanity of man! He
fancies perhaps that he is secure of the maturer age of one who fondly
devoted to him her inexperienced youth. "Security is the curse of
fools." Does he in his wisdom deem a woman's age a sufficient pledge for
her constancy? He might every day see examples enough to convince him of
his error. In fact, the age of women has nothing to do with the number
of their years. Possibly, however, the gallant gentleman may be of
opinion with Leonora's Swiss, that Lady Olivia is _un peu passee_.
Adieu, my dear friend; you, who always understand and sympathize in my
feelings, you will express them for me in the best manner possible. I
shall not write to R***. You will see him; and Olivia commits to you
what to a woman of delicacy is more dear than her love--her just
resentment.
Olivia.
Letter xxxvij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Pity me, dearest Gabrielle, for I am in need of all the pity which your
susceptible heart can bestow. Never was woman in such a terrible
situation! Yes, Gabrielle, this provoking, this incomprehensible, this
too amiable man, has entangled your poor friend past recovery. Her
sentiments and sensations must henceforward be in eternal opposition to
each other. Friendship, gratitude, honour, virtue, all in tremendous
array, forbid her to think of love; but love, imperious love, will not
be so defied: he seizes upon his victim, and now, as in all the past,
will be the ruler, the tyrant of Olivia's destiny. Never was confusion,
amazement, terror, remorse, equal to mine, Gabrielle, when I first
discovered that I loved him. Who could have foreseen, who could have
imagined it? I meant but to satisfy an innocent curiosity, to indulge
harmless coquetry, to gratify the natural love of admiration, and to
enjoy the possession of power. Alas! I felt not that whilst I was
acquiring ascendancy over the heart of another I was beguiled of all
command over my own. I flattered myself that when honour should bid me
stop, I could pause without hesitation, without effort: I promised
myself, that the moment I should discover that I was loved by the
husband of my friend I should fly from him for ever. Alas! it is no
longer time--to fly from him is no longer in my power. O Gabrielle! I
love him: he knows that I love him. Never did woman suffer more than I
have done since I wrote to you last. The conflict was too violent for my
feeble frame. I have been ill--very ill: a nervous fever brought me
nearly to the grave. Why did I not die? I should have escaped the deep
humiliation, the endless self-reproach to which my future existence is
doomed.--Leonora!--Why do I start at that name? Oh! there is horror in
the sound! Even now perhaps she knows and triumphs in my weakness. Even
now perhaps her calm insensible soul blesses itself for not being made
like mine. Even now perhaps her husband doubts whether he shall accept
Olivia's love, or sacrifice your wretched friend to Leonora's pride. O
Gabrielle, no words can describe what I suffer! But I must be calm, and
explain the progress of this fatal passion. Explain--Heavens! how shall
I explain what I cannot recollect without heart-rending anguish and
confusion! O Gabrielle! pity
Your distracted
Olivia.
Letter xxxviij.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Monday.
My dear romantic Olivia! you must have a furious passion for tormenting
yourself, when you can find matter for despair in your present
situation. In your place I should rejoice to find that in the moment an
old passion had consumed itself, a new one, fresh and vigorous, springs
from its ashes. My charming friend, understand your own interests, and
do not be the dupe of those fine phrases that we are obliged to employ
to deceive others. Rail at Cupid as much as you please to the men in
public, _par facon_; but always remember for your private use, that love
is essential to our existence in society. What is a woman when she
neither loves nor is loved? a mere _personage muet_ in the drama of
life. Is it not from our lovers that we derive our consequence? Even a
beauty without lovers is but a queen without subjects. A woman who
renounces love is an abdicated sovereign, always longing to resume her
empire when it is too late; continually forgetting herself, like the
pseudo-philosophic Christina, talking and acting as though she had still
the power of life and death in her hands; a tyrant without guards or
slaves; a most awkward, pitiable, and ridiculous personage. No, my fair
Olivia, let us never abjure love: even when the reign of beauty passes
away, that of grace and sentiment remains. As much delicacy as you
please: without delicacy there is no grace, and without a veil beauty
loses her most captivating charms. I pity you, my dear, for having let
your veil be blown aside _malheureusement_. But such accidents will
happen. Who can control the passions or the winds? After all, _l'erreur
d'un moment_ is not irretrievable, and you reproach yourself too
bitterly, my sweet friend, for your involuntary injustice to Lady
Leonora. Assuredly it could not be your intention to sacrifice your
repose to Mr L----. You loved him against your will, did you not? And it
is, you know, by the intention that we must judge of actions: the
positive harm done to the world in general is in all cases the only just
measure of criminality. Now what harm is done to the universe, and what
injury can accrue to any individual, provided you keep your own counsel?
As long as your friend is deceived, she is happy; it therefore becomes
your duty, your virtue, to dissemble. I am no great casuist, but all
this appears to me self-evident; and these I always thought were your
principles of philosophy. My dear Olivia, I have drawn out my whole
store of metaphysics with some difficulty for your service; I flatter
myself I have set your poor distracted head to rights. One word
more--for I like to go to the bottom of a subject, when I can do so in
two minutes: virtue is desirable because it makes us happy;
consequently, to make ourselves happy is to be truly virtuous. Methinks
this is sound logic.
To tell you the truth, my dear Olivia, I do not well conceive how you
have contrived to fall in love with this half-frozen Englishman. 'Tis
done, however--there is no arguing against facts; and this is only one
proof more of what I have always maintained, that destiny is inevitable
and love irresistible. Voltaire's charming inscription on the statue of
Cupid is worth all the volumes of reasoning and morality that ever were
or ever will be written. Banish melancholy thoughts, my dear friend;
they serve no manner of purpose but to increase your passion. Repentance
softens the heart; and everybody knows, that what softens the heart
disposes it more to love: for which reason I never abandon myself to
this dangerous luxury of repentance. Mon Dieu! why will people never
profit by experience? And to what purpose do they read history? Was not
La Valliere ever penitent and ever transgressing? ever in transports or
in tears? You, at all events, my Olivia, can never become a Carmelite or
a Magdalen. You have emancipated yourself from superstition: but whilst
you ridicule all religious orders, do not inflict upon yourself their
penances. The habit of some of the orders has been thought becoming. The
modest costume of a nun is indeed one of the prettiest dresses one can
wear at a masquerade ball, and it might even be worn without a mask, if
it were fashionable: but nothing that is not fashionable can be
becoming.
Adieu, my adorable Olivia: I will send you by the first opportunity your
Lyons gown, which is really charming.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xxxix.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._