Letter lxxx.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Wednesday.
Ay, ay! just as I thought it would be. This is all the comfort, my dear
friend, that I can give you; all the comfort that wise people usually
afford their friends in distress. Provided things happen just as they
predicted, they care but little what is suffered in the accomplishment
of their prophecies. But seriously, my dear L----, I am not sorry that
you are in a course of vexation. The more you see of your charmer the
better. She will allay your intoxication by gentle degrees, and send you
sober home. Pray keep in the course you have begun, and preserve your
patience as long as possible. I should be sorry that you and Olivia
quarrelled violently, and parted in a passion: such quarrels of lovers
are proverbially the renewal of love.
"Il faut delier l'amitie, il faut couper l'amour."
In some cases this maxim may be just, but not in the present instance. I
would rather wait till the knot is untied than cut it; for when once you
see the art with which it was woven, a similar knot can never again
perplex you.
Yours truly,
J. B.
Letter lxxxi.
_From Olivia to Mr L----._
Richmond, Saturday.
You presume too much upon your power over my heart, and upon the
softness of my nature. Know that I have spirit as well as tenderness--a
spirit that will neither be injured nor insulted with impunity. You were
amazed, you say, by the violence which I showed yesterday. Why did you
provoke that violence, by opposing the warmest wish of my heart? and
with a calmness that excited my tenfold indignation! Imagine not that I
am a tame, subjugated female, to be treated with neglect if I
remonstrate, and caressed as the price of obedience. Fancy not that I am
one of your chimney-corner, household goddesses, doomed to the dull
uniformity of domestic worship, destined to be adored, to be hung with
garlands, or undeified or degraded with indignity! I have been
accustomed to a different species of worship; and the fondness of my
weak heart has not yet sunk me so low, and rendered me so abject, that I
cannot assert my rights. You tell me that you are unconscious of giving
me any just cause of offence. Just cause!--How I hate the cold accuracy
of your words! This single expression is sufficient offence to a heart
like mine. You entreat me to be reasonable. Reasonable!--Did ever man
talk of reason to a woman he loved? When once a man has recourse to
reason and precision, there is an end of love. No just cause of
offence!--What, have I no cause to be indignant, when I find you thus
trifle with my feelings, postpone from week to week, and month to month,
our departure from this hateful country--
"Bid me hope on from day to day,
And wish and wish my soul away!"
Yes, you know it to be the most ardent wish of my soul to leave England;
you know that I cannot enjoy a moment's peace of mind whilst I am here;
yet in this racking suspense it is your pleasure to detain me. No, it
shall not be--this shall not go on! It is in vain you tell me that the
delay originates not with you, that you must wait for instructions and I
know not what--paltry diplomatic excuses!
Olivia.
Letter lxxxij.
_Mr L---- to General B----._
Richmond.
Amuse yourself, my good general, at my expence; I know that you are
seriously interested for my happiness; but the way is not quite so clear
before me as you imagine. It is extremely easy to be philosophic for our
friends; but difficult to be so for ourselves when our passions are
concerned. Indeed, this would be a contradiction in terms; you might as
well talk of a cold sun, or of hot ice, as of a philosopher falling in
love, or of a man in love being a philosopher. You say that Olivia will
wear out my passion, and that her defects will undo the work of her
charms. I acknowledge that she sometimes ravels the web she has woven;
but she is miraculously expeditious and skilful in repairing the
mischief: the magical tissue again appears firm as ever, glowing with
brighter colours, and exhibiting finer forms.
In plain prose, my dear friend--for as you are not in love, you will
find it difficult to follow my poetic flights--in plain prose, I must
confess that Olivia has the power to charm and touch my heart even after
she has provoked me to the utmost verge of human patience. She knows her
power, and I am afraid this tempts her to abuse it. Her temper, which
formerly appeared to me all feminine gentleness, is now irritable and
violent; but I am persuaded that this is not her natural disposition; it
is the effect of her present unhappy state of mind. Tortured by remorse
and jealousy, if in the height of their paroxysms Olivia make me suffer
from their fury, is it for me to complain? I, who caused, should at
least endure the evil.
Everything is arranged for my embassy, and the day is fixed for our
leaving England. I go down to L----Castle next week.
Your faithful
F. L----.
Letter lxxxiij.
_Josephine to Victoire, Mad. de P----'s woman._
Richmond.
I am in despair, dear Victoire; and unless your genius can assist me,
absolutely undone! Here is this romantic lady of mine determined upon a
journey to Russia with her new English lover. What whims ladies take
into their heads, and how impossible it is to make them understand
reason! I have been labouring in vain to convince my Lady Olivia that
this is the most absurd scheme imaginable: and I have repeated to her
all I learnt from Lady F----'s women, who are just returned from
Petersburg, and whom I met at a party last night, all declaring they
would rather die a thousand deaths than go through again what they have
endured. Such seas of ice! such going in sledges! such barbarians! such
beds! and scarcely a looking-glass! And nothing fit to wear but what one
carries with one, and God knows how long we may stay. At Petersburg the
coachmen's ears are frozen off every night on their boxes waiting for
their ladies. And there are bears and wild beasts, I am told, howling
with their mouths wide open night and day in the forests which we are to
pass through; and even in the towns the men, I hear, are little better,
for it is the law of the country for the men to beat their wives, and
many wear long beards. How horrid!--My Lady F----'s woman, who is a
Parisian born, and very pretty, if her eyes were not so small, and
better dressed than her lady always, except diamonds, assures me upon
her honour, she never had a civil thing said to her whilst she was in
Russia, except by one or two Frenchmen in the suite of the ambassadors.
These Russians think of nothing but drinking brandy, and they put pepper
into it! Mon Dieu, what savages! Put pepper into brandy! But that is
inconceivable! Positively, I will never go to Petersburg. And yet if my
lady goes, what will become of me? for you know my sentiments for
Brunel, and he is decided to accompany my lady, so I cannot stay behind.
But absolutely I am shocked at this intrigue with Mr L----, and my
conscience reproaches me terribly with being a party concerned in it;
for in this country an affair of gallantry between married people is not
so light a thing as with us. Here wives sometimes love their husbands
seriously, as if they were their lovers; and my Lady Leonora L---- is
one of this sort of wives. She is very unhappy, I am told. One day at
L---- Castle, I assure you my heart quite bled for her, when she gave me
a beautiful gown of English muslin, little suspecting me then to be her
enemy. She is certainly very unsuspicious, and very amiable, and I wish
to Heaven her husband would think as I do, and take her with him to
Petersburg, instead of carrying off my Lady Olivia and me! Adieu, mon
chou! Embrace everybody I know tenderly for me.
Josephine.
Letter lxxxiv.
_Mrs C---- to the Duchess of ----._
My dear Madam,
I believe, when I wrote last to your grace, I said, that I had no hopes
of the child's life. From the moment of his birth there was but little
probability of his being anything but a source of misery to his mother.
I cannot, on her account, regret that the struggle is over. He expired
this morning. My poor friend had hopes to the last, though I had none;
and it was most painful and alarming to see the feverish anxiety with
which she watched over her little boy, frequently repeating, "Mr L----
used to wish so much for a son.--I hope the boy will live to see his
father."
Last night, partly by persuasion, partly by compulsion, I prevailed with
her to let the child be taken out of her room. This morning, as soon as
it was light, I heard her bell ring; the poor little thing was at that
moment in convulsions; and knowing that Lady Leonora rang to inquire for
it, I went to prepare her mind for what I knew must be the event. The
moment I came into the room she looked eagerly in my face, but did not
ask me any questions about the child. I sat down by the side of her bed;
but without listening to what I said about her own health, she rang her
bell again more violently than before. Susan came in. "Susan!--without
my child!"--said she, starting up. Susan hesitated, but I saw by her
countenance that it was all over--so did Lady Leonora. She said not a
word, but drawing her curtain suddenly, she lay down, and never spoke or
stirred for three hours. The first words she said afterwards were to me:
"You need not move so softly, my dear Helen; I am not asleep. Have you
my mother's last letter? I think my mother says that she will be here
to-morrow? She is very kind to come to me. Will you be so good as to
write to her immediately, and send a servant with your letter as soon as
you can to meet her on the road, that she may not be _surprised_ when
she arrives?"
Lady Leonora is now more composed and more like herself than she has
been for some time past. I rejoice that your grace will so soon be here,
because you will be her best possible consolation; and I do not know any
other person in the world who could have sufficient influence to prevent
her from attempting to set out upon a journey before she can travel with
safety. To do her justice, she has not hinted that such were her
intentions; but still I know her mind so well, that I am certain what
her thoughts are, and what her actions would be. Most ladies talk more
than they act, but Leonora acts more decidedly than she talks.
Believe me, dear madam,
With much respect,
Your grace's
Sincerely affectionate
Helen C----.
Letter lxxxv.
_Mr L---- to General B----._
I thank you, my excellent friend, for the kindness of your last
letter,[3] which came to me at the time I wanted it most. In the whole
course of my life I never felt so much self-reproach as I have done
since I heard of the illness of Leonora and the loss of my son. From
this blow my mind will not easily recover. Of all torments self-reproach
is the worst. And even now I cannot follow the dictates of my own heart
and of my better judgment.
In Olivia's company I am compelled to repress my feelings; she cannot
sympathize in them; they offend her: she is dissatisfied even with my
silence, and complains of my being out of spirits. Out of spirits!--How
can I be otherwise at present? Has Olivia no touch of pity for a woman
who was once her friend, who always treated her with generous kindness?
But perhaps I am a little unreasonable, and expect too much from female
nature.
At all events, I wish that Olivia would spare me at this moment her
sentimental metaphysics. She is for ever attempting to prove to me that
I cannot love so well as she can. I admit that I cannot talk of love so
finely. I hope all this will not go on when we arrive at Petersburg.
The ministry at last know their own minds. I saw ---- to-day, and
everything will be quickly arranged; therefore, my dear friend, do not
delay coming to town, to
Your obliged
F. L----.
[Footnote 3: This letter does not appear.]
Letter lxxxvi.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Perhaps you are a _little_ unreasonable! Indeed, my dear friend, I do
not think you a _little_ unreasonable, but very nearly stark mad. What!
quarrel with your mistress because she is not sorry that your wife is
ill, and because she cannot sympathize in your grief for the loss of
your son! Where, except perhaps in absurd novels, did you ever meet with
these paragons of mistresses, who were so magnanimous and so generous as
to sacrifice their own reputations, and then be satisfied to share the
only possible good remaining to them in life, the heart of their lover,
with a rival more estimable, more amiable than themselves, and who has
the advantage of being a wife? This sharing of hearts, this union of
souls with this opposition of interests--this metaphysical gallantry is
absolute nonsense, and all who try it in real life will find it so to
their cost. Why should you, my dear L----, expect such superlative
excellence from your Olivia? Do you think that a woman by losing one
virtue increases the strength of those that remain, as it is said that
the loss of one of our senses renders all the others more acute? Do you
think that a lady, by yielding to love, and by proving that she has not
sufficient resolution or forbearance to preserve the honour of her sex,
gives the best possible demonstration of her having sufficient strength
of character to rise superior to all the other weaknesses incident to
human, and more especially to female nature--envy and jealousy for
instance?
No, no, my good friend, you have common sense, though you lately have
been sparing of it in action. You had a wife, and a good wife, and you
had some chance of being happy; but with a wife and a mistress, granting
them to be both the best of their kind, the probabilities are rather
against you. I speak only as a man of the world: morality, you know, is
now merely an affair of calculation. According to the most approved
tables of happiness, you have made a bad bargain. But be just, at any
rate, and do not blame your Olivia for the inconveniences and evils
inseparable from the species of connexion that you have been pleased to
form. Do you expect the whole course of society and the nature of the
human heart to change for your special accommodation? Do you believe in
truth by wholesale, and yet in detail expect a happy exception in your
own favour?--Seriously, my dear friend, you must either break off this
connexion or bear it. I shall see you in a few days.
Yours truly,
J. B.
Letter lxxxvij.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
L---- Castle.
Leonora has recovered her strength surprisingly. She was so determined
to be well, that her body dared not contradict her mind. Her excellent
mother has been of the greatest possible service to us, for she has had
sufficient influence to prevent her daughter from exerting herself too
much. Her grace had a letter from Mr L---- to-day--very short--but very
kind--at least all that I heard read of it. He has set my heart somewhat
more at ease by the comfortable assurance, that he will not leave
England without seeing Lady Leonora. I have the greatest hopes from this
interview! I have not felt so happy for many months--but I will not be
too sanguine. Mr L---- talks of being here the latter end of this month.
The duchess, with her usual prudence, intends to leave her daughter
before that time, lest Mr L---- should be constrained by her presence,
or should imagine that Leonora acts from any impulse but that of her own
heart. I also, though much against my inclinations, shall decamp; for he
might perhaps consider me as an adviser, caballer, confidante, or at
least a troublesome spectator. All reconciliation scenes should be
without spectators. Men do not like to be seen on their knees: they are
at a loss, like Sir Walter Raleigh in "The Critic;" they cannot get off
gracefully.
I am, dear Margaret,
Yours affectionately,
Helen C----.
Letter lxxxviij.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Friday.
My dear L----,
Ask yourself, in the name of common sense, why you should go to
Petersburg with this sentimental coquette, this romantic termagant, of
whom I see you are already more than half tired. As to your being bound
to her in honour, I cannot see how. Why should you make honour, justice,
humanity, and gratitude, plead so finely all on one side, and that the
wrong side of the question? Have none of these one word to whisper in
favour of anybody in this world but of a worthless mistress, who makes
you miserable? I think you have learned from your heroine to be so
expert in sentimental logic, that you can change virtues into vices, and
vices into virtues, till at last you do not know them asunder. Else why
should you make it a point of conscience to abandon your wife--just at
the moment, too, when you are thoroughly convinced of her love for you,
when you are touched to the soul by her generous conduct, and when your
heart longs to return to her?
Please to remember that this Lady Olivia's reputation was not
unimpeached before her acquaintance with you, and do not take more glory
or more blame to yourself than properly falls to your share. Do not
forget that _poor_ R*** was your predecessor, and do not let this
delicate lady rest all the weight of her shame upon you, as certain
Chinese culprits rest their portable pillories on the shoulders of
their friends.
In two days I shall follow this letter, and repeat in person all the
interrogatories I have just put to you, my dear friend. Prepare yourself
to answer me sincerely such questions as I shall ask.
Yours truly,
J. B.
Letter lxxxix.
_From Olivia to Mr L----._
Monday, 12 o'clock.
For a few days did you say? To _bid adieu_? Oh! if once more you return
to that fatal castle, that enchanted home, Olivia for ever loses all
power over your heart. Bid her die, stab her to the heart, and she will
call it mercy, and she will bless you with her dying lips; but talk not
of leaving your Olivia! On her knees she writes this, her face all
bathed in tears. And must she in her turn implore and supplicate? Must
she abase herself even to the dust? Yes--love like hers vanquishes even
the stubborn potency of female pride.
Your too fond
Olivia.
Letter xc.
_From Olivia to Mr L----._
[Dated a few hours after the preceding.]
Monday, half-past three.
Oh! this equivocating answer to my fond heart! Passion makes and admits
of no compromise. Be mine, and wholly mine--or never, never will I
survive your desertion! I can be happy only whilst I love; I can love
only whilst I am beloved with fervency equal to my own; and when I cease
to love, I cease to exist! No coward fears restrain my soul. The word
suicide shocks not my ear, appals not my understanding. Death I consider
but as the eternal rest of the wretched--the sweet, the sole refuge of
despair.
Your resolute
Olivia.
Letter xci.
_From Olivia to Mr L----._
Tuesday.
Return! return! on the wings of love return to the calm, the prudent,
the happy, the transcendently happy Leonora! Return--but not to bid her
adieu--return to be hers for ever, and only hers. I give you back your
faith--I _give_ you back your promises--you have _taken_ back your
heart.
But if you should desire once more to see Olivia, if you should have any
lingering wish to bid her a last adieu, it must be this evening.
To-morrow's sun rises not for Olivia. For her but a few short hours
remain. Love, let them be all thy own! Intoxicate thy victim, mingle
pleasure in the cup of death, and bid her fearless quaff it to the
dregs!----
Letter xcij.
_Mr L---- to General B----._
Thursday.
My dear Friend,
You have by argument and raillery, and by every means that kindness and
goodness could devise, endeavoured to expel from my mind a passion which
you justly foresaw would be destructive of my happiness, and of the
peace of a most estimable and amiable woman. With all the skill that a
thorough knowledge of human nature in general, and of my peculiar
character and foibles, could bestow, you have employed those
----"Words and spells which can control,
Between the fits, the fever of the soul."
Circumstances have operated in conjunction with your skill to "medicine
me to repose." The fits have gradually become weaker and weaker, the
fever is now gone, but I am still to suffer for the extravagancies
committed during its delirium. I have entered into engagements which
must be fulfilled; I have involved myself in difficulties from which I
see no method of extricating myself honourably. Notwithstanding all the
latitude which the system of modern gallantry allows to the conscience
of our sex, and in spite of the convenient maxim, which maintains that
all arts are allowable in love and war, I think that a man cannot break
a promise, whether made in words or by tacit implication, on the faith
of which a woman sacrifices her reputation and happiness. Lady Olivia
has thrown herself upon my protection. I am as sensible as you can be,
my dear general, that scandal had attacked her reputation before our
acquaintance commenced; but though the world had suspicions, they had no
proofs: now there can be no longer any defence made for her character,
there is no possibility of her returning to that rank in society to
which she was entitled by her birth, and which she adorned with all the
brilliant charms of wit and beauty; no happiness, no chance of happiness
remains for her but from my constancy. Of naturally violent passions,
unused to the control of authority, habit, reason, or religion, and at
this time impelled by love and jealousy, Olivia is on the brink of
despair. I am not apt to believe that women die in modern times for
love, nor am I easily disposed to think that I could inspire a dangerous
degree of enthusiasm; yet I am persuaded that Olivia's passion,
compounded as it is of various sentiments beside love, has taken such
possession of her imagination, and is, as she fancies, so necessary to
her existence, that if I were to abandon her, she would destroy that
life, which she has already attempted, I thank God! ineffectually. What
a spectacle is a woman in a paroxysm of rage!--a woman we love, or whom
we have loved!
* * * * *
Excuse me, my dear friend, if I wrote incoherently, for I have been
interrupted many times since I began this letter. I am this day
overwhelmed by a multiplicity of affairs, which, in consequence of
Olivia's urgency to leave England immediately, must be settled with an
expedition for which my head is not at present well qualified. I do not
feel well: I can command my attention but on one subject, and on that
all my thoughts are to no purpose. Whichever way I now act, I must
endure and inflict misery. I must either part from a wife who has given
me the most tender, the most touching proofs of affection--a wife who is
all that a man can esteem, admire, and love; or I must abandon a
mistress, who loves me with all the desperation of passion to which she
would fall a sacrifice. But why do I talk as if I were still at liberty
to make a choice?--My head is certainly very confused. I forgot that I
am bound by a solemn promise, and this is the evil which distracts me. I
will give you, if I can, a clear narrative.
Last night I had a terrible scene with Olivia. I foresaw that she would
be alarmed by my intended visit to L---- Castle, even though it was but
to take leave of my Leonora. I abstained from seeing Olivia to avoid
altercation, and with all the delicacy in my power I wrote to her,
assuring her that my resolution was fixed. Note after note came from
her, with pathetic and passionate appeals to my heart; but I was still
resolute. At length, the day before that on which I was to set out for
L---- Castle, she wrote to warn me, that if I wished to take a last
farewell, I must see her that evening: her note concluded with,
"To-morrow's sun will not rise for Olivia." This threat, and many
strange hints of her opinions concerning suicide, I at the time
disregarded, as only thrown out to intimidate a lover. However, knowing
the violence of Olivia's temper, I was punctual to the appointed hour,
fully determined by my firmness to convince her that these female wiles
were vain.
My dear friend, I would not advise the wisest man and the most
courageous upon earth to brave such dangers, confident in his strength.
Even a victory may cost him too dear.
I found Olivia reclining on a sofa, her beautiful tresses unbound, her
dress the perfection of elegant negligence. I half suspected that it was
studied negligence; yet I could not help pausing, as I entered, to
contemplate a figure. She never looked more beautiful--more fascinating.
Holding out her hand to me, she said, with her languid smile and tender
expression of voice and manner, "You _are_ come then to bid me farewell.
I doubted whether . . . But I will not upbraid--mine be all the pain of
this last adieu. During the few minutes we have to pass together,
'Between us two let there be peace.'"
I sat down beside her, rather agitated, I confess, but commanding myself
so that my emotion could not be visible. In a composed tone I asked, why
she spoke of a last adieu? and observed that we should meet again in a
few days.
"Never!" replied Olivia. "Weak woman as I am, love inspires me with
sufficient force to make and to keep this resolution."
As she spoke, she took from her bosom a rose, and presenting it to me in
a solemn manner, "Put this rose into water to-night," continued she;
"to-morrow it will be alive!"
Her look, her expressive eyes, seemed to say, This flower will be alive,
but Olivia will be dead. I am ashamed to confess that I was silent,
because I could not just then speak.
"I have used some precaution," resumed Olivia, "to spare you, my dearest
L----, unnecessary pain.--Look around you."
The room, I now for the first time observed, was ornamented with
flowers.
"This apartment, I hope," continued she, "has not the air of the chamber
of death. I have endeavoured to give it a festive appearance, that the
remembrance of your last interview with your once loved Olivia may be at
least unmixed with horror."
At this instant, my dear general, a confused recollection of Rousseau's
Heloise, the dying scene, and her room ornamented with flowers, came
into my imagination, and destroying the idea of reality, changed
suddenly the whole course of my feelings.
In a tone of raillery I represented to Olivia her resemblance to Julie,
and observed that it was a pity she had not a lover whose temper was
more similar than mine to that of the divine St Preux. Stung to the
heart by my ill-timed raillery, Olivia started up from the sofa, broke
from my arms with sudden force, snatched from the table a penknife, and
plunged it into her side.
She was about to repeat the blow, but I caught her arm--she
struggled--"Promise me, then," cried she, "that you will never more see
my hated rival."
"I cannot make such a promise, Olivia," said I, holding her uplifted arm
forcibly. "I will not."
The words "hated rival," which showed me that Olivia was actuated more
by the spirit of hatred than love, made me reply in as decided a tone as
even you could have spoken, my dear general. But I was shocked, and
reproached myself with cruelty, when I saw the blood flow from her side;
she was terrified. I took the knife from her powerless hand, and she
fainted in my arms. I had sufficient presence of mind to reflect that
what had happened should be kept as secret as possible; therefore,
without summoning Josephine, whose attachment to her mistress I have
reason to suspect, I threw open the windows, gave Olivia air and water,
and her senses returned: then I despatched my Swiss for a surgeon. I
need not speak of my own feelings--no suspense could be more dreadful
than that which I endured between the sending for the surgeon and the
moment when he gave his opinion. He relieved me at once, by pronouncing
it to be a slight flesh wound, that would be of no manner of
consequence. Olivia, however, whether from alarm or pain, or from the
sight of the blood, fainted three times during the dressing of her side;
and though the surgeon assured her that it would be perfectly well in a
few days, she was evidently apprehensive that we concealed from her the
real danger. At the idea of the approach of death, which now took
possession of her imagination, all courage forsook her, and for some
time my efforts to support her spirits were ineffectual. She could not
dispense with the services of Josephine; and from the moment this French
woman entered the room, there was nothing to be heard but exclamations
the most violent and noisy. As to assistance, she could give none. At
last her exaggerated demonstrations of horror and grief ended
with--"Dieu merci! au moins nous voila delivres de ce voyage affreux.
Apparemment qu'il ne sera plus question de ce vilain Petersburg pour
madame."
A new train of thoughts was roused by these words in Olivia's mind; and
looking at me, she eagerly inquired why the journey to Petersburg was to
be given up, if she was in no danger? I assured her that Josephine spoke
at random, that my intentions with regard to the embassy to Russia were
unaltered.
"Seulement retarde un peu," said Josephine, who was intent only upon her
own selfish object.--"Surement, madame ne voyagera pas dans cet etat!"
Olivia started up, and looking at me with terrific wildness in her eyes,
"Swear to me," said she, "swear that you will not deceive me, or I will
this instant tear open this wound, and never more suffer it to be
closed."
"Deceive you, Olivia!" cried I, "what deceit can you fear from me?--What
is it you require of me?"
"I require from you a promise, a solemn promise, that you will go with
_me_ to Russia!"
"I solemnly promise that I will," said I: "now be tranquil, Olivia, I
beseech you."
The surgeon represented the necessity of keeping herself quiet, and
declared that he would not answer for the cure of his patient on any
other terms. Satisfied by the solemnity of my promise, Olivia now
suffered me to depart. This morning she sends me word that in a few days
she shall be ready to leave England. Can you meet me, my dear friend, at
L---- Castle? I go down there to-day, to bid adieu to Leonora. From
thence I shall proceed to Yarmouth, and embark immediately. Olivia will
follow me.
Your obliged
F. L----.
Letter xciij.
_Leonora to her mother._
L---- Castle.
Dearest Mother,
My husband is here! at home with me, with your happy Leonora--and his
heart is with her. His looks, his voice, his manner tell me so, and by
them I never was deceived. No, he is incapable of deceit. Whatever have
been his errors, he never stooped to dissimulation. He is again my own,
still capable of loving me, still worthy of all my affection. I knew
that the delusion could not last long, or rather you told me so, my best
friend, and I believed you; you did him justice. He was indeed
deceived--who might not have been deceived by Olivia? His passions were
under the power of an enchantress; but now he has triumphed over her
arts. He sees her such as she is, and her influence ceases.
I am not absolutely certain of all this; but I believe, because I hope
it! yet he is evidently embarrassed, and seems unhappy: what can be the
meaning of this? Perhaps he does not yet know his Leonora sufficiently
to be secure of her forgiveness. How I long to set his heart at ease,
and to say to him, let the past be forgotten for ever! How easy it is
to the happy to forgive! There have been moments when I could not, I
fear, have been just, when I am sure that I could not have been
generous. I shall immediately offer to accompany Mr L----to Russia; I
can have no farther hesitation, for I see that he wishes it; indeed,
just now he almost said so. His baggage is already embarked at
Yarmouth--he sails in a few days--and in a few hours your daughter's
fate, your daughter's happiness, will be decided. It is decided, for I
am sure he loves me; I see, I hear, I feel it. Dearest mother, I write
to you in the first moment of joy.--I hear his foot upon the stairs.
Your happy
Leonora L----.
Letter xciv.
_Leonora to her mother._
L---- Castle.
My dear Mother,
My hopes are all vain. Your prophecies will never be accomplished. We
have both been mistaken in Mr L----'s character, and henceforward your
daughter must not depend upon him for any portion of her happiness. I
once thought it impossible that my love for him could be diminished: he
has changed my opinion. Mine is not that species of weak or abject
affection which can exist under the sense of ill treatment and
injustice, much less can my love survive esteem for its object.
I told you, my dear mother, and I believed, that his affections had
returned to me; but I was mistaken. He has not sufficient strength or
generosity of soul to love me, or to do justice to my love. I offered
to go with him to Russia: he answered, "That is
impossible."--Impossible!--Is it then impossible for him to do that
which is just or honourable? or seeing what is right, must he follow
what is wrong? or can his heart never more be touched by virtuous
affections? Is his taste so changed, so depraved, that he can now be
pleased and charmed only by what is despicable and profligate in our
sex? Then I should rejoice that we are to be separated--separated for
ever. May years and years pass away and wear out, if possible, the
memory of all he has been to me! I think I could better, much better
bear the total loss, the death of him I have loved, than endure to feel
that he had survived both my affection and esteem; to see the person the
same, but the soul changed; to feel every day, every hour, that I must
despise what I have so admired and loved.
Mr L---- is gone from hence. He leaves England the day after to-morrow.
Lady Olivia is to _follow_ him. I am glad that public decency is not to
be outraged by their embarking together. My dearest mother, be assured
that at this moment your daughter's feelings are worthy of you.
Indignation and the pride of virtue support her spirit.
Leonora L----.
Letter xcv.
_General B---- to Lady Leonora L----._
Yarmouth.
Had I not the highest confidence in Lady Leonora L----'s fortitude, I
should not venture to write to her at this moment, knowing as I do that
she is but just recovered from a dangerous illness.
Mr L---- had requested me to meet him at L----Castle previous to his
leaving England, but it was out of my power. I met him however on the
road to Yarmouth, and as we travelled together I had full opportunity of
seeing the state of his mind. Permit me--the urgency of the case
requires it--to speak without reserve, with the freedom of an old
friend. I imagine that your ladyship parted from Mr L----with feelings
of indignation, at which I cannot be surprised: but if you had seen him
as I saw him, indignation would have given way to pity. Loving you,
madam, as you deserve to be loved, most ardently, most tenderly; touched
to his inmost soul by the proofs of affection he had seen in your
letters, in your whole conduct, even to the last moment of parting; my
unhappy friend felt himself bound to resist the temptation of staying
with you, or of accepting your generous offer to accompany him to
Petersburg. He thought himself bound in honour by a promise extorted
from him to save from suicide one whom he thinks he has injured, one who
has thrown herself upon his protection. Of the conflict in his mind at
parting with your ladyship I can judge from what he suffered afterwards.
I met Mr L---- with feelings of extreme indignation, but before I had
been an hour in his company, I never pitied any man so much in my life,
for I never yet saw any one so truly wretched, and so thoroughly
convinced that he deserved to be so. You know that he is not one who
often gives way to his emotions, not one who expresses them much in
words--but he could not command his feelings.
The struggle was too violent. I have no doubt that it was the real cause
of his present illness. As the moment approached when he was to leave
England, he became more and more agitated. Towards evening he sunk into
a sort of apathy and gloomy silence, from which he suddenly broke into
delirious raving. At twelve o'clock last night, the night he was to
have sailed, he was seized with a violent and infectious fever. As to
the degree of immediate danger, the physicians here cannot yet
pronounce. I have sent to town for Dr *****. Your ladyship may be
certain that I shall not quit my friend, and that he shall have every
possible assistance and attendance.
I am, with the truest esteem,
Your ladyship's faithful servant,
J. B.
Letter xcvi.
_Leonora to her mother._
L---- Castle.
Dear Mother,
This moment an express from General B----. Mr L---- is dangerously ill
at Yarmouth--a fever brought on by the agitation of his mind. How unjust
I have been! Forget all I said in my last. I write in the utmost
haste--just setting out for Yarmouth. I hope to be there to-morrow.
Your affectionate
Leonora L----.
I open this to enclose the general's letter, which will explain
everything.
Letter xcvij.
_General B---- to the Duchess of ----._
Yarmouth.
My dear Madam,
Your grace, I find, is apprised of Lady Leonora L----'s journey hither:
I fear that you rely upon my prudence for preventing her exposing
herself to the danger of catching this dreadful fever. But that has been
beyond my power. Her ladyship arrived late last night. I had foreseen
the probability of her coming, but not the possibility of her coming so
soon. I had taken no precautions, and she was in the house and upon the
stairs in an instant. No entreaties, no arguments could stop her; I
assured her that Mr L----'s fever was pronounced by all the physicians
to be of the most infectious kind. Dr ***** joined me in representing
that she would expose her life to almost certain danger if she persisted
in her determination to see her husband; but she pressed forward,
regardless of all that could be said. To the physicians she made no
answer; to me she replied, "You are Mr L----'s friend, but I am his
wife: you have not feared to hazard your life for him, and do you think
I can hesitate?" I urged that there was no necessity for more than one
person's running this hazard; and that since it had fallen to my lot to
be with my friend when he was first taken ill----She interrupted me--"Is
not this taking a cruel advantage of me, general? You know that I, too,
would have been with Mr L---- if--if it had been possible." Her manner,
her pathetic emphasis, and the force of her implied meaning, struck me
so much, that I was silent, and suffered her to pass on; but again the
idea of her danger rushing upon my mind, I sprang before her to the door
of Mr L----'s apartment, and opposed her entrance. "Then, general," said
she calmly, "perhaps you mistake me--perhaps you have heard repeated
some unguarded words of mine in the moment of indignation . . . unjust . . .
you best know how unjust indignation!--and you infer from these that
my affection for my husband is extinguished. I deserve this--but do not
punish me too severely."
I still kept my hand upon the lock of the door, expostulating with Lady
Leonora in your grace's name, and in Mr L----'s assuring her that if he
were conscious of what was passing, and able to speak, he would order me
to prevent her seeing him in his present situation.
"And you, too, general!" said she, bursting into tears: "I thought you
were my friend--would you prevent me from seeing him? And is not he
conscious of what is passing? And is not he able to speak? Sir, I must
be admitted! You have done your duty--now let me do mine. Consider, my
right is superior to yours. No power on earth should or can prevent a
wife from seeing her husband when he is . . . Dear, dear general!" said
she, clasping her raised hands, and falling suddenly at my feet, "let me
see him but for one minute, and I will be grateful to you for ever!"
I could resist no longer--I tremble for the consequences. I know your
grace sufficiently to be aware that you ought to be told the whole
truth. I have but little hopes of my poor friend's life.
With much respect,
Your grace's faithful servant,
J. B.
Letter xcviij.
_Olivia to Mr L----._
Richmond.
A mist hung over my eyes, and "my ears with hollow murmurs rung," when
the dreadful tidings of your alarming illness were announced by your
cruel messenger. My dearest L----! why does inexorable destiny doom me
to be absent from you at such a crisis? Oh! this fatal wound of mine! It
would, I fear, certainly open again if I were to travel. So this
corporeal being must be imprisoned here, while my anxious soul, my
viewless spirit, hovers near you, longing to minister each tender
consolation, each nameless comfort that love alone can, with fond
prescience and magic speed, summon round the couch of pain.
"O that I had the wings of a dove, that I might fly to you!" Why must I
resign the sweetly-painful task of soothing you in the hour of sickness?
And shall others, with officious zeal,
"Guess the faint wish, explain the asking eye"?
Alas! it must be so--even were I to fly to him, my sensibility could not
support the scene. To behold him stretched on the bed of
disease--perhaps of death--would be agony past endurance. Let firmer
nerves than Olivia's, and hearts more callous, assume the offices from
which they shrink not. 'Tis the fate, the hard fate of all endued with
exquisite sensibility, to be palsied by the excess of their feelings,
and to become imbecile at the moment their exertions are most necessary.
Your too tenderly sympathizing
Olivia.
Letter xcix.
_Leonora to her mother._
Yarmouth.
My husband is alive, and that is all. Never did I see, nor could I have
conceived, such a change, and in so short a time! When I opened the
door, his eyes turned upon me with unmeaning eagerness: he did not know
me. The good general thought my voice might have some effect. I spoke,
but could obtain no answer, no sign of intelligence. In vain I called
upon him by every name that used to reach his heart. I kneeled beside
him, and took one of his burning hands in mine. I kissed it, and
suddenly he started up, exclaiming, "Olivia! Olivia!" with dreadful
vehemence. In his delirium he raved about Olivia's stabbing herself, and
called upon us to hold her arm, looking wildly towards the foot of the
bed, as if the figure were actually before him. Then he sunk back, as if
quite exhausted, and gave a deep sigh. Some of my tears fell upon his
hand; he felt them before I perceived that they had fallen, and looked
so earnestly in my face, that I was in hopes his recollection was
returning; but he only said, "Olivia, I believe that you love me;" then
sighed more deeply than before, drew his hand away from me, and, as well
as I could distinguish, said something about Leonora.
But why should I give you the pain of hearing all these circumstances,
my dear mother? It is enough to say, that he passed a dreadful night.
This morning the physicians say, that if he passes this night--if----my
dear mother, what a terrible suspense!
Leonora L----.
Letter c.
_Leonora to her mother._
Yarmouth.
Morning is at last come, and my husband is still alive: so there is yet
hope. When I said I thought I could bear to survive him, how little I
knew of myself, and how little, how very little I expected to be so soon
tried! All evils are remediable but one, that one which I dare not name.
The physicians assure me that he is better. His friend, to whose
judgment I trust more, thinks as they do. I know not what to believe. I
dread to flatter myself and to be disappointed. I will write again,
dearest mother, to-morrow.
Your ever affectionate
Leonora L----.
Letter ci.
_Leonora to her mother._
Wednesday.
No material change since yesterday, my dear mother. This morning, as I
was searching for some medicine, I saw on the chimney-piece a note from
Lady Olivia ----. It might have been there yesterday, and ever since my
arrival, but I did not see it. At any other time it would have excited
my indignation, but my mind is now too much weakened by sorrow. My fears
for my husband's life absorb all other feelings.
Letter cij.
_Olivia to Mr L----._
Richmond.
Words cannot express what I have suffered since I wrote last! Oh! why do
I not hear that the danger is over!--Long since would I have been with
you, all that my soul holds dear, could I have escaped from these
tyrants, these medical despots, who detain me by absolute force, and
watch over me with unrelenting vigilance. I have consulted Dr ***, who
assures me that my fears of my wound opening, were I to take so long a
journey, are too well-founded; that in the present feverish state of my
mind he would not answer for the consequences. I heed him not--life I
value not.--Most joyfully would I sacrifice myself for the man I love.
But even could I escape from my persecutors, too well I know that to see
you would be a vain attempt--too well I know that I should not be
admitted. Your love, your fears for Olivia would barbarously banish her
and forbid her your dear, your dangerous atmosphere. Too justly would
you urge that my rashness might prove our mutual ruin--that in the
moment of crisis or of convalescence, anxiety for me might defeat the
kind purpose of nature. And even were I secure of your recovery, the
delay, I speak not of the danger of my catching the disease, would,
circumstanced as we are, be death to our hopes. We should be compelled
to part. The winds would waft you from me. The waves would bear you to
another region, far--oh, far from your
Olivia.
Letter ciij.
_General B---- to the Duchess of ----_
Yarmouth, Thursday, --.
My dear Madam,
Mr L---- has had a relapse, and is now more alarmingly ill than I have
yet seen him: he does not know his situation, for his delirium has
returned. The physicians give him over. Dr H---- says that we must
prepare for the worst.
I have but one word of comfort for your grace--that your admirable
daughter's health has not yet suffered.
Your grace's faithful servant,
J. B.
Letter civ.
_Leonora to her mother._
Yarmouth.
My dearest Mother,
The delirium has subsided. A few minutes ago, as I was kneeling beside
him, offering up an almost hopeless prayer for his recovery, his eyes
opened, and I perceived that he knew me. He closed his eyes again
without speaking, opened them once more, and then looking at me fixedly,
exclaimed: "It is not a dream! You are Leonora!--_my_ Leonora!"
What exquisite pleasure I felt at the sound of these words, at the tone
in which they were pronounced! My husband folded me in his arms; and,
till I felt his burning lips, I forgot that he was ill.
When he came thoroughly to his recollection, and when the idea that his
fever might be infectious occurred to him, he endeavoured to prevail
upon me to leave the room. But what danger can there be for me _now_? My
whole soul, my whole frame is inspired with new life. If he recover,
your daughter may still be happy.
Letter cv.
_General B---- to the Duchess of ----._
My dear Madam,
A few hours ago my friend became perfectly sensible of his danger, and
calling me to his bedside, told me that he was eager to make use of the
little time which he might have to live. He was quite calm and
collected. He employed me to write his last wishes and bequests; and I
must do him the justice to declare, that the strongest idea and feeling
in his mind evidently was the desire to show his entire confidence in
his wife, and to give her, in his last moments, proofs of his esteem and
affection. When he had settled his affairs, he begged to be left alone
for some time. Between twelve and one his bell rang, and he desired to
see Lady Leonora and me. He spoke to me with that warmth of friendship
which he has ever felt from our childhood. Then turning to his wife, his
voice utterly failed, and he could only press to his lips that hand
which was held out to him in speechless agony.
"Excellent woman!" he articulated at last; then collecting his mind, he
exclaimed, "My beloved Leonora, I will not die without expressing my
feelings for you; I know yours for me. I do not ask for that forgiveness
which your generous heart granted long before I deserved it. Your
affection for me has been shown by actions, at the hazard of your life;
I can only thank you with weak words. You possess my whole heart, my
esteem, my admiration, my gratitude."
Lady Leonora, at the word _gratitude_, made an effort to speak, and laid
her hand upon her husband's lips. He added, in a more enthusiastic tone,
"You have my undivided love. Believe in the truth of these
words--perhaps they are the last I may ever speak."
My friend sunk back exhausted, and I carried Lady Leonora out of the
room.
I returned half an hour ago, and found everything silent: Mr L---- is
lying with his eyes closed--quite still--I hope asleep. This may be a
favourable crisis. I cannot delay this letter longer.
Your grace's faithful servant,
J. B.
Letter cvi.
_Leonora to her mother._
Yarmouth.
Dearest Mother,
He has slept several hours.--Dr H----, the most skilful of all his
physicians, says that we may now expect his recovery. Adieu. The good
general will add a line to assure you that I am not deceived, nor too
sanguine.
Yours most affectionately,
Leonora L----.
_Postscript by General B----._