_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_Paris, Hotel de l'Université_
I fear, my dear Louisa, I am at present hurried forward a little too
fast to act with all the caution which I could wish. My mind is not
coherent, not at peace with itself. Ideas rush in multitudes, and more
than half obscure my understanding.
I find that, since we left Wenbourne-Hill, Frank has grown upon my
thoughts very strangely. Indeed till then I was but partially
acquainted with his true character, the energy of which is very
uncommon. But, though his virtues are become more conspicuous, the
impediments that forbid any thought of union are not lessened.
My chief difficulty is, I do not yet know how to give full effect to my
arguments, so as to produce such conviction as he shall be unable to
resist. Let me do but this, and I have no doubt of his perfect
acquiescence, and resignation. But, should I fail, the warfare of the
passions will be prolonged; and, for a time, a youth whose worth is
above my praise rendered unhappy. A sense of injustice, committed by
the person of whom, perhaps, he thought too highly to suppose it
possible that either error or passion should render her so culpable,
may prey upon his peace, and destroy the felicity of one to whom reason
and recollection tell me I cannot wish too much good.
I am convinced I have been guilty of another mistake. I have on various
occasions been desirous of expressing approbation, mingled with esteem
and friendship. He has extorted it from me. He has obliged me to feel
thus. And why, have I constantly asked myself, should I repress or
conceal sensations that are the dues of merit? No: they ought not to
have been repressed, or concealed, but they ought to have been rendered
intelligible, incapable of misconstruction, and not liable to a meaning
which they were never intended to convey. For, if ever they were more
than I suppose, I have indeed been guilty.
Yes, my Louisa, let me discharge my conscience. Let no accusation of
deceit rest with me. I can endure any thing but self-reproach. I avow,
therefore, Frank Henley is, in my estimation, the most deserving man I
have ever known. A man that I could love infinitely. A man whose
virtues I do and must ever love. A man in whose company my heart
assures me I could have enjoyed years of happiness. If the casuists in
such cases should tell me this is what they mean by love, why then I am
in love.
But if the being able, without a murmur, nay cheerfully, to marry
another, or see him properly married, if the possession of the power
and the resolution to do what is right, and if an unshaken will to
exert this power prove the contrary, why then I am not in love.
When I may, without trespassing on any duty, and with the full
approbation of my own heart, yield up its entire affections, the man to
whom they shall be devoted shall then find how much I can love.
My passions must be, ought to be, and therefore shall be, under my
control; and, being conscious of the purity of my own intentions, I
have never thought that the emanations of mind ought to be shackled by
the dread of their being misinterpreted. It is not only cowardly, but
in my opinion pernicious.
Yet, with respect to Frank, I fear this principle has led me into an
error. Among other escapes of this kind, there is one which has lately
befallen me, and for which I doubt I am reprehensible.
Frank has written a song, in which his feelings and situation are very
strongly expressed. He left it on my music desk, by accident; for his
character is too open, too determined, to submit to artifice. The words
pleased me, I may say affected me, so very much that I was tempted to
endeavour to adapt an air to them; which, when it was written, I
several times repeated, and accompanied myself on the piano-forte. Your
brother came in just as I had ended; and, from a hint which he
purposely gave, I suspect that Frank had been listening in the
antichamber.
The behaviour of Frank afterward confirmed the supposition. He followed
your brother, and sat down while we conversed. His whole soul seemed
absorbed; but not, as I have sometimes seen it, in melancholy.
Satisfaction, pleasure, I know not whether rapture would be too strong
a word for the expressions which were discoverable in his countenance.
My own mind had the moment before been impassioned; and the same
sensations thrilling as it were through my veins might mislead me, and
induce me to suppose things that had no existence. Still I do not think
I was mistaken. And if not, what have I done? Have I not thoughtlessly
betrayed him into a belief that I mean to favour a passion which I
should think it criminal to encourage?
I know not why I delay so long to explain my sentiments. It is the weak
fear of not doing justice to my cause; of not convincing, and of making
him unhappy, for whom I would sacrifice my life, every thing but
principle, to make him the very reverse.
However this must and shall soon be ended. I do not pretend to fix a
day, but it shall not be a very distant one. I will arrange my
thoughts, collect my whole force, and make an essay which I am
convinced cannot fail, unless by my fault. The task is perhaps the most
severe I have ever yet undertaken. I will remember this, and I hope my
exertions will be adequate.
Adieu, my dear Louisa: and, when you come to this place, imagine me for
a moment in your arms.