_Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard_
_Chateau de Villebrun_
All is over!--My hopes are at an end!--I am awakened from a dream, in
which pain and pleasure were mingled to such excess as to render its
continuance impossible.
Nor is this all. This trial, severe as it was, did not suffice. To the
destruction of hope has been added the assault of insolence,
accompanied with a portion of obloquy which heart scarcely can
sustain--Oh, this Clifton!--But--Patience!
Yet let me do her justice. Mistaken though I am sure she is, the
motives of her conduct are so pure that even mistake itself is lovely
in her; and assumes all the energy, all the dignity of virtue. Oh what
a soul is hers! Her own passions, the passions of others, when she acts
and speaks, are all in subjection to principle. Yes, Oliver, of one
thing at least she has convinced me: she has taught me, or rather made
me feel, how poor a thing it is to be the slave of desire.
Not that I do not still adore her!--Ay, more than ever adore! But from
henceforth my adoration shall be worthy of herself, and not degrading
to me. From her I have learned what true love is; and the lesson is
engraven on my heart. She can consider personal gratification with
apathy, yet burn with a martyr's zeal for the promotion of universal
good.
And shall I not rise equal to the bright example which she has set me?
Shall I admire yet not imitate?
Did she despise me? Did she reject me for my own sake?--No!--All the
affection which mind can feel for mind she has avowed for me! And shall
I grieve because another may be more happy?--And why more?--In
what?--Is not the union of souls the first the most permanent of all
alliances? That union is mine! No power can shake it. She openly
acknowledges it; and has done, daily, hourly, in every word, in every
action. Whither then would my wishes wander?
Oliver, I am a man, and subject to the shakes and agues of his fragile
nature!--Yet it is a poor, a wretched plea; a foolish, and a false
plea. Man is weak because he is willing to be weak. He crouches to the
whip, and like a coward pities while he lashes himself.
His wilful phrensy he calls irresistible, and weeps for the torments
which he himself inflicts.
But once again this Clifton!--Read and tell me how I ought to act--I
have received a blow from him, Oliver!--Yes, have tamely submitted to
receive a blow!--
What intolerable prejudices are these! Why does my heart rebel so
sternly, at what virtue so positively approves?
I had just left her; had that instant been rejected by her for his
sake; had been summoned to aid her, in weeding out error from his mind.
She shewed me it was a noble task, and communicated to me her own
divine ardour. Yes, Oliver; I came from her, with a warmed and animated
heart; participating all her zeal. The most rigid, the most painful of
all abstinence was demanded from me; but should I shrink from a duty
because I pity or because I love myself? No. Such pusillanimity were
death to virtue. I left her, while my thoughts glowed with the ardour
of emulating her heroism; and burned to do him all the good which she
had projected.
He was at the end of the corridor, and saw me quit her apartment. His
hot spirit caught the alarm instantaneously, and blazed in his
countenance. He accosted me--
So, sir! You are very familiar with that lady! What right have you to
intrude into her apartments?
When she herself desires me, sir, I have a right.
She desire you! 'Tis false!
Sir?
'Tis false, sir!
False?
Yes, sir. And falsehood deserves to be chastised!
Chastised? [It is in vain, Oliver, to endeavour to conceal the truth
from myself; my folly incurred its own punishment--I repeat] Chastised?
[I was lunatic enough to walk up to him, with a ridiculous and
despicable air of defiance. He re-echoed my words, and instantly in
contempt struck me on the cheek with the back of his hand.]
Yes, sir; chastised!
His rashness restored me to some sense of the farcical heroism which I
had been aping. I hurried from him, without another word.
Oliver, I can conceive nothing more painful than this wresting, this
tearing of passion from its purpose.
I walked a few minutes to calm my thoughts, and wrote him the following
note.
Sir,
'I feel at present the humility of my situation: but not from your
blow; for that has brought me to myself, not humbled me. No man can be
degraded by another; it must be his own act: and you have degraded
yourself, not me. My error is in having, for a moment, yielded to the
impulse of passion. If you think I fear you, continue to think so; till
I can shew my forbearance is from a better motive. Cowardice might make
me kill you; but true courage will teach me calmly to hear the world
call me coward, rather than commit an act so wicked, so abhorred, as
that of taking or throwing away life. I wished to seek your friendship;
and even now I will not shun you. Make the world imagine me a coward;
imagine me one yourself, if you can. I will live under the supposed
obloquy; and leave the tenor of my life to shew whether living be the
act of fear, or of reason. I pardon you, sir, and leave you to pardon
yourself.