_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_London, Grosvenor Street_
When last my Louisa heard from me, my mind was depressed. I almost
despaired of the great task I had undertaken. I had likewise an
immediate duty, a disburthening of my soul, a kind of confession of
facts to make, from which education has falsely accustomed us to shrink
with pain, and my spirits were overclouded. This rigorous duty is
performed; hope again begins to brighten, and my eased heart now feels
more light and cheerful.
Not but it still is tremulous with the sensations by which it has just
been thrilled. I seem to have risen from one of the most interesting
and I believe I may add awful scenes, in which I have ever been
engaged. The recesses of the soul have been searched; that no
retrospective accusation of want of absolute and perfect candour might,
as of late it too often has done, rise to assault me.
I found Clifton in the parlour. His look was more composed, more
complacent, and remarkably more thoughtful than it had lately been. I
began with stating that the feelings of my heart required every act,
every thought of mine, that had any relation whatever to him, should be
fully and explicitly known. I conjured him to have the goodness to
determine not to interrupt me; that I might perform this office, clear
my conscience, and shew my heart unveiled, undisguised, exactly as it
was; and that he might at once reject it, if it were either unworthy
his acceptance or incompatible with his principles.
He promised compliance and kept his word. I never knew him a listener
so long, or with such mute patience. I had as I may say studied the
discourse which I made to him, and which I thus began.
It will not be my intention, Mr. Clifton, in what I am going to say, to
appear better or worse than I am. Should I be partial to myself, I wish
you to detect me. There is nothing I so much desire as a knowledge of
my own failings. This knowledge, were it truly attained, would make the
worst of us angels. Our prejudices, our passions, and our ignorance
alone deceive us, and persuade us that wrong is right.
I have before acquainted you of the project of Mrs. Clifton and Sir
Arthur, for our union. I have told you of the unfeigned friendship, the
high admiration, and the unbounded love I have for your sister: or in
other words for her virtues. A short acquaintance shewed me that your
mind had all the capacity to which the most ardent of my hopes aspired.
It had indeed propensities, passions, and habits, which I thought
errors; but not incurable. The meanest of us have our duties to fulfil,
which are in proportion to our opportunities, and our power. I imagined
that a duty of a high but possible nature presented itself, and called
upon me for performance.
You no doubt will smile at my vanity, but I must be sincere. By
instruction, by conversation, and by other accidents, it appeared to me
that I had been taught some high and beneficial truths and principles;
which you, by contrary instruction, conversation, and accidents, had
not attained. Convinced that truth is irresistible, I trusted in the
power of these truths rather than of myself, and said here is a mind to
which I am under every moral obligation to impart them, because I
perceive it equal to their reception. The project therefore of our
friends was combined with these circumstances, which induced me
willingly to join their plan; and to call my friend sister was an
additional and delightful motive. It appeared like strengthening those
bonds between us which I believe no human force can break.
An obstacle or rather the appearance of an obstacle somewhat
unexpectedly arose. From my childhood I had been in part a witness of
the rising virtues of young Mr. Henley. Difference of sex, of
situation, and of pursuits, prevented us till lately from being
intimate. I had been accustomed to hear him praised, but knew not all
the eminence with which it was deserved. He was my supposed inferior,
and it is not very long since I myself entertained some part of that
prejudice. I know myself now not to be his equal.
A recollection of combining circumstances convinced me that he had for
some time, and before I suspected it, thought on me with partiality. He
believes there is great affinity in our minds; he avows it, and with a
manly courage becoming his character, which abhors dissimulation, has
since confessed an affection for me; nay has affirmed that unless I
have conceived some repugnance to him, which I have not nor ever can
conceive, I ought as a strict act of justice to myself and him to
prefer him before any other.
I should acknowledge the cogency of the reasons he assigns, and
certainly entertain such a preference, did it not appear to me that
there are opposing and irreconcileable claims and duties. It is my
principle, and perhaps still more strongly his, that neither of us must
live for ourselves, but for society. In the abstract our principle is
the same; but in the application we appear to differ. He thinks that
the marriage of two such people can benefit society at large. I am
persuaded that the little influence which it would have in the world
would be injurious, and in some sort fatal to the small circle for
which I seem to exist, and over which my feeble influence can extend.
For these reasons only, and in compliance with what I believe to be the
rigorous but inflexible injunctions of justice, have I rejected a man
whom I certainly do not merit: a man whose benevolent heart, capacious
mind, and extraordinary virtues are above my praise, and I almost fear
beyond my attainment.
My memory will not furnish me with every word and incident that have
passed between us; and if it would such repetition would be tedious.
But I wish you clearly to understand that Mr. Henley has made these
declarations to me: that my mode of acting and my reasons have been
such as I have mentioned; that I am not myself so perfectly satisfied
with these reasons but that I sometimes am subject to recurring doubts;
and that I do at present and while I have thought or sense shall
continue to admire his genius and his virtue.
If what he has said or what I have done be offensive to you, if you
cannot think highly of him and innocently of me, if my thoughts
concerning him can possibly be stained with a criminal tinge in your
eyes, it becomes you, and I now most solemnly call upon you, as a man
disdaining deceit, at once to say so, and here to break off all further
intercourse. Esteem, nay revere him I do and ever must; and instead of
being guilty for this, my principles tell me the crime would be to
esteem and revere him less.
I trust in the frankness of my heart for the proof of its sincerity. My
determination is to have a clear and unspotted conscience. Purity of
mind is a blessing beyond all price; and it is that purity only which
is genuine or of any value. The circumstance I am going to relate may
to you appear strange, and highly reprehensible--Be it so.--It must be
told.
We never had but one conversation in which the subject of marriage, as
it related to him and me, was directly and fairly debated. He then
behaved as he has done always with that sincerity, consistency, and
fortitude, by which he is so peculiarly characterised. A conversation
so interesting, in which a man of such uncommon merit was to be
rejected by a woman who cannot deny him to be her superior, could not
but awaken all the affections of the heart. I own that mine ached in
the discharge of its duties, and nothing but the most rooted
determination to abide by those duties could have steeled it to
refusal--It was a cruel fortitude!
But while it ached it overflowed; and to you more especially than to
any other person upon earth, I think it necessary to say that, at a
moment when the feeling of compassion and the dread of being unjust
were excited most powerfully in my bosom, paradoxical as it may seem,
my zeal to demonstrate the integrity and innocence of my mind induced
me to--kiss him!
I scarcely can proceed----There are sensations almost too strong to be
subdued--The mind with difficulty can endure that mistake, that
contortion, which can wrest guilt out of the most sublime of its
emanations--However, if it were a crime, of that crime I am guilty--I
pretend not to appear other than I am; and what I am it is necessary at
this moment that you should know.
This conversation and this incident happened on the day on which you
met him in the corridor, coming from my chamber. A day, Mr. Clifton,
worthy of your remembrance and of your emulation; for it afforded some
of the strongest proofs of inflexible courage of which man is at
present capable. He had been robbed of the hope dearest to his heart,
had been rejected by the woman he had chosen to be the friend and
companion of his life, had been enjoined the task of doing all possible
good to his rival, which he had unconditionally promised, and he left
her to--receive a blow from this rival's hand!
Far be it from me, Mr. Clifton, to wish to give you pain, or insult
your feelings!--Oh no!--I retrace the picture only because I think it
one of the most instructive lessons, for private life, the stores of
memory can supply.
I must further inform you that but a few days ago I questioned him,
whether he had not changed his opinion concerning me; hoping that after
mature reflection he might have thought, as I do, that to refuse him
was a duty. But he persists in believing it to be an error. He does not
however obtrude his thoughts upon me: on the subject of love an
anchorite could not be more silent, or a brother more delicate. That
one conversation excepted, he has made no further attempts. A few words
were indirectly said, when, as I have just told you, I questioned him;
but they were excited by me.
With respect to the song, at which you have last taken offence, its
brief history is that it was written, or at least first seen by me,
soon after our arrival in France. I found it on my music-desk; and I
dare affirm it had been left there by mistake, not design. I supposed
it to be his from the hand-writing; and I set it because it affected
me.
The day on which you found me singing it to him was the first on which
it was ever mentioned by him to me; and then, after he had been pressed
by Sir Arthur to know how he could serve him, a copy of it was begged
from me as the only favour the family could bestow!--He has done us
many favours! Favours which we shall never have an opportunity to
repay! Though my hands are impotent, ere my thoughts can be restrained
from being just to his worth I must be convinced there is guilt in
those thoughts.
How to address myself now personally to you, Mr. Clifton, I scarcely
know. The world perhaps would call my views extravagant, my pretensions
impertinent, and my plan absurd.--The world must do its will--In the
progress toward truth, I have presumed to think you several steps
behind me. I have proposed to myself in some sort to be your
instructress. I have repeated my plan to the person whom you perhaps
may consider as your rival; I have required his aid, and have avowed
that I think him very considerably your superior. Each and all of these
may be and I suppose are offensive; but the proceedings of rectitude
never can be dark, hidden, and insidious. When I have said all that I
think of you I should hope you will be more inclined to believe me
equitable.
There are many leading principles in which we differ; and concerning
which till we agree to proceed to marriage would be culpable. These you
were at first eager to examine; but finding the side you took not so
clear and well-established as you had imagined, displeased by
contradiction, and, in the spirit of that gallantry which you profess
to admire, being willing to appear complaisant to the female to whom
you pay your addresses, you have lately declined discussion. You think
no doubt that the lover ought to yield, and the husband to command;
both of which I deny. Husband, wife, or lover, should all be under the
command of reason; other commands are tyranny. Reason and not
relationship alone can give authority.
You think that the claims of birth to superiority are legitimate: I
hold them to be usurpations. I deem society, and you self, to be the
first of claimants. Duels with you are duties, with me crimes. Suicide
you allow to be generally an act of insanity, but sometimes of virtue.
I affirm that no one, who is not utterly useless in society, or who
cannot by dying be of greater use than by living, can have a right over
his own life: and of the existence of such a being I doubt. You
maintain that what you possess is your own: I affirm it is the property
of him who wants it most.
These are essential differences. Nor are these all, but perhaps they
are more than sufficient to end the alliance we were seeking.
Not that I desire to end it--Far, far the reverse!--You, Mr. Clifton,
are so highly gifted, so distinguished in the rank of intellect, and
have a mind of such potency, that to behold its powers employed in the
cause of truth, to be myself instrumental in a work so worthy, and
afterward to become the fast and dearest friend of such a mind is a
progression so delightful, so seducing, that for a time I laboured to
persuade myself of its possibility.
These hopes begin to fade; and, did you know how much this circumstance
afflicts me, you would at least absolve me from all charge of
indifference.
Habits and prejudices which are sanctioned by the general practice, and
even by numbers who are in many respects eminently wise and virtuous,
are too stubborn to be overcome by the impotent arguments of a young
female; with whom men are much more prone to trifle, toy, and divert
themselves, than to enquire into practical and abstract truth. In the
storm of the passions, a voice so weak would not be heard.
That all these impediments should be removed I begin to believe but
little probable; and, till they are removed, as we are we must remain.
The obstacles to marriage are indeed so numerous that I perceive
calculation to be very much in favour of celibacy: I mean respecting
myself. I ask not riches; but of wealth of mind my expectations by some
would be called extravagant. Yet lower these expectations I cannot; for
that would be to relax in principle.
I ended; and your brother still sat patient and willing to listen, had
I desired to continue. After a short pause, he replied--The profound
attention I have paid, madam, will I hope convince you I have not been
an idle listener. Your words, or at least the substance of them, have
sunk deep in my heart. Your desire that I should remember them scarcely
can equal mine. To me, madam, they are so important that the moment I
return home, confident as I usually am of my memory, I will not trust
it now, but commit them to writing.
What your motives are for this unusual care, or whether you do or do
not feel yourself offended, Mr. Clifton, it is not possible for me to
divine: but, as I think it alike unjust to conceal what I have done or
what I have said, however mistaken my words or actions may have been, I
will spare you the trouble of writing, if you think proper, and send
you a tolerably correct transcript of my thoughts tomorrow morning. I
can easily repeat them, assisted by some memorandums that I have
already made, and by the strength of my recollection and my feelings,
which I think are in no danger of a sudden decay.
You will infinitely oblige me, madam, and I will endeavour to profit by
the favour. My mind is at present as much awake to the subject as
yours--I hope you are not unwilling to converse with me on the topics
on which we may happen to differ?
Unwilling?--Oh no!--It was your unwillingness that led me almost to
despair--But are you in earnest?--Truly and sincerely in earnest?
In earnest, madam: truly and sincerely in earnest.
And will you really reflect, seriously, deeply, on the subject in
question?
As deeply, madam, as you yourself could wish.
Mr. Clifton, your present tone and manner rejoice me!--You half revive
my hopes!--But let me conjure you to be sincere with your own heart.
Examine every thing I have said; every thing; especially what relates
to Frank Henley. All that I have observed of your temper, from first to
last, obliges me thus seriously to warn you.
Fear not, madam; I will obey your injunctions. I will examine with all
the severity you could wish--The cup may have its bitters, but its
contents must be swallowed--You will not judge ill of me, madam, for my
frankness?
Oh no! Be frank, be true, be worthy of yourself!
Such as you would have me, madam, I must become--All I request is that
you would aid me in the task.
And are you indeed as determined as you seem to be?
I am, madam. [I never before, Louisa, saw your brother look or speak
with such firmness.] You have been kindly pleased to say you once
prescribed it as a duty to yourself to teach, or attempt to teach me
your principles.
Not mine, but the principles of truth. Cool and fair enquiry is all I
wish. Should any of your principles be better founded than mine, I
shall be most happy to become your scholar. I am aware how impossible
it is that any two people should think exactly alike on any one
subject, much less on all; but on certain great leading points, were
you and I to continue as opposite as we are, and were we to marry,
felicity could not be the consequence.
Let us hope, madam, it is possible we should make a marriage of
opinions, which you think as necessary as of persons.
Quite!--Quite!--Let me conjure you however not to deceive yourself!
Pretend to no conviction you do not feel; nor degrade the honest
sincerity of your heart by any unworthy indulgence of desire!
Here, Louisa, our conversation ended. Company came in, and the
customary occupations of the day took place. But it is with heartfelt
pleasure I add that your brother behaved as if he had forgotten his
former character, and was at last firmly resolved to assume a new one.
I have often endeavoured to encourage hope, but never before felt it in
any thing like the same degree. He cannot but be in earnest; his
determination for the first time to commit all I had said to writing is
an indubitable proof!--May the same propensities continue and
increase!--'He shall not die' will again be the burthen of my
song!--What a noble mind might his become!--Might?--Let us once more be
bold and say will!--Oh that to do were as easy as to say!