To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.
Quebec, Saturday morning.
How unjust have I been in my hatred of Madame Des Roches! she spent
yesterday with us, and after dinner desired to converse with me an hour
in my apartment, where she opened to me all her heart on the subject of
her love for Rivers.
She is the noblest and most amiable of women, and I have been in
regard to her the most capricious and unjust: my hatred of her was
unworthy my character; I blush to own the meanness of my sentiments,
whilst I admire the generosity of hers.
Why, my dear, should I have hated her? she was unhappy, and deserved
rather my compassion: I had deprived her of all hope of being beloved,
it was too much to wish to deprive her also of his conversation. I
knew myself the only object of Rivers's love; why then should I have
envied her his friendship? she had the strongest reason to hate me, but
I should have loved and pitied her.
Can there be a misfortune equal to that of loving Rivers without
hope of a return? Yet she has not only born this misfortune without
complaint, but has been the confidante of his passion for another; he
owned to her all his tenderness for me, and drew a picture of me,
which, she told me, ought, had she listened to reason, to have
destroyed even the shadow of hope: but that love, ever ready to flatter
and deceive, had betrayed her into the weakness of supposing it
possible I might refuse him, and that gratitude might, in that case,
touch his heart with tenderness for one who loved him with the most
pure and disinterested affection; that her journey to Quebec had
removed the veil love had placed between her and truth; that she was
now convinced the faint hope she had encouraged was madness, and that
our souls were formed for each other.
She owned she still loved him with the most lively affection; yet
assured me, since she was not allowed to make the most amiable of
mankind happy herself, she wished him to be so with the woman on earth
she thought most worthy of him.
She added, that she had on first seeing me, though she thought me
worthy his heart, felt an impulse of dislike which she was ashamed to
own, even now that reason and reflexion had conquered so unworthy a
sentiment; that Rivers's complaisance had a little dissipated her
chagrin, and enabled her to behave to me in the manner she did: that
she had, however, almost hated me at the ball in the country: that the
tenderness in Rivers's eyes that day whenever they met mine, and his
comparative inattention to her, had wounded her to the soul.
That this preference had, however, been salutary, though painful;
since it had determined her to conquer a passion, which could only make
her life wretched if it continued; that, as the first step to this
conquest, she had resolved to see him no more: that she would return to
her house the moment she could cross the river with safety; and
conjured me, for her sake, to persuade him to give up all thoughts of a
settlement near her; that she could not answer for her own heart if she
continued to see him; that she believed in love there was no safety but
in flight.
That his absence had given her time to think coolly; and that she
now saw so strongly the amiableness of my character, and was so
convinced of my perfect tenderness for him, that she should hate
herself were she capable of wishing to interrupt our happiness.
That she hoped I would pardon her retaining a tender remembrance of
a man who, had he never seen me, might have returned her affection;
that she thought so highly of my heart, as to believe I could not hate
a woman who esteemed me, and who solicited my friendship, though a
happy rival.
I was touched, even to tears, at her behaviour: we embraced; and, if
I know my own weak foolish heart, I love her.
She talks of leaving Quebec before Rivers's return; she said, her
coming was an imprudence which only love could excuse; and that she
had no motive for her journey but the desire of seeing him, which was
so lively as to hurry her into an indiscretion of which she was afraid
the world took but too much notice. What openness, what sincerity, what
generosity, was there in all she said!
How superior, my dear, is her character to mine! I blush for myself
on the comparison; I am shocked to see how much she soars above me:
how is it possible Rivers should not have preferred her to me? Yet this
is the woman I fancied incapable of any passion but vanity.
I am sure, my dear Bell, I am not naturally envious of the merit of
others; but my excess of love for Rivers makes me apprehensive of
every woman who can possibly rival me in his tenderness.
I was hurt at Madame Des Roches's uncommon merit; I saw with pain
the amiable qualities of her mind; I could scarce even allow her person
to be pleasing: but this injustice is not that of my natural temper,
but of love.
She is certainly right, my dear, to see him no more; I applaud, I
admire her resolution: do you think, however, she would pursue it if
she loved as I do? she has perhaps loved before, and her heart has lost
something of its native trembling sensibility.
I wish my heart felt her merit as strongly as my reason: I esteem, I
admire, I even love her at present; but I am convinced Rivers's return
while she continues here would weaken these sentiments of affection:
the least appearance of preference, even for a moment, would make me
relapse into my former weakness. I adore, I idolize her character; but
I cannot sincerely wish to cultivate her friendship.
Let me see you this afternoon at Quebec; I am told the roads will
not be passable for carrioles above three days longer: let me therefore
see you as often as I can before we are absolutely shut from each
other.
Adieu! my dear!
Your faithful
Emily Montague.