it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a _natural right_, to belong
to her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all
sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!--Are
these the privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the
hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is
sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.--A
man is a tyrant!
You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing
away with some honest fellows in L--n. The casual exercise of social
sympathy would not be sufficient for me--I should not think such an
heartless life worth preserving.--It is necessary to be in good-humour
with you, to be pleased with the world.
* * * * *
Thursday Morning.
I WAS very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful
temper, which makes absence easy to you.--And, why should I mince the the
matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it.--I do not want to
be loved like a goddess; but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless
you[27-A]!
* * * * *
LETTER XI.
Monday Night.
I HAVE just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide
my face, glowing with shame for my folly.--I would hide it in your bosom,
if you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my
fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes
overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I intreat you.--Do
not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very
wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had
no confidence in me----
It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices
of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much
indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or
perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and
tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been
dreadfully disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my
stomach; still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have been
fainter.
Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to ask
as many questions as Voltaire's Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue
to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling through my
tears--You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting
into playfulness.
Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop
not an angry word--I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a
scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come
back--and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you
the next.
------ did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to
H----. Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming
that it was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me
so.
God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of
tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my
support.--Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did
writing it, and you will make happy, your
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XII.
Wednesday Morning.
I WILL never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to
encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are separated. Yesterday, my
love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not
half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as
seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a little
pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days
past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will you not
be glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of
me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.
One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness
which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear
to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness
would be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me
almost a duty to stifle them, when I imagine _that I am treated with
coldness_.
I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ----. I know the quickness of
your feelings--and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you,
there is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness
wholly depends on you--and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I
look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth
affords--with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look
at me, when we meet again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,
yet most affectionate
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XIII.
Thursday Night.
I HAVE been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I
knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand--and this
afternoon, when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite
pleasure to your poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you
were still to receive another cold one.--Burn it also, my ----; yet do
not forget that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever
recollect, that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before
you took me again to your heart.
I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey,
because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading
continually the fatal consequence of my folly.--But, should you think it
right to remain at H--, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of a
fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be
strong again.--Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took
such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind.
The girl is come to warm my bed--so I will tenderly say, good night! and
write a line or two in the morning.
Morning.
I WISH you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence
shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was
so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.
I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether
this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,
before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my
bowels, and gave a turn to my whole system.
Yours truly
* * * * * * * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XIV.
Saturday Morning.
THE two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love,
will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect
your motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by
what seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.--I
thought also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at H--, I
might as well have been with you.--Well! well, what signifies what I
brooded over--Let us now be friends!
I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon--and
I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at
least, till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not
enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will
hasten to your * * * *, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the
object of your journey.
What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my fancy
was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder, whilst my
eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your
knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six--if you
have not set your heart on this round number.
I am going to dine with Mrs. ----. I have not been to visit her since the
first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much
as I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past,
has been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I
am quite well. I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not
much.--The two Mrs. ------s have been very anxious and tender.
Yours truly
* * * *
I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.
* * * * *
LETTER XV.
Sunday Morning.
I WROTE to you yesterday, my ----; but, finding that the colonel is still
detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I am
not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me,
after having talked of illness and apprehensions.
I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my
Yorkshire phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of
childhood into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go
badly with me_.--And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you;
for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a
new-born tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater
part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of
the fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have
promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it,
will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could
not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my heart.--I am afraid
to read over this prattle--but it is only for your eye.
I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by
impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional
uneasiness.--If you can make any of your plans answer--it is well, I do
not think a _little_ money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will
struggle cheerfully together--drawn closer by the pinching blasts of
poverty.
Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters;
for I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals
into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
Yours sincerely
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XVI.
Tuesday Morning.
I SEIZE this opportunity to inform you, that I am to set out on Thursday
with Mr. ------, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I
shall be to see you. I have just got my passport, so I do not foresee any
impediment to my reaching H----, to bid you good-night next Friday in my
new apartment--where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to
smile me to sleep--for I have not caught much rest since we parted.
You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully
round my heart, than I supposed possible.--Let me indulge the thought,
that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wish
to be supported.--This is talking a new language for me!--But, knowing
that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of
affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being once more
in the same house with you.--God bless you!
Yours truly
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XVII.
Wednesday Morning.
I ONLY send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you,
that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after
you receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more
properly speaking, cheerful.--What is the reason that my spirits are not
as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that
your temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain my
own forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time--I am
afraid to say never.
Farewell for a moment!--Do not forget that I am driving towards you in
person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has
never left you.
I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too
fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.--With my face turned to
H--my spirits will not sink--and my mind has always hitherto enabled my
body to do whatever I wished.
Yours affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XVIII.
H--, Thursday Morning, March 12.
WE are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was
sorry, childishly so, for your going, when I knew that you were to stay
such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not
sleep.--I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of
the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish
about; but all would not do.--I took nevertheless my walk before
breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting--and here I am,
wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I
write, with one of your kindest looks--when your eyes glisten, and a
suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.
But I do not mean to dally with you this morning--So God bless you! Take
care of yourself--and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XIX.
DO not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I
was to inclose.--This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter
of business.--You know, you say, they will not chime together.--I had got
you by the fire-side, with the _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your
poor bare ribs--and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper
up, that was directly under my eyes!--What had I got in them to render me
so blind?--I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not
scold; for I am
Yours most affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XX.
Sunday, August 17.
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
I have promised ------ to go with him to his country-house, where he is
now permitted to dine--I, and the little darling, to be sure[47-A]--whom
I cannot help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I
shall enjoy the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than
satiate my imagination.
I have called on Mrs. ------. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with
a dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_.--But
_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either
the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the
foreground of the picture.
The H----s are very ugly, without doubt--and the house smelt of commerce
from top to toe--so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only
proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a
room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_--A
nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed
Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.--Ah!
kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the
loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the
_sombre_ day of life--whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see
things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running
stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to
tantalize us.
But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me
let the square-headed money-getters alone.--Peace to them! though none of
the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions,
who sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to
restrain my pen.
I have been writing on, expecting poor ------ to come; for, when I began,
I merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most
naturally associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.
Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a
_gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to
cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments
in your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of
the senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the
father[50-A], when they produce the suffusion I admire.--In spite of icy
age, I hope still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and
drink, and be stupidly useful to the stupid--
Yours
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XXI.
H--, August 19, Tuesday.
I RECEIVED both your letters to-day--I had reckoned on hearing from you
yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to
the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that
you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but ------ came in, and
some other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has
evaporated--yet, leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you,
what is sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to
keep my place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how
necessary your affection is to my happiness.--Still I do not think it
false delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my
happiness should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a
selfish passion, as reason--that is, I want you to promote my felicity,
by seeking your own.--For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover
your generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on
the very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart,
which demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me
clearly mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of
cherishing a tenderness for your person.
I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long
time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that all
my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace,
though they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment--This for our
little girl was at first very reasonable--more the effect of reason, a
sense of duty, than feeling--now, she has got into my heart and
imagination, and when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever
dancing before me.
You too have somehow clung round my heart--I found I could not eat my
dinner in the great room--and, when I took up the large knife to carve
for myself, tears rushed into my eyes.--Do not however suppose that I am
melancholy--for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find
fault with you--but how I can doubt your affection.
I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation)
with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are
the friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XXII.
H--, August 20.
I WANT to know what steps you have taken respecting ----. Knavery always
rouses my indignation--I should be gratified to hear that the law had
chastised ------ severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the
business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly
know how you would express your contempt.
Pray ask some questions about Tallien--I am still pleased with the
dignity of his conduct.--The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made
use of a degree of address, which I admire--and mean to point out to
you, as one of the few instances of address which do credit to the
abilities of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his
openness of heart, which is the true basis of both public and private
friendship.
Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in
you, of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a
cunning woman, and you almost look for cunning--Nay, in _managing_ my
happiness, you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself,
till honest sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look
into a heart, which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be
revived and cherished.----You have frankness of heart, but not often
exactly that overflowing (_épanchement de coeur_), which becoming almost
childish, appears a weakness only to the weak.
But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether,
as a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a
_number_ of mistresses.--Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather
flattered his vanity than his senses.
Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to
close it without mentioning the little damsel--who has been almost
springing out of my arm--she certainly looks very like you--but I do not
love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.--
Yours affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XXIII[58-A].
September 22.
I HAVE just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and
which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely
write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had
left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me
why you did not write a longer--and you will want to be told, over and
over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.
Besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight
her--to ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud
music--yesterday, at the _fête_, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to
honour J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has
ever had round her--and why not?--for I have always been half in love
with him.
Well, this you will say is trifling--shall I talk about alum or soap?
There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination
then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you
coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.--With what pleasure do I
recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window,
regarding the waving corn!
Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the
imagination--I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of
sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the
passions--animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more
exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste,
appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if
you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the
imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold
creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to
rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of
leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.
If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which
would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you
are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life--Bring me then
back your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my
barrier-girl; and I shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that
will ever be dear to me; for I am yours truly
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XXIV.
Evening, Sept. 23.
I HAVE been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I
cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my
bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for I do
not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the
touch, and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of
man and wife being one--for you seemed to pervade my whole frame,
quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you
excited.
Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present--the rest is
all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain
of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days
past.
* * * * *
Morning.
YESTERDAY B---- sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me
before; and I like him better than I did--that is, I have the same
opinion of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more
tenderness and real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are
commonly to be met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl,
about the age of mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister,
and requested him to see her.
I have been interrupted. Mr. ----I suppose will write about business.
Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write
now with great freedom and truth, and this liberty of the press will
overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.
I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness
at night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am
alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into
reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.