_The Marquis of Pescara to the Marquis of San Severino_
_Cosenza_
My dear lord,
Why is it that a heart feeble and unheroic as mine, should be destined
to encounter so many temptations? I might have passed through the
world honourable and immaculate, had circumstances been a little more
propitious. As it is, I shall probably descend to the grave with a
character, at least among the scrupulous and the honest, reproachful and
scandalous. Now this I can never account for. My heart is a stranger to
all the dark and malignant passions. I am not cursed with an unbounded
ambition. I am a stranger to inexorable hate and fell revenge. I aim at
happiness and gratification. But if it were in my power I would have all
my fellow-creatures happy as myself.
Why is the fair Matilda so incomparably beautiful and so inexpressibly
attractive? Had her temper been less sweet and undesigning, had her
understanding been less delicate and refined, had not the graces dwelt
upon those pouting lips, my heart had been sound and unhurt to this
very hour. But to see her every day, to converse with her at all
opportunities, to be regarded by her as her only friend and chosen
protector, tell me, ye gods, what heart, that was not perfectly
invulnerable, that was not totally impregnated with the waters of the
Styx, could have come off victorious from trials like these?
And yet, my dear Ferdinand, to see the distress of the lovely Matilda,
to see her bosom heave with anguish, and her eyes suffused with tears,
to hear the heart-rending sighs continually bursting from her, in spite
of the fancied resolution, and the sweet pride that fill her soul, how
callous, how void of feeling and sympathy ought the man to be, in whom
objects like these can call up no relentings? Ah, my lord, when I
observe how her tender frame is shaken with misfortune, I am sometimes
ready to apprehend that it totters to its fall, that it is impossible
she should survive the struggling, tumultuous passions that rage within
her. What a glorious prize would then be lost? What would then become
of all the deep contrivances, the mighty politics, that your friendship
suggested?
And yet, so wayward is my fate, those very objects which might be
expected to awaken the sincerest penitence and regret, now only serve to
give new strength to the passion that devours me, and to make my flame
surmount every obstacle that can oppose its progress. Yes, Matilda,
thou must be mine. Heaven and earth cannot now overturn the irrevocable
decree. It has been the incessant object of my attention to throw in
those artful baits which might best divert the current of her soul. I
have assiduously inflamed her resentment to the highest pitch, and I
flatter myself that I have made some progress towards the concluding
stroke.
There is no situation in which we stand in greater need of sympathy and
consolation, than in those moments of forlornness and desertion to which
the poor Matilda imagines herself reduced. At these times my friendship
has been most unwearied in its exertions. I have answered sigh with
sigh, and mingled my tears with those of the lovely mourner. Believe me,
Ferdinand, this has not been entirely affectation and hypocrisy. There
is a vein of sensibility in the human heart, that will not permit us to
behold an artless and an innocent distress, at least when surrounded
with all the charms of beauty, without feeling our souls involuntarily
dilated, and our eyes unexpectedly swimming in tears.
But I have another source of disquietude which is unaccompanied with any
alleviating circumstances. A letter from the count de St. Julian to his
Matilda has just been conveyed to my hands. It is filled with the most
affecting and tender complaints of her silence that can possibly be
imagined. He has too exalted a notion of the fair charmer to attribute
this to lightness and inconstancy. His inventive fancy conjures up a
thousand horrid phantoms, and surrounds the mistress of his soul with
I know not what imaginary calamities. But that passage of the whole
epistle that overwhelms me most, is one, in which, in spite of all the
anguish of his mind, in spite of appearances, he expresses the most
unsuspecting confidence in his false and treacherous friend. He still
recommends me to his Matilda as her best protector and surest guardian.
Ah, my St. Julian, how didst thou deserve to be cursed with an
associate, hollow and deceitful as Rinaldo?
Yes, marquis, in spite of all the arguments you have alledged to me upon
the subject, I still regard my first and youthful friend, as the most
exalted and the foremost of human beings. You may talk of pride, vanity,
and stoicism, the heart that listens to the imputation feels its
sophistry. It is not vanity, for his virtuous actions are rather
studiously hid from observation, than ostentatiously displayed. Is it
pride? It is a pride that constitutes the truest dignity. It is a pride
worthy of heroes and of gods. What analogy does it bear with the pride
of avarice, and the pride of rank; how is it similar to the haughty
meanness of patronage, and the insatiable cravings of ambition?
But I must not indulge to reflexions like these. It is to no purpose for
the disinterested tenderness, the unstoical affection of my St. Julian
to start up in array before me. Hence remorse, and all her kindred
passions! I am cruel, obdurate, and unrelenting. Yes, most amiable of
men, you might as well address your cries to the senseless rocks. You
might as well hope with your eloquent and soft complainings to persuade
the crocodile that was ready to devour you. I have passed the Rubicon.
I have taken the irrevocable step. It is too late, ah, much too late to
retreat!