Soon after Lord Munster's arrival in London, he wrote Lady Darnley the
following letter.
From the Earl of Munster to the
Countess of Darnley.
'My Dear Aunt,
Over powered as I am with a weight of obligations, I should think
myself highly wanting to my own feelings, were I in any one instance
in my future life to leave you dubious of my gratitude, or the earnest
desire I have of conforming to your wishes.
You have, my dear Madam, expressed your desire I should marry;
but that, my dear aunt, is impossible at present. But I revere that
state: men who laugh at a serious engagement, have never known the
allurements of modesty when blended with affability; nor felt the
power of beauty, when innocence has increased its force. This has been
my case, and my heart is already a prey to a hopeless passion. But it
is necessary to carry you back some years, in order to give a recital
of its commencement.
The amiable character of Mr Vanhagen, my landlord at Rotterdam, you
are already acquainted with: his humanity and benevolence inspired me
with the greatest respect. The advantages his countrymen have over us,
are their industry, vigilance, and wariness: But they in general exert
them to excess, by which means they turn their virtues into vices.
Their industry becomes rapine, their vigilance fraud, their wariness
cunning. But my worthy landlord possessed all the virtues.
He had in the early part of his life resided much at Venice, and
brought from thence the economy and frugality which distinguish them
in their private families, their temperance, their inviolable secrecy
of public and private affairs, and a certain steadiness and serenity
to which the English are supposed to be utter strangers. His long
residence there, made him well known to the duchess de Salis, whose
distant relation he had married.
This lady had resided some years at Rotterdam with her family.
She was only daughter to the Count de Trevier, was heiress to a
large fortune, and possessed exquisite beauty, good-sense, and
every accomplishment that was likely to preserve and to improve the
authority beauty gives to make it _indefectible_ and _interminable_.
But the duke, her husband, unfortunately was soon satiated with the
regularity of her virtues: His affections could not long be preserved
by a woman of her amiable undisguised character. When custom had taken
off the edge from his passion, he endeavoured to rouse his torpid
mind by a change of object. That vivacity which the tender passions
impart to pleasure, was a powerful incentive for him to indulge them.
His heart found fresh delight in gallantry, to which he was naturally
prone: a dangerous delight, which, habituating the mind to the most
lively transports, gives it a distaste to all moderate and temperate
enjoyments: from thence forward the innocent and tranquil joys which
nature offers, lose all their relish. His sophisticated mind made him
blind to the merit of his wife, who loved him tenderly.--She felt most
severely his neglect, and contracted insensibly a settled melancholy,
which served the more effectually to alienate his affections from
her. She became miserable:--and no temper can be so invincibly good
as to hold out against the siege of constant slights and neglects.
Misfortunes she had strength of mind to support, and death she could
have encountered with greater resolution than the displeasure and
peevishness of the man she loved. Wherever there is love, there is a
degree of fear--we are naturally afraid of offending, or of doing any
thing which may lessen us in the esteem of an object that is dear to
us: and if we are conscious of any act by which we may have incurred
displeasure, we are impatient and miserable, till, by intreaties and
tokens of submission, we have expiated the offence and are restored to
favor.
By the duchess's earnest solicitude to please, she destroyed her
own purpose, and her obedience, like water flung upon a raging fire,
only inflamed her husband's follies; and therefore, when he was in
an ill humour, the duke vented his range on her. He did not care
_how_ often _he quarrelled_ with, or, to speak more properly, how
often he _insulted_ her; for that could not be called a quarrel
wherein she acted no part but _that of suffering_. But though his
displeasure was grievous to her, yet she could bear it better than
his indifference--for resentment argues some degree of regard. But
whilst she was breaking her heart for him, he passed his time in
gallantry--though his affections were always the satire of a woman's
virtue--the ruin of a woman's reputation.
A favourite mistress, by pursuing a different plan from that of the
duchess, secured his affections. She kept alive his ardour by her
caprices. _Affectation_ always exceeds the _reality_. But is not the
extravagance of some men's fancy to be pitied, who lodge all their
passions in a mistress, a dog, or a horse, which but in general do
them no service but what they are prompted to through necessity or
instinct? Art and cunning are _unknown_ to a woman of virtue, whose
conduct is determined by her principles, whose anxiety alone is
excited by affection.
After five years, in which the duchess had a son and a daughter, and
in which she had experienced many of the _vexations_, but few of the
_satisfactions_ of a married state; the duke left her, and resided
entirely in Paris with his mistress. She retired to the country, to
a family-seat of her father's, and devoted her time entirely to the
education of her children, and that of a young lady (of great beauty
and fortune) whose mother with her last breath bequeathed to her care.
She from time to time wrote the duke letters, expressing great
resignation, and such a tenderness for him as she thought might have
power to touch his heart. "I am obedient to your wishes," said she, "I
will not urge, with one unwelcome word, this unkindness--I'll conceal
it--If your heart has made a choice more worthy, I forgive it--pursue
your pleasures--drive without a rein your passions--I am the mistress
of my own mind, that shall not mutiny--If I retrieve you, I shall be
thankful--If not, you _are_ and must be still _my lord_."
To letters such as these she never received any answer! as the
charms of a woman's eloquence never have any force, when those of her
person are expired (in the eyes of her lover I mean): it might be
perhaps as easy to persuade a man to dance, who had lost the use of
his limbs.
I shall pass over the first ten years of her retirement, as they
furnish nothing more than the unwearied attentions she took in
employing every means for the instruction of her son, daughter, and
ward. I shall only observe, that the regularity of her conduct gained
her the esteem of every one. She was a friend to virtue under any
denomination, and an enemy to vice under any colour. She established
an institution for the provision of the infirm and destitute. This
was constructed on that wise and excellent plan, that excludes the
undeserving from participating in the charity, and extends only
to those who, from their real necessities, are proper objects of
benevolence.--At that period she was advised to take her son to
the capital. But she wisely considered that the education which
commonly attends high birth or great fortune, very often corrupts or
sophisticates nature; whilst in those of the middle state she remains
unmixed and unaltered. I have somewhere read; _Jamais les grandes
passions et les grandes vertus ne sont nées, & ne se sont nourries que
dans le silence & la retrait. L'homme en societé perd tous ses traits
distinctifs: ce n'est plus qu' une froide copie de ce qui l'environne.
Voilà pour quelle raison on nous accuse de manquer de caractere:
nous ne vivons pas assez avec nous-mêmes, & nous empruntons trop des
autres_.
The duchess procured for her son's tutor, a very respectable man,
who was at the utmost pains in forming his morals, and improving his
understanding; while so many of the degenerate nobility in great
cities are trifling away their time and their fortunes, in idle
dissipations, in sensual enjoyments, or irrational diversions, and
making mere amusement the great business of their lives. Happiness
and merit are the result, not so much of truth and knowledge, as
of attaining integrity and moderation. Many ridiculed the duchess's
plan of education, of debarring herself from those pleasures and
enjoyments her youth, rank, and beauty so well intitled her to: But
she often observed it would be the height of imbecility to judge of
her felicity by the imagination of others; considering nothing under
the title of happiness, but what she wished to be in the possession
of, or what was the result of her own voluntary choice. Women of the
world counteract their intention, in so assiduously courting pleasure,
as it only makes it fly further from them. They will not understand,
that pleasure is to be purchased, and that industry is the price of
it; to reject the one, is to renounce the other. They are to learn
that pleasure, which they idolize, must now and then be _quitted_ in
order to be _regained_. They have tried in vain to perpetuate it,
by attempting variety and refinement. Their fertile invention has
multiplied the objects of amusement, and created new ones every day,
without making any real acquisition. All these fantastic pleasures,
which are founded on variety, make no lasting impressions on the mind;
they only serve to prove the impossibility of permanent happiness, of
which some women entertain _chimerical expectations_: but the duchess
was too rational to make amusement her principal object. A woman that
is hurried away by a fondness for it, is, generally speaking, a very
useless member of the community: A party of pleasure will make her
forget every connection: and she is often sick without knowing _where_
her complaint _lies_, because she has nothing _to do_, and is tired of
being _well_.
The duchess had loved her husband passionately. If any person had a
desire of ingratiating themselves with her, they had only to begin by
him: To praise, to please, or admire him, opened to them a reception
in her heart. But our best virtues, when pushed to a certain degree,
are on the point of becoming vices: She soon found she was to blame,
in dedicating herself too fondly even to this beloved object. She
exhausted her whole sensibility on him, and in proportion to the
strength of her attachment, was the mortification she endured in being
abandoned by him. But had not even this been her fate, the extravagant
excesses of passion are but too generally followed by an intolerable
langour. The woman who wishes to preserve her husband's affection,
should be careful to conceal from him the extent of _hers_: there
should be always something left for him to expect. Fancy governs
mankind: and when the imagination is cloyed, reason is a slave to
caprice.
Women do not want judgment to determine, penetration to foresee, nor
resolution to execute; and Providence has not given them beauty to
create love, without understanding to preserve it. The pleasures of
which they are susceptible, are proportioned to the capacity and just
extent of their feelings. They are not made for those raptures which
transport them beyond themselves: these are a kind of convulsions,
which can never last. But there are infinite numbers of pleasures,
which, though they make slighter impressions, are nevertheless more
valuable. These are renewed every day under different forms, and
instead of excluding each other, unite together in happy concert,
producing that temperate glow of mind which preserves it vigorous,
and keeps it in a delightful equanimity. How much are those of the
fair-sex to be pitied who are insensible to such attainments, and who
look upon life as gloomy, which is exempt from the agitation of unruly
passions! As such prepossessions deprive them of pleasures which are
much preferable to those which arise from dangerous attachments, the
duchess knew how to make choice of her amusements, and _improved_ her
_understanding_ at the same time that she _gratified_ her _feelings_.
Life to those who know how to make a proper use of it, is strewed
with delights of every kind, which, in their turn, flatter the senses
and the mind; but the latter is never so agreeably engaged as in the
conversation of intelligent persons, who are capable of conveying both
instruction and entertainment. The duchess preferred the conversation
of _such_, to _men of the world_; being sensible she had every thing
_to gain_ on _one side_, and every thing _to lose_ on _the other_.
The Baron de Luce resided in the same part of the country. He was a
man of great gallantry, wit, and humour. He judged it impossible that
a woman in the bloom of beauty, possessed of the united advantages
resulting from rank, riches, and youth, should retire to an obscure
part of the world, and sequester herself from (what he judged) the
pleasures of life, without being _compelled_ by her husband or
_prompted_ by some secret inclination which she wished to conceal.
Determined to unravel this mystery, and to amuse himself during the
time he staid in the neighbourhood, he tried to insinuate himself into
her good opinion--but without giving any offence she avoided entering
into his plans. He still persisted in his intentions, judging, as he
wrote well, the duchess would be glad to enter into a correspondence;
but he found nothing in the reception she gave him that was for
his purpose, _to embellish the history of his amours_. But what he
undertook at first from vanity, became at last sufficient punishment
for him. The more he saw of her conduct the more his respect
increased, but which instead of making him relinquish his _intentions_
(from a conviction of the inefficacy of the pursuit) made him persist
_in them_, as he _then felt_ the passion which at _first he feigned_.
The duchess knew the predicament on which she stood; but as _the
hatred_ of men of a certain character is _less_ pernicious than _their
love_, she gave orders never to admit him into her presence. The good
or bad reputation of women depends not so much upon the propriety of
their own conduct, as it does upon a lucky or unlucky combination
of circumstances in certain situations. Some men calumniate them
for no other reason, but because they are in love with them. They
revenge themselves upon them for the want of that merit which renders
them despicable in their eyes. This was the case with the Baron; he
insinuated there were reasons which he knew that rendered it highly
proper for the duchess to live in the manner _she did_, speaking
in a _style_ which conveyed more than met the ear! The people he
addressed greedily listened to what seemed to bring the duchess more
on a footing with themselves; a thousand stories were circulated to
her prejudice (though innocence itself): Thus if there be but the
least foundation for slander, some people believe themselves fully
authorized to publish whatever malice _dares invent_. But there are
no enemies more dangerous to the reputation of women, than lovers
that cannot gain the reciprocal affection of their mistresses. These
reports were confirmed from another cause--A lady of fortune in the
neighbourhood became much attached to a man who resided with the
duchess as her son's tutor; he was ingenuous, sensible, and much
respected. She offered him her hand, and as she possessed a handsome
fortune could not conceive how he could decline that happiness. As
he was constantly at home, agreeable to the stories that had been
circulated, she concluded at once (and then affirmed) he was a
favourite of the duchess.
Self-love is of the nature of the polypus; though you sever her
branches or arms, and even divide her trunk, yet she finds means to
reproduce herself. In consequence of the information the duke received
from this lady, who wrote to him in the character of an anonymous
friend, he left Paris and his mistress abruptly; and, to the great
surprise of his wife, came to--. He accosted her in a distant, but
respectful manner.--Nothing gives so sharp a point to one's aversion
as good-breeding--The duchess, unconscious of having given him any
occasion of offence, was highly delighted at his return, flattering
herself with a return of his affection. And as she considered him the
aggressor, received him graciously, insisting that no mention should
be made of past transactions; assuring him that she still retained
the same love for him, and as she regarded him as the first of human
beings, had perhaps been too sanguine in expecting his constancy,
as so many temptations must occur from his superiority to the rest
of mankind. She thought he was but too amiable--that his very vices
had charms beyond other men's _virtues_. Adding that (grievous as
his neglect had been to her) yet she had never done anything that
could reflect upon his honor! He heard her in a sullen humour;
his inclinations _were revived_ by remarking, that time, instead
of _diminishing_, had _added to her charms_: this increased his
resentment, and he answered, that the worst a bad woman can do, is to
make herself ridiculous; it is on herself only that she can entail
infamy--but men of honor have a degree of it to maintain, superior to
that which is in a woman's keeping. Had she had a mind to retaliate,
she might easily have said, that a man of honor and virtue which, in
themselves indeed, are always inseparably connected, are but too often
separated in the absurd and extravagant opinions of mankind. For what
a strange perversion of reason is it, to call a person a man of honor
who has scarcely a grain of virtue! She only observed, we are indeed
civilized into brutes; and a false idea of honor has almost reduced us
into Hob's first state of nature, by making us barbarous. Honor now is
no more than an imaginary being, worshipped by men of _the world_, to
which they frequently offer human sacrifices. He told her she needed
not _be troubled for her minion_: and retiring to rest, left her quite
at a loss to account for his conduct.
It is not sufficient we know our own innocence; it is necessary, for
a woman's happiness, not to be suspected.
For unfortunately after she has been once censured (however falsely)
she must expect the envenomed shafts of malice ever ready to be let
fly at her, and that in the transaction of any affairs that will admit
of two interpretations (to avoid the worst, and enjoy an unblemished
reputation). It is not enough to govern herself with propriety, there
must be nothing that will carry two interpretations in the _accidents
of her life_: A woman must therefore be necessarily always guilty,
when innocence has need of many justifications. Happy are those who
are not exposed to such inconveniences!
The Duke most injudiciously next morning publicly dismissed the
object of his jealousy, and, by his want of prudence, confirmed every
thing that had been falsely alledged against his innocent wife, who
continued ignorant of it for some months.
When acquainted with it--The less ground she saw for the reports
against her honor, the more courage and greater resolution she had
to condemn them. She thought herself unfortunate to have lost the
merit of her innocence by scandalous reports which she thanked Heaven
she had not incurred by her guilt: and was so far from slighting the
probabilities that might confirm opinions founded against her, that
she by no means thought herself in the same situation with others,
who had never _been contemned_, and that consequently she was not at
liberty to act on some occasions as _they might do_.
How many women _err_ from the obstinacy of people in defaming
them--they give up the point, despairing of success in conciliating
the esteem of a world who never _retract censure_--It is not with
detraction as it is with other things that displease by repetition:
Stories that have been told a thousand times, are still new when
revived to the prejudice of another. The duchess bore all these
calumnies with patience, _which_ was never yet a _solitary virtue_:
like an angler she endeavoured to humour the duke's waywardness,
flattering herself that her study to please would conquer his
disagreeable temper; and that if she could not become a pleasing wife,
she might at least be thought an agreeable companion, a serviceable
friend. Hope was the only blessing left us, when Pandora's fatal box
let out all the numberless evils which infest these sublunary regions.
But she was at last obliged to resign all ideas of submitting longer
to his caprices. He became jealous even of his menial servants; and
she could speak to no man without incurring his suspicions; which
produced to her the most mortifying scenes. Like that conqueror of
China, who forced his subjects into a general revolt, because he
wanted to oblige them to cut their hair and their nails, he reduced
her to form the resolution of leaving him, because (as he represented
it) _he had dismissed a servant_. But it was in reality his temper
and abuse that occasioned it--and when she was under the necessity of
taking that step, she rather let the world judge amiss of her, than
justify herself at her husband's expense. No condescensions on her
part could affect _him_, as daily experience convinced her, that from
a consciousness of the part he _himself had acted_, he could never
_love her_. Are there not many occasions in life in which it would be
reasonable to say, _I conjure you to forget and forgive the injury you
have done me_?
They at last parted amicably: she came to Rotterdam with her family,
and there I contracted an intimacy with her son, who was an amiable
young man about my own age. There I first beheld the lovely Adelaude,
Countess de Sons, the duchess's ward: the first time I saw _her_,
and the charming Julia, I know I had _a heart_; until then I was
insensible--These young ladies were instructed in all the arts of
Minerva; Julia was skilled in music; but the countess's voice was,
accompanied with the lyre, more moving than that of Orpheus. Her hair
hung waving in the wind without any ornament, which the duchess had
taught her to despise: her motions were all perfectly easy, her smiles
enchanting! Without dress she had beauty, unconscious of any, and
thus were heightened all her charms.
The marquis enquired what I thought of his sister, and her fair
friend? I answered, "They were charming," and asked if it was
possible he had resisted the charms of the beautiful countess? He
replied, "I will own to you, my dear friend, I have not: Adelaude
is formed for love; my heart is naturally susceptible; she has been
my constant companion: he must be something more, or something less
than a man (a god or a devil) who hath escaped, or who can resist
love's empire.--The gods of the heathens could not; Jupiter, Mars,
Mercury, Apollo, their amours are as famous as their names: so that
sturdiness in human nature, where it is found, which can resist,
argues plainly how much the devil is wrought up in the composition.
But if my sensibility had not been so great, yet so many opportunities
she has had to engage my affections, could not fail of rivetting
me her's for ever," "You are beloved then" said I hastily. "Yes,"
replied he, "Adelaude calls me her dearest brother; but entertains
no ideas beyond that relation; and I am fearful of letting her know
the extent of my sentiments, lest it should render her constrained in
her manner to me; and the charming _naiveté_ of her behaviour forms
the charms of my life! The marks of that innocent affection, which
first attached me to her, have hitherto been looked upon as a childish
play: and as no one has troubled their head about the consequences of
it, I have taken care to profit by the liberty allowed me.--You make
me no answer!--Wherefore this gloomy silence, your dejected air, and
languishing looks?" I pretended an indisposition, and left him under
the greatest oppressure of spirits; I loved, I adored the charming
Countess! judge then of the horror of my situation.--
How many sacrifices could I not willingly have made to friendship!
My passion I thought was indeed the only one I could not make: how was
it possible I should? but convinced of the happiness of my rival, what
did I not suffer? I saw a pair of happy lovers, suited to each other;
I thought it would be safe to alienate her affections; and considered
myself only in the light of a dependent on your bounty: in such a
situation, had my friend been uninterested, could I hazard addressing
a young lady of the countess's rank and fortune? I became melancholy
and _distrait_. Many people, and particularly those who have no idea
of that delicacy of passion peculiar to susceptible minds, looked on
me as a particular kind of a young man. To please such persons, I
must have devoted my time to them: you will easily conceive then, I
could well enough bear the want of their good opinion. Such become the
artificers of their own misfortunes, by the false idea they form of
pleasure, and they philtre (if I may use the term) their own sorrows.
It was what is called pleasure, that sunk into ruin the ancient
states of Greece; that destroyed the Romans, that overturns cities;
that corrupts courts; that exhausts the fortunes of the great; that
consumes youth; that has a retinue composed of satiety, indigence,
sickness, and death. But _my passion_, as much as a _dislike_ to
their _manner of life_, secured me from _their dissipations_. The
constant endeavours I used to suppress an inclination I could not
overcome, had a fatal effect on my constitution--I was threatened
with a consumption!--This I carefully concealed, lest your kindness
should have urged my removal from a place, which I could not determine
to quit: though I carefully avoided the sight of those who were
interesting to me in it.
At this time the marquis received a peremptory command to rejoin
his father. He came to me in the greatest distress: "How", said he,
"can I resolve to leave the countess?--She is now beautiful as an
angel, exclusive of her immense fortune; to remain single cannot
possibly be long in her power, for her beauty must necessarily strike
every eye, and charm every heart. But I will go and unburthen myself
to my father; her riches and rank will insure his approbation. You,
my friend, alone are acquainted with the secret of my heart. See
the lovely Adelaude often; to you I confide the secrets of my soul.
Farewel."
The marquis set out, and soon informed me that his father would not
yet hear of his marriage, and had insisted on his immediately joining
a regiment in which he had procured him a command: It was in time of
war; his honor at stake, and love was subordinate to his glory. The
susceptible mind is capable of enjoying a thousand exquisite delights
to which those are strangers, whose pleasures are less refined; but
what chagrin, what regret, what pain does not so delicate a passion
bring on the heart that entertains it? _Quand on est né trop tendre,
on ne doit pas aimer_, says some French author. But the sufferings
of my friend could not equal mine; the object of my passion being
daily before my eyes heightened my inquietude. The general characters
of men, I am apt to believe, are determined by their natural
constitutions, as their particular actions are by their immediate
objects. The innocent marks of partiality she honored me with, made me
in constant fears of acting dishonorably to the marquis. The duchess
fell soon after into a languishing illness, which in a short time put
a period to her life: The duke came, but _too late_, to receive her
last breath. He at first appeared inconsolable for her death; but
his grief insensibly decreased, and softened into that mournful and
tender regard, which a sense of her merit, and his own unkindness
to her, could not fail of exacting from him. Disgusted at an union,
which had caused him (from his own errors) so much uneasiness, he
formed a resolution carefully to avoid entering again into a similar
engagement. But he saw every day before him the lovely Adelaude: he
loved her; it was perhaps impossible for him to do otherwise. He
declared his passion; but was rejected: The countess told him her
affections were engaged! Next day I received the following letter.
From the Countess de Sons to the Earl of Munster.
My Lord,
I am well aware of the delicacy which prescribes certain
observances to our sex. But there is no rule in life which must not
vary with circumstances. Come to me this evening: Julia will be with
me--Adieu.
ADELAUDE de SONS.
I went--Abashed at the step she had taken, the cheeks of the lovely
Adelaude glowed with the most lovely red; her eyes sparkled with
the brightest lustre; while the loves and graces hovered around her
charming form, and fluttered on her breast--Love, almighty love,
preceded her steps, when she approached me. Heavens! how quick my
heart beat at that instant with pleasing hope! I endeavoured to speak
to her, but hesitated and trembled. After a few moments' expressive
silence, I desired to know what commands she meant to honor me with?
She was greatly confused, but at length told me the dilemma she was in
from the declaration of the duke's passion. To support my politics, I
began and talked of my friend.
She told me that his partiality was no secret to her, although he
had never disclosed it, but that she rejoiced at his absence, as it
would enable him to triumph over a passion she could _not return_.
Surprised at this declaration, I should have been wanting to myself
not to improve it. But love only can give an idea of those pleasures
we enjoyed in each other's company with reciprocal tenderness.
But _it_ affords few sweets that are not dashed with a mixture of
bitterness. Happy moments! how soon ye fled! a sad remembrance only of
that delightful interval left behind. Ah no, it is impossible I should
ever forget that day in which she first confessed those sentiments for
me my heart had long divined, the assurance of which, nevertheless,
gave me inexpressible transport. But when I reflected on my friend,
and that of my depressed circumstances, it gave a sudden check to
my joy. My sighs, my tears, made known to her the distress of my
heart! I could only utter the name of _my friend_, and wrung my hands
in despair. She soothed my uneasiness. "This is the fatal stroke I
feared" said the gentle Adelaude; "this is what my foreboding heart
presaged. But your interest does not interfere with his, for whom I
never experienced any thing more but that of a _sisterly affection_."
I then acquainted her with my dependent situation: that I should
be hurt at allying her so unsuitably, though had I had the wealth of
worlds it would have been hers. She told me her estate was sufficient
to enrich me: that the duke talked of leaving Rotterdam; she dreaded
being in the power of a man so impetuous, who would stick at nothing
to gratify his passions; and that she would place herself under my
protection. Infatuated I was, not to comply with her request! My
friend's woes wounded me to the quick: false honor determined me to
write and inform him of the state of the affair, previous to my
taking advantage of her inclination for me. I wrote instantly to the
marquis; but a few days after the duke set out for Italy with his
family. The night before their departure I saw the countess. "Thou
must go," said I, "and with thee all my joy, my happiness, my only
hope--Go, and take with thee all my heart holds dear, all that is
left for me is despair. Reason will resume its empire over love, and
you will forget a poor unfortunate, who hath nothing to offer but the
most pure and ardent affection; an affection in which consists all the
happiness of his life."
"Ah, my lord," said she, "forbear to speak a language so injurious
to your merit and my sentiments. Can I cease to love you? Can I forget
you? No! whilst my heart beats it will be yours, and yours only--I
will preserve myself for you, and nothing can ever make me forgetful
of the engagements I have made with you."
The conflict of contending passions had tortured me so much, that
I confess, I was rather relieved, when they set out, and when it was
out of my power to have realized the charming scheme the countess had
suggested to me. What forbearance did it not cost me? Nothing is more
common than for men to declaim against those things which they are
not in a capacity to enjoy: Diogenes said to Aristippus the courtier,
as he passed him in his tub, "If you could content yourself, as I do,
with _bread_ and _garlic_, you would not be the _slave_ of the King of
Syracuse:" "Are you," replied Aristippus, "if you _knew_ how to _live
with princes_, you would not make such _bad cheer_."
Perhaps the circumstances of age, health, and fortune, vary the
taste, and regulate the appetites of mankind more than reason and
reflection.
But everything conspired to render the sacrifice I had made a _great
one_ to _friendship_. I soon received the following letter from Julia.
"My Lord,
The countess is so closely watched, that she cannot write. Would
to God you had followed your inclinations! We are going to Sweden:
follow us, if possible, and repair the error you have committed. I
am fearful she will be constrained to choose another husband. Adieu.