Tueſday Morning.
I ſeizethis 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
* * * *
Wedneſday Morning.
I onlyſend this as anavant-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 notforget 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
* * * *
H—, Thurſday Morning, March 12.
Weare 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 youreyes 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
* * * *
DOnot 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 thegigotſmoking 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
* * * *
Sunday, Auguſt 17.
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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 cannothelp 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 herpiquante.—ButMonſieurher 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 thependule—A nymph wasoffering 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 theſombreday 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 agigotevery 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
* * * *
H—, Auguſt 19, Tueſday.
I receivedboth 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 ſomeother 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 ariſeas muchfrom 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 mydinner 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.
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H—, Auguſt 20.
I wantto 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, inmanagingmy 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 cœur), 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 anumberof 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
* * * *
September 22.
I havejuſt 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 thefête, 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
* * * *
Evening, Sept. 23.
I havebeen 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 allflown 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.
YeſterdayB—— 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.
This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, I ſuppoſe, that I am now writing with ſomebody in the room with me, and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——'s. I will then kiſs the girl for you, and bid you adieu.
I deſired you, in one of my otherletters, to bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you ſhould not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know that you will love her more and more, for ſhe is a little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I ſhould think, as you could wiſh for.
I was going to tell you of two or three things which diſpleaſe me here; but they are not of ſufficient conſequence to interrupt pleaſing ſenſations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring —— with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German tranſlation of your letters—ſhe deſires me to give her love to you, on account of what you ſay of the negroes.
Yours moſt affectionately,
* * * *
Paris, Sept. 28.
I havewritten to you three or four letters; but different cauſes have prevented my ſending them by the perſons who promiſed to take or forward them. The incloſed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have ſet out on your return, I incloſe it to you, and ſhall give it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained, to whom I alſo gave a letter.
I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I ſhall not harraſs you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that ariſe from peculiar circumſtances.—I have had ſo many littleplagues here, that I have almoſt lamented that I left H——. ——, who is at beſt a moſt helpleſs creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than uſe to me, ſo that I ſtill continue to be almoſt a ſlave to the child.—She indeed rewards me, for ſhe is a ſweet little creature; for, ſetting aſide a mother's fondneſs (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent ſmiles ſinking into my heart), ſhe has an aſtoniſhing degree of ſenſibility and obſervation. The other day by B——'s child, a fine one, ſhe looked like a little ſprite.—She is all life and motion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will ſwear.
I ſlept at St. Germain's, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which you preſſed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to fold mydarling to mine, with ſenſations that are almoſt too ſacred to be alluded to.
Adieu, my love! Take care of yourſelf, if you wiſh to be the protector of your child, and the comfort of her mother.
I have received, for you, letters from ————. I want to hear how that affair finiſhes, though I do not know whether I have moſt contempt for his folly or knavery.
Your own
* * * *
October 1.
Itis a heartleſs taſk to write letters, without knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going, a-going, every day, for a week paſt; and three others, which were written in a low-ſpirited ſtrain, a little querulous or ſo, I have not been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me.Tant mieux!you will ſay, and I will not ſay nay; for I ſhould be ſorry that the contents of a letter, when you are ſo far away, ſhould damp the pleaſure that the ſight of it would afford—judging of your feelings by my own.I juſt now ſtumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your laſt abſence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the abſence is ſo long, ought to bring only tears of tenderneſs, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.
After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be ſo immerſed in buſineſs, as during the laſt three or four months paſt—for even money, taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if painful impreſſions are left on the mind.—Theſe impreſſions were much more lively, ſoon after you went away, than at preſent—for a thouſand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the ſame ſide as my reaſon, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be almoſt impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will ſeek it no where elſe.
My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and ſhe often has a kiſs, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my heart.
I have been interrupted—and muſt ſend off my letter. The liberty of the preſs will produce a great effect here—thecry of blood will not be vain!—Some more monſters will periſh—and the Jacobins are conquered.—Yet I almoſt fear the laſt ſlap of the tail of the beaſt.
I have had ſeveral trifling teazinginconveniencies here, which I ſhall not now trouble you with a detail of.—I am ſending —— back; her pregnancy rendered her uſeleſs. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is better for the child.
I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.
—— is ſtill here: he is a loſt man.—He really loves his wife, and is anxious about his children; but his indiſcriminate hoſpitality and ſocial feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that deſtroys his health, as well as renders his perſon diſguſting.—If his wife had more ſenſe, or delicacy, ſhe might reſtrain him: as it is, nothing will ſave him.
Yours moſt truly and affectionately
* * * *
October 26.
Mydear love, I began to wiſh ſo earneſtly to hear from you, that the ſight of your letters occaſioned ſuch pleaſurable emotions, I was obliged to throw them aſide till the little girl and I were alone together; and this ſaid little girl, our darling, is become a moſt intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do not find quite ſo convenient. I once told you, that the ſenſations before ſhe was born, and when ſhe is ſucking, were pleaſant; but they do not deſerve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when ſhe ſtops to ſmileupon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the ſtreet, or after a ſhort abſence. She has now the advantage of having two good nurſes, and I am at preſent able to diſcharge my duty to her, without being the ſlave of it.
I have therefore employed and amuſed myſelf ſince I got rid of ——, and am making a progreſs in the language amongſt other things. I have alſo made ſome new acquaintance. I have almoſtcharmeda judge of the tribunal, R——, who, though I ſhould not have thought it poſſible, has humanity, if notbeaucoup d'eſprit. But let me tell you, if you do not make haſte back, I ſhall be half in love with the author of theMarſeillaiſe, who is a handſome man, a little too broad-faced or ſo, and plays ſweetly on the violin.
What do you ſay to this threat?—why,entre nous, I like to give way to a ſprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleaſed with you. "The devil," you know, is proverbially ſaid to be "in a good humour, when he is pleaſed." Will you not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls? but I ſhall not allow you to love the new-comer beſt.
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My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and ſeeks happineſs with you; yet do not imagine that I childiſhly wiſh you to come back, before you have arranged things in ſuch a manner, that it will not be neceſſary for you to leave us ſoon again;or to make exertions which injure your conſtitution.
Yours moſt truly and tenderly
* * * *
P.S. "You would oblige me by delivering the incloſed to Mr. ——, and pray call for an anſwer.—It is for a perſon uncomfortably ſituated.
Dec. 26.
I havebeen, my love, for ſome days tormented by fears, that I would not allow to aſſume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that many veſſels had been driven on ſhore during the late gale.—Well, I now ſeeyour letter—and find that you are ſafe; I will not regret then that your exertions have hitherto been ſo unavailing.
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Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be ſure that you are ſafe—and not ſeparated from me by a ſea that muſt be paſſed. For, feeling that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my ſometimes dreading that fate has not done perſecuting me? Come to me, my deareſt friend, huſband, father of my child!—All theſe fond ties glow at my heart at this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is deſirable; and it is always within our reach, if affluence eſcapesus—without you the world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to ſome of the melancholy thoughts that have flitted acroſs my mind for ſome days paſt, and haunted my dreams.
My little darling is indeed a ſweet child; and I am ſorry that you are not here, to ſee her little mind unfold itſelf. You talk of "dalliance;" but certainly no lover was ever more attached to his miſtreſs, than ſhe is to me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the moſt deſpotic power over her. She is all vivacity or ſoftneſs—yes; I love her more than I thought I ſhould. When I have been hurt at your ſtay, I have embraced her as my only comfort—when pleaſed with you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilſt I am kiſſing her for reſembling you. But there would be no end to theſe details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately
Yours
* * * *
December 28.
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I do, my love, indeed ſincerely ſympathize with you in all your diſappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with affection, I only lament other diſappointments, becauſe I am ſorry that you ſhould thus exert yourſelf in vain, and that you are kept from me.
———, I know, urges you to ſtay, and is continually branching out into new projects, becauſe he has the idle deſire to amaſs a large fortune, rather an immenſe one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we meet, we will diſcuſs this ſubject—You will liſten to reaſon, and it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to purſue ſome ſober plan, which may demand more time, and ſtill enable you to arrive at the ſame end. It appears to me abſurd to waſte life in preparing to live.
Would it not now be poſſible to arrange your buſineſs in ſuch a manner as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my ſhare ſince your departure? Is it not poſſible to enter into buſineſs, as an employment neceſſary to keep the faculties awake, and (to ſink a little in the expreſſions) the pot boiling, without ſuffering what muſt ever be conſidered as a ſecondary object, to engroſs the mind, and drive ſentiment and affection out of the heart?
I am in a hurry to give this letter to the perſon who has promiſed to forward it with ———'s. I wiſh then to counteract, in ſome meaſure, whathehas doubtleſs recommended moſt warmly.
Stay, my friend, whilſt it isabſolutelyneceſſary.—I will give you no tenderer name, though it glows at my heart,unleſs you come the moment the ſettling thepreſentobjects permit.—I do not conſentto your taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may add, to your reaſon, (for this immoderate deſire of wealth, which makes ——— ſo eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you, that I long to ſee you—and, being at peace with you, I ſhall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays.—Having ſuffered ſo much in life, do not be ſurpriſed if I ſometimes, when left to myſelf, grow gloomy, and ſuppoſe that it was all a dream, and that my happineſs is not to laſt. I ſay happineſs,becauſe remembrance retrenches all the dark ſhades of the picture.
My little one begins to ſhow her teeth, and uſe her legs—She wants you to bear your part in the nurſing buſineſs, for I am fatigued with dancing her, and yet ſhe is not ſatiſfied—ſhe wants you to thank her mother for taking ſuch care of her, as you only can.
Yours truly
* * * *
December 29.
ThoughI ſuppoſe you have later intelligence, yet, as ——— has juſt informed me that he has an opportunity of ſending immediately to you, I take advantage of it to incloſe you
— — — — — — — — — — —
How I hate this crooked buſineſs! This intercourſe with the world, which obliges one to ſee the worſt ſide of human nature! Why cannot you be content with the object you had firſt in view, when you entered into this weariſome labyrinth?—I know very well that you have imperceptibly been drawn on; yet why does one project, ſucceſſful or abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not ſufficient to avoid poverty?—I am contented to do my part; and, even here, ſufficient to eſcape from wretchedneſs is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my project alſo—and, if you do not ſoon return, the little girl and I will take care of ourſelves; we will notaccept any of your cold kindneſs—your diſtant civilities—no; not we.
This is but half jeſting, for I am really tormented by the deſire which ——— manifeſts to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk to you?—If he can perſuade you—let him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and your own wiſhes do not make you throw aſide theſe eternal projects, I am above uſing any arguments, though reaſon as well as affection ſeems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will occur to you—and you will act accordingly.
Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have heard me ſpeak. Her firſt child died in the month; but ſhe has another, about the age of my ———, a fine little creature. They are ſtill but contriving to live——earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but juſt above poverty, I envy them.—She is a tender, affectionate mother—fatigued even by her attention.—However ſhe has an affectionate huſband in her turn, to render her care light, and to ſhare her pleaſure.
I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderneſs for my little girl, I grow ſad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to obſerve with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached!—Theſe appear to me to be true pleaſures—and ſtill you ſuffer them to eſcape you, in ſearch of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own maxim to "live in the preſent moment."—If you do—ſtay, for God's ſake; but tell me the truth—if not, tell me when I mayexpect to ſee you, and let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow ſick at heart.
Adieu! I am a little hurt.—I muſt take my darling to my boſom to comfort me.
* * * *
December 30.
Shouldyou receive three or four of the letters at once which I have written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I only take advantage of every occaſion, that one out of three of my epiſtles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ———'s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the neceſſity of your ſtaying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual inquietude—and,entre nous, I am determined to try to earn ſome money here myſelf, in order to convince you that, if you chuſe to run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourſelf—for the little girl and I will live without your aſſiſtance, unleſs you are with us. I may be termed proud—Be it ſo—but I will never abandon certain principles of action.
The common run of men have ſuch an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts, and proſtitute their perſons, following perhaps a guſt of inebriation, they ſuppoſe the wife, ſlave rather, whom they maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the ſultan, whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred promiſcuous amours during his abſence.
I conſider fidelity and conſtancy as two diſtinct things; yet the former is neceſſary, to give life to the other—and ſuch a degree of reſpect do I think due to myſelf, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end of all my hopes of happineſs—I could not forgive it, if I would.
I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of men in general; you knowthat I think them ſyſtematic tyrants, and that it is the rareſt thing in the world, to meet with a man with ſufficient delicacy of feeling to govern deſire. When I am thus ſad, I lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am ſorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever ſown with thorns.
You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the ſtrongeſt proof of affection I can give, to dread to loſe you. ——— has taken ſuch pains to convince me that you muſt and ought to ſtay, that it has inconceivably depreſſed my ſpirits—You have always known my opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, ought not to be long ſeparated.—If certain things are more neceſſary to you than me—ſearchfor them—Say but one word, and you ſhall never hear of me more.—If not—for God's ſake, let us ſtruggle with poverty—with any evil, but theſe continual inquietudes of buſineſs, which I have been told were to laſt but a few months, though every day the end appears more diſtant! This is the firſt letter in this ſtrain that I have determined to forward to you; the reſt lie by, becauſe I was unwilling to give you pain, and I ſhould not now write, if I did not think that there would be no concluſion to the ſchemes, which demand, as I am told, your preſence.
* * * *[91-A]
January 9.
I juſtnow received one of your haſtynotes; for buſineſs ſo entirely occupies you, that you have not time, or ſufficient command of thought, to write letters. Beware! you ſeem to be got into a whirl of projects and ſchemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not abſorb your happineſs, will infallibly deſtroy mine.
Fatigued during my youth by the moſt arduous ſtruggles, not only to obtain independence, but to render myſelf uſeful, not merely pleaſure, for which I had the moſt lively taſte, Imean the ſimple pleaſures that flow from paſſion and affection, eſcaped me, but the moſt melancholy views of life were impreſſed by a diſappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed ſome time to glide away, winged with the delight which only ſpontaneous enjoyment can give.—Why have you ſo ſoon diſſolved the charm?
I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ———'s never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmneſs—but you are miſtaken—I have ſtill ſufficient firmneſs to purſue my principle of action. The preſent miſery, I cannot find a ſofter word to do juſtice to my feelings, appears to me unneceſſary—and therefore I have not firmneſs to ſupport it as you may think I ought. I ſhould have been content, and ſtill wiſh, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but theſe continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debaſes the mind, and roots out affection from the heart.
I do not mean to complain of ſubordinate inconveniences——yet I will ſimply obſerve, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the arrangements required by the preſent circumſtances, to procure the neceſſaries of life. In order to have them, a ſervant, for that purpoſe only, is indiſpenſible—The want of wood, has made me catch the moſt violent cold I ever had; and my head is ſo diſturbed by continual coughing, that I am unableto write without ſtopping frequently to recollect myſelf.—This however is one of the common evils which muſt be borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the ſpirits.
Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.—It is too ſoon for her to begin to divide ſorrow!—And as one has well ſaid, "deſpair is a freeman," we will go and ſeek our fortune together.
This is not a caprice of the moment—for your abſence has given new weight to ſome concluſions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you left me.—I do not chuſe to be a ſecondary object.—If your feelings were in uniſon with mine, you would notſacrifice ſo much to viſionary proſpects of future advantage.
* * * *
Jan.15.
I wasjuſt going to begin my letter with the fag end of a ſong, which would only have told you, what I may as well ſay ſimply, that it is pleaſant to forgive thoſe we love. I have received your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can ſcarcely conceive the effect ſome of your letters have produced on me. After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of ſuſpenſe, I have ſeen a ſuperſcription written byyou.—Promiſing myſelf pleaſure, and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the perſon who brought it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen haſty lines, that have damped all the riſing affection of my ſoul.
Well, now for buſineſs—
— — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — —
My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing the buſineſs. I gave her a cruſt to aſſiſt the cutting of her teeth; and now ſhe has two, ſhe makes good uſe of them to gnaw a cruſt, biſcuit, &c. You would laugh to ſee her; ſhe is juſt like a little ſquirrel; ſhe will guard a cruſt for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for ſome time, darton it with an aim as ſure as a bird of prey—nothing can equal her life and ſpirits. I ſuffer from a cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come ſoon to tell us that you do.
* * * *
Jan. 30.
Fromthe purport of your laſt letters, I would ſuppoſe that this will ſcarcely reach you; and I have already written ſo many letters, that you have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it pleaſant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the ſame groundagain. If you have received them, and are ſtill detained by new projects, it is uſeleſs for me to ſay any more on the ſubject. I have done with it for ever—yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary intereſt ſuffers by your abſence.
— — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — —
For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous feelings have ſometimes burſt out. I therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to ſtay at home, leſt I ſhould have uttered unſeaſonable truths.
My child is well, and the ſpring will perhaps reſtore me to myſelf.—I have endured many inconveniencesthis winter, which ſhould I be aſhamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable. "The ſecondary pleaſures of life," you ſay, "are very neceſſary to my comfort:" it may be ſo; but I have ever conſidered them as ſecondary. If therefore you accuſe me of wanting the reſolution neceſſary to bear thecommon[100-A]evils of life; I ſhould anſwer, that I have not faſhioned my mind to ſuſtain them, becauſe I would avoid them, coſt what it would——
Adieu!
* * * *
February 9.
Themelancholy preſentiment has for ſome time hung on my ſpirits, that we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——, convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to ſome other letters, which I ſuppoſe have miſcarried; for moſt of thoſe I have got, were only a few haſty lines, calculated to wound the tenderneſs the ſight of the ſuperſcriptions excited.
I mean not however to complain; yet ſo many feelings are ſtruggling for utterance, and agitating a heart almoſt burſting with anguiſh, that I find itvery difficult to write with any degree of coherence.
You left me indiſpoſed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the moſt fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during the laſt two months, have reduced me to a ſtate of weakneſs I never before experienced. Thoſe who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at the core, cautioned me about ſuckling my child too long.—God preſerve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother!
But I am wandering from my ſubject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is come to this.
I did not expect this blow from you.I have done my duty to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to reward me, I have the ſad conſolation of knowing that I deſerved a better fate. My ſoul is weary—I am ſick at heart; and, but for this little darling, I would ceaſe to care about a life, which is now ſtripped of every charm.
You ſee how ſtupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant ſimply to tell you, that I conſider your requeſting me to come to you, as merely dictated by honour.—Indeed, I ſcarcely underſtand you.—You requeſt me to come, and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to this place.
When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.—I would ſhare poverty with you, but Iturn with affright from the ſea of trouble on which you are entering.—I have certain principles of action: I know what I look for to found my happineſs on.—It is not money.—With you I wiſhed for ſufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is, leſs will do.—I can ſtill exert myſelf to obtain the neceſſaries of life for my child, and ſhe does not want more at preſent.—I have two or three plans in my head to earn our ſubſiſtence; for do not ſuppoſe that, neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to you!—No; I would ſooner ſubmit to menial ſervice.—I wanted the ſupport of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I complained of ——'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that hewould have dragged you into his ſchemes.
I cannot write.—I incloſe a fragment of a letter, written ſoon after your departure, and another which tenderneſs made me keep back when it was written.—You will ſee then the ſentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined, moment.—Do not inſult me by ſaying, that "our being together is paramount to every other conſideration!" Were it, you would not be running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind.
Perhaps this is the laſt letter you will ever receive from me.
* * * *
Feb. 10.
Youtalk of "permanent views and future comfort"—not for me, for I am dead to hope. The inquietudes of the laſt winter have finiſhed the buſineſs, and my heart is not only broken, but my conſtitution deſtroyed. I conceive myſelf in a galloping conſumption, and the continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold ſacred, to leave her here with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the ſame age, and they may be brought up together, as I wiſh her to be brought up. I ſhall write more fully on the ſubject. To facilitate this, I ſhall give up my preſent lodgings, and go into the ſame houſe. I can live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ——, and I ſhall take one more, to pay my ſervant's wages, &c. and then I ſhall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I ſhall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.
—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yeſterday he very unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to ſtay. I had provoked it, it is true, by ſome aſperities againſt commerce, which have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining where you are; and it is no matter, Ihave drunk too deep of the bitter cup to care about trifles.
When you firſt entered into theſe plans, you bounded your views to the gaining of a thouſand pounds. It was ſufficient to have procured a farm in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did not know yourſelf, and that a certain ſituation in life is more neceſſary to you than you imagined—more neceſſary than an uncorrupted heart—For a year or two, you may procure yourſelf what you call pleaſure; eating, drinking, and women; but, in the ſolitude of declining life, I ſhall be remembered with regret—I was going to ſay with remorſe, but checked my pen.
As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your reputation will not ſuffer. I ſhall never have a confident: I am content with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a ſearcher of hearts, mine will not be deſpiſed. Reading what you have written relative to the deſertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice could be ſo different, till I recollected, that the ſentiments of paſſion, and the reſolves of reaſon, are very diſtinct. As to my ſiſters, as you are ſo continually hurried with buſineſs, you need not write to them—I ſhall, when my mind is calmer. God bleſs you! Adieu!
* * * *
This has been ſuch a period of barbarity and miſery, I ought not to complain of having my ſhare. I wiſh one moment that I had never heard of thecruelties that have been practiſed here, and the next envy the mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had ſuffered enough in life, not to be curſed with a fondneſs, that burns up the vital ſtream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were ſo, that I could forget my miſery—ſo that my head or heart would be ſtill.——
Feb. 19.
WhenI firſt received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite time, I felt ſo hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer, though it was not the kind of woundover which time has the quickeſt effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the ſadder I grow. Society fatigues me inexpreſſibly—So much ſo, that finding fault with every one, I have only reaſon enough, to diſcover that the fault is in myſelf. My child alone intereſts me, and, but for her, I ſhould not take any pains to recover my health.
As it is, I ſhall wean her, and try if by that ſtep (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my only ſolace) I can get rid of my cough. Phyſicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a woman has ſuckled for ſome months. They lay a ſtreſs alſo on the neceſſity of keeping the mind tranquil—and, my God! how has mine been harraſſed! But whilſt the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind of heaven not ſufferedto viſit them too rudely," I have not found a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off ſorrow or care from my boſom.
What ſacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not reſpect!—But I will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not underſtand you. You ſay that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here—and I know that it will be neceſſary—nay, is. I cannot explain myſelf; but if you have not loſt your memory, you will eaſily divine my meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of ſeparations? and am I only to return to a country, that has not merely loſt all charms for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almoſt amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!
Why is it ſo neceſſary that I ſhould return?—brought up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed ſome plans of uſefulneſs that have now vaniſhed with my hopes of happineſs.
In the bitterneſs of my heart, I could complain with reaſon, that I am left here dependent on a man, whoſe avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered him callous to every ſentiment connected with ſocial or affectionate emotions.—With a brutal inſenſibility, he cannot help diſplaying the pleaſure your determination to ſtay gives him, in ſpite of the effect it is viſible it has had on me.
Till I can earn money, I ſhall endeavour to borrow ſome, for I want to avoid aſking him continually for the ſum neceſſary to maintain me.—Do notmiſtake me, I have never been refuſed.—Yet I have gone half a dozen times to the houſe to aſk for it, and come away without ſpeaking——you muſt gueſs why—Beſides, I wiſh to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have ſacrificed my peace—not remembering—but I will be ſilent for ever.——
April 7.
HereI am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell you, that you may expect me in the courſe of three or four days; forI ſhall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that naturally ariſes from ſenſibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderneſs which glows in my boſom, without trembling, till I ſee, by your eyes, that it is mutual.
I ſit, loſt in thought, looking at the ſea—and tears ruſh into my eyes, when I find that I am cheriſhing any fond expectations.—I have indeed been ſo unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire freſh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.—Enough of this—lie ſtill, fooliſh heart!—But for the little girl, I could almoſt wiſh that it ſhould ceaſe to beat, to be no more alive to the anguiſh of diſappointment.
Sweet little creature! I deprived myſelf of my only pleaſure, when I weaned her, about ten days ago.—I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.—It was neceſſary it ſhould be done ſoon, and I did not wiſh to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met.—It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it beſt to throw this inquietude with the reſt, into the ſack that I would fain throw over my ſhoulder.—I wiſhed to endure it alone, in ſhort—Yet, after ſending her to ſleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy I took her back again to ſleep in my boſom!
I ſuppoſe I ſhall find you, when I arrive, for I do not ſee any neceſſity for your coming to me.—Pray inform Mr. ———, that I have his little friendwith me.—My wiſhing to oblige him, made me put myſelf to ſome inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irkſome to me, who have not quite as much philoſophy, I would not for the world ſay indifference, as you. God bleſs you!
Yours truly,
* * * *
Brighthelmſtone, Saturday, April 11.
Herewe are, my love, and mean to ſet out early in the morning; and, if I can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.—I ſhall drive to ———'s hotel, where ——— tells me you havebeen—and, if you have left it, I hope you will take care to be there to receive us.
I have brought with me Mr. ——'s little friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my ſhare.—But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to meet ſoon?—What does your heart ſay!
Yours truly
* * * *
I have weaned my ———, and ſhe is now eating away at the white bread.
London, Friday, May 22.
I havejuſt received your affectionate letter, and am diſtreſſed to think that I have added to your embarraſſments at this troubleſome juncture, when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be neceſſary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I ſuppoſe it was ſomething relative to the circumſtance you have mentioned, which made ——— requeſt to ſee me to-day, toconverſe about a matter of great importance. Be that as it may, his letter (ſuch is the ſtate of my ſpirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and renderedthe laſt night as diſtreſſing, as the two former had been.
I have laboured to calm my mind ſince you left me—Still I find that tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling ſo different from the reſignation of deſpair!—I am however no longer angry with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments which convince the reaſon, whilſt they carry death to the heart.—We have had too many cruelexplanations, that not only cloud every future proſpect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to affection.—Let the ſubject never be revived!
It ſeems to me that I have not only loſt the hope, but the power of being happy.—Every emotion is now ſharpened by anguiſh.—My ſoul has been ſhook, and my tone of feelings deſtroyed.—I have gone out—and ſought for diſſipation, if not amuſement, merely to fatigue ſtill more, I find, my irritable nerves——
My friend—my dear friend—examine yourſelf well—I am out of the queſtion; for, alas! I am nothing—and diſcover what you wiſh to do—what will render you moſt comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you deſire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once aſcertain it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted your peace.
I ſhall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to aſſume a cheerful face to greet you—at anyrate I will avoid converſations, which only tend to harraſs your feelings, becauſe I am moſt affectionately yours,
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Wedneſday.
I incloſeyou the letter, which you deſired me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically to wiſh you a good morning—not becauſe I am angry, or have nothing to ſay; but to keep down a wounded ſpirit.—I ſhall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a ſtrong conviction ſeems to whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, likethe fiat of fate, emphatically aſſures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.