Memoirs of Emma Courtney

by Mary Hays

  'The conduct, which I have been led to adopt, has been the result of a combination of peculiar circumstances, _and is not what I would recommend to general imitation_--To say nothing of the hazards it might involve, I am aware, generally speaking, arguments might be adduced, to prove, that certain customs, of which I, yet, think there is reason to complain, may not have been unfounded in nature--I am led to speak thus, because I am not willing to spare myself, but would alledge all which you might have felt inclined to hint, had you not been with-held by motives of delicate consideration.

  'Of what then, you may ask, do I complain?--Not of the laws of nature! But when mind has given dignity to natural affections; when reason, culture, taste, and delicacy, have combined to chasten, to refine, to exalt (shall I say) to sanctity them--Is there, then, no cause to complain of rigor and severity, that such minds must either passively submit to a vile traffic, or be content to relinquish all the endearing sympathies of life? Nature has formed woman peculiarly susceptible of the tender affections. "The voice of nature is too strong to be silenced by artificial precepts." To feel these affections in a supreme degree, a mind enriched by literature and expanded by fancy and reflection, is necessary--for it is intellect and imagination only, that can give energy and interest to--

  "The thousand soft sensations-- Which vulgar souls want faculties to taste, Who take their good and evil in the gross."

  'I wish we were in the vehicular state, and that you understood the sentient language;[7] you might then comprehend the whole of what I mean to express, but find too delicate for _words_. But I do you injustice.

  [Footnote 7: See Light of Nature pursued. An entertaining philosophical work.]

  'If the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial--where the _end_, sought to be attained, is--

  "Something, than beauty dearer,"

  'You may, perhaps, agree with me, that it is almost indifferent on which side the sentiment originates. Yet, I confess, my frankness has involved me in many after thoughts and inquietudes; inquietudes, which all my reasoning is, at times, insufficient to allay. The shame of being singular, it has been justly observed,[8] requires strong principles, and much native firmness of temper, to surmount.--Those who deviate from the beaten track must expect to be entangled in the thicket, and wounded by many a thorn--my wandering feet have already been deeply pierced.

  [Footnote 8: Aikin's Letters.]

  'I should vainly attempt to describe the struggles, the solicitudes, the doubts, the apprehensions, that alternately rend my heart! I feel, that I have "put to sea upon a shattered plank, and placed my trust in miracles for safety." I dread, one moment, lest, in attempting to awaken your tenderness, I may have forfeited your respect; the next, that I have mistaken a delusive meteor for the sober light of reason. In retirement, numberless contradictory emotions revolve in my disturbed mind:--in company, I start and shudder from accidental allusions, in which no one but myself could trace any application. The end of doubt is the beginning of repose. Say, then, to me, that it is a principle in human nature, however ungenerous, to esteem lightly what may be attained without difficulty.--Tell me to make distinctions between love and friendship, of which I have, hitherto, been able to form no idea.--Say, that the former is the caprice of fancy, founded on external graces, to which I have little pretension, and that it is vain to pretend, that--

  "Truth and good are one, And beauty dwells with them."

  'Tell me, that I have indulged too long the wild and extravagant chimeras of a romantic imagination. Let us walk together into the palace of Truth, where (it is fancifully related by an ingenious writer,[9] that) every one was compelled by an irresistible, controuling, power, to reveal his inmost sentiments! All this I will bear, and will still respect your integrity, and confide in your principles; but I can no longer sustain a suspense that preys upon my spirits. It is not the Book of Fate--it is your mind, only, I desire to read. A sickly apprehension overspreads my heart--I pause here, unable to proceed.'

  'EMMA.'

  [Footnote 9: Madame de Genlis's Tales of the Castle.]

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Week after week, month after month, passed away in the anguish ofvain expectation: my letter was not answered, and I again sunk intodespondency.--Winter drew near. I shuddered at the approach of thisdreary and desolate season, when I was roused by the receipt of a letterfrom one of the daughters of the maternal aunt, under whose care I hadspent the happy, thoughtless, days of childhood. My cousin informed me--

  'That she had married an officer in the East India service; that soon after their union he was ordered abroad, and stationed in Bengal for three years, during which period she was to remain in a commodious and pleasant house, situated in the vicinity of the metropolis. She had been informed of my removal from Morton Park, and had no doubt but I should be able to give a satisfactory account of the occasion of that removal. She purposed, during the absence of her husband, to let out a part of her house; and should I not be fixed in my present residence, would be happy to accommodate me with an apartment, on terms that should be rather dictated by friendship than interest. She also hinted, that a neighbouring lady, of respectable character, would be glad to avail herself of the occasional assistance of an accomplished woman in the education of her daughters; that she had mentioned me to her in advantageous terms, conceiving that I should have no objection, by such a means, to exercise my talents, to render myself useful, and to augment my small income.'

  This intelligence filled me with delight: the idea of change, ofexertion, of new scenes--shall I add, _of breathing the same air withAugustus_, rushed tumultuously through my imagination. Flying eagerly tomy friend, to impart these tidings, I was not aware of the ungratefuland inconsiderate appearance which these exultations must give me in hereyes, till I perceived the starting tear.--It touched, it electrified,my heart; and, throwing myself into her arms, I caught the softcontagion, and wept aloud.

  'Go, Emma--my daughter,' said this excellent woman; 'I banish theselfish regret that would prompt me to detain you. I perceive thissolitude is destructive to thy ardent mind. Go, vary your impressions,and expand your sensations; gladden me only from time to time with anaccount of your progress and welfare.'

  I had but little preparation to make. I canvassed over, with my friend,a thousand plans, and formed as many expectations and conjectures; butthey all secretly tended to one point, and concentrated in one object. Igave my cousin notice that I should be with her in a few days--settleda future correspondence with my friend--embraced her, at parting, withunfeigned, and tender, sorrow--and, placing myself in a stage-coach,that passed daily through the village, took the road, once more, witha fluttering heart, to London. We travelled all night--it was cold anddreary--but my fancy was busied with various images, and my bosomthrobbing with lively, though indistinct sensations.

  The next day, at noon, I arrived, without accident, at the residence ofmy relation, Mrs Denbeigh. She received me with unaffected cordiality:our former amity was renewed; we spent the evening together, recallingpast scenes; and, on retiring, I was shewn into a neat chamber, whichhad been prepared for me, with a light closet adjoining. The next day,I was introduced to the lady, mentioned to me by my kind hostess, andagreed to devote three mornings in the week to the instruction of theyoung ladies (her daughters), in various branches of education.

  _Memoirs of Emma Courtney_

  VOLUME II />
  TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY

  'My friend, my son, it is for your benefit, that I have determined on reviewing the sentiments, and the incidents, of my past life. Cold declamation can avail but little towards the reformation of our errors. It is by tracing, by developing, the passions in the minds of others; tracing them, from the seeds by which they have been generated, through all their extended consequences, that we learn, the more effectually, to regulate and to subdue our own.

  'I repeat, it will cost me some pain to be ingenuous in the recital which I have pledged myself to give you; even in the moment when I resume my pen, prejudice continues to struggle with principle, and I feel an inclination to retract. While unfolding a series of error and mortification, I tremble, lest, in warning you to shun the rocks and quicksands amidst which my little bark has foundered, I should forfeit your respect and esteem, the pride, and the comfort, of my declining years. But you are deeply interested in my narrative, you tell me, and you entreat me to proceed.'

  CHAPTER I

  Change of scene, regular employment, attention to my pupils, and theconscious pride of independence, afforded a temporary relief to myspirits. My first care, on my arrival in town, was to gladden the mindof my dear benefactress, by a minute detail of the present comforts andoccupations.

  She had charged me with affectionate remembrance and letters to her son.I enclosed these letters; and, after informing him (in the cover) ofthe change of my situation, and the incident which had occasioned it,complained of the silence he had observed towards my last letter.

  --'If,' said I, 'from having observed the social and sympathetic nature of our feelings and affections, I suffered myself to yield, involuntarily, to the soothing idea, that the ingenuous avowal of an attachment so tender, so sincere, so artless, as mine, could not have been unaffecting to a mind with which my own proudly claimed kindred:--if I fondly believed, that simplicity, modesty, truth--the eye beaming with sensibility, the cheek mantling with the glow of affection, the features softened, the accents modulated, by ineffable tenderness, might, in the eyes of a virtuous man, have supplied the place of more dazzling accomplishments, and more seductive charms: if I over-rated my own merit, and my own powers--surely my mistakes were sufficiently humiliating! You should not, indeed you should not, have obliged me to arrive at the conviction through a series of deductions so full of mortification and anguish. You are too well acquainted with the human heart not to be sensible, that no certainty can equal the misery of conjecture, in a mind of ardour--the agonizing images which _suspense_ forces upon the tender and sensible heart! You should have written, in pity to the situation of my mind. I would have thanked you for being ingenuous, even though, like Hamlet, you had _spoke daggers_. I expected it, from your character, and I had a claim to your sincerity.

  'But it is past!--the vision is dissolved! The barbed arrow is not extracted with more pain, than the enchantments of hope from the ardent and sanguine spirit! But why am I to lose your friendship? My heart tells me, I have not deserved this! Do not suspect, that I have so little justice, or so little magnanimity, as to refuse you the privilege, the enviable privilege, of being master of your own affections. I am unhappy, I confess; the principal charm of my life is fled, and the hopes that should enliven future prospects are faint: melancholy too often obscures reason, and a heart, perhaps too tender, preys on itself.

  'I suspect I had formed some vain and extravagant expectations. I could have loved you, had you permitted it, with no mean, nor common attachment.--My words, my looks, my actions, betrayed me, ere I suffered my feelings to dictate to my pen. Would to God, I had buried this fatal secret in the bottom of my soul! But repentance is, now, too late. Yet the sensible heart yearns to disclose itself--and to whom can it confide its sentiments, with equal propriety, as to him who will know how to pity the errors, of which he feels himself, however involuntarily, the cause? The world might think my choice in a confident singular; it has been my misfortune seldom to think with the world, and I ought, perhaps, patiently to submit to the inconveniences to which this singularity has exposed me.

  'I know not how, without doing myself a painful violence, to relinquish your society; and why, let me again ask, should I? I now desire only that repose which is the end of doubt, and this, I think, I should regain by one hour's frank conversation with you; I would compose myself, listen to you, and yield to the sovereignty of reason. After such an interview, my mind--no longer harrassed by vague suspicion, by a thousand nameless apprehensions and inquietudes--should struggle to subdue itself--at least, I would not permit it to dictate to my pen, not to bewilder my conduct. I am exhausted by perturbation. I ask only certainty and rest.

  'EMMA.'

  A few days after I had written the preceding letter, Mr Harley called onme. Mrs Denbeigh was with me on his entrance; I would have given worldsto have received him alone, but had not courage to hint this to myrelation. Overwhelmed by a variety of emotions, I was unable for sometime to make any reply to his friendly enquiries after my health, andcongratulations on my amended prospects. My confusion and embarrassmentwere but too apparent; perceiving my distress, he kindly contrived toengage my hostess in discourse, that I might have time to rally myspirits. By degrees, I commanded myself sufficiently to join in theconversation--I spoke to him of his mother, expressed the lively senseI felt of her goodness, and my unaffected regret at parting with her.Animated by my subject, and encouraged by the delicacy of Augustus, Ibecame more assured: we retraced the amusements and studies of H----shire,and two hours passed delightfully and insensibly away, when Mrs Denbeighwas called out of the room to speak to a person who brought her lettersand intelligence from the India House. Mr Harley, rising at the sametime from his seat, seemed about to depart, but hesitating, stood a fewmoments as if irresolute.

  'You leave me,' said I, in a low and tremulous tone, 'and you leave mestill in suspense?'

  'Could you,' replied he, visibly affected, 'but have seen me on thereceipt of your last letter, you would have perceived that my feelingswere not enviable--Your affecting expostulation, added to othercircumstances of a vexatious nature, oppressed my spirits with a burthenmore than they were able to sustain.'

  He resumed his seat, spoke of his situation, of the tenure on whichhe held his fortune,--'I am neither a stoic nor a philosopher,' addedhe,--'I knew not how--_I could not answer your letter_. What shallI say?--I am with-held from explaining myself further, by reasons--_obligations_--Who can look back on every action of his past lifewith approbation? Mine has not been free from error! I am distressed,perplexed--_Insuperable obstacles_ forbid what otherwise'--

  'I feel,' said I, interrupting him, 'that I am the victim of my ownweakness and vanity--I feel, that I have been rushing headlong intothe misery which you kindly sought to spare me--I am sensible of yourdelicacy--of your humanity!--And is it with the full impression ofyour virtues on my heart that I must teach that heart to renounceyou--renounce, for ever, the man with whose pure and elevated mind myown panted to mingle? My reason has been blinded by the illusions of myself-love--and, while I severely suffer, I own my sufferings just--yet,the sentiments you inspired were worthy of you! I understand littleof--I have violated common forms--seeking your tenderness, I haveperhaps forfeited your esteem!'

  'Far, _very far_, from it--I would, but cannot, say more.'

  'Must we, then, separate for ever--will you no longer assist me in thepursuit of knowledge and truth--will you no more point out to me thebooks I should read, and aid me in forming a just judgment of theprinciples they contain--Must all your lessons be at an end--all mystudies
be resigned? How, without your counsel and example, shall Iregain my strength of mind--to what _end_ shall I seek to improvemyself, when I dare no longer hope to be worthy of him--'

  A flood of tears checked my utterance; hiding my face with my hands,I gave way to the kindly relief, but for which my heart had broken.I heard footsteps in the passage, and the voice of Mrs Denbeigh asspeaking to her servant--covered with shame and grief, I dared not inthis situation appear before her, but, rushing out at an opposite door,hid myself in my chamber. A train of confused recollections torturedmy mind, I concluded, that Augustus had another, a prior attachment.I felt, with this conviction, that I had not the fortitude, and thatperhaps I ought not, to see him again. I wrote to him under thisimpression; I poured out my soul in anguish, in sympathy, in ferventaspirations for his happiness. These painful and protracted conflictsaffected my health, a deep and habitual depression preyed upon myspirits, and, surveying every object through the medium of a distemperedimagination, I grew disgusted with life.

  CHAPTER II

  I began, at length, to think, that I had been too precipitate, andtoo severe to myself.--Why was I to sacrifice a friend, from whoseconversation I had derived improvement and pleasure? I repeated thisquestion to myself, again and again; and I blushed and repented. ButI deceived myself. I had too frequently acted with precipitation, Idetermined, now, to be more prudent--I waited three months, fortifiedmy mind with many reflections, and resumed my pen--

  TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

  'Near three months have elapsed, since I last addressed you. I remind you of this, not merely to suppress, as it arises, any apprehension which you may entertain of further embarrassment or importunity: for I can no longer afflict myself with the idea, that my peace, or welfare, are indifferent to you, but will rather adopt the sentiment of Plato--who on being informed, that one of his disciples, whom he had more particularly distinguished, had spoken ill of him, replied, to the slanderer--"I do not believe you, for it is impossible that I should not be esteemed by one whom I so sincerely regard."