by Mary Hays
'Early to-morrow morning, a messenger shall call for the paper, which is to decide the colour of my future destiny. Every moment, that the blow has been suspended, it has acquired additional force--since it must, at length, descend, it would be weakness still to desire its protraction--We have, already, refined too much--_I promise to live--more, alas! I cannot promise_.
'_Farewel!_ dearest and most beloved of men--whatever may be my fate--_be happiness yours!_ Once more, my lingering, foreboding heart, repeats _farewel!_
'EMMA.'
It would be unnecessary to paint my feelings during the interval inwhich I waited a reply to this letter--I struggled to repress hope, andto prepare my mind for the dissolution of a thousand air-built fabrics.The day wore tediously away in strong emotion, and strong exertion. Onthe subsequent morning, I sat, waiting the return of my messenger,in a state of mind, difficult even to be conceived--I heard himenter--breathless, I flew to meet him--I held out my hand--I could notspeak.
'Mr Harley desired me to tell you, _he had not had time to write_.'
Gracious God! I shudder, even now, to recall the convulsive sensation! Isunk into a chair--I sat for some time motionless, every faculty seemedsuspended. At length, returning to recollection, I wrote a shortincoherent note, entreating--
'To be spared another day, another night, like the preceding--I askedonly _one single line_! In the morning I had made up my mind tofortitude--it was now sinking--another day, I could not answer for theconsequences.'
Again an interval of suspense--again my messenger returned witha verbal reply--'_He would write to-morrow._' Unconsciously, Iexclaimed--'_Barbarous, unfeeling, unpitying, man!_' A burst of tearsrelieved--no--_it did not relieve me_. The day passed--I know nothow--I dare not recollect.
The next morning, I arose, somewhat refreshed; my exhausted strength andspirits had procured me a few hours of profound slumber. A degree ofresentment gave a temporary firmness to my nerves. 'What happiness (Irepeated to myself) could I have expected with a man, thus regardless ofmy feelings?' I composed my spirits--_hope was at an end_--into a sortof sullen resignation to my fate--a half stupor!
At noon the letter arrived, coldly, confusedly written; methought thereappeared even a degree of irritation in it.
'_Another, a prior attachment_--His behaviour had been such, asnecessarily resulted from such an engagement--unavoidable circumstanceshad prevented an earlier reply.' My swollen heart--but it is enough--'Heblamed my impatience--he would, in future, perhaps, when my mind hadattained more composure, make some remarks on my letter.'
CHAPTER VIII
To write had always afforded a temporary relief to my spirits--The nextday I resumed my pen.
TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.
'If, after reflecting upon, and comparing, many parts of your past conduct, you can acquit yourself, at the sacred bar of humanity--it is well! How often have I called for--urged, with all the energy of truth and feeling--but in vain--such a letter as you have at length written--and, _even now_, though somewhat late, I thank you for it. Yet, what could have been easier, than to repeat so plain and so simple a tale? The vague hints, you had before given, I had repeatedly declared to be insufficient. Remember, all my earnestness, and all my simplicity, and _learn the value of sincerity_! "Oh! with what difficulty is an active mind, once forced into any particular train, persuaded to desert it as hopeless!"[12]
[Footnote 12: Godwin's Caleb Williams.]
'This recital, then, was not to be confirmed, till the whole moral conformation of my mind was affected--till the barbed arrow had fixed, and rankled in, and poisoned, with its envenomed point, every vein, every fibre, of my heart. This, I confess, is now the case--Reason and self-respect sustain me--but the wound you have inflicted _is indelible_--it will continue to be the corroding canker at the root of my peace. My youth has been worn in anguish--and the summer of life will probably be overshadowed by a still thicker and darker cloud. But I mean not to reproach you--it is not given me to contribute to your happiness--the dearest and most ardent wish of my soul--I would not then inflict unnecessary pain--yet, I would fix upon your mind, the value of _unequivocal sincerity_.
'Had the happiness of any human being, the meanest, the vilest, depended as much upon me, as mine has done on you, I would have sacrificed, for their relief, the dearest secret of my heart--the secret, even upon which my very existence had depended. It is true, you did not directly deceive me--but is that enough for the delicacy of humanity? May the past be an affecting lesson to us both--it is written upon my mind in characters of blood. I feel, and acknowledge, my own errors, in yielding to the illusion of vague, visionary, expectation; but my faults have originated in a generous source--they have been the wild, ardent, fervent, excesses, of a vigorous and an exalted mind!
'I checked my tears, as they flowed, and they are already dried--uncalled, unwished, for--why do they, thus, struggle to force their way? my mind has, I hope, too much energy, utterly to sink--I know what it is to suffer, and to combat with, if not to subdue, my feelings--and _certainty_, itself, is some relief. I am, also, supported by the retrospect of my conduct; with all its mistakes, and all its extravagances, it has been that of a virtuous, ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind. You have contemned a heart of no common value, you have sported with its exquisite sensibilities--but it will, still, know how to separate your virtues from your errors.
'You reprove, perhaps justly, my impatience--I can only say, that circumstanced as you were, I should have stolen an hour from rest, from company, from business, however, important, to have relieved and soothed a fellow-creature in a situation, so full of pain and peril. Every thought, during a day scarcely to be recollected without agony, _was a two-edged sword_--but some hours of profound and refreshing slumber recruited my exhausted spirits, and enabled me, yesterday, to receive my fate, with a fortitude but little hoped for.
'You would oblige me exceedingly by the remarks you allow me to hope for, on my letter of the ----th. You know, I will not shrink from reproof--that letter afforded you the last proof of my affection, and I repent not of it. I loved you, first, for what, I conceived, high qualities of mind--from nature and association, my tenderness became personal--till at length, I loved you, not only rationally and tenderly--_but passionately_--it became a pervading and a devouring fire! And, yet, I do not blush--my affection was modest, if intemperate, _for it was individual_--it annihilated in my eyes every other man in the creation. I regret these natural sensations and affections, their forcible suppression injures the mind--it converts the mild current of gentle, and genial sympathies, into a destructive torrent. This, I have the courage to avow it, has been one of the miserable mistakes in morals, and, like all other partial remedies, has increased the evil, it was intended to correct. From monastic institutions and principles have flowed, as from a polluted source, streams, that have at once spread through society a mingled contagion of dissoluteness and hypocrisy.
'You have suddenly arrested my affections in their full career--in all their glowing effervescence--you have taken
"The rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And placed a blister there."
'And, yet, I survive the shock, and determine to live, not for future enjoyment--that is now, for ever, past--_but for future usefulness_--Is not this virtue?
'I am sorry your attachment has been and I fear is likely to be, protracted--I know, too well, the misery of these situations, and I shou
ld, now, feel a melancholy satisfaction in hearing of its completion--In that completion, may you experience no disappointment! I do not wish you to be beloved, as I have loved you; this, perhaps, is unnecessary; such an affection, infallibly, enslaves the heart that cherishes it; and slavery is the tomb of virtue and of peace.
'I believe it would not be proper for us to meet again--at least at present--should I hear of sickness, or calamity, befalling you, I shall, I suspect, be impelled, by an irresistible impulse to seek you--but I will no more interrupt your repose--Though you have contemned my affection, my friendship will still follow you.
'If you really _love_, I think you ought to make some sacrifices, and not render yourself, and the happy object of your tenderness, the victims of factitious notions.--Remember--youth and life will quickly fade. Relinquish, call upon her to relinquish, her prejudices--should she refuse, she is unworthy of you, and you will regret, too late, the tender, faithful, ingenuous heart, that you have pierced through and through--_that you have almost broken_! Should she make you happy, I will esteem, though I may never have an opportunity of thanking, her--Were she informed of my conduct, she might rejoice in the trial of your affection--though I should not.
'The spirits, that had crouded round my heart, are already subsiding--a flood of softness, a tide of overwhelming affection, gushes upon it--and I feel sinking into helpless, infantine, distress! Hasten to me your promised remarks--they will rouse, they will strengthen, me--_Truth_ I will never call indelicate or inhuman--it is only the virtuous mind can dare to practise, to challenge, it:--simplicity is true refinement.
'Let us reap from the past all the good we can--a close, and searching, knowledge of the secret springs and foldings of our hearts. Methinks, I could wish you justified, _even at my own expence_.--I ask, unshrinkingly, a frank return.
'A heart-rending sigh accompanies my _farewel_--the last struggles of expiring nature will be far less painful--but my philosophy, now, _sternly_ calls upon me to put its precepts in practice--trembling--shuddering--I obey!
'_Farewel!_ 'EMMA.'
Perhaps it cost me some effort to make the preceding letter somoderate--yet, every victory gained over ourselves is attended withadvantages. But this apparent calm was the lethargy of despair--it wassucceeded by severer conflicts, by keener anguish. A week passed, andnear a second--I received no answer.
CHAPTER IX
A letter from the country made it necessary for me, again, to address MrHarley, to make some enquiries which respected business of his mother's.It may be, that I felt a mixture of other motives;--it is certain, thatwhen I wrote, I spoke of more than business.
'I had hoped,' I told him, 'ere this, to have received the promised letter--Yet, I do not take up my pen,' said I, 'either to complain of, or to importune, you. If I have already expressed myself with bitterness, let the harrassed state of my mind be my excuse. My own conduct has been too erroneous, too eccentric, to enable me to judge impartially of your's. Forgive me, if by placing you in an embarrassing situation, I have exposed you to consequent mistake or uneasiness. I feel, that whatever errors we may either of us have committed, _originated only with myself_, and I am content to suffer all the consequences. It is true, had you reposed in me an early, generous, confidence, much misery would have been avoided--I had not been wounded
"There, where the human heart most exquisitely feels!"
'You had been still my friend, and I had been comparatively happy. Every passion is, in a great measure, the growth of indulgence: all our desires are, in their commencement, easily suppressed, when there appears no probability of attaining their object; but when strengthened, by time and reflection, into habit, in endeavouring to eradicate them, we tear away part of the mind. In my attachments there is a kind of savage tenacity--they are of an elastic nature, and, being forced back, return with additional violence.
'My affection for you has not been, altogether, irrational or selfish. While I felt that I loved you, as no other woman, I was convinced, would love you--I conceived, could I once engage your heart, I could satisfy, and even, purify it. While I loved your virtues, I thought I saw, and I lamented, the foibles which sullied them. I suspected you, perhaps erroneously, of pride, ambition, the love of distinction; yet your ambition could not, I thought, be of an ignoble nature--I feared that the gratifications you sought, if, indeed, attainable, were factitious--I even fancied I perceived you, against your better judgment, labouring to seduce yourself!' "He is under a delusion," said I, to myself;--"reason may be stunned, or blinded, for awhile; but it will revive in the heart, and do its office, when sophistry will be of no avail." I saw you struggling with vexations, that I was assured might be meliorated by tender confidence--I longed to pour its balms into your bosom. My sensibility disquieted you, and myself, only _because it was constrained_. I thought I perceived a conflict in your mind--I watched its progress with attention and solicitude. A thousand times has my fluttering heart yearned to break the cruel chains that fettered it, and to chase the cloud, which stole over your brow, by the tender, yet chaste, caresses and endearments of ineffable affection! My feelings became too highly wrought, and altogether insupportable. Sympathy for your situation, zeal for your virtues, love for your mind, tenderness for your person--a complication of generous, affecting, exquisite, emotions, impelled me to make one great effort.--"[13] The world might call my plans absurd, my views romantic, my pretensions extravagant--Was I, or was I not, guilty of any crime, when, in the very acme of the passions, I so totally disregarded the customs of the world?" Ah! what were my sensations--what did I not suffer, in the interval?--and you prolonged that cruel interval--and still you suffer me to doubt, whether, at the moment in my life when I was actuated by the highest, the most fervent, the most magnanimous, principles--whether, at that moment, when I most deserved your respect, I did not for ever forfeit it.
[Footnote 13: Holcroft's Anna St Ives.]
'I seek not to extenuate any part of my conduct--I confess that it has been wild, extravagant, romantic--I confess, that, even for your errors, I am justly blameable--and yet I am unable to bear, because I feel they would be unjust, your hatred and contempt. I cherish no resentment--my spirit is subdued and broken--your unkindness sinks into my soul.
'EMMA.'
Another fortnight wore away in fruitless expectation--the morningrose, the evening closed, upon me, in sadness. I could not, yet, thinkthe mystery developed: on a concentrated view of the circumstances,they appeared to me contradictory, and irreconcileable. A solitaryenthusiast, a child in the drama of the world, I had yet to learn, thatthose who have courage to act upon advanced principles, must be contentto suffer moral martyrdom.[14] In subduing our own prejudices, we havedone little, while assailed on every side by the prejudices of others.My own heart acquitted me; but I dreaded that distortion of mind, thatshould wrest guilt out of the most sublime of its emanations.
[Footnote 14: This sentiment may be just in some particular cases, but it is by no means of general application, and must be understood with great limitations.]
I ruminated in gloomy silence, on my forlorn, and hopeless, situation.'If there be not a future state of being,' said I to myself, 'what isthis!--Tortured in every stage of it, "Man cometh forth like a flower,and is cut down--he fleeth, as a shadow, and continueth not!"--I lookedbackward on my past life, and m
y heart sickened--its confidence inhumanity was shaken--I looked forward, and all was cheerless. I hadcertainly committed many errors!--Who has not--who, with a fancy aslively, feelings as acute, and a character as sanguine, as mine? "What,in fact," says a philosophic writer,[15] "is character?--the productionof a lively and constant affection, and consequently, of a strongpassion:"--eradicate that passion, that ferment, that leaven, thatexuberance, which raises and makes the mind what it is, and whatremains? Yet, let us beware how we wantonly expend this divine, thisinvigorating, power. Every grand error, in a mind of energy, in itsoperations and consequences, carries us years forward--_precious years,never to be recalled_!' I could find no substitute for the sentimentsI regretted--for that sentiment formed my character; and, but for theobstacles which gave it force, though I might have suffered lessmisery, I should, I suspect, have gained less improvement; stilladversity _is a real evil_; and I foreboded that this improvement hadbeen purchased too dear.
[Footnote 15: Helvetius.]
CHAPTER X
Weeks elapsed ere the promised letter arrived--a letter still colder,and more severe, than the former. I wept over it, bitter tears!It accused me 'of adding to the vexations of a situation, beforesufficiency oppressive.'--Alas! had I known the nature of thosevexations, could I have merited such a reproof? The Augustus, I had solong and so tenderly loved, no longer seemed to exist. Some one had,surely, usurped his signature, and imitated those characters, I had beenaccustomed to trace with delight. He tore himself from me, _nor wouldhe deign to soften the pang of separation_. Anguish overwhelmed me--myheart was pierced. Reclining my head on my folded arms, I yielded myselfup to silent grief. Alone, sad, desolate, no one heeded my sorrows--noeye pitied me--no friendly voice cheered my wounded spirit! The socialpropensities of a mind forbidden to expand itself, forced back, preyedincessantly upon that mind, secretly consuming its powers.
