Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Monday, half-past three.

  Oh! this equivocating answer to my fond heart! Passion makes and admits of no compromise. Be mine, and wholly mine — or never, never will I survive your desertion! I can be happy only whilst I love; I can love only whilst I am beloved with fervency equal to my own; and when I cease to love, I cease to exist! No coward fears restrain my soul. The word suicide shocks not my ear, appals not my understanding. Death I consider but as the eternal rest of the wretched — the sweet, the sole refuge of despair.

  Your resolute

  OLIVIA.

  LETTER XCI.

  FROM OLIVIA TO MR. L —— .

  Tuesday.

  Return! return! on the wings of love return to the calm, the prudent, the happy, the transcendently happy Leonora! Return — but not to bid her adieu — return to be hers for ever, and only hers. I give you back your faith — I give you back your promises — you have taken back your heart.

  But if you should desire once more to see Olivia, if you should have any lingering wish to bid her a last adieu, it must be this evening. To-morrow’s sun rises not for Olivia. For her but a few short hours remain. Love, let them be all thy own! Intoxicate thy victim, mingle pleasure in the cup of death, and bid her fearless quaff it to the dregs! —

  LETTER XCII.

  MR. L —— TO GENERAL B —— .

  Thursday.

  My Dear Friend,

  You have by argument and raillery, and by every means that kindness and goodness could devise, endeavoured to expel from my mind a passion which you justly foresaw would be destructive of my happiness, and of the peace of a most estimable and amiable woman. With all the skill that a thorough knowledge of human nature in general, and of my peculiar character and foibles, could bestow, you have employed those

  —”Words and spells which can control,

  Between the fits, the fever of the soul.”

  Circumstances have operated in conjunction with your skill to “medicine me to repose.” The fits have gradually become weaker and weaker, the fever is now gone, but I am still to suffer for the extravagances committed during its delirium. I have entered into engagements which must be fulfilled; I have involved myself in difficulties from which I see no method of extricating myself honourably. Notwithstanding all the latitude which the system of modern gallantry allows to the conscience of our sex, and in spite of the convenient maxim, which maintains that all arts are allowable in love and war, I think that a man cannot break a promise, whether made in words or by tacit implication, on the faith of which a woman sacrifices her reputation and happiness. Lady Olivia has thrown herself upon my protection. I am as sensible as you can be, my dear general, that scandal had attacked her reputation before our acquaintance commenced; but though the world had suspicions, they had no proofs: now there can be no longer any defence made for her character, there is no possibility of her returning to that rank in society to which she was entitled by her birth, and which she adorned with all the brilliant charms of wit and beauty; no happiness, no chance of happiness remains for her but from my constancy. Of naturally violent passions, unused to the control of authority, habit, reason, or religion, and at this time impelled by love and jealousy, Olivia is on the brink of despair. I am not apt to believe that women die in modern times for love, nor am I easily disposed to think that I could inspire a dangerous degree of enthusiasm; yet I am persuaded that Olivia’s passion, compounded as it is of various sentiments besides love, has taken such possession of her imagination, and is, as she fancies, so necessary to her existence, that if I were to abandon her, she would destroy that life, which she has already attempted, I thank God! ineffectually. What a spectacle is a woman in a paroxysm of rage! — a woman we love, or whom we have loved!

  Excuse me, my dear friend, if I wrote incoherently, for I have been interrupted many times since I began this letter. I am this day overwhelmed by a multiplicity of affairs, which, in consequence of Olivia’s urgency to leave England immediately, must be settled with an expedition for which my head is not at present well qualified. I do not feel well: I can command my attention but on one subject, and on that all my thoughts are to no purpose. Whichever way I now act, I must endure and inflict misery. I must either part from a wife who has given me the most tender, the most touching proofs of affection — a wife who is all that a man can esteem, admire, and love; or I must abandon a mistress, who loves me with all the desperation of passion to which she would fall a sacrifice. But why do I talk as if I were still at liberty to make a choice? — My head is certainly very confused. I forgot that I am bound by a solemn promise, and this is the evil which distracts me. I will give you, if I can, a clear narrative.

  Last night I had a terrible scene with Olivia. I foresaw that she would be alarmed by my intended visit to L —— Castle, even though it was but to take leave of my Leonora. I abstained from seeing Olivia to avoid altercation, and with all the delicacy in my power I wrote to her, assuring her that my resolution was fixed. Note after note came from her, with pathetic and passionate appeals to my heart; but I was still resolute. At length, the day before that on which I was to set out for L —— Castle, she wrote to warn me, that if I wished to take a last farewell, I must see her that evening: her note concluded with, “To-morrow’s sun will not rise for Olivia.” This threat, and many strange hints of her opinions concerning suicide, I at the time disregarded, as only thrown out to intimidate a lover. However, knowing the violence of Olivia’s temper, I was punctual to the appointed hour, fully determined by my firmness to convince her that these female wiles were vain.

  My dear friend, I would not advise the wisest man and the most courageous upon earth to risk such dangers, confident in his strength. Even a victory may cost him too dear.

  I found Olivia reclining on a sofa, her beautiful tresses unbound, her dress the perfection of elegant negligence. I half suspected that it was studied negligence: yet I could not help pausing, as I entered, to contemplate a figure. She never looked more beautiful — more fascinating. Holding out her hand to me, she said, with her languid smile, and tender expression of voice and manner, “You are come then to bid me farewell. I doubted whether... But I will not upbraid — mine be all the pain of this last adieu. During the few minutes we have to pass together,

  “‘Between us two let there be peace.’”

  I sat down beside her, rather agitated, I confess, but commanding myself so that my emotion could not be visible. In a composed tone I asked, why she spoke of a last adieu? and observed that we should meet again in a few days.

  “Never!” replied Olivia. “Weak woman as I am, love inspires me with sufficient force to make and to keep this resolution.”

  As she spoke, she took from her bosom a rose, and presenting it to me in a solemn manner, “Put this rose into water to-night,” continued she; “to-morrow it will be alive!”

  Her look, her expressive eyes, seemed to say, this flower will be alive, but Olivia will be dead. I am ashamed to confess that I was silent, because I could not just then speak.

  “I have used some precaution,” resumed Olivia, “to spare you, my dearest L —— , unnecessary pain. — Look around you.”

  The room, I now for the first time observed, was ornamented with flowers.

  “This apartment, I hope,” continued she, “has not the air of the chamber of death. I have endeavoured to give it a festive appearance, that the remembrance of your last interview with your once loved Olivia may be at least unmixed with horror.”

  At this instant, my dear general, a confused recollection of Rousseau’s Heloise, the dying scene, and her room ornamented with flowers, came into my imagination, and destroying the idea of reality, changed suddenly the whole course of my feelings.

  In a tone of raillery I represented to Olivia her resemblance to Julie, and observed that it was a pity she had not a lover whose temper was more similar than mine to that of the divine St. Preux. Stung to the heart by my ill-timed raillery, Olivia started up from the sofa, broke
from my arms with sudden force, snatched from the table a penknife, and plunged it into her side.

  She was about to repeat the blow, but I caught her arm — she struggled—”promise me, then,” cried she, “that you will never more see my hated rival.”

  “I cannot make such a promise, Olivia,” said I, holding her uplifted arm forcibly. “I will not.”

  The words “hated rival,” which showed me that Olivia was actuated more by the spirit of hatred than love, made me reply in as decided a tone as even you could have spoken, my dear general. But I was shocked, and reproached myself with cruelty, when I saw the blood flow from her side: she was terrified. I took the knife from her powerless hand, and she fainted in my arms. I had sufficient presence of mind to reflect that what had happened should be kept as secret as possible; therefore, without summoning Josephine, whose attachment to her mistress I have reason to suspect, I threw open the windows, gave Olivia air and water, and her senses returned: then I despatched my Swiss for a surgeon. I need not speak of my own feelings — no suspense could be more dreadful than that which I endured between the sending for the surgeon and the moment when he gave his opinion. He relieved me at once, by pronouncing it to be a slight flesh wound, that would be of no manner of consequence. Olivia, however, whether from alarm or pain, or from the sight of the blood, fainted three times during the dressing of her side; and though the surgeon assured her that it would be perfectly well in a few days, she was evidently apprehensive that we concealed from her the real danger. At the idea of the approach of death, which now took possession of her imagination, all courage forsook her, and for some time my efforts to support her spirits were ineffectual. She could not dispense with the services of Josephine; and from the moment this French woman entered the room, there was nothing to be heard but exclamations the most violent and noisy. As to assistance, she could give none. At last her exaggerated demonstrations of horror and grief ended with,—”Dieu merci! an moins nous voilà delivrés de ce voyage affreux. Apparemment qu’il ne sera plus question de ce vilain Petersburg pour madame.”

  A new train of thoughts was roused by these words in Olivia’s mind; and looking at me, she eagerly inquired why the journey to Petersburg was to be given up, if she was in no danger? I assured her that Josephine spoke at random, that my intentions with regard to the embassy to Russia were unaltered.

  “Seulement retardé un peu,” said Josephine, who was intent only upon her own selfish object.—”Sûrement, madame ne voyagera pas dans cet état!”

  Olivia started up, and looking at me with terrific wildness in her eyes, “Swear to me,” said she, “swear that you will not deceive me, or I will this instant tear open this wound, and never more suffer it to be closed.”

  “Deceive you, Olivia!” cried I, “what deceit can you fear from me? — What is it you require of me?”

  “I require from you a promise, a solemn promise, that you will go with me to Russia!”

  “I solemnly promise that I will,” said I: “now be tranquil, Olivia, I beseech you.”

  The surgeon represented the necessity of keeping herself quiet, and declared that he would not answer for the cure of his patient on any other terms. Satisfied by the solemnity of my promise, Olivia now suffered me to depart. This morning she sends me word that in a few days she shall be ready to leave England. Can you meet me, my dear friend, at L —— Castle? I go down there to-day, to bid adieu to Leonora. From thence I shall proceed to Yarmouth, and embark immediately. Olivia will follow me.

  Your obliged

  F. L —— .

  LETTER XCIII.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  L —— Castle

  Dearest Mother,

  My husband is here! at home with me, with your happy Leonora — and his heart is with her. His looks, his voice, his manner tell me so, and by them I never was deceived. No, he is incapable of deceit. Whatever have been his errors, he never stooped to dissimulation. He is again my own, still capable of loving me, still worthy of all my affection. I knew that the delusion could not last long, or rather you told me so, my best friend, and I believed you; you did him justice. He was indeed deceived — who might not have been deceived by Olivia? His passions were under the power of an enchantress; but now he has triumphed over her arts. He sees her such as she is, and her influence ceases.

  I am not absolutely certain of all this; but I believe, because I hope it: yet he is evidently embarrassed, and seems unhappy: what can be the meaning of this? Perhaps he does not yet know his Leonora sufficiently to be secure of her forgiveness. How I long to set his heart at ease, and to say to him, let the past be forgotten for ever! How easy it is to the happy to forgive! There have been moments when I could not, I fear, have been just, when I am sure that I could not have been generous. I shall immediately offer to accompany Mr. L —— to Russia; I can have no farther hesitation, for I see that he wishes it; indeed, just now he almost said so. His baggage is already embarked at Yarmouth — he sails in a few days — and in a few hours your daughter’s fate, your daughter’s happiness, will be decided. It is decided, for I am sure he loves me; I see, I hear, I feel it. Dearest mother, I write to you in the first moment of joy. — I hear his foot upon the stairs.

  Your happy

  LEONORA L —— .

  LETTER XCIV.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  L —— Castle.

  MY DEAR MOTHER,

  My hopes are all vain. Your prophecies will never be accomplished. We have both been mistaken in Mr. L — —’s character, and henceforward your daughter must not depend upon him for any portion of her happiness. I once thought it impossible that my love for him could be diminished: he has changed my opinion. Mine is not that species of weak or abject affection which can exist under the sense of ill-treatment and injustice, much less can my love survive esteem for its object.

  I told you, my dear mother, and I believed, that his affections had returned to me; but I was mistaken. He has not sufficient strength or generosity of soul to love me, or to do justice to my love. I offered to go with him to Russia: he answered, “That is impossible.” — Impossible! — Is it then impossible for him to do that which is just or honourable? or seeing what is right, must he follow what is wrong? or can his heart never more be touched by virtuous affections? Is his taste so changed, so depraved, that he can now be pleased and charmed only by what is despicable and profligate in our sex? Then I should rejoice that we are to be separated — separated for ever. May years and years pass away and wear out, if possible, the memory of all he has been to me! I think I could better, much better bear the total loss, the death of him I have loved, than endure to feel that he had survived both my affection and esteem; to see the person the same, but the soul changed; to feel every day, every hour, that I must despise what I have so admired and loved.

  Mr. L —— is gone from hence. He leaves England the day after to-morrow. Lady Olivia is to follow him. I am glad that public decency is not to be outraged by their embarking together. My dearest mother, be assured that at this moment your daughter’s feelings are worthy of you. Indignation and the pride of virtue support her spirit.

  LEONORA L —— .

  LETTER XCV.

  GENERAL B —— TO LADY LEONORA L —— .

  Yarmouth.

  Had I not the highest confidence in Lady Leonora L — —’s fortitude, I should not venture to write to her at this moment, knowing as I do that she is but just recovered from a dangerous illness.

  Mr. L —— had requested me to meet him at L —— Castle previously to his leaving England, but it was out of my power. I met him however on the road to Yarmouth, and as we travelled together I had full opportunity of seeing the state of his mind. Permit me — the urgency of the case requires it — to speak without reserve, with the freedom of an old friend. I imagine that your ladyship parted from Mr. L —— with feelings of indignation, at which I cannot be surprised: but if you had seen him as I saw him, indignation would have given way to
pity. Loving you, madam, as you deserve to be loved, most ardently, most tenderly; touched to his inmost soul by the proofs of affection he had seen in your letters, in your whole conduct, even to the last moment of parting; my unhappy friend felt himself bound to resist the temptation of staying with you, or of accepting your generous offer to accompany him to Petersburg. He thought himself bound in honour by a promise extorted from him to save from suicide one whom he thinks he has injured, one who has thrown herself upon his protection. Of the conflict in his mind at parting with your ladyship I can judge from what he suffered afterwards. I met Mr. L —— with feelings of extreme indignation, but before I had been an hour in his company, I never pitied any man so much in my life, for I never yet saw any one so truly wretched, and so thoroughly convinced that he deserved to be so. You know that he is not one who often gives way to his emotions, not one who expresses them much in words — but he could not command his feelings.

  The struggle was too violent. I have no doubt that it was the real cause of his present illness. As the moment approached when he was to leave England, he became more and more agitated. Towards evening he sunk into a sort of apathy and gloomy silence, from which he suddenly broke into delirious raving. At twelve o’clock last night, the night he was to have sailed, he was seized with a violent and infectious fever. As to the degree of immediate danger, the physicians here cannot yet pronounce. I have sent to town for Dr. —— . Your ladyship may be certain that I shall not quit my friend, and that he shall have every possible assistance and attendance.

  I am, with the truest esteem,

  Your ladyship’s faithful servant,

  J. B.

  LETTER XCVI.

  LEONORA TO HER MOTHER.

  DEAR MOTHER, L —— Castle.

  This moment an express from General B —— . Mr. L —— is dangerously ill at Yarmouth — a fever, brought on by the agitation of his mind. How unjust I have been! Forget all I said in my last. I write in the utmost haste — just setting out for Yarmouth. I hope to be there to-morrow.