Arthur Mervyn; Or, Memoirs of the Year 1793

by Charles Brockden Brown

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  Move on, my quill! wait not for my guidance. Reanimated with thymaster's spirit, all airy light! A heyday rapture! A mounting impulsesways him: lifts him from the earth.

  I must, cost what it will, rein in this upward-pulling,forward-going--what shall I call it? But there are times, and now is oneof them, when words are poor.

  It will not do--down this hill, up that steep; through this thicket,over that hedge--I have _laboured_ to fatigue myself: to reconcile me torepose; to lolling on a sofa; to poring over a book, to any thing thatmight win for my heart a respite from these throbs; to deceive me into afew _tolerable_ moments of forgetfulness.

  Let me see; they tell me this is Monday night. Only three days yet tocome! If thus restless to-day; if my heart thus bounds till its mansionscarcely can hold it, what must be my state to-morrow! What next day!What as the hour hastens on; as the sun descends; as my hand toucheshers in sign of wedded unity, of love without interval; of concordwithout end!

  I must quell these tumults. They will disable me else. They will wearout all my strength. They will drain away life itself. But who couldhave thought! So soon! Not three months since I first set eyes upon her.Not three weeks since our plighted love, and only three days toterminate suspense and give me _all_.

  I must compel myself to quiet; to sleep. I must find some refuge fromanticipations so excruciating. All extremes are agonies. A joy like thisis too big for this narrow tenement. I must thrust it forth; I must barand bolt it out for a time, or these frail walls will burst asunder.The pen is a pacifier. It checks the mind's career; it circumscribes herwanderings. It traces out and compels us to adhere to one path. It everwas my friend. Often it has blunted my vexations; hushed my stormypassions; turned my peevishness to soothing; my fierce revenge toheart-dissolving pity.

  Perhaps it will befriend me now. It may temper my impetuous wishes; lullmy intoxication; and render my happiness supportable; and, indeed, ithas produced partly this effect already. My blood, within the fewminutes thus employed, flows with less destructive rapidity. My thoughtsrange themselves in less disorder. And, now that the conquest iseffected, what shall I say? I must continue at the pen, or shallimmediately relapse.

  What shall I say? Let me look back upon the steps that led me hither.Let me recount the preliminaries. I cannot do better.

  And first as to Achsa Fielding,--to describe this woman.

  To recount, in brief, so much of her history as has come to my knowledgewill best account for that zeal, almost to idolatry, with which she has,ever since I thoroughly knew her, been regarded by me.

  Never saw I one to whom the term _lovely_ more truly belonged. And yetin stature she is too low; in complexion dark and almost sallow; and hereyes, though black and of piercing lustre, have a cast which I cannotwell explain. It lessens without destroying their lustre and their forceto charm; but all personal defects are outweighed by her heart and herintellect. There is the secret of her power to entrance the soul of thelistener and beholder. It is not only when she sings that her utteranceis musical. It is not only when the occasion is urgent and the topicmomentous that her eloquence is rich and flowing. They are always so.

  I had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her frequent visitant,long before I was acquainted with her past life. I had casually pickedup some intelligence, from others, or from her own remarks. I knew verysoon that she was English by birth, and had been only a year and a halfin America; that she had scarcely passed her twenty-fifth year, and wasstill embellished with all the graces of youth; that she had been awife; but was uninformed whether the knot had been untied by death ordivorce; that she possessed considerable, and even splendid, fortune;but the exact amount, and all besides these particulars, were unknown tome till some time after our acquaintance was begun.

  One evening she had been talking very earnestly on the influenceannexed, in Great Britain, to birth, and had given me some examples ofthis influence. Meanwhile my eyes were fixed steadfastly on hers. Thepeculiarity in their expression never before affected me so strongly. Avague resemblance to something seen elsewhere, on the same day,occurred, and occasioned me to exclaim, suddenly, in a pause of herdiscourse,--

  "As I live, my good mamma, those eyes of yours have told me a secret. Ialmost think they spoke to me; and I am not less amazed at thestrangeness than at the distinctness of their story."

  "And, pr'ythee, what have they said?"

  "Perhaps I was mistaken. I might have been deceived by a fancied voice,or have confounded one word with another near akin to it; but let me dieif I did not think they said that you were--_a Jew_."

  At this sound, her features were instantly veiled with the deepestsorrow and confusion. She put her hand to her eyes, the tears started,and she sobbed. My surprise at this effect of my words was equal to mycontrition. I besought her to pardon me for having thus unknowinglyalarmed and grieved her.

  After she had regained some composure, she said, "You have not offended,Arthur. Your surmise was just and natural, and could not always haveescaped you. Connected with that word are many sources of anguish, whichtime has not, and never will, dry up; and the less I think of pastevents the less will my peace be disturbed. I was desirous that youshould know nothing of me but what you see; nothing but the present andthe future, merely that no allusions might occur in our conversationwhich will call up sorrows and regrets that will avail nothing.

  "I now perceive the folly of endeavouring to keep you in ignorance, andshall therefore, once for all, inform you of what has befallen me, thatyour inquiries and suggestions may be made and fully satisfied at once,and your curiosity have no motive for calling back my thoughts to what Iardently desire to bury in oblivion.

  "My father was indeed a _Jew_, and one of the most opulent of his nationin London,--a Portuguese by birth, but came to London when a boy. He hadfew of the moral or external qualities of Jews; for I suppose there issome justice in the obloquy that follows them so closely. He was frugalwithout meanness, and cautious in his dealings, without extortion. Ineed not fear to say this, for it was the general voice.

  "Me, an only child, and, of course, the darling of my parents, theytrained up in the most liberal manner. My education was purely English.I learned the same things and of the same masters with my neighbours.Except frequenting their church and repeating their creed, and partakingof the same food, I saw no difference between them and me. Hence I grewmore indifferent, perhaps, than was proper, to the distinctions ofreligion. They were never enforced upon me. No pains were taken to fillme with scruples and antipathies. They never stood, as I may say, uponthe threshold. They were often thought upon, but were vague and easilyeluded or forgotten.

  "Hence it was that my heart too readily admitted impressions that morezeal and more parental caution would have saved me from. They couldscarcely be avoided, as my society was wholly English, and my youth, myeducation, and my father's wealth made me an object of much attention.And the same causes that lulled to sleep my own watchfulness had thesame effect upon that of others. To regret or to praise this remissnessis now too late. Certain it is, that my destiny, and not a happydestiny, was fixed by it.

  "The fruit of this remissness was a passion for one who fully returnedit. Almost as young as I, who was only sixteen; he knew as little asmyself what obstacles the difference of our births was likely to raisebetween us. His father, Sir Ralph Fielding, a man nobly born, high inoffice, splendidly allied, could not be expected to consent to themarriage of his eldest son, in such green youth, to the daughter of analien, a Portuguese, a Jew; but these impediments were not seen by myignorance, and were overlooked by the youth's passion.

  "But, strange to tell, what common prudence would have so confidentlypredicted did not happen. Sir Ralph had a numerous family, likely to bestill more so; had but slender patrimony; the income of his officesnearly made up his all. The young man was headstrong, impetuous, andwould probably disregard the inclinations of his family. Yet the fatherwould not consent but on one condition,-
-that of my admission to theEnglish Church.

  "No very strenuous opposition to these terms could be expected from me.At so thoughtless an age, with an education so unfavourable to religiousimpressions; swayed, likewise, by the strongest of human passions; madesomewhat impatient, by the company I kept, of the disrepute and scorn towhich the Jewish nation are everywhere condemned, I could not beexpected to be very averse to the scheme.

  "My fears as to what my father's decision would be were soon at an end.He loved his child too well to thwart her wishes in so essential apoint. Finding in me no scruples, no unwillingness, he thought it absurdto be scrupulous for me. My own heart having abjured my religion, it wasabsurd to make any difficulty about a formal renunciation. These werehis avowed reasons for concurrence, but time showed that he had probablyother reasons, founded, indeed, in his regard for my happiness, but suchas, if they had been known, would probably have strengthened intoinvincible the reluctance of my lover's family.

  "No marriage was ever attended with happier presages. The numerousrelations of my husband admitted me with the utmost cordiality amongthem. My father's tenderness was unabated by this change, and thosehumiliations to which I had before been exposed were now no more; andevery tie was strengthened, at the end of a year, by the feelings of a_mother_. I had need, indeed, to know a season of happiness, that Imight be fitted to endure the sad reverses that succeeded. One after theother my disasters came, each one more heavy than the last, and in suchswift succession that they hardly left me time to breathe.

  "I had scarcely left my chamber, I had scarcely recovered my usualhealth, and was able to press with true fervour the new and preciousgift to my bosom, when melancholy tidings came. I was in the country, atthe seat of my father-in-law, when the messenger arrived.

  "A shocking tale it was! and told abruptly, with every unpityingaggravation. I hinted to you once my father's death. The _kind_ ofdeath--oh! my friend! It was horrible. He was then a placid, venerableold man; though many symptoms of disquiet had long before beendiscovered by my mother's watchful tenderness. Yet none could suspecthim capable of such a deed; for none, so carefully had he conducted hisaffairs, suspected the havoc that mischance had made of his property.

  "I, that had so much reason to love my father,--I will leave you toimagine how I was affected by a catastrophe so dreadful, sounlooked-for. Much less could I suspect the cause of his despair; yet hehad foreseen his ruin before my marriage; had resolved to defer it, forhis daughter's and his wife's sake, as long as possible, but had stilldetermined not to survive the day that should reduce him to indigence.The desperate act was thus preconcerted--thus deliberate.

  "The true state of his affairs was laid open by his death. The failureof great mercantile houses at Frankfort and Liege was the cause of hisdisasters.

  "Thus were my prospects shut in. That wealth which, no doubt, furnishedthe chief inducement with my husband's family to concur in his choice,was now suddenly exchanged for poverty.

  "Bred up, as I had been, in pomp and luxury; conscious that my wealthwas my chief security from the contempt of the proud and bigoted, and mychief title to the station to which I had been raised, and which I themore delighted in because it enabled me to confer so great obligationson my husband,--what reverse could be harder than this, and how muchbitterness was added by it to the grief occasioned by the violent deathof my father!

  "Yet loss of fortune, though it mortified my pride, did not prove myworst calamity. Perhaps it was scarcely to be ranked with evils, sinceit furnished a touchstone by which my husband's affections were to betried; especially as the issue of the trial was auspicious; for mymisfortune seemed only to heighten the interest which my character hadmade for me in the hearts of all that knew me. The paternal regards ofSir Ralph had always been tender, but that tenderness seemed now to beredoubled.

  "New events made this consolation still more necessary. My unhappymother!--She was nearer to the dreadful scene when it happened; had nosurviving object to beguile her sorrow; was rendered, by long habit,more dependent upon fortune than her child.

  "A melancholy, always mute, was the first effect upon my mother. Nothingcould charm her eye, or her ear. Sweet sounds that she once loved, andespecially when her darling child was the warbler, were heard no longer.How, with streaming eyes, have I sat and watched the dear lady, andendeavoured to catch her eye, to rouse her attention!--But I must notthink of these things.

  "But even this distress was little in comparison with what was to come.A frenzy thus mute, motionless, and vacant, was succeeded by fits,talkative, outrageous, requiring incessant superintendence, restraint,and even violence.

  "Why led you me thus back to my sad remembrances? Excuse me for thepresent. I will tell you the rest some other time; to-morrow."

  To-morrow, accordingly, my friend resumed her story.

  "Let me now make an end," said she, "of my mournful narrative, andnever, I charge you, do any thing to revive it again.

  "Deep as was my despondency, occasioned by these calamities, I was notdestitute of some joy. My husband and my child were lovely andaffectionate. In their caresses, in their welfare, I found peace; andmight still have found it, had there not been----. But why should I openafresh wounds which time has imperfectly closed? But the story must sometime be told to you, and the sooner it is told and dismissed toforgetfulness the better.

  "My ill fate led me into company with a woman too well known in the idleand dissipated circles. Her character was not unknown to me. There wasnothing in her features or air to obviate disadvantageousprepossessions. I sought not her intercourse; I rather shunned it, asunpleasing and discreditable, but she would not be repulsed.Self-invited, she made herself my frequent guest; took unsolicited partin my concerns; did me many kind offices; and, at length, in spite of mycounter-inclination, won upon my sympathy and gratitude.

  "No one in the world, did I fondly think, had I less reason to fear thanMrs. Waring. Her character excited not the slightest apprehension for myown safety. She was upwards of forty, nowise remarkable for grace orbeauty; tawdry in her dress; accustomed to render more conspicuous thetraces of age by her attempts to hide them; the mother of a numerousfamily, with a mind but slenderly cultivated; always careful to saveappearances; studiously preserving distance with my husband, and he,like myself, enduring rather than wishing her society. What could I fearfrom the arts of such a one?

  "But alas! the woman had consummate address. Patience, too, that nothingcould tire. Watchfulness that none could detect. Insinuation the wiliestand most subtle. Thus wound she herself into my affections, by anunexampled perseverance in seeming kindness; by tender confidence; byartful glosses of past misconduct; by self-rebukes and feignedcontritions.

  "Never were stratagems so intricate, dissimulation so profound! Butstill, that such a one should seduce my husband; young, generous,ambitious, impatient of contumely and reproach, and surely notindifferent; before this fatal intercourse, not indifferent to his wifeand child!--Yet so it was!

  "I saw his discontents; his struggles; I heard him curse this woman, andthe more deeply for my attempts, unconscious as I was of hermachinations, to reconcile them to each other, to do away what seemed acauseless indignation, or antipathy against her. How little I suspectedthe nature of the conflict in his heart, between a new passion and theclaims of pride; of conscience and of humanity; the claims of a childand a wife; a wife, already in affliction, and placing all that yetremained of happiness, in the firmness of his virtue; in the continuanceof his love; a wife, at the very hour of his meditated flight, full ofterrors at the near approach of an event whose agonies demand a doubleshare of a husband's supporting, encouraging love----

  "Good Heaven! For what evils are some of thy creatures reserved!Resignation to thy decree, in the last and most cruel distress, was,indeed, a hard task.

  "He was gone. Some unavoidable engagement calling him to Hamburg waspleaded. Yet to leave me at such an hour! I dared not upbraid, norobject. The tale was so specious! The fortunes of a
friend depended onhis punctual journey. The falsehood of his story too soon made itselfknown. He was gone, in company with his detested paramour!

  "Yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it was not so withothers. A creditor, who had his bond for three thousand pounds, pursuedand arrested him at Harwich. He was thrown into prison, but hiscompanion--let me, at least, say that in her praise--would not deserthim. She took lodging near the place of his confinement, and saw himdaily. That, had she not done it, and had my personal condition allowed,should have been my province.

  "Indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis with me. I did notweep that the second fruit of this unhappy union saw not the light. Iwept only that this hour of agony was not, to its unfortunate mother,the last.

  "I felt not anger; I had nothing but compassion for Fielding. Gladlywould I have recalled him to my arms and to virtue; I wrote, adjuringhim, by all our past joys, to return; vowing only gratitude for his newaffection, and claiming only the recompense of seeing him restored tohis family; to liberty; to reputation.

  "But, alas! Fielding had a good but a proud heart. He looked upon hiserror with remorse, with self-detestation, and with the fatal beliefthat it could not be retrieved; shame made him withstand all myreasonings and persuasions, and, in the hurry of his feelings, he madesolemn vows that he would, in the moment of restored liberty, abjure hiscountry and his family forever. He bore indignantly the yoke of his newattachment, but he strove in vain to shake it off. Her behaviour, alwaysyielding, doting, supplicative, preserved him in her fetters. Thoughupbraided, spurned, and banished from his presence, she would not leavehim, but, by new efforts and new artifices, soothed, appeased, and wonagain and kept his tenderness.

  "What my entreaties were unable to effect, his father could not hope toaccomplish. He offered to take him from prison; the creditor offered tocancel the bond, if he would return to me; but this condition herefused. All his kindred, and one who had been his bosom-friend fromchildhood, joined in beseeching his compliance with these conditions;but his pride, his dread of my merited reproaches, the merits anddissuasions of his new companion, whose sacrifices for his sake had notbeen small, were obstacles which nothing could subdue.

  "Far, indeed, was I from imposing these conditions. I waited only till,by certain arrangements, I could gather enough to pay his debts, toenable him to execute his vow: empty would have been my claims to hisaffection, if I could have suffered, with the means of his deliverancein my hands, my husband to remain a moment in prison.

  "The remains of my father's vast fortune was a jointure of a thousandpounds a year, settled on my mother, and, after her death, on me. Mymother's helpless condition put this revenue into my disposal. By thismeans was I enabled, without the knowledge of my father-in-law or myhusband, to purchase the debt, and dismiss him from prison. He set outinstantly, in company with his paramour, to France.

  "When somewhat recovered from the shock of this calamity, I took up myabode with my mother. What she had was enough, as you perhaps willthink, for plentiful subsistence; but to us, with habits of a differentkind, it was little better than poverty. That reflection, my father'smemory, my mother's deplorable state, which every year grew worse, andthe late misfortune, were the chief companions of my thoughts.

  "The dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by his mother'safflictions, was some consolation in my solitude. To his instruction andto my mother's wants all my hours were devoted. I was sometimes notwithout the hope of better days. Full as my mind was of Fielding'smerits, convinced by former proofs of his ardent and generous spirit, Itrusted that time and reflection would destroy that spell by which hewas now bound.

  "For some time, the progress of these reflections was not known. Inleaving England, Fielding dropped all correspondence and connection withhis native country. He parted with the woman at Rouen, leaving no tracebehind him by which she might follow him, as she wished to do. She neverreturned to England, but died a twelvemonth afterwards in Switzerland.

  "As to me, I had only to muse day and night upon the possible destiny ofthis beloved fugitive. His incensed father cared not for him. He hadcast him out of his paternal affections, ceased to make inquiriesrespecting him, and even wished never to hear of him again. My boysucceeded to my husband's place in his grandfather's affections, and inthe hopes and views of the family; and his mother wanted nothing whichtheir compassionate and respectful love could bestow.

  "Three long and tedious years passed away, and no tidings were received.Whether he were living or dead, nobody could tell. At length, an Englishtraveller, going out of the customary road from Italy, met withFielding, in a town in the Venaissin. His manners, habits, and language,had become French. He seemed unwilling to be recognised by an oldacquaintance, but, not being able to avoid this, and becoming graduallyfamiliar, he informed the traveller of many particulars in his presentsituation. It appeared that he had made himself useful to a neighbouring_seigneur_, in whose _chateau_ he had long lived on the footing of abrother. France he had resolved to make his future country, and, amongother changes for that end, he had laid aside his English name, andtaken that of his patron, which was _Perrin_. He had endeavoured tocompensate himself for all other privations, by devoting himself torural amusements and to study.

  "He carefully shunned all inquiries respecting me; but, when my name wasmentioned by his friend, who knew well all that had happened, and mygeneral welfare, together with that of his son, asserted, he showed deepsensibility, and even consented that I should be made acquainted withhis situation.

  "I cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on me. My hopes ofbringing him back to me were suddenly revived. I wrote him a letter, inwhich I poured forth my whole heart; but his answer contained avowals ofall his former resolutions, to which time had only made his adherencemore easy. A second and third letter were written, and an offer made tofollow him to his retreat and share his exile; but all my effortsavailed nothing. He solemnly and repeatedly renounced all the claims ofa husband over me, and absolved me from every obligation as a wife.

  "His part in this correspondence was performed without harshness orcontempt. A strange mixture there was of pathos and indifference; oftenderness and resolution. Hence I continually derived hope, which time,however, brought no nearer to certainty.

  "At the opening of the Revolution, the name of Perrin appeared among thedeputies to the constituent assembly for the district in which heresided. He had thus succeeded in gaining all the rights of a Frenchcitizen; and the hopes of his return became almost extinct; but that,and every other hope respecting him, has since been totally extinguishedby his marriage with Marguerite d'Almont, a young lady of great meritand fortune, and a native of Avignon.

  "A long period of suspense was now at an end, and left me in a statealmost as full of anguish as that which our first separation produced.My sorrows were increased by my mother's death, and, this incidentfreeing me from those restraints upon my motions which before existed, Idetermined to come to America.

  "My son was now eight years old, and, his grandfather claiming theprovince of his instruction, I was persuaded to part with him, that hemight be sent to a distant school. Thus was another tie removed, and, inspite of the well-meant importunities of my friends, I persisted in myscheme of crossing the ocean."

  I could not help, at this part of her narration, expressing my surprisethat any motives were strong enough to recommend this scheme.

  "It was certainly a freak of despair. A few months would, perhaps, haveallayed the fresh grief, and reconciled me to my situation; but I wouldnot pause or deliberate. My scheme was opposed by my friends with greatearnestness. During my voyage, affrighted by the dangers whichsurrounded me, and to which I was wholly unused, I heartily repented ofmy resolution; but now, methinks, I have reason to rejoice at myperseverance. I have come into a scene and society so new, I have had somany claims made upon my ingenuity and fortitude, that my mind has beendiverted in some degree from former sorrows. There are even times when Iwholly for
get them, and catch myself indulging in cheerful reveries.

  "I have often reflected with surprise on the nature of my own mind. Itis eight years since my father's violent death. How few of my hourssince that period have been blessed with serenity! How many nights anddays, in hateful and lingering succession, have been bathed in tears andtormented with regrets! That I am still alive, with so many causes ofdeath, and with such a slow-consuming malady, is surely to be wonderedat.

  "I believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in grief, are solitudeand idleness. The same eternally-occurring round of objects feeds hisdisease, and the effects of mere vacancy and uniformity are sometimesmistaken for those of grief. Yes, I am glad I came to America. Myrelations are importunate for my return, and till lately I had somethoughts of it; but I think now I shall stay where I am for the rest ofmy days.

  "Since I arrived, I am become more of a student than I used to be. Ialways loved literature, but never, till of late, had I a mind enough atease to read with advantage. I now find pleasure in the occupation whichI never expected to find.

  "You see in what manner I live. The letters which I brought secured me aflattering reception from the best people in your country; but scenes ofgay resort had nothing to attract me, and I quickly withdrew to thatseclusion in which you now find me. Here, always at leisure, andmistress of every laudable means of gratification, I am not without thebelief of serene days yet to come."

  I now ventured to inquire what were her latest tidings of her husband.

  "At the opening of the Revolution, I told you, he became a champion ofthe people. By his zeal and his efforts he acquired such importance asto be deputed to the National Assembly. In this post he was the adherentof violent measures, till the subversion of monarchy; and then, when toolate for his safety, he checked his career."

  "And what has since become of him?"

  She sighed deeply. "You were yesterday reading a list of the proscribedunder Robespierre. I checked you. I had good reason. But this subjectgrows too painful; let us change it."

  Some time after, I ventured to renew this topic; and discovered thatFielding, under his new name of Perrin d'Almont, was among the outlaweddeputies of last year,[1] and had been slain in resisting the officerssent to arrest him. My friend had been informed that his _wife_,Marguerite d'Almont, whom she had reason to believe a woman of greatmerit, had eluded persecution, and taken refuge in some part of America.She had made various attempts, but in vain, to find out her retreat."Ah!" said I, "you must commission me to find her. I will hunt herthrough the continent from Penobscot to Savannah. I will not leave anook unsearched."

  [Footnote 1: 1793.]