Leonora
by Maria Edgeworth · English · Gutenberg #35638 · 392,793 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Leonora
Author: Maria Edgeworth
Release date: March 20, 2011 [eBook #35638]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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[Illustration: --It was long past midnight,--she had a heap of Mr.
L----'s old letters beside her. She denied that she was in tears.]
LEONORA
BY
MARIA EDGEWORTH
[Illustration]
"O lady Leonora! lady Leonora is ill!" exclaimed
every voice. The consternation was wonderful.
LONDON
J.M. DENT & Co. ALDINE HOUSE
69, GREAT EASTERN STREET, E.C.
1893
[Illustration]
NOTE.
Leonora, though not published until 1806, was commenced three years
before that date: the circumstances under which it was written were to a
certain extent unique in Maria Edgeworth's life; for we are told that
throughout the time occupied in writing the story, she had in mind the
offer of marriage made to her by Monsieur Edelcrantz, a Swedish
gentleman of good position, "of superior understanding and mild
manners," as she told her aunt in a letter partly written before the
proposal and finished afterwards. This seems, from the biographies, to
have been the only time this truly good and sensible woman was ever
sought in marriage by any man; and it shows some of the good qualities
she possessed, that though she refused him, yet from the respect she
bore him and the esteem in which she held him, this story was written to
a large extent with a view to his approbation, though we are told that
she never knew whether or no he had read it.
On the next page is appended a list of the principal editions of this
volume.
Leonora, by Maria Edgeworth, 2 vols., London, 1806.
---- Another edition, with _Letters on Several Subjects_, and
_An Essay on Self-Justification_ (forming Vol. IV. of _Tales
and Miscellaneous Pieces_, by Maria Edgeworth, 14 vols.), London,
1825.
---- Another edition (Vol. XIII. of _Novels and Tales_ of Maria
Edgeworth, 18 vols.), London, 1832-33.
Many reprints from the stereotype plates of this edition have been
issued in various forms and with varying arrangement of the stories.
Translated into French in 1807, and another edition in 1812.
F. J. S.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LEONORA.
Letter i.
_Lady Olivia to Lady Leonora L----._
What a misfortune it is to be born a woman! In vain, dear Leonora, would
you reconcile me to my doom. Condemned to incessant hypocrisy, or
everlasting misery, woman is the slave or the outcast of society.
Confidence in our fellow-creatures, or in ourselves, alike forbidden us,
to what purpose have we understandings, which we may not use? hearts,
which we may not trust? To our unhappy sex genius and sensibility are
the most treacherous gifts of Heaven. Why should we cultivate talents
merely to gratify the caprice of tyrants? Why seek for knowledge, which
can prove only that our wretchedness is irremediable? If a ray of light
break in upon us, it is but to make darkness more visible; to show us
the narrow limits, the Gothic structure, the impenetrable barriers of
our prison. Forgive me if on this subject I cannot speak--if I cannot
think--with patience. Is it not fabled, that the gods, to punish some
refractory mortal of the male kind, doomed his soul to inhabit upon
earth a female form? A punishment more degrading, or more difficult to
endure, could scarcely be devised by cruelty omnipotent. What dangers,
what sorrows, what persecutions, what nameless evils awaits the woman
who dares to rise above the prejudices of her sex!
"Ah! happy they, the happiest of their kind!"
who, without a struggle, submit their reason to be swathed by all the
absurd bandages of custom. What, though they cripple or distort their
minds; are not these deformities beauties in the eyes of fashion? and
are not these people the favoured nurslings of the _World_, secure of
her smiles, her caresses, her fostering praise, her partial protection,
through all the dangers of youth and all the dotage of age?
"Ah! happy they, the happiest of their kind!"
who learn to speak, and think, and act by rote; who have a phrase, or a
maxim, or a formula ready for every occasion; who follow--
"All the nurse and all the priest have taught."
And is it possible that Olivia can envy these _tideless-blooded_ souls
their happiness--their apathy? Is her high spirit so broken by
adversity? Not such the promise of her early years, not such the
language of her unsophisticated heart! Alas! I scarcely know, I scarcely
recollect, that proud self, which was wont to defy the voice of opinion,
and to set at nought the decrees of prejudice. The events of my life
shall be related, or rather the history of my sensations; for in a life
like mine sensations become events--a metamorphosis which you will see
in every page of my history. I feel an irresistible impulse to open my
whole heart to you, my dear Leonora. I ought to be awed by the
superiority of your understanding and of your character; yet there is
an indulgence in your nature, a softness in your temper, that dissipates
fear, and irresistibly attracts confidence.
You have generously refused to be prejudiced against me by busy,
malignant rumour; you have resolved to judge of me for yourself.
Nothing, then, shall be concealed. In such circumstances I cannot seek
to extenuate any of my faults or follies. I am ready to acknowledge them
all with self-humiliation more poignant than the sarcasms of my
bitterest enemies. But I must pause till I have summoned courage for my
confession. Dear Leonora, adieu!
Olivia.
Letter ij.
_Olivia to Leonora._
Full of life and spirits, with a heart formed for all the enthusiasm,
for all the delicacy of love, I married early, in the fond expectation
of meeting a heart suited to my own. Cruelly disappointed, I
found--merely a husband. My heart recoiled upon itself; true to my own
principles of virtue, I scorned dissimulation. I candidly confessed to
my husband, that my love was extinguished. I proved to him, alas! too
clearly, that we were not born for each other. The attractive moment of
illusion was past--never more to return; the repulsive reality remained.
The living was chained to the dead, and, by the inexorable tyranny of
English laws, that chain, eternally galling to innocence, can be severed
only by the desperation of vice. Divorce, according to our barbarous
institutions, cannot be obtained without guilt. Appalled at the thought,
I saw no hope but in submission. Yet to submit to live with the man I
could not love was, to a mind like mine, impossible. My principles and
my feelings equally revolted from this legal prostitution. We separated.
I sought for balm to my wounded heart in foreign climes.
To the beauties of nature I was ever feelingly alive. Amidst the sublime
scenes of Switzerland, and on the consecrated borders of her classic
lakes, I sometimes forgot myself to happiness. Felicity, how
transient!--transient as the day-dreams that played upon my fancy in the
bright morning of love. Alas! not all creation's charms could soothe me
to repose. I wandered in search of that which change of place cannot
afford. There was an aching void in my heart--an indescribable sadness
over my spirits. Sometimes I had recourse to books; but how few were in
unison with my feelings, or touched the trembling chords of my
disordered mind! Commonplace morality I could not endure. History
presented nothing but a mass of crimes. Metaphysics promised some
relief, and I bewildered myself in their not inelegant labyrinth. But to
the bold genius and exquisite pathos of some German novelists I hold
myself indebted for my largest portion of ideal bliss; for those rapt
moments, when sympathy with kindred souls transported me into better
worlds, and consigned vulgar realities to oblivion.
I am well aware, my Leonora, that you approve not of these my favourite
writers: but yours is the morality of one who has never known sorrow. I
also would interdict such cordials to the happy. But would you forbid
those to taste felicity in dreams who feel only misery when awake? Would
you dash the cup of Lethe from lips to which no other beverage is
salubrious or sweet?
By the use of these opiates my soul gradually settled into a sort of
pleasing pensive melancholy. Has it not been said, that melancholy is a
characteristic of genius? I make no pretensions to genius: but I am
persuaded that melancholy is the habitual, perhaps the natural state of
those who have the misfortune to feel with delicacy.
You, my dear Leonora, will class this notion amongst what you once
called my refined errors. Indeed I must confess, that I see in you an
exception so striking as almost to compel me to relinquish my theory.
But again let me remind you, that your lot in life has been different
from mine. Alas! how different! Why had not I such a friend, such a
mother as yours, early to direct my uncertain steps, and to educate me
to happiness? I might have been----. But no matter what I might have
been----. I must tell you what I have been.
Separated from my husband, without a guide, without a friend at the most
perilous period of my life, I was left to that most insidious of
counsellors--my own heart--my own weak heart. When I was least prepared
to resist the impression, it was my misfortune to meet with a man of a
soul congenial to my own. Before I felt my danger, I was entangled
beyond the possibility of escape. The net was thrown over my heart; its
struggles were to no purpose but to exhaust my strength. Virtue
commanded me to be miserable--and I was miserable. But do I dare to
expect your pity, Leonora, for such an attachment? It excites your
indignation, perhaps your horror. Blame, despise, detest me; all this
would I rather bear than deceive you into fancying me better than I
really am.
Do not, however, think me worse. If my views had been less pure, if I
had felt less reliance on the firmness of my own principles, and less
repugnance to artifice, I might easily have avoided some appearances,
which have injured me in the eyes of the world. With real contrition I
confess, that a fatal mixture of masculine independence of spirit, and
of female tenderness of heart, has betrayed me into many imprudences;
but of vice, and of that meanest species of vice, hypocrisy, I thank
Heaven, my conscience can acquit me. All I have now to hope is, that
you, my indulgent, my generous Leonora, will not utterly condemn me.
Truth and gratitude are my only claims to your friendship--to a
friendship, which would be to me the first of earthly blessings, which
might make me amends for all I have lost. Consider this before, unworthy
as I am, you reject me from your esteem. Counsel, guide, save me!
Without vanity, but with confidence I say it, I have a heart that will
repay you for affection. You will find me easily moved, easily governed
by kindness. Yours has already sunk deep into my soul, and your power is
unlimited over the affections and over the understanding of
Your obliged
Olivia.
Letter iij.
_From Lady Leonora L---- to her mother, the Duchess of ----,
enclosing the preceding letters._
I am permitted to send you, my dear mother, the enclosed letters. Mixed
with what you may not approve, you will, I think, find in them proofs of
an affectionate heart and superior abilities. Lady Olivia is just
returned to England. Scandal, imported from the continent, has had such
an effect in prejudicing many of her former friends and acquaintance
against her, that she is in danger of being excluded from that society
of which she was once the ornament and the favourite; but I am
determined to support her cause, and to do everything in my power to
counteract the effects of malignity. I cannot sufficiently express the
indignation that I feel against the mischievous spirit of scandal,
which destroys happiness at every breath, and which delights in the
meanest of all malignant feelings--the triumph over the errors of
superior characters. Olivia has been much blamed, because she has been
much envied.
Indeed, my dear mother, you have been prejudiced against her by false
reports. Do not imagine that her fascinating manners have blinded my
judgment: I assure you that I have discerned, or rather that she has
revealed to me, all her faults: and ought not this candour to make a
strong impression upon my mind in her favour? Consider how young, how
beautiful she was at her first entrance into fashionable life; how much
exposed to temptation, surrounded by flatterers, and without a single
friend. I am persuaded that she would have escaped all censure, and
would have avoided all the errors with which she now reproaches herself,
if she had been blessed with a mother such as mine.
Leonora L----
Letter iv.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
My dearest Child,
I must answer your last before I sleep--before I can sleep in peace. I
have just finished reading the rhapsody which it enclosed; and whilst my
mind is full and warm upon the subject, let me write, for I can write to
my own satisfaction at no other time. I admire and love you, my child,
for the generous indignation you express against those who trample upon
the fallen, or who meanly triumph over the errors of superior genius;
and if I seem more cold, or more severe, than you wish me to be,
attribute this to my anxiety for your happiness, and to that caution
which is perhaps the infirmity of age.
In the course of my long life I have, alas! seen vice and folly dressed
in so many different fashions, that I can find no difficulty in
detecting them under any disguise; but your unpractised eyes are almost
as easily deceived as when you were five years old, and when you could
not believe that your pasteboard nun was the same person in her various
changes of attire.
Nothing would tempt you to associate with those who have avowed
themselves regardless of right and wrong; but I must warn you against
another, and a far more dangerous class, who, professing the most
refined delicacy of sentiment, and boasting of invulnerable virtue,
exhibit themselves in the most improper and hazardous situations; and
who, because they are without fear, expect to be deemed free from
reproach. Either from miraculous good fortune, or from a singularity of
temper, these adventurous heroines may possibly escape with what they
call perfect innocence. So much the worse for society. Their example
tempts others, who fall a sacrifice to their weakness and folly. I would
punish the tempters in this case more than the victims, and for them the
most effectual species of punishment is contempt. Neglect is death to
these female lovers of notoriety. The moment they are out of fashion
their power to work mischief ceases. Those who from their character and
rank have influence over public opinion are bound to consider these
things in the choice of their associates. This is peculiarly necessary
in days when attempts are made to level all distinctions. You have
sometimes hinted to me, my dear daughter, with all proper delicacy, that
I am too strict in my notions, and that, unknown to myself, my pride
mixes with morality. Be it so: the pride of family, and the pride of
virtue, should reciprocally support each other. Were I asked what I
think the best guard to a nobility in this or in any other country, I
should answer, VIRTUE. I admire that simple epitaph in Westminster Abbey
on the Duchess of Newcastle:--"Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest
sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester;--a noble family, for all the
brothers were valiant and all the sisters virtuous."
I look to the temper of the times in forming rules for conduct. Of late
years we have seen wonderful changes in female manners. I may be like
the old marquis in Gil Blas, who contended that even the peaches of
modern days had deteriorated; but I fear that my complaints of the
degeneracy of human kind are better founded than his fears for the
vegetable creation. A taste for the elegant profligacy of French
gallantry was, I remember, introduced into this country before the
destruction of the French monarchy. Since that time, some sentimental
writers and pretended philosophers of our own and foreign countries have
endeavoured to confound all our ideas of morality. To every rule of
right they have found exceptions, and on these they have fixed the
public attention by adorning them with all the splendid decorations of
eloquence; so that the rule is despised or forgotten, and the exception
triumphantly established in its stead. These orators seem as if they had
been employed by Satan to plead the cause of vice; and, as if possessed
by the evil spirit, they speak with a vehemence which carries away their
auditors, or with a subtlety which deludes their better judgment. They
put extreme cases, in which virtue may become vice, or vice virtue: they
exhibit criminal passions in constant connexion with the most exalted,
the most amiable virtues; thus making use of the best feelings of human
nature for the worst purposes, they engage pity or admiration
perpetually on the side of guilt. Eternally talking of philosophy and
philanthropy, they borrow the terms only to perplex the ignorant and
seduce the imagination. They have their systems and their theories, and
in theory they pretend that the general good of society is their sole
immutable rule of morality, and in practice they make the variable
feelings of each individual the judges of this general good. Their
systems disdain all the vulgar virtues, intent upon some _beau ideal_ of
perfection or perfectibility. They set common sense and common honesty
at defiance. No matter: their doctrine, so convenient to the passions
and soporific to the conscience, can never want partisans; especially by
weak and enthusiastic women it is adopted and propagated with eagerness;
then they become personages of importance, and zealots in support of
their sublime opinions; and they can read--and they can write--and they
can talk--and they can _effect a revolution in public opinion_! I am
afraid, indeed, that they can; for of late years we have heard more of
sentiment than of principles; more of the rights of woman than of her
duties. We have seen talents disgraced by the conduct of their
possessors, and perverted in the vain attempt to defend what is
unjustifiable.
Where must all this end? Where the abuse of reason inevitably ends--in
the ultimate law of force. If in this age of reason women make a bad use
of that power which they have obtained by the cultivation of their
understanding, they will degrade and enslave themselves beyond
redemption; they will reduce their sex to a situation worse than it ever
experienced even in the ages of ignorance and superstition. If men find
that the virtue of women diminishes in proportion as intellectual
cultivation increases, they will connect, fatally for the freedom and
happiness of our sex, the ideas of female ignorance and female
innocence; they will decide that one is the effect of the other. They
will not pause to distinguish between the use and the abuse of reason;
they will not stand by to see further experiments tried at their
expense, but they will prohibit knowledge altogether as a pernicious
commodity, and will exert the superior power which nature and society
place in their hands, to enforce their decrees. Opinion obtained freedom
for women; by opinion they may be again enslaved. It is therefore the
interest of the female world, and of society, that women should be
deterred by the dread of shame from passing the bounds of discretion. No
false lenity, no partiality in favour of amusing talents or agreeable
manners, should admit of exceptions which become dangerous examples of
impunity. The rank and superior understanding of a _delinquent_ ought
not to be considered in mitigation, but as aggravating circumstances.
Rank makes ill conduct more conspicuous: talents make it more dangerous.
Women of abilities, if they err, usually employ all their powers to
justify rather than to amend their faults.
I am afraid, my dear daughter, that my general arguments are closing
round your Olivia; but I must bid you a good night, for my poor eyes
will serve me no longer. God bless you, my dear child.
Letter v.
_Leonora to her mother._
I agree with you, my dear mother, that in these times especially, it is
incumbent upon all persons, whose rank or reputation may influence
public opinion, to be particularly careful to support the cause of
female honour, of virtue, and religion. With the same object in view, we
may however differ in the choice of means for its attainment. Pleasure
as well as pain acts upon human creatures; and therefore, in governing
them, may not reward be full as efficacious as punishment? Our sex are
sufficiently apprised of the fatal consequences of ill conduct; the
advantages of well-earned reputation should be at least as great, as
certain, and as permanent.
In former times, a single finger pointed at the scutcheon of a knight
challenged him to defend his fame; but the defiance was open, the
defence was public; and if the charge proved groundless, it injured none
but the malicious accuser. In our days female reputation, which is of a
nature more delicate than the honour of any knight, may be destroyed by
the finger of private malice. The whisper of secret scandal, which
admits of no fair or public answer, is too often sufficient to dishonour
a life of spotless fame. This is the height, not only of injustice, but
of impolicy. Women will become indifferent to reputation, which it is so
difficult, even by the prudence of years, to acquire, and which it is so
easy to lose in a moment, by the malice or thoughtlessness of those who
invent or who repeat scandal. Those who call themselves the world often
judge without listening to evidence, and proceed upon suspicion with as
much promptitude and severity as if they had the most convincing proofs.
But because Caesar, nearly two thousand years ago, said, that his wife
ought not even to be suspected, and divorced her upon the strength of
this sentiment, shall we make it a general maxim, that suspicion
justifies punishment? We might as well applaud those, who when their
friends are barely suspected to be tainted with the plague, drive them
from all human comfort and assistance.
Even where women, from the thoughtless gaiety of youth, or the impulse
of inexperienced enthusiasm, may have given some slight cause for
censure, I would not have virtue put on all her gorgon terrors, nor
appear circled by the vengeful band of prudes; her chastening hand will
be more beneficially felt if she wear her more benign form. To place the
imprudent in the same class with the vicious is injustice and impolicy;
were the same punishment and the same disgrace to be affixed to small
and to great offences, the number of _capital_ offenders would certainly
increase. Those who were disposed to yield to their passions would, when
they had once failed in exact decorum, see no motive, no fear to
restrain them; and there would be no pause, no interval between error
and profligacy. Amongst females who have been imprudent, there are many
things to be considered which ought to recommend them to mercy. The
judge, when he is obliged to pronounce the immutable sentence of the
law, often, with tears, wishes that it were in his power to mitigate the
punishment: the decisions of opinion may and must vary with
circumstances, else the degree of reprobation which they inflict cannot
be proportioned to the offence, or calculated for the good of society.
Among the mitigating circumstances I should be inclined to name even
those which you bring in aggravation. Talents, and what is called
genius, in our sex are often connected with a warmth of heart, an
enthusiasm of temper, which expose to dangers from which the coldness of
mediocrity is safe. In the illuminated palace of ice, the lights which
render the spectacle splendid, and which raise the admiration of the
beholders, endanger the fabric and tend to its destruction.
But you will tell me, dear mother, that allusion is not argument--and I
am almost afraid to proceed, lest you should think me an advocate for
vice. I would not shut the gates of mercy, inexorably and
indiscriminately, upon all those of my own sex, who have even been _more
than imprudent_.
"He taught them shame, the sudden sense of ill--
Shame, Nature's hasty conscience, which forbids
Weak inclination ere it grows to will,
Or stays rash will before it grows to deeds."
Whilst a woman is alive to shame, she cannot be dead to virtue. But by
injudicious or incessant reproach, this principle, even where it is most
exquisite, may be most easily destroyed. The mimosa, when too long
exposed to each rude touch, loses its retractile sensibility. It ought
surely to be the care of the wise and benevolent to cherish that
principle, implanted in our nature as the guard of virtue, that
principle upon which legislators rest the force of punishment, and all
the grand interests of society.
My dear mother, perhaps you will be surprised at the style in which I
have been writing, and you will smile at hearing your Leonora discuss
the duties of legislators, and the grand interests of society. She has
not done so from presumption, or from affectation. She was alarmed by
your supposing that her judgment was deluded by fascinating manners, and
she determined to produce _general_ arguments, to convince you that she
is not actuated by particular prepossession. You see that I have at
least some show of reason on my side. I have forborne to mention
Olivia's name: but now that I have obviated, I hope by reasoning, the
imputation of partiality, I may observe that all my arguments are
strongly in her favour. She had been attacked by slander; _the world_
has condemned her upon suspicion merely. She has been imprudent; but I
repeat, in the strongest terms, that I am _convinced of her innocence_;
and that I should bitterly regret that a woman with such an affectionate
heart, such uncommon candour, and such superior abilities, should be
lost to society.
Tell me, my dear mother, that you are no longer in anxiety about the
consequences of my attachment to Olivia.
Your affectionate daughter,
Leonora.
Letter vi.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
You lament, my dear child, that such an affectionate heart, such great
abilities as Olivia's should be lost to society. Before I sympathise in
your pity, my judgment must be convinced that it is reasonable.
What proofs has Lady Olivia given of her affectionate heart? She is at
variance with both her parents; she is separated from her husband; and
she leaves her child in a foreign country, to be educated by strangers.
Am I to understand, that her ladyship's neglecting to perform the duties
of a daughter, a wife, and a mother, are proofs of an affectionate
heart? As to her superior talents, do they contribute to her own
happiness, or to the happiness of others? Evidently not to her own; for
by her account of herself, she is one of the most miserable wretches
alive! She tells you that "_she went to foreign climes in search of balm
for a wounded heart, and wandered from place to place, looking for what
no place could afford_." She talks of "_indescribable sadness--an aching
void--an impenetrable prison--darkness visible--dead bodies chained to
living ones_;" and she exhibits all the disordered furniture of a
"diseased mind." But you say, that though her powers are thus
insufficient to make herself happy, they may amuse or instruct the
world; and of this I am to judge by the letters which you have sent me.
You admire fine writing; so do I. I class eloquence high amongst the
fine arts. But by eloquence I mean something more than Dr Johnson
defines it to be, "the art of speaking with fluency and elegance." This
is an art which is now possessed to a certain degree by every
boarding-school miss. Every scribbling young lady can now string
sentences and sentiments together, and can turn a period harmoniously.
Upon the strength of these accomplishments they commence heroines, and
claim the privileges of the order; privileges which go to an indefinite
and most alarming extent. Every heroine may have her own code of
morality for her private use, and she is to be tried by no other; she
may rail as loudly as she pleases "at the barbarous institutions of
society," and may deplore "_the inexorable tyranny of the English
laws_." If she find herself involved in delicate entanglements of
crossing duties, she may break through any one, or all of them, to
extricate herself with a noble contempt of prejudice.
I have promised to reason calmly; but I cannot repress the terror which
I feel at the idea of my daughter's becoming the friend of one of these
women. Olivia's letters are, I think, in the true heroine style; and
they might make a brilliant figure in a certain class of novels. She
begins with a bold exclamation on "the misfortune of being born a
woman!--_the slave or the outcast of society, condemned to incessant
hypocrisy!_" Does she mean modesty? Her manly soul feels it "_the most
degrading punishment that omnipotent cruelty could devise, to be
imprisoned in a female form_." From such a masculine spirit some
fortitude and magnanimity might be expected; but presently she begs to
be pitied, for a broken spirit, and more than female tenderness of
heart. I have observed that the ladies who wish to be men are usually
those who have not sufficient strength of mind to be women.
Olivia proceeds in an ironical strain to envy, as "_the happiest of
their sex, those who submit to be swathed by custom_." These persons she
stigmatizes with the epithet of _tideless-blooded_. It is the common
trick of unprincipled women to affect to despise those who conduct
themselves with propriety. Prudence they term _coldness_; fortitude,
_insensibility_; and regard to the rights of others, _prejudice_. By
this perversion of terms they would laugh or sneer virtue out of
countenance; and, by robbing her of all praise, they would deprive her
of all immediate motive. Conscious of their own degradation, they would
lower everything, and everybody, to their own standard: they would make
you believe, that those who have not yielded to their passions are
destitute of sensibility; that the love which is not blazoned forth in
glaring colours is not entitled to our sympathy. The sacrifice of the
strongest feelings of the human heart to a sense of duty is to be called
mean, or absurd; but the shameless phrensy of passion, exposing itself
to public gaze, is to be an object of admiration. These heroines talk of
strength of mind; but they forget that strength of mind is to be shown
in resisting their passions, not in yielding to them. Without being
absolutely of an opinion, which I have heard maintained, that all virtue
is sacrifice, I am convinced that the essential characteristic of virtue
is to bear and forbear. These sentimentalists can do neither. They talk
of sacrifices and generosity; but they are the veriest egotists--the
most selfish creatures alive.
Open your eyes, my dear Leonora, and see things as they really are. Lady
Olivia thinks it a sufficient excuse for abandoning her husband, to say,
that she found "_his soul was not in unison with hers_." She thinks it
an adequate apology for a criminal attachment, to tell you that "_the
net was thrown over her heart before she felt her danger: that all its
struggles were to no purpose, but to exhaust her strength_."
If she did not feel her danger, she prepared it. The course of reading
which her ladyship followed was the certain preparation for her
consequent conduct. She tells us that she could not endure "_the
commonplace of morality, but metaphysics promised her some relief_." In
these days a heroine need not be a moralist, but she must be a
metaphysician. She must "_wander in the not inelegant labyrinth_;" and
if in the midst of it she comes unawares upon the monster vice, she must
not start, though she have no clue to secure her retreat.
From metaphysics Lady Olivia went on to German novels. "_For her largest
portions of bliss, for those rapt moments which consigned vulgar
realities to oblivion_," she owns herself indebted to those writers, who
promise an ideal world of pleasure, which, like the _mirage_ in the
desert, bewilders the feverish imagination. I always suspected the
imagination of these _women of feeling_ to be more susceptible than
their hearts. They want excitation for their morbid sensibility, and
they care not at what expense it is procured. If they could make all the
pleasures of life into one cordial they would swallow it at a draught in
a fit of sentimental spleen. The mental intemperance that they indulge
in promiscuous novel-reading destroys all vigour and clearness of
judgment; everything dances in the varying medium of their imagination.
Sophistry passes for reasoning; nothing appears profound but what is
obscure; nothing sublime but what is beyond the reach of mortal
comprehension. To their vitiated taste the simple pathos, which
o'ersteps not the modesty of nature, appears cold, tame, and insipid;
they must have _scenes_ and a _coup de theatre_; and ranting, and
raving, and stabbing, and drowning, and poisoning; for with them there
is no love without murder. Love, in their representations, is indeed a
distorted, ridiculous, horrid monster, from whom common sense, taste,
decency, and nature recoil.
But I will be calm.--You say, my dear Leonora, that your judgment has
not been blinded by Lady Olivia's fascinating manners; but that you are
strongly influenced in her favour by that candour, with which she has
revealed to you all her faults. The value of candour in individuals
should be measured by their sensibility to shame. When a woman throws
off all restraint, and then desires me to admire her candour, I am
astonished only at her assurance. Do not be the dupe of such candour.
Lady Olivia avows a criminal passion, yet you say that you have no
doubts of her innocence. The persuasion of your unsuspecting heart is no
argument: when you give me any proofs in her favour, I shall pay them
all due attention. In the meantime I have given you my opinion of those
ladies who place themselves in the most perilous situations, and then
expect you to believe them safe.
Olivia's professions of regard for you are indeed enthusiastic. She
tells you, that "_your power is unlimited over her heart and
understanding, that your friendship would be to her one of the greatest
of earthly blessings_." May be so--but I cannot wish you to be her
friend. With whatever confidence she makes the assertion, do not believe
that she has a heart capable of feeling the value of yours. These
sentimental, unprincipled women make the worst friends in the world. We
are often told that, "poor creatures! they do nobody any harm but
themselves;" but in society it is scarcely possible for a woman to do
harm to herself without doing harm to others; all her connexions must
be involved in the consequences of her imprudence. Besides, what
confidence can you repose in them? If you should happen to be an
obstacle in the way of any of their fancies, do you think that they will
respect you or your interest, when they have not scrupled to sacrifice
their own to the gratification of their passions? Do you think that the
gossamer of sentiment will restrain those whom the strong chains of
prudence could not hold?
O! my dearest child, forcibly as these arguments carry conviction to my
mind, I dread lest your compassionate, generous temper should prevent
their reaching your understanding. Then let me conjure you, by all the
respect which you have ever shown for your mother's opinions, by all
that you hold dear or sacred, beware of forming an intimacy with an
unprincipled woman. Believe me to be
Your truly affectionate mother,
Letter vij.
_Leonora to her mother._
No daughter ever felt more respect for the opinions of a parent than I
do for yours, my dearest mother; but you have never, even from
childhood, required from me a blind submission--you have always
encouraged me to desire conviction. And now, when the happiness of
another is at stake, you will forgive me if I am less disposed to yield
than I should be, I hope, if my own interest or taste were alone
concerned.
You ask me what proofs I have of Lady Olivia's innocence. Believe me, I
have such as are convincing to my unbiassed judgment, and such as would
be sufficient to satisfy all your doubts, were I at liberty to lay the
whole truth before you. But even to exculpate herself, Olivia will not
ruin in your opinion her husband, of whom you imagine that she has no
reason to complain. I, who know how anxious she is to obtain your
esteem, can appreciate the sacrifice that she makes; and in this
instance, as in many others, I admire her magnanimity; it is equal to
her candour, for which she is entitled to praise even by your own
principles, dear mother: since, far from having _thrown off all
restraint_, she is exquisitely susceptible of shame.
As to her understanding--have no persons of great talents ever been
unfortunate? Frequently we see that they have not been able, by all
their efforts and all their powers, to remedy the defects in the
characters and tempers of those with whom they have unhappily been
connected. Olivia married very young, and was unfortunately mistaken in
her choice of a husband: on that subject I can only deplore her error
and its consequences: but as to her disagreements with her own family, I
do not think her to blame. For the mistakes we make in the choice of
lovers or friends we may be answerable, but we cannot be responsible for
the faults of the relations who are given to us by nature. If we do not
please them, it may be our misfortune; it is not necessarily our fault.
I cannot be more explicit, without betraying Lady Olivia's confidence,
and implicating others in defending her.
With respect to that attachment of which you speak with so much just
severity, she has given me the strongest assurances that she will do
everything in her power to conquer it. Absence, you know, is the first
and the most difficult step, and this she has taken. Her course of
reading displeases you: I cannot defend it: but I am persuaded that it
is not a proof of her taste being vitiated. Many people read ordinary
novels as others take snuff, merely from habit, from the want of petty
excitation; and not, as you suppose, from the want of exorbitant or
improper stimulus. Those who are unhappy have recourse to any trifling
amusement that can change the course of their thoughts. I do not justify
Olivia for having chosen such _comforters_ as certain novels, but I pity
her and impute this choice to want of fortitude, not to depravity of
taste. Before she married, a strict injunction was laid upon her not to
read any book that was called a novel: this raised in her mind a sort of
perverse curiosity. By making any books or opinions contraband, the
desire to read and circulate them is increased; bad principles are
consequently smuggled into families, and being kept secret, can never be
subject to fair examination. I think it must be advantageous to the
right side of any question, that all which can be said against it should
be openly heard, that it may be answered. I do not
"Hate when vice can bolt her arguments;"
for I know that virtue has a tongue to answer her. The more vice repeats
her assertions, the better; because when familiarized, their boldness
will not astound the understanding, and the charm of novelty will not be
mistaken for the power of truth. We may observe, that the admiration for
the class of writers to whom you allude, though violent in its
commencement, has abated since they have been more known; and numbers,
who began with rapture, have ended with disgust. Person of vivacious
imaginations, like Olivia, may be caught at first view by whatever has
the appearance of grandeur or sublimity; but if time be allowed for
examination, they will infallibly detect the disproportions, and these
will ever afterwards shock their taste: if you will not allow leisure
for comparison--if you say, do not look at such strange objects, the
obedient eyes may turn aside, but the rebel imagination pictures
something a thousand times more wonderful and charming than the reality.
I will venture to predict, that Olivia will soon be tired of the species
of novels which she now admires, and that, once surfeited with these
books, and convinced of their pernicious effects, she will never relapse
into the practice of novel reading.
As to her taste for metaphysical books----Dear mother, I am very daring
to differ with you in so many points; but permit me to say, that I do
not agree with you in detesting metaphysics. People may lose themselves
in that labyrinth; but why should they meet with vice in the midst of
it? The characters of a moralist, a practical moralist, and a
metaphysician, are not incompatible, as we may see in many amiable and
illustrious examples. To examine human motives, and the nature of the
human mind, is not to destroy the power of virtue, or to increase the
influence of vice. The chemist, after analysing certain substances, and
after discovering their constituent parts, can lay aside all that is
heterogeneous, and recompound the substance in a purer state. From
analogy we might infer, that the motives of metaphysicians ought to be
purer than those of the vulgar and ignorant. To discover the art of
converting base into noble passions, or to obtain a universal remedy for
all mental diseases, is perhaps beyond the power of metaphysicians; but
in the pursuit useful discoveries may be made.
As to Olivia's letters--I am sorry I sent them to you; for I see that
they have lowered, instead of raising her in your opinion. But if you
criticise letters, written in openness and confidence of heart to a
private friend, as if they were set before the tribunal of the public,
you are--may I say it?--not only severe, but unjust; for you try and
condemn the subjects of one country by the laws of another.
Dearest mother, be half as indulgent to Olivia as you are to me: indeed
you are prejudiced against her, and because you see some faults, you
think her whole character vicious. But would you cut down a fine tree
because a leaf is withered, or because the canker-worm has eaten into
the bud? Even if a main branch were decayed, are there not remedies
which, skilfully applied, can save the tree from destruction, and
perhaps restore it to its pristine beauty?
And now, having exhausted all my allusions, all my arguments, and all my
little stock of eloquence, I must come to a plain matter of fact--
Before I received your letter I had invited Lady Olivia to spend some
time at L---- Castle. I fear that you will blame my precipitation, and I
reproach myself for it, because I know it will give you pain. However,
though you will think me imprudent, I am certain you would rather that I
were imprudent than unjust. I have defended Olivia from what I believe
to be unmerited censure; I have invited her to my house; she has
accepted my proffered kindness; to withdraw it afterwards would be doing
her irreparable injury: it would confirm all that the world can suspect:
it would be saying to the censorious--I am convinced that you are right,
and I deliver your victim up to you.
Thus I should betray the person whom I undertook to defend: her
confidence in me, her having but for a moment accepted my protection,
would be her ruin. I could not act in so base a manner.
Fear nothing for me, my best, but too anxious friend. I may do Lady
Olivia some good; she can do me no harm. She may learn the principles
which you have taught me; I can never catch from her any tastes or
habits which you would disapprove. As to the rest, I hazard little or
nothing. The hereditary credit which I enjoy in my maternal right
enables me to assist others without injuring myself.
Your affectionate daughter,
Leonora.
Letter viij.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
My dearest Child,
I hope that you are in the right, and that I am in the wrong.
Your affectionate mother,
Letter ix.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
Prepare yourself, my ever dear and charming Gabrielle, for all the
torments of jealousy. Know, that since I came to England I have formed a
new friendship with a woman who is interesting in the extreme, who has
charmed me by the simplicity of her manners and the generous sensibility
of her heart. Her character is certainly too reserved: yet even this
defect has perhaps increased her power over my imagination, and
consequently over my affections. I know not by what magic she has
obtained it, but she has already an ascendency over me, which would
quite astonish _you_, who know my wayward fancies and independent
spirit.
Alas! I confess my heart is weak indeed; and I fear that all the power
of friendship and philosophy combined will never strengthen it
sufficiently. O, Gabrielle! how can I hope to obliterate from my soul
that attachment which has marked the colour of my destiny for years? Yet
such courage, such cruel courage is required of me, and of such I have
boasted myself capable. Lady Leonora L----, my new friend, has, by all
the English eloquence of virtue, obtained from me a promise, which, I
fear, I shall not have the fortitude to keep--but I must make the
attempt----Forbid R*** to write to me----Yes! I have written the
words----Forbid R*** to write to me----Forbid him to think of me----I
will do more--if possible I will forbid myself henceforward to think of
him--to think of love--Adieu, my Gabrielle----All the illusions of life
are over, and a dreary blank of future existence lies before me,
terminated only by the grave. To-morrow I go to L---- Castle, with
feelings which I can compare only to those of the unfortunate la
Valliere when she renounced her lover, and resolved to bury herself in a
cloister.--Alas! why have not I the resource of devotion?
Your unhappy
Olivia.
Letter x.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Publish my travels!--Not I, my dear friend. The world shall never have
the pleasure of laughing at General B----'s trip to Paris. Before a man
sets about to inform others, he should have seen, not only the surface
but the bottom of things; he should have had, not only a _vue d'oiseau_,
but (to use a celebrated naval commander's expression) a _vue de
poisson_ of his subject. By this time you must have heard enough of the
Louvre and the Tuilleries, and Versailles, and la petit Trianon, and St
Cloud--and you have had enough of pictures and statues; and you know all
that can be known of Bonaparte, by seeing him at a review or a levee;
and the fashionable beauties and _celebrated characters_ of the hour
have all passed and repassed through the magic lantern. A fresh showman
might make his figures a little more correct, or a little more in
laughable caricature, but he could produce nothing new. Alas! there is
nothing new under the sun. Nothing remains for the moderns, but to
practise the oldest follies and newest ways. Would you, for the sake of
your female friends, know the fashionable dress of a Parisian
_elegante_, see Seneca on the transparent vestments of the Roman ladies,
who, like these modern belles, were generous in the display of their
charms to the public. No doubt these French republicanists act upon the
true Spartan principle of modesty: they take the most efficacious method
to prevent their influence from being too great over the imaginations of
men, by renouncing all that insidious reserve which alone can render
even beauty permanently dangerous.
Of the cruelties of the revolution I can tell you nothing new. The
public have been steeped up to the lips in blood, and have surely had
their fill of horrors.
But, my dear friend, you say that I must be able to give a just view of
the present state of French society, and of the best parts of it,
because I have not, like some of my countrymen, hurried about Paris from
one _spectacle_ to another, seen the opera, and the play-houses, and the
masked balls, and the gaming-houses, and the women of the Palais Royale,
and the lions of all sorts; gone through the usual routine of
presentation and public dinners, drunk French wine, damned French
cookery, and "come home content." I have certainly endeavoured to employ
my time better, and have had the good fortune to be admitted into the
best _private societies_ in Paris. These were composed of the remains of
the French nobility, of men of letters and science, and of families,
who, without interfering in politics, devote themselves to domestic
duties, to literary and social pleasures. The happy hours I have passed
in this society can never be forgotten, and the kindness I have received
has made its full impression upon an honest English heart. I will never
disgrace the confidence of my friends by drawing their characters for
the public.
Caesar, in all his glory, and all his despotism, could not, with
impunity, force a Roman knight[1] to go upon the stage: but modern
anecdote-mongers, more cruel and insolent than Caesar, force their
friends of all ages and sexes to appear, and speak, and act, for the
amusement or derision of the public.
My dear friend, is not my resolution, never to favour the world with my
tour, well grounded? I hope that I have proved to your satisfaction,
that I could tell people nothing but what I do not understand, or what
is not worth telling them, or what has been told them a hundred times,
or what, as a gentleman, I am bound not to publish.
Yours truly,
J. B.
[Footnote 1: Laberius.]
Letter xi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Friendship, my amiable and interesting Gabrielle, is more an affair of
the heart than of the head, more the instinct of taste than the choice
of reason. With me the heart is no longer touched, when the imagination
ceases to be charmed. Explain to me this metaphysical phenomenon of my
nature, and, for your reward, I will quiet your jealousy, by confessing
without compunction what now weighs on my conscience terribly. I begin
to feel that I can never love this English friend as I ought. She is
_too English_--far too English for one who has known the charms of
French ease, vivacity, and sentiment; for one who has seen the
bewitching Gabrielle's infinite variety.
Leonora has just the figure and face that you would picture to yourself
for _une belle Angloise_; and if our Milton comes into your memory, you
might repeat, for the quotation is not too trite for a foreigner--
"Grace is in all her steps, heaven in her eye,
In every gesture dignity and love."
But then it is grace which says nothing, a heaven only for a husband,
the dignity more of a matron than of a heroine, and love that might have
suited Eve before she had seen this world. Leonora is certainly a
beauty; but then a beauty who does not know her power, and who,
consequently, can make no one else feel its full extent. She is not
unlike your beautiful Polish princess, but she has none of the charming
Anastasia's irresistible transitions from soft, silent languor, to
brilliant, eloquent enthusiasm. All the gestures and attitudes of
Anastasia are those of taste and sentiment, Leonora's are simply those
of nature. _La belle nature_, but not _le beau ideal_. With a figure
that would grace any court, or shine upon any stage, she usually enters
a room without producing, or thinking of producing, any sensation; she
moves often without seeming to have any other intention than to change
her place; and her fine eyes generally look as if they were made only to
see with. At times she certainly has a most expressive and intelligent
countenance. I have seen her face enlightened by the fire of genius,
and shaded by the exquisite touches of sensibility; but all this is
merely called forth by the occasion, and vanishes before it is noticed
by half the company. Indeed, the full radiance of her beauty or of her
wit seldom shines upon any one but her husband. The audience and
spectators are forgotten. Heavens! what a difference between the effect
which Leonora and Gabrielle produce! But, to do her justice, much of
this arises from the different _organization_ of French and English
society. In Paris the insipid details of domestic life are judiciously
kept behind the scenes, and women appear as heroines upon the stage,
with all the advantages of decoration, to listen to the language of
love, and to receive the homage of public admiration. In England,
gallantry is not yet _systematised_, and our sex look more to their
families than to what is called society for the happiness of existence.
And yet the affection of mothers for their children does not appear to
be so strong in the hearts of English as of French women. In England
ladies do not talk of the _sentiment of maternity_ with that elegance
and sensibility with which you expatiate upon it continually in
conversation. They literally are _des bonnes meres de famille_, not from
the impulse of sentiment, but merely from an early instilled sense of
duty, for which they deserve little credit. However, they devote their
lives to their children, and those who have the misfortune to be their
intimate friends are doomed to see them half the day, or all day long,
go through the part of the good mother in all its diurnal monotony of
lessons and caresses. All this may be vastly right--it is a pity it is
so tiresome. For my part I cannot conceive how persons of superior taste
and talents can submit to it, unless it be to make themselves a
reputation, and that you know is done by writing and talking on the
general principles, not by submitting to the minute details of
education. The great painter sketches the outline, and touches the
principal features, but leaves the subordinate drudgery of filling up
the parts, finishing the drapery, &c., to inferior hands.
Upon recollection, in my favourite "Sorrows of Werter," the heroine is
represented cutting bread and butter for a group of children: I admire
this simplicity in Goethe; 'tis one of the secrets by which he touches
the heart. Simplicity is delightful by way of variety, but always
simplicity is worse than _toujours perdrix_. Children in a novel or a
drama are charming little creatures: but in real life they are often
insufferable plagues. What becomes of them in Paris I know not; but I am
sure that they are never in the way of one's conversations or reveries;
and it would be a blessing to society if English children were as
inaudible and invisible. These things strike me sensibly upon my return
to England, after so long an absence. Surely, by means of the machinery
of masters, and governesses, and schools, the manufacture of education
might be carried on without incommoding those who desire to see only the
finished production. Here I find the daughter of an English duke, a
woman in the first bloom of youth, of the highest pretensions in point
of rank, beauty, fashion, accomplishments, and talents, devoting herself
to the education of two children, orphans, left to her care by an elder
sister. To take charge of orphans is a good and fine action; as such it
touches me sensibly; but then where is the necessity of sacrificing
one's friends, and one's pleasures, day after day, and hour after hour,
to mere children? Leonora can persevere only from a notion of duty. Now,
in my opinion, when generosity becomes duty it ceases to be virtue.
Virtue requires free-will: duty implies constraint. Virtue acts from the
impulse of the moment, and never tires or is tired; duty drudges on in
consequence of reflection, and, weary herself, wearies all beholders.
Duty, always laborious, never can be graceful; and what is not graceful
in woman cannot be amiable--can it, my amiable Gabrielle? But I reproach
myself for all I have written. Leonora is my friend--besides, I am
really obliged to her, and for the universe would I not hint a thought
to her disadvantage. Indeed she is a most excellent, a faultless
character, and it is the misfortune of your Olivia not to love
perfection as she ought.
My charming and interesting Gabrielle, I am more out of humour with
myself than you can conceive; for in spite of all that reason and
gratitude urge, I fear I cannot prefer the insipid virtues of Leonora to
the lively graces of Gabrielle.
As to the cold husband, Mr L----, I neither know nor wish to know
anything of him; but I live in hopes of an agreeable and interesting
accession to our society to-day, from the arrival of Leonora's intimate
friend, a young widow, whose husband I understand was a man of a harsh
temper: she has gone through severe trials with surprising fortitude;
and though I do not know her history, I am persuaded it must be
interesting. Assuredly this husband could never have been the man of her
choice, and of course she must have had some secret unhappy attachment,
which doubtless preyed upon her spirits. Probably the object of her
affection, in despair at her marriage, plighted his faith unfortunately,
or possibly may have fallen a sacrifice to his constancy. I am all
impatience to see her. Her husband's name was so ruggedly English, that
I am sure you would never be able to pronounce it, especially if you
only saw it written; therefore I shall always to you call her Helen, a
name which is more pleasing to the ear, and more promising to the
imagination. I have not been able to prevail upon Leonora to describe
her friend to me exactly; she says only, that she loves Helen too well
to over-praise her beforehand. My busy fancy has, however, bodied forth
her form, and painted her in the most amiable and enchanting colours.
Hark! she is just arrived. Adieu.
Olivia.
Letter xij.
_From Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
* * * * * *
Having now had the honour of spending nearly a week in the society of
the celebrated enchantress, Lady Olivia, you will naturally expect that
I should be much improved in the art of love: but before I come to my
improvements I must tell you, what will be rather more interesting, that
Leonora is perfectly well and happy, and that I have the dear delight of
exclaiming ten times an hour, "Ay, just as I thought it would be!--Just
such a wife, just such a mistress of a family I knew she would make."
"_Not to admire_" is an art or a precept which I have not been able to
practise much since I came here. Some philosophers tell us that
admiration is not only a silly but a fatiguing state of mind; and I
suppose that nothing could have preserved my mind from being tired to
death but the quantity of bodily exercise which I have taken. I could if
I pleased give you a plan and elevation of this castle. Nay, I doubt not
but I could stand an examination in the catalogue of the pictures, or
the inventory of the furniture.
You, Helen!--you who could not remember the colour of Lady N----'s
_new_ curtains after you had seen them at least a hundred times!
Lady N---- was indifferent to me, and how could I hang up her curtains
in my memory? By what could they hold? Do you not know, Margaret. . . .
all the fine things that I could say, and that quartos have said before
me, about the association of ideas and sensations, &c.? Those we love
impart to uninteresting objects the power of pleasing, as the magnet can
communicate to inert metal its attractive influence.
Till Mr L---- was Leonora's lover I never liked him much. I do not mean
to call him inert. I always knew that he had many excellent qualities;
but there was nothing in his temper peculiarly agreeable to me, and
there was something in his character that I did not thoroughly
understand; yet since he is become Leonora's husband I find my
understanding much improved, and I dare say it will soon be so far
enlarged, that I shall comprehend him perfectly.
Leonora has almost persuaded me to like Lady Olivia. Not to laugh at her
would be impossible. I wish you could see the way in which we go on
together. Our first setting out would have diverted you. Enter Lady
Olivia breathless, with an air of theatric expectation--advances to
embrace Helen, who is laughing with Leonora--her back turned towards the
side of the stage at which Olivia enters--Olivia pauses suddenly, and
measures Helen _with a long look_. What passes in Lady Olivia's mind at
this moment I do not know, but I guess that she was disappointed wofully
by my appearance. After some time she was recovered, by Leonora's
assistance, from her reverie, and presently began to admire my vivacity,
and to find out that I was Clarissa's Miss Howe--no, I was Lady G.--no,
I was Heloise's Clara: but I, choosing to be myself, and insisting upon
being an _original_, sunk again visibly and rapidly in Olivia's opinion,
till I was in imminent danger of being _nobody_. Leonora again kindly
interposed to save me from annihilation; and after an interval of an
hour or two dedicated to letter-writing, Lady Olivia returned and seated
herself beside me, resolved to decide what manner of woman I was.
Certain novels are the touchstones of feeling and _intellect_ with
certain ladies. Unluckily I was not well read in these; and in the
questions put to me from these sentimental statute-books, I gave strange
judgments, often for the husband or parents against the heroine. I did
not even admit the plea of destiny, irresistible passion, or
_entrainement_, as in all cases sufficient excuse for all errors and
crimes. Moreover, I excited astonishment by calling things by obsolete
names. I called a married woman's having a lover _a crime_! Then I was
no judge of virtues, for I thought a wife's making an intimate friend of
her husband's mistress was scandalous and mean; but this I was told is
the height of delicacy and generosity. I could not perceive the
propriety of a man's liking two women at the same time, or a woman's
having a platonic attachment for half a dozen lovers; and I owned that I
did not wish divorce could be as easily obtained in England as in
France. All which proved that I have never been out of England--a great
misfortune! I dare say it will soon be discovered that women as well as
madeira cannot be good for anything till they have crossed the line. But
beside the obloquy of having lived only in the best company in England,
I was further disgraced by the discovery, that I am deplorably ignorant
of metaphysics, and have never been enlightened by any philanthropic
transcendental foreign professor of humanity. Profoundly humiliated, and
not having yet taken the first step towards knowledge, the knowing that
I was ignorant, I was pondering upon my sad fate, when Lady Olivia,
putting her hand upon my shoulder, summoned me into the court of love,
there in my own proper person to answer such questions as it should
please her ladyship to ask. For instance:--"Were you ever in love?--How
often?--When?--Where?--And with whom?"
Never having stood a cross-examination in public upon these points, I
was not quite prepared to reply; and I was accused of giving evasive
answers, and convicted of blushing. Mr L----, who was present at this
examination, enjoyed, in his grave way, my astonishment and confusion,
but said not one word. I rallied my spirits and my wits, and gave some
answers which gained the smile of the court on my side.
From these specimens you may guess, my dear Margaret, how well this lady
and I are likely to agree. I shall divert myself with her absurdities
without scruple. Yet notwithstanding the flagrancy of these, Leonora
persuades me to think well of Olivia; indeed I am so happy here, that it
would be a difficult matter at present to make me think ill of anybody.
The good qualities which Leonora sees in her are not yet visible to my
eyes; but Leonora's visual orb is so cleared with charity and love, that
she can discern what is not revealed to vulgar sight. Even in the very
germ she discovers the minute form of the perfect flower. _The Olivia_
will, I hope, in time blow out in full perfection.
Yours affectionately,
Helen C----.
Letter xiij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
Monday.
O my Gabrielle! this Helen is not precisely the person that I expected.
Instead of being a dejected beauty, she is all life and gaiety.
I own I should like her better if she were a little more pensive; a
tinge of melancholy would, in her situation, be so becoming and natural.
My imagination was quite disappointed when I beheld the quickness of her
eyes and frequency of her smiles. Even her mode of showing affection to
Leonora was not such as could please me. This is the first visit, I
understand, that she has paid Leonora since her marriage:--these friends
have been separated for many months.--I was not present at their
meeting; but I came into the room a few minutes after _Helen's_ arrival,
and I should have thought that they had seen one another but yesterday.
This _dear Helen_ was quite at ease and at home in a few moments, and
seemed as if she had been living with us for years. I make allowance for
the ease of well-bred people. Helen has lived much in the world, and has
polished manners. But the heart--the heart is superior to politeness;
and even ease, in some situations, shows a want of the delicate _tact_
of sentiment. In a similar situation I should have been silent,
entranced, absorbed, in my sensations--overcome by them,
perhaps--dissolved in tears. But in Helen there appeared no symptoms of
real sensibility--nothing characteristic--nothing profound--nothing
concentrated: it was all superficial, and evaporated in the common way.
I was provoked to see Leonora satisfied. She assures me that Helen has
uncommonly strong affections, and that her character rather exceeds than
is deficient in enthusiasm. Possibly; but I am certain that Helen is in
no danger of becoming romantic. Far from being abstracted, I never saw
any one seem more interested and eager about every present
occurrence--pleased, even to childishness, with every passing trifle. I
confess that she is too much of this world for me. But I will if
possible suspend my judgment, and study her a few hours longer before I
give you my definitive opinion.
* * * * *
Thursday.
Well, my Gabrielle, my _definitive opinion_ is that I can never love
this friend of Leonora. I said that she had lived much in the world--but
only in the English world: she has never seen any other; therefore,
though quite in a different style from Leonora, she shocks me with the
same nationality. All her ideas are exclusively English: she has what is
called English good sense, and English humour, and English prejudices of
_all sorts_, both masculine and feminine. She takes fire in defence of
her country and of her sex; nay, sometimes blushes even to awkwardness,
which one would not expect in the midst of her good breeding and
vivacity. What a difference between her vivacity and that of my charming
Gabrielle! as great as between the enlargement of your mind and the
limited nature of her understanding. I tried her on various subjects,
but found her intrenched in her own contracted notions. All new, or
liberal, or sublime ideas in morality or metaphysics she either cannot
seize, or seizes only to place in a ridiculous point of view: a certain
sign of mediocrity. Adieu, my Gabrielle. I must send you the pictures,
whether engaging or forbidding, of those with whom your Olivia is
destined to pass her time. When I have no events to relate, still I must
write to convey to you my sentiments. Alas! how imperfectly!--for I have
interdicted myself the expression of those most interesting to my
heart. Leonora, calmly prudent, coolly virtuous, knows not what it costs
me to be faithful to this cruel promise. Write to me, my sympathizing,
my tender friend!
Your ever unhappy
Olivia.
Letter xiv.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
July 10th.
Some very good people, like some very fine pictures, are best at a
distance. But Leonora is not one of these: the nearer you approach the
better you like her, as in arabesque-work you may admire the beauty of
the design even at a distance, but you cannot appreciate the delicacy of
the execution till you examine it closely, and discover that every line
is formed of grains of gold almost imperceptibly fine. I am glad that
the "small sweet courtesies of life" have been hailed by one sentimental
writer at least. The minor virtues are not to be despised even in
comparison with the most exalted. The common rose, I have often thought,
need not be ashamed of itself even in company with the finest exotics in
a hothouse; and I remember, that your brother, in one of his letters,
observed, that the common cock makes a very respectable figure even in
the grand Parisian assembly of all the stuffed birds and beasts in the
universe. It is a glorious thing to have a friend who will jump into a
river, or down a precipice, to save one's life: but as I do not intend
to tumble down precipices, or to throw myself into the water above half
a dozen times, I would rather have for my friends persons who would not
reserve their kindness wholly for these grand occasions, but who could
condescend to make me happy every day, and all day long, even by
actions not sufficiently sublime to be recorded in history or romance.
Do not infer from this that I think Leonora would hesitate to make
_great_ sacrifices. I have had sufficient experience of her fortitude
and active courage of mind in the most trying circumstances, whilst many
who talked more stoutly shrunk from _committing_ themselves by actions.
Some maxim-maker says, that past misfortunes are good for nothing but to
be forgotten. I am not of his opinion: I think that they are good to
make us know our winter from our summer friends, and to make us feel for
those who have sustained us in adversity that most pleasurable sensation
of human mind--gratitude.
But I am straying unawares into the province of sentiment, where I am
such a stranger that I shall inevitably lose my way, especially as I am
too proud to take a guide. Lady Olivia **** may perhaps be very fond of
Leonora: and as she has every possible cause to be so, it is but
reasonable and charitable to suppose that she is: but I should never
guess it by her manner. She speaks of her friendship sometimes in the
most romantic style, but often makes observations upon _the enviable
coolness and imperturbability of Leonora's disposition_, which convinces
me that she does not understand it in the least. Those who do not really
feel always pitch their expressions too high or too low, as deaf people
bellow or speak in a whisper. But I may be mistaken in my suspicions of
Olivia; for _to do the lady justice_, as Mrs Candour would say, she is
so affected that it is difficult to know what she really feels. Those
who put on rouge occasionally are suspected of wearing it constantly,
and never have any credit for their natural colour; presently they
become so accustomed to common rouge, that mistaking scarlet for pale
pink, they persist in laying on more and more, till they are like
nothing human.
Yours affectionately,
Helen C----.
Letter xv.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
I have found it! I have found it! dear Gabrielle, rejoice with me! I
have solved the metaphysical problem, which perplexed me so cruelly, and
now I am once more at peace with myself. I have discovered the reason
why I cannot love Leonora as she merits to be loved--she has obliged me;
and the nature of obligation is such, that it supposes superiority on
one side, and consequently destroys the equality, the freedom, the ease,
the charm of friendship. Gratitude weighs upon one's heart in proportion
to the delicacy of its feelings. To minds of an ordinary sort it may be
pleasurable, for with them it is sufficiently feeble to be calm; but in
souls of a superior cast, it is a poignant, painful sensation, because
it is too strong ever to be tranquil. In short--
"'Tis bliss but to a certain bound--
Beyond, 'tis agony."
For my own part, the very dread that I shall not be thought to express
enough deprives me of the power to speak, or even to feel. Fear, you
know, extinguishes affection; and of all fears the dread of not being
sufficiently grateful operates the most powerfully. Thus sensibility
destroys itself.--Gracious Heaven! teach me to moderate mine.
In the nature of the obligation with which Leonora has oppressed my
heart, there is something peculiarly humiliating. Upon my return to this
country I found the malignant genius of scandal bent upon destroying my
reputation. You have no idea of the miserable force of prejudice which
still prevails here. There are some women who emancipate themselves, but
then unluckily they are not in sufficient numbers to keep each other in
countenance in public. One would not choose to be confined to the
society of people who cannot go to court, though sometimes they take the
lead elsewhere. We are full half a century behind you in civilization;
and your revolution has, I find, afforded all our stiffened moralists
_incontrovertible_ arguments against liberty of opinion or conduct in
either sex.
I was thunderstruck when I saw the grave and repulsive faces of all my
female acquaintance. At first I attributed everything that was strange
and disagreeable to English reserve, of which I had retained a
sufficiently formidable idea: but I presently found that there was some
other cause which kept all these nice consciences at a distance from my
atmosphere.
Would you believe it, I saw myself upon the point of being quite
excluded from good society. Leonora saved me from this imminent danger.
Voluntarily, and I must say nobly, if not gracefully, Leonora came
forward in my defence. Vanquishing her natural English timidity, she
braved the eyes, and tongues, and advice of all the prudes and old
dowagers my enemies, amongst whom I may count the superannuated duchess
her mother, the proudest dowager now living. When I appeared in public
with a personage of Leonora's unblemished reputation, scandal, much
against her will, was forced to be silent, and it was to be taken for
granted that I was, in the language of prudery, perfectly innocent.
Leonora, to be consistent in goodness, or to complete her triumph in the
face of the world, invited me to accompany her to the country.----I have
now been some weeks at this superb castle. Heaven is my witness that I
came with a heart overflowing with affection; but the painful, the
agonizing sense of humiliation mixed with my tenderest sentiments, and
all became bitterness insufferable. O Gabrielle! you, and perhaps you
alone upon earth, can understand my feelings. Adieu!--pity me--I must
not ask you a single question about----I must not write the name for
ever dear--What am I saying? where are my promises?--Adieu!--Adieu!
Your unhappy
Olivia.
Letter xvi.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
July 16th.
As I have never thought it my duty in this mortal life to mourn for the
absurdities of my fellow-creatures, I should now enjoy the pleasure of
laughing at Lady Olivia, if my propensity were not checked by a serious
apprehension that she will injure Leonora's happiness. From the most
generous motives dear Leonora is continually anxious to soothe her mind,
to persuade and reason her into common sense, to re-establish her in
public opinion, and to make her happy. But I am convinced that Lady
Olivia never will have common sense, and consequently never can be
happy. Twenty times a day I wish her at the antipodes, for I dread lest
Leonora should be implicated in her affairs, and involved in her misery.
Last night this foolish woman, who unluckily is graced with all the
power of words, poured forth a fine declamation in favour of divorce. In
vain Leonora reasoned, expostulated, blushed. Lady Olivia cannot blush
for herself; and though both Mr L---- and I were present, she persisted
with that vehemence which betrays personal interest in an argument. I
suspect that she is going to try to obtain a divorce from her husband,
that she may marry her lover. Consider the consequences of this for
Leonora.--Leonora to be the friend of a woman who will brave the infamy
of a trial at Doctors' Commons! But Leonora says I am mistaken, and that
all this is only Olivia's way of talking. I wish then, that, if she does
not intend to act like a fool, she would not talk like one. I agree with
the gentleman who said that a woman who begins by playing the fool,
always ends by playing the devil. Even before me, though I certainly
never solicit her confidence, Lady Olivia talks with the most imprudent
openness of her love affairs; not, I think, from ingenuousness, but from
inability to restrain herself. Begin what subject of conversation I
will, as far from Cupid as possible, she will bring me back again to him
before I know where I am. She has no ideas but on this one subject.
Leonora, dear kind-hearted Leonora, attributes this to the temporary
influence of a violent passion, which she assures me Olivia will
conquer, and that then all her great and good qualities will, as if
freed from enchantment, re-assume their natural vigour.
_Natural!_--there is nothing natural about this sophisticated lady. I
wish Leonora would think more of herself and less of other people. As to
Lady Olivia's excessive sensibility, I have no faith in it. I do not
think either the lover or the passion so much to be feared for her, as
the want of a lover and the habit of thinking that it is necessary to be
in love. * * * * * * * * *
Yours affectionately,
_Helen C----._
Letter xvij.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Paris, Hotel de Courlande.
My dear L----,
When you ask a countryman in England the way to the next town, he
replies, "Where do you come from, master?" and till you have answered
this question, no information can you obtain from him. You ask me what I
know of Lady Olivia ----. What is your reason for asking? Till you have
answered this question, hope for no information from me. Seriously, Lady
Olivia had left Paris before I arrived, therefore you cannot have my
judgment of her ladyship, which I presume is all you could depend upon.
If you will take hearsay evidence, and if you wish me to speak to
general character, I can readily satisfy you. Common repute is loud and
unanimous in favour of her talents, beauty, and fashion: there is no
resisting, I am told, the fascination of her manners and conversation;
_but_ her opinions are fashionably liberal, and her practice as liberal
as her theories. Since her separation from her husband, her lover is
publicly named. Some English friends plead in her favour platonic
attachment: this, like benefit of clergy, is claimed of course for a
first offence: but Lady Olivia's Parisian acquaintance are not so
scrupulous or so old-fashioned as to think it an offence; they call it
an _arrangement_, and to this there can be no objection. As a French
gentleman said to me the other day, with an unanswerable shrug, "Tout le
monde sait que R*** est son amant; d'ailleurs, c'est la femme la plus
aimable du monde."
As to Lady Olivia's friend, Mad. de P----, she sees a great deal of
company: her house is the resort of people of various descriptions;
ministers, foreigners, coquettes, and generals; in short, of all those
who wish without scandal or suspicion to intrigue either in love or
politics. Her assemblies are also frequented by a few of _l'ancien
regime_, who wish to be in favour with the present government. Mad. de
P----, of a noble family herself, and formerly much at court, has
managed matters so as to have regained all her husband's confiscated
property, and to have acquired much influence with some of the leading
men of the day. In her manners and conversation there is an odd mixture
of frivolity and address, of the airs of coquetry and the jargon of
sentiment. She has the politeness of a French countess, with _exquisite_
knowledge of the world and of _les convenances_, joined to that freedom
of opinion which marks the present times. In the midst of all these
inconsistencies, it is difficult to guess what her real character may
be. At first sight, I should pronounce her to be a silly woman, governed
by vanity and the whim of the moment: but those who know her better than
I do believe her to be a woman of considerable talents, inordinately
fond of power, and uniformly intent upon her own interest, using
coquetry only as a means to govern our sex, and frivolity as a mask for
her ambition. In short, Mad. de P---- is a perfect specimen of the
combination of an _intrigante_ and an _elegante_, a combination often
found in Paris. Here women mingle politics and gallantry--men mix
politics and epicurism--which is the better mixture?
I have business of importance to my country to transact to-day,
_therefore_ I am going to dine with the modern Apicius. Excuse me, my
dear friend, if I cannot stay at present to answer your questions about
divorce. I must be punctual. What sort of a negociator can he make who
is too late at a minister's dinner? Five minutes might change the face
of Europe.
Yours truly,
J. B.
Letter xviij.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Paris.
My incomparable Olivia! your letters are absolutely divine. I am
_maussade_, I _vegetate_. I cannot be said to live the days when I do
not hear from you. Last Thursday I was disappointed of one of these dear
letters, and _Brave-et-tendre_ told me frankly that I was so little
amiable he should not have known me.--As to the rest, pardon me for not
writing punctually: I have been really in a chaos of business and
pleasure, and I do not know which fatigues most. But I am obliged to
attend the ministers every day, for the sake of my friends.
A thousand and a thousand thanks for your pictures of your English
friends: sketches by a masterly hand must be valuable, whatever the
subject. I would rather have the pictures than the realities. Your Helen
and your Lady Leonora are too good for me, and I pity you from my soul
for being shut up in that old castle. I suppose it is like an old castle
in Dauphiny, where I once spent a week, and where I was nearly
frightened to death by the flapping of the old tapestry behind my bed,
and by the bats which flew in through the broken windows. They say,
however, that our _chateaux_ and yours are something different. Of this
I have no clear conception.
I send you three comforters in your prison--a billet-doux, a new novel,
and a pattern of my sandal: a billet-doux from R*** says everything for
itself; but I must say something for the new novel. Zenobie, which I now
send you, is the declared rival of Seraphine. Parties have run high on
both sides, and applications were made and inuendoes discovered, and wit
and sentiment came to close combat; and, as usual, people talked till
they did not understand themselves. For a fortnight, wherever one went
the first words to be heard on entering every _salon_ were Seraphine and
Zenobie.--Peace or war.--Mlle. Georges and Mlle. Duchesnois were
nothing to Seraphine and Zenobie. For Heaven's sake tell me which you
prefer! But I fear they will be no more talked of before I have your
answer. To say the truth, I am tired of both heroines, for a fortnight
is too long to talk or think of any one thing.
I flatter myself you will like my sandals: they are my own invention,
and my foot really shows them to advantage. You know I might say, as Du
P*** said of himself, "J'ai un pied dont la petitesse echappe a la
vitesse de la pensee." I thought my poor friend Mad. Dumarais would have
died with envy, the other day, when I appeared in them at her ball,
which, by the by, was in all its decorations as absurd and in as bad
taste as usual. For the most part these _nouveaux riches_ lavish money,
but can never purchase taste or a sense of propriety. All is gold: but
that is not enough; or rather that is too much.--In spite of all that
both the Indies, China, Arabia, Egypt, and even Paris can do for them,
they will be ever out of place, in the midst of their magnificence: they
will never even know how to ruin themselves nobly. They must live and
die as they were born, ridiculous. Now I would rather not exist than
feel myself ridiculous. But I believe no one living, not even le petit
d'Heronville, knows himself to be an object of ridicule. There are no
looking-glasses for the mind, and I question whether we should use them
if there were. D'Heronville is just as you left him, and as much my
amusement as he used to be yours. He goes on with an eternal galimatias
of patriotism, with such a self-sufficient air and decided tone! never
suspecting that he says only what other people make him say, and that he
is listened to, only to find out what _some people_ think. Many will say
before fools what they would not hazard before wise men; not considering
that fools can repeat as well as parrots. I once heard a great man
remark that the only spies fit to be trusted are those who do not know
themselves to be such, who have no salary but what their vanity pays
them, and who are employed without being accredited.
But treve de politique!--My charming Olivia, I know, abhors politics as
much as I detest metaphysics, from all lips or pens but hers. Now I must
tell you something of your friends here.
O---- talks nonsense as agreeably as ever, and dances as divinely. 'Tis
a pity he cannot always dance, for then he would not ruin himself at
play. He wants me to get him a regiment--as if I had any power!--or as
if I would use it for this purpose, when I know that my interesting
friend Mad. Q---- would break her poor little heart if he were to quit
her.
_Mon Coeur_ is as pretty as ever; but she is now in affliction. She has
lost her dear little dog Corisonde. He died suddenly; almost in her
arms! She will erect a monument to him in her charming _jardin Anglois_.
This will occupy her, and then "Time, the comforter"--Inimitable
Voltaire!
Our dear _Brillante_ has just had a superb _hommage_ from her lover the
commissary--a necklace and bracelets of the finest pearls: but she
cannot wear them yet: her brother having died last week, she is in deep
mourning. This brother was not upon good terms with her. He never
forgave the divorce. He thought it a disgrace to have a sister _une
divorcee_; but he was full of prejudice, poor man, and he is dead, and
we need think no more of him or of his faults.
Our ci-devant chanoine, who married that little Meudon, is as miserable
as possible, and as ridiculous: for he is jealous of his young wife, and
she is a _franche-coquette_. The poor man looks as if he repented
sincerely of his errors. What a penitent a coquette can make of a
husband! Bourdaloue and Massillon would have tried their powers on this
man's heart in vain.
Did I tell you that Mad. G---- is a second time divorced? But this time
it is her husband's doing, not hers. This handsome husband has spent all
the immense fortune she brought him, and now procures a divorce for
_incompatibility of temper_, and is going to marry another lady, richer
than Mad. G----, and as great a fool. This system of divorce, though
convenient, is not always advantageous to women. However, in one point
of view, I wonder that the rigid moralists do not defend it, as the only
means of making a man in love with his own wife. A man divorces; the law
does not permit him to marry the same woman afterwards; of course this
prohibition makes him fall in love with her. Of this we have many
edifying examples besides Fanchette, who, though she was so beautiful,
and a tolerable actress, would never have drawn all Paris to the
Vaudeville if she had not been a _divorcee_, and if it had not been
known that her husband, who played the lover of the piece, was dying to
marry her again. Apropos, Mad. St Germain is acting one of her own
romances, in the high sublime style, and threatens to poison herself for
love of her perjured inconstant--but it will not do.
Madame _la Grande_ was near having a sad accident the other night: in
crossing the Pont-neuf her horses took fright; for there was a crowd and
_embarras_, a man having just drowned himself--not for love, but for
hunger. How many men, women, and children, do you think, drowned
themselves in the Seine last year? Upwards of two hundred. This is
really shocking, and a stop should be put to it by authority. It
absolutely makes me shudder and reflect; but _apres nous le deluge_ was
La Pompadour's maxim, and should be ours.
Mad. Folard _se coiffe en cheveux_, and Mad. Rocroix crowns herself with
roses, whilst all the world knows that either of them is old enough to
be my mother. In former days a woman could not wear flowers after
thirty, and was _bel esprit_ or _devote_ at forty, for it was thought
bad taste to do otherwise. But now everybody may be as young as they
please, or as ridiculous. Women have certainly gained by the new order
of things.
Our poor friend _Vermeille_ se meurt de la poitrine--a victim to tea and
late hours. She is an interesting creature, and my heart bleeds for her:
she will never last till winter.
Do you know, it is said, we shall soon have no wood to burn. What can
have become of all our forests? People should inquire after them. The
Venus de Medicis has at last found her way down the Seine. It is not
determined yet where to place her: but she is at Paris, and that is a
great point gained for her. You complained that the Apollo stands with
his back so near the wall, that there is no seeing half the beauties of
his shoulders. If I have any influence, Venus shall not be so served. I
have been to see her. She is certainly divine--but not French. I do not
despair of seeing her surpassed by our artists.
Adieu, my adorable Olivia. I should have finished my letter yesterday;
but when I came home in the morning, expecting to have a moment sacred
to you and friendship, who should I find established in an arm-chair in
my cabinet but our old countess _Ci-devant_. There was no retreat for
me. In the midst of my concentrated rage I was obliged to advance and
embrace her, and there was an end of happiness for the day. The pitiless
woman kept me till it was even too late to dress, talking over her
family misfortunes; as if they were anything to me. She wants to get her
son employed, but her pride will not let her pay her court properly, and
she wants me to do it for her. Not I, truly. I should shut my doors
against her but for the sake of her nephew _le roue_, who is really a
pretty young man. My angel, I embrace you tenderly.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xix.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
How melancholy to a feeling heart is the moment when illusion vanishes,
whether that illusion has been created by the magic of love or of
friendship! How many such moments, Gabrielle, has your unfortunate
friend been doomed to endure! Alas! when will treacherous fancy cease to
throw a deceitful brilliancy upon each new object!
Perhaps I am too delicate--but R***'s note, enclosed in your last, my
Gabrielle, was unlike his former letters. It was not passionate, it was
only reasonable. A man who can reason is no longer in love. The manner
in which he speaks of divorce shocked me beyond expression. Is it for
him to talk of scruples when upon this subject I have none? I own to you
that my pride and my tenderness are sensibly wounded. Is it for him to
convince me that I am in the wrong? I shall not be at ease till I hear
from you again, my amiable friend: for my residence here becomes
insupportable. But a few short weeks are past since I fancied Leonora an
angel, and now she falls below the ordinary standard of mortals. But a
few short weeks are past since, in the full confidence of finding in
Leonora a second self, a second Gabrielle, I eagerly developed to her my
inmost soul; yet now my heart closes, I fear never more to open. The sad
conviction, that we have but few ideas, and no feelings in common, stops
my tongue when I attempt to speak, chills my heart when I begin to
listen.
Do you know, my Gabrielle, I have discovered that Leonora is
inordinately selfish? For all other faults I have charity; but
selfishness, which has none to give, must expect none. O divine
sensibility, defend me from this isolation of the heart! All thy
nameless sorrows, all thy heart-rending tortures, would I a thousand
times rather endure. Leonora's selfishness breaks out perpetually; and,
alas! it is of the most inveterate, incurable kind: everything that is
immediately or remotely connected with self she loves, and loves with
the most provoking pertinacity. Her mother, her husband, she adores,
because they are her own; and even her sister's children, because she
considers them, she says, as her own. All and every possible portion of
self she cherishes with the most sordid partiality. All that touches
these relations touches her; and everything which is theirs, or, in
other words, which is hers, she deems excellent and sacred. Last night I
just hazarded a word of ridicule upon some of the obsolete prejudices of
that august personage, that duchess of old tapestry, her still living
ancestor. I wish, Gabrielle, you had seen Leonora's countenance. Her
colour rose up to her temples, her eyes lightened with indignation, and
her whole person assumed a dignity, which might have killed a
presumptuous lover, or, better far, might have enslaved him for life.
What folly to waste all this upon such an occasion. But selfishness is
ever blind to its real interests. Leonora is so bigoted to this old
woman, that she is already in mind an old woman herself. She fancies
that she traces a resemblance to her mother, and of course to dear self,
in her infant, and she looks upon it with such doting eyes, and talks to
it with such exquisite tones of fondness, as are to me, who know the
source from which they proceed, quite ridiculous and disgusting. An
infant, who has no imaginable merit, and, to impartial eyes, no charms,
she can love to this excess from no motive but pure _egotism_. Then her
husband--but this subject I must reserve for another letter. I am
summoned to walk with him this moment.
Adieu, charming Gabrielle.
Olivia.
Letter xx.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
Paris, 180--.
My dear L----,
Enclosed I send you, according to your earnest desire, Cambaceres'
reflections upon the intended new law of divorce. Give me leave to ask
why you are so violently interested upon this occasion? Do you envy
France this blessing? Do you wish that English husbands and wives should
have the power of divorcing each other at pleasure for _incompatibility
of temper_? And have you calculated the admirable effect this would
produce upon the temper both of the weaker and the stronger sex? To bear
and forbear would then be no longer necessary. Every happy pair might
quarrel and part at a moment's notice--at a year's notice at most. And
their children? The wisdom of Solomon would be necessary to settle the
just division of the children. I have this morning been attending a
court of law to hear a famous trial between two husbands: the abdicated
lord a ci-devant noble, and the reigning husband a ci-devant
grand-vicaire, who has _reformed_. Each party claimed a right to the
children by the first marriage, for the children were minors entitled to
large fortunes. The _reformed_ grand-vicaire pleaded his own cause with
astonishing assurance, amidst the discountenancing looks, murmurs, and
almost amidst the groans of disapprobation from the majority of the
auditors. His powers of impudence, however, failed him at last. I sat on
the bench behind him, and saw that his ears had the grace to blush.
After another hearing, this cause, which had lasted four years, was
decided: and the first husband and real father was permitted to have the
guardianship of his own children. During the four years' litigation, the
friends of the parties, from the grandmother downwards, were all at
irreconcileable variance. What became of the children all this time?
Their mother was represented during the trial as she deserved to be, as
a wretch void of shame and gratitude. The father was universally pitied,
though his rival painted him as a coward, who during the revolution had
left his children to save himself by flight; and as a fool, who had left
his wife to the care of a profligate grand-vicaire. Divorce is not
countenanced by opinion in Paris, though permitted by law. With a few
exceptions in extraordinary cases, I have observed that _les divorcees_
are not received into good society.
To satiate your curiosity, I send you all the papers that have been
written lately on this subject, of which you will find that of
Cambaceres the best. The wits say that he is an impartial judge. I
presume you want these pamphlets for some foolish friend; for yourself
you can never want them, blessed as you are with such a wife as Lady
Leonora L----. I am not surprised that profligate men should wish for
freedom of divorce, because it would save them damages in Doctors'
Commons: but you rather astonish me--if a wise man should be astonished
at anything in these days--by assuring me that you have lately heard
this system eloquently defended by a female philosopher. What can women
expect from it but contempt? Next to polygamy, it would prove the most
certain method of destroying the domestic happiness of the sex, as well
as their influence and respectability in society. But some of the dear
creatures love to talk of what they do not understand, and usually show
their eloquence to the greatest advantage, by taking the wrong side of a
question.
Yours truly,
J. B.
Letter xxi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
From selfishness to jealousy there is but one step, or rather there is
none; for jealousy of a certain sort is but selfishness in another form.
How different this passion as I have felt it, and as I see it shown! In
some characters it is the symptom of amiable and exquisite sensibility;
in others of odious coldness and contraction of heart. In some of our
sex it is, you know, my Gabrielle, a delicate fear, a tender anxiety, a
proof of ardent passion; in others it is a mere love of power, a
disgusting struggle for the property of a heart, an absurd assertion of
rights and prerogatives. Surely no prejudice of education or institution
can be more barbarous than that which teaches a wife that she has an
indefeasible and exclusive right both to the affections and the fidelity
of her husband. I am astonished to hear it avowed by any woman who has
the slightest pretensions to delicacy of sentiment, or liberality of
mind. I should expect to find this vulgar prejudice only among the
downright dames, who talk of _my good man_, and lay a particular
emphasis on the possessive pronoun _my_; who understand literally, and
expect that their spouses should adhere punctually to every coarse
article of our strange marriage vow.
In certain points of view, my Gabrielle, jealousy is undoubtedly the
strongest proof of an indelicate mind. Yet, if I mistake not, the
delicate, the divine Leonora, is liable to this terrestrial passion.
Yesterday evening, as I was returning from a _stroll_ in the park with
Mr L----, we met Leonora; and methought she looked embarrassed at
meeting us. Heaven knows there was not the slightest occasion for
embarrassment, and I could not avoid being surprised at such weakness, I
had almost said folly, in a woman of Leonora's sense, especially as she
knows how my heart is attached. In the first moments of our intimacy my
confidence was unbounded, as it ever is in those I love. Aware as I was
of the light in which the prejudices of her education and her country
make her view such connexions, yet I scrupled not, with the utmost
candour, to confess the unfortunate attachment which had ruled my
destiny. After this confidence, do not suspicion and jealousy on her
part appear strange? Were Mr L---- and I shut up for life in the same
prison, were we left together upon a desert island, were we alone in the
universe, I could never think of him. And Leonora does not see this! How
the passions obscure and degrade the finest understandings. But perhaps
I do her injustice, and she felt nothing of what her countenance
expressed. It is certain, however, that she was silent for some moments
after she joined us, from what cause she knows best--so was Mr L----, I
suppose from English awkwardness--so was I, from pure astonishment. At
length, in pity of Leonora, I broke the silence. I had recourse to the
beauties of nature.
"What a heavenly evening!" said I. "We have been listening to the song
of the birds, enjoying this fresh breeze of nature's perfumes." Leonora
said something about the superiority of nature's perfumes to those of
art; and observed, "how much more agreeable the smell of flowers appears
in the open air than in confined rooms." Whilst she spoke she looked at
her husband, as she continually does, for assent and approbation. He
assented, but apparently without knowing what he was saying; and only by
one of his English monosyllables. I alone was at ease.
"Can anything be more beautiful," continued I, looking back, "than the
soft mellow foliage of those woods, and the exquisite tints of their
rich colouring? What delicious melancholy such an evening spreads over
the heart!--what reflections!--what recollections!--O Leonora, look at
the lights upon that mountain, and the deep shadows upon the lake below.
Just such scenes have I admired, by such have I been entranced in
Switzerland."
Leonora put her arm within mine--she seemed to have no objection to my
thoughts going back to Switzerland--I sighed--she pressed my hand
affectionately--I wiped the starting tear from my eye. Mr L---- looked
at me with something like surprise whilst I repeated involuntarily--
"I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you,
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew."
I paused, recollecting myself, struck with _the ridicule_ of repeating
verses, and of indulging feelings in which no one perhaps sympathized.
"Those are beautiful lines," said Leonora: "that poem has always been a
favourite of mine."
"And of mine, also," said Mr L----.
"I prefer Beattie's Hermit to all other hermits," said Leonora.
I was not in a mood calmly to discuss with her a point of criticism--I
walked on in reverie: but in this I was not allowed to indulge. Mr L----
asked if I could not recollect some more of the Hermit--I pleaded the
worst memory in the world--a memory that can never recollect any poem
perfectly by rote, only the touches of genius or sensibility that strike
me--and those are so few!
"But in this poem there are so many," said Leonora. I am sure she
insisted only to please her husband, and pleaded against her real
feelings purposely to conceal them. He persisted in his request, with
more warmth than usual. I was compelled to rouse myself from my reverie,
and to call back my distant thoughts. I repeated all that I could
recollect of the poem. Mr L---- paid me a profusion of compliments upon
the sweetness of my voice, and my taste in reciting. He was pleased to
find that my manner and tones gave an Italian expression to English
poetry, which to him was a peculiar charm. It reminded him of some
signora, whom he had known at Florence. This was the first time I had
learned that he had been abroad. I was going to explore the foreign
field of conversation which he thus opened; but just at that moment
Leonora withdrew her arm from mine, and I fancied that she coloured.
This might be only my fancy, or the natural effect of her stooping to
gather a flower. We were now within sight of the castle. I pointed to
one of the turrets over a Gothic window, upon which the gleams of the
setting sun produced a picturesque effect; my glove happened to be off,
and Leonora unluckily saw that her husband's eyes were fixed upon my
arm, instead of the turret to which I was pointing. 'Twas a trifle which
I never should have noticed, had she not forced it upon my attention.
She actually turned pale. I had the presence of mind not to put on my
glove.
I must observe more accurately; I must decide whether this angelic
Leonora is or is not susceptible of the mortal passion ycleped jealousy.
I confess my curiosity is awakened.
Adieu, my ever amiable Gabrielle.
Olivia.
Letter xxij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
When the passions are asleep we are apt to fancy they are dead. I verily
thought that curiosity was dead within me, it had lain so long dormant
while stronger and tenderer sentiments waked in full activity; but now
that absence and distance from their object lull them to temporary
repose, the vulgar subordinate passions are roused, and take their turn
to reign. My curiosity was so strongly excited upon the subject of
Leonora's jealousy, that I could not rest, without attempting to obtain
satisfaction. Blame me not, dearest Gabrielle, for in my situation you
would inevitably have done the same, only that you would have done it
with more address; with that peculiar, inimitable address, which I envy
above all your accomplishments. But address is a delicate native of
France, and though it may now and then exist as a stranger, I doubt
whether it can ever be naturalized in our rude climate. All the attempts
I have made are, however, encouraging enough--you shall judge. My object
was, to ascertain the existence or non-existence of Leonora's jealousy.
I set about it with a tolerably careless assurance, and followed up the
hint, which accident had thrown out for my ingenuity to work upon. You
remember, or at least I remember, that Leonora withdrew her arm from
mine, and stooped to gather a flower at the moment when her husband
mentioned Florence, and the resemblance of my voice to that of some
Italian charmer. The next day I happened to play some of my sweetest
Italian airs, and to accompany them with my voice. The music-room opens
into the great hall: Leonora and her husband were in the hall, talking
to some visitors. The voices were soon hushed, as I expected, by the
magic sounds, but, what I did not expect, Leonora was the first who led
the way into the music-room. Was this affectation? These _simple_
characters sometimes baffle all the art of the decipherer. I should have
been clear that it was affectation, had Leonora been prodigal of
compliments on my performance; but she seemed only to listen for her own
pleasure, and left it to Mr L---- to applaud. Whilst I was preparing to
play over again the air which pleased him most, the two little nephews
came running to beg Leonora would follow them to look at some trifle,
some coloured shadow, upon the garden-wall, I think they said: she let
them lead her off, leaving _us_ together. This did not seem like
jealousy. I was more at a loss than ever, and determined to make fresh
and more decisive experiments. Curiosity, you know, is heightened by
doubt. To cure myself of curiosity it is necessary therefore to put my
mind out of doubt. Admire the practical application of metaphysics! But
metaphysics always make you yawn. Adieu for to-day.
Olivia.
Letter xxiij.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
L---- Castle.
Dear Margaret, an uncle of mine, who ever since I can remember seemed to
me cut out for an old bachelor, writes me word that he is just going to
be married, and that I must grace his nuptials. I cannot refuse, for he
has always been very kind to me, and we have no right to cut people out
for old bachelors. That I am sorry to leave Leonora it is superfluous to
tell you; but this is the melancholy part of the business, on which I
make it a principle to dwell as little as possible.
Lady Olivia must be heartily glad that I am going, for I have been
terribly troublesome to her by my gaiety and my _simplicity_. I shall
lose all the pleasure I had promised myself in seeing the _denouement_
of the comedy of _The Sentimental Coquette_, or, _The Heroine Unmasked_.
I made Leonora almost angry with me this morning, by a hint or two I
gave upon this subject. She looked so very grave, that I was afraid of
my own thoughts, and I dared not explain myself farther. Intimate as I
am with her, there are points on which I am sure that she would never
make me her confidante. I think that she has not been in her usual good
spirits lately; and though she treats Olivia with uniform kindness, and
betrays not, even to my watchful eyes, the slightest symptom of
jealousy, yet I suspect that she sees what is going forward, and she
suffers in secret. Now if she would let me explain myself, I could set
her heart at ease, by the assurance that Mr L---- is only acting a part.
If her affection for her husband did not almost blind her, she would
have as much penetration as I have--which you will allow, my dear
Margaret, is saying a great deal.
Yours affectionately,
Helen C----.
Letter xxiv.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Congratulate me, my charming Gabrielle, upon being delivered from the
unfeeling gaiety of that friend of Leonora, that Helen of whom I
formerly sent you a too flattering portrait. Her departure relieves me
from many painful sensations. Dissonance to a musical ear is not more
horrid than want of harmony between characters to the soul of
sensibility. Between Helen and me there was a perpetual discord of ideas
and sentiments, which fatigued me inexpressibly. Besides, I began to
consider her as a spy upon my actions. But there, I believe, I did her
injustice, for she was too much occupied with her own trifling thoughts
to have any alarming powers of observation.
Since her departure we have been very gay. Yesterday we had a large
company at dinner; some of the neighbouring families, whom I expected to
find mere country visitors, that were come a dozen miles to show their
antediluvian finery, retire half an hour after dinner, spoil coffee with
cream, say nothing, but at their appointed hours rise, ring for their
superb carriages, and go home by moonlight. However, to my astonishment,
I found myself in a society of well-bred, well-informed persons; the
women ready to converse, and the men, even after dinner, not impatient
to get rid of them. Two or three of the company had travelled, and I was
glad to talk to them of Italy, Switzerland, and France. Mr L---- I knew
would join in this conversation. I discovered that he came to Florence
just as I was leaving it. I was to have been at our ambassador's one
evening when he was there; but a headache prevented me. These little
coincidences, you know, my Gabrielle, draw people closer together. I
remember to have heard of a Mr L---- at Florence, who was a passionate
admirer of our sex. He was then unmarried. I little thought that this
was the same person. Beneath a cold exterior these Englishmen often
conceal a wondrous quantity of enthusiasm--volcanoes under snow.
Curiosity, dear indefatigable curiosity, supported me through the labour
of clearing away the snow, and I came to indubitable traces of
unextinguished and unextinguishable fire. The character of L---- is
quite different from what I had imagined it to be. It is _an excellent
study_. We had a long and interesting conversation upon national
manners, especially upon those of the females of all nations. He
concluded by quoting the words of your friend M. le Vicomte de Segur,
"If I were permitted to choose, I should prefer a French woman for my
friend, an English woman for my wife, and a Polish lady for my
mistress."
From this, it seems, that I am mistaken about the Italian signora, or
else Mr L---- has an enlarged charity for the graces of all
nations.--More subject for curiosity.
In the evening, before the company separated, we were standing on the
steps of the great hall, looking at a fine effect of moonlight, and I
pointed out the shadow of the arches of a bridge. From moonlight we went
on to lamplight, and many pretty things were said about art and nature.
A gentleman, who had just returned from Paris, talked of the reflection
of the lamps in the Seine, which one sees in crossing the Pont-Royal,
and which, as he said, appear like a colonnade of fire. As soon as he
had finished _prosing_ about his colonnade, I turned to Mr L----, and
asked if he remembered the account which Coxe the traveller gives of
the Polish princess Czartoryski's charming _fete champetre_ and the
illuminated rustic bridge of one arch, the reflection of which in the
water was so strong as to deceive the eye, and to give the whole the
appearance of a brilliant circle suspended in the air. Mr L---- seemed
enchanted with my description, and eagerly said that he would some night
have a bridge in his improvements illuminated, that _we_ (half-gallant
Englishman!) might see the effect. I carelessly replied, that probably
it would have a good effect: I would then have talked on other subjects
to the lady next me: but an Englishman cannot suddenly change the course
of his conversation. Mr L---- still persisted in asking a variety of
questions about this Polish fete. I excused myself: for if you satisfy
curiosity you are no longer sublime; besides it is so pedantic to
remember _accurately_ anything one meets with in books. I assured him
that I had forgotten the particulars.
My countrymen are wondrous persevering, when once roused. This morning,
when I came down to breakfast, I found Mr L---- with a volume of Coxe's
travels in his hand. He read aloud to Leonora the whole description of
the illuminated gardens, and of a Turkish tent of curious workmanship,
and of a pavilion supported by pillars ornamented with wreaths of
flowers. Leonora's birthday is some time in the next month; and her
husband, probably to prevent any disagreeable little feelings, proposed
that the _fete champetre_ he designed to give should be on that day. She
seemed rather to discourage the thing. Now to what should this
indifference be attributed? To jealousy I should positively decide, but
that two reasons oppose this idea, and keep me in doubt. She was not
within hearing at the moonlight conference, and knew nothing of my
having mentioned the Polish fete, or of her husband's having proposed to
illuminate the bridge for me. Besides, I remember the other day when
she was reading the new French novel you sent me, she expressed great
dislike to the sentimental fetes which the lover prepares for his
mistress. I would give more than I dare tell you, my dear Gabrielle, to
be able to decide whether she is jealous of me or not. But where was
I?--Mr L----, who had set his heart upon the _fete champetre_,
persisted, and combatted her antipathy by reason. Foolish man! he should
have tried compliments, or caresses--if I had not been present.
"My dear Leonora," said he, "I think you carry your dislike to these
things too far. They are more according to the French than to the
English taste, I know; but we should not be influenced by national
prejudice. I detest the ostentation and the affectation of sentiment as
much as you can; but where the real feeling exists, every mode of
showing kindness is agreeable. You must let us have this little fete on
your birthday. Besides the pleasure it will give me, I really think it
is useful to mix ideas of affection with amusement."
She smiled most graciously, and replied, that she would with pleasure
accept of kindness in any form from him. In short, she was willing to
have the fete, when it was clearly explained that she was to be the
object of it. Is not this proof positive of jealousy? And yet my
curiosity is not thoroughly satisfied. I must go on; for Leonora's sake
I must go on. When I have been assured of the truth, I shall know how to
conduct myself; and you, who know my heart, will do me the justice to
believe, that when I am convinced of my friend's weakness, I shall spare
it with the most delicate caution: but till I am convinced, I am in
perpetual danger of blundering by my careless, inadvertent innocence.
You smile, Gabrielle; dear malicious Gabrielle, even in your malice you
are charming! Adieu! Pray for the speedy extinction of my curiosity.
Olivia.
Letter xxv.
_Leonora to her mother._
You say, my dearest mother, that of late my letters have been more
constrained and less cheerful than usual, and you conjure me not to
conceal from you anything which may concern my happiness. I have ever
found you my best and most indulgent friend, and there is not a thought
or feeling of my mind, however weak or foolish, that I desire to conceal
from you. No one in this world is more--is so much interested in my
happiness; and in every doubtful situation I have always been accustomed
to apply to your unerring judgment for assistance. Your strength of
mind, your enlightened affection, would support and direct me, would at
once show me how I ought to act, and inspire me with courage and
fortitude sufficient to be worthy of your esteem, and of my own. At no
period of my life, not even when my heart first felt the confused
sensations of a passion that was new to it, did I ever want or wish for
a friend so much as at this instant: and yet I hesitate whether I ought
to ask even your advice, whether I ought to indulge myself in speaking
of my feelings even to my mother. I refrained from giving the slightest
intimation of them to my dear Helen, though she often led to this
subject, and seemed vexed by my reserve. I thought it not right to
accept of her sympathy. From her kindness I had every consolation to
expect, but no assistance from her counsels, because she does not
understand Mr L----'s character, and I could plainly perceive that she
had an erroneous idea so fixed in her fancy, as to prevent her seeing
things in their true light. I am afraid of imputing blame where I most
wish to avoid it: I fear to excite unjust suspicions; I dread that if I
say the whole you will imagine that I mean much more than I say.
I have not been quite well lately, and my mind probably is more apt to
be alarmed than it would be if my health were stronger. All that I
apprehend may exist merely in my own distempered imagination. Do not
then suppose others are to blame, when perhaps I only am in fault. I
have for some time past been dissatisfied with myself, and have had
reason to be so; I do not say this from any false humility; I despise
that affectation; but I say it with a sincere desire, that you may
assist me to cure myself of a weakness, which, if it were to grow upon
my mind, must render me miserable, and might destroy the happiness of
the person I love best upon earth. You know that I am not naturally or
habitually of a suspicious temper, but I am conscious of having lately
felt a disposition to jealousy. I have been spoiled by the excessive
attention which my husband paid to me in the first year of our marriage.
You warned me not to fancy that he could continue always a lover. I did
not, at least I tried not to expect such an impossibility. I was
prepared for the change, at least I thought I was: yet now the time, the
inevitable time is come, and I have not the fortitude to bear it as I
ought. If I had never known what it was to possess his love, I might
perhaps be content with his friendship. If I could feel only friendship
for him, I should now, possibly, be happy. I know that I have the first
place in his esteem: I do believe--I should be miserable indeed if I
did not believe--that I have the first place in his affection. But this
affection is certainly different from what it once was. I wish I could
forget the difference. No: I retract that wish; however painful the
comparison, the recollection of times that are past is delightful to my
heart. Yet, my dear mother, if such times are never to return, it would
be better for me to forget that they have ever been. It would be wiser
not to let my imagination recur to the past, which could then tend only
to render me discontented with the present and with the future. The
FUTURE! how melancholy that word sounds to me! What a dreary length of
prospect it brings to my view! How young I am, how many years may I have
to live, and how little motive have I left in life! Those which used to
act most forcibly upon me, have now scarcely power to move my mind. The
sense of duty, it is true, raises me to some degree of exertion; I hope
that I do not neglect the education of the two children whom my poor
sister bequeathed to my care. When my mind was at ease, they were my
delight; but now I feel that I am rather interrupted than interested by
their childish gaiety and amusements.
I am afraid that I am growing selfish, and I am sure that I have become
shamefully indolent. I go on with certain occupations every day from
habit, not from choice; my mind is not in them. I used to flatter myself
that I did many things, from a sense of duty and of general benevolence,
which I am convinced were done merely from a particular wish to please,
and to make myself more and more beloved by the object of my fondest
affection. Disappointed in this hope, I sink into indolence, from which
the desire to entertain my friends is not sufficient to rouse me. Helen
has been summoned away; but I believe I told you that Mr and Mrs F**,
whose company is peculiarly agreeable to my taste, and Lady M***** and
her amiable daughters, and your witty friend *****, are with us. In such
society, I am ashamed of being stupid; yet I cannot contribute to the
amusement of the company, and I feel surprised at their animation and
sprightliness. It seems as if I was looking on at dances without hearing
any music. Sometimes I fear that my silence should be observed, and then
I begin to talk without well knowing what I am saying. I confine myself
to the most commonplace subjects, and hesitate, from the dread of saying
something quite foreign to the purpose. What must Mr L---- think of my
stupidity? But he does not, I believe, perceive it: he is so much
occupied with--with other objects. I am glad that he does not see all
that passes in my mind, for he might despise me if he knew that I am so
miserable. I did not mean to use so strong an expression; but now it is
written, I will not blot it out, lest you should fancy something worse
than the reality. I am not, however, yet so weak as to be seriously
_miserable_ when I have no real cause to be so. The truth is----. Now
you know this phrase is a tacit confession that all that has been said
before is false. The real truth is----. By my prefacing so long you may
be sure that I have reason to be ashamed of this real truth's coming
out. The real truth is, that I have been so long accustomed to be the
first and _only_ object of Mr L----'s thoughts, that I cannot bear to
see him think of anything else. Yes, _things_ I can bear, but not
_persons_--female persons; and there is one person here who is so much
more agreeable and entertaining than I am, that she engrosses very
naturally almost all his attention. I am not _envious_, I am sure; for I
could once admire all Lady Olivia's talents and accomplishments, and no
one could be more charmed than I was with her fascinating manners and
irresistible powers of pleasing; but when those irresistible powers may
rob me of the heart of my beloved husband--of the whole happiness of my
life--how can I admire them? All I can promise is to preserve my mind
from the meanness of suspicion. I can do my rival justice. I can
believe, and entreat you to believe, that she does not wish to be my
rival: that she is perfectly innocent of all design to injure me, and
that she is not aware of the impression she has made. I, who know every
change of Mr L----'s countenance, every inflexion of his voice, every
turn of his mind, can see too plainly what she cannot discern. I should
indeed have thought, that no woman, whom he distinguished or preferred
in any degree, could avoid perceiving it, his manner is so expressive,
so flattering; but perhaps this appears so only to me--a woman who does
not love him may see things very differently. Lady Olivia can be in no
danger, because her heart, fortunately for me, is prepossessed in favour
of another; and a woman whose heart is occupied by one object is
absolutely blind, as I well know, to all others. With this security I
ought to be satisfied; for I believe no one inspires a lasting passion
without sharing it.
I am summoned to give my opinion about certain illuminations and
decoration for a _fete champetre_ which Mr L---- is so kind as to give
in honour of my birthday--just at the time I am complaining of his
neglect!----No, dear mother, I hope I have not complained of _him_, but
of _myself_:--and it is your business to teach your daughter to be more
reasonable. Write soon and fully to
Your affectionate
Leonora.
Letter xxvi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
This fine fete champetre is over.--Expect no description of it from me,
Gabrielle, for I am horribly out of humour. The whole pleasure of the
evening was destroyed by the most foolish circumstance imaginable.
Leonora's jealousy is now evident to more eyes than mine. No farther
doubt upon the subject can remain. My curiosity is satisfied; but I am
now left to reproach myself for having gone so far to ascertain what I
ought to have taken for granted. All these good English wives are
jealous; so jealous, that no one, who has any pretensions to beauty,
wit, or _amiability_, can live with them. They can have no _society_ in
our sense of the word; of course they must live shut up in their own
dismal houses with their own stupid families, the faithful husband and
wife sitting opposite to each other in their own chimney corners,
yawning models of constancy. And this they call virtue! How the meanest
vices usurp the name of virtue! Leonora's is a jealousy of the most
illiberal and degrading species; a jealousy of the temper, not of the
heart. She is too cold to feel the passion of love.--She never could be
in love; of that I am certain. She is too reasonable, too prudish.
Besides, to imagine that she could be in love with her own husband, and
after eighteen months' marriage--the thing is absurd! the thing is
impossible! No, she deceives herself or him, or both, if she pretends
that her jealousy arises from love, from what you and I, Gabrielle,
understand by the word. Passion, and passion only, can plead a just
excuse for its own excesses. Were Leonora in love, I could pardon her
jealousy. But now I despise it. Yes, with all her high reputation, and
_imposing_ qualities, I must think of her with contempt. And now that I
have given vent to my feelings with that freedom in which I ever indulge
myself in writing to you, my amiable Gabrielle, chosen friend of my
heart, I will compose myself, and give you a rational account of things.
You know that I am said to have some taste. Leonora makes no pretensions
to any. Wishing, I suppose, that her fete should be as elegant as
possible, she consulted me about all the arrangements and decorations.
It was I that did everything. My skill and taste were admired by the
whole company, and especially by Mr L----. He was in remarkably good
spirits at the commencement of the evening; quite gay and gallant: he
certainly paid me a great deal of attention, and it was natural he
should; for besides being his guest, I was undoubtedly the most elegant
woman present. My fame had gone abroad; I found that I was the object of
general attention. To this I have been tolerably well accustomed all my
life; enough at least to prevent me from giving any visible sign of
being moved by admiration in whatever form it comes; whether in the
polite foreign glance, or the broad English stare. The starers enjoyed
their pleasure, and I mine: I moved and talked, I smiled or was pensive,
as though I saw them not; nevertheless the homage of their gaze was not
lost upon me. You know, my charming Gabrielle, one likes to observe the
_sensation_ one produces amongst new people. The incense that I
perceived in the surrounding atmosphere was just powerful enough to
affect my nerves agreeably: that languor which you have so often
reproached me for indulging in the company of what we call
_indifferents_ gradually dissipated; and, as poor R*** used to say of
me, I came from behind my cloud like the sun in all its glory. I was
such as you have seen me, Gabrielle, in my best days, in my best
moments, in my very best style. I wonder what would excite me to such a
waste of powers. L---- seemed inspired too: he really was quite
agreeable, and showed me off almost as well as R*** himself could have
done. I had no idea that he had this species of talent. You will never
know of what my countrymen are capable, for you are out of patience with
the statues the first half hour: now it takes an amazing time to animate
them; but they can be waked into life, and I have a pride in conquering
difficulties.--There were more men this night in proportion to the women
than one usually sees in English company, consequently it was more
agreeable. I was surrounded by an admiring audience, and my conversation
of course was sufficiently general to please all, and sufficiently
particular to distinguish the man whom I wished to animate. In all this
you will say there was nothing to put one out of humour, nothing very
mortifying:--but stay, my fair philosopher, do not judge of the day till
you see its end.--Leonora was so hid from my view by the crowd of
adorers, that I really did not discern her, or suspect her jealousy. I
was quite natural; I thought only of myself; I declined all invitations
to dance, declaring that it was so long since I had tried an English
country dance, that I dared not expose my awkwardness. French country
dances were mentioned, but I preferred conversation. At last L----
persecuted me to try a Polish dance with him--a multitude of voices
overpowered me. I have not the talent which some of my countrywomen
possess in such perfection, of being obstinate about trifles. When I can
refuse with grace, 'tis well; but when that is no longer possible, it is
my principle, or my weakness, to yield. I was surprised to find that
L---- danced admirably. I became animated. You know how dancing animates
me, when I have a partner who _can_ dance--a thing not very common in
this country. We ended by _waltzing_, first in the Polish, and
afterwards in the Parisian manner. I certainly surpassed myself--I flew,
I was borne upon the wings of the wind, I floated on the notes of the
music. Animated or languid in every gradation of grace and sentiment, I
abandoned myself to the inspiration of the moment; I was all soul, and
the spectators were all admiration. To you, my Gabrielle, I may speak
thus of myself without vanity: you know the sensation I was accustomed
to produce at Paris; you may guess then what the effect must be here,
where such a style of dancing has all the captivation of novelty. Had I
doubted that my _success_ was complete, I should have been assured of it
by the faces of some prudes among the matrons, who affected to think
that the waltz was _too much_. As L---- was leading, or rather
supporting me to my seat, for I was quite exhausted, I overheard a
gentleman, who was at no great distance from the place where Leonora was
standing, whisper to his neighbour, "Le Valse extreme est la volupte
permise." I fancy Leonora overheard these words, as well as myself, for
my eyes met hers at this instant, and she coloured, and directly looked
another way. L---- neither heard nor saw anything of all this: he was
intent upon procuring me a seat; and an Englishman can never see or
think of two things at a time. A few minutes afterwards, whilst he was
fanning me, a young awkward peasant girl, quite a stranger in this
country, came up to me, and dropping her novice curtsy, said, "Here's a
ring, my lady, I found on the grass; they tell me it is yours, my lady!"
"No, my good girl, it is not mine," said I.
"It is Lady Leonora's," said Mr L----.
At the sound of her name Leonora came forward.
The girl looked alternately at us.
"Can you doubt," cried Colonel A----, "which of these ladies is Mr
L----'s wife?"
"O no, sir; this is she, _to be sure_," said the girl, pointing to me.
What there was in the girl's accent, or in L----'s look, when she
pronounced the words, or in mine, or in all three together, I cannot
exactly describe; but Leonora felt it. She turned as pale as death. I
looked as unconscious as I could. L---- went on fanning me, without
seeing his wife's change of countenance. Leonora--would you believe
it?--sank upon a bench behind us, and fainted. How her husband started,
when he felt her catch by his arm as she fell! He threw down the fan,
left me, ran for water--"O, Lady Leonora! Lady Leonora is ill!"
exclaimed every voice. The consternation was wonderful. They carried her
ladyship to a spot where she could have free air. I was absolutely in an
instant left alone, and seemingly as much forgotten as if I had never
existed! I was indeed so much astonished, that I could not stir from the
place where I stood; till recollecting myself, I pushed my way through
the crowd, and came in view of Leonora just as she opened her eyes. As
soon as she came to herself, she made an effort to stand, saying that
she was quite well again, but that she would go into the house and
repose herself for a few minutes. As she rose, a hundred arms were
offered at once to her assistance. She stepped forward; and to my
surprise, and I believe to the surprise of everybody else, took mine,
made a sign to her husband not to follow us, and walked quickly towards
the house. Her woman, with a face of terror, met us, as we were going
into Lady Leonora's apartment, with salts and hartshorn, and I know not
what in her hands.
"I am quite well, quite well again; I do not want anything; I do not
want anything. I do not want you, Mason," said Leonora. "Lady Olivia is
so good as to assist me. I am come in only to rest for a few minutes."
The woman gave me an evil look, and left the room. Never did I wish
anything more than that she should have staid. I was absolutely so
embarrassed, so distressed, when I found myself alone with Leonora, that
I knew not what to say. I believe I began with a sentence about the
night air, that was very little to the purpose. The sight of some
baby-linen which the maid had been making suggested to me something
which I thought more appropriate.
"My dear creature!" said I, "why will you fatigue yourself so terribly,
and stand so much and so long in your situation?"
Leonora neither accepted nor rejected my interpretation of what had
passed. She made no reply; but fixed her eyes upon me as if she would
have read my very soul. Never did I see or feel eyes so expressive or so
powerful as hers were at this moment. Mine absolutely fell beneath them.
What deprived me of presence of mind I know not; but I was utterly
without common sense. I am sure I changed colour, and Leonora must have
seen it through my rouge, for I had only the slightest tinge upon my
cheeks. The consciousness that she saw me blush disconcerted me beyond
recovery; it is really quite unaccountable: I trembled all over as I
stood before her; I was forced to have recourse to the hartshorn and
water, which stood upon the table. Leonora rose and threw open the
window to give me fresh air. She pressed my hand, but rather with an air
of forgiveness than of affection; I was mortified and vexed; but my
pride revived me.
"We had better return to the company as soon as possible, I believe,"
said she, looking down at the moving crowd below.
"I am ready to attend you, my dear," said I coldly, "whenever you feel
yourself sufficiently rested and composed."
She left the room, and I followed. You have no idea of the solicitude
with which the people hoped she was _better_--and _well_--and _quite
well_, &c. What amazing importance a fainting fit can sometimes bestow!
Her husband seemed no longer to have any eyes or soul but for her. At
supper, and during the rest of the night, she occupied the whole
attention of everybody present. Can you conceive anything so provoking?
But L---- must be an absolute fool!--Did he never see a woman faint
before?--He cannot pretend to be in love with his wife--I do not
understand it.--But this I know, that he has been totally different in
his manner towards me these three days past.
And now that my curiosity is satisfied about Leonora's jealousy, I shall
absolutely perish with ennui in this stupid place. Adieu, dearest
Gabrielle! How I envy you! The void of my heart is insupportable. I must
have some passion to keep me alive. Forward any letters from poor R***,
if he has written under cover to you.
Olivia.
Letter xxvij.
_The Duchess of ---- to her daughter._
Take courage, my beloved daughter; take courage. Have a just confidence
in yourself and in your husband. For a moment he may be fascinated by
the arts of an unprincipled woman; for a moment she may triumph over his
senses, and his imagination; but of his esteem, his affection, his
heart, she cannot rob you. These have been, ought to be, will be yours.
Trust to your mother's prophecy, my child. You may trust to it securely:
for, well as she loves you--and no mother ever loved a daughter
better--she does not soothe you with mere words of doting fondness; she
speaks to you the language of reason and of truth.
I know what such a man as Mr L---- must esteem and love; I know of what
such a woman as my daughter is capable, when her whole happiness, and
the happiness of all that is dear to her, are at stake. The loss of
temporary admiration and power, the transient preference shown to a
despicable rival, will not provoke you to imprudent reproach, nor sink
you to helpless despair. The arts of an Olivia might continue to deceive
your husband, if he were a fool; or to please him, if he were a
libertine: but he has a heart formed for love, he cannot therefore be a
libertine: he is a man of superior abilities, and knows women too well
to be a dupe. With a penetrating and discriminative judgment of
character, he is a nice observer of female manners; his taste is
delicate even to excess; under a cold exterior he has a vivid
imagination and strong sensibility; he has little vanity, but a
superabundance of pride; he wishes to be ardently loved, but this he
conceals; it is difficult to convince him that he is beloved, and
scarcely possible to satisfy him by any common proofs of attachment. A
coquette will never attach Mr L----. The admiration which others might
express for her charms and accomplishments would never pique him to
competition: far from seeking "to win her praise whom all admire," he
would disdain to enter the lists with the vulgar multitude: a heart in
which he had a probability of holding only divided empire would not
appear to him worth the winning. As a coquette whatever may be her
talents, graces, accomplishments, and address, you have nothing
seriously to fear from Lady Olivia.
But, my dear, Mr L----'s mind may be in a situation to require
amusement. That species of apathy which succeeds to passion is not, as
the inexperienced imagine, the death of love, but the necessary and
salutary repose from which it awakens refreshed and revived. Mr L----'s
passion for you has been not only tender, but violent, and the calm
which inevitably succeeds should not alarm you.
When a man feels that his fondness for a wife is suspended, he is uneasy
in her company, not only from the sense of decreased pleasure, but from
the fear of her observation and detection. If she reproach him, affairs
become worse; he blames himself, he fears to give pain whenever he is in
her presence: if he attempt to conceal his feelings, and to appear what
he is no longer--a lover, his attempts are awkward; he becomes more and
more dissatisfied with himself; and the person who compels him to this
hypocrisy, who thus degrades him in his own eyes, must certainly be in
danger of becoming an object of aversion. A wife, who has sense enough
to abstain from all reproaches, direct or indirect, by word or look, may
reclaim her husband's affections: the bird escapes from his cage, but
returns to his nest.
I am glad that you have agreeable company at your house; they will amuse
Mr L----, and relieve you from the necessity of taking a share in any
conversation that you dislike. Our witty friend ***** will supply your
share of conversation; and as to your silence, remember that witty
people are always content with those who _act audience_.
I rejoice that you persist in your daily occupations. To a mind like
yours, the sense of performing your duty will, next to religion, be the
firmest support upon which you can rely.
Perhaps, my dear, even when you read this, you will still be inclined to
justify Lady Olivia, and to conceal from your heart the suspicions which
her conduct excites. I am not surprised that you should find it
difficult to believe that one to whom you have behaved so generously
should treat you with treachery and ingratitude. I am not surprised,
that you who feel what it is to love, should think that a woman whose
heart is occupied by attachment to one object must be incapable of
thinking of any other. But love in such a heart as yours is totally
different from what it is in the fancy of these heroines. In their
imagination the objects are as fleeting as the pictures in the clouds
chased by the wind.
From Lady Olivia expect nothing; depend only on yourself. When you
become, as you soon must, completely convinced that the woman in whom
your unsuspecting soul confided is utterly unworthy of your esteem,
refrain from all imprudent expressions of indignation. I despise--you
will soon hate--your rival; but in the moment of detection think of what
is due to yourself, and act as calmly as if you had never loved her. She
will suffer no pain from the loss of your friendship: she has not a
heart that can value it. Probably she is envious of you. All these women
desire to mortify those whom they cannot degrade to their own level: and
I am inclined to suspect that this malevolent feeling, joined to the
want of occupation, may be the cause of her present conduct. Her
manoeuvres will not ultimately succeed. She will be deserted by Mr
L----, disappointed and disgraced, and your husband will be more yours
than ever. When this happy moment comes, my Leonora; when your husband
returns, preferring yours to all other society, then will be the time to
exert all your talents, all your charms, to prove your superiority in
everything, but most in love. The soothings of female tenderness, in
certain situations, have power not only to calm the feelings of
self-reproach, but to diffuse delight over the soul of man. The oil,
which the skilful mariner throws upon the sea, not only smooths the
waves in the storm, but when the sun shines, spreads the most beautiful
colours over the surface of the waters.
My dear daughter, though your mother writes seemingly at her ease, you
must not fancy that she does not feel for you. Do not imagine, that in
the coldness of extinguished passions, and in the pride of counselling
age, your mother expects to charm agony with words. No, my child, I am
not so absurd, so cruel. Your letter forced tears from eyes, which are
not used like sentimental eyes to weep upon every trifling occasion. My
first wish was to set out immediately to see you; but whatever
consolation or pleasure my company might afford, I believe it might be
disadvantageous to you in your present circumstances. I could not be an
hour in the room with this Lady Olivia, without showing some portion of
the indignation and contempt that I feel for her conduct. This warmth of
mine might injure you in your husband's opinion. Though you would have
too strong a sense of propriety, and too much dignity of mind, to make
complaints of your husband to me, or to any one living; yet it might be
supposed that your mother was your confidante in secret, and your
partisan in public: this might destroy your domestic happiness. No
husband can or ought to endure the idea of his wife's caballing against
him. I admire and shall respect your dignified silence.
And now fare you well, my dearest child. May God bless you! If a
mother's prayers could avail, you would be the happiest of human beings.
I do, without partiality, believe you to be one of the best and most
amiable of women.
Letter xxviij.
_Leonora to her mother._
Had your letter, my dearest mother, reached me a few hours sooner, I
should not have exposed myself as I have done.
Yesterday, at our _fete champetre_, you would have been ashamed of me. I
am ashamed of myself. I did the very reverse of what I ought, of what I
would have done, if I had been fortified by your counsel. Instead of
being calm and dignified, I was agitated beyond all power of control. I
lost all presence of mind, all common sense, all recollection.
I know your contempt for swooning heroines. What will you say, when you
hear that your daughter fainted--fainted in public? I believe, however,
that, as soon as I recovered, I had sufficient command over myself to
prevent the accident from being attributed to--to--to the real cause,
and I hope that the very moment I came to my recollection, my manner
towards Lady Olivia was such as to preclude all possibility of her being
blamed or even suspected. From living much abroad, she has acquired a
certain freedom of manner, and latitude of thinking, which expose her to
suspicion; but of all serious intention to injure me, or to pass the
bounds of propriety, I totally acquit her. She is not to blame for the
admiration she excites, nor is she to be the sufferer for my weakness
of mind or of health.
Great and unreasonable folly I am sure I showed--but I shall do so no
more.
The particular circumstances I need not explain: you may be assured,
that wherever I think it right to be silent, nothing shall tempt me to
speak: but I understood, by the conclusion of your letter, that you
expect me to preserve an absolute silence upon this subject in future:
this I will not promise. I cannot conceive that I, who do not mean to
injure any human being, ought, because I am unhappy, and when I am most
in want of a friend, to be precluded from the indulgence of speaking of
what is nearest my heart to that dear, safe, most enlightened, and
honourable of friends, who has loved, guided, instructed, and encouraged
me in everything that is right from my infancy. Why should I be refused
all claim to sympathy? why must my thoughts and feelings be shut up in
my own breast? and why must I be an isolated being, prescribed from
commerce with my own family, with my beloved mother, to whom I have been
accustomed to tell every feeling and idea as they rose? No; to all that
is honourable I will strictly conform; but by the superstition of
prudence I do not hold myself bound.
Nothing could be kinder than my husband's conduct to me the evening
after I was taken ill. He left home early this morning; he is gone to
meet his friend, General B----, who has just returned from abroad. I
hope that Mr L---- will be absent only a few days; for it would be fatal
to my happiness if he should find amusement at a distance from home. His
home at all events shall never be made a cage to him; when he returns I
will exert myself to the utmost to make it agreeable. This I hope can be
done without obtruding my company upon him, or putting myself in
competition with any person. I could wish that some fortunate accident
might induce Lady Olivia to leave us before Mr L----'s return. Had I the
same high opinion of her generosity that I once formed, had I the same
perfect confidence in her integrity and in her friendship for me, I
would go this moment and tell her all that passes in my heart: no
humiliation of my vanity would cost me anything if it could serve the
interests of my love; no mean pride could stand in my mind against the
force of affection. But there is a species of pride which I cannot, will
not renounce--believing, as I do, that it is the companion, the friend,
the support of virtue. This pride, I trust, will never desert me: it has
grown with my growth; it was implanted in my character by the education
which my dear mother gave me; and now, even by her it cannot be
eradicated. Surely I have misunderstood one passage in your letter: you
cannot advise your daughter to restrain just indignation against vice
from any motive of policy or personal interest. You say to me, "In the
moment of detection think of what is due to yourself, and act as calmly
as if you had never loved her." If I _could_, I would not do this.
Contempt shown by virtue is the just punishment of vice, a punishment
which no selfish consideration should mitigate. If I were convinced that
Lady Olivia were guilty, would you have me behave to her as if I
believed her to be innocent? My countenance, my voice, my principles,
would revolt from such mean and pernicious hypocrisy, degrading to the
individual, and destructive to society.
May I never more see the smile of love on the lips of my husband, nor
its expression in his eyes, if I do so degrade myself in my own opinion
and in his! Yes, in his; for would not he, would not any man of sense
or delicacy, recur to that idea so common with his sex, and so just,
that if a woman will sacrifice her sense of honour to her passions in
one instance, she may in another? Would he not argue, "If she will do
this for me because she is in love with me, why not for a new favourite,
if time or accident should make me less an object of passion?" No; I may
lose his love--this would be my misfortune: but to forfeit his esteem
would be my fault; and, under the remorse which I should then have to
endure, I am persuaded that no power of art or nature could sustain my
existence.
So much for myself. As to the general good of society, that, I confess,
is not at this moment the uppermost consideration in my mind; but I will
add a few words on that subject, lest you should imagine me to be
hurried away by my own feelings. Public justice and reason are, I think,
on my side. What would become of the good order of society or the
decency of families, if every politic wife were to receive or invite, or
permit her husband's mistress to reside in her house? What would become
of conjugal virtue in either sex, if the wife were in this manner not
only to connive at the infidelity of her husband, but to encourage and
provide for his inconsistency? If she enters into bonds of amity and
articles of partnership with her rival, with that person by whom she has
been most injured, instead of being the dignified sufferer, she becomes
an object of contempt.
My dearest mother, my most respected friend, my sentiments on this
subject cannot essentially differ from yours. I must have mistaken your
meaning. Pray write quickly, and tell me so; and forgive, if you cannot
approve of, the warmth with which I have spoken.
I am your truly affectionate
And grateful daughter,
Leonora L----.
Letter xxix.
_Olivia to Madame P----._
My amiable Gabrielle, I must be faithful to my promise of writing to you
every week, though this place affords nothing new either in events or
sentiment. Mr L----'s absence made this castle insupportably dull. A few
days ago he returned home, and met me with an easy kind of indifference,
provoking enough to a woman who has been accustomed to excite some
sensation. However, I was rejoiced at this upon Leonora's account. She
was evidently delighted, and her spirits and affections seemed to
overflow involuntarily upon all around her; even to me her manner became
quite frank and cordial, almost caressing. She is really handsome when
she is animated, and her conversation this evening quite surprised me. I
saw something of that playfulness, those light touches, that versatility
of expression, those words that mean more than meet the ear; everything,
in short, that could charm in the most polished foreign society. Leonora
seemed to be inspired with all the art of conversation by the simple
instinct of affection. What astonished me most was the grace with which
she introduced some profound philosophical remarks. "Such pearls," said
Mr L----, "come from the deep."
With all these talents, what might not Leonora be in proper hands! But
now she is nothing except to her husband and a few intimate friends.
However, this is not my affair. Let me go on to what concerns myself.
You may believe, my dear Gabrielle, that I piqued myself upon showing at
least as much easy indifference as was shown to me: freedom encourages
freedom. As there was no danger of my being too amiable, I did not think
myself bound in honour or sentiment to keep myself in the shade; but I
could not be as brilliant as you have seen me at your _soirees_: the
magic circle of adorers, the inspiring power of numbers, the eclat of
public _representation_, were wanting. I retired to my own apartment at
night, quite out of humour with myself; and Josephine, as she undressed
me, put me still further out of patience by an ill-timed history of a
dispute she has had with Leonora's Swiss servant. The Swiss and
Josephine, it seems, came to high words in defence of their mistresses'
charms. Josephine provoked the Swiss by saying, that his lady might
possibly be handsome if she were dressed in the French taste; _mais
qu'elle etoit bien Angloise_, and would be quite another thing if she
had been at Paris. The Swiss retorted by observing, that Josephine's
lady had indeed learnt in perfection at Paris _the art of making herself
up_, which was quite necessary to a beauty _un peu passee_. The words
were not more agreeable to me than they had been to Josephine. I wonder
at her assurance in repeating them--"Un peu passee!" Many a woman in
England, ten, fifteen years older than I am, has inspired a violent
passion; and it has been observed, that power is retained by these
mature charmers, longer than conquest can be preserved by inexperienced
beauties. There are women who have learnt to combine, for their own
advantage, and for that of their captives, all the pleasure and
_conveniences_ of society, all that a thorough knowledge of the world
can give--women who have a sufficient attention to appearances, joined
to a real contempt of all prejudices, especially that of
constancy--women who possess that knowledge of the human heart, which
well compensates transient bloom; who add the expression of sentiment to
beautiful features, and who employ
"Gay smiles to comfort, April showers to move,
And all the nature, all the art of Love."
--"Un peu passee!" The Swiss is impertinent, and knows nothing of the
matter. His master knows but little more. He would, however, know
infinitely more if I could take the trouble to instruct him; to which I
am almost tempted for want of something better to do. Adieu, my
Gabrielle. R***'s silence is perfectly incomprehensible.
Olivia.
Letter xxx.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
So, my amiable Gabrielle, you are really interested in my letters,
_though written during my English exile_, and you are curious to know
whether any of my _potent spells_ can wake into life this man of marble.
I candidly confess you would inspire me with an ambition to raise my
poor countrymen in your opinion, if I were not restrained by the sacred
sentiment of friendship, which forbids me to rival Leonora _even_ in a
husband's opinion.
However, Josephine, who feels herself a party concerned ever since her
battle with the Swiss, has piqued herself upon dressing me with
exquisite taste. I am every day _mise a ravir_!--and with such
perfection of art, that no art appears--all is negligent simplicity. I
let Josephine please herself; for you know I am not bound to be
frightful because I have a friend whose husband may chance to turn his
eye upon my figure, when he is tired of admiring hers. I rallied
L----the other day upon his having no eyes or ears but for his wife. Be
assured I did it in such a manner, that he could not be angry. Then I
went on to a comparison between the _facility_ of French and English
society. He admitted that there was some truth and more wit in my
observations. I was satisfied. With these reasonable men, the grand
point for a woman is to amuse them--they can have logic from their own
sex. But, my Gabrielle, I am summoned to the _salon_, and must finish my
Letter another day.
* * * * *
Heaven! can it be a fortnight since I wrote a line to my
Gabrielle!--Where was I?--"With these reasonable men the grand point for
a woman is to amuse them." True--most true! L----, believing himself
only amused with my lively nonsense, indulged himself with it
continually. I was to believe only what he believed. Presently he could
not do without my conversation for more than two hours together. What
was I to do, my Gabrielle? I walked out to avoid him. He found me in the
woods--rallied me on my taste for solitude, and quoted Voltaire.
This led to a metaphysical conversation, half playful, half
serious:--the distinction which a man sometimes makes to his conscience
between thinking a woman entertaining, and feeling her interesting,
vanishes more easily, and more rapidly, than he is aware of--at least in
certain situations. This was not an observation I could make to my
companion in the woods, and he certainly did not make it for himself. It
would have been vanity in me to have broken off our conversation, lest
he should fall in love with me--it would have been blindness not to have
seen that he was in some danger. I thought of Leonora--and sighed--and
did all that was in my power to put him upon his guard. By way of
preservative, I frankly made him a confession of my attachment to R***.
This I imagined would put things upon a right footing for ever; but, on
the contrary, by convincing him of my innocence, and of my having no
designs on his heart, this candour has, I fear, endangered him still
more; yet I know not what to think--his manner is so variable towards
me--I must be convinced of what his sentiments are before I can decide
what my conduct ought to be. Adieu, my amiable Gabrielle; I wait for
something decisive with an inexpressible degree of anxiety--I will not
now call it curiosity.--Apropos, does R*** wish that I should forget
that he exists? What is this business that detains him? But why do I
condescend to inquire?
Olivia.
Letter xxxi.
_General B---- to Mr L----._
London.
My dear L----,
I send you the horse to which you took a fancy. He has killed one of his
grooms, and lamed two; but you will be his master, and I hope he will
know it.
I have a word to say to you on a more serious subject. Pardon me if I
tell you that I think you are a happy man, and excuse me if I add, that
if you do not keep yourself so I shall not think you a wise one. A good
wife is better than a good-for-nothing mistress.--A self-evident
proposition!--A stupid truism! Yes; but if every man who knows a
self-evident proposition when he sees it on paper always acted as if he
knew it, this would be a very wise and a very happy world; and I should
not have occasion to write this letter.
You say that you are only amusing yourself at the expense of a finished
coquette; take care that she does not presently divert herself at
yours.----"_You are proof against French coquetry and German
sentiment._"----Granted--but a fine woman?--and your own vanity?--But
you have no vanity.----You call it pride then, I suppose. I will not
quarrel with you for a name. Pride, properly managed, will do your
business as well as vanity. And no doubt Lady Olivia knows this as well
as I do. I hope you may never know it better.
I am, my dear friend,
Truly yours,
J. B.
Letter xxxij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Advise me, dearest Gabrielle; I am in a delicate situation; and on your
judgment and purity of heart I have the most perfect reliance. Know,
then, that I begin to believe that Leonora's jealousy was not so
absolutely absurd as I at first supposed. She understood her husband
better than I did. I begin to fear that I have made a serious impression
whilst I meant only to amuse myself. Heaven is my witness, I simply
intended to satisfy my curiosity, and that once gratified, it was my
determination to respect the weakness I discovered. To love Leonora, as
once I imagined I could, is out of my power; but to disturb her peace,
to destroy her happiness, to make use of the confidence she has reposed
in me, the kindness she has shown by making me an inmate of her
house--my soul shudders at these ideas. No--if her husband really loves
me I will fly. Leonora shall see that Olivia is incapable of
treachery--that Olivia has a soul generous and delicate as her own,
though free from the prejudices by which she is fettered. To Leonora a
husband is a lover--I shall consider him as such, and respect her
_property_. You are so little used, my dear Gabrielle, to consider a
husband in this point of view, that you will scarcely enter into my
feelings: but put yourself in my situation, allow for nationality of
principle, and I am persuaded you would act as I shall. Spare me your
raillery; seriously, if Leonora's husband is in love with me, would you
not advise me, my dearest friend, to fly him, "far as pole from pole?"
Write to me, I conjure you, my Gabrielle--write instantly, and tell me
whether R*** is now at Paris. I will return thither immediately if you
advise it. My mind is in such confusion, I have no power to decide; I
will be guided by your advice.
Olivia.
Letter xxxiij.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Paris.
Advice! my charming Olivia! do you ask me for advice? I never gave or
took advice in my life, except for _les vapeurs noirs_. And your
understanding is so far superior to mine, and you comprehend the
characters of these English so much better than I do, that I cannot
pretend to counsel you. This Lady Leonora is inconceivable with her
passion for her own husband; but how ridiculous to let it be suspected!
If her heart is so tender, cannot she, with all her charms, find a lover
on whom to bestow it, without tormenting that poor Mr L----. Evidently
he is tired of her: and I am sure I should be worn to death were I in
his place. Nothing so tiresome as love without mystery and without
obstacles. And this must ever be the case with conjugal love. Eighteen
months married, I think you say, and Lady Leonora expects her husband to
be still at her feet! And she wishes it! Truly she is the most
unreasonable woman upon earth--and the most extraordinary: but I am
tired of thinking of what I cannot comprehend.
Let us pass on to Mr L----. By your last letters I should judge that he
might be an agreeable man if his wife were out of the question.
Matrimonial jealousy is a new idea to me; I can judge of it only by
analogy. In affairs of gallantry I have sometimes seen one of the
parties continue to love when the other has become indifferent, and then
they go on tormenting one another and being miserable, because they have
not the sense to see that a fire cannot be made of ashes. Sometimes I
have found romantic young people persuade themselves that they can love
no more because they can love one another no longer; but if they had
sufficient courage to say--I am tired--and I cannot help it--they would
come to a right understanding immediately, and part on the best terms
possible; each eager to make a new choice, and to be again in love and
happy. All this to be done with decency, of course. And if there be no
scandal, where is the harm? Can it signify to the universe whether Mons.
Un-tel likes Mad. Une-telle or Mad. Une-autre? Provided there is love
enough, all the world is in good humour, and that is the essential
point; for without good humour, what becomes of the pleasures of
society? As to the rest, I think of inconstancy, or _infidelity_ as it
is called, much as our good La Fontaine did--"Quand on le sait c'est peu
de chose--quand on ne le sait pas ce n'est rien."
To promise to love one person eternally! What a terrible engagement! It
freezes my heart even to think of it. I am persuaded, that if I were
bound to love him for life, I should detest the most amiable man upon
earth in ten minutes--a husband more especially. Good Heavens! how I
should abhor M. de P---- if I saw him in this point of view. On the
contrary, now I love him infinitely--that is to say, as one loves a
husband. I have his interest at heart, and his glory. When I thought he
was going to prison I was in despair. I was at home to no one but
_Brave-et-Tendre_, and to him only to consult on the means of obtaining
my husband's pardon. M. de P---- is sensible of this, and on my part I
have no reason to complain of his liberality. We are perfectly happy,
though we meet perhaps but for a few minutes in the day; and is not this
better than tiring one another for four-and-twenty hours? When I grow
old--if ever I do--he will be my best friend. In the meantime I support
his credit with all my influence. This very morning I concluded an
affair for him, which never could have succeeded, if the intimate friend
of the minister had not been also my lover. Now, why cannot your Lady
Leonora and her Mr L---- live on the same sort of terms? But if English
manners will not permit of this, I have nothing more to say. Above all
things a woman must respect opinion, else she cannot be well received in
the world. I conclude this is the secret of Lady Leonora's conduct. But
then jealousy!--no woman, I suppose, is bound, even in England, to be
jealous in order to show her love for her husband. I lose myself again
in trying to understand what is incomprehensible.
As to you, my dear Olivia, you also amaze me by talking of _crimes_ and
_horror_, and _flying from pole to pole_ to avoid a man because you have
made him at last find out that he has a heart! You have done him the
greatest possible service: it may preserve him perhaps from hanging
himself next November--that month in which, according to Voltaire's
philosophical calendar, Englishmen always hang themselves, because the
atmosphere is so thick and their ennui so heavy. Lady Leonora, if she
really loves her husband, ought to be infinitely obliged to you for
averting this danger. As to the rest, your heart is not concerned, so
you can have nothing to fear; and as for a platonic attachment on the
part of Mr L----, his wife, even according to her own rigid principles,
cannot blame you.
Adieu, my charming friend! Instead of laughing at your fit of prudery, I
ought to encourage your scruples, that I might profit by them. If they
should bring you to Paris immediately, with what joy should I embrace my
Olivia, and how much gratitude should I owe to the jealousy of Lady
Leonora L----!
R*** is not yet returned. When I have any news to give you of him,
depend upon it you shall hear from me again. Accept, my interesting
Olivia, the vows of my most tender and eternal friendship.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xxxiv.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle, Tuesday.
Your charming letter, my Gabrielle, has at once revived my spirits and
dissipated all my scruples; you mistake, however, in supposing that
Leonora is in love with her husband: more and more reason have I every
hour to be convinced that Leonora has never known the passion of love;
consequently her jealousy was, as I at first pronounced it to be, the
selfish jealousy of matrimonial power and property. Else why does it
subside, why does it vanish, when, if it were a jealousy of the heart,
it has now more provocation, infinitely more than when it appeared in
full force? Leonora could see that her husband distinguished me at a
_fete champetre_; she could see what the eyes of others showed her; she
could hear what envy whispered, or what scandal hinted; she was
mortified, she was alarmed even to fainting by a public preference, by a
silly country girl's mistaking me for _the wife_, and doing homage to me
as to the lady of the manor; but Leonora cannot perceive in the object
of her affection the symptoms that mark the rise and progress of _a real
love_. Leonora feels not the little strokes, which would be fatal blows
to the peace of a truly delicate mind; she heeds not "the trifles light
as air," which would be confirmation strong to a soul of genuine
sensibility. My influence over the mind of L---- increases rapidly, and
I shall let it rise to its acme before I seem to notice it. Leonora,
reassured, I suppose, by a few flattering words, and more perhaps by an
exalted opinion of her own merit, has lately appeared quite at her ease,
and blind to all that passes before her eyes. It is not for me to
dissipate this illusion prematurely--it is not for me to weaken this
confidence in her husband. To an English wife this would be death. Let
her foolish security then last as long as possible. After all, how much
anguish of heart, how many pangs of conscience, how much of the torture
of pity, am I spared by this callous temper in my friend! I may indulge
in a little harmless coquetry without danger to her peace, and without
scruple enjoy the dear possession of power.
* * * * *
"Say, for you know," charming Gabrielle, what is the delight of
obtaining power over the human heart? Let the lords of the creation
boast of their power to govern all things; to charm these governors be
ours. Let the logicians of the earth boast their power to regulate the
world by reason; be it ours, Gabrielle, to intoxicate and humble proud
reason to the dust beneath our feet.--And who shall blame in us this
ardour for universal dominion? If they are men, I call them tyrants--if
they are women, I call them hypocrites--and the two vices which I most
detest are tyranny and hypocrisy. Frankly I confess, that I feel in all
its restless activity the passion for general admiration. I cannot
conceive--can you, Gabrielle?--a pleasure more transporting than the
perception of extended and extending dominion. The struggle of the rebel
heart for freedom makes the war more tempting, the victory more
glorious, the triumph more splendid. Secure of your sympathy, ma belle
Gabrielle, I shall not fear to tire you by my commentaries.
* * * * *
Male coquetry justifies female retaliation to any imaginable extent.
Upon this principle, on which I have seen you act so often, and so
successfully, I shall now intrepidly proceed. This man makes a show of
resistance; be it at his own peril: he thinks that he is gaining power
over my heart, whilst I am preparing torments for his; he fancies that
he is throwing chains round me, whilst I am rivetting fetters from which
he will in vain attempt to escape. He is proud, and has the insanity of
desiring to be exclusively beloved, yet affects to set no value upon the
preference that is shown to him; appears satisfied with his own
approbation, and stoically all-sufficient to his own happiness. Leonora
does not know how to manage his temper, but I do. The suspense, however,
in which he keeps me is tantalizing: he shall pay for it hereafter: I
had no idea, till lately, that he had so much self-command. At times he
has actually made me doubt my own power. At certain moments I have been
half tempted to believe that I had made no serious impression, that he
had been only amusing himself at my expense, and for Leonora's
gratification: but upon careful and cool observation I am convinced that
his indifference is affected, that all his stoicism will prove vain. The
arrow is lodged in his heart, and he must fall, whether he turns upon
the enemy in anger, or flies in dismay.
* * * * *
My pride is exasperated. I am not accustomed to such obstinate
resistance. I really almost hate this invincible man, and--strange
inconsistency of the human heart!--almost love him. Heaven and pride
preserve me from such a weakness! But there is certainly something that
piques and stimulates one's feelings in this species of male coquetry.
L----understands the business better than I thought he could. One moment
my knowledge of the arts of his sex puts me on my guard; the next my
sensibility exposes me in the most terrible manner. Experience ought to
protect me, but it only shows me the peril and my inability to escape.
Ah! Gabrielle, without a heart how safe we should be, how dangerous to
our lovers! But cursed with sensibility, we must, alas! submit to our
fate. The habit of loving, _le besoin d'aimer_, is more powerful than
all sense of the folly and the danger. Nor is the tempest of the
passions so dreadful as the dead calm of the soul. Why did R*** suffer
my soul to sink into this ominous calm? The fault is his; let him abide
the consequence. Why did he not follow me to England? Why did he not
write to me? or when he did write, why were his letters so cold, so
spiritless? When I spoke of divorce, why did he hesitate? Why did he
reason when he should have only felt? Tell him, my tender, my delicate
friend, these are questions which the heart asks, and which the heart
only can answer. Adieu.
Olivia.
Letter xxxv.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Paris.
Je suis excedee! mon coeur. Alive, and but just alive, after such a day
of fatigues! All morning from one minister to another! then home to my
toilette! then a great dinner with a number of foreigners, each to be
distinguished--then au Feydeau, where I was obliged to go to support
poor S----'s play. It would be really insupportable, if it were not for
the finest music in the world, which, after all, the French music
certainly is. There was a violent party against the piece; and we were
so late, that it was just on the point of perishing. My ears have not
yet recovered from the horrid noise. In the midst of the tumult I
happily, by a master-stroke, turned the fortune of the night. I spied
the shawl of an English woman hanging over the box. This, you know, like
scarlet to the bull, is sufficient to enrage the Parisian pit. To the
shawl I directed the fury of the mob of critics. Luckily for us, the
lady was attended only by an Englishman, who of course chose to assert
his right not to understand the customs of any country, or submit to any
will but his own. He would not permit the shawl to be stirred. A bas! a
bas: resounded from below. The uproar was inconceivable. You would have
thought that the house must have come down. In the meantime the piece
went on, and the shawl covered all its defects. Admire my generalship.
T---- tells me I was born for a general; yet I rather think my forte is
negociation.
But I have not yet come to your affairs, for which alone I could undergo
the fatigue of writing at this moment. Guess, my Olivia, what apparition
I met at the door of my box to-night. But the enclosed note will save
you the trouble of guessing. I could not avoid permitting him to slide
his billet doux into my hand as he put on my shawl. Adieu. I must refuse
myself the pleasure of conversing longer with my sweet friend. Fresh
toils await me. Mad. la Grande will never forgive me if I do not appear
for a moment at her soiree: and la petite Q---- will be jealous beyond
recovery if I do not give her a moment: and it is Mad. R----'s night.
There I must be; for all the ambassadors, as usual, will be there; and
as some of them, I have reason to believe, go on purpose to meet me, I
cannot disappoint their excellencies. My friends would never forgive it.
I am positively quite weary of this life of eternal bustle; but once in
the eddy, one is carried round and round; there is no stopping. Adieu,
adieu. I write under the hands of Victoire. O that she had your taste to
guide her, and to decide my too vacillating judgment: we should then
have no occasion to dread even the elegant simplicity of Mad. R----'s
toilette.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xxxvi.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
My Gabrielle, I have read R***'s note enclosed in your charming
sprightly letter. What a contrast! So cold! so formal! A thousand times
rather would I not have heard from him, than have received a letter so
little in unison with my feelings. He talks to me of business. Business!
What business ought to detain a man a moment from the woman he loves?
The interests of his ambition are nothing to me. What are all these to
love? Is he so mean as to hesitate between them? then I despise him! and
Olivia can never love the being she despises!
Does R*** flatter himself that his power over my heart is omnipotent?
Does he imagine that Olivia is to be slighted with impunity? Does R***
think that a woman who has even nominally the honour to reign over his
heart cannot meditate new conquests? O credulous vanity of man! He
fancies perhaps that he is secure of the maturer age of one who fondly
devoted to him her inexperienced youth. "Security is the curse of
fools." Does he in his wisdom deem a woman's age a sufficient pledge for
her constancy? He might every day see examples enough to convince him of
his error. In fact, the age of women has nothing to do with the number
of their years. Possibly, however, the gallant gentleman may be of
opinion with Leonora's Swiss, that Lady Olivia is _un peu passee_.
Adieu, my dear friend; you, who always understand and sympathize in my
feelings, you will express them for me in the best manner possible. I
shall not write to R***. You will see him; and Olivia commits to you
what to a woman of delicacy is more dear than her love--her just
resentment.
Olivia.
Letter xxxvij.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
L---- Castle.
Pity me, dearest Gabrielle, for I am in need of all the pity which your
susceptible heart can bestow. Never was woman in such a terrible
situation! Yes, Gabrielle, this provoking, this incomprehensible, this
too amiable man, has entangled your poor friend past recovery. Her
sentiments and sensations must henceforward be in eternal opposition to
each other. Friendship, gratitude, honour, virtue, all in tremendous
array, forbid her to think of love; but love, imperious love, will not
be so defied: he seizes upon his victim, and now, as in all the past,
will be the ruler, the tyrant of Olivia's destiny. Never was confusion,
amazement, terror, remorse, equal to mine, Gabrielle, when I first
discovered that I loved him. Who could have foreseen, who could have
imagined it? I meant but to satisfy an innocent curiosity, to indulge
harmless coquetry, to gratify the natural love of admiration, and to
enjoy the possession of power. Alas! I felt not that whilst I was
acquiring ascendancy over the heart of another I was beguiled of all
command over my own. I flattered myself that when honour should bid me
stop, I could pause without hesitation, without effort: I promised
myself, that the moment I should discover that I was loved by the
husband of my friend I should fly from him for ever. Alas! it is no
longer time--to fly from him is no longer in my power. O Gabrielle! I
love him: he knows that I love him. Never did woman suffer more than I
have done since I wrote to you last. The conflict was too violent for my
feeble frame. I have been ill--very ill: a nervous fever brought me
nearly to the grave. Why did I not die? I should have escaped the deep
humiliation, the endless self-reproach to which my future existence is
doomed.--Leonora!--Why do I start at that name? Oh! there is horror in
the sound! Even now perhaps she knows and triumphs in my weakness. Even
now perhaps her calm insensible soul blesses itself for not being made
like mine. Even now perhaps her husband doubts whether he shall accept
Olivia's love, or sacrifice your wretched friend to Leonora's pride. O
Gabrielle, no words can describe what I suffer! But I must be calm, and
explain the progress of this fatal passion. Explain--Heavens! how shall
I explain what I cannot recollect without heart-rending anguish and
confusion! O Gabrielle! pity
Your distracted
Olivia.
Letter xxxviij.
_Madame de P---- to Olivia._
Monday.
My dear romantic Olivia! you must have a furious passion for tormenting
yourself, when you can find matter for despair in your present
situation. In your place I should rejoice to find that in the moment an
old passion had consumed itself, a new one, fresh and vigorous, springs
from its ashes. My charming friend, understand your own interests, and
do not be the dupe of those fine phrases that we are obliged to employ
to deceive others. Rail at Cupid as much as you please to the men in
public, _par facon_; but always remember for your private use, that love
is essential to our existence in society. What is a woman when she
neither loves nor is loved? a mere _personage muet_ in the drama of
life. Is it not from our lovers that we derive our consequence? Even a
beauty without lovers is but a queen without subjects. A woman who
renounces love is an abdicated sovereign, always longing to resume her
empire when it is too late; continually forgetting herself, like the
pseudo-philosophic Christina, talking and acting as though she had still
the power of life and death in her hands; a tyrant without guards or
slaves; a most awkward, pitiable, and ridiculous personage. No, my fair
Olivia, let us never abjure love: even when the reign of beauty passes
away, that of grace and sentiment remains. As much delicacy as you
please: without delicacy there is no grace, and without a veil beauty
loses her most captivating charms. I pity you, my dear, for having let
your veil be blown aside _malheureusement_. But such accidents will
happen. Who can control the passions or the winds? After all, _l'erreur
d'un moment_ is not irretrievable, and you reproach yourself too
bitterly, my sweet friend, for your involuntary injustice to Lady
Leonora. Assuredly it could not be your intention to sacrifice your
repose to Mr L----. You loved him against your will, did you not? And it
is, you know, by the intention that we must judge of actions: the
positive harm done to the world in general is in all cases the only just
measure of criminality. Now what harm is done to the universe, and what
injury can accrue to any individual, provided you keep your own counsel?
As long as your friend is deceived, she is happy; it therefore becomes
your duty, your virtue, to dissemble. I am no great casuist, but all
this appears to me self-evident; and these I always thought were your
principles of philosophy. My dear Olivia, I have drawn out my whole
store of metaphysics with some difficulty for your service; I flatter
myself I have set your poor distracted head to rights. One word
more--for I like to go to the bottom of a subject, when I can do so in
two minutes: virtue is desirable because it makes us happy;
consequently, to make ourselves happy is to be truly virtuous. Methinks
this is sound logic.
To tell you the truth, my dear Olivia, I do not well conceive how you
have contrived to fall in love with this half-frozen Englishman. 'Tis
done, however--there is no arguing against facts; and this is only one
proof more of what I have always maintained, that destiny is inevitable
and love irresistible. Voltaire's charming inscription on the statue of
Cupid is worth all the volumes of reasoning and morality that ever were
or ever will be written. Banish melancholy thoughts, my dear friend;
they serve no manner of purpose but to increase your passion. Repentance
softens the heart; and everybody knows, that what softens the heart
disposes it more to love: for which reason I never abandon myself to
this dangerous luxury of repentance. Mon Dieu! why will people never
profit by experience? And to what purpose do they read history? Was not
La Valliere ever penitent and ever transgressing? ever in transports or
in tears? You, at all events, my Olivia, can never become a Carmelite or
a Magdalen. You have emancipated yourself from superstition: but whilst
you ridicule all religious orders, do not inflict upon yourself their
penances. The habit of some of the orders has been thought becoming. The
modest costume of a nun is indeed one of the prettiest dresses one can
wear at a masquerade ball, and it might even be worn without a mask, if
it were fashionable: but nothing that is not fashionable can be
becoming.
Adieu, my adorable Olivia: I will send you by the first opportunity your
Lyons gown, which is really charming.
Gabrielle de P----.
Letter xxxix.
_Olivia to Madame de P----._
Nov. 30th, --
Your truly philosophical letter, my infinitely various Gabrielle,
infused a portion of its charming spirit into my soul. My mind was
fortified and elevated by your eloquence. Who could think that a woman
of such a lively genius could be so profound? and who could expect from
a woman, who has passed her life in the world, such original and deep
reflections? You see you were mistaken when you thought that you had no
genius for philosophic subjects.
After all that has been said by metaphysicians about the existence and
seat of the moral sense, I think I can solve every difficulty by a new
theory. You know some philosophers suppose the moral sense to be
intuitive and inherent in man: others who deny the doctrine of innate
ideas, treat this notion of innate sentiments as equally absurd. There
they certainly are wrong, for sentiments are widely different from
ideas, and I have that within me which convinces my understanding that
sentiments must be innate, and proportioned to the delicacy of our
sensibility; no person of common sense or feeling can doubt this. But
there are other points which I own puzzled me till yesterday: some
metaphysicians would seat the moral sense inherently in the heart,
others would place it intuitively in the brain, all would confine it to
the soul; now in my opinion it resides primarily and principally in the
nerves, and varies with their variations. Hence the difficulty of making
the moral sense a universal guide of action, since it not only differs
in many individuals, but in the same persons, at different periods of
their existence, or (as I have often experienced) at different hours of
the day. All this must depend upon the mobility of the nervous system;
upon this may _hinge_ the great difficulties which have puzzled
metaphysicians respecting consciousness, identity, &c. If they had
attended less to the nature of the soul, and more to the system of the
nerves, they would have avoided innumerable errors, and probably would
have made incalculably important discoveries. Nothing is wanting but
some great German genius to bring this idea of a moral sense in the
nerves into fashion. Indeed, if our friend Mad. *** would mention it in
the notes to her new novel, it would introduce it in the most
satisfactory manner possible to all the fashionable world abroad; and we
take our notions in this country implicitly from the Continent. As for
you, my dear Gabrielle, I know you cut the gordian knot at once, by
referring, with your favourite moralist, every principle of human nature
to self-love. This does not quite accord with my ideas; there is
something harsh in it, that is repugnant to my sensibility; but you have
a stronger mind than I have, and perhaps your theory is right.
"You tell me I contradict myself continually," says the acute and witty
Duke de la Rochefoucault: "No, but the human heart, of which I treat, is
in perpetual contradiction to itself." Permit me to avail myself of this
answer, dear Gabrielle, if you should accuse me of contradicting in this
Letter all that I said to you in my last. A few hours after I had
despatched it the state of my nerves changed; I saw things of course in
a new light, and repented having exposed myself to your raillery by
writing in such a Magdalen strain. My nerves were more in fault than I.
When one's mind or one's nerves grow weak, the early associations and
old prejudices of the nursery recur, and tyrannize over one's reason:
from this evil your liberal education and enviable temperament have
preserved you; but have charity for my feminine weakness of frame, which
too often counteracts the masculine strength of my soul. Now that I have
deprecated your ridicule for my last nervous nonsense, I will go on in
a more rational manner. However my better judgment might have been
clouded for a moment, I have recovered strength of mind enough to see
that I am in no way to blame for anything that has happened. If a man is
amiable, and if I have taste and sensibility, I must see and feel it.
"To love," as I remember your friend G****** once finely observed to
you, "to love is a crime only in the eyes of demons, or of priests, who
resemble demons." This is a general proposition, to which none but the
prejudiced can refuse their assent: and what is true in general must be
true in particular. The _accident_, I use the term philosophically, not
popularly, the accident of a man's being married, or, in other words,
having entered imprudently into a barbarous and absurd civil contract,
cannot alter the nature of things. The essence of truth cannot be
affected by the variation of external circumstances. Now the proper
application of metaphysics frees the mind from vulgar prejudices, and
dissipates the baby terrors of an ill-educated conscience. To fall in
love with a married man, and the husband of your intimate friend! How
dreadful the sounds to some ears! even mine were startled at first, till
I called reason to my assistance. Then I had another difficulty to
combat--to own, and own unasked, a passion to the object of it, would
shock the false delicacy of those who are governed by common forms, and
who are slaves to vulgar prejudices: but a little philosophy liberates
our sex from the tyranny of custom, teaches us to disdain hypocrisy, and
to glory in the simplicity of truth.
Josephine had been perfuming my hair, and I was sitting reading at my
toilette; the door of my dressing-room happened to be half open; L----
was crossing the gallery, and as he passed I suppose his eye was caught
by my hair, or perhaps he paused a moment, I am not certain how it
was--my eyes were on my book.
"Ah! vous avez raison, monsieur, c'est la plus belle chevelure! Mais
entrez donc, monsieur," cried Josephine, whom I can never teach to
comprehend or respect English customs, "Eh! entrez, entrez, monsieur;
madame est a sa toilette."
As I looked up I could not forbear smiling at the extreme ease and
decision of Josephine's manner, and the excessive doubt and anxiety in
the gentleman's appearance. My smile, which, Heaven knows, meant no
encouragement, decided him; timidity instantly gave way to joy; he
entered. What was to be done? I could not turn him out again; I was not
answerable for any foolish conclusions he might draw from what he ought
in politeness to have considered as a thing of course. All I could do
was to blame Josephine for being a French woman. To defend her, and
flatter me, was the gentleman's part; and, for an Englishman, he really
acquitted himself with tolerable grace. Josephine at least was pleased,
and she found such a perpetual employment for monsieur, and his advice
was so necessary, that there was no chance of his departure: so we
talked of French _toilettes_, &c. &c., in French for Josephine's
edification: L---- paid me some compliments upon the recovery of my
looks after my illness--I thought I looked terribly languid--but he
assured me that this languor, in his eyes, was an additional grace; I
could not understand this: he fancied that must be because he did not
express himself well in French; he explained himself more clearly in
English, which Josephine, you know, does not understand, so that she was
now forced to be silent, and I was compelled to take my share in the
conversation. L---- made me comprehend that languor indicating
sensibility of heart was to him the most touching of female charms; I
sighed, and took up the book I had been reading; it was the new novel
which you sent me, dear Gabrielle; I talked of it, in hopes of changing
the course of the conversation; alas! this led to one far more
dangerous: he looked at the passage I had been reading. This brought us
back to sensibility again--to sentiments and descriptions so terribly
apposite! we found such a similarity in our tastes! Yet L---- spoke only
in general, and he preserved a command over himself, which provoked me,
though I knew it to be coquetry; I saw the struggle in his mind, and was
determined to force him to be candid, and to enjoy my triumph. With
these views I went farther than I had intended. The charm of sensibility
he had told me was to him irresistible. Alas! I let him perceive all the
weakness of my heart.--Sensibility is the worst timekeeper in the world.
We were neither of us aware of its progressive motion. The Swiss--my
evil genius--the Swiss knocked at the door to let me know dinner was
served. Dinner! on what vulgar incidents the happiness of life depends!
Dinner came between the discovery of my sentiments and that declaration
of passion which I now must hear--or die.
"Le diner! mon Dieu!" cried Josephine. "Mais--finissons donc--la
toilette de madame."
I heard the impertinent Swiss at the other end of the gallery at his
master's door, wondering in broken English where his master could be,
and conjecturing forty absurdities about his boots, and his being out
riding, &c. &c. To sally forth in conscious innocence upon the enemy's
spies, and to terminate the adventure as it was begun, _a la Francoise_,
was my resolution. L---- and Josephine understood me perfectly.
"Eh! Monsieur de Vaud," said Josephine to the Swiss, whom we met on the
landing-place of the stairs, "madame n'est elle pas coeffee a ravir
aujourd'hui? C'est que monsieur vient d'assister a la toilette de
madame." The Swiss bowed, and said nothing. The bow was to his master,
not to me, and it was a bow of duty, not of inclination. I never saw a
man look so like a machine; he did not even raise his eyes upon me or my
_coeffure_ as we passed.
Bah! cried Josephine, with an inexpressible accent of mingled
indignation and contempt. She ran downstairs, leaving the Swiss to his
stupidity. I was more afraid of his penetration. But I entered the
dining-room as if nothing extraordinary had happened; and after all, you
know, my dear Gabrielle, nothing extraordinary had befallen us. A
gentleman had assisted at a lady's toilette. Nothing more simple,
nothing more proper in the meridian of Paris; and does propriety change
with meridians? There was company at dinner, and the conversation was
general and uninteresting; L---- endeavoured to support his part with
vivacity; but he had fits of absence and silence, which might have
alarmed Leonora, if she had any suspicion. But she is now perfectly
secure, and absolutely blind: therefore you see there can be no danger
for her happiness in my remaining where I am. For no earthly
consideration would I disturb her peace of mind; there is no sacrifice I
would hesitate for a moment to make to friendship or virtue, but I
cannot surely be called upon to _plant a dagger in my own heart_, to
destroy, for ever to destroy my own felicity without advantage to my
friend. My attachment to L----, as you say, is involuntary, and my love
as pure as it is fervent. I have reason to believe that his sentiments
are the same for me; but of this I am not yet certain. There is the
danger, and the only real danger for Leonora's happiness; for whilst
this uncertainty and his consequent fits of absence and imprudence last,
there is hazard every moment of her being alarmed. But when L---- once
decides, everything arranges itself, you know, Gabrielle, and prudence
becomes a duty to ourselves and to Leonora. No word, or look, or
coquetry could then escape us; we should be unpardonable if we did not
conduct ourselves with the most scrupulous delicacy and attention to her
feelings. I am amazed that L----, who has really a good understanding,
does not make these reflections, and is not determined by this
calculation. For his, for my own, but most for Leonora's sake, I wish
that this cruel suspense were at an end. Adieu, dear and amiable
Gabrielle.--These things are managed better in France.
Olivia.
Letter xl.
_Mrs C---- to Miss B----._
L---- Castle.
Dear Margaret,
I arrived here late yesterday evening in high spirits, and high hopes of
surprising and delighting all the world by my unexpected appearance; but
my pride was checked, and my tone changed the moment I saw Leonora.
Never was any human being so altered in her looks in so short a time. I
had just, and but just presence of mind enough not to say so. I am
astonished that it does not strike Mr L----. As soon as she left the
room, I asked him if Lady Leonora had been ill? No; perfectly well!
perfectly well!--Did not he perceive that she looked extremely ill? No;
she might be paler than usual: that was all that Mr L---- had observed.
Lady Olivia, after a pause, added, that Leonora certainly had not
appeared well lately, but this was nothing extraordinary in her
_situation_. _Situation!_ nonsense! Lady Olivia went on with sentimental
hypocrisy of look and tone, saying fine things, to which I paid little
attention. Virtue in words, and vice in actions! thought I. People of
certain pretensions in the court of sentiment think that they can pass
false virtues upon the world for real, as some ladies, entitled by their
rank to wear jewels, appear in false stones, believing that it will be
taken for granted they would wear nothing but diamonds. Not one eye in a
hundred detects the difference at first, but in time the hundredth eye
comes, and then they must for ever hide their diminished rays. Beware!
Lady Olivia, beware!
Leonora is ill, or unhappy, or both; but she will not allow that she is
either. On one subject she is impenetrable: a hundred, a thousand
different ways within these four-and-twenty hours have I led to it, with
all the ingenuity and all the delicacy of which I am mistress; but all
to no purpose. Neither by provocation, persuasion, laughing, teasing,
questioning, cross, or round about, pushing, squeezing, encompassing,
taking for granted, wondering, or blundering, could I gain my point.
Every look guarded--every syllable measured--yet unequivocal--
"She said no more than just the thing she ought."
Because I could find no fault I was half angry. I respect the motive of
this reserve; but towards me it is misplaced, and ill-judged, and it
must not exist. I have often declared that I would never condescend to
play the part of a confidante to any princess or heroine upon earth. But
Leonora is neither princess nor heroine, and I would be her confidante,
but she will not let me. Now I am punished for my pride. If she w
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