'However _romantic_ (a vague term applied to every thing we do not understand, or are unwilling to intimate) my views and sentiments might appear to many, I dread not, from you, this frigid censure. "The ideas, the a.s.sociations, the circ.u.mstances of each man are properly his own, and it is a pernicious system, that would lead us to require all men, however different their circ.u.mstances, to act in many of the common affairs of life, by a precise, general rule."[10]

The genuine effusions of the heart and mind are easily distinguished, by the penetrating eye, from the vain ostentation of sentiment, lip deep, which, causing no emotion, communicates none--Oh! how unlike the energetic sympathies of truth and feeling--darting from mind to mind, enlightening, warming, with electrical rapidity!

[Footnote 10: G.o.dwin's Political Justice.]

'My ideas have undergone, in the last three months, many fluctuations. My _affection_ for you (why should I seek for vague, inexpressive phrases?) has not ceased, has not diminished, but it has, in some measure, changed its nature.

It was originally generated by the report, and cemented by the knowledge, of your virtues and talents; and to virtue and talents my mind had ever paid unfeigned, enthusiastic, homage! It is somewhere said by Rousseau--"That there may exist such a suitability of moral, mental, and personal, qualifications, as should point out the propriety of an union between a prince and the daughter of an executioner."

Vain girl that I was! I flattered myself that between us this sympathy really existed. I dwelt on the union between mind and mind--sentiments of nature gently insinuated themselves--my sensibility grew more tender, more affecting--and my imagination, ever lively, traced the glowing picture, and dipped the pencil in rainbow tints!

Possessing one of those determined spirits, that is not easily induced to relinquish its purposes--while I conceived that I had only your pride, or your insensibility, to combat, I wildly determined to persevere.--A further recapitulation would, perhaps, be unnecessary:--my situation, alas! is now changed.

'Having then examined my heart, attentively and deliberately, I suspect that I have been unjust to myself, in supposing it incapable of a disinterested attachment.--Why am I to deprive you of a faithful friend, and myself of all the benefits I may yet derive from your conversation and kind offices? I ask, why? And I should, indeed, have cause to blush, if, after having had time for reflection, I could really think this necessary. Shall I, then, sign the unjust decree, that women are incapable of energy and fort.i.tude? Have I exercised my understanding, without ever intending to apply my principles to practice?

Do I mean always to deplore the prejudices which have, systematically, weakened the female character, without making any effort to rise above them? Is the example you have given me, of a steady adherence to honour and principle, to be merely respected, without exciting in my bosom any emulation? Dare I to answer these questions in the affirmative, and still ask your esteem--the esteem of the wise and good?--I dare not! No longer weakened by alternate hopes and fears, like the reed yielding to every breeze, I believe myself capable of acting upon firmer principles; and I request, with confidence, the restoration of your friendship! Should I afterwards find, that I have over-rated my own strength, I will frankly tell you so, and expect from your humanity those allowances, which are but a poor subst.i.tute for respect.

'Believe, then, my views and motives to be simply such as I state them; at least, such, after severely scrutinizing my heart, they appear to myself; and reply to me with similar ingenuousness. My expectations are very moderate: answer me with simplicity--my very soul sickens at evasion! You have undoubtedly, a right to judge and to determine for yourself; but it will be but just to state to me the reasons for, and the result of, that judgment; in which case, if I cannot obviate those reasons, I shall be bound, however reluctantly, to acquiesce in them. Be a.s.sured, I will never complain of any consequences which may ensue, even, from the utterance of all truth.

'EMMA.'

CHAPTER III

This letter was succeeded by a renewal of our intercourse and studies.

Mrs Denbeigh, my kind hostess, was usually of our parties. We read together, or conversed only on general topics, or upon subjects of literature. I was introduced by Mr Harley to several respectable families, friends of his own and of his mother's. I made many indirect enquiries of our common acquaintance, with a view to discover the supposed object of my friend's attachment, but without success. All that he had, himself, said, respecting such an engagement, had been so vague, that I began to doubt of the reality of its existence.--When, in any subsequent letters (for we continued occasionally to correspond) I ventured to allude to the subject, I was warned 'not to confound my own conceptions with real existences.' When he spoke of a susceptibility to the tender affections, it was always in the past time,--'I _have_ felt,'--'I _have_ been--'Once he wrote--'His situation had been rendered difficult, by a combination of _peculiar circ.u.mstances_; circ.u.mstances, with which but few persons were acquainted.' Sometimes he would affect to reflect upon his past conduct, and warn me against appreciating him too highly. In fine, he was a perfect enigma, and every thing which he said or wrote tended to increase the mystery.

A restless, an insatiable, curiosity, devoured me, heightened by feelings that every hour became more imperious, more uncontroulable.

I proposed to myself, in the gratification of this curiosity, a satisfaction that should compensate for all the injuries I might suffer in the career. This inquietude prevented my mind from resting; and, by leaving room for conjecture, left room for the illusions of fancy, and of hope. Had I never expressed this, he might have affected ignorance of my sensations; he might have pleaded guiltless, when, in the agony of my soul, I accused him of having sacrificed my peace to his disingenuousness--but vain were all my expostulations!

'If,' said I, 'I have sought, too earnestly, to learn the state of your affections, it has been with a view to the more effectually disciplining of my own--of stifling every _ignis fatuus_ of false hope, that making, even, impossibilities possible, will still, at times, continue to mislead me. Objects seen through obscurity, imperfectly discerned, allow to the fancy but too free a scope; the mind grows debilitated, by brooding over its apprehensions; and those apprehensions, whether real or imaginary, are carried with acc.u.mulated pain to the heart. I have said, on this subject, you have a right to be free; but I am, now, doubtful of this right: the health of my mind being involved in the question, has rendered it a question of _utility_--and on what other basis can morals rest?'

I frequently reiterated these reasonings, always with encreased fervor and earnestness: represented--'that every step I took in advance would be miles in return--every minute that the blow was suspended, prepared it to descend with acc.u.mulated force.' I required no particulars, but merely requested to be a.s.sured of _a present, existing, engagement_. I continued, from time to time, to urge this subject.

'Much,' said I, 'as I esteem you, and deeply as a thousand a.s.sociations have fixed your idea in my heart--in true candour of soul, I, yet, feel myself your superior.--I recollect a sentiment of Richardson's Clarissa that always pleased me, and that may afford a test, by which each of us may judge of the integrity of our own minds--"I should be glad that you, and all the world, knew my heart; let my enemies sit in judgment upon my actions; fairly scanned, I fear not the result. Let them ask me my most secret thoughts; and, whether they make for me, or against me, I will reveal them."

'This is the principle, my friend, upon which I have acted towards you. I have said many things, I doubt not, which make against me; but I trusted them to one, who told me, that he had made the human heart his study: and it is only in compliance with the prejudices of others, if I have taken any pains to conceal all I have thought and felt on this, or on any other, subject, from the rest of the world. Had I not, in the wild career of fervent feeling, had sufficient strength of mind to stop short, and to reason calmly, how often, in the bitterness of my spirit, should I have accused you of sporting with my feelings, by involving me in a hopeless maze of conjecture--by leaving me a prey to the constant, oppressive, apprehension of hearing something, which I should not have had the fort.i.tude to support with dignity; which, in proportion as it is delayed, still contributes to harra.s.s, to weaken, to incapacitate, my mind from bearing its disclosure.

'I know you might reply--and more than nine-tenths of the world would justify you in this reply--"That you had already said, what ought to have been sufficient, and would have been so to any other human being;--that you had not sought the confidence I boast of having reposed in you;--and that so far from affording you any satisfaction, it has occasioned you only perplexity. If my own destiny was not equivocal, of what importance could it be to me, and what right had I to enquire after circ.u.mstances, in which, however affecting, I could have no real concern."

'You may think all this, perhaps--I will not spare myself--and it may be reasonable. _But could you say it_--and have you, indeed, studied the human heart--_have you, indeed, ever felt the affections?_--Whatever may be the event--and it is in the mind of powers only that pa.s.sions are likely to become fatal--and however irreproachable every other part of your conduct may have been, I shall, _here_, always say, you were culpable!'

I changed my style.

'I know not,' said I, 'the nature of those stern duties, which oblige you to with-hold from me your tenderness; neither do I any longer enquire. I dread, only, lest I should acquire this knowledge when I am the least able to support it. Ignorant, then, of any reasons which should prevent me from giving up my heart to an attachment, now become interwoven with my existence, I yield myself up to these sweet and affecting emotions, so necessary to my disposition--to which apathy is abhorrent. "The affections (truly says Sterne) must be exercised on something; for, not to love, is to be miserable. Were I in a desart, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections. If I could do no better, I would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to--I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection. I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desart. If their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them."

'An attachment, founded upon a full conviction of worth, must be both safe and salutary. My mind has not sufficient strength to form an abstract idea of perfection. I have ever found it stimulated, improved, advanced, by its affections.

I will, then, continue to love you with fervor and purity; I will see you with joy, part from you with regret, grieve in your griefs, enter with zeal into your concerns, interest myself in your honour and welfare, and endeavour, with all my little power, to contribute to your comfort and satisfaction.--Is your heart so differently const.i.tuted from every other human heart, that an affection, thus ardent and sincere, excites in it no grateful, and soothing, emotions?

Why, then, withdraw yourself from me, and by that means afflict, and sink into despondency, a mind that entrusts its peace to your keeping.

'EMMA.'

We met the next day at the house of a common friend. My accents, involuntarily, were softened, my attentions pointed.--Manifestly agitated, embarra.s.sed, even distressed, Augustus quitted the company at an early hour.

It would be endless to enumerate all the little incidents that occurred; which, however trifling they might appear in the recital, continued to operate in one direction. Many letters pa.s.sed to the same purport. My curiosity was a consuming pa.s.sion; but this inflexible, impenetrable, man, was still silent, or alternately evaded, and resented, my enquiries. We continued, occasionally, to meet, but generally in company.

CHAPTER IV

During the ensuing summer, Mr Harley proposed making a visit to his mother, and, calling to take his leave of me, on the evening preceding his journey, accidentally found me alone.--We entered into conversation on various subjects: twilight stole upon us unperceived. The obscure light inspired me with courage: I ventured to resume a subject, so often discussed; I complained, gently, of his reserve.

'Could I suppose,' he asked, 'that he had been without _his share_ of suffering?'

I replied something, I scarce know what, adverting to his stronger mind.

'Strength!' said he, turning from me with emotion, 'rather say, weakness!'

I reiterated the important, the so often proposed, enquiry--'Had he, or had he not, a _present, existing, engagement_?'

He endeavoured to evade my question--I repeated it--He answered, with a degree of impatience, '_I cannot tell you_; if I could, do you think I would have been silent so long?'--as once, before, he spoke of the circ.u.mstances of his past life, as being of '_a singular, a peculiar, nature_.'

At our separation, I asked, if he would write to me during his absence.

'Certainly, he would.' The next morning, having some little commissions to execute for Mrs Harley, I sent them, accompanied by a few lines, to her son.

'Why is it,' said I, 'that our sagacity, and penetration, frequently desert us on the most interesting occasions? I can read any mind with greater facility than I can read your's; and, yet, what other have I so attentively studied? This is a problem I know not how to solve. One conclusion will force itself upon me--if a mistaken one, whom have you to blame?--That an _honourable_, suitable, engagement, could have given no occasion for mystery.' I added, 'I should depend on hearing from him, according to his promise.'

Week after week, month after month, wore away, and no letter arrived.

Perturbation was succeeded by anxiety and apprehension; but hearing, through my maternal friend, Mrs Harley, of the welfare of this object of our too tender cares, my solicitude subsided into despondency. The pressure of one corroding train of ideas preyed, like a canker-worm, upon my heart, and destroyed all its tranquillity.

In the beginning of the winter, this mysterious, inexplicable, being, again returned to town. I had undertaken a little business, to serve him, during his absence--I transmitted to him an account of my proceedings; subjoining a gentle reproach for his unkind silence.

'You promised you would write to me,' said I, 'during your residence in ----shire. I therefore depended upon hearing from you; and, yet, I was disappointed. You should not, indeed you should not, make these experiments upon my mind. My sensibility, originally acute, from having been too much exercised, has become nearly morbid, and has almost unfitted me for an inhabitant of this world. I am willing to believe, that your conduct towards me has originated in good motives, nevertheless, you have made some sad mistakes--you have _deeply_, though undesignedly, wounded me: I have been harra.s.sed, distressed, mortified. You know not, neither will I attempt to describe, all I have suffered! language would be inadequate to paint the struggles of a delicate, susceptible, mind, in some peculiar and interesting situations.

'You may suspect me of wanting resolution, but strong, persevering affections, are no mark of a weak mind. To have been the wife of a man of virtue and talents was my dearest ambition, and would have been my glory: I judged myself worthy of the confidence and affection of such a man--I felt, that I could have united in his pursuits, and shared his principles--aided the virtuous energies of his mind, and a.s.sured his domestic comforts. I earnestly sought to inspire you with tenderness, from the conviction, that I could contribute to your happiness, and to the worth of your character. And if, from innumerable a.s.sociations, I at length loved your person, it was the magnanimity of your conduct, it was your virtues, that first excited my admiration and esteem. But you have rejected an attachment originating in the highest, the purest, principles--you have thrown from you a heart of exquisite sensibility, and you leave me in doubt, whether you have not sacrificed that heart to prejudice. Yet, contemned affection has excited in my mind no resentment; true tenderness is made up of gentle and amiable emotions; nothing hostile, nothing severe, can mix with it: it may gradually subside, but it will continue to soften the mind it has once subdued.

'I see much to respect in your conduct, and though, it is probable, some parts of it may have originated in mistaken principles, I trust, that their source was pure! I, also, have made many mistakes--have been guilty of many extravagances. Yet, distrust the morality, that sternly commands you to pierce the bosom that most reveres you, and then to call it virtue--_Yes! distrust and suspect its origin!_' I concluded with expressing a wish to see him--'_merely as a friend_'--requesting a line in reply.

He wrote not, but came, unexpectedly came, the next evening. I expressed, in lively terms, the pleasure I felt in seeing him. We conversed on various subjects, he spoke affectionately of his mother, and of the tender interest she had expressed for my welfare. He enquired after my pursuits and acquirements during his absence, commending the progress I had made. Just before he quitted me, he adverted to the reproach I had made him, for not having written to me, according to his engagement.

'Recollect,' said he, 'in the last letter I received from you, before I left London, you hinted some suspicions--' I looked at him, 'and what,'

added he, 'could I reply?'

I was disconcerted, I changed colour, and had no power to pursue the subject.