CHAPTER VI

For some time after this he absented himself from me; and, when he returned, his manners were still more unequal; even his sentiments, and principles, at times, appeared to me equivocal, and his character seemed wholly changed. I tried, in vain, to accommodate myself to a disposition so various. My affection, my sensibility, my fear of offending--a thousand conflicting, torturing, emotions, threw a constraint over my behaviour.--My situation became absolutely intolerable--time was murdered, activity vain, virtue inefficient: yet, a secret hope inspired me, that _indifference_ could not have produced the irritations, the inequalities, that thus harra.s.sed me. I thought, I observed a conflict in his mind; his fits of absence, and reflection, were unusual, deep, and frequent: I watched them with anxiety, with terror, with breathless expectation.

My health became affected, and my mind disordered. I perceived that it was impossible to proceed, in the manner we had hitherto done, much longer--I felt that it would, inevitably, destroy me.

I reflected, meditated, reasoned, with myself--'That one channel, into which my thoughts were incessantly impelled, was destructive of all order, of all connection.' New projects occurred to me, which I had never before ventured to encourage--I revolved them in my mind, examined them in every point of view, weighed their advantages and disadvantages, in a moral, in a prudential, scale.--Threatening evils appeared on all sides--I endeavoured, at once, to free my mind from prejudice, and from pa.s.sion; and, in the critical and _singular_ circ.u.mstances in which I had placed myself, coolly to survey the several arguments of the case, and nicely to calculate their force and importance.

'If, as we are taught to believe, the benevolent Author of nature be, indeed, benevolent,' said I, to myself, 'he surely must have intended the _happiness_ of his creatures. Our morality cannot extend to him, but must consist in the knowledge, and practice, of those duties which we owe to ourselves and to each other.--Individual happiness const.i.tutes the general good:--_happiness_ is the only true _end_ of existence; --all notions of morals, founded on any other principle, involve in themselves a contradiction, and must be erroneous. Man does right, when pursuing interest and pleasure--it argues no depravity--this is the fable of superst.i.tion: he ought to only be careful, that, in seeking his own good, he does not render it incompatible with the good of others--that he does not consider himself as standing alone in the universe. The infraction of established _rules_ may, it is possible, in some cases, be productive of mischief; yet, it is difficult to state any _rule_ so precise and determinate, as to be alike applicable to every situation: what, in one instance, might be a _vice_, in another may possibly become a _virtue_:--a thousand imperceptible, evanescent, shadings, modify every thought, every motive, every action, of our lives--no one can estimate the sensations of, can form an exact judgment for, another.

'I have sometimes suspected, that all mankind are pursuing phantoms, however dignified by different appellations.--The healing operations of time, had I patience to wait the experiment, might, perhaps, recover my mind from its present distempered state; but, in the meanwhile, the bloom of youth is fading, and the vigour of life running to waste.--Should I, at length, awake from a delusive vision, it would be only to find myself a comfortless, solitary, shivering, wanderer, in the dreary wilderness of human society. I feel in myself the capacities for increasing the happiness, and the improvement, of a few individuals--and this circle, spreading wider and wider, would operate towards the grand end of life--_general utility_.'

Again I repeated to myself--'Ascetic virtues are equally barbarous as vain:--the only just morals, are those which have a tendency to increase the bulk of enjoyment. My plan tends to this. The good which I seek does not appear to me to involve injury to any one--it is of a nature, adapted to the disposition of my mind, for which every event of my life, the education both of design and accident, have fitted me. If I am now put out, I may, perhaps, do mischief:--the placid stream, forced from its channel, lays waste the meadow. I seem to stand as upon a wide plain, bounded on all sides by the horizon:--among the objects which I perceive within these limits, some are so lofty, my eyes ache to look up to them; others so low, I disdain to stoop for them. _One_, only, seems fitted to my powers, and to my wishes--_one, alone_, engages my attention! Is not its possession worthy an arduous effort: _Perseverance_ can turn the course of rivers, and level mountains! Shall I, then, relinquish my efforts, when, perhaps, on the very verge of success?

'The mind must have an object:--should I desist from my present pursuit, after all it has cost me, for what can I change it? I feel, that I am neither a philosopher, nor a heroine--but a _woman, to whom education has given a s.e.xual character_. It is true, I have risen superior to the generality of my _oppressed s.e.x_; yet, I have neither the talents for a legislator, nor for a reformer, of the world. I have still many female foibles, and shrinking delicacies, that unfit me for rising to arduous heights. Ambition cannot stimulate me, and to acc.u.mulate wealth, I am still less fitted. Should I, then, do violence to my heart, and compel it to resign its hopes and expectations, what can preserve me from sinking into, the most abhorred of all states, _languor and inanity_?

--Alas! that tender and faithful heart refuses to change its object--it can never love another. Like Rousseau's Julia, my strong individual attachment has annihilated every man in the creation:--him I love appears, in my eyes, something more--every other, something less.

'I have laboured to improve myself, that I might be worthy of the situation I have chosen. I would unite myself to a man of worth--I would have our mingled virtues and talents perpetuated in our offspring--I would experience those sweet sensations, of which nature has formed my heart so exquisitely susceptible. My ardent sensibilities incite me to love--to seek to inspire sympathy--to be beloved! My heart obstinately refuses to renounce the man, to whose mind my own seems akin! From the centre of private affections, it will at length embrace--like spreading circles on the peaceful bosom of the smooth and expanded lake--the whole sensitive and rational creation. Is it virtue, then, to combat, or to yield to, my pa.s.sions?'

I considered, and reconsidered, these reasonings, so specious, so flattering, to which pa.s.sion lent its force. One moment, my mind seemed firmly made up on the part I had to act;--I persuaded myself, that I had gone too far to recede, and that there remained for me no alternative:--the next instant, I shrunk, gasping, from my own resolves, and shuddered at the important consequences which they involved. Amidst a variety of perturbations, of conflicting emotions, I, at length, once more, took up my pen.

CHAPTER VII

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'I blush, when I reflect what a weak, wavering, inconsistent being, I must lately have appeared to you. I write to you on important subjects--I forbid you to answer me on paper; and, when you seem inclined to put that period to the present, painful, high-wrought, and trying, state of my feelings, which is now become so necessary, I appear neither to hear, nor to comprehend you. I fly from the subject, and thicken the cloud of mystery, of which I have so often, and, I still think, so justly complained.--These are some of the effects of the contradictory systems, that have so long bewildered our principles and conduct. A combination of causes, added to the conflict between a thousand delicate and nameless emotions, have lately conspired to confuse, to weaken, my spirits. You can conceive, that these acute, mental, sensations, must have had a temporary effect on the state of my health. To say truth (and, had I not said it, my countenance would have betrayed me), I have not, for some time past, been so thoroughly disordered.

'Once more, I have determined to rally my strength; for I feel, that a much longer continuance in the situation, in which my mind has been lately involved, would be insupportable:--and I call upon you, _now_, with a resolution to summon all my fort.i.tude to bear the result, for the _written_ state of your mind, on the topic become so important to my future welfare and usefulness.

'You may suppose, that a mind like mine must have, repeatedly, set itself to examine, on every side, all that could possibly have a relation to a subject affecting it so materially. You have hinted at _mysterious_ obstacles to the wish, in which every faculty of my soul has been so long absorbed--the wish of forming with you, a connection, nearer, _and more tender_, than that of friendship. This mystery, by leaving room for conjecture (and how frequently have I warned you of this!), left room for the illusions of imagination, and of hope--left room for the suspicion, that you might, possibly, be sacrificing _your own feelings_ as well as mine, to a mistaken principle. Is it possible that you were not aware of this--you, who are not unacquainted with the nature of the mind! Still less were you ignorant of the nature of my mind--which I had so explicitly, so unreservedly, laid open! I had a double claim upon your confidence--a confidence, that I was utterly incapable of abusing, or betraying--a confidence, which must have stopped my mind in its career--which would have saved me the bitter, agonizing, pangs I have sustained. Mine were not common feelings--it is _obscurity_ and _mystery_ which has wrought them up to frenzy--_truth_ and _certainty_ would, long ere this, have caused them temporarily to subside into their accustomed channels. You understand little of the human heart, if you cannot conceive this--"Where the imagination is vivid, the feelings strong, the views and desires not bounded by common rules;--in such minds, pa.s.sions, if not subdued, become ungovernable and fatal: where there is much warmth, much enthusiasm, there is much danger.--My mind is no less ardent than yours, though education and habit may have given it a different turn--it glows with equal zeal to attain its end."[11] Yes, I must continue to repeat, there has been in your conduct _one grand mistake_; and the train of consequences which may, yet, ensue, are uncertain, and threatening.--But, I mean no reproach--we are all liable to errors; and my own, I feel, are many, and various. But to return--

[Footnote 11: Holcraft's Anna St Ives.]

'You may suppose I have revolved, in my thoughts, every possible difficulty on the subject alluded to; balancing their degrees of probability and force:--and, I will frankly confess, such is the sanguine ardour of my temper, that I can conceive but one obstacle, that would be _absolutely invincible_; which is, supposing that you have already contracted a _legal, irrecoverable_, engagement. Yet, this I do not suppose. I will arrange, under five heads, (on all occasions, I love to cla.s.s and methodize) every other possible species of objection, and subjoin all the reasonings which have occurred to me on the subjects.

'And, first, I will imagine, as the most serious and threatening difficulty, that you love another. I would, then, ask--Is she capable of estimating your worth--does she love you--has she the magnanimity to tell you so--would she sacrifice to that affection every meaner consideration--has she the merit to secure, as well as accomplishments to attract, your regard?--You are too well acquainted with the human heart, not to be aware, that what is commonly called love is of a fleeting nature, kept alive only by hopes and fears, if the qualities upon which it is founded afford no basis for its subsiding into tender confidence, and rational esteem. Beauty may inspire a transient desire, vivacity amuse, for a time, by its sportive graces; but the first will quickly fade and grow familiar--the last degenerate into impertinence and insipidity. Interrogate your own heart--Would you not, when the ardour of the pa.s.sions, and the fervor of the imagination, subsided, wish to find the sensible, intelligent, friend, take place of the engaging mistress?--Would you not expect the economical manager of your affairs, the rational and judicious mother to your offspring, the faithful sharer of your cares, the firm friend to your interest, the tender consoler of your sorrows, the companion in whom you could wholly confide, the discerning partic.i.p.ator of your n.o.bler pursuits, the friend of your virtues, your talents, your reputation--who could understand you, who was formed to pa.s.s the ordeal of honour, virtue, friendship?--Ask yourself these questions--ask them closely, without sophistry, and without evasion. You are not, now, an infatuated boy! Supposing, then, that you are, at present, entangled in an engagement which answers not this description--Is it virtue to fulfil, or to renounce, it? Contrast it with my affection, with its probable consequences, and weigh our different claims! _Would you have been the selected choice, of this woman, from all mankind_--would no other be capable of making her equally happy--would nothing compensate to her for your loss--are you the only object that she beholds in creation--might not another engagement suit her equally well, or better--is her whole soul absorbed but by one sentiment, that of fervent love for you--is her future usefulness, as well as peace, at stake--does she understand your high qualities better than myself--will she emulate them more?--Does the engagement promise a favourable issue, or does it threaten to wear away the best period of life in protracted and uncertain feeling--_the most pernicious, and destructive, of all state of mind?_ Remember, also, that the summer of life will quickly fade; and that he who has reached the summit of the hill, has no time to lose--if he seize not the present moment, age is approaching, and life melting fast away.--I quit this, to state my second hypothesis--

'That you esteem and respect me, but that your heart has. .h.i.therto refused the sympathies I have sought to awaken in it. If this be the case, it remains to search for the reason; and, I own, I am at a loss to find it, either in moral, or physical, causes. Our principles are in unison, our tastes and habits not dissimilar, our knowledge of, and confidence in, each other's virtues is reciprocal, tried, and established--our ages, personal accomplishments, and mental acquirements do not materially differ. From such an union, I conceive, mutual advantages would result. I have found myself distinguished, esteemed, beloved by, others, where I have not sought for this distinction. How, then, can I believe it compatible with the nature of mind, that so many strong efforts, and reiterated impressions, can have produced no effect upon yours? Is your heart const.i.tuted differently from every other human heart?--I have lately observed an inequality in your behaviour, that has whispered something flattering to my heart. Examine yourself--Have you felt no peculiar interest in what concerns me--would the idea of our separation affect you with no more than a slight and common emotion?--One more question propose to yourself, as a test--Could you see me form a new, and more fortunate, attachment, with indifference? If you cannot, without hesitation, answer these questions, I have still a powerful pleader in your bosom, though unconscious of it yourself, that will, ultimately, prevail. If I have, yet, failed of producing an unequivocal effect, it must arise from having mistaken the _means_ proper to produce the desired _end_.

My own sensibility, and my imperfect knowledge of your character may, here, have combined to mislead me. The first, by its suffocating and depressing powers, clouding my vivacity, incapacitating me from appearing to you with my natural advantages--these effects would diminish as a.s.surance took the place of doubt. The last, every day would contribute to correct. Permit me, then, _to hope for_, as well as to seek your affections, and if I do not, at length, gain and secure them, it will be a phenomenon in the history of mind!

'But to proceed to my third supposition--The peculiar, pecuniary, embarra.s.sments of your situation--Good G.o.d!

did this barbarous, insidious, relation, allow himself to consider the pernicious consequences of his absurd bequest?--threatening to undermine every manly principle, to blast every social virtue? Oh! that I had the eloquence to rouse you from this tame and unworthy acquiescence--to stimulate you to exercise your talents, to trust to the independent energies of your mind, to exert yourself to procure the honest rewards of virtuous industry. In proportion as we lean for support on foreign aid, we lose the dignity of our nature, and palsey those powers which const.i.tute that nature's worth. Yet, I will allow, from my knowledge of your habits and a.s.sociations, this obstacle its full force. But there remains one method of obviating, even this! I will frankly confess, that could I hope to gain the interest in your heart, which I have so long and so earnestly sought--my confidence in your honour and integrity, my tenderness for you, added to the wish of contributing to your happiness, would effect, what no lesser considerations could have effected--would triumph, not over my principles, (_for the individuality of an affection const.i.tutes its chast.i.ty_) but over my prudence. I repeat, I am willing to sacrifice every inferior consideration--retain your legacy, so capriciously bequeathed--retain your present situation, and I will retain mine. This proposition, though not a violation of modesty, certainly involves in it very serious hazards--_It is, wholly, the triumph of affection!_ You cannot suppose, that a transient engagement would satisfy a mind like mine; I should require a reciprocal faith plighted and returned--an after separation, otherwise than by mutual consent, would be my destruction--I should not survive your desertion. My existence, then, would be in your hands. Yet, having once confided, your affection should be my recompence--my sacrifice should be a cheerful and a voluntary one; I would determine not to harra.s.s you with doubts nor jealousies, I would neither reflect upon the past, nor distrust the future: I would rest upon you, I would confide in you fearlessly and entirely! but, though I would not enquire after the past, my delicacy would require the a.s.surance of your present, undivided, affection.

'The fourth idea that has occurred to me, is the probability of your having formed a plan of seeking some agreeable woman of fortune, who should be willing to reward a man of merit for the injustice of society. Whether you may already have experienced some disappointments of this nature, I will not pretend to determine. I can conceive, that, by many women, a c.o.xcomb might be preferred to you--however this may be, the plan is not unattended with risque, nor with some possible degrading circ.u.mstances--and you may succeed, and yet be miserable: happiness depends not upon the abundance of our possessions.

'The last case which I shall state, and on which I shall lay little comparative stress, is the possibility of an engagement of a very inferior nature--a mere affair of the senses. The arguments which might here be adduced are too obvious to be repeated. Besides, I think highly of your refinement and delicacy--Having therefore just hinted, I leave it with you.

'And now to conclude--After considering all I have urged, you may, perhaps, reply--That the subject is too nice and too subtle for reasoning, and that the heart is not to be compelled. These, I think, are mistakes. There is no subject, in fact, that may not be subjected to the laws of investigation and reasoning. What is it that we desire--_pleasure_--_happiness_? I allow, pleasure is the supreme good: but it may be a.n.a.lyzed--it must have a stable foundation--to this a.n.a.lysis I now call you! This is the critical moment, upon which hangs a long chain of events--This moment may decide your future destiny and mine--it may, even, affect that of unborn myriads! My spirit is pervaded with these important ideas--my heart flutters--I breathe with difficulty--_My friend_--_I would give myself to you_--the gift is not worthless. Pause a moment, ere you rudely throw from you an affection so tried, so respectable, so worthy of you! The heart may be compelled--compelled by the touching sympathies which bind, with sacred, indissoluble ties, mind to mind! Do not prepare for yourself future remorse--when lost, you may recollect my worth, and my affection, and remember them with regret--Yet mistake me not, I have no intention to intimidate--I think it my duty to live, while I may possibly be useful to others, however bitter and oppressive may be that existence. I will live _for duty_, though peace and enjoyment should be for ever fled. You may rob me of my happiness, you may rob me of my strength, but, even, you cannot destroy my principles. And, if no other motive with-held me from rash determinations, my tenderness for you (it is not a selfish tenderness), would prevent me from adding, to the anxieties I have already given you, the cruel pang, of feeling yourself the occasion, however unintentionally, of the destruction of a fellow creature.

'While I await your answer, I summon to my heart all its remaining strength and spirits. Say to me, in clear and decisive terms, that the obstacles which oppose my affection _are absolutely, and altogether, insuperable_--Or that there is a possibility of their removal, but that time and patience are, yet, necessary to determine their force. In this case, I will not disturb the future operations of your mind, a.s.suring myself, that you will continue my suspence no longer than is proper and requisite--or frankly accept, and return, the faith of her to whom you are infinitely dearer than life itself!

'Early to-morrow morning, a messenger shall call for the paper, which is to decide the colour of my future destiny.

Every moment, that the blow has been suspended, it has acquired additional force--since it must, at length, descend, it would be weakness still to desire its protraction--We have, already, refined too much--_I promise to live--more, alas! I cannot promise_.

'_Farewel!_ dearest and most beloved of men--whatever may be my fate--_be happiness yours!_ Once more, my lingering, foreboding heart, repeats _farewel!_

'EMMA.'

It would be unnecessary to paint my feelings during the interval in which I waited a reply to this letter--I struggled to repress hope, and to prepare my mind for the dissolution of a thousand air-built fabrics.

The day wore tediously away in strong emotion, and strong exertion. On the subsequent morning, I sat, waiting the return of my messenger, in a state of mind, difficult even to be conceived--I heard him enter--breathless, I flew to meet him--I held out my hand--I could not speak.

'Mr Harley desired me to tell you, _he had not had time to write_.'

Gracious G.o.d! I shudder, even now, to recall the convulsive sensation! I sunk into a chair--I sat for some time motionless, every faculty seemed suspended. At length, returning to recollection, I wrote a short incoherent note, entreating--

'To be spared another day, another night, like the preceding--I asked only _one single line_! In the morning I had made up my mind to fort.i.tude--it was now sinking--another day, I could not answer for the consequences.'

Again an interval of suspense--again my messenger returned with a verbal reply--'_He would write to-morrow._' Unconsciously, I exclaimed--'_Barbarous, unfeeling, unpitying, man!_' A burst of tears relieved--no--_it did not relieve me_. The day pa.s.sed--I know not how--I dare not recollect.

The next morning, I arose, somewhat refreshed; my exhausted strength and spirits had procured me a few hours of profound slumber. A degree of resentment gave a temporary firmness to my nerves. 'What happiness (I repeated to myself) could I have expected with a man, thus regardless of my feelings?' I composed my spirits--_hope was at an end_--into a sort of sullen resignation to my fate--a half stupor!

At noon the letter arrived, coldly, confusedly written; methought there appeared even a degree of irritation in it.

'_Another, a prior attachment_--His behaviour had been such, as necessarily resulted from such an engagement--unavoidable circ.u.mstances had prevented an earlier reply.' My swollen heart--but it is enough--'He blamed my impatience--he would, in future, perhaps, when my mind had attained more composure, make some remarks on my letter.'

CHAPTER VIII

To write had always afforded a temporary relief to my spirits--The next day I resumed my pen.

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'If, after reflecting upon, and comparing, many parts of your past conduct, you can acquit yourself, at the sacred bar of humanity--it is well! How often have I called for--urged, with all the energy of truth and feeling--but in vain--such a letter as you have at length written--and, _even now_, though somewhat late, I thank you for it. Yet, what could have been easier, than to repeat so plain and so simple a tale? The vague hints, you had before given, I had repeatedly declared to be insufficient. Remember, all my earnestness, and all my simplicity, and _learn the value of sincerity_! "Oh! with what difficulty is an active mind, once forced into any particular train, persuaded to desert it as hopeless!"[12]

[Footnote 12: G.o.dwin's Caleb Williams.]

'This recital, then, was not to be confirmed, till the whole moral conformation of my mind was affected--till the barbed arrow had fixed, and rankled in, and poisoned, with its envenomed point, every vein, every fibre, of my heart. This, I confess, is now the case--Reason and self-respect sustain me--but the wound you have inflicted _is indelible_--it will continue to be the corroding canker at the root of my peace.

My youth has been worn in anguish--and the summer of life will probably be overshadowed by a still thicker and darker cloud. But I mean not to reproach you--it is not given me to contribute to your happiness--the dearest and most ardent wish of my soul--I would not then inflict unnecessary pain--yet, I would fix upon your mind, the value of _unequivocal sincerity_.