Memoirs of Emma Courtney Part 10

'I aspire to no higher t.i.tle than that of the most faithful of your friends, and the wish of becoming worthy of your esteem and confidence shall afford me a motive for improvement. I will learn of you moderation, equanimity, and self-command, and you will, perhaps, continue to afford me direction, and a.s.sistance, in the pursuit of knowledge and truth.

'I have laid down my pen, again and again, and still taken it up to add something more, from an anxiety, lest even you, of whose delicacy I have experienced repeated proofs, should misconstrue me.--"Oh! what a world is this!--into what false habits has it fallen! Can hypocrisy be virtue? Can a desire to call forth all the best affections of the heart, be misconstrued into something too degrading for expression?"[6]

But I will banish these apprehensions; I am convinced they are injurious.

'Yes!--I repeat it--I relinquish my pen with reluctance. A melancholy satisfaction, from what source I can scarcely define, diffuses itself through my heart while I unfold to you its emotions.--Write to me; be _ingenuous_; I desire, I call for, truth!

'EMMA.'

[Footnote 6: Holcroft's Anna St Ives.]

CHAPTER XXVI

I had not courage to make my friend a confident of the step I had taken; so wild, and so romantic, did it appear, even to myself--a false pride, a false shame, with-held me. I brooded in silence over the sentiment, that preyed on the bosom which cherished it. Every morning dawned with expectation, and every evening closed in disappointment. I walked daily to the post-office, with precipitate steps and a throbbing heart, to enquire for letters, but in vain; and returned slow, dejected, spiritless. _Hope_, one hour, animated my bosom and flushed my cheek; the next, pale despair shed its torpid influence through my languid frame. Inquietude, at length, gradually gave place to despondency, and I sunk into la.s.situde.

My studies no longer afforded me any pleasure. I turned over my books, incapable of fixing my attention; took out my drawings, threw them aside; moved, restless and dissatisfied, from seat to seat; sought, with unconscious steps, the library, and, throwing myself on the sopha, with folded arms, fixed my eyes on the picture of Augustus, which had lately been replaced, and sunk into waking dreams of ideal perfection and visionary bliss. I gazed on the lifeless features, engraven on my heart in colours yet more true and vivid--but where was the benignant smile, the intelligent glance, the varying expression? Where the pleasant voice, whose accents had been melody in my ear; that had cheered me in sadness, dispelled the vapours of distrust and melancholy, and awakened my emulation for science and improvement? Starting from a train of poignant and distressing emotions, I fled from an apartment once so dear, presenting now but the ghosts of departed pleasures--fled into the woods, and buried myself in their deepest recesses; or, shutting myself in my chamber, avoided the sight of my friend, whose dejected countenance but the more forcibly reminded me--

'That such things were, and were most dear.'

In this state of mind, looking one day over my papers, without any known end in view, I accidentally opened a letter from Mr Francis (with whom I still continued, occasionally, to correspond), which I had recently received. I eagerly seized, and re-perused, it. My spirits were weakened; the kindness which it expressed affected me--it touched my heart--it excited my tears. I determined instantly to reply to it, and to acknowledge my sense of his goodness.

My mind was overwhelmed with the pressure of its own thoughts; a gleam of joy darted through the thick mists that pervaded it; communication would relieve the burthen. I took up my pen; and, though I dared not betray the fatal secret concealed, as a sacred treasure, in the bottom of my heart, I yet gave a loose to, I endeavoured to paint, its sensations.

After briefly sketching the events that had driven me from Morton Park (of which I had not hitherto judged it necessary to inform him), without hinting the name of my deliverer, or suffering myself to dwell on the services he had rendered me, I mentioned my present temporary residence at the house of a friend, and expressed an impatience at my solitary, inactive, situation.

I went on--

'To what purpose should I trouble you with a thousand wayward, contradictory, ideas and emotions, that I am, myself, unable to disentangle--which have, perhaps, floated in every mind, that has had leisure for reflection--which are distinguished by no originality, and which I may express (though not feel) without force? I sought to cultivate my understanding, and exercise my reason, that, by adding variety to my resources, I might increase the number of my enjoyments: for _happiness_ is, surely, the only desirable _end_ of existence! But when I ask myself, Whether I am yet nearer to the end proposed?--I dare not deceive myself--sincerity obliges me to answer in the negative. I daily perceive the gay and the frivolous, among my s.e.x, amused with every pa.s.sing trifle; gratified by the insipid _routine_ of heartless, mindless, intercourse; fully occupied, alternately, by domestic employment, or the childish vanity of varying external ornaments, and "hanging drapery on a smooth block." I do not affect to despise, and I regularly practise, the necessary avocations of my s.e.x; neither am I superior to their vanities. The habits acquired by early precept and example adhere tenaciously; and are never, perhaps, entirely eradicated. But all these are insufficient to engross, to satisfy, the active, aspiring, mind. Hemmed in on every side by the const.i.tutions of society, and not less so, it may be, by my own prejudices--I perceive, indignantly perceive, the magic circle, without knowing how to dissolve the powerful spell. While men pursue interest, honor, pleasure, as accords with their several dispositions, women, who have too much delicacy, sense, and spirit, to degrade themselves by the vilest of all interchanges, remain insulated beings, and must be content tamely to look on, without taking any part in the great, though often absurd and tragical, drama of life. Hence the eccentricities of conduct, with which women of superior minds have been accused--the struggles, the despairing though generous struggles, of an ardent spirit, denied a scope for its exertions! The strong feelings, and strong energies, which properly directed, in a field sufficiently wide, might--ah! what might they not have aided? forced back, and pent up, ravage and destroy the mind which gave them birth!

'Yes, I confess, _I am unhappy_, unhappy in proportion as I believe myself (it may be, erringly) improved. Philosophy, it is said, should regulate the feelings, but it has added fervor to mine! What are pa.s.sions, but another name for powers? The mind capable of receiving the most forcible impressions is the sublimely improveable mind! Yet, into whatever trains such minds are accidentally directed, they are p.r.o.ne to enthusiasm, while the vulgar stupidly wonder at the effects of powers, to them wholly inconceivable: the weak and the timid, easily discouraged, are induced, by the first failure, to relinquish their pursuits. "They make the impossibility they fear!" But the bold and the persevering, from repeated disappointment, derive only new ardor and activity. "They conquer difficulties, by daring to attempt them."

'I feel, that I am writing in a desultory manner, that I am unable to crowd my ideas into the compa.s.s of a letter, and, that could I do so, I should perhaps only weary you. There are but few persons to whom I would venture to complain, few would understand, and still fewer sympathise with me. You are in health, they would say, in the spring of life, have every thing supplied you without labour (so much the worse) nature, reason, open to you their treasures! All this is, partly, true--but, with inexpressible yearnings, my soul pants for something more, something higher! The morning rises upon me with sadness, and the evening closes with disgust--Imperfection, uncertainty, is impressed on every object, on every pursuit! I am either restless or torpid, I seek to-day, what to-morrow, wearies and offends me.

'I entered life, flushed with hope--I have proceeded but a few steps, and the parterre of roses, viewed in distant prospect, nearer seen, proves a brake of thorns. The few worthy persons I have known appear, to me, to be struggling with the same half suppressed emotions.--Whence is all this?

Why is intellect and virtue so far from conferring happiness?

Why is the active mind a prey to the incessant conflict between truth and error? Shall I look beyond the disorders which, _here_, appear to me so inexplicable?--shall I expect, shall I demand, from the inscrutable Being to whom I owe my existence, in future unconceived periods, the _end_ of which I believe myself capable, and which capacity, like a tormenting _ignis fatuus_, has. .h.i.therto served only to torture and betray? The animal rises up to satisfy the cravings of nature, and lies down to repose, undisturbed by care--has man superior powers, only to make him pre-eminently wretched?--wretched, it seems to me, in proportion as he rises? a.s.sist me, in disentangling my bewildered ideas--write to me--reprove me--spare me not!

'EMMA.'

To this letter I quickly received a kind and consolatory reply, though not unmingled with the reproof I called for. It afforded me but a temporary relief, and I once more sunk into inanity; my faculties rusted for want of exercise, my reason grew feeble, and my imagination morbid.

CHAPTER XXVII

A pacquet of letters, at length, arrived from London--Mrs Harley, with a look that seemed to search the soul, put one into my hands--The superscription bore the well known characters--yes, it was from Augustus, and addressed to Emma--I ran, with it, into my chamber, locked myself in, tore it almost asunder with a tremulous hand, perused its contents with avidity--scarce daring to respire--I reperused it again and again.

'I had trusted my confessions' (it said) 'to one who had made the human heart his study, who could not be affected by them improperly. It spoke of the illusions of the pa.s.sions--of the false and flattering medium through which they presented objects to our view. He had answered my letter earlier, had it not involved him in too many thoughts to do it with ease. There was a great part of it to which he knew not how to reply--perhaps, on some subjects, it was not necessary to be explicit. And now, it may be, he had better be silent--he was dissatisfied with what he had written, but, were he to write again, he doubted if he should please himself any better.--He was highly flattered by the favourable opinion I entertained of him, it was a grateful proof, not of his merit, but of the warmth of my friendship, &c. &c.'

This letter appeared to me vague, obscure, enigmatical. Unsatisfied, disappointed, I felt, I had little to hope--and, yet, had no _distinct_ ground of fear. I brooded over it, I tortured its meaning into a hundred forms--I spake of it to my friend, but in general terms, in which she seemed to acquiesce: she appeared to have made a determination, not to enquire after what I was unwilling to disclose; she wholly confided both in my principles, and in those of her son: I was wounded by what, entangled in prejudice, I conceived to be a necessity for this reserve.

Again I addressed the man, whose image, in the absence of all other impressions, I had suffered to gain in my mind this dangerous ascendency.

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'I, once more, take up my pen with a mind so full of thought, that I foresee I am about to trespa.s.s on your time and patience--yet, perhaps, to one who makes "the human heart his study," it may not be wholly uninteresting to trace a faithful delineation of the emotions and sentiments of an ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind--a mind formed by solitude, and habits of reflection, to some strength of character.

'If to have been more guarded and reserved would have been more discreet, I have already forfeited all claim to this discretion--to affect it now, would be vain, and, by pursuing a middle course, I should resign the only advantage I may ever derive from my sincerity, the advantage of expressing my thoughts and feelings with freedom.

'The conduct, which I have been led to adopt, has been the result of a combination of peculiar circ.u.mstances, _and is not what I would recommend to general imitation_--To say nothing of the hazards it might involve, I am aware, generally speaking, arguments might be adduced, to prove, that certain customs, of which I, yet, think there is reason to complain, may not have been unfounded in nature--I am led to speak thus, because I am not willing to spare myself, but would alledge all which you might have felt inclined to hint, had you not been with-held by motives of delicate consideration.

'Of what then, you may ask, do I complain?--Not of the laws of nature! But when mind has given dignity to natural affections; when reason, culture, taste, and delicacy, have combined to chasten, to refine, to exalt (shall I say) to sanct.i.ty them--Is there, then, no cause to complain of rigor and severity, that such minds must either pa.s.sively submit to a vile traffic, or be content to relinquish all the endearing sympathies of life? Nature has formed woman peculiarly susceptible of the tender affections. "The voice of nature is too strong to be silenced by artificial precepts." To feel these affections in a supreme degree, a mind enriched by literature and expanded by fancy and reflection, is necessary--for it is intellect and imagination only, that can give energy and interest to--

"The thousand soft sensations-- Which vulgar souls want faculties to taste, Who take their good and evil in the gross."

'I wish we were in the vehicular state, and that you understood the sentient language;[7] you might then comprehend the whole of what I mean to express, but find too delicate for _words_. But I do you injustice.

[Footnote 7: See Light of Nature pursued. An entertaining philosophical work.]

'If the affections are, indeed, generated by sympathy, where the principles, pursuits, and habits, are congenial--where the _end_, sought to be attained, is--

"Something, than beauty dearer,"

'You may, perhaps, agree with me, that it is almost indifferent on which side the sentiment originates. Yet, I confess, my frankness has involved me in many after thoughts and inquietudes; inquietudes, which all my reasoning is, at times, insufficient to allay. The shame of being singular, it has been justly observed,[8] requires strong principles, and much native firmness of temper, to surmount.--Those who deviate from the beaten track must expect to be entangled in the thicket, and wounded by many a thorn--my wandering feet have already been deeply pierced.

[Footnote 8: Aikin's Letters.]

'I should vainly attempt to describe the struggles, the solicitudes, the doubts, the apprehensions, that alternately rend my heart! I feel, that I have "put to sea upon a shattered plank, and placed my trust in miracles for safety." I dread, one moment, lest, in attempting to awaken your tenderness, I may have forfeited your respect; the next, that I have mistaken a delusive meteor for the sober light of reason. In retirement, numberless contradictory emotions revolve in my disturbed mind:--in company, I start and shudder from accidental allusions, in which no one but myself could trace any application. The end of doubt is the beginning of repose. Say, then, to me, that it is a principle in human nature, however ungenerous, to esteem lightly what may be attained without difficulty.--Tell me to make distinctions between love and friendship, of which I have, hitherto, been able to form no idea.--Say, that the former is the caprice of fancy, founded on external graces, to which I have little pretension, and that it is vain to pretend, that--

"Truth and good are one, And beauty dwells with them."

'Tell me, that I have indulged too long the wild and extravagant chimeras of a romantic imagination. Let us walk together into the palace of Truth, where (it is fancifully related by an ingenious writer,[9] that) every one was compelled by an irresistible, controuling, power, to reveal his inmost sentiments! All this I will bear, and will still respect your integrity, and confide in your principles; but I can no longer sustain a suspense that preys upon my spirits. It is not the Book of Fate--it is your mind, only, I desire to read. A sickly apprehension overspreads my heart--I pause here, unable to proceed.'

'EMMA.'

[Footnote 9: Madame de Genlis's Tales of the Castle.]