 | CHAPTER XXIII. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
Move on, my quill! wait not for my guidance. Reanimated
with thy master's spirit, all-airy light! An
hey day rapture! A mounting impulse sways him: lifts
him from the earth.
I must, cost what it will, rein in this upward-pulling,
forward-urging—what shall I call it? But there
are times, and now is one of them, when words are
poor.
It will not do—Down this hill, up that steep; thro'
this thicket, over that hedge—I have labored to fatigue
myself: To reconcile me to repose; to lolling on
a sofa; to poring over a book, to any thing that might
win for my heart a respite from these throbs; to deceive
me into a few tolerable moments of forgetfulness.
Let me see: they tell me this is Monday night.
Only three days yet to come! If thus restless to day;
if my heart thus bounds till its mansion scarcely can
hold it, what must be my state to morrow! What next
day! What as the hour hastens on; as the sun descends;
as my hand touches her in sign of wedded
unity, of love without interval; of concord without
end.
I must quell these tumults. They will disable me
else. They will wear out all my strength. They will
So soon! Not three months since I first set eyes upon
her. Not three weeks since our plighted love, and only
three days to terminate suspense and give me all.
I must compel myself to quiet: to sleep. I must
find some refuge from anticipations so excruciating.
All extremes are agonies. A joy like this is too big
for this narrow tenement. I must thrust it forth; I
must bar and bolt it out for a time, or these frail walls
will burst asunder. The pen is a pacifyer. It checks
the mind's career; it circumscribes her wanderings.
It traces out, and compels us to adhere to one path.
It ever was my friend. Often it has blunted my vexations;
hushed my stormy passions; turned my peevishness
to soothing; my fierce revenge to heart-dissolving
pity.
Perhaps it will befriend me now. It may temper my
impetuous wishes; lull my intoxication: and render
my happiness supportable: And, indeed, it has produced
partly this effect already. My blood, within
the few minutes thus employed, flows with less destructive
rapidity. My thoughts range themselves in less
disorder—And now that the conquest is effected, what
shall I say? I must continue at the pen, or shall immediately
relapse.
What shall I say? Let me look back upon the steps
that led me hither. Let me recount preliminaries. I
cannot do better.
And first as to Achsa Fielding—to describe this
woman.
To recount, in brief, so much of her history as has
come to my knowledge, will best account for that zeal,
almost to idolatry, with which she has, ever since I
thoroughly knew her, been regarded by me.
Never saw I one to whom the term lovely more truly
belonged: And yet, in stature she is too low; in complection,
dark and almost sallow; and her eyes, though
black and of piercing lustre, has a cast, which I cannot
well explain. It lessens without destroying their lustre
and their force to charm; but all personal defects are
the secret of her power to entrance the soul of the listener
and beholder. It is not only when she sings that
her utterance is musical. It is not only when the occasion
is urgent and the topic momentous that her eloquence
is rich and flowing. They are always so.
I had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her
frequent visitant, long before I was acquainted with
her past life. I had casually picked up some intelligence,
from others, or from her own remarks. I knew
very soon that she was English by birth, and had been
only a year and an half in America; that she had
scarcely passed her twenty-fifth year, and was still embellished
with all the graces of youth; that she had
been a wife; but was uninformed whether the knot
had been untied by death or divorce: That she possessed
considerable, and even splendid fortune; but the
exact amount, and all beside these particulars, were
unknown to me till some time after our acquaintance
was begun.
One evening, she had been talking very earnestly on
the influence annexed, in Great Britain, to birth, and
had given me some examples of this influence. Meanwhile,
my eyes were fixed steadfastly on hers. The
peculiarity in their expression never before affected me
so strongly. A vague resemblance to something seen
elsewhere, on the same day, occurred, and occasioned
me to exclaim, suddenly in a pause of her discourse—
As I live, my good mamma, those eyes of yours have
told me a secret. I almost think they spoke to me;
and I am not less amazed at the strangeness than at the
distinctness of their story.
And pry'thee what have they said?
Perhaps I was mistaken. I might have been deceived
by a fancied voice, or have confounded one word with
another near akin to it; but let me die, if I did not
think they said that you were—a few.
At this sound, her features were instantly veiled with
the deepest sorrow and confusion. She put her hand to
her eyes, the tears started and she sobbed. My surprise
I besought her to pardon me, for having thus
unknowingly, alarmed and grieved her.
After she had regained some composure, she said,
you have not offended, Arthur. Your surmise was just
and natural, and could not always have escaped you.
Connected with that word are many sources of anguish,
which time has not, and never will, dry up; and the less
I think of past events, the less will my peace be disturbed.
I was desirous that you should know nothing
of me, but what you see; nothing but the present and
the future, merely that no allusions might occur in our
conversation, which will call up sorrows and regrets
that will avail nothing.
I now perceive the folly of endeavoring to keep you
in ignorance, and shall therefore, once for all, inform
you of what has befallen me, that your enquiries and
suggestions may be made, and fully satisfied at once,
and your curiosity have no motive for calling back
my thoughts to what I ardently desire to bury in oblivion.
My father was indeed a jew, and one of the most
opulent of his nation in London. A Portuguese by
birth, but came to London when a boy. He had few
of the moral or external qualities of jews. For I suppose
there is some justice in the obloquy that follows
them so closely. He was frugal without meanness, and
cautious in his dealings, without extortion. I need not
fear to say this, for it was the general voice.
Me, an only child, and of course, the darling of my
parents, they trained up in the most liberal manner.
My education was purely English. I learned the same
things and of the same masters with my neighbors. Except
frequenting their church and repeating their creed,
and partaking of the same food, I saw no difference between
them and me. Hence I grew more indifferent,
perhaps, than was proper to the distinctions of religion.
They were never enforced upon me. No pains were
taken to fill me with scruples and antipathies. They
never stood, as I may say, upon the threshold: They
eluded or forgotten.
Hence it was that my heart too readily admitted impressions,
that more zeal and more parental caution
would have saved me from. They could scarcely be
avoided, as my society was wholly English; and my
youth, my education and my father's wealth made me
an object of much attention. And the same causes
that lulled to sleep my own watchfulness, had the same
effect upon that of others. To regret or to praise this
remissness, is now too late. Certain it is, that my destiny,
and not a happy destiny, was fixed by it.
The fruit of this remissness was a passion for one,
who fully returned it. Almost as young as I, who was
only sixteen; he knew as little as myself, what obstacles
the difference of our births was likely to raise between
us. His father, Sir Ralph Fielding, a man nobly
born, high in office, splendidly allied, could not be
expected to consent to the marriage of his eldest son,
in such green youth, to the daughter of an alien, a Portuguese,
a Jew; but these impediments were not seen
by my ignorance, and were overlooked by the youth's
passion.
But strange to tell, what common prudence would
have so confidently predicted, did not happen. Sir
Ralph had a numerous family, likely to be still more
so; had but slender patrimony: the income of his offices
nearly made up his all. The young man was headstrong,
impetuous, and would probably disregard the
inclinations of his family. Yet the father would not
consent but on one condition, that of my admission to
the English church.
No very strenuous opposition to these terms could be
expected from me. At so thoughtless an age, with an
education so unfavorable to religious impressions; swayed
likewise, by the strongest of human passions; made
somewhat impatient by the company I kept, of the disrepute
and scorn to which the Jewish nation are every
where condemned, I could not be expected to be very
averse to the scheme.
My fears, as to what my father's decision would be,
were soon at an end. He loved his child too well to
thwart her wishes in so essential a point. Finding in
me no scruples, no unwillingness, he thought it absurd
to be scrupulous for me. My own heart having abjured
my religion, it was absurd to make any difficulty about
a formal renunciation. These were his avowed reasons
for concurrence, but time shewed that he had probably
other reasons, founded, indeed, in his regard for my
happiness, but such, as if they had been known, would
probably have strengthened into invincible, the reluctance
of my lover's family.
No marriage was ever attended with happier presages.
The numerous relations of my husband, admitted
me with the utmost cordiality, among them. My
father's tenderness was unabated by this change, and
those humiliations to which I had before been exposed,
were now no more; and every tie was strengthened, at
the end of a year, by the feelings of a mother. I had
need, indeed, to know a season of happiness, that I
might be fitted to endure the sad reverses that succeeded.
One after the other my disasters came, each one
more heavy than the last, and in such swift succession,
that they hardly left me time to breathe.
I had scarcely left my chamber, I had scarcely recovered
my usual health, and was able to press with true
fervor, the new and precious gift to my bosom, when
melancholy tidings came—I was in the country, at the
seat of my father-in-law, when the messenger arrived.
A shocking tale it was! and told abruptly, with
every unpitying aggravation. I hinted to you once, my
father's death. The kind of death—O! my friend! It
was horrible. He was then a placid venerable old man;
though many symptoms of disquiet had long before
been discovered by my mother's watchful tenderness.
Yet none could suspect him capable of such a deed;
for none, so carefully had he conducted his affairs, suspected
the havock that mischance had made of his property.
I, that had so much reason to love my father—I will
leave you to imagine how I was affected by a catastrophe
so dreadful, so unlooked-for. Much less could I
suspect the cause of his despair; yet he had foreseen
his ruin before my marriage; had resolved to defer it
for his daughter's and his wife's sake, as long as possible,
but had still determined not to survive the day
that should reduce him to indigence. The desperate
act was thus preconcerted—thus deliberate.
The true state of his affairs was laid open by his
death. The failure of great mercantile houses at
Frankfort and Liege was the cause of his disasters.
Thus were my prospects shut in. That wealth, which
no doubt, furnished the chief inducement with my husband's
family to concur in his choice, was now suddenly
exchanged for poverty.
Bred up, as I had been, in pomp and luxury; conscious
that my wealth was my chief security from the
contempt of the proud and bigotted, and my chief title
to the station to which I had been raised, and which I
the more delighted in because it enabled me to confer
so great obligations on my husband. What reverse
could be harder than this, and how much bitterness
was added by it to the grief, occasioned by the violent
end of my father!
Yet, loss of fortune, though it mortified my pride,
did not prove my worst calamity. Perhaps it was
scarcely to be ranked with evils, since it furnished a
touchstone by which my husband's affections were to
be tried; especially as the issue of the trial was auspicious;
for my misfortune seemed only to heighten the
interest which my character had made for me in the
hearts of all that knew me. The paternal regards of
Sir Ralph had always been tender, but that tenderness
seemed now to be redoubled.
New events made this consolation still more necessary.
My unhappy mother!—She was nearer to the
dreadful scene when it happened. Had no surviving
object to beguile her sorrow; was rendered, by long
habit, more dependent upon fortune than her child.
A melancholy always mute was the first effect upon
my mother. Nothing could charm her eye, or her ear.
Sweet sounds that she once loved, and especially when
her darling child was the warbler, were heard no longer.
How, with streaming eyes, have I sat and watched the
dear lady, and endeavored to catch her eye, to rouse
her attention!—But I must not think of these things.
But even this distress was little in comparison with
what was to come. A frenzy thus mute, motionless
and vacant, was succeeded by fits, talkative, outrageous,
requiring incessant superintendance, restraint, and
even violence.
Why led you me thus back to my sad remembrances?
Excuse me for the present. I will tell you the rest
some other time; to-morrow.
To-morrow, accordingly, my friend resumed her
story.
Let me now make an end, said she, of my mournful
narrative, and never, I charge you, do any thing to revive
it again.
Deep as was my despondency, occasioned by these
calamities, I was not destitute of some joy. My husband
and my child were lovely and affectionate. In
their caresses, in their welfare, I found peace; and
might still have found it, had there not been—But
why should I open afresh, wounds which time has imperfectly
closed? But the story must have sometime been
told to you, and the sooner it is told and dismissed to
forgetfulness, the better.
My ill fate led me into company with a woman too
well known in the idle and dissipated circles. Her
character was not unknown to me. There was nothing
in her features or air to obviate disadvantageous
prepossessions. I sought not her intercourse; I rather
shunned it, as unpleasing and discreditable, but she
would not be repulsed. Self invited, she made herself
my frequent guest; took unsolicited part in my concerns;
did me many kind offices; and, at length, in
spite of my counter inclination, won upon my sympathy
and gratitude.
No one in the world, did I fondly think, had I less
reason to fear than Mrs. Waring. Her character excited
not the slightest apprehension for my own safety.
She was upwards of forty, no wise remarkable for
grace or beauty; tawdry in her dress; accustomed to
render more conspicuous the traces of age by her attempts
to hide them; the mother of a numerous family,
with a mind but slenderly cultivated; always careful
too to save appearances; studiously preserving distance
with my husband, and he, like myself, enduring,
rather than wishing her society. What could I fear
from the arts of such an one?
But alas! the woman had consummate address.—
Patience too, that nothing could tire. Watchfulness
that none could detect. Insinuation the wiliest and
most subtle. Thus wound she herself into my affections,
by an unexampled perseverance in seeming kindness;
by tender confidence; by artful glosses of past
misconduct; by self-rebukes and feigned contritions.
Never were stratagems so intricate, dissimulation so
profound! But still, that such an one should seduce my
husband; young; generous; ambitious; impatient
of contumely and reproach, and surely not indifferent;
before this fatal intercourse, not indifferent to his wife
and child!—Yet, so it was!
I saw his discontents; his struggles; I heard him
curse this woman, and the more deeply for my attempts,
unconscious as I was of her machinations, to reconcile
them to each other, to do away what seemed a causeless
indignation, or antipathy against her. How little I
suspected the nature of the conflict in his heart, between
a new passion and the claims of pride; of conscience
and of humanity; the claims of a child and a
wife; a wife already in affliction, and placing all that
yet remained of happiness, in the firmness of his virtue;
in the continuance of his love; a wife, at the
very hour of his meditated flight, full of terrors at the
near approach of an event, whose agonies demand a
double share of an husband's supporting; encouraging
love—
Good Heaven! For what evils are some of thy creatures
reserved! Resignation to thy decree, in the last,
and most cruel distress, was, indeed, an hard task.
He was gone. Some unavoidable engagement calling
him to Hamburgh was pleaded. Yet to leave me
at such an hour! I dared not upbraid, nor object. The
tale was so specious! The fortunes of a friend depended
on his punctual journey. The falsehood of his story
too soon made itself known. He was gone, in company
with his detested paramour!
Yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it
was not so with others. A creditor, who had his bond
for three thousand pounds, pursued, and arrested him at
Harwich. He was thrown into prison, but his companion,
let me, at least, say that in her praise, would
not desert him. She took lodging near the place of his
confinement, and saw him daily. That, had she not
done it, and had my personal condition allowed, should
have been my province.
Indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis with
me. I did not weep that the second fruit of this unhappy
union saw not the light. I wept only that this
hour of agony, was not, to its unfortunate mother, the
last.
I felt not anger; I had nothing but compassion for
Fielding. Gladly would I have recalled him to my
arms and to virtue: I wrote, adjuring him by all our
past joys, to return; vowing only gratitude for his
new affection, and claiming only the recompence of seeing
him restored to his family; to liberty; to reputation.
But alas! Fielding had a good, but a proud, heart.
He looked upon his error with remorse; with self-detestation,
and with the fatal belief that it could not be
retrieved; shame made him withstand all my reasonings
and persuasions, and in the hurry of his feelings,
he made solemn vows that he would, in the moment of
restored liberty, abjure his country and his family forever.
He bore indignantly the yoke of his new attachment,
but he strove in vain to shake it off. Her
him in her fetters. Though upbraided, spurned
and banished from his presence, she would not leave
him, but by new efforts and new artifices, soothed, appeased,
and won again, and kept his tenderness.
What my entreaties were unable to effect, his father
could not hope to accomplish. He offered to take him
from prison; the creditor offered to cancel the bond,
if he would return to me; but this condition he refused.
All his kindred, and one who had been his bosom
friend from childhood, joined in beseeching his compliance
with these conditions; but his pride, his dread of
my merited reproaches; the merits and dissuasions of
his new companion, whose sacrifices for his sake had
not been small, were obstacles which nothing could
subdue.
Far, indeed, was I from imposing these conditions.
I waited only till, by certain arrangements, I could
gather enough to pay his debts, to enable him to execute
his vow; empty would have been my claims to his affection,
if I could have suffered, with the means of his
deliverance in my hands, my husband to remain a moment
in prison.
The remains of my father's vast fortune, was a jointure
of a thousand pounds a year, settled on my mother,
and after her death, on me. My mother's helpless condition
put this revenue into my disposal. By this
means was I enabled, without the knowledge of my
father-in-law, or my husband, to purchase the debt,
and dismiss him from prison. He set out instantly, in
company with his paramour, to France.
When somewhat recovered from the shock of this
calamity, I took up my abode with my mother. What
she had was enough, as you, perhaps, will think, for
plentiful subsistence, but to us, with habits of a different
kind, it was little better than poverty. That
reflection, my father's memory, my mother's deplorable
state, which every year grew worse, and the late misfortune,
were the chief companions of my thoughts.
The dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by
his mother's afflictions, was some consolation in my solitude.
To his instruction and to my mother's wants, all my
hours were devoted. I was sometimes not without the
hope of better days. Full as my mind was of Fielding's
merits, convinced by former proofs of his ardent
and generous spirit, I trusted that time and reflection
would destroy that spell by which he was now
bound.
For some time, the progress of these reflections was
not known. In leaving England, Fielding dropped all
correspondence and connection with his native country.
He parted with the woman at Rouen, leaving no trace
behind him by which she might follow him, as she
wished to do. She never returned to England, but died
a twelve month afterwards in Switzerland.
As to me, I had only to muse day and night upon
the possible destiny of this beloved fugitive. His incensed
father cared not for him. He had cast him out
of his paternal affections, ceased to make enquiries respecting
him, and even wished never to hear of him
again. My boy succeeded to my husband's place in his
grand-father's affections, and in the hopes and views of
the family; and his mother wanted nothing which their
compassionate and respectful love could bestow.
Three long and tedious years passed away, and no
tidings were received. Whether he were living or
dead, nobody could tell. At length, an English traveller,
going out of the customary road from Italy, met
with Fielding, in a town in the Venaissin. His manners,
habit and language, had become French. He
seemed unwilling to be recognized by an old acquaintance,
but not being able to avoid this, and becoming
gradually familiar, he informed the traveller of many
particulars in his present situation. It appeared that
he had made himself useful to a neighboring Seigneur,
in whose chateau he had long lived on the footing of a
brother. France he had resolved to make his future
country, and among other changes for that end, he had
laid aside his English name, and taken that of his patron,
himself for all other privations, by devoting
himself to rural amusements and to study.
He carefully shunned all enquiries respecting me,
but when my name was mentioned by his friend, who
knew well all that had happened, and my general welfare,
together with that of his son, asserted, he shewed
deep sensibility, and even consented that I should be
made acquainted with his situation.
I cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on
me. My hopes of bringing him back to me, were suddenly
revived. I wrote him a letter, in which I poured
forth my whole heart; but his answer contained avowals
of all his former resolutions, to which time had only
made his adherence more easy. A second and third
letter were written, and an offer made to follow him to
his retreat, and share his exile; but all my efforts
availed nothing. He solemnly and repeatedly renounced
all the claims of an husband over me, and absolved
me from every obligation as a wife.
His part in this correspondence, was performed without
harshness or contempt. A strange mixture there
was of pathos and indifference; of tenderness and resolution.
Hence I continually derived hope, which
time, however, brought no nearer to certainty.
At the opening of the revolution, the name of Perrin
appeared among the deputies to the constituent assembly,
for the district in which he resided. He had thus
succeeded in gaining all the rights of a French citizen;
and the hopes of his return became almost extinct; but
that, and every other hope, respecting him, has since
been totally extinguished by his marriage with Marguerite
D'Almont, a young lady of great merit and
fortune, and a native of Avignon.
A long period of suspence was now at an end, and
left me in a state almost as full of anguish as that which
our first separation produced. My sorrows were increased
by my mother's death, and this incident freeing
me from those restraints upon my motions which before
existed, I determined to come to America.
My son was now eight years old, and his grandfather
claiming the province of his instruction, I was
persuaded to part with him, that he might be sent to a
distant school. Thus was another tie removed, and in
spite of the well meant importunities of my friends, I
persisted in my scheme of crossing the ocean.
I could not help, at this part of her narration, expressing
my surprise, that any motives were strong
enough to recommend this scheme.
It was certainly a freak of despair. A few months
would, perhaps, have allayed the fresh grief, and reconciled
me to my situation; but I would not pause or deliberate.
My scheme was opposed by my friends, with
great earnestness. During my voyage, affrighted by
the dangers which surrounded me, and to which I was
wholly unused, I heartily repented of my resolution;
but now, methinks, I have reason to rejoice at my perseverance.
I have come into a scene and society so
new, I have had so many claims made upon my ingenuity
and fortitude, that my mind has been diverted in
some degree from former sorrows. There are even
times when I wholly forget them, and catch myself indulging
in cheerful reveries.
I have often reflected with surprise on the nature of
my own mind. It is eight years since my father's violent
death. How few of my hours since that period,
have been blessed with serenity! How many nights
and days, in hateful and lingering succession, have been
bathed in tears and tormented with regrets! That I
am still alive with so many causes of death, and with
such a slow consuming malady, is surely to be wondered
at.
I believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in
grief, are solitude and idleness. The same eternally
occurring round of objects, feeds his disease, and the
effects of mere vacancy and uniformity, is sometimes
mistaken for those of grief. Yes, I am glad I came to
America. My relations are importunate for my return,
and till lately, I had some thoughts of it; but I think
now, I shall stay where I am, for the rest of my days.
Since I arrived, I am become more of a student than
I used to be. I always loved literature, but never, till
of late, had a mind enough at ease, to read with advantage.
I now find pleasure in the occupation which I
never expected to find.
You see in what manner I live. The letters which I
brought secured me a flattering reception from the best
people in your country; but scenes of gay resort had
nothing to attract me, and I quickly withdrew to that
seclusion in which you now find me. Here, always at
leisure, and mistress of every laudable means of gratification,
I am not without the belief of serene days yet
to come.
I now ventured to enquire what were her latest tidings
of her husband.
At the opening of the revolution, I told you he became
a champion of the people. By his zeal and his efforts
he acquired such importance as to be deputed to
the National Assembly. In this post he was the adherent
of violent measures, till the subversion of monarchy;
and then, when too late for his safety, he checked
his career.
And what has since become of him?
She sighed deeply. You were yesterday reading a
list of the proscribed under Robespierre. I checked
you. I had good reason. But this subject grows too
painful, let us change it.
Some time after I ventured to renew this topic;
and discovered that Fielding, under his new name of
Perrin d'Almont, was among the outlawed deputies of
last year[1]
, and had been slain in resisting the officers,
sent to arrest him. My friend had been informed that
his wife Philippine d'Almont, whom she had reason to
believe, a woman of great merit, had eluded persecution,
and taken refuge in some part of America. She
had made various attempts, but in vain, to find out her
retreat. Ah! said I, you must commission me to find
her. I will hunt her through the continent from Penobscot
to Savanna. I will not leave a nook unsearched.
| CHAPTER XXIII. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |