 | Randolph |  |
EDWARD MOLTON TO EMMA RANDALL
Read this alone, and where it is not possible for you
to be interrupted. I hardly know how to address you,
and yet I feel an insupportable anxiety to be thoroughly
understood, before I leave you, perhaps, forever. You
will be surprised, I know you will, at my writing you;—
but how else could I communicate with you? You are
who are, and ought to be most dear to you, but still, you
are too narrowly watched, to afford any person, and particularly
me, an opportunity of unreserved and uninterrupted
conversation with you, upon any interesting subject.
I had determined, when I came here, to observe you
closely---narrowly, but secretly;—to make myself master
of your character; and, if possible, of your most hidden
thought. In some measure, I have succeeded, and
yet---on the very point, where I feel the deepest interest,
I am still in doubt. You only can satisfy me---to you
then, I appeal.
I did intend, too, to be watchful of myself; never to be
thrown off my guard; to be discreet and reserved. But
I could not---I cannot be such a hypocrite. You have
prevailed; I am about to leave you, and I cannot, will
not lose you, forever, without making one effort to preserve
you---without first proving to you that I know your
value. You think that I overrate it. You are mistaken.
I do not. I know you as you are---as you were, and as
you will be. I cannot be deceived. For more than two
years, your character has been my study---my companion
---my support and impulse.[1]
This is the truth.
I am frank---perhaps too frank;---but you must not be
offended. It would be unworthy of you. I should deserve
to be despised, derided, trampled on, were I the
dastard to conceal such a passion as this, where I have
so much at stake; and you will not, from affectation, the
miserable prudery of your sex, feel offended at the declaration
of one, who, whatever may be his faults, has manhood
enough to speak as he feels.
Another thing, I had determined on, not resolutely,
but in some measure. It was to treat you as the wife of
another. It was in vain. You are not the wife of another,
and I cannot so treat you, until you are so indeed,
and beyond, forever beyond, my reach.
I did determine too,—and I mention these things, that
you may understand how feeble, how very feeble our best
resolutions are, where passion is not prevented from laying
her hand upon them—I did determine never to say
“I love,” to any being on earth, until I was certain that
she would reply---“I love.” That too, is done with.---
I shall break my promise, and when I do, I know that I
shall have risked enduring the keenest, the most deadly
humiliation, that such a spirit as mine can ever endure.
You, my dear friend (you must permit me to call you
so)---regarding yourself as already engaged, are struggling
to believe that the man, to whom you are engaged, is
your husband. Emma, I tremble for you. He is not---and
possibly never may be. And what is the engagement?---
is it marriage?---no. It is an understanding, that, if
your affections are unchanged;---if both continue to find
none whom they love better;---if both continue to feel, as
during the first impulse of youthful affection, then---both
shall be married together. And that is all. Therefore,
if you love Mr. G. and he be, indeed, the man who deserves
you;---if he be the creature, not of romance, or
poetry, but of that towering elevation in real life, which
must be the characteristick of your companion;---if he be
so made, so fashioned, as to receive and communicate impulses,
that shall outlast this life;---in short, if he be the
man, who is to be your husband, and who deserves to be,
then must he glory in exposing you to competition. If
he tremble---he is unworthy of you. If he complain,
though his heart break under the disappointment, he is
not the man to whom you must look for counsel, comfort
and greatness. For, is it not better to lose the woman
of your heart, than to have her marry you, with abated
affection, merely from a sense of duty, or propriety? Yes
---he who wins you, must be willing to prove his confidence
in you and himself, by arraying himself against
the whole world, if it will enter the list for you. Emma!---this
is not declamation. It is what I feel. I could
do all this;---nay, I would do it. I am doing, therefore,
as I would be done by; and if Mr. G. be the man that I delight
in believing him (for I would have no humble com
result.
Now then, I give you a proof of it. I throw myself on
your generosity.—I forget all my pride—I declare to
you that I love you—that I have long loved you;—that I
have never so loved any other woman—never felt for
another, so much of what I would pray to feel, for the
future companion of my life, here and hereafter—tenderness,
admiration and respect. You are already what I
would have you be, so far as your character is developed;
and you will be, all that I would hope to deserve. I
am sure of it. For myself, I am, whatever I am, chiefly
on your account.[2]
I would be worthy of you. There is
my proof. I address you as my equal. Do not believe that
I am about asking any sacrifice, on your part, at this time.
Indeed, I am not. It is all on mine. All that I ask is this.
If you believe that I may become worthy of what I aspire
to, think of me, and direct me. What I can be, I will be
for your sake. Mould me to your purpose. I know
what I say. I do not fear to say, that I will become
what you would wish me to be; because, I know that you
would never humble me in my own eyes; that you would
never request, what it would be unworthy in me to grant,
or you to receive.
Again, I say—Do not believe that I am aiming to entangle
you in contradictory engagements. No—I would
sooner perish. Nor, would I, were I sure that you loved
another, were I convinced that you so loved him, as with
all your boundless capacity of devotion, you are qualified
to love, would I open my mouth to you on the subject.—Indeed,
the hour that so convinced me, would be the last
of our communion. I would leave you forever; I would
never meet you again, never!
As it is, then, I have my doubts. They are not the
doubts of others; they are my own, firm observation of
my own. I care not what Mr. Stonebridge says, or
others. They cannot understand you, or me. You are
not made for an ostentatious display of affection.—
Yours is silent, holy, unobtrusive and mysterious. Therefore,
happiness—I care little for my own, in comparison, your
happiness, here and hereafter, is at stake.
Now, all that I ask of you, is this. Remember me.
Think of me, sometimes. Betray this communication to
no human being, till you are married. I know that I may
trust you; and you know the value of the trust. You
have that generosity, that made me love you, not at first
sight, (for I was not a boy, when I saw you) but when I
first made myself master of your character. This then,
is all that I ask. Betray this to nobody—to no living creature,
without my consent. But, when you are married—
whether to Mr. G. or another, for I feel that though he
may not win you, it is equally possible, and more so
perhaps, that I may not—you may show him (your husband)
this letter. If I am alive, at that time, it will be
the surest marriage portion that woman ever gave to
man. Nothing ever after will shake his confidence in
your love—if he have a noble spirit.
Do not charge me with vanity here. I am vain. I
know it, and am sometimes weak enough to glory in it.
It is a diseased ambition, I verily believe; and I hope
to outlast it. Still, in this case, I do honestly and from
my soul, believe, that I shall be a man, whom your husband,
whatever he may be, will be proud to have had
sacrificed to him.
In the mean time, I shall hold on my course steadily.
You will hear of me, but not from me, unless you should
indeed, be all that I could wish;—and—but no, I must
not dream of such things. Yet let me be understood.—
Your present engagement may come to an end. Men and
women are changeable; our affections run riot sometimes,
and will not be restrained. If then—I say it with trembling—if
such an event should take place; if, by any event,
you should discover that you cannot so love your present
contemplated husband as you ought, to be able to trust
all your happiness to him—all that I beg of you is, to
let me hear of it. I shall understand you. You need
fear no change in me. My constancy is not that of boys.
It is that of experience and examination. When I love,
opinion sometimes, it is not precipitately, without examination.
Here is an example. I have never loved but
two women. To only one, have I ever said so much.—
The other, and you know her, thought that she did not
love me. She was mistaken.—She is now going married,
and broken-hearted, to her grave. I did love that
woman; I did, and confess it; but not, as I have loved you.
There was tenderness in it; but, very little respect. I
never saw the time, when I would have married her, even
if I had been justified by my circumstances. But, were
I so justified, I would marry you; I would come to you
then, not in the language of common love, to throw myself
at your feet, for you would dispise me, were I so abject—but
to meet you as a man should meet a woman,
with his heart in his hand—in fearless equality, remembering
that I was paying to you the most unequivocal
homage, that I could pay to any creature under heaven;—
and, though grateful, to suffocation if you received me,
still erect and confident of my equality. Such would be
my conduct, were it allowed to me, so to behave.—
Adieu!—farewell!—I am already tedious, I fear, and yet
I have said but little that I would say. Farewell! may
heaven bless you, Emma. May you find your equal—a
companion made to govern, not obey others.
| Randolph | |