LETTER XXV.
To the Same.
What is it, my friend, that makes thy influence over me
so absolute? No resolution of mine can stand against your
remonstrances. A single word, a look, approving or condemning,
transforms me into a new creature. The dread
of having offended you, gives me the most pungent distress.
Your "Well done" lifts me above all reproach. It is only
when you are distant, when your verdict is uncertain, that
shrink from contumely, that the scorn of the world, though
unmerited, is a load too heavy for my strength.
Methinks I should be a strange creature, if left to myself.
A very different creature, doubtless, I should have been, if
placed under any other guidance. So easily swayed am I
by one that is lord of my affections. No will, no reason
have I of my own.
Such sudden and total transitions! in solitude I ruminate
and form my schemes. They seem to me unalterable, yet
a word from you scatters all my labored edifices, and I look
back upon my former state of mind, as on something that
passed when I was a lunatic or dreaming.
It is but a day since I determined to part with you;
since a thousand tormenting images engrossed my imagination;
yet now am I quite changed; I am bound to you by
links stronger than ever. No, I will not part with you.
Yet how shall I excuse my noncompliance to my mother?
I have told her that I would come to her, that I waited
only for her directions as to the disposal of her property.
What will be her disappointment when I tell her that I will
not come; when she finds me, in spite of her remonstrances,
still faithful to my engagements to thee.
Is there no method of removing this aversion? of outrooting
this deadly prejudice? And must I, in giving myself
to thee, forfeit her affection?
And now this dreadful charge! no wonder that her affectionate
heart was sorely wounded by such seeming proofs
of my wickedness.
I thought at first—shame upon my inconsistent character!
my incurable blindness! I should never have doubted the
truth of my first thoughts, if you had not helped me to a
more candid conjecture. I was unjust enough to load him
with the guilt of this plot against me, and imagined there
was duty in forbearing to detect it.
Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet how my
friend shall I unravel this mystery? my heart is truly sad.
How easily is my woman's courage lowered, and how prone
am I to despond.
Lend me thy aid, thy helping hand, my beloved. Decide
and act for me, and be my weakness fortified; my hope restored
by thee. Let me lose all separate feelings, all separate
existence, and let me know no principle of action, but
the decision of your judgment; no motive or desire but to
please; to gratify you.
Our marriage, you say, will facilitate reconcilement with
my mother. Do you think so? Then let it take place, my
dear Hal. Heaven permit that marriage may tend to reconcile;
but let it reconcile or not, if the wish be yours, it shall
occupy the chief place in my heart. The time, the manner,
be it yours to prescribe. My happiness, on that event,
will surely want but little to complete it, and if you hid
me not despair of my mother's acquiescence, I
will not
despair.
I am to send your letter, after reading, to my mother, I
suppose. I have read it, Hal, more than once. And for
my sake thou declinest her offers. When you thus refuse
no sacrifice on my account, shall I hesitate, when it becomes
my turn? Shall I ever want gratitude, thinkest thou? Shall
I ever imagine that I have done enough to evince my
gratitude?
But how do I forget thy present situation. Thy dying
friend has scarcely occurred to me. Thy afflictions, thy
fatigues, are absorbed in my own selfish cares.
I am very often on the brink of hating myself. So much
thoughtlessness of others; such callousness to sorrows not
my own; my hard heart has often reproached thee for
sparing a sigh or a wish from me; that every gloom has not
been dispelled by my presence, was treason, forsooth,
against my majesty, and the murmurs that delighted love
should breathe, to welcome thy return, were changed into
half vindictive reluctance; not quite a frown, and upbraidings,
in which tenderness was almost turned out of door by
anger.
In the present case, for instance, I have scarcely thought
of thy dying friend once. How much thy disquiets would
be augmented by the letters which I sent thee, never entered
my thoughts. To hide our sorrows from those who love
us, seems to be no more than generous. Yet I never hide
any thing from thee. All was uttered that was felt. I
considered not attending circumstances. The bird, as soon
as it was scared, flew into the bosom that was nearest, and
merely occupied with dangers of its own, was satisfied to
find a refuge there.
And yet,—See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate, entering
with his—And yet. Would I listen to him, what a
world of palliations and apologies would he furnish. How
would he remind me of cases in which my sympathy was
always awakened with attention. How often—But I will
not listen to the flatterer.
And now I think of it, Hal, you differ from me very
much in that respect. Every mournful secret must be
wrung from you. You hoard up all your evil thoughts, and
brood over them alone. Nothing but earnest importunity
ever got from you any of your griefs.
Now this is cruel to yourself and unjust to me. It is
denying my claim to confidence. It is holding back from
me a part of yourself. It is setting light by my sympathy.
And yet—the prater Vanity once more, you see—but I
will let him speak out this time. Here his apology is yours,
and myself am only flattered indirectly.
And yet when I have extorted from you any secret sorrow,
you have afterwards acknowledged that the disclosure
was of use. That my sympathizing love was grateful to
you, and my counsel of some value; that you drew from
my conduct on those occasions new proofs of my strength
of mind, and of my right, a right which my affection for
you gave me, to share with you all your thoughts.
Yet on the next occasion that offers, you are sure to relapse
into your habitual taciturnity, and my labors to subdue
it are again to be repeated. I have sometimes been tempted
to retaliate and convince you, by the effects of my concealments
upon you, of the error of your own scheme.
But I never could persist, in silence, for five minutes together.
Shut up as the temple of my heart is, to the rest
of mankind, all its doors fly open of their own accord,
when you approach.
Now am I got into my usual strain; in which I could
persevere forever. No wonder it charms me so much,
since, while thus pursuing it, I lose all my cares in a sweet
oblivion, but I must stop, at last, and recall my thoughts to
a less welcome subject.
Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I will do it
now, and send you my letter. I will endeavor, hereafter,
to keep alive a salutary distrust of myself, and do nothing
without your approbation and direction. Such submission
becomes thy
