To George Mordaunt, Esq;
Belmont.
NO, my friend, I have not always
been this hero: too sensible to the
power of beauty, I have felt the keenest
pangs of unsuccessful love: but I deserved
to suffer; my passion was in the highest
degree criminal; and I blush, though at
this distance of time, to lay open my heart
even to the indulgent eyes of partial friendship.
When your father's death called you
back to England, you may remember
I continued my journey to Rome: where
a letter from my father introduced me into
the family of Count Melespini, a nobleman
of great wealth and uncommon accomplishments.
As my father, who has always
been of opinion that nothing purifies the
manners, like the conversation of an amiable,
well-educated, virtuous woman, had particularly
entreated for me the honour of
the Countess's friendship, whom he had
known almost a child, and to whom he had
taught the English language; I was admitted
to the distinction of partaking in all her
amusements, and attending her every where
in the quality of Cecisbeo. To the arts of
the libertine, however fair, my heart had
always been steeled; but the Countess joined
the most piercing wit, the most winning politeness,
the most engaging sensibility, the
most exquisite delicacy, to a form perfectly
lovely. You will not therefore wonder
that the warmth and inexperience of youth,
hourly exposed in so dangerous a situation,
was unable to resist such variety of attractions.
Charmed with the flattering
preference she seemed to give me, my
vanity fed by the notice of so accomplished
a creature, forgetting those sentiments
of honour which ought never to
be one moment suspended, I became passionately
in love with this charming woman:
for some months, I struggled with
my love; till, on her observing that my
health seemed impaired and I had lost my
usual vivacity, I took courage to confess
the cause, though in terms which sufficiently
spoke my despair of touching a heart
which I feared was too sensible to virtue
for my happiness: I implored her pity, and
protested I had no hope of inspiring a tenderer
sentiment. Whilst I was speaking,
which was in broken interrupted sentences,
the Countess looked at me with the strongest
sorrow and compassion painted in her
eyes; she was for some moments silent,
and seemed lost in thought; but at last,
with an air of dignified sweetness, "My
dear Enrico," said she, "shall I own
to you that I have for some time feared
this confession? I ought perhaps to resent
this declaration, which from another
I could never have forgiven: but, as I
know and esteem the goodness of your
heart, as I respect your father infinitely,
and love you with the innocent tenderness
of a sister, I will only entreat you to
reflect how injurious this passion is to the
Count, who has the tenderest esteem for
you, and would sacrifise almost his life
for your happiness: be assured of my
eternal friendship, unless you forfeit it
by persisting in a pursuit equally destructive
to your own probity and my honor;
receive the tenderest assurances of it,"
continued she, giving me her hand to kiss,
but believe, at the same time, that the
Count deserves and possesses all my love,
I had almost said, my adoration. The
fondest affection united us, and time, instead
of lessening, every hour encreases
our mutual passion. Reserve your heart,
my good Enrico, for some amiable lady
of your own nation; and believe that
love has no true pleasures but when it
keeps within the bounds of honour."
It is impossible, my dear Mordaunt, to
express to you the shame this discourse
filled me with: her gentle, her affectionate
reproofs, the generous concern she
shewed for my error, the mild dignity of
her aspect, plunged me into inexpressible
confusion, and shewed my fault in its
blackest colours; at the same time that
her behaviour, by increasing my esteem,
added to the excess of my passion. I attempted
to answer her; but it was impossible;
awed, abashed, humbled before
her, I had not courage even to meet her
eyes: like the fallen angel in Milton, I
felt
"How awful goodness is, and saw,
Virtue in her own shape how lovely."
The Countess saw, and pitied, my confusion,
and generously relieved me from
it by changing the subject: she talked
of my father, of his merit, his tenderness
for me, and expectations of my conduct;
which she was sure I should never disappoint.
Without hinting at what had past,
she with the utmost exquisite delicacy gave
me to understand it would be best I should
leave Rome, by saying she knew how ardently
my father wished for my return,
and that it would be the height of cruelty
longer to deprive him of the pleasure
of seeing a son so worthy of his affection:
"The Count and myself," pursued she,
"cannot lose you without inexpressible regret;
but you will alleviate it by letting
us hear often of your welfare. When
you are united to a lady worthy of you,
my dear Enrico, we may perhaps make
you a visit in England: in the mean time,
be assured, you have not two friends who
love you with a sincerer affection."
At this moment the Count entered, who,
seeing my eyes filled with tears of love,
despair, and admiration, with the tenderest
anxiety enquired the cause. "I shall tell
you news which will afflict you, my Lord,"
said the Countess: "Signor Enrico comes
to bid us farewel; he is commanded by
his father to return to England; tomorrow
is the last day of his stay in
Rome: he promises to write to us, and
to preserve an eternal remembrance of
our friendship, for which he is obliged
only to his own merit: his tender heart,
full of the most laudable, the most engaging
sensibility, melts at the idea of a
separation which will not be less painful
to us."
The Count, after expressing the most
obliging concern at the thought of losing
me, and the warmest gratitude for these
supposed marks of my friendship, insisted
on my spending the rest of the day with
them. I consented, but begged first to return
to my lodgings; on pretence of giving
some necessary orders, but in reality to give
vent to my full heart, torn with a thousand
contrary emotions, amongst which, I am
shocked to own, hatred to the generous
Count was not the weakest. I threw myself
on the ground, in an agony of despair;
I wept, I called Heaven to witness the purity
of my love; I accused the Countess
of cruelty in thus forcing me from Rome;
I rose up; I begun a letter to her, in which
I vowed an eternal silence and respect, but
begged she would allow me still the innocent
pleasure of beholding her; swore I
could not live without seeing her, and
that the day of my leaving Rome would
be that of my death.–But why do I thus
tear open wounds which are but just
healed? let it suffice, that a moment's reflexion
convinced me of my madness, and
shewed the charming Countess in the light
of a guardian angel snatching me from
the edge of a precipice. My reason in
some degree returning, I drest myself with
the most studious care, and returned to
the Melespini palace, where I found the
Abbate Camilli, a near relation of the
family, whose presence saved me the confusion
of being the third with my injured
friends, and whose lively conversation soon
dissipated the air of constraint I felt on
entering the room, and even dispelled part
of my melancholy.
The Count, whose own probity and virtue
set him far above suspecting mine, pressed
me, with all the earnestness of a friendship
I so little merited, to defer my journey
a week: on which I raised my downcast eyes
to Madam Melespini; for such influence
had this lovely woman over my heart,
I did not dare to consent till certain of her
permission; and, reading approbation in a
smile of condescending sweetness, I consented
with a transport which only those
who have loved like me can conceive: my
chearfulness returning, and some of the
most amiable people in Rome coming in,
we past the evening in the utmost gaiety.
At taking leave, I was engaged to the same
company in different parties of amusement
for the whole time I had to stay, and had
the joy of being every day with the Countess;
though I never found an opportunity
of speaking to her without witnesses, till
the evening before I left Rome, when,
going to her house an hour sooner than
I was expected, I found her alone in her
closet. When I approached her, my voice
faltered; I trembled; I wanted power to
address her: and this moment, fought with
such care, wished with such ardor, was
the most painful of my life. Shame alone
prevented my retiring; my eyes were involuntarily
turned towards the door at which
I entered, in a vain hope of that interruption
I had before dreaded as the greatest
misfortune; and even the presence of my
happy envied rival would at that moment
have been most welcome.
The Countess seemed little less disconcerted
than myself; however, recovering
herself sooner, "Signor Enrico," said she,
"your discretion charms me; it is absolutely
necessary you should leave Rome;
it has already cost me an artifice unworthy
of my character to conceal from the
Count a secret which would have wounded
his nice honor and destroyed his
friendship for you. After this adored
husband, be assured, you stand first of all
your sex in my esteem: the sensibility of
your heart, though at present so unhappily
misplaced, encreases my good opinion
of you: may you, my dear Enrico,
meet with an English Lady worthy of
your tenderness, and be as happy in marriage
as the friends you leave behind.
Accept," pursued she, rising and going
to a cabinet, "these miniatures of the
Count and myself, which I give you by
his command; and, when you look on them,
believe they represent two faithful friends,
whose esteem for you neither time nor absence
can lessen."
I took the pictures eagerly, and kissed
that of the Countess with a passion I could
not restrain, of which however she took
not the least notice. I thanked her, with a
confused air, for so valuable a present; and
intreated her to pity a friendship too tender
for my peace, but as respectful and as pure
as she herself could wish it.
The Abbate Camilli here joined us, and
once more saved me a scene too interesting
for the present situation of my heart. The
Count entered the room soon after, and
our conversation turned on the other cities
of Italy, which I intended visiting; to most
of which he gave me letters of recommendation
to the noblest families, wrote in
terms so polite and affectionate as stabbed
me to the heart with a sense of my own
ingratitude. He did me the honor to accept
my picture, which I had not the courage
to offer the Countess. After protracting
till morning a parting so exquisitely
painful, I tore myself from all I loved; and,
bathing with tears her hand which I pressed
eagerly to my lips, threw myself into my
chaise, and, without going to bed, took the
road to Naples. But how difficult was
this conquest! How often was I tempted
to return to Rome, and throw myself at
the Countess's feet, without considering
the consequences of so wild an action!
You, my dearest Mordaunt, whose discerning
spirit knows all the windings, the strange
inconsistences, of the human heart, will
pity rather than blame your friend, when
he owns there were moments in which he
formed the infamous resolution of carrying
her off by force.
But when the mist of passion a little dispersed,
I began to entertain more worthy
sentiments; I determined to drive this
lovely woman from my heart, and conquer
an inclination, which the Count's generous
unsuspecting friendship would have made
criminal even in the eyes of the most abandoned
libertine; rather owing this resolution
however to an absolute despair of success
than either to reason or a sense of honor,
my cure was a work of time. I was so
weak, during some months, as to confine my
visits to the families where the Count's letters
introduced me, that I might indulge my
passion by hearing the lovely Countess continually
mentioned.
Convinced at length of the folly of thus
feeding so hopeless a flame, I resolved to
avoid every place where I had a chance of
hearing that adored name: I left Italy for
France, where I hoped a life of dissipation
would drive her for ever from my remembrance.
I even profaned my passion for her,
by meeting the advances of a Coquette; but
disgust succeeded my conquest, and I found
it was from time alone I must hope a cure.
I had been near a year at Paris, when, in
April last, I received a letter from my father,
who pressed my return, and appointed
me to meet him immediately at the Hague,
from whence we returned together; and
after a few days stay in London, came down
to Belmont, where the charms of Lady Julia's
conversation, and the esteem she honors
me with, entirely compleated my cure,
which time, absence, and the Count's tender
and affectionate letters, had very far advanced.
There is a sweetness in her friendship,
my dear Mordaunt, to which love itself
must yield the palm; the delicacy, yet
vivacity of her sentiments; the soft sensibility
of her heart, which without fear listens
to vows of eternal amity and esteem–O
Mordaunt, I must not, I do not hope for, I
do not indeed wish for, her love; but can it
be possible there is a man on earth to whom
heaven destines such a blessing?
H. Mandeville.
