LETTER VIII
My dear Friend, Your letter raised me for a moment from the depths of despair;
but not hearing from you yesterday or to-day (as I hoped) I have had a relapse.
You say I want to get rid of her. I hope you are more right in your conjectures
about her than in this about me. Oh no! believe it, I love her as I do my own
soul; my very heart is wedded to her (be she what she may) and I would not
hesitate a moment between her and “an angel from Heaven.” I grant all you say
about my self-tormenting folly: but has it been without cause? Has she not
refused me again and again with a mixture of scorn and resentment, after going
the utmost lengths with a man for whom she now disclaims all affection; and
what security can I have for her reserve with others, who will not be
restrained by feelings of delicacy towards her, and whom she has probably
preferred to me for their want of it. “SHE CAN MAKE NO MORE
CONFIDENCES”—these words ring for ever in my ears, and will be my
death-watch. They can have but one meaning, be sure of it—she always
expressed herself with the exactest propriety. That was one of the things for
which I loved her—shall I live to hate her for it? My poor fond heart,
that brooded over her and the remains of her affections as my only hope of
comfort upon earth, cannot brook this new degradation. Who is there so low as
me? Who is there besides (I ask) after the homage I have paid her and the
caresses she has lavished on me, so vile, so abhorrent to love, to whom such an
indignity could have happened? When I think of this (and I think of nothing
else) it stifles me. I am pent up in burning, fruitless desires, which can find
no vent or object. Am I not hated, repulsed, derided by her whom alone I love
or ever did
love? I cannot stay in any place, and seek in vain for relief from the sense of
her contempt and her ingratitude. I can settle to nothing: what is the use of
all I have done? Is it not that very circumstance (my thinking beyond my
strength, my feeling more than I need about so many things) that has withered
me up, and made me a thing for Love to shrink from and wonder at? Who could
ever feel that peace from the touch of her dear hand that I have done; and is
it not torn from me for ever? My state is this, that I shall never lie down
again at night nor rise up in the morning in peace, nor ever behold my little
boy’s face with pleasure while I live—unless I am restored to her favour.
Instead of that delicious feeling I had when she was heavenly-kind to me, and
my heart softened and melted in its own tenderness and her sweetness, I am now
inclosed in a dungeon of despair. The sky is marble to my thoughts; nature is
dead around me, as hope is within me; no object can give me one gleam of
satisfaction now, nor the prospect of it in time to come. I wander by the
sea-side; and the eternal ocean and lasting despair and her face are before me.
Slighted by her, on whom my heart by its last fibre hung, where shall I turn? I
wake with her by my side, not as my sweet bedfellow, but as the corpse of my
love, without a heart in her bosom, cold, insensible, or struggling from me;
and the worm gnaws me, and the sting of unrequited love, and the canker of a
hopeless, endless sorrow. I have lost the taste of my food by feverish anxiety;
and my favourite beverage, which used to refresh me when I got up, has no
moisture in it. Oh! cold, solitary, sepulchral breakfasts, compared with those
which I promised myself with her; or which I made when she had been standing an
hour by my side, my guardian-angel, my wife, my sister, my sweet friend, my
Eve, my all; and had blest me with her seraph kisses! Ah! what I suffer at
present only shews what I have enjoyed. But “the girl is a good girl, if there
is goodness in human nature.” I thank you for those words; and I will fall down
and worship you, if you can prove them true: and I would not do much less for
him that proves her a demon. She is one or the other, that’s certain; but I
fear the worst. Do let me know if anything has passed: suspense is my greatest
punishment. I am going into the country to see if I can work a little in the
three weeks I have yet to stay here. Write on the receipt of this, and believe
me ever your unspeakably obliged friend.