“Since you tell me your party was dull and tedious, and everybody went home early, I am fain to believe you; though Stubenfol said nobody ever was so merry a host as you, and the party did not break up until after midnight. I can quite believe you found the time so short: the company was too pleasant to admit of weariness. You must give me leave to doubt that you thought more about me than of any one present. I am not vain enough to flatter myself so much. I count myself happy if you think of me in your spare time (should you have any), for everyone is talking about your entertainments and continual parties, at which you shine so brilliantly. I rather think you spoke the truth when you said you ‘no longer thought of love’.
“But I must speak of something else. I want to forget all about that affair: my thoughts kill me. I should have been willing to defer my return to Hanover for a few days had your fête not taken place just then to distress me, for the very moment you ask me to stay here you plunge into deeper pleasures there. What can I think of your conduct? Must it not convince me that you did not want me, so that you might better amuse yourself, and you feared my presence would be a hindrance? You ask me to comfort you, but it is from you I expect comfort. I certainly have no pretext for staying at Hanover only three or four days; I shall very likely be there for twelve or fifteen days at least, so take precautions accordingly. I think you will know your movements before the end of next week, and when you are certain, let me know positively what you wish me to do. I shall not think of leaving here until you let me know.”
“I have received your very charming letter. Your ‘handsome and well-made man’ and Monsieur le Huguenot more than convince me that you find your stay at Celle very pleasant. All I have to say is this—if you are not pleased with me, I am even less pleased with you, and if this sort of thing goes on I will no longer be your dupe. I am quite able to find answers to all your accusations, but I will shorten my letter for fear of keeping you from a pleasant conversation or a walk. I am, Madame, with much respect, all yours.”
“At last I am in a fit state to answer you about your baron from Mayence. I have taken a few hours to settle my bile, and I am now cool enough to write and tell you the vengeance you propose to take is too small, even if I have sinned as much as you think; but my oaths, attested by Gohr and d’Els, whom I can call as witnesses, must surely convince you that Stubenfol lied. Don’t you think you have been a little quick to take your revenge? I must needs send my witnesses, since you will not believe my word of honour. In any case, I will never forgive your tricks with the baron. Your natural tendency shows itself again. You are only too glad to seize any pretext for flirting; you would rather die than miss the chance. What am I to think of you? You know my weakness: I am naturally jealous, and such behaviour as yours makes me a hundred times worse. How many times have you urged me not to give way to violence, but first to hear your excuses and the truth? If you were piqued about my supper, why didn’t you write and scold me as much as you liked? But no! you were too charmed with the baron; he is young, well made, handsome, and captivates you,—that is why you find, or pretend to find, my conduct so guilty. Oh! it is too much! I can no longer deceive myself. Your letter of Friday confirms my worst fears. Your excuses for not coming here do not deceive me. You are the most unfaithful of women. Go to, cruel one! and flirt with your new cavalier. Why have you held me so long with your deceitful airs and promises? Why have I sacrificed everything for you? You are not content to take away my peace of mind, but you rob me of my honour, my reputation, and all I have in the world. Is it not for such as you that I have neglected everything? You know the state of my affairs. I am well rewarded, truly! I will fly from Hanover, where I might meet you. Did not my house force me to stay here, I would leave to-morrow. I hope, however, to find an honourable pretext for getting away; and should the Danes confiscate my lands in Holstein, that will serve. Madame, I am not dishonest, like you. I will send you back everything I have belonging to you, and as soon as I get to Hamburg I will take counsel with my friends as to my future plans. I will return to my own people, and though I may have neglected them the future shall make amends. ‘The continual ceremonies in which I shine’ are with my dragoons; I am with them every day, drilling them, and for three days I have not been anywhere except to the hunt, in which I take part every day. Have I not always given you the choice of coming here or staying at Celle? I did it on purpose to see if you had sufficient love to risk coming; but I soon saw something was keeping you back, though I was ignorant of its being a ‘handsome, well-built young baron’. You now ask me to tell you positively what you are to do. Why the devil should you want me to give you directions? Were I to tell you to stay and amuse yourself with your new lover, or were I to tell you to come here, it would not matter—you would find some excuse for quarrelling with me in either case.”
“My letter of yesterday has no doubt surprised you. When I read it over I said to myself: ‘Is it possible I could come to such a pass as to write such a letter to the woman who is dearer to me than all the world?’ I was ashamed to send it, but after reading your letter three times I determined to send mine on to you. Looking at things in the right light, I ought to be more manly; I ought not to be so sensitive. I am much obliged to Stubenfol for spreading such monstrous reports about my banquet. You know the man he is—‘Much ado about nothing’. I don’t wonder he found my banquet a fine one, for he ate six partridges all by himself, and drank a whole barrel of sherry. It was the finest and grandest festival he ever attended—was it? Give him the same thing in a pig-sty and he will exaggerate it into having been served in the finest flower garden of Italy.... I was coming to the baron presently, but, for fear I should lose my temper, I will try to go to sleep instead: it is two o’clock. If I went on much longer I should write things I should be sorry to say to a lady.”
“I expected to receive an infinity of excuses from you, and the most beautiful things ever written, to appease me. I was much deceived, for I found your letter quite the contrary: you are still too proud to beg my pardon. I could not help laughing to see how you fell into my trap, and how my ‘baron’ sticks in your throat. Your anger gives me so much joy that I have quite forgotten mine. I am delighted to have revenged myself singly, and I like myself all the better for it. I hope you will be free from anxiety before you receive this letter, for I have sent you the portrait of the personage, and that suffices. But the idea of your giving yourself such airs! I am the injured one, yet you scold me! That is rather an odd way to seek reconciliation. How tired I am of being angry—otherwise you would not be let off so easily. But I have a weakness for you which will not suffer me to quarrel with you for long. I should be delighted to make it up with you: you have only to make my mind easy about your banquet, and swear you love me as much as ever. I will forget and forgive everything, and make you see in return that you are very wrong to be dissatisfied with me, for I deserve all your love, and do everything to please you. When you have realised the injustice you do me by your mad imaginings, you will ask my pardon, and deeply repent of your bad and wicked thoughts. I fear our first interview will be spent wholly in explanations, and the love and tenderness which alone ought to be present will be conspicuous by their absence; but you will have it so—it is not my fault.
“I am coming to you on Tuesday or Wednesday. I have already sent you word by Stubenfol, and I hope to find you tender and faithful. If you be not I shall die, for I am fain to confess that I love you to distraction: in spite of all my anger and annoyance, I have never loved you more.
“I forgot to speak about what you told me a few days ago—that you had made a vow to keep the sixth[209] commandment if we should ever live together. There are no vows I would not joyfully make to be with you always, too: I wish for nothing else in the world; all my thoughts are bent upon it.”