Part 17 (2/2)
”My affections were totally alienated from my family, for I felt they had known what I had not, and had neither put me on my guard, nor warned me against precipitation whose consequences must be fatal. I saw, indeed, that they did not look on life as I did, and could be content without being happy; but this observation was far from making me love them more. I felt alone, bitterly, contemptuously alone. I hated men who had made the laws that bound me. I did not believe in G.o.d; for why had He permitted the dart to enter so unprepared a breast? I determined never to submit, though I disdained to struggle, since struggle was in vain. In pa.s.sive, lonely wretchedness I would pa.s.s my days. I would not feign what I did not feel, nor take the hand which had poisoned for me the cup of life before I had sipped the first drops.
”A friend--the only one I have ever known--taught me other thoughts.
She taught me that others, perhaps all others, were victims, as much as myself. She taught me that if all the wrecked submitted to be drowned, the world would be a desert. She taught me to pity others, even those I myself was paining; for she showed me that they had sinned in ignorance, and that I had no right to make them suffer so long as I myself did, merely because they were the authors of my suffering.
”She showed me, by her own pure example, what were Duty and Benevolence and Employment to the soul, even when baffled and sickened in its dearest wishes. That example was not wholly lost: I freed my parents, at least, from their pain, and, without falsehood, became less cruel and more calm.
”Yet the kindness, the calmness, have never gone deep. I have been forced to live out of myself; and life, busy or idle, is still most bitter to the homeless heart. I cannot be like Almeria; I am more ardent; and, Aglauron, you see now I might be happy,”
She looked towards V----. I followed her eye, and was well-nigh melted too by the beauty of his gaze.
”The question in my mind is,” she resumed, ”have I not a right to fly?
To leave this vacant life, and a tie which, but for worldly circ.u.mstances, presses as heavily on L---- as on myself. I shall mortify him; but that is a trifle compared with actual misery. I shall grieve my parents; but, were they truly such, would they not grieve still more that I must reject the life of mutual love? I have already sacrificed enough; shall I sacrifice the happiness of one I could really bless for those who do not know one native heart-beat of my life?”
V---- kissed her hand.
”And yet,” said she, sighing, ”it does not always look so. We must, in that case, leave the world; it will not tolerate us. Can I make V---- happy in solitude? And what would Almeria think? Often it seems that she would feel that now I do love, and could make a green spot in the desert of life over which she mourned, she would rejoice to have me do so. Then, again, something whispers she might have objections to make; and I wish--O, I long to know them! For I feel that this is the great crisis of my life, and that if I do not act wisely, now that I have thought and felt, it will be unpardonable. In my first error I was ignorant what I wished, but now I know, and ought not to be weak or deluded.”
I said, ”Have you no religious scruples? Do you never think of your vow as sacred?”
”Never!” she replied, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. ”Shall the woman be bound by the folly of the child? No!--have never once considered myself as L----'s wife. If I have lived in his house, it was to make the best of what was left, as Almeria advised. But what I feel he knows perfectly.
I have never deceived him. But O! I hazard all! all! and should I be again ignorant, again deceived”----
V---- here poured forth all that can be imagined.
I rose: ”Emily, this case seems to me so extraordinary that I must have time to think. You shall hear from me. I shall certainly give you my best advice, and I trust you will not over-value it.”
”I am sure,” she said, ”it will be of use to me, and will enable me to decide what I shall do. V----, now go away with Aglauron; it is too late for you to stay here.”
I do not know if I have made obvious, in this account, what struck me most in the interview,--a certain savage force in the character of this beautiful woman, quite independent of the reasoning power. I saw that, as she could give no account of the past, except that she saw it was fit, or saw it was not, so she must be dealt with now by a strong instalment made by another from his own point of view, which she would accept or not, as suited her.
There are some such characters, which, like plants, stretch upwards to the light; they accept what nourishes, they reject what injures them.
They die if wounded,--blossom if fortunate; but never learn to a.n.a.lyze all this, or find its reasons; but, if they tell their story, it is in Emily's way;--”it was so;” ”I found it so.”
I talked with V----, and found him, as I expected, not the peer of her he loved, except in love. His pa.s.sion was at its height. Better acquainted with the world than Emily,--not because he had seen it more, but because he had the elements of the citizen in him,--he had been at first equally emboldened and surprised by the ease with which he won her to listen to his suit. But he was soon still more surprised to find that she would only listen. She had no regard for her position in society as a married woman,--none for her vow. She frankly confessed her love, so far as it went, but doubted as to whether it was _her whole love_, and doubted still more her right to leave L----, since she had returned to him, and could not break the bond so entirely as to give them firm foot-hold in the world.
”I may make you unhappy,” she said, ”and then be unhappy myself; these laws, this society, are so strange, I can make nothing of them. In music I am at home. Why is not all life music? We instantly know when we are going wrong there. Convince me it is for the best, and I will go with you at once. But now it seems wrong, unwise, scarcely better than to stay as we are. We must go secretly, must live obscurely in a corner. That I cannot bear,--all is wrong yet. Why am I not at liberty to declare unblus.h.i.+ngly to all men that I will leave the man whom I _do not_ love, and go with him I _do_ love? That is the only way that would suit me,--I cannot see clearly to take any other course.”
I found V---- had no scruples of conscience, any more than herself. He was wholly absorbed in his pa.s.sion, and his only wish was to persuade her to elope, that a divorce might follow, and she be all his own.
I took my part. I wrote next day to Emily. I told her that my view must differ from hers in this: that I had, from early impressions, a feeling of the sanct.i.ty of the marriage vow. It was not to me a measure intended merely to insure the happiness of two individuals, but a solemn obligation, which, whether it led to happiness or not, was a means of bringing home to the mind the great idea of Duty, the understanding of which, and not happiness, seemed to be the end of life. Life looked not clear to me otherwise. I entreated her to separate herself from V---- for a year, before doing anything decisive; she could then look at the subject from other points of view, and see the bearing on mankind as well as on herself alone. If she still found that happiness and V---- were her chief objects, she might be more sure of herself after such a trial. I was careful not to add one word of persuasion or exhortation, except that I recommended her to the enlightening love of the Father of our spirits.
_Laurie_. With or without persuasion, your advice had small chance, I fear, of being followed.
_Aglauron_. You err. Next day V---- departed. Emily, with a calm brow and earnest eyes, devoted herself to thought, and such reading as I suggested.
_Laurie_. And the result?
_Aglauron_. I grieve not to be able to point my tale with the expected moral, though perhaps the true denouement may lead to one as valuable. L---- died within the year, and she married V----.
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