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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15238-0.txt b/15238-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b42457 --- /dev/null +++ b/15238-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4989 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mathilda, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Mathilda + +Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley + +Release Date: March 2, 2005 [eBook #15238] +[Most recently updated: September 25, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Starner, Cori Samuel and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA *** + + + + +MATHILDA + +By MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY + +Edited by ELIZABETH NITCHIE + + +THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA PRESS +CHAPEL HILL + +Mathilda _is being published +in paper as Extra Series #3 +of_ Studies in Philology. + + + + +PREFACE + + +This volume prints for the first time the full text of Mary Shelley’s +novelette _Mathilda_ together with the opening pages of its rough +draft, _The Fields of Fancy_. They are transcribed from the microfilm +of the notebooks belonging to Lord Abinger which is in the library of +Duke University. + +The text follows Mary Shelley’s manuscript exactly except for the +omission of mere corrections by the author, most of which are +negligible; those that are significant are included and explained in +the notes. Footnotes indicated by an asterisk are Mrs. Shelley’s own +notes. She was in general a fairly good speller, but certain words, +especially those in which there was a question of doubling or not +doubling a letter, gave her trouble: untill (though occasionally she +deleted the final _l_ or wrote the word correctly), agreable, occured, +confering, buble, meaness, receeded, as well as hopless, lonly, +seperate, extactic, sacrifise, desart, and words ending in -ance or +-ence. These and other mispellings (even those of proper names) are +reproduced without change or comment. The use of _sic_ and of square +brackets is reserved to indicate evident slips of the pen, obviously +incorrect, unclear, or incomplete phrasing and punctuation, and my +conjectures in emending them. + +I am very grateful to the library of Duke University and to its +librarian, Dr. Benjamin E. Powell, not only for permission to +transcribe and publish this work by Mary Shelley but also for the many +courtesies shown to me when they welcomed me as a visiting scholar in +1956. To Lord Abinger also my thanks are due for adding his approval +of my undertaking, and to the Curators of the Bodleian Library for +permiting me to use and to quote from the papers in the reserved +Shelley Collection. Other libraries and individuals helped me while I +was editing _Mathilda_: the Enoch Pratt Free Library of Baltimore, +whose Literature and Reference Departments went to endless trouble for +me; the Julia Rogers Library of Goucher College and its staff; the +library of the University of Pennsylvania; Miss R. Glynn Grylls (Lady +Mander); Professor Lewis Patton of Duke University; Professor +Frederick L. Jones of the University of Pennsylvania; and many other +persons who did me favors that seemed to them small but that to me +were very great. + +I owe much also to previous books by and about the Shelleys. Those to +which I have referred more than once in the introduction and notes are +here given with the abbreviated form which I have used: + +Frederick L. Jones, ed. _The Letters of Mary W. Shelley_, 2 vols. +Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1944 (_Letters_) + +---- _Mary Shelley’s Journal_. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, +1947 (_Journal_) + +Roger Ingpen and W.E. Peck, eds. _The Complete Works of Percy Bysshe +Shelley_, Julian Edition, 10 vols. London, 1926-1930 (Julian _Works_) + +Newman Ivey White. _Shelley_, 2 vols. New York: Knopf, 1940 (White, +_Shelley_) + +Elizabeth Nitchie. _Mary Shelley, Author of “Frankenstein.”_ New +Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1953 (Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_) + +ELIZABETH NITCHIE + +May, 1959 + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + +PREFACE iii + +INTRODUCTION vii + +MATHILDA 1 + +NOTES TO MATHILDA 81 + +THE FIELDS OF FANCY 90 + +NOTES TO THE FIELDS OF FANCY 103 + + +INTRODUCTION + +Of all the novels and stories which Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley left +in manuscript,[i] only one novelette, _Mathilda_, is complete. It +exists in both rough draft and final copy. In this story, as in all +Mary Shelley’s writing, there is much that is autobiographical: it +would be hard to find a more self-revealing work. For an understanding +of Mary’s character, especially as she saw herself, and of her +attitude toward Shelley and toward Godwin in 1819, this tale is an +important document. Although the main narrative, that of the father’s +incestuous love for his daughter, his suicide, and Mathilda’s +consequent withdrawal from society to a lonely heath, is not in any +real sense autobiographical, many elements in it are drawn from +reality. The three main characters are clearly Mary herself, Godwin, +and Shelley, and their relations can easily be reassorted to +correspond with actuality. + +Highly personal as the story was, Mary Shelley hoped that it would be +published, evidently believing that the characters and the situations +were sufficiently disguised. In May of 1820 she sent it to England by +her friends, the Gisbornes, with a request that her father would +arrange for its publication. But _Mathilda_, together with its rough +draft entitled _The Fields of Fancy_, remained unpublished among the +Shelley papers. Although Mary’s references to it in her letters and +journal aroused some curiosity among scholars, it also remained +unexamined until comparatively recently. + +This seeming neglect was due partly to the circumstances attending the +distribution of the family papers after the deaths of Sir Percy and +Lady Shelley. One part of them went to the Bodleian Library to become +a reserved collection which, by the terms of Lady Shelley’s will, was +opened to scholars only under definite restrictions. Another part went +to Lady Shelley’s niece and, in turn, to her heirs, who for a time did +not make the manuscripts available for study. A third part went to Sir +John Shelley-Rolls, the poet’s grand-nephew, who released much +important Shelley material, but not all the scattered manuscripts. In +this division, the two notebooks containing the finished draft of +_Mathilda_ and a portion of _The Fields of Fancy_ went to Lord +Abinger, the notebook containing the remainder of the rough draft to +the Bodleian Library, and some loose sheets containing additions and +revisions to Sir John Shelley-Rolls. Happily all the manuscripts are +now accessible to scholars, and it is possible to publish the full +text of _Mathilda_ with such additions from _The Fields of Fancy_ as +are significant.[ii] + +The three notebooks are alike in format.[iii] One of Lord Abinger’s +notebooks contains the first part of _The Fields of Fancy_, Chapter 1 +through the beginning of Chapter 10, 116 pages. The concluding portion +occupies the first fifty-four pages of the Bodleian notebook. There is +then a blank page, followed by three and a half pages, scored out, of +what seems to be a variant of the end of Chapter 1 and the beginning +of Chapter 2. A revised and expanded version of the first part of +Mathilda’s narrative follows (Chapter 2 and the beginning of Chapter +3), with a break between the account of her girlhood in Scotland and +the brief description of her father after his return. Finally there +are four pages of a new opening, which was used in _Mathilda_. This is +an extremely rough draft: punctuation is largely confined to the dash, +and there are many corrections and alterations. The Shelley-Rolls +fragments, twenty-five sheets or slips of paper, usually represent +additions to or revisions of _The Fields of Fancy_: many of them are +numbered, and some are keyed into the manuscript in Lord Abinger’s +notebook. Most of the changes were incorporated in _Mathilda_. + +The second Abinger notebook contains the complete and final draft of +_Mathilda_, 226 pages. It is for the most part a fair copy. The text +is punctuated and there are relatively few corrections, most of them, +apparently the result of a final rereading, made to avoid the +repetition of words. A few additions are written in the margins. On +several pages slips of paper containing evident revisions (quite +possibly originally among the Shelley-Rolls fragments) have been +pasted over the corresponding lines of the text. An occasional passage +is scored out and some words and phrases are crossed out to make way +for a revision. Following page 216, four sheets containing the +conclusion of the story are cut out of the notebook. They appear, the +pages numbered 217 to 223, among the Shelley-Rolls fragments. A +revised version, pages 217 to 226, follows the cut.[iv] + +The mode of telling the story in the final draft differs radically +from that in the rough draft. In _The Fields of Fancy_ Mathilda’s +history is set in a fanciful framework. The author is transported by +the fairy Fantasia to the Elysian Fields, where she listens to the +discourse of Diotima and meets Mathilda. Mathilda tells her story, +which closes with her death. In the final draft this unrealistic and +largely irrelevant framework is discarded: Mathilda, whose death is +approaching, writes out for her friend Woodville the full details of +her tragic history which she had never had the courage to tell him in +person. + +The title of the rough draft, _The Fields of Fancy_, and the setting +and framework undoubtedly stem from Mary Wollstonecraft’s unfinished +tale, _The Cave of Fancy_, in which one of the souls confined in the +center of the earth to purify themselves from the dross of their +earthly existence tells to Sagesta (who may be compared with Diotima) +the story of her ill-fated love for a man whom she hopes to rejoin +after her purgation is completed.[v] Mary was completely familiar with +her mother’s works. This title was, of course, abandoned when the +framework was abandoned, and the name of the heroine was substituted. +Though it is worth noticing that Mary chose a name with the same +initial letter as her own, it was probably taken from Dante. There are +several references in the story to the cantos of the _Purgatorio_ in +which Mathilda appears. Mathilda’s father is never named, nor is +Mathilda’s surname given. The name of the poet went through several +changes: Welford, Lovel, Herbert, and finally Woodville. + +The evidence for dating _Mathilda_ in the late summer and autumn of +1819 comes partly from the manuscript, partly from Mary’s journal. On +the pages succeeding the portions of _The Fields of Fancy_ in the +Bodleian notebook are some of Shelley’s drafts of verse and prose, +including parts of _Prometheus Unbound_ and of _Epipsychidion_, both +in Italian, and of the preface to the latter in English, some prose +fragments, and extended portions of the _Defence of Poetry_. Written +from the other end of the book are the _Ode to Naples_ and _The Witch +of Atlas_. Since these all belong to the years 1819, 1820, and 1821, +it is probable that Mary finished her rough draft some time in 1819, +and that when she had copied her story, Shelley took over the +notebook. Chapter 1 of _Mathilda_ in Lord Abinger’s notebook is +headed, “Florence Nov. 9th. 1819.” Since the whole of Mathilda’s story +takes place in England and Scotland, the date must be that of the +manuscript. Mary was in Florence at that time. + +These dates are supported by entries in Mary’s journal which indicate +that she began writing _Mathilda_, early in August, while the Shelleys +were living in the Villa Valosano, near Leghorn. On August 4, 1819, +after a gap of two months from the time of her little son’s death, she +resumed her diary. Almost every day thereafter for a month she +recorded, “Write,” and by September 4, she was saying, “Copy.” On +September 12 she wrote, “Finish copying my Tale.” The next entry to +indicate literary activity is the one word, “write,” on November 8. On +the 12th Percy Florence was born, and Mary did no more writing until +March, when she was working on _Valperga_. It is probable, therefore, +that Mary wrote and copied _Mathilda_ between August 5 and September +12, 1819, that she did some revision on November 8 and finally dated +the manuscript November 9. + +The subsequent history of the manuscript is recorded in letters and +journals. When the Gisbornes went to England on May 2, 1820, they took +_Mathilda_ with them; they read it on the journey and recorded their +admiration of it in their journal.[vi] They were to show it to Godwin +and get his advice about publishing it. Although Medwin heard about +the story when he was with the Shelleys in 1820[vii] and Mary read +it--perhaps from the rough draft--to Edward and Jane Williams in the +summer of 1821,[viii] this manuscript apparently stayed in Godwin’s +hands. He evidently did not share the Gisbornes’ enthusiasm: his +approval was qualified. He thought highly of certain parts of it, less +highly of others; and he regarded the subject as “disgusting and +detestable,” saying that the story would need a preface to prevent +readers “from being tormented by the apprehension ... of the fall of +the heroine,”--that is, if it was ever published.[ix] There is, +however, no record of his having made any attempt to get it into +print. From January 18 through June 2, 1822, Mary repeatedly asked +Mrs. Gisborne to retrieve the manuscript and have it copied for her, +and Mrs. Gisborne invariably reported her failure to do so. The last +references to the story are after Shelley’s death in an unpublished +journal entry and two of Mary’s letters. In her journal for October +27, 1822, she told of the solace for her misery she had once found in +writing _Mathilda_. In one letter to Mrs. Gisborne she compared the +journey of herself and Jane to Pisa and Leghorn to get news of Shelley +and Williams to that of Mathilda in search of her father, +“driving--(like Matilda), towards the _sea_ to learn if we were to be +for ever doomed to misery.”[x] And on May 6, 1823, she wrote, “Matilda +foretells even many small circumstances most truly--and the whole of +it is a monument of what now is.”[xi] + +These facts not only date the manuscript but also show Mary’s feeling +of personal involvement in the story. In the events of 1818-1819 it is +possible to find the basis for this morbid tale and consequently to +assess its biographical significance. + +On September 24, 1818, the Shelleys’ daughter, Clara Everina, barely a +year old, died at Venice. Mary and her children had gone from Bagni di +Lucca to Este to join Shelley at Byron’s villa. Clara was not well +when they started, and she grew worse on the journey. From Este +Shelley and Mary took her to Venice to consult a physician, a trip +which was beset with delays and difficulties. She died almost as soon +as they arrived. According to Newman Ivey White,[xii] Mary, in the +unreasoning agony of her grief, blamed Shelley for the child’s death +and for a time felt toward him an extreme physical antagonism which +subsided into apathy and spiritual alienation. Mary’s black moods made +her difficult to live with, and Shelley himself fell into deep +dejection. He expressed his sense of their estrangement in some of the +lyrics of 1818--“all my saddest poems.” In one fragment of verse, for +example, he lamented that Mary had left him “in this dreary world +alone.” + + Thy form is here indeed--a lovely one-- + But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road, + That leads to Sorrow’s most obscure abode. + Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, + Where + For thine own sake I cannot follow thee. + +Professor White believed that Shelley recorded this estrangement only +“in veiled terms” in _Julian and Maddalo_ or in poems that he did not +show to Mary, and that Mary acknowledged it only after Shelley’s +death, in her poem “The Choice” and in her editorial notes on his +poems of that year. But this unpublished story, written after the +death of their other child William, certainly contains, though also in +veiled terms, Mary’s immediate recognition and remorse. Mary well +knew, I believe, what she was doing to Shelley. In an effort to purge +her own emotions and to acknowledge her fault, she poured out on the +pages of _Mathilda_ the suffering and the loneliness, the bitterness +and the self-recrimination of the past months. + +The biographical elements are clear: Mathilda is certainly Mary +herself; Mathilda’s father is Godwin; Woodville is an idealized +Shelley. + +Like Mathilda Mary was a woman of strong passions and affections which +she often hid from the world under a placid appearance. Like +Mathilda’s, Mary’s mother had died a few days after giving her birth. +Like Mathilda she spent part of her girlhood in Scotland. Like +Mathilda she met and loved a poet of “exceeding beauty,” and--also +like Mathilda--in that sad year she had treated him ill, having become +“captious and unreasonable” in her sorrow. Mathilda’s loneliness, +grief, and remorse can be paralleled in Mary’s later journal and in +“The Choice.” This story was the outlet for her emotions in 1819. + +Woodville, the poet, is virtually perfect, “glorious from his youth,” +like “an angel with winged feet”--all beauty, all goodness, all +gentleness. He is also successful as a poet, his poem written at the +age of twenty-three having been universally acclaimed. Making +allowance for Mary’s exaggeration and wishful thinking, we easily +recognize Shelley: Woodville has his poetic ideals, the charm of his +conversation, his high moral qualities, his sense of dedication and +responsibility to those he loved and to all humanity. He is Mary’s +earliest portrait of her husband, drawn in a year when she was slowly +returning to him from “the hearth of pale despair.” + +The early circumstances and education of Godwin and of Mathilda’s +father were different. But they produced similar men, each +extravagant, generous, vain, dogmatic. There is more of Godwin in this +tale than the account of a great man ruined by character and +circumstance. The relationship between father and daughter, before it +was destroyed by the father’s unnatural passion, is like that between +Godwin and Mary. She herself called her love for him “excessive and +romantic.”[xiii] She may well have been recording, in Mathilda’s +sorrow over her alienation from her father and her loss of him by +death, her own grief at a spiritual separation from Godwin through +what could only seem to her his cruel lack of sympathy. He had accused +her of being cowardly and insincere in her grief over Clara’s +death[xiv] and later he belittled her loss of William.[xv] He had also +called Shelley “a disgraceful and flagrant person” because of +Shelley’s refusal to send him more money.[xvi] No wonder if Mary felt +that, like Mathilda, she had lost a beloved but cruel father. + +Thus Mary took all the blame for the rift with Shelley upon herself +and transferred the physical alienation to the break in sympathy with +Godwin. That she turned these facts into a story of incest is +undoubtedly due to the interest which she and Shelley felt in the +subject at this time. They regarded it as a dramatic and effective +theme. In August of 1819 Shelley completed _The Cenci_. During its +progress he had talked over with Mary the arrangement of scenes; he +had even suggested at the outset that she write the tragedy herself. +And about a year earlier he had been urging upon her a translation of +Alfieri’s _Myrrha_. Thomas Medwin, indeed, thought that the story +which she was writing in 1819 was specifically based on _Myrrha_. That +she was thinking of that tragedy while writing _Mathilda_ is evident +from her effective use of it at one of the crises in the tale. And +perhaps she was remembering her own handling of the theme when she +wrote the biographical sketch of Alfieri for Lardner’s _Cabinet +Cyclopaedia_ nearly twenty years later. She then spoke of the +difficulties inherent in such a subject, “inequality of age adding to +the unnatural incest. To shed any interest over such an attachment, +the dramatist ought to adorn the father with such youthful attributes +as would be by no means contrary to probability.”[xvii] This she +endeavored to do in _Mathilda_ (aided indeed by the fact that the +situation was the reverse of that in _Myrrha_). Mathilda’s father was +young: he married before he was twenty. When he returned to Mathilda, +he still showed “the ardour and freshness of feeling incident to +youth.” He lived in the past and saw his dead wife reincarnated in his +daughter. Thus Mary attempts to validate the situation and make it “by +no means contrary to probability.” + +_Mathilda_ offers a good example of Mary Shelley’s methods of +revision. A study of the manuscript shows that she was a careful +workman, and that in polishing this bizarre story she strove +consistently for greater credibility and realism, more dramatic (if +sometimes melodramatic) presentation of events, better motivation, +conciseness, and exclusion of purple passages. In the revision and +rewriting, many additions were made, so that _Mathilda_ is appreciably +longer than _The Fields of Fancy_. But the additions are usually +improvements: a much fuller account of Mathilda’s father and mother +and of their marriage, which makes of them something more than lay +figures and to a great extent explains the tragedy; development of the +character of the Steward, at first merely the servant who accompanies +Mathilda in her search for her father, into the sympathetic confidant +whose responses help to dramatise the situation; an added word or +short phrase that marks Mary Shelley’s penetration into the motives +and actions of both Mathilda and her father. Therefore _Mathilda_ does +not impress the reader as being longer than _The Fields of Fancy_ +because it better sustains his interest. And with all the additions +there are also effective omissions of the obvious, of the +tautological, of the artificially elaborate.[xviii] + +The finished draft, _Mathilda_, still shows Mary Shelley’s faults as a +writer: verbosity, loose plotting, somewhat stereotyped and +extravagant characterization. The reader must be tolerant of its +heroine’s overwhelming lamentations. But she is, after all, in the +great tradition of romantic heroines: she compares her own weeping to +that of Boccaccio’s Ghismonda over the heart of Guiscardo. If the +reader can accept Mathilda on her own terms, he will find not only +biographical interest in her story but also intrinsic merits: a +feeling for character and situation and phrasing that is often +vigorous and precise. + + +Footnotes: + +[i] They are listed in Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, Appendix II, pp. +205-208. To them should be added an unfinished and unpublished novel, +_Cecil_, in Lord Abinger’s collection. + +[ii] On the basis of the Bodleian notebook and some information about +the complete story kindly furnished me by Miss R. Glynn Grylls, I +wrote an article, “Mary Shelley’s _Mathilda_, an Unpublished Story and +Its Biographical Significance,” which appeared in _Studies in +Philology_, XL (1943), 447-462. When the other manuscripts became +available, I was able to use them for my book, _Mary Shelley_, and to +draw conclusions more certain and well-founded than the conjectures I +had made ten years earlier. + +[iii] A note, probably in Richard Garnett’s hand, enclosed in a MS box +with the two notebooks in Lord Abinger’s collection describes them as +of Italian make with “slanting head bands, inserted through the +covers.” Professor Lewis Patton’s list of the contents of the +microfilms in the Duke University Library (_Library Notes_, No. 27, +April, 1953) describes them as vellum bound, the back cover of the +_Mathilda_ notebook being missing. Lord Abinger’s notebooks are on +Reel 11. The Bodleian notebook is catalogued as MSS. Shelley d. 1, the +Shelley-Rolls fragments as MSS. Shelley adds c. 5. + +[iv] See note 83 to _Mathilda_, page 89. + +[v] See _Posthumous Works of the Author of a Vindication of the Rights +of Woman_ (4 vols., London, 1798), IV, 97-155. + +[vi] See _Maria Gisborne & Edward E. Williams ... Their Journals and +Letters_, ed. by Frederick L. Jones (Norman: University of Oklahoma +Press, [1951]), p. 27. + +[vii] See Thomas Medwin, _The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley_, revised, +with introduction and notes by H. Buxton Forman (London, 1913), p. +252. + +[viii] _Journal_, pp. 159, 160. + +[ix] _Maria Gisborne, etc._, pp. 43-44. + +[x] _Letters_, I, 182. + +[xi] _Ibid._, I, 224. + +[xii] See White, _Shelley_, II, 40-56. + +[xiii] See _Letters_, II, 88, and note 23 to _Mathilda_. + +[xiv] See _Shelley and Mary_ (4 vols. Privately printed [for Sir Percy +and Lady Shelley], 1882), II, 338A. + +[xv] See Mrs. Julian Marshall, _The Life and Letters of Mary W. +Shelley_ (2 vols. London: Richard Bentley & Son, 1889), I, 255. + +[xvi] Julian _Works_, X, 69. + +[xvii] _Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of +Italy, Spain, and Portugal_ (3 vols., Nos. 63, 71, and 96 of the Rev. +Dionysius Lardner’s _Cabinet Cyclopaedia_, London, 1835-1837), II, +291-292. + +[xviii] The most significant revisions are considered in detail in the +notes. The text of the opening of _The Fields of Fancy_, containing +the fanciful framework of the story, later discarded, is printed after +the text of _Mathilda_. + + + + +MATHILDA[1] + + + + +CHAP. I + + +Florence. Nov. 9th 1819 + +It is only four o’clock; but it is winter and the sun has already set: +there are no clouds in the clear, frosty sky to reflect its slant +beams, but the air itself is tinged with a slight roseate colour which +is again reflected on the snow that covers the ground. I live in a +lone cottage on a solitary, wide heath: no voice of life reaches me. I +see the desolate plain covered with white, save a few black patches +that the noonday sun has made at the top of those sharp pointed +hillocks from which the snow, sliding as it fell, lay thinner than on +the plain ground: a few birds are pecking at the hard ice that covers +the pools--for the frost has been of long continuance.[2] + +I am in a strange state of mind.[3] I am alone--quite alone--in the +world--the blight of misfortune has passed over me and withered me; I +know that I am about to die and I feel happy--joyous.--I feel my +pulse; it beats fast: I place my thin hand on my cheek; it burns: +there is a slight, quick spirit within me which is now emitting its +last sparks. I shall never see the snows of another winter--I do +believe that I shall never again feel the vivifying warmth of another +summer sun; and it is in this persuasion that I begin to write my +tragic history. Perhaps a history such as mine had better die with me, +but a feeling that I cannot define leads me on and I am too weak both +in body and mind to resist the slightest impulse. While life was +strong within me I thought indeed that there was a sacred horror in my +tale that rendered it unfit for utterance, and now about to die I +pollute its mystic terrors. It is as the wood of the Eumenides none +but the dying may enter; and Oedipus is about to die.[4] + +What am I writing?--I must collect my thoughts. I do not know that any +will peruse these pages except you, my friend, who will receive them +at my death. I do not address them to you alone because it will give +me pleasure to dwell upon our friendship in a way that would be +needless if you alone read what I shall write. I shall relate my tale +therefore as if I wrote for strangers. You have often asked me the +cause of my solitary life; my tears; and above all of my impenetrable +and unkind silence. In life I dared not; in death I unveil the +mystery. Others will toss these pages lightly over: to you, Woodville, +kind, affectionate friend, they will be dear--the precious memorials +of a heart-broken girl who, dying, is still warmed by gratitude +towards you:[5] your tears will fall on the words that record my +misfortunes; I know they will--and while I have life I thank you for +your sympathy. + +But enough of this. I will begin my tale: it is my last task, and I +hope I have strength sufficient to fulfill it. I record no crimes; my +faults may easily be pardoned; for they proceeded not from evil motive +but from want of judgement; and I believe few would say that they +could, by a different conduct and superior wisdom, have avoided the +misfortunes to which I am the victim. My fate has been governed by +necessity, a hideous necessity. It required hands stronger than mine; +stronger I do believe than any human force to break the thick, +adamantine chain that has bound me, once breathing nothing but joy, +ever possessed by a warm love & delight in goodness,--to misery only +to be ended, and now about to be ended, in death. But I forget myself, +my tale is yet untold. I will pause a few moments, wipe my dim eyes, +and endeavour to lose the present obscure but heavy feeling of +unhappiness in the more acute emotions of the past.[6] + +I was born in England. My father was a man of rank:[7] he had lost his +father early, and was educated by a weak mother with all the +indulgence she thought due to a nobleman of wealth. He was sent to +Eton and afterwards to college; & allowed from childhood the free use +of large sums of money; thus enjoying from his earliest youth the +independance which a boy with these advantages, always acquires at a +public school. + +Under the influence of these circumstances his passions found a deep +soil wherein they might strike their roots and flourish either as +flowers or weeds as was their nature. By being always allowed to act +for himself his character became strongly and early marked and +exhibited a various surface on which a quick sighted observer might +see the seeds of virtues and of misfortunes. His careless +extravagance, which made him squander immense sums of money to satisfy +passing whims, which from their apparent energy he dignified with the +name of passions, often displayed itself in unbounded generosity. Yet +while he earnestly occupied himself about the wants of others his own +desires were gratified to their fullest extent. He gave his money, but +none of his own wishes were sacrifised to his gifts; he gave his time, +which he did not value, and his affections which he was happy in any +manner to have called into action. + +I do not say that if his own desires had been put in competition with +those of others that he would have displayed undue selfishness, but +this trial was never made. He was nurtured in prosperity and attended +by all its advantages; every one loved him and wished to gratify him. +He was ever employed in promoting the pleasures of his companions--but +their pleasures were his; and if he bestowed more attention upon the +feelings of others than is usual with schoolboys it was because his +social temper could never enjoy itself if every brow was not as free +from care as his own. + +While at school, emulation and his own natural abilities made him hold +a conspicuous rank in the forms among his equals; at college he +discarded books; he believed that he had other lessons to learn than +those which they could teach him. He was now to enter into life and he +was still young enough to consider study as a school-boy shackle, +employed merely to keep the unruly out of mischief but as having no +real connexion with life--whose wisdom of riding--gaming &c. he +considered with far deeper interest--So he quickly entered into all +college follies although his heart was too well moulded to be +contaminated by them--it might be light but it was never cold. He was +a sincere and sympathizing friend--but he had met with none who +superior or equal to himself could aid him in unfolding his mind, or +make him seek for fresh stores of thought by exhausting the old ones. +He felt himself superior in quickness of judgement to those around +him: his talents, his rank and wealth made him the chief of his party, +and in that station he rested not only contented but glorying, +conceiving it to be the only ambition worthy for him to aim at in the +world. + +By a strange narrowness of ideas he viewed all the world in connexion +only as it was or was not related to his little society. He considered +queer and out of fashion all opinions that were exploded by his circle +of intimates, and he became at the same time dogmatic and yet fearful +of not coinciding with the only sentiments he could consider orthodox. +To the generality of spectators he appeared careless of censure, and +with high disdain to throw aside all dependance on public prejudices; +but at the same time that he strode with a triumphant stride over the +rest of the world, he cowered, with self disguised lowliness, to his +own party, and although its [chi]ef never dared express an opinion or +a feeling until he was assured that it would meet with the approbation +of his companions. + +Yet he had one secret hidden from these dear friends; a secret he had +nurtured from his earliest years, and although he loved his fellow +collegiates he would not trust it to the delicacy or sympathy of any +one among them. He loved. He feared that the intensity of his passion +might become the subject of their ridicule; and he could not bear that +they should blaspheme it by considering that trivial and transitory +which he felt was the life of his life. + +There was a gentleman of small fortune who lived near his family +mansion who had three lovely daughters. The eldest was far the most +beautiful, but her beauty was only an addition to her other +qualities--her understanding was clear & strong and her disposition +angelically gentle. She and my father had been playmates from infancy: +Diana, even in her childhood had been a favourite with his mother; +this partiality encreased with the years of this beautiful and lively +girl and thus during his school & college vacations[8] they were +perpetually together. Novels and all the various methods by which +youth in civilized life are led to a knowledge of the existence of +passions before they really feel them, had produced a strong effect on +him who was so peculiarly susceptible of every impression. At eleven +years of age Diana was his favourite playmate but he already talked +the language of love. Although she was elder than he by nearly two +years the nature of her education made her more childish at least in +the knowledge and expression of feeling; she received his warm +protestations with innocence, and returned them unknowing of what they +meant. She had read no novels and associated only with her younger +sisters, what could she know of the difference between love and +friendship? And when the development of her understanding disclosed +the true nature of this intercourse to her, her affections were +already engaged to her friend, and all she feared was lest other +attractions and fickleness might make him break his infant vows. + +But they became every day more ardent and tender. It was a passion +that had grown with his growth; it had become entwined with every +faculty and every sentiment and only to be lost with life. None knew +of their love except their own two hearts; yet although in all things +else, and even in this he dreaded the censure of his companions, for +thus truly loving one inferior to him in fortune, nothing was ever +able for a moment to shake his purpose of uniting himself to her as +soon as he could muster courage sufficient to meet those difficulties +he was determined to surmount. + +Diana was fully worthy of his deepest affection. There were few who +could boast of so pure a heart, and so much real humbleness of soul +joined to a firm reliance on her own integrity and a belief in that of +others. She had from her birth lived a retired life. She had lost her +mother when very young, but her father had devoted himself to the care +of her education--He had many peculiar ideas which influenced the +system he had adopted with regard to her--She was well acquainted with +the heroes of Greece and Rome or with those of England who had lived +some hundred years ago, while she was nearly ignorant of the passing +events of the day: she had read few authors who had written during at +least the last fifty years but her reading with this exception was +very extensive. Thus although she appeared to be less initiated in the +mysteries of life and society than he her knowledge was of a deeper +kind and laid on firmer foundations; and if even her beauty and +sweetness had not fascinated him her understanding would ever have +held his in thrall. He looked up to her as his guide, and such was his +adoration that he delighted to augment to his own mind the sense of +inferiority with which she sometimes impressed him.[9] + +When he was nineteen his mother died. He left college on this event +and shaking off for a while his old friends he retired to the +neighbourhood of his Diana and received all his consolation from her +sweet voice and dearer caresses. This short seperation from his +companions gave him courage to assert his independance. He had a +feeling that however they might express ridicule of his intended +marriage they would not dare display it when it had taken place; +therefore seeking the consent of his guardian which with some +difficulty he obtained, and of the father of his mistress which was +more easily given, without acquainting any one else of his intention, +by the time he had attained his twentieth birthday he had become the +husband of Diana. + +He loved her with passion and her tenderness had a charm for him that +would not permit him to think of aught but her. He invited some of his +college friends to see him but their frivolity disgusted him. Diana +had torn the veil which had before kept him in his boyhood: he was +become a man and he was surprised how he could ever have joined in the +cant words and ideas of his fellow collegiates or how for a moment he +had feared the censure of such as these. He discarded his old +friendships not from fickleness but because they were indeed unworthy +of him. Diana filled up all his heart: he felt as if by his union with +her he had received a new and better soul. She was his monitress as he +learned what were the true ends of life. It was through her beloved +lessons that he cast off his old pursuits and gradually formed himself +to become one among his fellow men; a distinguished member of society, +a Patriot; and an enlightened lover of truth and virtue.--He loved her +for her beauty and for her amiable disposition but he seemed to love +her more for what he considered her superior wisdom. They studied, +they rode together; they were never seperate and seldom admitted a +third to their society. + +Thus my father, born in affluence, and always prosperous, clombe +without the difficulty and various disappointments that all human +beings seem destined to encounter, to the very topmost pinacle of +happiness: Around him was sunshine, and clouds whose shapes of beauty +made the prospect divine concealed from him the barren reality which +lay hidden below them. From this dizzy point he was dashed at once as +he unawares congratulated himself on his felicity. Fifteen months +after their marriage I was born, and my mother died a few days after +my birth. + +A sister of my father was with him at this period. She was nearly +fifteen years older than he, and was the offspring of a former +marriage of his father. When the latter died this sister was taken by +her maternal relations: they had seldom seen one another, and were +quite unlike in disposition. This aunt, to whose care I was afterwards +consigned, has often related to me the effect that this catastrophe +had on my father’s strong and susceptible character. From the moment +of my mother’s death untill his departure she never heard him utter a +single word: buried in the deepest melancholy he took no notice of any +one; often for hours his eyes streamed tears or a more fearful gloom +overpowered him. All outward things seemed to have lost their +existence relatively to him and only one circumstance could in any +degree recall him from his motionless and mute despair: he would never +see me. He seemed insensible to the presence of any one else, but if, +as a trial to awaken his sensibility, my aunt brought me into the room +he would instantly rush out with every symptom of fury and +distraction. At the end of a month he suddenly quitted his house and, +unatteneded [_sic_] by any servant, departed from that part of the +country without by word or writing informing any one of his +intentions. My aunt was only relieved of her anxiety concerning his +fate by a letter from him dated Hamburgh. + +How often have I wept over that letter which untill I was sixteen was +the only relick I had to remind me of my parents. “Pardon me,” it +said, “for the uneasiness I have unavoidably given you: but while in +that unhappy island, where every thing breathes _her_ spirit whom I +have lost for ever, a spell held me. It is broken: I have quitted +England for many years, perhaps for ever. But to convince you that +selfish feeling does not entirely engross me I shall remain in this +town untill you have made by letter every arrangement that you judge +necessary. When I leave this place do not expect to hear from me: I +must break all ties that at present exist. I shall become a wanderer, +a miserable outcast--alone! alone!”--In another part of the letter he +mentioned me--“As for that unhappy little being whom I could not see, +and hardly dare mention, I leave her under your protection. Take care +of her and cherish her: one day I may claim her at your hands; but +futurity is dark, make the present happy to her.” + +My father remained three months at Hamburgh; when he quitted it he +changed his name, my aunt could never discover that which he adopted +and only by faint hints, could conjecture that he had taken the road +of Germany and Hungary to Turkey.[10] + +Thus this towering spirit who had excited interest and high +expectation in all who knew and could value him became at once, as it +were, extinct. He existed from this moment for himself only. His +friends remembered him as a brilliant vision which would never again +return to them. The memory of what he had been faded away as years +passed; and he who before had been as a part of themselves and of +their hopes was now no longer counted among the living. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +I now come to my own story. During the early part of my life there is +little to relate, and I will be brief; but I must be allowed to dwell +a little on the years of my childhood that it may be apparent how when +one hope failed all life was to be a blank; and how when the only +affection I was permitted to cherish was blasted my existence was +extinguished with it. + +I have said that my aunt was very unlike my father. I believe that +without the slightest tinge of a bad heart she had the coldest that +ever filled a human breast: it was totally incapable of any affection. +She took me under her protection because she considered it her duty; +but she had too long lived alone and undisturbed by the noise and +prattle of children to allow that I should disturb her quiet. She had +never been married; and for the last five years had lived perfectly +alone on an estate, that had descended to her through her mother, on +the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland. My father had expressed a wish +in his letters that she should reside with me at his family mansion +which was situated in a beautiful country near Richmond in Yorkshire. +She would not consent to this proposition, but as soon as she had +arranged the affairs which her brother’s departure had caused to fall +to her care, she quitted England and took me with her to her scotch +estate. + +The care of me while a baby, and afterwards untill I had reached my +eighth year devolved on a servant of my mother’s, who had accompanied +us in our retirement for that purpose. I was placed in a remote part +of the house, and only saw my aunt at stated hours. These occurred +twice a day; once about noon she came to my nursery, and once after +her dinner I was taken to her. She never caressed me, and seemed all +the time I staid in the room to fear that I should annoy her by some +childish freak. My good nurse always schooled me with the greatest +care before she ventured into the parlour--and the awe my aunt’s cold +looks and few constrained words inspired was so great that I seldom +disgraced her lessons or was betrayed from the exemplary stillness +which I was taught to observe during these short visits.[11] + +Under my good nurse’s care I ran wild about our park and the +neighbouring fields. The offspring of the deepest love I displayed +from my earliest years the greatest sensibility of disposition. I +cannot say with what passion I loved every thing even the inanimate +objects that surrounded me. I believe that I bore an individual +attachment to every tree in our park; every animal that inhabited it +knew me and I loved them. Their occasional deaths filled my infant +heart with anguish. I cannot number the birds that I have saved during +the long and severe winters of that climate; or the hares and rabbits +that I have defended from the attacks of our dogs, or have nursed when +accidentally wounded. + +When I was seven years of age my nurse left me. I now forget the cause +of her departure if indeed I ever knew it. She returned to England, +and the bitter tears she shed at parting were the last I saw flow for +love of me for many years. My grief was terrible: I had no friend but +her in the whole world. By degrees I became reconciled to solitude but +no one supplied her place in my affections. I lived in a desolate +country where + + ------ there were none to praise + And very few to love.[A] + +It is true that I now saw a little more of my aunt, but she was in +every way an unsocial being; and to a timid child she was as a plant +beneath a thick covering of ice; I should cut my hands in endeavouring +to get at it. So I was entirely thrown upon my own resourses. The +neighbouring minister was engaged to give me lessons in reading, +writing and french, but he was without family and his manners even to +me were always perfectly characteristic of the profession in the +exercise of whose functions he chiefly shone, that of a schoolmaster. +I sometimes strove to form friendships with the most attractive of the +girls who inhabited the neighbouring village; but I believe I should +never have succeeded [even] had not my aunt interposed her authority +to prevent all intercourse between me and the peasantry; for she was +fearful lest I should acquire the scotch accent and dialect; a little +of it I had, although great pains was taken that my tongue should not +disgrace my English origin. + +As I grew older my liberty encreased with my desires, and my +wanderings extended from our park to the neighbouring country. Our +house was situated on the shores of the lake and the lawn came down to +the water’s edge. I rambled amidst the wild scenery of this lovely +country and became a complete mountaineer: I passed hours on the steep +brow of a mountain that overhung a waterfall or rowed myself in a +little skiff to some one of the islands. I wandered for ever about +these lovely solitudes, gathering flower after flower + + Ond’ era pinta tutta la mia via[B] + +singing as I might the wild melodies of the country, or occupied by +pleasant day dreams. My greatest pleasure was the enjoyment of a +serene sky amidst these verdant woods: yet I loved all the changes of +Nature; and rain, and storm, and the beautiful clouds of heaven +brought their delights with them. When rocked by the waves of the lake +my spirits rose in triumph as a horseman feels with pride the motions +of his high fed steed. + +But my pleasures arose from the contemplation of nature alone, I had +no companion: my warm affections finding no return from any other +human heart were forced to run waste on inanimate objects.[12] +Sometimes indeed I wept when my aunt received my caresses with +repulsive coldness, and when I looked round and found none to love; +but I quickly dried my tears. As I grew older books in some degree +supplied the place of human intercourse: the library of my aunt was +very small; Shakespear, Milton, Pope and Cowper were the strangley +[_sic_] assorted poets of her collection; and among the prose authors +a translation of Livy and Rollin’s ancient history were my chief +favourites although as I emerged from childhood I found others highly +interesting which I had before neglected as dull. + +When I was twelve years old it occurred to my aunt that I ought to +learn music; she herself played upon the harp. It was with great +hesitation that she persuaded herself to undertake my instruction; yet +believing this accomplishment a necessary part of my education, and +balancing the evils of this measure or of having some one in the house +to instruct me she submitted to the inconvenience. A harp was sent for +that my playing might not interfere with hers, and I began: she found +me a docile and when I had conquered the first rudiments a very apt +scholar. I had acquired in my harp a companion in rainy days; a sweet +soother of my feelings when any untoward accident ruffled them: I +often addressed it as my only friend; I could pour forth to it my +hopes and loves, and I fancied that its sweet accents answered me. I +have now mentioned all my studies. + +I was a solitary being, and from my infant years, ever since my dear +nurse left me, I had been a dreamer. I brought Rosalind and Miranda +and the lady of Comus to life to be my companions, or on my isle acted +over their parts imagining myself to be in their situations. Then I +wandered from the fancies of others and formed affections and +intimacies with the aerial creations of my own brain--but still +clinging to reality I gave a name to these conceptions and nursed them +in the hope of realization. I clung to the memory of my parents; my +mother I should never see, she was dead: but the idea of [my] unhappy, +wandering father was the idol of my imagination. I bestowed on him all +my affections; there was a miniature of him that I gazed on +continually; I copied his last letter and read it again and again. +Sometimes it made me weep; and at other [times] I repeated with +transport those words,--“One day I may claim her at your hands.” I was +to be his consoler, his companion in after years. My favourite vision +was that when I grew up I would leave my aunt, whose coldness lulled +my conscience, and disguised like a boy I would seek my father through +the world. My imagination hung upon the scene of recognition; his +miniature, which I should continually wear exposed on my breast, would +be the means and I imaged the moment to my mind a thousand and a +thousand times, perpetually varying the circumstances. Sometimes it +would be in a desart; in a populous city; at a ball; we should perhaps +meet in a vessel; and his first words constantly were, “My daughter, I +love thee”! What extactic moments have I passed in these dreams! How +many tears I have shed; how often have I laughed aloud.[13] + +This was my life for sixteen years. At fourteen and fifteen I often +thought that the time was come when I should commence my pilgrimage, +which I had cheated my own mind into believing was my imperious duty: +but a reluctance to quit my Aunt; a remorse for the grief which, I +could not conceal from myself, I should occasion her for ever +withheld me. Sometimes when I had planned the next morning for my +escape a word of more than usual affection from her lips made me +postpone my resolution. I reproached myself bitterly for what I called +a culpable weakness; but this weakness returned upon me whenever the +critical moment approached, and I never found courage to depart.[14] + + +[A] Wordsworth + +[B] Dante + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +It was on my sixteenth birthday that my aunt received a letter from my +father. I cannot describe the tumult of emotions that arose within me +as I read it. It was dated from London; he had returned![15] I could +only relieve my transports by tears, tears of unmingled joy. He had +returned, and he wrote to know whether my aunt would come to London or +whether he should visit her in Scotland. How delicious to me were the +words of his letter that concerned me: “I cannot tell you,” it said, +“how ardently I desire to see my Mathilda. I look on her as the +creature who will form the happiness of my future life: she is all +that exists on earth that interests me. I can hardly prevent myself +from hastening immediately to you but I am necessarily detained a week +and I write because if you come here I may see you somewhat sooner.” I +read these words with devouring eyes; I kissed them, wept over them +and exclaimed, “He will love me!”-- + +My aunt would not undertake so long a journey, and in a fortnight we +had another letter from my father, it was dated Edinburgh: he wrote +that he should be with us in three days. “As he approached his desire +of seeing me,” he said, “became more and more ardent, and he felt that +the moment when he should first clasp me in his arms would be the +happiest of his life.” + +How irksome were these three days to me! All sleep and appetite fled +from me; I could only read and re-read his letter, and in the solitude +of the woods imagine the moment of our meeting. On the eve of the +third day I retired early to my room; I could not sleep but paced all +night about my chamber and, as you may in Scotland at midsummer, +watched the crimson track of the sun as it almost skirted the northern +horizon. At day break I hastened to the woods; the hours past on while +I indulged in wild dreams that gave wings to the slothful steps of +time, and beguiled my eager impatience. My father was expected at noon +but when I wished to return to me[e]t him I found that I had lost my +way: it seemed that in every attempt to find it I only became more +involved in the intracacies of the woods, and the trees hid all trace +by which I might be guided.[16] I grew impatient, I wept; [_sic_] and +wrung my hands but still I could not discover my path. + +It was past two o’clock when by a sudden turn I found myself close to +the lake near a cove where a little skiff was moored--It was not far +from our house and I saw my father and aunt walking on the lawn. I +jumped into the boat, and well accustomed to such feats, I pushed it +from shore, and exerted all my strength to row swiftly across. As I +came, dressed in white, covered only by my tartan _rachan_, my hair +streaming on my shoulders, and shooting across with greater speed that +it could be supposed I could give to my boat, my father has often told +me that I looked more like a spirit than a human maid. I approached +the shore, my father held the boat, I leapt lightly out, and in a +moment was in his arms. + +And now I began to live. All around me was changed from a dull +uniformity to the brightest scene of joy and delight. The happiness I +enjoyed in the company of my father far exceeded my sanguine +expectations. We were for ever together; and the subjects of our +conversations were inexhaustible. He had passed the sixteen years of +absence among nations nearly unknown to Europe; he had wandered +through Persia, Arabia and the north of India and had penetrated among +the habitations of the natives with a freedom permitted to few +Europeans. His relations of their manners, his anecdotes and +descriptions of scenery whiled away delicious hours, when we were +tired of talking of our own plans of future life. + +The voice of affection was so new to me that I hung with delight upon +his words when he told me what he had felt concerning me during these +long years of apparent forgetfulness. “At first”--said he, “I could +not bear to think of my poor little girl; but afterwards as grief wore +off and hope again revisited me I could only turn to her, and amidst +cities and desarts her little fairy form, such as I imagined it, for +ever flitted before me. The northern breeze as it refreshed me was +sweeter and more balmy for it seemed to carry some of your spirit +along with it. I often thought that I would instantly return and take +you along with me to some fertile island where we should live at peace +for ever. As I returned my fervent hopes were dashed by so many fears; +my impatience became in the highest degree painful. I dared not think +that the sun should shine and the moon rise not on your living form +but on your grave. But, no, it is not so; I have my Mathilda, my +consolation, and my hope.”-- + +My father was very little changed from what he described himself to be +before his misfortunes. It is intercourse with civilized society; it +is the disappointment of cherished hopes, the falsehood of friends, or +the perpetual clash of mean passions that changes the heart and damps +the ardour of youthful feelings; lonly wanderings in a wild country +among people of simple or savage manners may inure the body but will +not tame the soul, or extinguish the ardour and freshness of feeling +incident to youth. The burning sun of India, and the freedom from all +restraint had rather encreased the energy of his character: before he +bowed under, now he was impatient of any censure except that of his +own mind. He had seen so many customs and witnessed so great a variety +of moral creeds that he had been obliged to form an independant one +for himself which had no relation to the peculiar notions of any one +country: his early prejudices of course influenced his judgement in +the formation of his principles, and some raw colledge ideas were +strangely mingled with the deepest deductions of his penetrating mind. + +The vacuity his heart endured of any deep interest in life during his +long absence from his native country had had a singular effect upon +his ideas. There was a curious feeling of unreality attached by him to +his foreign life in comparison with the years of his youth. All the +time he had passed out of England was as a dream, and all the interest +of his soul[,] all his affections belonged to events which had +happened and persons who had existed sixteen years before. It was +strange when you heard him talk to see how he passed over this lapse +of time as a night of visions; while the remembrances of his youth +standing seperate as they did from his after life had lost none of +their vigour. He talked of my Mother as if she had lived but a few +weeks before; not that he expressed poignant grief, but his +discription of her person, and his relation of all anecdotes connected +with her was thus fervent and vivid. + +In all this there was a strangeness that attracted and enchanted me. +He was, as it were, now awakened from his long, visionary sleep, and +he felt some what like one of the seven sleepers, or like +Nourjahad,[17] in that sweet imitation of an eastern tale: Diana was +gone; his friends were changed or dead, and now on his awakening I was +all that he had to love on earth. + +How dear to me were the waters, and mountains, and woods of Loch +Lomond now that I had so beloved a companion for my rambles. I visited +with my father every delightful spot, either on the islands, or by the +side of the tree-sheltered waterfalls; every shady path, or dingle +entangled with underwood and fern. My ideas were enlarged by his +conversation. I felt as if I were recreated and had about me all the +freshness and life of a new being: I was, as it were, transported +since his arrival from a narrow spot of earth into a universe +boundless to the imagination and the understanding. My life had been +before as a pleasing country rill, never destined to leave its native +fields, but when its task was fulfilled quietly to be absorbed, and +leave no trace. Now it seemed to me to be as a various river flowing +through a fertile and lovely lanscape, ever changing and ever +beautiful. Alas! I knew not the desart it was about to reach; the +rocks that would tear its waters, and the hideous scene that would be +reflected in a more distorted manner in its waves. Life was then +brilliant; I began to learn to hope and what brings a more bitter +despair to the heart than hope destroyed? + +Is it not strange[18] that grief should quickly follow so divine a +happiness? I drank of an enchanted cup but gall was at the bottom of +its long drawn sweetness. My heart was full of deep affection, but it +was calm from its very depth and fulness. I had no idea that misery +could arise from love, and this lesson that all at last must learn was +taught me in a manner few are obliged to receive it. I lament now, I +must ever lament, those few short months of Paradisaical bliss; I +disobeyed no command, I ate no apple, and yet I was ruthlessly driven +from it. Alas! my companion did, and I was precipitated in his +fall.[19] But I wander from my relation--let woe come at its appointed +time; I may at this stage of my story still talk of happiness. + +Three months passed away in this delightful intercourse, when my aunt +fell ill. I passed a whole month in her chamber nursing her, but her +disease was mortal and she died, leaving me for some time +inconsolable, Death is so dreadful to the living;[20] the chains of +habit are so strong even when affection does not link them that the +heart must be agonized when they break. But my father was beside me to +console me and to drive away bitter memories by bright hopes: +methought that it was sweet to grieve that he might dry my tears. + +Then again he distracted my thoughts from my sorrow by comparing it +with his despair when he lost my mother. Even at that time I shuddered +at the picture he drew of his passions: he had the imagination of a +poet, and when he described the whirlwind that then tore his feelings +he gave his words the impress of life so vividly that I believed while +I trembled. I wondered how he could ever again have entered into the +offices of life after his wild thoughts seemed to have given him +affinity with the unearthly; while he spoke so tremendous were the +ideas which he conveyed that it appeared as if the human heart were +far too bounded for their conception. His feelings seemed better +fitted for a spirit whose habitation is the earthquake and the volcano +than for one confined to a mortal body and human lineaments. But these +were merely memories; he was changed since then. He was now all love, +all softness; and when I raised my eyes in wonder at him as he spoke +the smile on his lips told me that his heart was possessed by the +gentlest passions. + +Two months after my aunt’s death we removed to London where I was led +by my father to attend to deeper studies than had before occupied me. +My improvement was his delight; he was with me during all my studies +and assisted or joined with me in every lesson. We saw a great deal of +society, and no day passed that my father did not endeavour to +embellish by some new enjoyment. The tender attachment that he bore +me, and the love and veneration with which I returned it cast a charm +over every moment. The hours were slow for each minute was employed; +we lived more in one week than many do in the course of several months +and the variety and novelty of our pleasures gave zest to each. + +We perpetually made excursions together. And whether it were to visit +beautiful scenery, or to see fine pictures, or sometimes for no object +but to seek amusement as it might chance to arise, I was always happy +when near my father. It was a subject of regret to me whenever we were +joined by a third person, yet if I turned with a disturbed look +towards my father, his eyes fixed on me and beaming with tenderness +instantly restored joy to my heart. O, hours of intense delight! Short +as ye were ye are made as long to me as a whole life when looked back +upon through the mist of grief that rose immediately after as if to +shut ye from my view. Alas! ye were the last of happiness that I ever +enjoyed; a few, a very few weeks and all was destroyed. Like +Psyche[21] I lived for awhile in an enchanted palace, amidst odours, +and music, and every luxurious delight; when suddenly I was left on a +barren rock; a wide ocean of despair rolled around me: above all was +black, and my eyes closed while I still inhabited a universal death. +Still I would not hurry on; I would pause for ever on the +recollections of these happy weeks; I would repeat every word, and how +many do I remember, record every enchantment of the faery habitation. +But, no, my tale must not pause; it must be as rapid as was my +fate,--I can only describe in short although strong expressions my +precipitate and irremediable change from happiness to despair.[22] + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Among our most assiduous visitors was a young man of rank, well +informed, and agreable in his person. After we had spent a few weeks +in London his attentions towards me became marked and his visits more +frequent. I was too much taken up by my own occupations and feelings +to attend much to this, and then indeed I hardly noticed more than the +bare surface of events as they passed around me; but I now remember +that my father was restless and uneasy whenever this person visited +us, and when we talked together watched us with the greatest apparent +anxiety although he himself maintained a profound silence. At length +these obnoxious visits suddenly ceased altogether, but from that +moment I must date the change of my father: a change that to remember +makes me shudder and then filled me with the deepest grief. There were +no degrees which could break my fall from happiness to misery; it was +as the stroke of lightning--sudden and entire.[23] Alas! I now met +frowns where before I had been welcomed only with smiles: he, my +beloved father, shunned me, and either treated me with harshness or a +more heart-breaking coldness. We took no more sweet counsel together; +and when I tried to win him again to me, his anger, and the terrible +emotions that he exhibited drove me to silence and tears. + +And this was sudden. The day before we had passed alone together in +the country; I remember we had talked of future travels that we should +undertake together--. There was an eager delight in our tones and +gestures that could only spring from deep & mutual love joined to the +most unrestrained confidence[;] and now the next day, the next hour, I +saw his brows contracted, his eyes fixed in sullen fierceness on the +ground, and his voice so gentle and so dear made me shiver when he +addressed me. Often, when my wandering fancy brought by its various +images now consolation and now aggravation of grief to my heart,[24] I +have compared myself to Proserpine who was gaily and heedlessly +gathering flowers on the sweet plain of Enna, when the King of Hell +snatched her away to the abodes of death and misery. Alas! I who so +lately knew of nought but the joy of life; who had slept only to +dream sweet dreams and awoke to incomparable happiness, I now passed +my days and nights in tears. I who sought and had found joy in the +love-breathing countenance of my father now when I dared fix on him a +supplicating look it was ever answered by an angry frown. I dared not +speak to him; and when sometimes I had worked up courage to meet him +and to ask an explanation one glance at his face where a chaos of +mighty passion seemed for ever struggling made me tremble and shrink +to silence. I was dashed down from heaven to earth as a silly sparrow +when pounced on by a hawk; my eyes swam and my head was bewildered by +the sudden apparition of grief. Day after day[25] passed marked only +by my complaints and my tears; often I lifted my soul in vain prayer +for a softer descent from joy to woe, or if that were denied me that I +might be allowed to die, and fade for ever under the cruel blast that +swept over me, + + ------ for what should I do here, + Like a decaying flower, still withering + Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat + Should give my poor heart life?[C] + +Sometimes I said to myself, this is an enchantment, and I must strive +against it. My father is blinded by some malignant vision which I must +remove. And then, like David, I would try music to win the evil spirit +from him; and once while singing I lifted my eyes towards him and saw +his fixed on me and filled with tears; all his muscles seemed relaxed +to softness. I sprung towards him with a cry of joy and would have +thrown myself into his arms, but he pushed me roughly from him and +left me. And even from this slight incident he contracted fresh gloom +and an additional severity of manner. + +There are many incidents that I might relate which shewed the diseased +yet incomprehensible state of his mind; but I will mention one that +occurred while we were in company with several other persons. On this +occasion I chanced to say that I thought Myrrha the best of Alfieri’s +tragedies; as I said this I chanced to cast my eyes on my father and +met his: for the first time the expression of those beloved eyes +displeased me, and I saw with affright that his whole frame shook with +some concealed emotion that in spite of his efforts half conquered +him: as this tempest faded from his soul he became melancholy and +silent. Every day some new scene occured and displayed in him a mind +working as [it] were with an unknown horror that now he could master +but which at times threatened to overturn his reason, and to throw the +bright seat of his intelligence into a perpetual chaos. + +I will not dwell longer than I need on these disastrous +circumstances.[26] I might waste days in describing how anxiously I +watched every change of fleeting circumstance that promised better +days, and with what despair I found that each effort of mine +aggravated his seeming madness. To tell all my grief I might as well +attempt to count the tears that have fallen from these eyes, or every +sign that has torn my heart. I will be brief for there is in all this +a horror that will not bear many words, and I sink almost a second +time to death while I recall these sad scenes to my memory. Oh, my +beloved father! Indeed you made me miserable beyond all words, but how +truly did I even then forgive you, and how entirely did you possess my +whole heart while I endeavoured, as a rainbow gleams upon a +cataract,[D][27] to soften thy tremendous sorrows. + +Thus did this change come about. I seem perhaps to have dashed too +suddenly into the description, but thus suddenly did it happen. In one +sentence I have passed from the idea of unspeakable happiness to that +of unspeakable grief but they were thus closely linked together. We +had remained five months in London three of joy and two of sorrow. My +father and I were now seldom alone or if we were he generally kept +silence with his eyes fixed on the ground--the dark full orbs in which +before I delighted to read all sweet and gentle feeling shadowed from +my sight by their lids and the long lashes that fringed them. When we +were in company he affected gaiety but I wept to hear his hollow +laugh--begun by an empty smile and often ending in a bitter sneer such +as never before this fatal period had wrinkled his lips. When others +were there he often spoke to me and his eyes perpetually followed my +slightest motion. His accents whenever he addressed me were cold and +constrained although his voice would tremble when he perceived that my +full heart choked the answer to words proffered with a mien yet new to +me. + +But days of peaceful melancholy were of rare occurence[:] they were +often broken in upon by gusts of passion that drove me as a weak boat +on a stormy sea to seek a cove for shelter; but the winds blew from my +native harbour and I was cast far, far out untill shattered I perished +when the tempest had passed and the sea was apparently calm. I do not +know that I can describe his emotions: sometimes he only betrayed them +by a word or gesture, and then retired to his chamber and I crept as +near it as I dared and listened with fear to every sound, yet still +more dreading a sudden silence--dreading I knew not what, but ever +full of fear. + +It was after one tremendous day when his eyes had glared on me like +lightning--and his voice sharp and broken seemed unable to express the +extent of his emotion that in the evening when I was alone he joined +me with a calm countenance, and not noticing my tears which I quickly +dried when he approached, told me that in three days that [_sic_] he +intended to remove with me to his estate in Yorkshire, and bidding me +prepare left me hastily as if afraid of being questioned. + +This determination on his part indeed surprised me. This estate was +that which he had inhabited in childhood and near which my mother +resided while a girl; this was the scene of their youthful loves and +where they had lived after their marriage; in happier days my father +had often told me that however he might appear weaned from his widow +sorrow, and free from bitter recollections elsewhere, yet he would +never dare visit the spot where he had enjoyed her society or trust +himself to see the rooms that so many years ago they had inhabited +together; her favourite walks and the gardens the flowers of which she +had delighted to cultivate. And now while he suffered intense misery +he determined to plunge into still more intense, and strove for +greater emotion than that which already tore him. I was perplexed, and +most anxious to know what this portended; ah, what could it po[r]tend +but ruin! + +I saw little of my father during this interval, but he appeared calmer +although not less unhappy than before. On the morning of the third day +he informed me that he had determined to go to Yorkshire first alone, +and that I should follow him in a fortnight unless I heard any thing +from him in the mean time that should contradict this command. He +departed the same day, and four days afterwards I received a letter +from his steward telling me in his name to join him with as little +delay as possible. After travelling day and night I arrived with an +anxious, yet a hoping heart, for why should he send for me if it were +only to avoid me and to treat me with the apparent aversion that he +had in London. I met him at the distance of thirty miles from our +mansion. His demeanour was sad; for a moment he appeared glad to see +me and then he checked himself as if unwilling to betray his feelings. +He was silent during our ride, yet his manner was kinder than before +and I thought I beheld a softness in his eyes that gave me hope. + +When we arrived, after a little rest, he led me over the house and +pointed out to me the rooms which my mother had inhabited. Although +more than sixteen years had passed since her death nothing had been +changed; her work box, her writing desk were still there and in her +room a book lay open on the table as she had left it. My father +pointed out these circumstances with a serious and unaltered mien, +only now and then fixing his deep and liquid eyes upon me; there was +something strange and awful in his look that overcame me, and in spite +of myself I wept, nor did he attempt to console me, but I saw his lips +quiver and the muscles of his countenance seemed convulsed. + +We walked together in the gardens and in the evening when I would have +retired he asked me to stay and read to him; and first said, “When I +was last here your mother read Dante to me; you shall go on where she +left off.” And then in a moment he said, “No, that must not be; you +must not read Dante. Do you choose a book.” I took up Spencer and read +the descent of Sir Guyon to the halls of Avarice;[28] while he +listened his eyes fixed on me in sad profound silence. + +I heard the next morning from the steward that upon his arrival he had +been in a most terrible state of mind: he had passed the first night +in the garden lying on the damp grass; he did not sleep but groaned +perpetually. “Alas!” said the old man[,] who gave me this account with +tears in his eyes, “it wrings my heart to see my lord in this state: +when I heard that he was coming down here with you, my young lady, I +thought we should have the happy days over again that we enjoyed +during the short life of my lady your mother--But that would be too +much happiness for us poor creatures born to tears--and that was why +she was taken from us so soon; [s]he was too beautiful and good for +us[.] It was a happy day as we all thought it when my lord married +her: I knew her when she was a child and many a good turn has she done +for me in my old lady’s time--You are like her although there is more +of my lord in you--But has he been thus ever since his return? All my +joy turned to sorrow when I first beheld him with that melancholy +countenance enter these doors as it were the day after my lady’s +funeral--He seemed to recover himself a little after he had bidden me +write to you--but still it is a woful thing to see him so +unhappy.”[29] These were the feelings of an old, faithful servant: +what must be those of an affectionate daughter. Alas! Even then my +heart was almost broken. + +We spent two months together in this house. My father spent the +greater part of his time with me; he accompanied me in my walks, +listened to my music, and leant over me as I read or painted. When he +conversed with me his manner was cold and constrained; his eyes only +seemed to speak, and as he turned their black, full lustre towards me +they expressed a living sadness. There was somthing in those dark deep +orbs so liquid, and intense that even in happiness I could never meet +their full gaze that mine did not overflow. Yet it was with sweet +tears; now there was a depth of affliction in their gentle appeal that +rent my heart with sympathy; they seemed to desire peace for me; for +himself a heart patient to suffer; a craving for sympathy, yet a +perpetual self denial. It was only when he was absent from me that his +passion subdued him,--that he clinched his hands--knit his brows--and +with haggard looks called for death to his despair, raving wildly, +untill exhausted he sank down nor was revived untill I joined him. + +While we were in London there was a harshness and sulleness in his +sorrow which had now entirely disappeared. There I shrunk and fled +from him, now I only wished to be with him that I might soothe him to +peace. When he was silent I tried to divert him, and when sometimes I +stole to him during the energy of his passion I wept but did not +desire to leave him. Yet he suffered fearful agony; during the day he +was more calm, but at night when I could not be with him he seemed to +give the reins to his grief: he often passed his nights either on the +floor in my mother’s room, or in the garden; and when in the morning +he saw me view with poignant grief his exhausted frame, and his person +languid almost to death with watching he wept; but during all this +time he spoke no word by which I might guess the cause of his +unhappiness[.] If I ventured to enquire he would either leave me or +press his finger on his lips, and with a deprecating look that I could +not resist, turn away. If I wept he would gaze on me in silence but he +was no longer harsh and although he repulsed every caress yet it was +with gentleness. + +He seemed to cherish a mild grief and softer emotions although sad as +a relief from despair--He contrived in many ways to nurse his +melancholy as an antidote to wilder passion[.] He perpetually +frequented the walks that had been favourites with him when he and my +mother wandered together talking of love and happiness; he collected +every relick that remained of her and always sat opposite her picture +which hung in the room fixing on it a look of sad despair--and all +this was done in a mystic and awful silence. If his passion subdued +him he locked himself in his room; and at night when he wandered +restlessly about the house, it was when every other creature slept. + +It may easily be imagined that I wearied myself with conjecture to +guess the cause of his sorrow. The solution that seemed to me the most +probable was that during his residence in London he had fallen in love +with some unworthy person, and that his passion mastered him although +he would not gratify it: he loved me too well to sacrifise me to this +inclination, and that he had now visited this house that by reviving +the memory of my mother whom he so passionately adored he might weaken +the present impression. This was possible; but it was a mere +conjecture unfounded on any fact. Could there be guilt in it? He was +too upright and noble to _do_ aught that his conscience would not +approve; I did not yet know of the crime there may be in involuntary +feeling and therefore ascribed his tumultuous starts and gloomy looks +wholly to the struggles of his mind and not any as they were partly +due to the worst fiend of all--Remorse.[30] + +But still do I flatter myself that this would have passed away. His +paroxisms of passion were terrific but his soul bore him through them +triumphant, though almost destroyed by victory; but the day would +finally have been won had not I, foolish and presumtuous wretch! +hurried him on untill there was no recall, no hope. My rashness gave +the victory in this dreadful fight to the enemy who triumphed over him +as he lay fallen and vanquished. I! I alone was the cause of his +defeat and justly did I pay the fearful penalty. I said to myself, let +him receive sympathy and these struggles will cease. Let him confide +his misery to another heart and half the weight of it will be +lightened. I will win him to me; he shall not deny his grief to me and +when I know his secret then will I pour a balm into his soul and again +I shall enjoy the ravishing delight of beholding his smile, and of +again seeing his eyes beam if not with pleasure at least with gentle +love and thankfulness. This will I do, I said. Half I accomplished; I +gained his secret and we were both lost for ever. + + +[C] Fletcher’s comedy of the Captain. + +[D] Lord Byron + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Nearly a year had past since my father’s return, and the seasons had +almost finished their round--It was now the end of May; the woods were +clothed in their freshest verdure, and the sweet smell of the new mown +grass was in the fields. I thought that the balmy air and the lovely +face of Nature might aid me in inspiring him with mild sensations, and +give him gentle feelings of peace and love preparatory to the +confidence I determined to win from him. + +I chose therefore the evening of one of these days for my attempt. I +invited him to walk with me, and led him to a neighbouring wood of +beech trees whose light shade shielded us from the slant and dazzling +beams of the descending sun--After walking for some time in silence I +seated my self with him on a mossy hillock--It is strange but even now +I seem to see the spot--the slim and smooth trunks were many of them +wound round by ivy whose shining leaves of the darkest green +contrasted with the white bark and the light leaves of the young +sprouts of beech that grew from their parent trunks--the short grass +was mingled with moss and was partly covered by the dead leaves of the +last autumn that driven by the winds had here and there collected in +little hillocks--there were a few moss grown stumps about--The leaves +were gently moved by the breeze and through their green canopy you +could see the bright blue sky--As evening came on the distant trunks +were reddened by the sun and the wind died entirely away while a few +birds flew past us to their evening rest. + +Well it was here we sat together, and when you hear all that past--all +that of terrible tore our souls even in this placid spot, which but +for strange passions might have been a paradise to us, you will not +wonder that I remember it as I looked on it that its calm might give +me calm, and inspire me not only with courage but with persuasive +words. I saw all these things and in a vacant manner noted them in my +mind[31] while I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts in fitting order +for my attempt. My heart beat fast as I worked myself up to speak to +him, for I was determined not to be repulsed but I trembled to imagine +what effect my words might have on him; at length, with much +hesitation I began:[32] + +“Your kindness to me, my dearest father, and the affection--the +excessive affection--that you had for me when you first returned will +I hope excuse me in your eyes that I dare speak to you, although with +the tender affection of a daughter, yet also with the freedom of a +friend and equal. But pardon me, I entreat you and listen to me: do +not turn away from me; do not be impatient; you may easily intimidate +me into silence, but my heart is bursting, nor can I willingly consent +to endure for one moment longer the agony of uncertitude which for the +last four months has been my portion. + +“Listen to me, dearest friend, and permit me to gain your confidence. +Are the happy days of mutual love which have passed to be to me as a +dream never to return? Alas! You have a secret grief that destroys us +both: but you must permit me to win this secret from you. Tell me, can +I do nothing? You well know that on the whole earth there is no +sacrifise that I would not make, no labour that I would not undergo +with the mere hope that I might bring you ease. But if no endeavour on +my part can contribute to your happiness, let me at least know your +sorrow, and surely my earnest love and deep sympathy must soothe your +despair. + +“I fear that I speak in a constrained manner: my heart is overflowing +with the ardent desire I have of bringing calm once more to your +thoughts and looks; but I fear to aggravate your grief, or to raise +that in you which is death to me, anger and distaste. Do not then +continue to fix your eyes on the earth; raise them on me for I can +read your soul in them: speak to me to me [_sic_], and pardon my +presumption. Alas! I am a most unhappy creature!” + +I was breathless with emotion, and I paused fixing my earnest eyes on +my father, after I had dashed away the intrusive tears that dimmed +them. He did not raise his, but after a short silence he replied to me +in a low voice: “You are indeed presumptuous, Mathilda, presumptuous +and very rash. In the heart of one like me there are secret thoughts +working, and secret tortures which you ought not to seek to discover. +I cannot tell you how it adds to my grief to know that I am the cause +of uneasiness to you; but this will pass away, and I hope that soon we +shall be as we were a few months ago. Restrain your impatience or you +may mar what you attempt to alleviate. Do not again speak to me in +this strain; but wait in submissive patience the event of what is +passing around you.” + +“Oh, yes!” I passionately replied, “I will be very patient; I will +not be rash or presumptuous: I will see the agonies, and tears, and +despair of my father, my only friend, my hope, my shelter, I will see +it all with folded arms and downcast eyes. You do not treat me with +candour; it is not true what you say; this will not soon pass away, it +will last forever if you deign not to speak to me; to admit my +consolations. + +“Dearest, dearest father, pity me and pardon me: I entreat you do not +drive me to despair; indeed I must not be repulsed; there is one thing +that which [_sic_] although it may torture me to know, yet that you +must tell me. I demand, and most solemnly I demand if in any way I am +the cause of your unhappiness. Do you not see my tears which I in vain +strive against--You hear unmoved my voice broken by sobs--Feel how my +hand trembles: my whole heart is in the words I speak and you must not +endeavour to silence me by mere words barren of meaning: the agony of +my doubt hurries me on, and you must reply. I beseech you; by your +former love for me now lost, I adjure you to answer that one question. +Am I the cause of your grief?” + +He raised his eyes from the ground, but still turning them away from +me, said: “Besought by that plea I will answer your rash question. +Yes, you are the sole, the agonizing cause of all I suffer, of all I +must suffer untill I die. Now, beware! Be silent! Do not urge me to +your destruction. I am struck by the storm, rooted up, laid waste: but +you can stand against it; you are young and your passions are at +peace. One word I might speak and then you would be implicated in my +destruction; yet that word is hovering on my lips. Oh! There is a +fearful chasm; but I adjure you to beware!” + +“Ah, dearest friend!” I cried, “do not fear! Speak that word; it will +bring peace, not death. If there is a chasm our mutual love will give +us wings to pass it, and we shall find flowers, and verdure, and +delight on the other side.” I threw myself at his feet, and took his +hand, “Yes, speak, and we shall be happy; there will no longer be +doubt, no dreadful uncertainty; trust me, my affection will soothe +your sorrow; speak that word and all danger will be past, and we shall +love each other as before, and for ever.” + +He snatched his hand from me, and rose in violent disorder: “What do +you mean? You know not what you mean. Why do you bring me out, and +torture me, and tempt me, and kill me--Much happier would [it] be for +you and for me if in your frantic curiosity you tore my heart from my +breast and tried to read its secrets in it as its life’s blood was +dropping from it. Thus you may console me by reducing me to +nothing--but your words I cannot bear; soon they will make me mad, +quite mad, and then I shall utter strange words, and you will believe +them, and we shall be both lost for ever. I tell you I am on the very +verge of insanity; why, cruel girl, do you drive me on: you will +repent and I shall die.” + +When I repeat his words I wonder at my pertinacious folly; I hardly +know what feelings resis[t]lessly impelled me. I believe it was that +coming out with a determination not to be repulsed I went right +forward to my object without well weighing his replies: I was led by +passion and drew him with frantic heedlessness into the abyss that he +so fearfully avoided--I replied to his terrific words: “You fill me +with affright it is true, dearest father, but you only confirm my +resolution to put an end to this state of doubt. I will not be put off +thus: do you think that I can live thus fearfully from day to day--the +sword in my bosom yet kept from its mortal wound by a hair--a word!--I +demand that dreadful word; though it be as a flash of lightning to +destroy me, speak it. + +“Alas! Alas! What am I become? But a few months have elapsed since I +believed that I was all the world to you; and that there was no +happiness or grief for you on earth unshared by your Mathilda--your +child: that happy time is no longer, and what I most dreaded in this +world is come upon me. In the despair of my heart I see what you +cannot conceal: you no longer love me. I adjure you, my father, has +not an unnatural passion seized upon your heart? Am I not the most +miserable worm that crawls? Do I not embrace your knees, and you most +cruelly repulse me? I know it--I see it--you hate me!” + +I was transported by violent emotion, and rising from his feet, at +which I had thrown myself, I leant against a tree, wildly raising my +eyes to heaven. He began to answer with violence: “Yes, yes, I hate +you! You are my bane, my poison, my disgust! Oh! No[!]” And then his +manner changed, and fixing his eyes on me with an expression that +convulsed every nerve and member of my frame--“you are none of all +these; you are my light, my only one, my life.--My daughter, I love +you!” The last words died away in a hoarse whisper, but I heard them +and sunk on the ground, covering my face and almost dead with excess +of sickness and fear: a cold perspiration covered my forehead and I +shivered in every limb--But he continued, clasping his hands with a +frantic gesture: + +“Now I have dashed from the top of the rock to the bottom! Now I have +precipitated myself down the fearful chasm! The danger is over; she is +alive! Oh, Mathilda, lift up those dear eyes in the light of which I +live. Let me hear the sweet tones of your beloved voice in peace and +calm. Monster as I am, you are still, as you ever were, lovely, +beautiful beyond expression. What I have become since this last moment +I know not; perhaps I am changed in mien as the fallen archangel. I do +believe I am for I have surely a new soul within me, and my blood +riots through my veins: I am burnt up with fever. But these are +precious moments; devil as I am become, yet that is my Mathilda before +me whom I love as one was never before loved: and she knows it now; +she listens to these words which I thought, fool as I was, would blast +her to death. Come, come, the worst is past: no more grief, tears or +despair; were not those the words you uttered?--We have leapt the +chasm I told you of, and now, mark me, Mathilda, we are to find +flowers, and verdure and delight, or is it hell, and fire, and +tortures? Oh! Beloved One, I am borne away; I can no longer sustain +myself; surely this is death that is coming. Let me lay my head near +your heart; let me die in your arms!”--He sunk to the earth fainting, +while I, nearly as lifeless, gazed on him in despair. + +Yes it was despair I felt; for the first time that phantom seized me; +the first and only time for it has never since left me--After the +first moments of speechless agony I felt her fangs on my heart: I tore +my hair; I raved aloud; at one moment in pity for his sufferings I +would have clasped my father in my arms; and then starting back with +horror I spurned him with my foot; I felt as if stung by a serpent, +as if scourged by a whip of scorpions which drove me--Ah! +Whither--Whither? + +Well, this could not last. One idea rushed on my mind; never, never +may I speak to him again. As this terrible conviction came upon _him_ +[_me_?] it melted my soul to tenderness and love--I gazed on him as to +take my last farewell--he lay insensible--his eyes closed as [_and_?] +his cheeks deathly pale. Above, the leaves of the beech wood cast a +flickering shadow on his face, and waved in mournful melody over +him--I saw all these things and said, “Aye, this is his grave!” And +then I wept aloud, and raised my eyes to heaven to entreat for a +respite to my despair and an alleviation for his unnatural +suffering--the tears that gushed in a warm & healing stream from my +eyes relieved the burthen that oppressed my heart almost to madness. I +wept for a long time untill I saw him about to revive, when horror and +misery again recurred, and the tide of my sensations rolled back to +their former channel: with a terror I could not restrain--I sprung up +and fled, with winged speed, along the paths of the wood and across +the fields untill nearly dead I reached our house and just ordering +the servants to seek my father at the spot I indicated, I shut myself +up in my own room[.][33] + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +My chamber was in a retired part of the house, and looked upon the +garden so that no sound of the other inhabitants could reach it; and +here in perfect solitude I wept for several hours. When a servant came +to ask me if I would take food I learnt from him that my father had +returned, and was apparently well and this relieved me from a load of +anxiety, yet I did not cease to weep bitterly. As [_At_] first, as the +memory of former happiness contrasted to my present despair came +across me, I gave relief to the oppression of heart that I felt by +words, and groans, and heart rending sighs: but nature became wearied, +and this more violent grief gave place to a passionate but mute flood +of tears: my whole soul seemed to dissolve [in] them. I did not wring +my hands, or tear my hair, or utter wild exclamations, but as Boccacio +describes the intense and quiet grief [of] Sigismunda over the heart +of Guiscardo,[34] I sat with my hands folded, silently letting fall a +perpetual stream from my eyes. Such was the depth of my emotion that I +had no feeling of what caused my distress, my thoughts even wandered +to many indifferent objects; but still neither moving limb or feature +my tears fell untill, as if the fountains were exhausted, they +gradually subsided, and I awoke to life as from a dream. + +When I had ceased to weep reason and memory returned upon me, and I +began to reflect with greater calmness on what had happened, and how +it became me to act--A few hours only had passed but a mighty +revolution had taken place with regard to me--the natural work of +years had been transacted since the morning: my father was as dead to +me, and I felt for a moment as if he with white hairs were laid in his +coffin and I--youth vanished in approaching age, were weeping at his +timely dissolution. But it was not so, I was yet young, Oh! far too +young, nor was he dead to others; but I, most miserable, must never +see or speak to him again. I must fly from him with more earnestness +than from my greatest enemy: in solitude or in cities I must never +more behold him. That consideration made me breathless with anguish, +and impressing itself on my imagination I was unable for a time to +follow up any train of ideas. Ever after this, I thought, I would +live in the most dreary seclusion. I would retire to the Continent and +become a nun; not for religion’s sake, for I was not a Catholic, but +that I might be for ever shut out from the world. I should there find +solitude where I might weep, and the voices of life might never reach +me. + +But my father; my beloved and most wretched father? Would he die? +Would he never overcome the fierce passion that now held pityless +dominion over him? Might he not many, many years hence, when age had +quenched the burning sensations that he now experienced, might he not +then be again a father to me? This reflection unwrinkled my brow, and +I could feel (and I wept to feel it) a half melancholy smile draw from +my lips their expression of suffering: I dared indulge better hopes +for my future life; years must pass but they would speed lightly away +winged by hope, or if they passed heavily, still they would pass and I +had not lost my father for ever. Let him spend another sixteen years +of desolate wandering: let him once more utter his wild complaints to +the vast woods and the tremendous cataracts of another clime: let him +again undergo fearful danger and soul-quelling hardships: let the hot +sun of the south again burn his passion worn cheeks and the cold night +rains fall on him and chill his blood. + +To this life, miserable father, I devote thee!--Go!--Be thy days +passed with savages, and thy nights under the cope of heaven! Be thy +limbs worn and thy heart chilled, and all youth be dead within thee! +Let thy hairs be as snow; thy walk trembling and thy voice have lost +its mellow tones! Let the liquid lustre of thine eyes be quenched; and +then return to me, return to thy Mathilda, thy child, who may then be +clasped in thy loved arms, while thy heart beats with sinless emotion. +Go, Devoted One, and return thus!--This is my curse, a daughter’s +curse: go, and return pure to thy child, who will never love aught but +thee. + +These were my thoughts; and with trembling hands I prepared to begin a +letter to my unhappy parent. I had now spent many hours in tears and +mournful meditation; it was past twelve o’clock; all was at peace in +the house, and the gentle air that stole in at my window did not +rustle the leaves of the twining plants that shadowed it. I felt the +entire tranquillity of the hour when my own breath and involuntary +sobs were all the sounds that struck upon the air. On a sudden I heard +a gentle step ascending the stairs; I paused breathless, and as it +approached glided into an obscure corner of the room; the steps paused +at my door, but after a few moments they again receeded[,] descended +the stairs and I heard no more. + +This slight incident gave rise in me to the most painful reflections; +nor do I now dare express the emotions I felt. That he should be +restless I understood; that he should wander as an unlaid ghost and +find no quiet from the burning hell that consumed his heart. But why +approach my chamber? Was not that sacred? I felt almost ready to faint +while he had stood there, but I had not betrayed my wakefulness by the +slightest motion, although I had heard my own heart beat with violent +fear. He had withdrawn. Oh, never, never, may I see him again! +Tomorrow night the same roof may not cover us; he or I must depart. +The mutual link of our destinies is broken; we must be divided by +seas--by land. The stars and the sun must not rise at the same period +to us: he must not say, looking at the setting crescent of the moon, +“Mathilda now watches its fall.”--No, all must be changed. Be it light +with him when it is darkness with me! Let him feel the sun of summer +while I am chilled by the snows of winter! Let there be the distance +of the antipodes between us! + +At length the east began to brighten, and the comfortable light of +morning streamed into my room. I was weary with watching and for some +time I had combated with the heavy sleep that weighed down my eyelids: +but now, no longer fearful, I threw myself on my bed. I sought for +repose although I did not hope for forgetfulness; I knew I should be +pursued by dreams, but did not dread the frightful one that I really +had. I thought that I had risen and went to seek my father to inform +him of my determination to seperate myself from him. I sought him in +the house, in the park, and then in the fields and the woods, but I +could not find him. At length I saw him at some distance, seated under +a tree, and when he perceived me he waved his hand several times, +beckoning me to approach; there was something unearthly in his mien +that awed and chilled me, but I drew near. When at [a] short distance +from him I saw that he was deadlily [_sic_] pale, and clothed in +flowing garments of white. Suddenly he started up and fled from me; I +pursued him: we sped over the fields, and by the skirts of woods, and +on the banks of rivers; he flew fast and I followed. We came at last, +methought, to the brow of a huge cliff that over hung the sea which, +troubled by the winds, dashed against its base at a distance. I heard +the roar of the waters: he held his course right on towards the brink +and I became breathless with fear lest he should plunge down the +dreadful precipice; I tried to augment my speed, but my knees failed +beneath me, yet I had just reached him; just caught a part of his +flowing robe, when he leapt down and I awoke with a violent scream. I +was trembling and my pillow was wet with my tears; for a few moments +my heart beat hard, but the bright beams of the sun and the chirping +of the birds quickly restored me to myself, and I rose with a languid +spirit, yet wondering what events the day would bring forth. Some time +passed before I summoned courage to ring the bell for my servant, and +when she came I still dared not utter my father’s name. I ordered her +to bring my breakfast to my room, and was again left alone--yet still +I could make no resolve, but only thought that I might write a note to +my father to beg his permission to pay a visit to a relation who lived +about thirty miles off, and who had before invited me to her house, +but I had refused for then I could not quit my suffering father. When +the servant came back she gave me a letter. + +“From whom is this letter[?]” I asked trembling. + +“Your father left it, madam, with his servant, to be given to you when +you should rise.” + +“My father left it! Where is he? Is he not here?” + +“No; he quitted the house before four this morning.” + +“Good God! He is gone! But tell how this was; speak quick!” + +Her relation was short. He had gone in the carriage to the nearest +town where he took a post chaise and horses with orders for the London +road. He dismissed his servants there, only telling them that he had a +sudden call of business and that they were to obey me as their +mistress untill his return. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +With a beating heart and fearful, I knew not why, I dismissed the +servant and locking my door, sat down to read my father’s letter. +These are the words that it contained. + +“My dear Child + +“I have betrayed your confidence; I have endeavoured to pollute your +mind, and have made your innocent heart acquainted with the looks and +language of unlawful and monstrous passion. I must expiate these +crimes, and must endeavour in some degree to proportionate my +punishment to my guilt. You are I doubt not prepared for what I am +about to announce; we must seperate and be divided for ever. + +“I deprive you of your parent and only friend. You are cast out +shelterless on the world: your hopes are blasted; the peace and +security of your pure mind destroyed; memory will bring to you +frightful images of guilt, and the anguish of innocent love betrayed. +Yet I who draw down all this misery upon you; I who cast you forth and +remorselessly have set the seal of distrust and agony on the heart and +brow of my own child, who with devilish levity have endeavoured to +steal away her loveliness to place in its stead the foul deformity of +sin; I, in the overflowing anguish of my heart, supplicate you to +forgive me. + +“I do not ask your pity; you must and do abhor me: but pardon me, +Mathilda, and let not your thoughts follow me in my banishment with +unrelenting anger. I must never more behold you; never more hear your +voice; but the soft whisperings of your forgiveness will reach me and +cool the burning of my disordered brain and heart; I am sure I should +feel it even in my grave. And I dare enforce this request by relating +how miserably I was betrayed into this net of fiery anguish and all my +struggles to release myself: indeed if your soul were less pure and +bright I would not attempt to exculpate myself to you; I should fear +that if I led you to regard me with less abhorrence you might hate +vice less: but in addressing you I feel as if I appealed to an angelic +judge. I cannot depart without your forgiveness and I must endeavour +to gain it, or I must despair.[35] I conjure you therefore to listen +to my words, and if with the good guilt may be in any degree +extenuated by sharp agony, and remorse that rends the brain as madness +perhaps you may think, though I dare not, that I have some claim to +your compassion. + +“I entreat you to call to your remembrance our first happy life on the +shores of Loch Lomond. I had arrived from a weary wandering of sixteen +years, during which, although I had gone through many dangers and +misfortunes, my affections had been an entire blank. If I grieved it +was for your mother, if I loved it was your image; these sole emotions +filled my heart in quietness. The human creatures around me excited in +me no sympathy and I thought that the mighty change that the death of +your mother had wrought within me had rendered me callous to any +future impression. I saw the lovely and I did not love, I imagined +therefore that all warmth was extinguished in my heart except that +which led me ever to dwell on your then infantine image. + +“It is a strange link in my fate that without having seen you I should +passionately love you. During my wanderings I never slept without +first calling down gentle dreams on your head. If I saw a lovely +woman, I thought, does my Mathilda resemble her? All delightful +things, sublime scenery, soft breezes, exquisite music seemed to me +associated with you and only through you to be pleasant to me. At +length I saw you. You appeared as the deity of a lovely region, the +ministering Angel of a Paradise to which of all human kind you +admitted only me. I dared hardly consider you as my daughter; your +beauty, artlessness and untaught wisdom seemed to belong to a higher +order of beings; your voice breathed forth only words of love: if +there was aught of earthly in you it was only what you derived from +the beauty of the world; you seemed to have gained a grace from the +mountain breezes--the waterfalls and the lake; and this was all of +earthly except your affections that you had; there was no dross, no +bad feeling in the composition. You yet even have not seen enough[36] +of the world to know the stupendous difference that exists between the +women we meet in dayly life and a nymph of the woods such as you were, +in whose eyes alone mankind may study for centuries & grow wiser & +purer. Those divine lights which shone on me as did those of Beatrice +upon Dante, and well might I say with him yet with what different +feelings + + E quasi mi perdei gli occhi chini. + +Can you wonder, Mathilda, that I dwelt on your looks, your words, your +motions, & drank in unmixed delight? + +[“]But I am afraid that I wander from my purpose. I must be more brief +for night draws on apace and all my hours in this house are counted. +Well, we removed to London, and still I felt only the peace of sinless +passion. You were ever with me, and I desired no more than to gaze on +your countenance, and to know that I was all the world to you; I was +lapped in a fool’s paradise of enjoyment and security. Was my love +blamable? If it was I was ignorant of it; I desired only that which I +possessed, and if I enjoyed from your looks, and words, and most +innocent caresses a rapture usually excluded from the feelings of a +parent towards his child, yet no uneasiness, no wish, no casual idea +awoke me to a sense of guilt. I loved you as a human father might be +supposed to love a daughter borne to him by a heavenly mother; as +Anchises might have regarded the child of Venus if the sex had been +changed; love mingled with respect and adoration. Perhaps also my +passion was lulled to content by the deep and exclusive affection you +felt for me. + +“But when I saw you become the object of another’s love; when I +imagined that you might be loved otherwise than as a sacred type and +image of loveliness and excellence; or that you might love another +with a more ardent affection than that which you bore to me, then the +fiend awoke within me; I dismissed your lover; and from that moment I +have known no peace. I have sought in vain for sleep and rest; my lids +refused to close, and my blood was for ever in a tumult. I awoke to a +new life as one who dies in hope might wake in Hell. I will not sully +your imagination by recounting my combats, my self-anger and my +despair. Let a veil be drawn over the unimaginable sensations of a +guilty father; the secrets of so agonized a heart may not be made +vulgar. All was uproar, crime, remorse and hate, yet still the +tenderest love; and what first awoke me to the firm resolve of +conquering my passion and of restoring her father to my child was the +sight of your bitter and sympathizing sorrows. It was this that led me +here: I thought that if I could again awaken in my heart the grief I +had felt at the loss of your mother, and the many associations with +her memory which had been laid to sleep for seventeen years, that all +love for her child would become extinct. In a fit of heroism I +determined to go alone; to quit you, the life of my life, and not to +see you again untill I might guiltlessly. But it would not do: I rated +my fortitude too high, or my love too low. I should certainly have +died if you had not hastened to me. Would that I had been indeed +extinguished! + +“And now, Mathilda I must make you my last confession. I have been +miserably mistaken in imagining that I could conquer my love for you; +I never can. The sight of this house, these fields and woods which my +first love inhabited seems to have encreased it: in my madness I dared +say to myself--Diana died to give her birth; her mother’s spirit was +transferred into her frame, and she ought to be as Diana to me.[37] +With every effort to cast it off, this love clings closer, this guilty +love more unnatural than hate, that withers your hopes and destroys me +for ever. + + Better have loved despair, & safer kissed her. + +No time or space can tear from my soul that which makes a part of it. +Since my arrival here I have not for a moment ceased to feel the hell +of passion which has been implanted in me to burn untill all be cold, +and stiff, and dead. Yet I will not die; alas! how dare I go where I +may meet Diana, when I have disobeyed her last request; her last words +said in a faint voice when all feeling but love, which survives all +things else was already dead, she then bade me make her child happy: +that thought alone gives a double sting to death. I will wander away +from you, away from all life--in the solitude I shall seek I alone +shall breathe of human kind. I must endure life; and as it is my duty +so I shall untill the grave dreaded yet desired, receive me free from +pain: for while I feel it will be pain that must make up the whole sum +of my sensations. Is not this a fearful curse that I labour under? Do +I not look forward to a miserable future? My child, if after this life +I am permitted to see you again, if pain can purify the heart, mine +will be pure: if remorse may expiate guilt, I shall be guiltless. + + * * * * * + +[“]I have been at the door of your chamber: every thing is silent. You +sleep. Do you indeed sleep, Mathilda? Spirits of Good, behold the +tears of my earnest prayer! Bless my child! Protect her from the +selfish among her fellow creatures: protect her from the agonies of +passion, and the despair of disappointment! Peace, Hope and Love be +thy guardians, oh, thou soul of my soul: thou in whom I breathe! + + * * * * * + +[“]I dare not read my letter over for I have no time to write another, +and yet I fear that some expressions in it might displease me. Since I +last saw you I have been constantly employed in writing letters, and +have several more to write; for I do not intend that any one shall +hear of me after I depart. I need not conjure you to look upon me as +one of whom all links that once existed between us are broken. Your +own delicacy will not allow you, I am convinced, to attempt to trace +me. It is far better for your peace that you should be ignorant of my +destination. You will not follow me, for when I bannish myself would +you nourish guilt by obtruding yourself upon me? You will not do this, +I know you will not. You must forget me and all the evil that I have +taught you. Cast off the only gift that I have bestowed upon you, your +grief, and rise from under my blighting influence as no flower so +sweet ever did rise from beneath so much evil. + +“You will never hear from me again: receive these then as the last +words of mine that will ever reach you; and although I have forfeited +your filial love, yet regard them I conjure you as a father’s command. +Resolutely shake of[f] the wretchedness that this first misfortune in +early life must occasion you. Bear boldly up against the storm: +continue wise and mild, but believe it, and indeed it is, your duty to +be happy. You are very young; let not this check for more than a +moment retard your glorious course; hold on, beloved one. The sun of +youth is not set for you; it will restore vigour and life to you; do +not resist with obstinate grief its beneficent influence, oh, my +child! bless me with the hope that I have not utterly destroyed you. + +“Farewell, Mathilda. I go with the belief that I have your pardon. +Your gentle nature would not permit you to hate your greatest enemy +and though I be he, although I have rent happiness from your +grasp;[38] though I have passed over your young love and hopes as the +angel of destruction, finding beauty and joy, and leaving blight and +despair, yet you will forgive me, and with eyes overflowing with +tears I thank you; my beloved one, I accept your pardon with a +gratitude that will never die, and that will, indeed it will, outlive +guilt and remorse. + +“Farewell for ever!” + +The moment I finished this letter I ordered the carriage and prepared +to follow my father. The words of his letter by which he had dissuaded +me from this step were those that determined me. Why did he write +them? He must know that if I believed that his intention was merely to +absent himself from me that instead of opposing him it would be that +which I should myself require--or if he thought that any lurking +feeling, yet he could not think that, should lead me to him would he +endeavour to overthrow the only hope he could have of ever seeing me +again; a lover, there was madness in the thought, yet he was my lover, +would not act thus. No, he had determined to die, and he wished to +spare me the misery of knowing it. The few ineffectual words he had +said concerning his duty were to me a further proof--and the more I +studied the letter the more did I perceive a thousand slight +expressions that could only indicate a knowledge that life was now +over for him. He was about to die! My blood froze at the thought: a +sickening feeling of horror came over me that allowed not of tears. As +I waited for the carriage I walked up and down with a quick pace; then +kneeling and passionately clasping my hands I tried to pray but my +voice was choked by convulsive sobs--Oh the sun shone[,] the air was +balmy--he must yet live for if he were dead all would surely be black +as night to me![39] + +The motion of the carriage knowing that it carried me towards him and +that I might perhaps find him alive somewhat revived my courage: yet I +had a dreadful ride. Hope only supported me, the hope that I should +not be too late[.] I did not weep, but I wiped the perspiration from +my brow, and tried to still my brain and heart beating almost to +madness. Oh! I must not be mad when I see him; or perhaps it were as +well that I should be, my distraction might calm his, and recall him +to the endurance of life. Yet untill I find him I must force reason to +keep her seat, and I pressed my forehead hard with my hands--Oh do not +leave me; or I shall forget what I am about--instead of driving on as +we ought with the speed of lightning they will attend to me, and we +shall be too late. Oh! God help me! Let him be alive! It is all dark; +in my abject misery I demand no more: no hope, no good: only passion, +and guilt, and horror; but alive! Alive! My sensations choked me--No +tears fell yet I sobbed, and breathed short and hard; one only thought +possessed me, and I could only utter one word, that half screaming was +perpetually on my lips; Alive! Alive!-- + +I had taken the steward[40] with me for he, much better than I[,] +could make the requisite enquiries--the poor old man could not +restrain his tears as he saw my deep distress and knew the cause--he +sometimes uttered a few broken words of consolation: in moments like +these the mistress and servant become in a manner equals and when I +saw his old dim eyes wet with sympathizing tears; his gray hair thinly +scattered on an age-wrinkled brow I thought oh if my father were as he +is--decrepid & hoary--then I should be spared this pain-- + +When I had arrived at the nearest town I took post horses and followed +the road my father had taken. At every inn where we changed horses we +heard of him, and I was possessed by alternate hope and fear. A length +I found that he had altered his route; at first he had followed the +London road; but now he changed it, and upon enquiry I found that the +one which he now pursued led _towards the sea_. My dream recurred to +my thoughts; I was not usually superstitious but in wretchedness every +one is so. The sea was fifty miles off, yet it was towards it that he +fled. The idea was terrible to my half crazed imagination, and almost +over-turned the little self possession that still remained to me. I +journied all day; every moment my misery encreased and the fever of my +blood became intolerable. The summer sun shone in an unclouded sky; +the air was close but all was cool to me except my own scorching skin. +Towards evening dark thunder clouds arose above the horrizon and I +heard its distant roll--after sunset they darkened the whole sky and +it began to rain[,] the lightning lighted up the whole country and the +thunder drowned the noise of our carriage. At the next inn my father +had not taken horses; he had left a box there saying he would return, +and had walked over the fields to the town of ---- a seacost town +eight miles off. + +For a moment I was almost paralized by fear; but my energy returned +and I demanded a guide to accompany me in following his steps. The +night was tempestuous but my bribe was high and I easily procured a +countryman. We passed through many lanes and over fields and wild +downs; the rain poured down in torrents; and the loud thunder broke in +terrible crashes over our heads. Oh! What a night it was! And I passed +on with quick steps among the high, dank grass amid the rain and +tempest. My dream was for ever in my thoughts, and with a kind of half +insanity that often possesses the mind in despair, I said aloud; +“Courage! We are not near the sea; we are yet several miles from the +ocean”--Yet it was towards the sea that our direction lay and that +heightened the confusion of my ideas. Once, overcome by fatigue, I +sunk on the wet earth; about two hundred yards distant, alone in a +large meadow stood a magnificent oak; the lightnings shewed its myriad +boughs torn by the storm. A strange idea seized me; a person must have +felt all the agonies of doubt concerning the life and death of one who +is the whole world to them before they can enter into my feelings--for +in that state, the mind working unrestrained by the will makes strange +and fanciful combinations with outward circumstances and weaves the +chances and changes of nature into an immediate connexion with the +event they dread. It was with this feeling that I turned to the old +Steward who stood pale and trembling beside me; “Mark, Gaspar, if the +next flash of lightning rend not that oak my father will be alive.” + +I had scarcely uttered these words than a flash instantly followed by +a tremendous peal of thunder descended on it; and when my eyes +recovered their sight after the dazzling light, the oak no longer +stood in the meadow--The old man uttered a wild exclamation of horror +when he saw so sudden an interpretation given to my prophesy. I +started up, my strength returned; [_sic_] with my terror; I cried, +“Oh, God! Is this thy decree? Yet perhaps I shall not be too late.” + +Although still several miles distant we continued to approach the sea. +We came at last to the road that led to the town of----and at an inn +there we heard that my father had passed by somewhat before sunset; he +had observed the approaching storm and had hired a horse for the next +town which was situated a mile from the sea that he might arrive there +before it should commence: this town was five miles off. We hired a +chaise here, and with four horses drove with speed through the storm. +My garments were wet and clung around me, and my hair hung in straight +locks on my neck when not blown aside by the wind. I shivered, yet my +pulse was high with fever. Great God! What agony I endured. I shed no +tears but my eyes wild and inflamed were starting from my head; I +could hardly support the weight that pressed upon my brain. We arrived +at the town of ---- in a little more than half an hour. When my father +had arrived the storm had already begun, but he had refused to stop +and leaving his horse there he walked on--_towards the sea_. Alas! it +was double cruelty in him to have chosen the sea for his fatal +resolve; it was adding madness to my despair.[41] + +The poor old servant who was with me endeavoured to persuade me to +remain here and to let him go alone--I shook my head silently and +sadly; sick almost to death I leant upon his arm, and as there was no +road for a chaise dragged my weary steps across the desolate downs to +meet my fate, now too certain for the agony of doubt. Almost fainting +I slowly approached the fatal waters; when we had quitted the town we +heard their roaring[.] I whispered to myself in a muttering +voice--“The sound is the same as that which I heard in my dream. It is +the knell of my father which I hear.”[42] + +The rain had ceased; there was no more thunder and lightning; the wind +had paused. My heart no longer beat wildly; I did not feel any fever: +but I was chilled; my knees sunk under me--I almost slept as I walked +with excess of weariness; every limb trembled. I was silent: all was +silent except the roaring of the sea which became louder and more +dreadful. Yet we advanced slowly: sometimes I thought that we should +never arrive; that the sound of waves would still allure us, and that +we should walk on for ever and ever: field succeeding field, never +would our weary journey cease, nor night nor day; but still we should +hear the dashing of the sea, and to all this there would be no end. +Wild beyond the imagination of the happy are the thoughts bred by +misery and despair. + +At length we reached the overhanging beach; a cottage stood beside the +path; we knocked at the door and it was opened: the bed within +instantly caught my eye; something stiff and straight lay on it, +covered by a sheet; the cottagers looked aghast. The first words that +they uttered confirmed what I before knew. I did not feel shocked or +overcome: I believe that I asked one or two questions and listened to +the answers. I har[d]ly know, but in a few moments I sank lifeless to +the ground; and so would that then all had been at an end! + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +I was carried to the next town: fever succeeded to convulsions and +faintings, & for some weeks my unhappy spirit hovered on the very +verge of death. But life was yet strong within me; I recovered: nor +did it a little aid my returning health that my recollections were at +first vague, and that I was too weak to feel any violent emotion. I +often said to myself, my father is dead. He loved me with a guilty +passion, and stung by remorse and despair he killed himself. Why is it +that I feel no horror? Are these circumstances not dreadful? Is it not +enough that I shall never more meet the eyes of my beloved father; +never more hear his voice; no caress, no look? All cold, and stiff, +and dead! Alas! I am quite callous: the night I was out in was fearful +and the cold rain that fell about my heart has acted like the waters +of the cavern of Antiparos[43] and has changed it to stone. I do not +weep or sigh; but I must reason with myself, and force myself to feel +sorrow and despair. This is not resignation that I feel, for I am dead +to all regret. + +I communed in this manner with myself, but I was silent to all around +me. I hardly replied to the slightest question, and was uneasy when I +saw a human creature near me. I was surrounded by my female relations, +but they were all of them nearly strangers to me: I did not listen to +their consolations; and so little did they work their designed effect +that they seemed to me to be spoken in an unknown tongue. I found if +sorrow was dead within me, so was love and desire of sympathy. Yet +sorrow only slept to revive more fierce, but love never woke +again--its ghost, ever hovering over my father’s grave, alone +survived--since his death all the world was to me a blank except where +woe had stampt its burning words telling me to smile no more--the +living were not fit companions for me, and I was ever meditating by +what means I might shake them all off, and never be heard of again. + +My convalescence rapidly advanced, yet this was the thought that +haunted me, and I was for ever forming plans how I might hereafter +contrive to escape the tortures that were prepared for me when I +should mix in society, and to find that solitude which alone could +suit one whom an untold grief seperated from her fellow creatures. +Who can be more solitary even in a crowd than one whose history and +the never ending feelings and remembrances arising from it is [_sic_] +known to no living soul. There was too deep a horror in my tale for +confidence; I was on earth the sole depository of my own secret. I +might tell it to the winds and to the desart heaths but I must never +among my fellow creatures, either by word or look give allowance to +the smallest conjecture of the dread reality: I must shrink before the +eye of man lest he should read my father’s guilt in my glazed eyes: I +must be silent lest my faltering voice should betray unimagined +horrors. Over the deep grave of my secret I must heap an impenetrable +heap of false smiles and words: cunning frauds, treacherous laughter +and a mixture of all light deceits would form a mist to blind others +and be as the poisonous simoon to me.[44] I, the offspring of love, +the child of the woods, the nursling of Nature’s bright self was to +submit to this? I dared not. + +How must I escape? I was rich and young, and had a guardian appointed +for me; and all about me would act as if I were one of their great +society, while I must keep the secret that I really was cut off from +them for ever. If I fled I should be pursued; in life there was no +escape for me: why then I must die. I shuddered; I dared not die even +though the cold grave held all I loved; although I might say with Job + + Where is now my hope? For my hope who shall see it? + + They shall go down together to the bars of the pit, when our + rest together is in the dust--[45] + +Yes my hope was corruption and dust and all to which death brings +us.--Or after life--No, no, I will not persuade myself to die, I may +not, dare not. And then I wept; yes, warm tears once more struggled +into my eyes soothing yet bitter; and after I had wept much and called +with unavailing anguish, with outstretched arms, for my cruel father; +after my weak frame was exhausted by all variety of plaint I sank once +more into reverie, and once more reflected on how I might find that +which I most desired; dear to me if aught were dear, a death-like +solitude. + +I dared not die, but I might feign death, and thus escape from my +comforters: they will believe me united to my father, and so indeed I +shall be. For alone, when no voice can disturb my dream, and no cold +eye meet mine to check its fire, then I may commune with his spirit; +on a lone heath, at noon or at midnight, still I should be near him. +His last injunction to me was that I should be happy; perhaps he did +not mean the shadowy happiness that I promised myself, yet it was that +alone which I could taste. He did not conceive that ever [qu. +_never_?] again I could make one of the smiling hunters that go +coursing after bubles that break to nothing when caught, and then +after a new one with brighter colours; my hope also had proved a +buble, but it had been so lovely, so adorned that I saw none that +could attract me after it; besides I was wearied with the pursuit, +nearly dead with weariness. + +I would feign to die; my contented heirs would seize upon my wealth, +and I should purchase freedom. But then my plan must be laid with art; +I would not be left destitute, I must secure some money. Alas! to what +loathsome shifts must I be driven? Yet a whole life of falsehood was +otherwise my portion: and when remorse at being the contriver of any +cheat made me shrink from my design I was irresistably led back and +confirmed in it by the visit of some aunt or cousin, who would tell me +that death was the end of all men. And then say that my father had +surely lost his wits ever since my mother’s death; that he was mad and +that I was fortunate, for in one of his fits he might have killed me +instead of destroying his own crazed being. And all this, to be sure, +was delicately put; not in broad words for my feelings might be hurt +but + + Whispered so and so + In dark hint soft and low[E][46] + +with downcast eyes, and sympathizing smiles or whimpers; and I +listened with quiet countenance while every nerve trembled; I that +dared not utter aye or no to all this blasphemy. Oh, this was a +delicious life quite void of guile! I with my dove’s look and fox’s +heart: for indeed I felt only the degradation of falsehood, and not +any sacred sentiment of conscious innocence that might redeem it. I +who had before clothed myself in the bright garb of sincerity must now +borrow one of divers colours: it might sit awkwardly at first, but use +would enable me to place it in elegant folds, to lie with grace. Aye, +I might die my soul with falsehood untill I had quite hid its native +colour. Oh, beloved father! Accept the pure heart of your unhappy +daughter; permit me to join you unspotted as I was or you will not +recognize my altered semblance. As grief might change Constance[47] so +would deceit change me untill in heaven you would say, “This is not my +child”--My father, to be happy both now and when again we meet I must +fly from all this life which is mockery to one like me. In solitude +only shall I be myself; in solitude I shall be thine. + +Alas! I even now look back with disgust at my artifices and +contrivances by which, after many painful struggles, I effected my +retreat. I might enter into a long detail of the means I used, first +to secure myself a slight maintenance for the remainder of my life, +and afterwards to ensure the conviction of my death: I might, but I +will not. I even now blush at the falsehoods I uttered; my heart +sickens: I will leave this complication of what I hope I may in a +manner call innocent deceit to be imagined by the reader. The +remembrance haunts me like a crime--I know that if I were to endeavour +to relate it my tale would at length remain unfinished.[48] I was led +to London, and had to endure for some weeks cold looks, cold words and +colder consolations: but I escaped; they tried to bind me with fetters +that they thought silken, yet which weighed on me like iron, although +I broke them more easily than a girth formed of a single straw and +fled to freedom. + +The few weeks that I spent in London were the most miserable of my +life: a great city is a frightful habitation to one sorrowing. The +sunset and the gentle moon, the blessed motion of the leaves and the +murmuring of waters are all sweet physicians to a distempered mind. +The soul is expanded and drinks in quiet, a lulling medecine--to me it +was as the sight of the lovely water snakes to the bewitched +mariner--in loving and blessing Nature I unawares, called down a +blessing on my own soul. But in a city all is closed shut like a +prison, a wiry prison from which you can peep at the sky only. I can +not describe to you what were [_sic_] the frantic nature of my +sensations while I resided there; I was often on the verge of madness. +Nay, when I look back on many of my wild thoughts, thoughts with which +actions sometimes endeavoured to keep pace; when I tossed my hands +high calling down the cope of heaven to fall on me and bury me; when I +tore my hair and throwing it to the winds cried, “Ye are free, go seek +my father!” And then, like the unfortunate Constance, catching at +them again and tying them up, that nought might find him if I might +not. How, on my knees I have fancied myself close to my father’s grave +and struck the ground in anger that it should cover him from me. Oft +when I have listened with gasping attention for the sound of the ocean +mingled with my father’s groans; and then wept untill my strength was +gone and I was calm and faint, when I have recollected all this I have +asked myself if this were not madness. While in London these and many +other dreadful thoughts too harrowing for words were my portion: I +lost all this suffering when I was free; when I saw the wild heath +around me, and the evening star in the west, then I could weep, gently +weep, and be at peace. + +Do not mistake me; I never was really mad. I was always conscious of +my state when my wild thoughts seemed to drive me to insanity, and +never betrayed them to aught but silence and solitude. The people +around me saw nothing of all this. They only saw a poor girl broken in +spirit, who spoke in a low and gentle voice, and from underneath whose +downcast lids tears would sometimes steal which she strove to hide. +One who loved to be alone, and shrunk from observation; who never +smiled; oh, no! I never smiled--and that was all. + +Well, I escaped. I left my guardian’s house and I was never heard of +again; it was believed from the letters that I left and other +circumstances that I planned that I had destroyed myself. I was sought +after therefore with less care than would otherwise have been the +case; and soon all trace and memory of me was lost. I left London in a +small vessel bound for a port in the north of England. And now having +succeeded in my attempt, and being quite alone peace returned to me. +The sea was calm and the vessel moved gently onwards, I sat upon deck +under the open canopy of heaven and methought I was an altered +creature. Not the wild, raving & most miserable Mathilda but a +youthful Hermitess dedicated to seclusion and whose bosom she must +strive to keep free from all tumult and unholy despair--The fanciful +nunlike dress that I had adopted;[49] the knowledge that my very +existence was a secret known only to myself; the solitude to which I +was for ever hereafter destined nursed gentle thoughts in my wounded +heart. The breeze that played in my hair revived me, and I watched +with quiet eyes the sunbeams that glittered on the waves, and the +birds that coursed each other over the waters just brushing them with +their plumes. I slept too undisturbed by dreams; and awoke refreshed +to again enjoy my tranquil freedom. + +In four days we arrived at the harbour to which we were bound. I would +not remain on the sea coast, but proceeded immediately inland. I had +already planned the situation where I would live. It should be a +solitary house on a wide plain near no other habitation: where I could +behold the whole horizon, and wander far without molestation from the +sight of my fellow creatures. I was not mysanthropic, but I felt that +the gentle current of my feelings depended upon my being alone. I +fixed myself on a wide solitude. On a dreary heath bestrewen with +stones, among which short grass grew; and here and there a few rushes +beside a little pool. Not far from my cottage was a small cluster of +pines the only trees to be seen for many miles: I had a path cut +through the furze from my door to this little wood, from whose topmost +branches the birds saluted the rising sun and awoke me to my daily +meditation. My view was bounded only by the horizon except on one side +where a distant wood made a black spot on the heath, that every where +else stretched out its faint hues as far as the eye could reach, wide +and very desolate. Here I could mark the net work of the clouds as +they wove themselves into thick masses: I could watch the slow rise of +the heavy thunder clouds and could see the rack as it was driven +across the heavens, or under the pine trees I could enjoy the +stillness of the azure sky. + +My life was very peaceful. I had one female servant who spent the +greater part of the day at a village two miles off. My amusements were +simple and very innocent; I fed the birds who built on the pines or +among the ivy that covered the wall of my little garden, and they soon +knew me: the bolder ones pecked the crumbs from my hands and perched +on my fingers to sing their thankfulness. When I had lived here some +time other animals visited me and a fox came every day for a portion +of food appropriated for him & would suffer me to pat his head. I had +besides many books and a harp with which when despairing I could +soothe my spirits, and raise myself to sympathy and love. + +Love! What had I to love? Oh many things: there was the moonshine, and +the bright stars; the breezes and the refreshing rains; there was the +whole earth and the sky that covers it: all lovely forms that visited +my imagination[,] all memories of heroism and virtue. Yet this was +very unlike my early life although as then I was confined to Nature +and books. Then I bounded across the fields; my spirit often seemed to +ride upon the winds, and to mingle in joyful sympathy with the ambient +air. Then if I wandered slowly I cheered myself with a sweet song or +sweeter day dreams. I felt a holy rapture spring from all I saw. I +drank in joy with life; my steps were light; my eyes, clear from the +love that animated them, sought the heavens, and with my long hair +loosened to the winds I gave my body and my mind to sympathy and +delight. But now my walk was slow--My eyes were seldom raised and +often filled with tears; no song; no smiles; no careless motion that +might bespeak a mind intent on what surrounded it--I was gathered up +into myself--a selfish solitary creature ever pondering on my regrets +and faded hopes. + +Mine was an idle, useless life; it was so; but say not to the lily +laid prostrate by the storm arise, and bloom as before. My heart was +bleeding from its death’s wound; I could live no otherwise--Often amid +apparent calm I was visited by despair and melancholy; gloom that +nought could dissipate or overcome; a hatred of life; a carelessness +of beauty; all these would by fits hold me nearly annihilated by their +powers. Never for one moment when most placid did I cease to pray for +death. I could be found in no state of mind which I would not +willingly have exchanged for nothingness. And morning and evening my +tearful eyes raised to heaven, my hands clasped tight in the energy of +prayer, I have repeated with the poet-- + + Before I see another day + Oh, let this body die away! + +Let me not be reproached then with inutility; I believed that by +suicide I should violate a divine law of nature, and I thought that I +sufficiently fulfilled my part in submitting to the hard task of +enduring the crawling hours & minutes[50]--in bearing the load of time +that weighed miserably upon me and that in abstaining from what I in +my calm moments considered a crime, I deserved the reward of virtue. +There were periods, dreadful ones, during which I despaired--& doubted +the existence of all duty & the reality of crime--but I shudder, and +turn from the rememberance. + + +[E] Coleridge’s Fire, Famine and Slaughter. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Thus I passed two years. Day after day so many hundreds wore on; they +brought no outward changes with them, but some few slowly operated on +my mind as I glided on towards death. I began to study more; to +sympathize more in the thoughts of others as expressed in books; to +read history, and to lose my individuallity among the crowd that had +existed before me. Thus perhaps as the sensation of immediate +suffering wore off, I became more human. Solitude also lost to me some +of its charms: I began again to wish for sympathy; not that I was ever +tempted to seek the crowd, but I wished for one friend to love me. You +will say perhaps that I gradually became fitted to return to society. +I do not think so. For the sympathy that I desired must be so pure, so +divested of influence from outward circumstances that in the world I +could not fail of being balked by the gross materials that perpetually +mingle even with its best feelings. Believe me, I was then less fitted +for any communion with my fellow creatures than before. When I left +them they had tormented me but it was in the same way as pain and +sickness may torment; somthing extraneous to the mind that galled it, +and that I wished to cast aside. But now I should have desired +sympathy; I should wish to knit my soul to some one of theirs, and +should have prepared for myself plentiful draughts of disappointment +and suffering; for I was tender as the sensitive plant, all nerve. I +did not desire sympathy and aid in ambition or wisdom, but sweet and +mutual affection; smiles to cheer me and gentle words of comfort. I +wished for one heart in which I could pour unrestrained my plaints, +and by the heavenly nature of the soil blessed fruit might spring from +such bad seed. Yet how could I find this? The love that is the soul of +friendship is a soft spirit seldom found except when two amiable +creatures are knit from early youth, or when bound by mutual suffering +and pursuits; it comes to some of the elect unsought and unaware; it +descends as gentle dew on chosen spots which however barren they were +before become under its benign influence fertile in all sweet plants; +but when desired it flies; it scoffs at the prayers of its votaries; +it will bestow, but not be sought. + +I knew all this and did not go to seek sympathy; but there on my +solitary heath, under my lowly roof where all around was desart, it +came to me as a sun beam in winter to adorn while it helps to dissolve +the drifted snow.--Alas the sun shone on blighted fruit; I did not +revive under its radiance for I was too utterly undone to feel its +kindly power. My father had been and his memory was the life of my +life. I might feel gratitude to another but I never more could love or +hope as I had done; it was all suffering; even my pleasures were +endured, not enjoyed. I was as a solitary spot among mountains shut in +on all sides by steep black precipices; where no ray of heat could +penetrate; and from which there was no outlet to sunnier fields. And +thus it was that although the spirit of friendship soothed me for a +while it could not restore me. It came as some gentle visitation; it +went and I hardly felt the loss. The spirit of existence was dead +within me; be not surprised therefore that when it came I welcomed not +more gladly, or when it departed I lamented not more bitterly the best +gift of heaven--a friend. + +The name of my friend was Woodville.[51] I will briefly relate his +history that you may judge how cold my heart must have been not to be +warmed by his eloquent words and tender sympathy; and how he also +being most unhappy we were well fitted to be a mutual consolation to +each other, if I had not been hardened to stone by the Medusa head of +Misery. The misfortunes of Woodville were not of the hearts core like +mine; his was a natural grief, not to destroy but to purify the heart +and from which he might, when its shadow had passed from over him, +shine forth brighter and happier than before. + +Woodville was the son of a poor clergyman and had received a classical +education. He was one of those very few whom fortune favours from +their birth; on whom she bestows all gifts of intellect and person +with a profusion that knew no bounds, and whom under her peculiar +protection, no imperfection however slight, or disappointment however +transitory has leave to touch. She seemed to have formed his mind of +that excellence which no dross can tarnish, and his understanding was +such that no error could pervert. His genius was transcendant, and +when it rose as a bright star in the east all eyes were turned towards +it in admiration. He was a Poet. That name has so often been degraded +that it will not convey the idea of all that he was. He was like a +poet of old whom the muses had crowned in his cradle, and on whose +lips bees had fed. As he walked among other men he seemed encompassed +with a heavenly halo that divided him from and lifted him above them. +It was his surpassing beauty, the dazzling fire of his eyes, and his +words whose rich accents wrapt the listener in mute and extactic +wonder, that made him transcend all others so that before him they +appeared only formed to minister to his superior excellence. + +He was glorious from his youth. Every one loved him; no shadow of envy +or hate cast even from the meanest mind ever fell upon him. He was, as +one the peculiar delight of the Gods, railed and fenced in by his own +divinity, so that nought but love and admiration could approach him. +His heart was simple like a child, unstained by arrogance or vanity. +He mingled in society unknowing of his superiority over his +companions, not because he undervalued himself but because he did not +perceive the inferiority of others. He seemed incapable of conceiving +of the full extent of the power that selfishness & vice possesses in +the world: when I knew him, although he had suffered disappointment in +his dearest hopes, he had not experienced any that arose from the +meaness and self love of men: his station was too high to allow of his +suffering through their hardheartedness; and too low for him to have +experienced ingratitude and encroaching selfishness: it is one of the +blessings of a moderate fortune, that by preventing the possessor from +confering pecuniary favours it prevents him also from diving into the +arcana of human weakness or malice--To bestow on your fellow men is a +Godlike attribute--So indeed it is and as such not one fit for +mortality;--the giver like Adam and Prometheus, must pay the penalty +of rising above his nature by being the martyr to his own excellence. +Woodville was free from all these evils; and if slight examples did +come across him[52] he did not notice them but passed on in his course +as an angel with winged feet might glide along the earth unimpeded by +all those little obstacles over which we of earthly origin stumble. He +was a believer in the divinity of genius and always opposed a stern +disbelief to the objections of those petty cavillers and minor critics +who wish to reduce all men to their own miserable level--“I will make +a scientific simile” he would say, “[i]n the manner, if you will, of +Dr. Darwin--I consider the alledged errors of a man of genius as the +aberrations of the fixed stars. It is our distance from them and our +imperfect means of communication that makes them appear to move; in +truth they always remain stationary, a glorious centre, giving us a +fine lesson of modesty if we would thus receive it.”[53] + +I have said that he was a poet: when he was three and twenty years of +age he first published a poem, and it was hailed by the whole nation +with enthusiasm and delight. His good star perpetually shone upon him; +a reputation had never before been made so rapidly: it was universal. +The multitude extolled the same poems that formed the wonder of the +sage in his closet: there was not one dissentient voice.[54] + +It was at this time, in the height of his glory, that he became +acquainted with Elinor. She was a young heiress of exquisite beauty +who lived under the care of her guardian: from the moment they were +seen together they appeared formed for each other. Elinor had not the +genius of Woodville but she was generous and noble, and exalted by her +youth and the love that she every where excited above the knowledge of +aught but virtue and excellence. She was lovely; her manners were +frank and simple; her deep blue eyes swam in a lustre which could only +be given by sensibility joined to wisdom. + +They were formed for one another and they soon loved. Woodville for +the first time felt the delight of love; and Elinor was enraptured in +possessing the heart of one so beautiful and glorious among his fellow +men. Could any thing but unmixed joy flow from such a union? + +Woodville was a Poet--he was sought for by every society and all eyes +were turned on him alone when he appeared; but he was the son of a +poor clergyman and Elinor was a rich heiress. Her guardian was not +displeased with their mutual affection: the merit of Woodville was too +eminent to admit of cavil on account of his inferior wealth; but the +dying will of her father did not allow her to marry before she was of +age and her fortune depended upon her obeying this injunction. She had +just entered her twentieth year, and she and her lover were obliged to +submit to this delay. But they were ever together and their happiness +seemed that of Paradise: they studied together: formed plans of future +occupations, and drinking in love and joy from each other’s eyes and +words they hardly repined at the delay to their entire union. +Woodville for ever rose in glory; and Elinor become more lovely and +wise under the lessons of her accomplished lover. + +In two months Elinor would be twenty one: every thing was prepared for +their union. How shall I relate the catastrophe to so much joy; but +the earth would not be the earth it is covered with blight and sorrow +if one such pair as these angelic creatures had been suffered to exist +for one another: search through the world and you will not find the +perfect happiness which their marriage would have caused them to +enjoy; there must have been a revolution in the order of things as +established among us miserable earth-dwellers to have admitted of such +consummate joy. The chain of necessity ever bringing misery must have +been broken and the malignant fate that presides over it would not +permit this breach of her eternal laws. But why should I repine at +this? Misery was my element, and nothing but what was miserable could +approach me; if Woodville had been happy I should never have known +him. And can I who for many years was fed by tears, and nourished +under the dew of grief, can I pause to relate a tale of woe and +death?[55] + +Woodville was obliged to make a journey into the country and was +detained from day to day in irksome absence from his lovely bride. He +received a letter from her to say that she was slightly ill, but +telling him to hasten to her, that from his eyes she would receive +health and that his company would be her surest medecine. He was +detained three days longer and then he hastened to her. His heart, he +knew not why prognosticated misfortune; he had not heard from her +again; he feared she might be worse and this fear made him impatient +and restless for the moment of beholding her once more stand before +him arrayed in health and beauty; for a sinister voice seemed always +to whisper to him, “You will never more behold her as she was.” + +When he arrived at her habitation all was silent in it: he made his +way through several rooms; in one he saw a servant weeping bitterly: +he was faint with fear and could hardly ask, “Is she dead?” and just +listened to the dreadful answer, “Not yet.” These astounding words +came on him as of less fearful import than those which he had +expected; and to learn that she was still in being, and that he might +still hope was an alleviation to him. He remembered the words of her +letter and he indulged the wild idea that his kisses breathing warm +love and life would infuse new spirit into her, and that with him near +her she could not die; that his presence was the talisman of her life. + +He hastened to her sick room; she lay, her cheeks burning with fever, +yet her eyes were closed and she was seemingly senseless. He wrapt her +in his arms; he imprinted breathless kisses on her burning lips; he +called to her in a voice of subdued anguish by the tenderest names; +“Return Elinor; I am with you; your life, your love. Return; dearest +one, you promised me this boon, that I should bring you health. Let +your sweet spirit revive; you cannot die near me: What is death? To +see you no more? To part with what is a part of myself; without whom I +have no memory and no futurity? Elinor die! This is frenzy and the +most miserable despair: you cannot die while I am near.” + +And again he kissed her eyes and lips, and hung over her inanimate +form in agony, gazing on her countenance still lovely although +changed, watching every slight convulsion, and varying colour which +denoted life still lingering although about to depart. Once for a +moment she revived and recognized his voice; a smile, a last lovely +smile, played upon her lips. He watched beside her for twelve hours +and then she died.[56] + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +It was six months after this miserable conclusion to his long nursed +hopes that I first saw him. He had retired to a part of the country +where he was not known that he might peacefully indulge his grief. All +the world, by the death of his beloved Elinor, was changed to him, and +he could no longer remain in any spot where he had seen her or where +her image mingled with the most rapturous hopes had brightened all +around with a light of joy which would now be transformed to a +darkness blacker than midnight since she, the sun of his life, was set +for ever. + +He lived for some time never looking on the light of heaven but +shrouding his eyes in a perpetual darkness far from all that could +remind him of what he had been; but as time softened his grief[57] +like a true child of Nature he sought in the enjoyment of her beauties +for a consolation in his unhappiness. He came to a part of the country +where he was entirely unknown and where in the deepest solitude he +could converse only with his own heart. He found a relief to his +impatient grief in the breezes of heaven and in the sound of waters +and woods. He became fond of riding; this exercise distracted his mind +and elevated his spirits; on a swift horse he could for a moment gain +respite from the image that else for ever followed him; Elinor on her +death bed, her sweet features changed, and the soft spirit that +animated her gradually waning into extinction. For many months +Woodville had in vain endeavoured to cast off this terrible +remembrance; it still hung on him untill memory was too great a +burthen for his loaded soul, but when on horseback the spell that +seemingly held him to this idea was snapt; then if he thought of his +lost bride he pictured her radiant in beauty; he could hear her voice, +and fancy her “a sylvan Huntress by his side,” while his eyes +brightened as he thought he gazed on her cherished form. I had several +times seen him ride across the heath and felt angry that my solitude +should be disturbed. It was so long [since] I had spoken to any but +peasants that I felt a disagreable sensation at being gazed on by one +of superior rank. I feared also that it might be some one who had seen +me before: I might be recognized, my impostures discovered and I +dragged back to a life of worse torture than that I had before +endured. These were dreadful fears and they even haunted my +dreams.[58] + +I was one day seated on the verge of the clump of pines when Woodville +rode past. As soon as I perceived him I suddenly rose to escape from +his observation by entering among the trees. My rising startled his +horse; he reared and plunged and the Rider was at length thrown. The +horse then galopped swiftly across the heath and the stranger remained +on the ground stunned by his fall. He was not materially hurt, a +little fresh water soon recovered him. I was struck by his exceeding +beauty, and as he spoke to thank me the sweet but melancholy cadence +of his voice brought tears into my eyes. + +A short conversation passed between us, but the next day he again +stopped at my cottage and by degrees an intimacy grew between us. It +was strange to him to see a female in extreme youth, I was not yet +twenty, evidently belonging to the first classes of society & +possessing every accomplishment an excellent education could bestow, +living alone on a desolate health [_sic_]--One on whose forehead the +impress of grief was strongly marked, and whose words and motions +betrayed that her thoughts did not follow them but were intent on far +other ideas; bitter and overwhelming miseries. I was dressed also in a +whimsical nunlike habit which denoted that I did not retire to +solitude from necessity, but that I might indulge in a luxury of +grief, and fanciful seclusion. + +He soon took great interest in me, and sometimes forgot his own grief +to sit beside me and endeavour to cheer me. He could not fail to +interest even one who had shut herself from the whole world, whose +hope was death, and who lived only with the departed. His personal +beauty; his conversation which glowed with imagination and +sensibility; the poetry that seemed to hang upon his lips and to make +the very air mute to listen to him were charms that no one could +resist. He was younger, less worn, more passionless than my father and +in no degree reminded me of him: he suffered under immediate grief yet +its gentle influence instead of calling feelings otherwise dormant +into action, seemed only to veil that which otherwise would have been +too dazzling for me. When we were together I spoke little yet my +selfish mind was sometimes borne away by the rapid course of his +ideas; I would lift my eyes with momentary brilliancy until memories +that never died and seldom slept would recur, and a tear would dim +them. + +Woodville for ever tried to lead me to the contemplation of what is +beautiful and happy in the world.[59] His own mind was constitunially +[_sic_] bent to a former belief in good [rather] than in evil and this +feeling which must even exhilirate the hopeless ever shone forth in +his words. He would talk of the wonderful powers of man, of their +present state and of their hopes: of what they had been and what they +were, and when reason could no longer guide him, his imagination as if +inspired shed light on the obscurity that veils the past and the +future. He loved to dwell on what might have been the state of the +earth before man lived on it, and how he first arose and gradually +became the strange, complicated, but as he said, the glorious creature +he now is. Covering the earth with their creations and forming by the +power of their minds another world more lovely than the visible frame +of things, even all the world that we find in their writings. A +beautiful creation, he would say, which may claim this superiority to +its model, that good and evil is more easily seperated[:] the good +rewarded in the way they themselves desire; the evil punished as all +things evil ought to be punished, not by pain which is revolting to +all philanthropy to consider but by quiet obscurity, which simply +deprives them of their harmful qualities; why kill the serpent when +you have extracted his fangs? + +The poetry of his language and ideas which my words ill convey held me +enchained to his discourses. It was a melancholy pleasure to me to +listen to his inspired words; to catch for a moment the light of his +eyes[;] to feel a transient sympathy and then to awaken from the +delusion, again to know that all this was nothing,--a dream--a shadow +for that there was no reallity for me; my father had for ever deserted +me, leaving me only memories which set an eternal barrier between me +and my fellow creatures. I was indeed fellow to none. He--Woodville, +mourned the loss of his bride: others wept the various forms of misery +as they visited them: but infamy and guilt was mingled with my +portion; unlawful and detestable passion had poured its poison into my +ears and changed all my blood, so that it was no longer the kindly +stream that supports life but a cold fountain of bitterness corrupted +in its very source.[60] It must be the excess of madness that could +make me imagine that I could ever be aught but one alone; struck off +from humanity; bearing no affinity to man or woman; a wretch on whom +Nature had set her ban. + +Sometimes Woodville talked to me of himself. He related his history +brief in happiness and woe and dwelt with passion on his and Elinor’s +mutual love. “She was[”], he said, “the brightest vision that ever +came upon the earth: there was somthing in her frank countenance, in +her voice, and in every motion of her graceful form that overpowered +me, as if it were a celestial creature that deigned to mingle with me +in intercourse more sweet than man had ever before enjoyed. Sorrow +fled before her; and her smile seemed to possess an influence like +light to irradiate all mental darkness. It was not like a human +loveliness that these gentle smiles went and came; but as a sunbeam on +a lake, now light and now obscure, flitting before as you strove to +catch them, and fold them for ever to your heart. I saw this smile +fade for ever. Alas! I could never have believed that it was indeed +Elinor that died if once when I spoke she had not lifted her almost +benighted eyes, and for one moment like nought beside on earth, more +lovely than a sunbeam, slighter, quicker than the waving plumage of a +bird, dazzling as lightning and like it giving day to night, yet mild +and faint, that smile came; it went, and then there was an end of all +joy to me.” + +Thus his own sorrows, or the shapes copied from nature that dwelt in +his mind with beauty greater than their own, occupied our talk while I +railed in my own griefs with cautious secresy. If for a moment he +shewed curiosity, my eyes fell, my voice died away and my evident +suffering made him quickly endeavour to banish the ideas he had +awakened; yet he for ever mingled consolation in his talk, and tried +to soften my despair by demonstrations of deep sympathy and +compassion. “We are both unhappy--” he would say to me; “I have told +you my melancholy tale and we have wept together the loss of that +lovely spirit that has so cruelly deserted me; but you hide your +griefs: I do not ask you to disclose them, but tell me if I may not +console you. It seems to me a wild adventure to find in this desart +one like you quite solitary: you are young and lovely; your manners +are refined and attractive; yet there is in your settled melancholy, +and something, I know not what, in your expressive eyes that seems to +seperate you from your kind: you shudder; pardon me, I entreat you +but I cannot help expressing this once at least the lively interest I +feel in your destiny. + +“You never smile: your voice is low, and you utter your words as if +you were afraid of the slight sound they would produce: the expression +of awful and intense sorrow never for a moment fades from your +countenance. I have lost for ever the loveliest companion that any man +could ever have possessed, one who rather appears to have been a +superior spirit who by some strange accident wandered among us earthly +creatures, than as belonging to our kind. Yet I smile, and sometimes I +speak almost forgetful of the change I have endured. But your sad mien +never alters; your pulses beat and you breathe, yet you seem already +to belong to another world; and sometimes, pray pardon my wild +thoughts, when you touch my hand I am surprised to find your hand warm +when all the fire of life seems extinct within you. + +“When I look upon you, the tears you shed, the soft deprecating look +with which you withstand enquiry; the deep sympathy your voice +expresses when I speak of my lesser sorrows add to my interest for +you. You stand here shelterless[.] You have cast yourself from among +us and you wither on this wild plain fo[r]lorn and helpless: some +dreadful calamity must have befallen you. Do not turn from me; I do +not ask you to reveal it: I only entreat you to listen to me and to +become familiar with the voice of consolation and kindness. If pity, +and admiration, and gentle affection can wean you from despair let me +attempt the task. I cannot see your look of deep grief without +endeavouring to restore you to happier feelings. Unbend your brow; +relax the stern melancholy of your regard; permit a friend, a sincere, +affectionate friend, I will be one, to convey some relief, some +momentary pause to your sufferings. + +“Do not think that I would intrude upon your confidence: I only ask +your patience. Do not for ever look sorrow and never speak it; utter +one word of bitter complaint and I will reprove it with gentle +exhortation and pour on you the balm of compassion. You must not shut +me from all communion with you: do not tell me why you grieve but only +say the words, “I am unhappy,” and you will feel relieved as if for +some time excluded from all intercourse by some magic spell you should +suddenly enter again the pale of human sympathy. I entreat you to +believe in my most sincere professions and to treat me as an old and +tried friend: promise me never to forget me, never causelessly to +banish me; but try to love me as one who would devote all his energies +to make you happy. Give me the name of friend; I will fulfill its +duties; and if for a moment complaint and sorrow would shape +themselves into words let me be near to speak peace to your vext +soul.” + +I repeat his persuasions in faint terms and cannot give you at the +same time the tone and gesture that animated them. Like a refreshing +shower on an arid soil they revived me, and although I still kept +their cause secret he led me to pour forth my bitter complaints and to +clothe my woe in words of gall and fire. With all the energy of +desperate grief I told him how I had fallen at once from bliss to +misery; how that for me there was no joy, no hope; that death however +bitter would be the welcome seal to all my pangs; death the skeleton +was to be beautiful as love. I know not why but I found it sweet to +utter these words to human ears; and though I derided all consolation +yet I was pleased to see it offered me with gentleness and kindness. I +listened quietly, and when he paused would again pour out my misery in +expressions that shewed how far too deep my wounds were for any cure. + +But now also I began to reap the fruits of my perfect solitude. I had +become unfit for any intercourse, even with Woodville the most gentle +and sympathizing creature that existed. I had become captious and +unreasonable: my temper was utterly spoilt. I called him my friend but +I viewed all he did with jealous eyes. If he did not visit me at the +appointed hour I was angry, very angry, and told him that if indeed he +did feel interest in me it was cold, and could not be fitted for me, a +poor worn creature, whose deep unhappiness demanded much more than his +worldly heart could give. When for a moment I imagined that his manner +was cold I would fretfully say to him--“I was at peace before you +came; why have you disturbed me? You have given me new wants and now +your trifle with me as if my heart were as whole as yours, as if I +were not in truth a shorn lamb thrust out on the bleak hill side, +tortured by every blast. I wished for no friend, no sympathy[.] I +avoided you, you know I did, but you forced yourself upon me and gave +me those wants which you see with triump[h] give you power over me. Oh +the brave power of the bitter north wind which freezes the tears it +has caused to shed! But I will not bear this; go: the sun will rise +and set as before you came, and I shall sit among the pines or wander +on the heath weeping and complaining without wishing for you to +listen. You are cruel, very cruel, to treat me who bleed at every pore +in this rough manner.”[61] + +And then, when in answer to my peevish words, I saw his countenance +bent with living pity on me[,] when I saw him + + Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante + Che madre fa sopra figlioul deliro P[a]radiso. C 1.[62] + +I wept and said, “Oh, pardon me! You are good and kind but I am not +fit for life. Why am I obliged to live? To drag hour after hour, to +see the trees wave their branches restlessly, to feel the air, & to +suffer in all I feel keenest agony. My frame is strong, but my soul +sinks beneath this endurance of living anguish. Death is the goal that +I would attain, but, alas! I do not even see the end of the course. Do +you, my compassionate friend,[63] tell me how to die peacefully and +innocently and I will bless you: all that I, poor wretch, can desire +is a painless death.” + +But Woodville’s words had magic in them, when beginning with the +sweetest pity, he would raise me by degrees out of myself and my +sorrows until I wondered at my own selfishness: but he left me and +despair returned; the work of consolation was ever to begin anew. I +often desired his entire absence; for I found that I was grown out of +the ways of life and that by long seclusion, although I could support +my accustomed grief, and drink the bitter daily draught with some +degree of patience, yet I had become unfit for the slightest novelty +of feeling. Expectation, and hopes, and affection were all too much +for me. I knew this, but at other times I was unreasonable and laid +the blame upon him, who was most blameless, and pevishly thought that +if his gentle soul were more gentle, if his intense sympathy were more +intense, he could drive the fiend from my soul and make me more human. +I am, I thought, a tragedy; a character that he comes to see act: now +and then he gives me my cue[64] that I may make a speech more to his +purpose: perhaps he is already planning a poem in which I am to +figure. I am a farce and play to him, but to me this is all dreary +reality: he takes all the profit and I bear all the burthen. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It is a strange circumstance but it often occurs that blessings by +their use turn to curses; and that I who in solitude had desired +sympathy as the only relief I could enjoy should now find it an +additional torture to me. During my father’s life time I had always +been of an affectionate and forbearing disposition, but since those +days of joy alas! I was much changed. I had become arrogant, peevish, +and above all suspicious. Although the real interest of my narration +is now ended and I ought quickly to wind up its melancholy +catastrophe, yet I will relate one instance of my sad suspicion and +despair and how Woodville with the goodness and almost the power of an +angel, softened my rugged feelings and led me back to gentleness.[65] + +He had promised to spend some hours with me one afternoon but a +violent and continual rain[66] prevented him. I was alone the whole +evening. I had passed two whole years alone unrepining, but now I was +miserable. He could not really care for me, I thought, for if he did +the storm would rather have made him come even if I had not expected +him, than, as it did, prevent a promised visit. He would well know +that this drear sky and gloomy rain would load my spirit almost to +madness: if the weather had been fine I should not have regretted his +absence as heavily as I necessarily must shut up in this miserable +cottage with no companions but my own wretched thoughts. If he were +truly my friend he would have calculated all this; and let me now +calculate this boasted friendship, and discover its real worth. He got +over his grief for Elinor, and the country became dull to him, so he +was glad to find even me for amusement; and when he does not know what +else to do he passes his lazy hours here, and calls this +friendship--It is true that his presence is a consolation to me, and +that his words are sweet, and, when he will he can pour forth thoughts +that win me from despair. His words are sweet,--and so, truly, is the +honey of the bee, but the bee has a sting, and unkindness is a worse +smart that that received from an insect’s venom. I will[67] put him to +the proof. He says all hope is dead to him, and I know that it is dead +to me, so we are both equally fitted for death. Let me try if he will +die with me; and as I fear to die alone, if he will accompany [me] to +cheer me, and thus he can shew himself my friend in the only manner my +misery will permit.[68] + +It was madness I believe, but I so worked myself up to this idea that +I could think of nothing else. If he dies with me it is well, and +there will be an end of two miserable beings; and if he will not, then +will I scoff at his friendship and drink the poison before him to +shame his cowardice. I planned the whole scene with an earnest heart +and franticly set my soul on this project. I procured Laudanum and +placing it in two glasses on the table, filled my room with flowers +and decorated the last scene of my tragedy with the nicest care. As +the hour for his coming approached my heart softened and I wept; not +that I gave up my plan, but even when resolved the mind must undergo +several revolutions of feeling before it can drink its death. + +Now all was ready and Woodville came. I received him at the door of my +cottage and leading him solemnly into the room, I said: “My friend, I +wish to die. I am quite weary of enduring the misery which hourly I do +endure, and I will throw it off. What slave will not, if he may, +escape from his chains? Look, I weep: for more than two years I have +never enjoyed one moment free from anguish. I have often desired to +die; but I am a very coward. It is hard for one so young who was once +so happy as I was; [_sic_] voluntarily to divest themselves of all +sensation and to go alone to the dreary grave; I dare not. I must die, +yet my fear chills me; I pause and shudder and then for months I +endure my excess of wretchedness. But now the time is come when I may +quit life, I have a friend who will not refuse to accompany me in this +dark journey; such is my request:[69] earnestly do I entreat and +implore you to die with me. Then we shall find Elinor and what I have +lost. Look, I am prepared; there is the death draught, let us drink it +together and willingly & joyfully quit this hated round of daily +life[.] + +“You turn from me; yet before you deny me reflect, Woodville, how +sweet it were to cast off the load of tears and misery under which we +now labour: and surely we shall find light after we have passed the +dark valley. That drink will plunge us in a sweet slumber, and when we +awaken what joy will be ours to find all our sorrows and fears past. +_A little patience, and all will be over_; aye, a very little +patience; for, look, there is the key of our prison; we hold it in our +own hands, and are we more debased than slaves to cast it away and +give ourselves up to voluntary bondage? Even now if we had courage we +might be free. Behold, my cheek is flushed with pleasure at the +imagination of death; all that we love are dead. Come, give me your +hand, one look of joyous sympathy and we will go together and seek +them; a lulling journey; where our arrival will bring bliss and our +waking be that of angels. Do you delay? Are you a coward, Woodville? +Oh fie! Cast off this blank look of human melancholy. Oh! that I had +words to express the luxury of death that I might win you. I tell you +we are no longer miserable mortals; we are about to become Gods; +spirits free and happy as gods. What fool on a bleak shore, seeing a +flowery isle on the other side with his lost love beckoning to him +from it would pause because the wave is dark and turbid? + + “What if some little payne the passage have + That makes frayle flesh to fear the bitter wave? + Is not short payne well borne that brings long ease, + And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave?[F] + +“Do you mark my words; I have learned the language of despair: I have +it all by heart, for I am Despair; and a strange being am I, joyous, +triumphant Despair. But those words are false, for the wave may be +dark but it is not bitter. We lie down, and close our eyes with a +gentle good night, and when we wake, we are free. Come then, no more +delay, thou tardy one! Behold the pleasant potion! Look, I am a spirit +of good, and not a human maid that invites thee, and with winning +accents, (oh, that they would win thee!) says, Come and drink.”[70] + +As I spoke I fixed my eyes upon his countenance, and his exquisite +beauty, the heavenly compassion that beamed from his eyes, his gentle +yet earnest look of deprecation and wonder even before he spoke +wrought a change in my high strained feelings taking from me all the +sterness of despair and filling me only with the softest grief. I saw +his eyes humid also as he took both my hands in his; and sitting down +near me, he said:[71] + +“This is a sad deed to which you would lead me, dearest friend, and +your woe must indeed be deep that could fill you with these unhappy +thoughts. You long for death and yet you fear it and wish me to be +your companion. But I have less courage than you and even thus +accompanied I dare not die. Listen to me, and then reflect if you +ought to win me to your project, even if with the over-bearing +eloquence of despair you could make black death so inviting that the +fair heaven should appear darkness. Listen I entreat you to the words +of one who has himself nurtured desperate thoughts, and longed with +impatient desire for death, but who has at length trampled the phantom +under foot, and crushed his sting. Come, as you have played Despair +with me I will play the part of Una with you and bring you hurtless +from his dark cavern. Listen to me, and let yourself be softened by +words in which no selfish passion lingers. + +“We know not what all this wide world means; its strange mixture of +good and evil. But we have been placed here and bid live and hope. I +know not what we are to hope; but there is some good beyond us that we +must seek; and that is our earthly task. If misfortune come against us +we must fight with her; we must cast her aside, and still go on to +find out that which it is our nature to desire. Whether this prospect +of future good be the preparation for another existence I know not; or +whether that it is merely that we, as workmen in God’s vineyard, must +lend a hand to smooth the way for our posterity. If it indeed be that; +if the efforts of the virtuous now, are to make the future inhabitants +of this fair world more happy; if the labours of those who cast aside +selfishness, and try to know the truth of things, are to free the men +of ages, now far distant but which will one day come, from the burthen +under which those who now live groan, and like you weep bitterly; if +they free them but from one of what are now the necessary evils of +life, truly I will not fail but will with my whole soul aid the work. +From my youth I have said, I will be virtuous; I will dedicate my life +for the good of others; I will do my best to extirpate evil and if the +spirit who protects ill should so influence circumstances that I +should suffer through my endeavour, yet while there is hope and hope +there ever must be, of success, cheerfully do I gird myself to my +task. + +“I have powers; my countrymen think well of them. Do you think I sow +my seed in the barren air, & have no end in what I do? Believe me, I +will never desert life untill this last hope is torn from my bosom, +that in some way my labours may form a link in the chain of gold with +which we ought all to strive to drag Happiness from where she sits +enthroned above the clouds, now far beyond our reach, to inhabit the +earth with us. Let us suppose that Socrates, or Shakespear, or +Rousseau had been seized with despair and died in youth when they were +as young as I am; do you think that we and all the world should not +have lost incalculable improvement in our good feelings and our +happiness thro’ their destruction. I am not like one of these; they +influenced millions: but if I can influence but a hundred, but ten, +but one solitary individual, so as in any way to lead him from ill to +good, that will be a joy to repay me for all my sufferings, though +they were a million times multiplied; and that hope will support me to +bear them[.] + +“And those who do not work for posterity; or working, as may be my +case, will not be known by it; yet they, believe me, have also their +duties. You grieve because you are unhappy[;] it is happiness you seek +but you despair of obtaining it. But if you can bestow happiness on +another; if you can give one other person only one hour of joy ought +you not to live to do it? And every one has it in their power to do +that. The inhabitants of this world suffer so much pain. In crowded +cities, among cultivated plains, or on the desart mountains, pain is +thickly sown, and if we can tear up but one of these noxious weeds, or +more, if in its stead we can sow one seed of corn, or plant one fair +flower, let that be motive sufficient against suicide. Let us not +desert our task while there is the slightest hope that we may in a +future day do this. + +“Indeed I dare not die. I have a mother whose support and hope I am. I +have a friend who loves me as his life, and in whose breast I should +infix a mortal sting if I ungratefully left him. So I will not die. +Nor shall you, my friend; cheer up; cease to weep, I entreat you. Are +you not young, and fair, and good? Why should you despair? Or if you +must for yourself, why for others? If you can never be happy, can you +never bestow happiness[?] Oh! believe me, if you beheld on lips pale +with grief one smile of joy and gratitude, and knew that you were +parent of that smile, and that without you it had never been, you +would feel so pure and warm a happiness that you would wish to live +for ever again and again to enjoy the same pleasure[.] + +“Come, I see that you have already cast aside the sad thoughts you +before franticly indulged. Look in that mirror; when I came your brow +was contracted, your eyes deep sunk in your head, your lips quivering; +your hands trembled violently when I took them; but now all is +tranquil and soft. You are grieved and there is grief in the +expression of your countenance but it is gentle and sweet. You allow +me to throw away this cursed drink; you smile; oh, Congratulate me, +hope is triumphant, and I have done some good.” + +These words are shadowy as I repeat them but they were indeed words of +fire and produced a warm hope in me (I, miserable wretch, to hope!) +that tingled like pleasure in my veins. He did not leave me for many +hours; not until he had improved the spark that he had kindled, and +with an angelic hand fostered the return of somthing that seemed like +joy. He left me but I still was calm, and after I had saluted the +starry sky and dewy earth with eyes of love and a contented good +night, I slept sweetly, visited by dreams, the first of pleasure I had +had for many long months. + +But this was only a momentary relief and my old habits of feeling +returned; for I was doomed while in life to grieve, and to the natural +sorrow of my father’s death and its most terrific cause, immagination +added a tenfold weight of woe. I believed myself to be polluted by the +unnatural love I had inspired, and that I was a creature cursed and +set apart by nature. I thought that like another Cain, I had a mark +set on my forehead to shew mankind that there was a barrier between me +and they [_sic_].[72] Woodville had told me that there was in my +countenance an expression as if I belonged to another world; so he had +seen that sign: and there it lay a gloomy mark to tell the world that +there was that within my soul that no silence could render +sufficiently obscure. Why when fate drove me to become this outcast +from human feeling; this monster with whom none might mingle in +converse and love; why had she not from that fatal and most accursed +moment, shrouded me in thick mists and placed real darkness between me +and my fellows so that I might never more be seen?, [_sic_] and as I +passed, like a murky cloud loaded with blight, they might only +perceive me by the cold chill I should cast upon them; telling them, +how truly, that something unholy was near? Then I should have lived +upon this dreary heath unvisited, and blasting none by my unhallowed +gaze. Alas! I verily believe that if the near prospect of death did +not dull and soften my bitter [fe]elings, if for a few months longer I +had continued to live as I then lived, strong in body, but my soul +corrupted to its core by a deadly cancer[,] if day after day I had +dwelt on these dreadful sentiments I should have become mad, and +should have fancied myself a living pestilence: so horrible to my own +solitary thoughts did this form, this voice, and all this wretched +self appear; for had it not been the source of guilt that wants a +name?[73] + +This was superstition. I did not feel thus franticly when first I knew +that the holy name of father was become a curse to me: but my lonely +life inspired me with wild thoughts; and then when I saw Woodville & +day after day he tried to win my confidence and I never dared give +words to my dark tale, I was impressed more strongly with the +withering fear that I was in truth a marked creature, a pariah, only +fit for death. + + +[F] Spencer’s Faery Queen Book 1--Canto [9] + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +As I was perpetually haunted by these ideas, you may imagine that the +influence of Woodville’s words was very temporary; and that although I +did not again accuse him of unkindness, yet I soon became as unhappy +as before. Soon after this incident we parted. He heard that his +mother was ill, and he hastened to her. He came to take leave of me, +and we walked together on the heath for the last time. He promised +that he would come and see me again; and bade me take cheer, and to +encourage what happy thoughts I could, untill time and fortitude +should overcome my misery, and I could again mingle in society. + +“Above all other admonition on my part,” he said, “cherish and follow +this one: do not despair. That is the most dangerous gulph on which +you perpetually totter; but you must reassure your steps, and take +hope to guide you.[74] Hope, and your wounds will be already half +healed: but if you obstinately despair, there never more will be +comfort for you. Believe me, my dearest friend, that there is a joy +that the sun and earth and all its beauties can bestow that you will +one day feel. The refreshing bliss of Love will again visit your +heart, and undo the spell that binds you to woe, untill you wonder how +your eyes could be closed in the long night that burthens you. I dare +not hope that I have inspired you with sufficient interest that the +thought of me, and the affection that I shall ever bear you, will +soften your melancholy and decrease the bitterness of your tears. But +if my friendship can make you look on life with less disgust, beware +how you injure it with suspicion. Love is a delicate sprite[75] and +easily hurt by rough jealousy. Guard, I entreat you, a firm persuasion +of my sincerity in the inmost recesses of your heart out of the reach +of the casual winds that may disturb its surface. Your temper is made +unequal by suffering, and the tenor of your mind is, I fear, sometimes +shaken by unworthy causes; but let your confidence in my sympathy and +love be deeper far, and incapable of being reached by these agitations +that come and go, and if they touch not your affections leave you +uninjured.” + +These were some of Woodville’s last lessons. I wept as I listened to +him; and after we had taken an affectionate farewell, I followed him +far with my eyes until they saw the last of my earthly comforter. I +had insisted on accompanying him across the heath towards the town +where he dwelt: the sun was yet high when he left me, and I turned my +steps towards my cottage. It was at the latter end of the month of +September when the nights have become chill. But the weather was +serene, and as I walked on I fell into no unpleasing reveries. I +thought of Woodville with gratitude and kindness and did not, I know +not why, regret his departure with any bitterness. It seemed that +after one great shock all other change was trivial to me; and I walked +on wondering when the time would come when we should all four, my +dearest father restored to me, meet in some sweet Paradise[.] I +pictured to myself a lovely river such as that on whose banks Dante +describes Mathilda gathering flowers, which ever flows + + ---- bruna, bruna, + Sotto l’ombra perpetua, che mai + Raggiar non lascia sole ivi, nè Luna.[76] + +And then I repeated to myself all that lovely passage that relates the +entrance of Dante into the terrestrial Paradise; and thought it would +be sweet when I wandered on those lovely banks to see the car of light +descend with my long lost parent to be restored to me. As I waited +there in expectation of that moment, I thought how, of the lovely +flowers that grew there, I would wind myself a chaplet and crown +myself for joy: I would sing _sul margine d’un rio_,[77] my father’s +favourite song, and that my voice gliding through the windless air +would announce to him in whatever bower he sat expecting the moment of +our union, that his daughter was come. Then the mark of misery would +have faded from my brow, and I should raise my eyes fearlessly to meet +his, which ever beamed with the soft lustre of innocent love. When I +reflected on the magic look of those deep eyes I wept, but gently, +lest my sobs should disturb the fairy scene. + +I was so entirely wrapt in this reverie that I wandered on, taking no +heed of my steps until I actually stooped down to gather a flower for +my wreath on that bleak plain where no flower grew, when I awoke from +my day dream and found myself I knew not where. + +The sun had set and the roseate hue which the clouds had caught from +him in his descent had nearly died away. A wind swept across the +plain, I looked around me and saw no object that told me where I was; +I had lost myself, and in vain attempted to find my path. I wandered +on, and the coming darkness made every trace indistinct by which I +might be guided. At length all was veiled in the deep obscurity of +blackest night; I became weary and knowing that my servant was to +sleep that night at the neighbouring village, so that my absence would +alarm no one; and that I was safe in this wild spot from every +intruder, I resolved to spend the night where I was. Indeed I was too +weary to walk further: the air was chill but I was careless of bodily +inconvenience, and I thought that I was well inured to the weather +during my two years of solitude, when no change of seasons prevented +my perpetual wanderings. + +I lay upon the grass surrounded by a darkness which not the slightest +beam of light penetrated--There was no sound for the deep night had +laid to sleep the insects, the only creatures that lived on the lone +spot where no tree or shrub could afford shelter to aught else--There +was a wondrous silence in the air that calmed my senses yet which +enlivened my soul, my mind hurried from image to image and seemed to +grasp an eternity. All in my heart was shadowy yet calm, untill my +ideas became confused and at length died away in sleep.[78] + +When I awoke it rained:[79] I was already quite wet, and my limbs were +stiff and my head giddy with the chill of night. It was a drizzling, +penetrating shower; as my dank hair clung to my neck and partly +covered my face, I had hardly strength to part with my fingers, the +long strait locks that fell before my eyes. The darkness was much +dissipated and in the east where the clouds were least dense the moon +was visible behind the thin grey cloud-- + + The moon is behind, and at the full + And yet she looks both small and dull.[80] + +Its presence gave me a hope that by its means I might find my home. +But I was languid and many hours passed before I could reach the +cottage, dragging as I did my slow steps, and often resting on the wet +earth unable to proceed. + +I particularly mark this night, for it was that which has hurried on +the last scene of my tragedy, which else might have dwindled on +through long years of listless sorrow. I was very ill when I arrived +and quite incapable of taking off my wet clothes that clung about me. +In the morning, on her return, my servant found me almost lifeless, +while possessed by a high fever I was lying on the floor of my room. + +I was very ill for a long time, and when I recovered from the +immediate danger of fever, every symptom of a rapid consumption +declared itself. I was for some time ignorant of this and thought that +my excessive weakness was the consequence of the fever; [_sic_] But my +strength became less and less; as winter came on I had a cough; and my +sunken cheek, before pale, burned with a hectic fever. One by one +these symptoms struck me; & I became convinced that the moment I had +so much desired was about to arrive and that I was dying. I was +sitting by my fire, the physician who had attended me ever since my +fever had just left me, and I looked over his prescription in which +digitalis was the prominent medecine. “Yes,” I said, “I see how this +is, and it is strange that I should have deceived myself so long; I am +about to die an innocent death, and it will be sweeter even than that +which the opium promised.” + +I rose and walked slowly to the window; the wide heath was covered by +snow which sparkled under the beams of the sun that shone brightly +thro’ the pure, frosty air: a few birds were pecking some crumbs under +my window.[81] I smiled with quiet joy; and in my thoughts, which +through long habit would for ever connect themselves into one train, +as if I shaped them into words, I thus addressed the scene before me: + +“I salute thee, beautiful Sun, and thou, white Earth, fair and cold! +Perhaps I shall never see thee again covered with green, and the sweet +flowers of the coming spring will blossom on my grave. I am about to +leave thee; soon this living spirit which is ever busy among strange +shapes and ideas, which belong not to thee, soon it will have flown to +other regions and this emaciated body will rest insensate on thy bosom + + “Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course + With rocks, and stones, and trees. + +“For it will be the same with thee, who art called our Universal +Mother,[82] when I am gone. I have loved thee; and in my days both of +happiness and sorrow I have peopled your solitudes with wild fancies +of my own creation. The woods, and lakes, and mountains which I have +loved, have for me a thousand associations; and thou, oh, Sun! hast +smiled upon, and borne your part in many imaginations that sprung to +life in my soul alone, and which will die with me. Your solitudes, +sweet land, your trees and waters will still exist, moved by your +winds, or still beneath the eye of noon, though[83] [w]hat I have felt +about ye, and all my dreams which have often strangely deformed thee, +will die with me. You will exist to reflect other images in other +minds, and ever will remain the same, although your reflected +semblance vary in a thousand ways, changeable as the hearts of those +who view thee. One of these fragile mirrors, that ever doted on thine +image, is about to be broken, crumbled to dust. But everteeming Nature +will create another and another, and thou wilt loose nought by my +destruction.[84] + +“Thou wilt ever be the same. Recieve then the grateful farewell of a +fleeting shadow who is about to disappear, who joyfully leaves thee, +yet with a last look of affectionate thankfulness. Farewell! Sky, and +fields and woods; the lovely flowers that grow on thee; thy mountains +& thy rivers; to the balmy air and the strong wind of the north, to +all, a last farewell. I shall shed no more tears for my task is almost +fulfilled, and I am about to be rewarded for long and most burthensome +suffering. Bless thy child even even [_sic_] in death, as I bless +thee; and let me sleep at peace in my quiet grave.” + +I feel death to be near at hand and I am calm. I no longer despair, +but look on all around me with placid affection. I find it sweet to +watch the progressive decay of my strength, and to repeat to myself, +another day and yet another, but again I shall not see the red leaves +of autumn; before that time I shall be with my father. I am glad +Woodville is not with me for perhaps he would grieve, and I desire to +see smiles alone during the last scene of my life; when I last wrote +to him I told him of my ill health but not of its mortal tendency, +lest he should conceive it to be his duty to come to me for I fear +lest the tears of friendship should destroy the blessed calm of my +mind. I take pleasure in arranging all the little details which will +occur when I shall no longer be. In truth I am in love with death; no +maiden ever took more pleasure in the contemplation of her bridal +attire than I in fancying my limbs already enwrapt in their shroud: +is it not my marriage dress? Alone it will unite me to my father when +in an eternal mental union we shall never part. + +I will not dwell on the last changes that I feel in the final decay of +nature. It is rapid but without pain: I feel a strange pleasure in it. +For long years these are the first days of peace that have visited me. +I no longer exhaust my miserable heart by bitter tears and frantic +complaints; I no longer the [_sic_] reproach the sun, the earth, the +air, for pain and wretchedness. I wait in quiet expectation for the +closing hours of a life which has been to me most sweet & bitter. I do +not die not having enjoyed life; for sixteen years I was happy: during +the first months of my father’s return I had enjoyed ages of pleasure: +now indeed I am grown old in grief; my steps are feeble like those of +age; I have become peevish and unfit for life; so having passed little +more than twenty years upon the earth I am more fit for my narrow +grave than many are when they reach the natural term of their lives. + +Again and again I have passed over in my remembrance the different +scenes of my short life: if the world is a stage and I merely an actor +on it my part has been strange, and, alas! tragical. Almost from +infancy I was deprived of all the testimonies of affection which +children generally receive; I was thrown entirely upon my own +resources, and I enjoyed what I may almost call unnatural pleasures, +for they were dreams and not realities. The earth was to me a magic +lantern and I [a] gazer, and a listener but no actor; but then came +the transporting and soul-reviving era of my existence: my father +returned and I could pour my warm affections on a human heart; there +was a new sun and a new earth created to me; the waters of existence +sparkled: joy! joy! but, alas! what grief! My bliss was more rapid +than the progress of a sunbeam on a mountain, which discloses its +glades & woods, and then leaves it dark & blank; to my happiness +followed madness and agony, closed by despair. + +This was the drama of my life which I have now depicted upon paper. +During three months I have been employed in this task. The memory of +sorrow has brought tears; the memory of happiness a warm glow the +lively shadow of that joy. Now my tears are dried; the glow has faded +from my cheeks, and with a few words of farewell to you, Woodville, I +close my work: the last that I shall perform. + +Farewell, my only living friend; you are the sole tie that binds me to +existence, and now I break it[.] It gives me no pain to leave you; nor +can our seperation give you much. You never regarded me as one of this +world, but rather as a being, who for some penance was sent from the +Kingdom of Shadows; and she passed a few days weeping on the earth and +longing to return to her native soil. You will weep but they will be +tears of gentleness. I would, if I thought that it would lessen your +regret, tell you to smile and congratulate me on my departure from the +misery you beheld me endure. I would say; Woodville, rejoice with your +friend, I triumph now and am most happy. But I check these +expressions; these may not be the consolations of the living; they +weep for their own misery, and not for that of the being they have +lost. No; shed a few natural tears due to my memory: and if you ever +visit my grave, pluck from thence a flower, and lay it to your heart; +for your heart is the only tomb in which my memory will be enterred. + +My death is rapidly approaching and you are not near to watch the +flitting and vanishing of my spirit. Do no[t] regret this; for death +is a too terrible an [_sic_] object for the living. It is one of those +adversities which hurt instead of purifying the heart; for it is so +intense a misery that it hardens & dulls the feelings. Dreadful as the +time was when I pursued my father towards the ocean, & found their +[_sic_] only his lifeless corpse; yet for my own sake I should prefer +that to the watching one by one his senses fade; his pulse weaken--and +sleeplessly as it were devour his life in gazing. To see life in his +limbs & to know that soon life would no longer be there; to see the +warm breath issue from his lips and to know they would soon be +chill--I will not continue to trace this frightful picture; you +suffered this torture once; I never did.[85] And the remembrance fills +your heart sometimes with bitter despair when otherwise your feelings +would have melted into soft sorrow. + +So day by day I become weaker, and life flickers in my wasting form, +as a lamp about to loose it vivifying oil. I now behold the glad sun +of May. It was May, four years ago, that I first saw my beloved +father; it was in May, three years ago that my folly destroyed the +only being I was doomed to love. May is returned, and I die. Three +days ago, the anniversary of our meeting; and, alas! of our eternal +seperation, after a day of killing emotion, I caused myself to be led +once more to behold the face of nature. I caused myself to be carried +to some meadows some miles distant from my cottage; the grass was +being mowed, and there was the scent of hay in the fields; all the +earth look[ed] fresh and its inhabitants happy. Evening approached and +I beheld the sun set. Three years ago and on that day and hour it +shone through the branches and leaves of the beech wood and its beams +flickered upon the countenance of him whom I then beheld for the last +time.[86] I now saw that divine orb, gilding all the clouds with +unwonted splendour, sink behind the horizon; it disappeared from a +world where he whom I would seek exists not; it approached a world +where he exists not[.] Why do I weep so bitterly? Why my [_sic_] does +my heart heave with vain endeavour to cast aside the bitter anguish +that covers it “as the waters cover the sea.” I go from this world +where he is no longer and soon I shall meet him in another. + +Farewell, Woodville, the turf will soon be green on my grave; and the +violets will bloom on it. _There_ is my hope and my expectation; +your’s are in this world; may they be fulfilled.[87] + + + + +NOTES TO _MATHILDA_ + +Abbreviations: + +_F of F--A_ _The Fields of Fancy_, in Lord Abinger’s notebook +_F of F--B_ _The Fields of Fancy_, in the notebook in the Bodleian Library +_S-R fr_ fragments of _The Fields of Fancy_ among the papers of the + late Sir John Shelley-Rolls, now in the Bodleian Library + +[1] The name is spelled thus in the MSS of _Mathilda_ and _The Fields +of Fancy_, though in the printed _Journal_ (taken from _Shelley and +Mary_) and in the _Letters_ it is spelled _Matilda_. In the MS of the +journal, however, it is spelled first _Matilda_, later _Mathilda_. + +[2] Mary has here added detail and contrast to the description in _F +of F--A_, in which the passage “save a few black patches ... on the +plain ground” does not appear. + +[3] The addition of “I am alone ... withered me” motivates Mathilda’s +state of mind and her resolve to write her history. + +[4] Mathilda too is the unwitting victim in a story of incest. Like +Oedipus, she has lost her parent-lover by suicide; like him she leaves +the scene of the revelation overwhelmed by a sense of her own guilt, +“a sacred horror”; like him, she finds a measure of peace as she is +about to die. + +[5] The addition of “the precious memorials ... gratitude towards +you,” by its suggestion of the relationship between Mathilda and +Woodville, serves to justify the detailed narration. + +[6] At this point two sheets have been removed from the notebook. +There is no break in continuity, however. + +[7] The descriptions of Mathilda’s father and mother and the account +of their marriage in the next few pages are greatly expanded from _F +of F--A_, where there is only one brief paragraph. The process of +expansion can be followed in _S-R fr_ and in _F of F--B_. The +development of the character of Diana (who represents Mary’s own +mother, Mary Wollstonecraft) gave Mary the most trouble. For the +identifications with Mary’s father and mother, see Nitchie, _Mary +Shelley_, pp. 11, 90-93, 96-97. + +[8] The passage “There was a gentleman ... school & college vacations” +is on a slip of paper pasted on page 11 of the MS. In the margin are +two fragments, crossed out, evidently parts of what is supplanted by +the substituted passage: “an angelic disposition and a quick, +penetrating understanding” and “her visits ... to ... his house were +long & frequent & there.” In _F of F--B_ Mary wrote of Diana’s +understanding “that often receives the name of masculine from its +firmness and strength.” This adjective had often been applied to Mary +Wollstonecraft’s mind. Mary Shelley’s own understanding had been +called masculine by Leigh Hunt in 1817 in the _Examiner_. The word was +used also by a reviewer of her last published work, _Rambles in +Germany and Italy, 1844_. (See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, p. 178.) + +[9] The account of Diana in _Mathilda_ is much better ordered and more +coherent than that in _F of F--B_. + +[10] The description of the effect of Diana’s death on her husband is +largely new in _Mathilda_. _F of F--B_ is frankly incomplete; _F of +F--A_ contains some of this material; _Mathilda_ puts it in order and +fills in the gaps. + +[11] This paragraph is an elaboration of the description of her aunt’s +coldness as found in _F of F--B_. There is only one sentence in _F of +F--A_. + +[12] The description of Mathilda’s love of nature and of animals is +elaborated from both rough drafts. The effect, like that of the +preceding addition (see note 11), is to emphasize Mathilda’s +loneliness. For the theme of loneliness in Mary Shelley’s work, see +Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, pp. 13-17. + +[13] This paragraph is a revision of _F of F--B_, which is +fragmentary. There is nothing in _F of F--A_ and only one scored-out +sentence in _S-R fr_. None of the rough drafts tells of her plans to +join her father. + +[14] The final paragraph in Chapter II is entirely new. + +[15] The account of the return of Mathilda’s father is very slightly +revised from that in _F of F--A_. _F of F--B_ has only a few +fragmentary sentences, scored out. It resumes with the paragraph +beginning, “My father was very little changed.” + +[16] Symbolic of Mathilda’s subsequent life. + +[17] _Illusion, or the Trances of Nourjahad_, a melodrama, was +performed at Drury Lane, November 25, 1813. It was anonymous, but it +was attributed by some reviewers to Byron, a charge which he +indignantly denied. See Byron, _Letters and Journals_, ed. by Rowland +E. Prothero (6 vols. London: Murray, 1902-1904), II, 288. + +[18] This paragraph is in _F of F--B_ but not in _F of F--A_. In the +margin of the latter, however, is written: “It was not of the tree of +knowledge that I ate for no evil followed--it must be of the tree of +life that grows close beside it or--”. Perhaps this was intended to go +in the preceding paragraph after “My ideas were enlarged by his +conversation.” Then, when this paragraph was added, the figure, +noticeably changed, was included here. + +[19] Here the MS of _F of F--B_ breaks off to resume only with the +meeting of Mathilda and Woodville. + +[20] At the end of the story (p. 79) Mathilda says, “Death is too +terrible an object for the living.” Mary was thinking of the deaths of +her two children. + +[21] Mary had read the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius in 1817 +and she had made an Italian translation, the MS of which is now in the +Library of Congress. See _Journal_, pp. 79, 85-86. + +[22] The end of this paragraph gave Mary much trouble. In _F of F--A_ +after the words, “my tale must,” she develops an elaborate figure: “go +with the stream that hurries on--& now was this stream precipitated by +an overwhelming fall from the pleasant vallies through which it +wandered--down hideous precipieces to a desart black & hopeless--”. +This, the original ending of the chapter, was scored out, and a new, +simplified version which, with some deletions and changes, became that +used in _Mathilda_ was written in the margins of two pages (ff. 57, +58). This revision is a good example of Mary’s frequent improvement of +her style by the omission of purple patches. + +[23] In _F of F--A_ there follows a passage which has been scored out +and which does not appear in _Mathilda_: “I have tried in somewhat +feeble language to describe the excess of what I may almost call my +adoration for my father--you may then in some faint manner imagine my +despair when I found that he shunned [me] & that all the little arts I +used to re-awaken his lost love made him”--. This is a good example of +Mary’s frequent revision for the better by the omission of the obvious +and expository. But the passage also has intrinsic interest. +Mathilda’s “adoration” for her father may be compared to Mary’s +feeling for Godwin. In an unpublished letter (1822) to Jane Williams +she wrote, “Until I met Shelley I [could?] justly say that he was my +God--and I remember many childish instances of the [ex]cess of +attachment I bore for him.” See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, p. 89, and +note 9. + +[24] Cf. the account of the services of Fantasia in the opening +chapter of _F of F--A_ (see pp. 90-102) together with note 3 to _The +Fields of Fancy_. + +[25] This passage beginning “Day after day” and closing with the +quotation is not in _F of F--A_, but it is in _S-R fr_. The quotation +is from _The Captain_ by John Fletcher and a collaborator, possibly +Massinger. These lines from Act I, Sc. 3 are part of a speech by Lelia +addressed to her lover. Later in the play Lelia attempts to seduce her +father--possibly a reason for Mary’s selection of the lines. + +[26] At this point (f. 56 of the notebook) begins a long passage, +continuing through Chapter V, in which Mary’s emotional disturbance in +writing about the change in Mathilda’s father (representing both +Shelley and Godwin?) shows itself on the pages of the MS. They look +more like the rough draft than the fair copy. There are numerous slips +of the pen, corrections in phrasing and sentence structure, dashes +instead of other marks of punctuation, a large blot of ink on f. 57, +one major deletion (see note 32). + +[27] In the margin of _F of F--A_ Mary wrote, “Lord B’s Ch’de Harold.” +The reference is to stanzas 71 and 72 of Canto IV. Byron compares the +rainbow on the cataract first to “Hope upon a death-bed” and finally + +Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with +unalterable mien. + + + +[28] In _F of F--A_ Mathilda “took up Ariosto & read the story of +Isabella.” Mary’s reason for the change is not clear. Perhaps she +thought that the fate of Isabella, a tale of love and lust and death +(though not of incest), was too close to what was to be Mathilda’s +fate. She may have felt--and rightly--that the allusions to Lelia and +to Myrrha were ample foreshadowings. The reasons for the choice of the +seventh canto of Book II of the _Faerie Queene_ may lie in the +allegorical meaning of Guyon, or Temperance, and the “dread and +horror” of his experience. + +[29] With this speech, which is not in _F of F--A_, Mary begins to +develop the character of the Steward, who later accompanies Mathilda +on her search for her father. Although he is to a very great extent +the stereptyped faithful servant, he does serve to dramatize the +situation both here and in the later scene. + +[30] This clause is substituted for a more conventional and less +dramatic passage in _F of F--A_: “& besides there appeared more of +struggle than remorse in his manner although sometimes I thought I saw +glim[p]ses of the latter feeling in his tumultuous starts & gloomy +look.” + +[31] These paragraphs beginning Chapter V are much expanded from _F of +F--A_. Some of the details are in the _S-R fr_. This scene is recalled +at the end of the story. (See page 80) Cf. what Mary says about places +that are associated with former emotions in her _Rambles in Germany +and Italy_ (2 vols., London: Moxon, 1844), II, 78-79. She is writing +of her approach to Venice, where, twenty-five years before, little +Clara had died. “It is a strange, but to any person who has suffered, +a familiar circumstance, that those who are enduring mental or +corporeal agony are strangely alive to immediate external objects, and +their imagination even exercises its wild power over them.... Thus the +banks of the Brenta presented to me a moving scene; not a palace, not +a tree of which I did not recognize, as marked and recorded, at a +moment when life and death hung upon our speedy arrival at Venice.” + +[32] The remainder of this chapter, which describes the crucial scene +between Mathilda and her father, is the result of much revision from +_F of F--A_. Some of the revisions are in _S-R fr_. In general the +text of _Mathilda_ is improved in style. Mary adds concrete, specific +words and phrases; e.g., at the end of the first paragraph of +Mathilda’s speech, the words “of incertitude” appear in _Mathilda_ for +the first time. She cancels, even in this final draft, an +over-elaborate figure of speech after the words in the father’s reply, +“implicated in my destruction”; the cancelled passage is too flowery +to be appropriate here: “as if when a vulture is carrying off some +hare it is struck by an arrow his helpless victim entangled in the +same fate is killed by the defeat of its enemy. One word would do all +this.” Furthermore the revised text shows greater understanding and +penetration of the feelings of both speakers: the addition of “Am I +the cause of your grief?” which brings out more dramatically what +Mathilda has said in the first part of this paragraph; the analysis of +the reasons for her presistent questioning; the addition of the final +paragraph of her plea, “Alas! Alas!... you hate me!” which prepares +for the father’s reply. + +[33] Almost all the final paragraph of the chapter is added to _F of +F--A_. Three brief _S-R fr_ are much revised and simplified. + +[34] _Decameron_, 4th day, 1st story. Mary had read the _Decameron_ in +May, 1819. See _Journal_, p. 121. + +[35] The passage “I should fear ... I must despair” is in _S-R fr_ but +not in _F of F--A_. There, in the margin, is the following: “Is it not +the prerogative of superior virtue to pardon the erring and to weigh +with mercy their offenses?” This sentence does not appear in +_Mathilda_. Also in the margin of _F of F--A_ is the number (9), the +number of the _S-R fr_. + +[36] The passage “enough of the world ... in unmixed delight” is on a +slip pasted over the middle of the page. Some of the obscured text is +visible in the margin, heavily scored out. Also in the margin is +“Canto IV Vers Ult,” referring to the quotation from Dante’s +_Paradiso_. This quotation, with the preceding passage beginning “in +whose eyes,” appears in _Mathilda_ only. + +[37] The reference to Diana, with the father’s rationalization of his +love for Mathilda, is in _S-R fr_ but not in _F of F--A_. + +[38] In _F of F--A_ this is followed by a series of other gloomy +concessive clauses which have been scored out to the advantage of the +text. + +[39] This paragraph has been greatly improved by the omission of +elaborate over-statement; e.g., “to pray for mercy & respite from my +fear” (_F of F--A_) becomes merely “to pray.” + +[40] This paragraph about the Steward is added in _Mathilda_. In _F of +F--A_ he is called a servant and his name is Harry. See note 29. + +[41] This sentence, not in _F of F--A_, recalls Mathilda’s dream. + +[42] This passage is somewhat more dramatic than that in _F of F--A_, +putting what is there merely a descriptive statement into quotation +marks. + +[43] A stalactite grotto on the island of Antiparos in the Aegean Sea. + +[44] A good description of Mary’s own behavior in England after +Shelley’s death, of the surface placidity which concealed stormy +emotion. See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, pp. 8-10. + +[45] _Job_, 17: 15-16, slightly misquoted. + +[46] Not in _F of F--A_. The quotation should read: + +Fam. Whisper it, sister! so and so! In a dark hint, soft and slow. + + + +[47] The mother of Prince Arthur in Shakespeare’s _King John_. In the +MS the words “the little Arthur” are written in pencil above the name +of Constance. + +[48] In _F of F--A_ this account of her plans is addressed to Diotima, +and Mathilda’s excuse for not detailing them is that they are too +trivial to interest spirits no longer on earth; this is the only +intrusion of the framework into Mathilda’s narrative in _The Fields of +Fancy_. Mathilda’s refusal to recount her stratagems, though the +omission is a welcome one to the reader, may represent the flagging of +Mary’s invention. Similarly in _Frankenstein_ she offers excuses for +not explaining how the Monster was brought to life. The entire +passage, “Alas! I even now ... remain unfinished. I was,” is on a slip +of paper pasted on the page. + +[49] The comparison to a Hermitess and the wearing of the “fanciful +nunlike dress” are appropriate though melodramatic. They appear only +in _Mathilda_. Mathilda refers to her “whimsical nunlike habit” again +after she meets Woodville (see page 60) and tells us in a deleted +passage that it was “a close nunlike gown of black silk.” + +[50] Cf. Shelley, _Prometheus Unbound_, I, 48: “the wingless, crawling +hours.” This phrase (“my part in submitting ... minutes”) and the +remainder of the paragraph are an elaboration of the simple phrase in +_F of F--A_, “my part in enduring it--,” with its ambiguous pronoun. +The last page of Chapter VIII shows many corrections, even in the MS +of _Mathilda_. It is another passage that Mary seems to have written +in some agitation of spirit. Cf. note 26. + +[51] In _F of F--A_ there are several false starts before this +sentence. The name there is Welford; on the next page it becomes +Lovel, which is thereafter used throughout _The Fields of Fancy_ and +appears twice, probably inadvertently, in _Mathilda_, where it is +crossed out. In a few of the _S-R fr_ it is Herbert. In _Mathilda_ it +is at first Herbert, which is used until after the rewritten +conclusion (see note 83) but is corrected throughout to Woodville. On +the final pages Woodville alone is used. (It is interesting, though +not particularly significant, that one of the minor characters in +Lamb’s _John Woodvil_ is named Lovel. Such mellifluous names rolled +easily from the pens of all the romantic writers.) This, her first +portrait of Shelley in fiction, gave Mary considerable trouble: +revisions from the rough drafts are numerous. The passage on +Woodville’s endowment by fortune, for example, is much more concise +and effective than that in _S-R fr_. Also Mary curbed somewhat the +extravagance of her praise of Woodville, omitting such hyperboles as +“When he appeared a new sun seemed to rise on the day & he had all the +benignity of the dispensor of light,” and “he seemed to come as the +God of the world.” + +[52] This passage beginning “his station was too high” is not in _F of +F--A_. + +[53] This passage beginning “He was a believer in the divinity of +genius” is not in _F of F--A_. Cf. the discussion of genius in +“Giovanni Villani” (Mary Shelley’s essay in _The Liberal_, No. IV, +1823), including the sentence: “The fixed stars appear to abberate +[_sic_]; but it is we that move, not they.” It is tempting to conclude +that this is a quotation or echo of something which Shelley said, +perhaps in conversation with Byron. I have not found it in any of his +published writings. + +[54] Is this wishful thinking about Shelley’s poetry? It is well known +that a year later Mary remonstrated with Shelley about _The Witch of +Atlas_, desiring, as she said in her 1839 note, “that Shelley should +increase his popularity.... It was not only that I wished him to +acquire popularity as redounding to his fame; but I believed that he +would obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, and greater +happiness in his mind, if public applause crowned his endeavours.... +Even now I believe that I was in the right.” Shelley’s response is in +the six introductory stanzas of the poem. + +[55] The preceding paragraphs about Elinor and Woodville are the +result of considerable revision for the better of _F of F--A_ and _S-R +fr_. Mary scored out a paragraph describing Elinor, thus getting rid +of several clichés (“fortune had smiled on her,” “a favourite of +fortune,” “turning tears of misery to those of joy”); she omitted a +clause which offered a weak motivation of Elinor’s father’s will (the +possibility of her marrying, while hardly more than a child, one of +her guardian’s sons); she curtailed the extravagance of a rhapsody on +the perfect happiness which Woodville and Elinor would have enjoyed. + +[56] The death scene is elaborated from _F of F--A_ and made more +melodramatic by the addition of Woodville’s plea and of his vigil by +the death-bed. + +[57] _F of F--A_ ends here and _F of F--B_ resumes. + +[58] A similar passage about Mathilda’s fears is cancelled in _F of +F--B_ but it appears in revised form in _S-R fr_. There is also among +these fragments a long passage, not used in _Mathilda_, identifying +Woodville as someone she had met in London. Mary was wise to discard +it for the sake of her story. But the first part of it is interesting +for its correspondence with fact: “I knew him when I first went to +London with my father he was in the height of his glory & +happiness--Elinor was living & in her life he lived--I did not know +her but he had been introduced to my father & had once or twice +visited us--I had then gazed with wonder on his beauty & listened to +him with delight--” Shelley had visited Godwin more than “once or +twice” while Harriet was still living, and Mary had seen him. Of +course she had seen Harriet too, in 1812, when she came with Shelley +to call on Godwin. Elinor and Harriet, however, are completely unlike. + +[59] Here and on many succeeding pages, where Mathilda records the +words and opinions of Woodville, it is possible to hear the voice of +Shelley. This paragraph, which is much expanded from _F of F--B_, may +be compared with the discussion of good and evil in _Julian and +Maddalo_ and with _Prometheus Unbound_ and _A Defence of Poetry_. + +[60] In the revision of this passage Mathilda’s sense of her pollution +is intensified; for example, by addition of “infamy and guilt was +mingled with my portion.” + +[61] Some phrases of self-criticism are added in this paragraph. + +[62] In _F of F--B_ this quotation is used in the laudanum scene, just +before Level’s (Woodville’s) long speech of dissuasion. + +[63] The passage “air, & to suffer ... my compassionate friend” is on +a slip of paper pasted across the page. + +[64] This phrase sustains the metaphor better than that in _F of +F--B_: “puts in a word.” + +[65] This entire paragraph is added to _F of F--B_; it is in rough +draft in _S-R fr_. + +[66] This is changed in the MS of _Mathilda_ from “a violent +thunderstorm.” Evidently Mary decided to avoid using another +thunderstorm at a crisis in the story. + +[67] The passage “It is true ... I will” is on a slip of paper pasted +across the page. + +[68] In the revision from _F of F--B_ the style of this whole episode +becomes more concise and specific. + +[69] An improvement over the awkward phrasing in _F of F--B_: “a +friend who will not repulse my request that he would accompany me.” + +[70] These two paragraphs are not in _F of F--B_; portions of them are +in _S-R fr_. + +[71] This speech is greatly improved in style over that in _F of +F--B_, more concise in expression (though somewhat expanded), more +specific. There are no corresponding _S-R fr_ to show the process of +revision. With the ideas expressed here cf. Shelley, _Julian and +Maddalo_, ll. 182-187, 494-499, and his letter to Claire in November, +1820 (Julian _Works_, X, 226). See also White, _Shelley_, II, 378. + +[72] This solecism, copied from _F of F--B_, is not characteristic of +Mary Shelley. + +[73] This paragraph prepares for the eventual softening of Mathilda’s +feeling. The idea is somewhat elaborated from _F of F--B_. Other +changes are necessitated by the change in the mode of presenting the +story. In _The Fields of Fancy_ Mathilda speaks as one who has already +died. + +[74] Cf. Shelley’s emphasis on hope and its association with love in +all his work. When Mary wrote _Mathilda_ she knew _Queen Mab_ (see +Part VIII, ll. 50-57, and Part IX, ll. 207-208), the _Hymn to +Intellectual Beauty_, and the first three acts of _Prometheus +Unbound_. The fourth act was written in the winter of 1819, but +Demogorgon’s words may already have been at least adumbrated before +the beginning of November: + +To love and bear, to hope till hope creates From its own wreck the +thing it contemplates. + + + +[75] Shelley had written, “Desolation is a delicate thing” +(_Prometheus Unbound_, Act I, l. 772) and called the Spirit of the +Earth “a delicate spirit” (_Ibid._, Act III, Sc. iv, l. 6). + +[76] _Purgatorio_, Canto 28, ll. 31-33. Perhaps by this time Shelley +had translated ll. 1-51 of this canto. He had read the _Purgatorio_ in +April, 1818, and again with Mary in August, 1819, just as she was +beginning to write _Mathilda_. Shelley showed his translation to +Medwin in 1820, but there seems to be no record of the date of +composition. + +[77] An air with this title was published about 1800 in London by +Robert Birchall. See _Catalogue of Printed Music Published between +1487 and 1800 and now in the British Museum_, by W. Barclay Squire, +1912. Neither author nor composer is listed in the _Catalogue_. + +[78] This paragraph is materially changed from _F of F--B_. Clouds and +darkness are substituted for starlight, silence for the sound of the +wind. The weather here matches Mathilda’s mood. Four and a half lines +of verse (which I have not been able to identify, though they sound +Shelleyan--are they Mary’s own?) are omitted: of the stars she says, + + the wind is in the tree + But they are silent;--still they roll along + Immeasurably distant; & the vault + Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds + Still deepens its unfathomable depth. + + + +[79] If Mary quotes Coleridge’s _Ancient Mariner_ intentionally here, +she is ironic, for this is no merciful rain, except for the fact that +it brings on the illness which leads to Mathilda’s death, for which +she longs. + +[80] This quotation from _Christabel_ (which suggests that the +preceding echo is intentional) is not in _F of F--B_. + +[81] Cf. the description which opens _Mathilda_. + +[82] Among Lord Abinger’s papers, in Mary’s hand, are some comparable +(but very bad) fragmentary verses addressed to Mother Earth. + +[83] At this point four sheets are cut out of the notebook. They are +evidently those with pages numbered 217 to 223 which are among the +_S-R fr_. They contain the conclusion of the story, ending, as does _F +of F--B_ with Mathilda’s words spoken to Diotima in the Elysian +Fields: “I am here, not with my father, but listening to lessons of +wisdom, which will one day bring me to him when we shall never part. +THE END.” Some passages are scored out, but not this final sentence. +Tenses are changed from past to future. The name _Herbert_ is changed +to _Woodville_. The explanation must be that Mary was hurrying to +finish the revision (quite drastic on these final pages) and the +transcription of her story before her confinement, and that in her +haste she copied the pages from _F of F--B_ as they stood. Then, +realizing that they did not fit _Mathilda_, she began to revise them; +but to keep her MS neat, she cut out these pages and wrote the fair +copy. There is no break in _Mathilda_ in story or in pagination. This +fair copy also shows signs of haste: slips of the pen, repetition of +words, a number of unimportant revisions. + +[84] Here in _F of F--B_ there is an index number which evidently +points to a note at the bottom of the next page. The note is omitted +in _Mathilda_. It reads: + +“Dante in his Purgatorio describes a grifon as remaining unchanged but +his reflection in the eyes of Beatrice as perpetually varying (Purg. +Cant. 31) So nature is ever the same but seen differently by almost +every spectator and even by the same at various times. All minds, as +mirrors, receive her forms--yet in each mirror the shapes apparently +reflected vary & are perpetually changing--” + + + +[85] See note 20. Mary Shelley had suffered this torture when Clara +and William died. + +[86] See the end of Chapter V. + +[87] This sentence is not in _F of F--B_ or in _S-R fr_. + + + + +THE FIELDS OF FANCY[88] + + +It was in Rome--the Queen of the World that I suffered a misfortune +that reduced me to misery & despair[89]--The bright sun & deep azure +sky were oppressive but nought was so hateful as the voice of Man--I +loved to walk by the shores of the Tiber which were solitary & if the +sirocco blew to see the swift clouds pass over St. Peters and the many +domes of Rome or if the sun shone I turned my eyes from the sky whose +light was too dazzling & gay to be reflected in my tearful eyes I +turned them to the river whose swift course was as the speedy +departure of happiness and whose turbid colour was gloomy as grief-- + +Whether I slept I know not or whether it was in one of those many +hours which I spent seated on the ground my mind a chaos of despair & +my eyes for ever wet by tears but I was here visited by a lovely +spirit whom I have ever worshiped & who tried to repay my adoration by +diverting my mind from the hideous memories that racked it. At first +indeed this wanton spirit played a false part & appearing with sable +wings & gloomy countenance seemed to take a pleasure in exagerating +all my miseries--and as small hopes arose to snatch them from me & +give me in their place gigantic fears which under her fairy hand +appeared close, impending & unavoidable--sometimes she would cruelly +leave me while I was thus on the verge of madness and without +consoling me leave me nought but heavy leaden sleep--but at other +times she would wilily link less unpleasing thoughts to these most +dreadful ones & before I was aware place hopes before me--futile but +consoling[90]-- + +One day this lovely spirit--whose name as she told me was Fantasia +came to me in one of her consolotary moods--her wings which seemed +coloured by her tone of mind were not gay but beautiful like that of +the partridge & her lovely eyes although they ever burned with an +unquenshable fire were shaded & softened by her heavy lids & the black +long fringe of her eye lashes--She thus addressed me--You mourn for +the loss of those you love. They are gone for ever & great as my power +is I cannot recall them to you--if indeed I wave my wand over you you +will fancy that you feel their gentle spirits in the soft air that +steals over your cheeks & the distant sound of winds & waters may +image to you their voices which will bid you rejoice for that they +live--This will not take away your grief but you will shed sweeter +tears than those which full of anguish & hopelessness now start from +your eyes--This I can do & also can I take you to see many of my +provinces my fairy lands which you have not yet visited and whose +beauty will while away the heavy time--I have many lovely spots under +my command which poets of old have visited and have seen those sights +the relation of which has been as a revelation to the world--many +spots I have still in keeping of lovely fields or horrid rocks peopled +by the beautiful or the tremendous which I keep in reserve for my +future worshippers--to one of those whose grim terrors frightened +sleep from the eye I formerly led you[91] but you now need more +pleasing images & although I will not promise you to shew you any new +scenes yet if I lead you to one often visited by my followers you will +at least see new combinations that will sooth if they do not delight +you--Follow me-- + +Alas! I replied--when have you found me slow to obey your voice--some +times indeed I have called you & you have not come--but when before +have I not followed your slightest sign and have left what was either +of joy or sorrow in our world to dwell with you in yours till you have +dismissed me ever unwilling to depart--But now the weight of grief +that oppresses me takes from me that lightness which is necessary to +follow your quick & winged motions alas in the midst of my course one +thought would make me droop to the ground while you would outspeed me +to your Kingdom of Glory & leave me here darkling + +Ungrateful! replied the Spirit Do I not tell you that I will sustain & +console you My wings shall aid your heavy steps & I will command my +winds to disperse the mist that over casts you--I will lead you to a +place where you will not hear laughter that disturbs you or see the +sun that dazzles you--We will choose some of the most sombre walks of +the Elysian fields-- + +The Elysian fields--I exclaimed with a quick scream--shall I then see? +I gasped & could not ask that which I longed to know--the friendly +spirit replied more gravely--I have told you that you will not see +those whom you mourn--But I must away--follow me or I must leave you +weeping deserted by the spirit that now checks your tears-- + +Go--I replied I cannot follow--I can only sit here & grieve--& long to +see those who are gone for ever for to nought but what has relation to +them can I listen-- + +The spirit left me to groan & weep to wish the sun quenched in eternal +darkness--to accuse the air the waters all--all the universe of my +utter & irremediable misery--Fantasia came again and ever when she +came tempted me to follow her but as to follow her was to leave for a +while the thought of those loved ones whose memories were my all +although they were my torment I dared not go--Stay with me I cried & +help me to clothe my bitter thoughts in lovelier colours give me hope +although fallacious & images of what has been although it never will +be again--diversion I cannot take cruel fairy do you leave me alas all +my joy fades at thy departure but I may not follow thee-- + +One day after one of these combats when the spirit had left me I +wandered on along the banks of the river to try to disperse the +excessive misery that I felt untill overcome by fatigue--my eyes +weighed down by tears--I lay down under the shade of trees & fell +asleep--I slept long and when I awoke I knew not where I was--I did +not see the river or the distant city--but I lay beside a lovely +fountain shadowed over by willows & surrounded by blooming myrtles--at +a short distance the air seemed pierced by the spiry pines & cypresses +and the ground was covered by short moss & sweet smelling heath--the +sky was blue but not dazzling like that of Rome and on every side I +saw long allies--clusters of trees with intervening lawns & gently +stealing rivers--Where am I? [I] exclaimed--& looking around me I +beheld Fantasia--She smiled & as she smiled all the enchanting scene +appeared lovelier--rainbows played in the fountain & the heath flowers +at our feet appeared as if just refreshed by dew--I have seized you, +said she--as you slept and will for some little time retain you as my +prisoner--I will introduce you to some of the inhabitants of these +peaceful Gardens--It shall not be to any whose exuberant happiness +will form an u[n]pleasing contrast with your heavy grief but it shall +be to those whose chief care here is to acquired knowledged [_sic_] & +virtue--or to those who having just escaped from care & pain have not +yet recovered full sense of enjoyment--This part of these Elysian +Gardens is devoted to those who as before in your world wished to +become wise & virtuous by study & action here endeavour after the +same ends by contemplation--They are still unknowing of their final +destination but they have a clear knowledge of what on earth is only +supposed by some which is that their happiness now & hereafter depends +upon their intellectual improvement--Nor do they only study the forms +of this universe but search deeply in their own minds and love to meet +& converse on all those high subjects of which the philosophers of +Athens loved to treat--With deep feelings but with no outward +circumstances to excite their passions you will perhaps imagine that +their life is uniform & dull--but these sages are of that disposition +fitted to find wisdom in every thing & in every lovely colour or form +ideas that excite their love--Besides many years are consumed before +they arrive here--When a soul longing for knowledge & pining at its +narrow conceptions escapes from your earth many spirits wait to +receive it and to open its eyes to the mysteries of the universe--many +centuries are often consumed in these travels and they at last retire +here to digest their knowledge & to become still wiser by thought and +imagination working upon memory [92]--When the fitting period is +accomplished they leave this garden to inhabit another world fitted +for the reception of beings almost infinitely wise--but what this +world is neither can you conceive or I teach you--some of the spirits +whom you will see here are yet unknowing in the secrets of +nature--They are those whom care & sorrow have consumed on earth & +whose hearts although active in virtue have been shut through +suffering from knowledge--These spend sometime here to recover their +equanimity & to get a thirst of knowledge from converse with their +wiser companions--They now securely hope to see again those whom they +love & know that it is ignorance alone that detains them from them. As +for those who in your world knew not the loveliness of benevolence & +justice they are placed apart some claimed by the evil spirit & in +vain sought for by the good but She whose delight is to reform the +wicked takes all she can & delivers them to her ministers not to be +punished but to be exercised & instructed untill acquiring a love of +virtue they are fitted for these gardens where they will acquire a +love of knowledge + +As Fantasia talked I saw various groupes of figures as they walked +among the allies of the gardens or were seated on the grassy plots +either in contemplation or conversation several advanced together +towards the fountain where I sat--As they approached I observed the +principal figure to be that of a woman about 40 years of age her eyes +burned with a deep fire and every line of her face expressed +enthusiasm & wisdom--Poetry seemed seated on her lips which were +beautifully formed & every motion of her limbs although not youthful +was inexpressibly graceful--her black hair was bound in tresses round +her head and her brows were encompassed by a fillet--her dress was +that of a simple tunic bound at the waist by a broad girdle and a +mantle which fell over her left arm she was encompassed by several +youths of both sexes who appeared to hang on her words & to catch the +inspiration as it flowed from her with looks either of eager wonder or +stedfast attention with eyes all bent towards her eloquent countenance +which beamed with the mind within--I am going said Fantasia but I +leave my spirit with you without which this scene wd fade away--I +leave you in good company--that female whose eyes like the loveliest +planet in the heavens draw all to gaze on her is the Prophetess +Diotima the instructress of Socrates[93]--The company about her are +those just escaped from the world there they were unthinking or +misconducted in the pursuit of knowledge. She leads them to truth & +wisdom untill the time comes when they shall be fitted for the journey +through the universe which all must one day undertake--farewell-- + +And now, gentlest reader--I must beg your indulgence--I am a being too +weak to record the words of Diotima her matchless wisdom & heavenly +eloquence[.] What I shall repeat will be as the faint shadow of a tree +by moonlight--some what of the form will be preserved but there will +be no life in it--Plato alone of Mortals could record the thoughts of +Diotima hopeless therefore I shall not dwell so much on her words as +on those of her pupils which being more earthly can better than hers +be related by living lips[.] + +Diotima approached the fountain & seated herself on a mossy mound near +it and her disciples placed themselves on the grass near her--Without +noticing me who sat close under her she continued her discourse +addressing as it happened one or other of her listeners--but before I +attempt to repeat her words I will describe the chief of these whom +she appeared to wish principally to impress--One was a woman of about +23 years of age in the full enjoyment of the most exquisite beauty her +golden hair floated in ringlets on her shoulders--her hazle eyes were +shaded by heavy lids and her mouth the lips apart seemed to breathe +sensibility[94]--But she appeared thoughtful & unhappy--her cheek was +pale she seemed as if accustomed to suffer and as if the lessons she +now heard were the only words of wisdom to which she had ever +listened--The youth beside her had a far different aspect--his form +was emaciated nearly to a shadow--his features were handsome but thin +& worn--& his eyes glistened as if animating the visage of decay--his +forehead was expansive but there was a doubt & perplexity in his looks +that seemed to say that although he had sought wisdom he had got +entangled in some mysterious mazes from which he in vain endeavoured +to extricate himself--As Diotima spoke his colour went & came with +quick changes & the flexible muscles of his countenance shewed every +impression that his mind received--he seemed one who in life had +studied hard but whose feeble frame sunk beneath the weight of the +mere exertion of life--the spark of intelligence burned with uncommon +strength within him but that of life seemed ever on the eve of +fading[95]--At present I shall not describe any other of this groupe +but with deep attention try to recall in my memory some of the words +of Diotima--they were words of fire but their path is faintly marked +on my recollection--[96] + +It requires a just hand, said she continuing her discourse, to weigh & +divide the good from evil--On the earth they are inextricably +entangled and if you would cast away what there appears an evil a +multitude of beneficial causes or effects cling to it & mock your +labour--When I was on earth and have walked in a solitary country +during the silence of night & have beheld the multitude of stars, the +soft radiance of the moon reflected on the sea, which was studded by +lovely islands--When I have felt the soft breeze steal across my cheek +& as the words of love it has soothed & cherished me--then my mind +seemed almost to quit the body that confined it to the earth & with a +quick mental sense to mingle with the scene that I hardly saw--I +felt--Then I have exclaimed, oh world how beautiful thou art!--Oh +brightest universe behold thy worshiper!--spirit of beauty & of +sympathy which pervades all things, & now lifts my soul as with wings, +how have you animated the light & the breezes!--Deep & inexplicable +spirit give me words to express my adoration; my mind is hurried away +but with language I cannot tell how I feel thy loveliness! Silence or +the song of the nightingale the momentary apparition of some bird that +flies quietly past--all seems animated with thee & more than all the +deep sky studded with worlds!”--If the winds roared & tore the sea and +the dreadful lightnings seemed falling around me--still love was +mingled with the sacred terror I felt; the majesty of loveliness was +deeply impressed on me--So also I have felt when I have seen a lovely +countenance--or heard solemn music or the eloquence of divine wisdom +flowing from the lips of one of its worshippers--a lovely animal or +even the graceful undulations of trees & inanimate objects have +excited in me the same deep feeling of love & beauty; a feeling which +while it made me alive & eager to seek the cause & animator of the +scene, yet satisfied me by its very depth as if I had already found +the solution to my enquires [_sic_] & as if in feeling myself a part +of the great whole I had found the truth & secret of the universe--But +when retired in my cell I have studied & contemplated the various +motions and actions in the world the weight of evil has confounded +me--If I thought of the creation I saw an eternal chain of evil linked +one to the other--from the great whale who in the sea swallows & +destroys multitudes & the smaller fish that live on him also & torment +him to madness--to the cat whose pleasure it is to torment her prey I +saw the whole creation filled with pain--each creature seems to exist +through the misery of another & death & havoc is the watchword of the +animated world--And Man also--even in Athens the most civilized spot +on the earth what a multitude of mean passions--envy, malice--a +restless desire to depreciate all that was great and good did I +see--And in the dominions of the great being I saw man [reduced?][97] +far below the animals of the field preying on one anothers [_sic_] +hearts; happy in the downfall of others--themselves holding on with +bent necks and cruel eyes to a wretch more a slave if possible than +they to his miserable passions--And if I said these are the +consequences of civilization & turned to the savage world I saw only +ignorance unrepaid by any noble feeling--a mere animal, love of life +joined to a low love of power & a fiendish love of destruction--I saw +a creature drawn on by his senses & his selfish passions but untouched +by aught noble or even Human-- + +And then when I sought for consolation in the various faculties man is +possessed of & which I felt burning within me--I found that spirit of +union with love & beauty which formed my happiness & pride degraded +into superstition & turned from its natural growth which could bring +forth only good fruit:--cruelty--& intolerance & hard tyranny was +grafted on its trunk & from it sprung fruit suitable to such +grafts--If I mingled with my fellow creatures was the voice I heard +that of love & virtue or that of selfishness & vice, still misery was +ever joined to it & the tears of mankind formed a vast sea ever blown +on by its sighs & seldom illuminated by its smiles--Such taking only +one side of the picture & shutting wisdom from the view is a just +portraiture of the creation as seen on earth + +But when I compared the good & evil of the world & wished to divide +them into two seperate principles I found them inextricably intwined +together & I was again cast into perplexity & doubt--I might have +considered the earth as an imperfect formation where having bad +materials to work on the Creator could only palliate the evil effects +of his combinations but I saw a wanton malignity in many parts & +particularly in the mind of man that baffled me a delight in mischief +a love of evil for evils sake--a siding of the multitude--a dastardly +applause which in their hearts the crowd gave to triumphant +wick[ed]ness over lowly virtue that filled me with painful sensations. +Meditation, painful & continual thought only encreased my doubts--I +dared not commit the blasphemy of ascribing the slightest evil to a +beneficent God--To whom then should I ascribe the creation? To two +principles? Which was the upermost? They were certainly independant +for neither could the good spirit allow the existence of evil or the +evil one the existence of good--Tired of these doubts to which I could +form no probable solution--Sick of forming theories which I destroyed +as quickly as I built them I was one evening on the top of Hymettus +beholding the lovely prospect as the sun set in the glowing sea--I +looked towards Athens & in my heart I exclaimed--oh busy hive of men! +What heroism & what meaness exists within thy walls! And alas! both to +the good & to the wicked what incalculable misery--Freemen ye call +yourselves yet every free man has ten slaves to build up his +freedom--and these slaves are men as they are yet d[e]graded by their +station to all that is mean & loathsome--Yet in how many hearts now +beating in that city do high thoughts live & magnanimity that should +methinks redeem the whole human race--What though the good man is +unhappy has he not that in his heart to satisfy him? And will a +contented conscience compensate for fallen hopes--a slandered name +torn affections & all the miseries of civilized life?-- + +Oh Sun how beautiful thou art! And how glorious is the golden ocean +that receives thee! My heart is at peace--I feel no sorrow--a holy +love stills my senses--I feel as if my mind also partook of the +inexpressible loveliness of surrounding nature--What shall I do? Shall +I disturb this calm by mingling in the world?--shall I with an aching +heart seek the spectacle of misery to discover its cause or shall I +hopless leave the search of knowledge & devote myself to the pleasures +they say this world affords?--Oh! no--I will become wise! I will study +my own heart--and there discovering as I may the spring of the virtues +I possess I will teach others how to look for them in their own +souls--I will find whence arrises this unquenshable love of beauty I +possess that seems the ruling star of my life--I will learn how I may +direct it aright and by what loving I may become more like that beauty +which I adore And when I have traced the steps of the godlike feeling +which ennobles me & makes me that which I esteem myself to be then I +will teach others & if I gain but one proselyte--if I can teach but +one other mind what is the beauty which they ought to love--and what +is the sympathy to which they ought to aspire what is the true end of +their being--which must be the true end of that of all men then shall +I be satisfied & think I have done enough-- + +Farewell doubts--painful meditation of evil--& the great, ever +inexplicable cause of all that we see--I am content to be ignorant of +all this happy that not resting my mind on any unstable theories I +have come to the conclusion that of the great secret of the universe I +_can know nothing_--There is a veil before it--my eyes are not +piercing enough to see through it my arms not long enough to reach it +to withdraw it--I will study the end of my being--oh thou universal +love inspire me--oh thou beauty which I see glowing around me lift me +to a fit understanding of thee! Such was the conclusion of my long +wanderings I sought the end of my being & I found it to be knowledge +of itself--Nor think this a confined study--Not only did it lead me to +search the mazes of the human soul--but I found that there existed +nought on earth which contained not a part of that universal beauty +with which it [was] my aim & object to become acquainted--the motions +of the stars of heaven the study of all that philosophers have +unfolded of wondrous in nature became as it where [_sic_] the steps by +which my soul rose to the full contemplation & enjoyment of the +beautiful--Oh ye who have just escaped from the world ye know not +what fountains of love will be opened in your hearts or what exquisite +delight your minds will receive when the secrets of the world will be +unfolded to you and ye shall become acquainted with the beauty of the +universe--Your souls now growing eager for the acquirement of +knowledge will then rest in its possession disengaged from every +particle of evil and knowing all things ye will as it were be mingled +in the universe & ye will become a part of that celestial beauty that +you admire--[98] + +Diotima ceased and a profound silence ensued--the youth with his +cheeks flushed and his eyes burning with the fire communicated from +hers still fixed them on her face which was lifted to heaven as in +inspiration--The lovely female bent hers to the ground & after a deep +sigh was the first to break the silence-- + +Oh divinest prophetess, said she--how new & to me how strange are your +lessons--If such be the end of our being how wayward a course did I +pursue on earth--Diotima you know not how torn affections & misery +incalculable misery--withers up the soul. How petty do the actions of +our earthly life appear when the whole universe is opened to our +gaze--yet there our passions are deep & irrisisbable [_sic_] and as we +are floating hopless yet clinging to hope down the impetuous stream +can we perceive the beauty of its banks which alas my soul was too +turbid to reflect--If knowledge is the end of our being why are +passions & feelings implanted in us that hurries [_sic_] us from +wisdom to selfconcentrated misery & narrow selfish feeling? Is it as a +trial? On earth I thought that I had well fulfilled my trial & my last +moments became peaceful with the reflection that I deserved no +blame--but you take from me that feeling--My passions were there my +all to me and the hopeless misery that possessed me shut all love & +all images of beauty from my soul--Nature was to me as the blackest +night & if rays of loveliness ever strayed into my darkness it was +only to draw bitter tears of hopeless anguish from my eyes--Oh on +earth what consolation is there to misery? + +Your heart I fear, replied Diotima, was broken by your sufferings--but +if you had struggled--if when you found all hope of earthly happiness +wither within you while desire of it scorched your soul--if you had +near you a friend to have raised you to the contemplation of beauty & +the search of knowledge you would have found perhaps not new hopes +spring within you but a new life distinct from that of passion by +which you had before existed[99]--relate to me what this misery was +that thus engroses you--tell me what were the vicissitudes of feeling +that you endured on earth--after death our actions & worldly interest +fade as nothing before us but the traces of our feelings exist & the +memories of those are what furnish us here with eternal subject of +meditation. + +A blush spread over the cheek of the lovely girl--Alas, replied she +what a tale must I relate what dark & phre[n]zied passions must I +unfold--When you Diotima lived on earth your soul seemed to mingle in +love only with its own essence & to be unknowing of the various +tortures which that heart endures who if it has not sympathized with +has been witness of the dreadful struggles of a soul enchained by dark +deep passions which were its hell & yet from which it could not +escape--Are there in the peaceful language used by the inhabitants of +these regions--words burning enough to paint the tortures of the human +heart--Can you understand them? or can you in any way sympathize with +them--alas though dead I do and my tears flow as when I lived when my +memory recalls the dreadful images of the past-- + +--As the lovely girl spoke my own eyes filled with bitter drops--the +spirit of Fantasia seemed to fade from within me and when after +placing my hand before my swimming eyes I withdrew it again I found +myself under the trees on the banks of the Tiber--The sun was just +setting & tinging with crimson the clouds that floated over St. +Peters--all was still no human voice was heard--the very air was quiet +I rose--& bewildered with the grief that I felt within me the +recollection of what I had heard--I hastened to the city that I might +see human beings not that I might forget my wandering recollections +but that I might impress on my mind what was reality & what was either +dream--or at least not of this earth--The Corso of Rome was filled +with carriages and as I walked up the Trinita dei’ Montes I became +disgusted with the crowd that I saw about me & the vacancy & want of +beauty not to say deformity of the many beings who meaninglessly +buzzed about me--I hastened to my room which overlooked the whole city +which as night came on became tranquil--Silent lovely Rome I now gaze +on thee--thy domes are illuminated by the moon--and the ghosts of +lovely memories float with the night breeze among thy ruins-- +contemplating thy loveliness which half soothes my miserable heart I +record what I have seen--Tomorrow I will again woo Fantasia to lead me +to the same walks & invite her to visit me with her visions which I +before neglected--Oh let me learn this lesson while yet it may be +useful to me that to a mind hopeless & unhappy as mine--a moment of +forgetfullness a moment [in] which it can pass out of itself is worth +a life of painful recollection. + + + + +CHAP. 2 + + +The next morning while sitting on the steps of the temple of +Aesculapius in the Borghese gardens Fantasia again visited me & +smilingly beckoned to me to follow her--My flight was at first heavy +but the breezes commanded by the spirit to convoy me grew stronger as +I advanced--a pleasing languour seized my senses & when I recovered I +found my self by the Elysian fountain near Diotima--The beautiful +female who[m] I had left on the point of narrating her earthly history +seemed to have waited for my return and as soon as I appeared she +spoke thus--[100] + + + + +NOTES TO _THE FIELDS OF FANCY_ + + +[88] Here is printed the opening of _F of F--A_, which contains the +fanciful framework abandoned in _Mathilda_. It has some intrinsic +interest, as it shows that Mary as well as Shelley had been reading +Plato, and especially as it reveals the close connection of the +writing of _Mathilda_ with Mary’s own grief and depression. The first +chapter is a fairly good rough draft. Punctuation, to be sure, +consists largely of dashes or is non-existent, and there are some +corrections. But there are not as many changes as there are in the +remainder of this MS or in _F of F--B_. + +[89] It was in Rome that Mary’s oldest child, William, died on June 7, +1819. + +[90] Cf. two entries in Mary Shelley’s journal. An unpublished entry +for October 27, 1822, reads: “Before when I wrote Mathilda, miserable +as I was, the inspiration was sufficient to quell my wretchedness +temporarily.” Another entry, that for December 2, 1834, is quoted in +abbreviated and somewhat garbled form by R. Glynn Grylls in _Mary +Shelley_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1938), p. 194, and +reprinted by Professor Jones (_Journal_, p. 203). The full passage +follows: “Little harm has my imagination done to me & how much +good!--My poor heart pierced through & through has found balm from +it--it has been the aegis to my sensibility--Sometimes there have been +periods when Misery has pushed it aside--& those indeed were periods I +shudder to remember--but the fairy only stept aside, she watched her +time--& at the first opportunity her ... beaming face peeped in, & the +weight of deadly woe was lightened.” + +[91] An obvious reference to _Frankenstein_. + +[92] With the words of Fantasia (and those of Diotima), cf. the +association of wisdom and virtue in Plato’s _Phaedo_, the myth of Er +in the _Republic_, and the doctrine of love and beauty in the +_Symposium_. + +[93] See Plato’s _Symposium_. According to Mary’s note in her edition +of Shelley’s _Essays, Letters from Abroad, etc_. (1840), Shelley +planned to use the name for the instructress of the Stranger in his +unfinished prose tale, _The Coliseum_, which was written before +_Mathilda_, in the winter of 1818-1819. Probably at this same time +Mary was writing an unfinished (and unpublished) tale about Valerius, +an ancient Roman brought back to life in modern Rome. Valerius, like +Shelley’s Stranger, was instructed by a woman whom he met in the +Coliseum. Mary’s story is indebted to Shelley’s in other ways as well. + +[94] Mathilda. + +[95] I cannot find a prototype for this young man, though in some ways +he resembles Shelley. + +[96] Following this paragraph is an incomplete one which is scored out +in the MS. The comment on the intricacy of modern life is interesting. +Mary wrote: “The world you have just quitted she said is one of doubt +& perplexity often of pain & misery--The modes of suffering seem to +me to be much multiplied there since I made one of the throng & +modern feelings seem to have acquired an intracacy then unknown but +now the veil is torn aside--the events that you felt deeply on earth +have passed away & you see them in their nakedness all but your +knowledge & affections have passed away as a dream you now wonder at +the effect trifles had on you and that the events of so passing a +scene should have interested you so deeply--You complain, my friends +of the” + +[97] The word is blotted and virtually illegible. + +[98] With Diotima’s conclusion here cf. her words in the _Symposium_: +“When any one ascending from a correct system of Love, begins to +contemplate this supreme beauty, he already touches the consummation +of his labour. For such as discipline themselves upon this system, or +are conducted by another beginning to ascend through these transitory +objects which are beautiful, towards that which is beauty itself, +proceeding as on steps from the love of one form to that of two, and +from that of two, to that of all forms which are beautiful; and from +beautiful forms to beautiful habits and institutions, and from +institutions to beautiful doctrines; until, from the meditation of +many doctrines, they arrive at that which is nothing else than the +doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the knowledge and +contemplation of which at length they repose.” (Shelley’s translation) +Love, beauty, and self-knowledge are keywords not only in Plato but in +Shelley’s thought and poetry, and he was much concerned with the +problem of the presence of good and evil. Some of these themes are +discussed by Woodville in _Mathilda_. The repetition may have been one +reason why Mary discarded the framework. + +[99] Mathilda did have such a friend, but, as she admits, she profited +little from his teachings. + +[100] In _F of F--B_ there is another, longer version (three and a +half pages) of this incident, scored out, recounting the author’s +return to the Elysian gardens, Diotima’s consolation of Mathilda, and +her request for Mathilda’s story. After wandering through the alleys +and woods adjacent to the gardens, the author came upon Diotima seated +beside Mathilda. “It is true indeed she said our affections outlive +our earthly forms and I can well sympathize in your disappointment +that you do not find what you loved in the life now ended to welcome +you here[.] But one day you will all meet how soon entirely depends +upon yourself--It is by the acquirement of wisdom and the loss of the +selfishness that is now attached to the sole feeling that possesses +you that you will at last mingle in that universal world of which we +all now make a divided part.” Diotima urges Mathilda to tell her +story, and she, hoping that by doing so she will break the bonds that +weigh heavily upon her, proceeds to “tell this history of strange +woe.” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Mathilda</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 2, 2005 [eBook #15238]<br /> +[Most recently updated: September 25, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Starner, Cori Samuel and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA ***</div> + +<h1><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i"></a>MATHILDA</h1> + +<h2>By MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY</h2> + +<h3>Edited by ELIZABETH NITCHIE</h3> + +<h4>THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA PRESS<br /> +CHAPEL HILL</h4> + +<p class="center"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii"></a>Mathilda <i>is being published +in paper as Extra Series #3 +of</i> Studies in Philology. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p>This volume prints for the first time the full text of Mary Shelley’s +novelette <i>Mathilda</i> together with the opening pages of its rough +draft, <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>. They are transcribed from the microfilm +of the notebooks belonging to Lord Abinger which is in the library of +Duke University.</p> + +<p>The text follows Mary Shelley’s manuscript exactly except for the +omission of mere corrections by the author, most of which are +negligible; those that are significant are included and explained in +the notes. Footnotes indicated by an asterisk are Mrs. Shelley’s own +notes. She was in general a fairly good speller, but certain words, +especially those in which there was a question of doubling or not +doubling a letter, gave her trouble: untill (though occasionally she +deleted the final <i>l</i> or wrote the word correctly), agreable, occured, +confering, buble, meaness, receeded, as well as hopless, lonly, +seperate, extactic, sacrifise, desart, and words ending in -ance or +-ence. These and other mispellings (even those of proper names) are +reproduced without change or comment. The use of <i>sic</i> and of square +brackets is reserved to indicate evident slips of the pen, obviously +incorrect, unclear, or incomplete phrasing and punctuation, and my +conjectures in emending them.</p> + +<p>I am very grateful to the library of Duke University and to its +librarian, Dr. Benjamin E. Powell, not only for permission to +transcribe and publish this work by Mary Shelley but also for the many +courtesies shown to me when they welcomed me as a visiting scholar in +1956. To Lord Abinger also my thanks are due for adding his approval +of my undertaking, and to the Curators of the Bodleian Library for +permiting me to use and to quote from the papers in the reserved +Shelley Collection. Other libraries and individuals helped me while I +was editing <i>Mathilda</i>: the Enoch Pratt Free Library of Baltimore, +whose Literature and Reference Departments went to endless trouble for +me; the Julia Rogers Library of Goucher College and its staff; the +library of the University of Pennsylvania; Miss R. Glynn Grylls (Lady +Mander); Professor Lewis Patton of Duke University; Professor +Frederick L. Jones of the University<a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv"></a> of Pennsylvania; and many other +persons who did me favors that seemed to them small but that to me +were very great.</p> + +<p>I owe much also to previous books by and about the Shelleys. Those to +which I have referred more than once in the introduction and notes are +here given with the abbreviated form which I have used:</p> + +<p>Frederick L. Jones, ed. <i>The Letters of Mary W. Shelley</i>, 2 vols. +Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1944 (<i>Letters</i>)</p> + +<p>—— <i>Mary Shelley’s Journal</i>. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, +1947 (<i>Journal</i>)</p> + +<p>Roger Ingpen and W.E. Peck, eds. <i>The Complete Works of Percy Bysshe +Shelley</i>, Julian Edition, 10 vols. London, 1926-1930 (Julian <i>Works</i>)</p> + +<p>Newman Ivey White. <i>Shelley</i>, 2 vols. New York: Knopf, 1940 (White, +<i>Shelley</i>)</p> + +<p>Elizabeth Nitchie. <i>Mary Shelley, Author of “Frankenstein.”</i> New +Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1953 (Nitchie, <i>Mary Shelley</i>)</p> + +<p class="smcap">Elizabeth Nitchie</p> + +<p>May, 1959</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v"></a>CONTENTS</h3> +<ul> +<li><a href="#INTRODUCTION"><b class="smcap"><span style="font-size: .8em">Introduction</span></b></a><br /></li> +<li><a href="#MATHILDA"><b class="smcap">Mathilda</b></a> + <a href="#CHAP_I"><span class="chapter-num">I</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_II"><span class="chapter-num">II</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_III"><span class="chapter-num">III</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><span class="chapter-num">IV</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_V"><span class="chapter-num">V</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><span class="chapter-num">VI</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><span class="chapter-num">VII</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><span class="chapter-num">VIII</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><span class="chapter-num">IX</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_X"><span class="chapter-num">X</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_XI"><span class="chapter-num">XI</span></a> + <a href="#CHAPTER_XII"><span class="chapter-num">XII</span></a><br /></li> +<li><a href="#THE_FIELDS_OF_FANCY"><b class="smcap">The Fields Of Fancy</b></a></li> +<li><a href="#NOTES_TO_MATHILDA"><b class="smcap"><span style="font-size: .8em">Notes To Mathilda</span></b></a><br /></li> +<li><a href="#NOTES_TO_THE_FIELDS_OF_FANCY"><b class="smcap"><span style="font-size: .8em">Notes To The Fields Of Fancy</span></b></a></li> +</ul> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi"></a><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2> + +<p>Of all the novels and stories which Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley left +in manuscript,<a name="FNanchor_I_1" id="FNanchor_I_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_I_1"><sup>[i]</sup></a> only one novelette, <i>Mathilda</i>, is complete. It +exists in both rough draft and final copy. In this story, as in all +Mary Shelley’s writing, there is much that is autobiographical: it +would be hard to find a more self-revealing work. For an understanding +of Mary’s character, especially as she saw herself, and of her +attitude toward Shelley and toward Godwin in 1819, this tale is an +important document. Although the main narrative, that of the father’s +incestuous love for his daughter, his suicide, and Mathilda’s +consequent withdrawal from society to a lonely heath, is not in any +real sense autobiographical, many elements in it are drawn from +reality. The three main characters are clearly Mary herself, Godwin, +and Shelley, and their relations can easily be reassorted to +correspond with actuality.</p> + +<p>Highly personal as the story was, Mary Shelley hoped that it would be +published, evidently believing that the characters and the situations +were sufficiently disguised. In May of 1820 she sent it to England by +her friends, the Gisbornes, with a request that her father would +arrange for its publication. But <i>Mathilda</i>, together with its rough +draft entitled <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>, remained unpublished among the +Shelley papers. Although Mary’s references to it in her letters and +journal aroused some curiosity among scholars, it also remained +unexamined until comparatively recently.</p> + +<p>This seeming neglect was due partly to the circumstances attending the +distribution of the family papers after the deaths of Sir Percy and +Lady Shelley. One part of them went to the Bodleian Library to become +a reserved collection which, by the terms of Lady Shelley’s will, was +opened to scholars only under definite restrictions. Another part went +to Lady Shelley’s niece and, in turn, to her heirs, who for a time did +not make the manuscripts available for study. A third part went to Sir +John Shelley-Rolls, the poet’s <a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii"></a>grand-nephew, who released much +important Shelley material, but not all the scattered manuscripts. In +this division, the two notebooks containing the finished draft of +<i>Mathilda</i> and a portion of <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> went to Lord +Abinger, the notebook containing the remainder of the rough draft to +the Bodleian Library, and some loose sheets containing additions and +revisions to Sir John Shelley-Rolls. Happily all the manuscripts are +now accessible to scholars, and it is possible to publish the full +text of <i>Mathilda</i> with such additions from <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> as +are significant.<a name="FNanchor_II_2" id="FNanchor_II_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_II_2"><sup>[ii]</sup></a></p> + +<p>The three notebooks are alike in format.<a name="FNanchor_III_3" id="FNanchor_III_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_III_3"><sup>[iii]</sup></a> One of Lord Abinger’s +notebooks contains the first part of <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>, Chapter 1 +through the beginning of Chapter 10, 116 pages. The concluding portion +occupies the first fifty-four pages of the Bodleian notebook. There is +then a blank page, followed by three and a half pages, scored out, of +what seems to be a variant of the end of Chapter 1 and the beginning +of Chapter 2. A revised and expanded version of the first part of +Mathilda’s narrative follows (Chapter 2 and the beginning of Chapter +3), with a break between the account of her girlhood in Scotland and +the brief description of her father after his return. Finally there +are four pages of a new opening, which was used in <i>Mathilda</i>. This is +an extremely rough draft: punctuation is largely confined to the dash, +and there are many corrections and alterations. The Shelley-Rolls +fragments, twenty-five sheets or slips of paper, usually represent +additions to or revisions of <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>: many of them are +numbered, and <a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix"></a>some are keyed into the manuscript in Lord Abinger’s +notebook. Most of the changes were incorporated in <i>Mathilda</i>.</p> + +<p>The second Abinger notebook contains the complete and final draft of +<i>Mathilda</i>, 226 pages. It is for the most part a fair copy. The text +is punctuated and there are relatively few corrections, most of them, +apparently the result of a final rereading, made to avoid the +repetition of words. A few additions are written in the margins. On +several pages slips of paper containing evident revisions (quite +possibly originally among the Shelley-Rolls fragments) have been +pasted over the corresponding lines of the text. An occasional passage +is scored out and some words and phrases are crossed out to make way +for a revision. Following page 216, four sheets containing the +conclusion of the story are cut out of the notebook. They appear, the +pages numbered 217 to 223, among the Shelley-Rolls fragments. A +revised version, pages 217 to 226, follows the cut.<a name="FNanchor_IV_4" id="FNanchor_IV_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_IV_4"><sup>[iv]</sup></a></p> + +<p>The mode of telling the story in the final draft differs radically +from that in the rough draft. In <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> Mathilda’s +history is set in a fanciful framework. The author is transported by +the fairy Fantasia to the Elysian Fields, where she listens to the +discourse of Diotima and meets Mathilda. Mathilda tells her story, +which closes with her death. In the final draft this unrealistic and +largely irrelevant framework is discarded: Mathilda, whose death is +approaching, writes out for her friend Woodville the full details of +her tragic history which she had never had the courage to tell him in +person.</p> + +<p>The title of the rough draft, <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>, and the setting +and framework undoubtedly stem from Mary Wollstonecraft’s unfinished +tale, <i>The Cave of Fancy</i>, in which one of the souls confined in the +center of the earth to purify themselves from the dross of their +earthly existence tells to Sagesta (who may be compared with Diotima) +the story of her ill-fated love for a man whom she hopes to rejoin +after her purgation is completed.<a name="FNanchor_V_5" id="FNanchor_V_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_V_5"><sup>[v]</sup></a> Mary was completely familiar with +her mother’s works. This title was, of course, abandoned when the +framework was abandoned, and the name of the heroine was substituted. +Though it is worth noticing that Mary <a name="Page_x" id="Page_x"></a>chose a name with the same +initial letter as her own, it was probably taken from Dante. There are +several references in the story to the cantos of the <i>Purgatorio</i> in +which Mathilda appears. Mathilda’s father is never named, nor is +Mathilda’s surname given. The name of the poet went through several +changes: Welford, Lovel, Herbert, and finally Woodville.</p> + +<p>The evidence for dating <i>Mathilda</i> in the late summer and autumn of +1819 comes partly from the manuscript, partly from Mary’s journal. On +the pages succeeding the portions of <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> in the +Bodleian notebook are some of Shelley’s drafts of verse and prose, +including parts of <i>Prometheus Unbound</i> and of <i>Epipsychidion</i>, both +in Italian, and of the preface to the latter in English, some prose +fragments, and extended portions of the <i>Defence of Poetry</i>. Written +from the other end of the book are the <i>Ode to Naples</i> and <i>The Witch +of Atlas</i>. Since these all belong to the years 1819, 1820, and 1821, +it is probable that Mary finished her rough draft some time in 1819, +and that when she had copied her story, Shelley took over the +notebook. Chapter 1 of <i>Mathilda</i> in Lord Abinger’s notebook is +headed, “Florence Nov. 9th. 1819.” Since the whole of Mathilda’s story +takes place in England and Scotland, the date must be that of the +manuscript. Mary was in Florence at that time.</p> + +<p>These dates are supported by entries in Mary’s journal which indicate +that she began writing <i>Mathilda</i>, early in August, while the Shelleys +were living in the Villa Valosano, near Leghorn. On August 4, 1819, +after a gap of two months from the time of her little son’s death, she +resumed her diary. Almost every day thereafter for a month she +recorded, “Write,” and by September 4, she was saying, “Copy.” On +September 12 she wrote, “Finish copying my Tale.” The next entry to +indicate literary activity is the one word, “write,” on November 8. On +the 12th Percy Florence was born, and Mary did no more writing until +March, when she was working on <i>Valperga</i>. It is probable, therefore, +that Mary wrote and copied <i>Mathilda</i> between August 5 and September +12, 1819, that she did some revision on November 8 and finally dated +the manuscript November 9.</p> + +<p>The subsequent history of the manuscript is recorded in letters and +journals. When the Gisbornes went to England on May 2, 1820, they took +<i>Mathilda</i> with them; they read it on the journey and<a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi"></a> recorded their +admiration of it in their journal.<a name="FNanchor_VI_6" id="FNanchor_VI_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_VI_6"><sup>[vi]</sup></a> They were to show it to Godwin +and get his advice about publishing it. Although Medwin heard about +the story when he was with the Shelleys in 1820<a name="FNanchor_VII_7" id="FNanchor_VII_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_VII_7"><sup>[vii]</sup></a> and Mary read +it—perhaps from the rough draft—to Edward and Jane Williams in the +summer of 1821,<a name="FNanchor_VIII_8" id="FNanchor_VIII_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_VIII_8"><sup>[viii]</sup></a> this manuscript apparently stayed in Godwin’s +hands. He evidently did not share the Gisbornes’ enthusiasm: his +approval was qualified. He thought highly of certain parts of it, less +highly of others; and he regarded the subject as “disgusting and +detestable,” saying that the story would need a preface to prevent +readers “from being tormented by the apprehension ... of the fall of +the heroine,”—that is, if it was ever published.<a name="FNanchor_IX_9" id="FNanchor_IX_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_IX_9"><sup>[ix]</sup></a> There is, +however, no record of his having made any attempt to get it into +print. From January 18 through June 2, 1822, Mary repeatedly asked +Mrs. Gisborne to retrieve the manuscript and have it copied for her, +and Mrs. Gisborne invariably reported her failure to do so. The last +references to the story are after Shelley’s death in an unpublished +journal entry and two of Mary’s letters. In her journal for October +27, 1822, she told of the solace for her misery she had once found in +writing <i>Mathilda</i>. In one letter to Mrs. Gisborne she compared the +journey of herself and Jane to Pisa and Leghorn to get news of Shelley +and Williams to that of Mathilda in search of her father, +“driving—(like Matilda), towards the <i>sea</i> to learn if we were to be +for ever doomed to misery.”<a name="FNanchor_X_10" id="FNanchor_X_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_X_10"><sup>[x]</sup></a> And on May 6, 1823, she wrote, “Matilda +foretells even many small circumstances most truly—and the whole of +it is a monument of what now is.”<a name="FNanchor_XI_11" id="FNanchor_XI_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_XI_11"><sup>[xi]</sup></a></p> + +<p>These facts not only date the manuscript but also show Mary’s feeling +of personal involvement in the story. In the events of 1818-1819 it is +possible to find the basis for this morbid tale and consequently to +assess its biographical significance. <a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii"></a></p> + +<p>On September 24, 1818, the Shelleys’ daughter, Clara Everina, barely a +year old, died at Venice. Mary and her children had gone from Bagni di +Lucca to Este to join Shelley at Byron’s villa. Clara was not well +when they started, and she grew worse on the journey. From Este +Shelley and Mary took her to Venice to consult a physician, a trip +which was beset with delays and difficulties. She died almost as soon +as they arrived. According to Newman Ivey White,<a name="FNanchor_XII_12" id="FNanchor_XII_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_XII_12"><sup>[xii]</sup></a> Mary, in the +unreasoning agony of her grief, blamed Shelley for the child’s death +and for a time felt toward him an extreme physical antagonism which +subsided into apathy and spiritual alienation. Mary’s black moods made +her difficult to live with, and Shelley himself fell into deep +dejection. He expressed his sense of their estrangement in some of the +lyrics of 1818—“all my saddest poems.” In one fragment of verse, for +example, he lamented that Mary had left him “in this dreary world +alone.”</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Thy form is here indeed—a lovely one—<br /></span> +<span>But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road,<br /></span> +<span>That leads to Sorrow’s most obscure abode.<br /></span> +<span>Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair,<br /></span> +<span style="margin-left: 14em;">Where<br /></span> +<span>For thine own sake I cannot follow thee.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Professor White believed that Shelley recorded this estrangement only +“in veiled terms” in <i>Julian and Maddalo</i> or in poems that he did not +show to Mary, and that Mary acknowledged it only after Shelley’s +death, in her poem “The Choice” and in her editorial notes on his +poems of that year. But this unpublished story, written after the +death of their other child William, certainly contains, though also in +veiled terms, Mary’s immediate recognition and remorse. Mary well +knew, I believe, what she was doing to Shelley. In an effort to purge +her own emotions and to acknowledge her fault, she poured out on the +pages of <i>Mathilda</i> the suffering and the loneliness, the bitterness +and the self-recrimination of the past months.</p> + +<p>The biographical elements are clear: Mathilda is certainly Mary +herself; Mathilda’s father is Godwin; Woodville is an idealized +Shelley. <a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii"></a></p> + +<p>Like Mathilda Mary was a woman of strong passions and affections which +she often hid from the world under a placid appearance. Like +Mathilda’s, Mary’s mother had died a few days after giving her birth. +Like Mathilda she spent part of her girlhood in Scotland. Like +Mathilda she met and loved a poet of “exceeding beauty,” and—also +like Mathilda—in that sad year she had treated him ill, having become +“captious and unreasonable” in her sorrow. Mathilda’s loneliness, +grief, and remorse can be paralleled in Mary’s later journal and in +“The Choice.” This story was the outlet for her emotions in 1819.</p> + +<p>Woodville, the poet, is virtually perfect, “glorious from his youth,” +like “an angel with winged feet”—all beauty, all goodness, all +gentleness. He is also successful as a poet, his poem written at the +age of twenty-three having been universally acclaimed. Making +allowance for Mary’s exaggeration and wishful thinking, we easily +recognize Shelley: Woodville has his poetic ideals, the charm of his +conversation, his high moral qualities, his sense of dedication and +responsibility to those he loved and to all humanity. He is Mary’s +earliest portrait of her husband, drawn in a year when she was slowly +returning to him from “the hearth of pale despair.”</p> + +<p>The early circumstances and education of Godwin and of Mathilda’s +father were different. But they produced similar men, each +extravagant, generous, vain, dogmatic. There is more of Godwin in this +tale than the account of a great man ruined by character and +circumstance. The relationship between father and daughter, before it +was destroyed by the father’s unnatural passion, is like that between +Godwin and Mary. She herself called her love for him “excessive and +romantic.”<a name="FNanchor_XIII_13" id="FNanchor_XIII_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_XIII_13"><sup>[xiii]</sup></a> She may well have been recording, in Mathilda’s +sorrow over her alienation from her father and her loss of him by +death, her own grief at a spiritual separation from Godwin through +what could only seem to her his cruel lack of sympathy. He had accused +her of being cowardly and insincere in her grief over Clara’s +death<a name="FNanchor_XIV_14" id="FNanchor_XIV_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_XIV_14"><sup>[xiv]</sup></a> and later he belittled her loss of William.<a name="FNanchor_XV_15" id="FNanchor_XV_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_XV_15"><sup>[xv]</sup></a> He had also +called Shelley “a disgraceful <a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv"></a>and flagrant person” because of +Shelley’s refusal to send him more money.<a name="FNanchor_XVI_16" id="FNanchor_XVI_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_XVI_16"><sup>[xvi]</sup></a> No wonder if Mary felt +that, like Mathilda, she had lost a beloved but cruel father.</p> + +<p>Thus Mary took all the blame for the rift with Shelley upon herself +and transferred the physical alienation to the break in sympathy with +Godwin. That she turned these facts into a story of incest is +undoubtedly due to the interest which she and Shelley felt in the +subject at this time. They regarded it as a dramatic and effective +theme. In August of 1819 Shelley completed <i>The Cenci</i>. During its +progress he had talked over with Mary the arrangement of scenes; he +had even suggested at the outset that she write the tragedy herself. +And about a year earlier he had been urging upon her a translation of +Alfieri’s <i>Myrrha</i>. Thomas Medwin, indeed, thought that the story +which she was writing in 1819 was specifically based on <i>Myrrha</i>. That +she was thinking of that tragedy while writing <i>Mathilda</i> is evident +from her effective use of it at one of the crises in the tale. And +perhaps she was remembering her own handling of the theme when she +wrote the biographical sketch of Alfieri for Lardner’s <i>Cabinet +Cyclopaedia</i> nearly twenty years later. She then spoke of the +difficulties inherent in such a subject, “inequality of age adding to +the unnatural incest. To shed any interest over such an attachment, +the dramatist ought to adorn the father with such youthful attributes +as would be by no means contrary to probability.”<a name="FNanchor_XVII_17" id="FNanchor_XVII_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_XVII_17"><sup>[xvii]</sup></a> This she +endeavored to do in <i>Mathilda</i> (aided indeed by the fact that the +situation was the reverse of that in <i>Myrrha</i>). Mathilda’s father was +young: he married before he was twenty. When he returned to Mathilda, +he still showed “the ardour and freshness of feeling incident to +youth.” He lived in the past and saw his dead wife reincarnated in his +daughter. Thus Mary attempts to validate the situation and make it “by +no means contrary to probability.”</p> + +<p><i>Mathilda</i> offers a good example of Mary Shelley’s methods of +revision. A study of the manuscript shows that she was a careful +workman, and that in polishing this bizarre story she strove +consistently for greater credibility and realism, more dramatic (if +<a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv"></a>sometimes melodramatic) presentation of events, better motivation, +conciseness, and exclusion of purple passages. In the revision and +rewriting, many additions were made, so that <i>Mathilda</i> is appreciably +longer than <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>. But the additions are usually +improvements: a much fuller account of Mathilda’s father and mother +and of their marriage, which makes of them something more than lay +figures and to a great extent explains the tragedy; development of the +character of the Steward, at first merely the servant who accompanies +Mathilda in her search for her father, into the sympathetic confidant +whose responses help to dramatise the situation; an added word or +short phrase that marks Mary Shelley’s penetration into the motives +and actions of both Mathilda and her father. Therefore <i>Mathilda</i> does +not impress the reader as being longer than <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> +because it better sustains his interest. And with all the additions +there are also effective omissions of the obvious, of the +tautological, of the artificially elaborate.<a name="FNanchor_XVIII_18" id="FNanchor_XVIII_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_XVIII_18"><sup>[xviii]</sup></a></p> + +<p>The finished draft, <i>Mathilda</i>, still shows Mary Shelley’s faults as a +writer: verbosity, loose plotting, somewhat stereotyped and +extravagant characterization. The reader must be tolerant of its +heroine’s overwhelming lamentations. But she is, after all, in the +great tradition of romantic heroines: she compares her own weeping to +that of Boccaccio’s Ghismonda over the heart of Guiscardo. If the +reader can accept Mathilda on her own terms, he will find not only +biographical interest in her story but also intrinsic merits: a +feeling for character and situation and phrasing that is often +vigorous and precise.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a> +<a name="MATHILDA" id="MATHILDA"></a>MATHILDA<a name="FNanchor_1_25" id="FNanchor_1_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_25"><sup>[1]</sup></a></h2> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAP_I" id="CHAP_I"></a>CHAP. I</h2> + +<p>Florence. Nov. 9th 1819</p> + +<p>It is only four o’clock; but it is winter and the sun has already set: +there are no clouds in the clear, frosty sky to reflect its slant +beams, but the air itself is tinged with a slight roseate colour which +is again reflected on the snow that covers the ground. I live in a +lone cottage on a solitary, wide heath: no voice of life reaches me. I +see the desolate plain covered with white, save a few black patches +that the noonday sun has made at the top of those sharp pointed +hillocks from which the snow, sliding as it fell, lay thinner than on +the plain ground: a few birds are pecking at the hard ice that covers +the pools—for the frost has been of long continuance.<a name="FNanchor_2_26" id="FNanchor_2_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_26"><sup>[2]</sup></a></p> + +<p>I am in a strange state of mind.<a name="FNanchor_3_27" id="FNanchor_3_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_27"><sup>[3]</sup></a> I am alone—quite alone—in the +world—the blight of misfortune has passed over me and withered me; I +know that I am about to die and I feel happy—joyous.—I feel my +pulse; it beats fast: I place my thin hand on my cheek; it burns: +there is a slight, quick spirit within me which is now emitting its +last sparks. I shall never see the snows of another winter—I do +believe that I shall never again feel the vivifying warmth of another +summer sun; and it is in this persuasion that I begin to write my +tragic history. Perhaps a history such as mine had better die with me, +but a feeling that I cannot define leads me on and I am too weak both +in body and mind to resist the slightest impulse. While life was +strong within me I thought indeed that there was a sacred horror in my +tale that rendered it unfit for utterance, and now about to die I +pollute its mystic terrors. It is as the wood of the Eumenides none +but the dying may enter; and Oedipus is about to die.<a name="FNanchor_4_28" id="FNanchor_4_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_28"><sup>[4]</sup></a></p> + +<p>What am I writing?—I must collect my thoughts. I do not know that any +will peruse these pages except you, my friend, who will receive them +at my death. I do not address them to you alone because it will give +me pleasure to dwell upon our friendship in a way that would be +needless if you alone read what I shall write. I shall relate my tale +therefore as if I wrote for strangers. You <a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a>have often asked me the +cause of my solitary life; my tears; and above all of my impenetrable +and unkind silence. In life I dared not; in death I unveil the +mystery. Others will toss these pages lightly over: to you, Woodville, +kind, affectionate friend, they will be dear—the precious memorials +of a heart-broken girl who, dying, is still warmed by gratitude +towards you:<a name="FNanchor_5_29" id="FNanchor_5_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_29"><sup>[5]</sup></a> your tears will fall on the words that record my +misfortunes; I know they will—and while I have life I thank you for +your sympathy.</p> + +<p>But enough of this. I will begin my tale: it is my last task, and I +hope I have strength sufficient to fulfill it. I record no crimes; my +faults may easily be pardoned; for they proceeded not from evil motive +but from want of judgement; and I believe few would say that they +could, by a different conduct and superior wisdom, have avoided the +misfortunes to which I am the victim. My fate has been governed by +necessity, a hideous necessity. It required hands stronger than mine; +stronger I do believe than any human force to break the thick, +adamantine chain that has bound me, once breathing nothing but joy, +ever possessed by a warm love & delight in goodness,—to misery only +to be ended, and now about to be ended, in death. But I forget myself, +my tale is yet untold. I will pause a few moments, wipe my dim eyes, +and endeavour to lose the present obscure but heavy feeling of +unhappiness in the more acute emotions of the past.<a name="FNanchor_6_30" id="FNanchor_6_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_30"><sup>[6]</sup></a></p> + +<p>I was born in England. My father was a man of rank:<a name="FNanchor_7_31" id="FNanchor_7_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_31"><sup>[7]</sup></a> he had lost his +father early, and was educated by a weak mother with all the +indulgence she thought due to a nobleman of wealth. He was sent to +Eton and afterwards to college; & allowed from childhood the free use +of large sums of money; thus enjoying from his earliest youth the +independance which a boy with these advantages, always acquires at a +public school.</p> + +<p>Under the influence of these circumstances his passions found a deep +soil wherein they might strike their roots and flourish either as +flowers or weeds as was their nature. By being always allowed to act +for himself his character became strongly and early marked and +exhibited a various surface on which a quick sighted observer might +see the seeds of virtues and of misfortunes. His careless +extravagance, which made him squander immense sums of money to satisfy +passing whims, which from their apparent energy he dignified with the +name of passions, often displayed itself in<a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a> unbounded generosity. Yet +while he earnestly occupied himself about the wants of others his own +desires were gratified to their fullest extent. He gave his money, but +none of his own wishes were sacrifised to his gifts; he gave his time, +which he did not value, and his affections which he was happy in any +manner to have called into action.</p> + +<p>I do not say that if his own desires had been put in competition with +those of others that he would have displayed undue selfishness, but +this trial was never made. He was nurtured in prosperity and attended +by all its advantages; every one loved him and wished to gratify him. +He was ever employed in promoting the pleasures of his companions—but +their pleasures were his; and if he bestowed more attention upon the +feelings of others than is usual with schoolboys it was because his +social temper could never enjoy itself if every brow was not as free +from care as his own.</p> + +<p>While at school, emulation and his own natural abilities made him hold +a conspicuous rank in the forms among his equals; at college he +discarded books; he believed that he had other lessons to learn than +those which they could teach him. He was now to enter into life and he +was still young enough to consider study as a school-boy shackle, +employed merely to keep the unruly out of mischief but as having no +real connexion with life—whose wisdom of riding—gaming &c. he +considered with far deeper interest—So he quickly entered into all +college follies although his heart was too well moulded to be +contaminated by them—it might be light but it was never cold. He was +a sincere and sympathizing friend—but he had met with none who +superior or equal to himself could aid him in unfolding his mind, or +make him seek for fresh stores of thought by exhausting the old ones. +He felt himself superior in quickness of judgement to those around +him: his talents, his rank and wealth made him the chief of his party, +and in that station he rested not only contented but glorying, +conceiving it to be the only ambition worthy for him to aim at in the +world.</p> + +<p>By a strange narrowness of ideas he viewed all the world in connexion +only as it was or was not related to his little society. He considered +queer and out of fashion all opinions that were exploded by his circle +of intimates, and he became at the same time dogmatic and yet fearful +of not coinciding with the only sentiments he could consider orthodox. +To the generality of spectators he<a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a> appeared careless of censure, and +with high disdain to throw aside all dependance on public prejudices; +but at the same time that he strode with a triumphant stride over the +rest of the world, he cowered, with self disguised lowliness, to his +own party, and although its [chi]ef never dared express an opinion or +a feeling until he was assured that it would meet with the approbation +of his companions.</p> + +<p>Yet he had one secret hidden from these dear friends; a secret he had +nurtured from his earliest years, and although he loved his fellow +collegiates he would not trust it to the delicacy or sympathy of any +one among them. He loved. He feared that the intensity of his passion +might become the subject of their ridicule; and he could not bear that +they should blaspheme it by considering that trivial and transitory +which he felt was the life of his life.</p> + +<p>There was a gentleman of small fortune who lived near his family +mansion who had three lovely daughters. The eldest was far the most +beautiful, but her beauty was only an addition to her other +qualities—her understanding was clear & strong and her disposition +angelically gentle. She and my father had been playmates from infancy: +Diana, even in her childhood had been a favourite with his mother; +this partiality encreased with the years of this beautiful and lively +girl and thus during his school & college vacations<a name="FNanchor_8_32" id="FNanchor_8_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_32"><sup>[8]</sup></a> they were +perpetually together. Novels and all the various methods by which +youth in civilized life are led to a knowledge of the existence of +passions before they really feel them, had produced a strong effect on +him who was so peculiarly susceptible of every impression. At eleven +years of age Diana was his favourite playmate but he already talked +the language of love. Although she was elder than he by nearly two +years the nature of her education made her more childish at least in +the knowledge and expression of feeling; she received his warm +protestations with innocence, and returned them unknowing of what they +meant. She had read no novels and associated only with her younger +sisters, what could she know of the difference between love and +friendship? And when the development of her understanding disclosed +the true nature of this intercourse to her, her affections were +already engaged to her friend, and all she feared was lest other +attractions and fickleness might make him break his infant vows.</p> + +<p>But they became every day more ardent and tender. It was a<a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a> passion +that had grown with his growth; it had become entwined with every +faculty and every sentiment and only to be lost with life. None knew +of their love except their own two hearts; yet although in all things +else, and even in this he dreaded the censure of his companions, for +thus truly loving one inferior to him in fortune, nothing was ever +able for a moment to shake his purpose of uniting himself to her as +soon as he could muster courage sufficient to meet those difficulties +he was determined to surmount.</p> + +<p>Diana was fully worthy of his deepest affection. There were few who +could boast of so pure a heart, and so much real humbleness of soul +joined to a firm reliance on her own integrity and a belief in that of +others. She had from her birth lived a retired life. She had lost her +mother when very young, but her father had devoted himself to the care +of her education—He had many peculiar ideas which influenced the +system he had adopted with regard to her—She was well acquainted with +the heroes of Greece and Rome or with those of England who had lived +some hundred years ago, while she was nearly ignorant of the passing +events of the day: she had read few authors who had written during at +least the last fifty years but her reading with this exception was +very extensive. Thus although she appeared to be less initiated in the +mysteries of life and society than he her knowledge was of a deeper +kind and laid on firmer foundations; and if even her beauty and +sweetness had not fascinated him her understanding would ever have +held his in thrall. He looked up to her as his guide, and such was his +adoration that he delighted to augment to his own mind the sense of +inferiority with which she sometimes impressed him.<a name="FNanchor_9_33" id="FNanchor_9_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_33"><sup>[9]</sup></a></p> + +<p>When he was nineteen his mother died. He left college on this event +and shaking off for a while his old friends he retired to the +neighbourhood of his Diana and received all his consolation from her +sweet voice and dearer caresses. This short seperation from his +companions gave him courage to assert his independance. He had a +feeling that however they might express ridicule of his intended +marriage they would not dare display it when it had taken place; +therefore seeking the consent of his guardian which with some +difficulty he obtained, and of the father of his mistress which was +more easily given, without acquainting any one else of his intention, +by the time he had attained his twentieth birthday he had become the +husband of Diana.<a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a></p> + +<p>He loved her with passion and her tenderness had a charm for him that +would not permit him to think of aught but her. He invited some of his +college friends to see him but their frivolity disgusted him. Diana +had torn the veil which had before kept him in his boyhood: he was +become a man and he was surprised how he could ever have joined in the +cant words and ideas of his fellow collegiates or how for a moment he +had feared the censure of such as these. He discarded his old +friendships not from fickleness but because they were indeed unworthy +of him. Diana filled up all his heart: he felt as if by his union with +her he had received a new and better soul. She was his monitress as he +learned what were the true ends of life. It was through her beloved +lessons that he cast off his old pursuits and gradually formed himself +to become one among his fellow men; a distinguished member of society, +a Patriot; and an enlightened lover of truth and virtue.—He loved her +for her beauty and for her amiable disposition but he seemed to love +her more for what he considered her superior wisdom. They studied, +they rode together; they were never seperate and seldom admitted a +third to their society.</p> + +<p>Thus my father, born in affluence, and always prosperous, clombe +without the difficulty and various disappointments that all human +beings seem destined to encounter, to the very topmost pinacle of +happiness: Around him was sunshine, and clouds whose shapes of beauty +made the prospect divine concealed from him the barren reality which +lay hidden below them. From this dizzy point he was dashed at once as +he unawares congratulated himself on his felicity. Fifteen months +after their marriage I was born, and my mother died a few days after +my birth.</p> + +<p>A sister of my father was with him at this period. She was nearly +fifteen years older than he, and was the offspring of a former +marriage of his father. When the latter died this sister was taken by +her maternal relations: they had seldom seen one another, and were +quite unlike in disposition. This aunt, to whose care I was afterwards +consigned, has often related to me the effect that this catastrophe +had on my father’s strong and susceptible character. From the moment +of my mother’s death untill his departure she never heard him utter a +single word: buried in the deepest melancholy he took no notice of any +one; often for hours his eyes streamed tears or a more fearful gloom +overpowered him. All outward<a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a> things seemed to have lost their +existence relatively to him and only one circumstance could in any +degree recall him from his motionless and mute despair: he would never +see me. He seemed insensible to the presence of any one else, but if, +as a trial to awaken his sensibility, my aunt brought me into the room +he would instantly rush out with every symptom of fury and +distraction. At the end of a month he suddenly quitted his house and, +unatteneded [<i>sic</i>] by any servant, departed from that part of the +country without by word or writing informing any one of his +intentions. My aunt was only relieved of her anxiety concerning his +fate by a letter from him dated Hamburgh.</p> + +<p>How often have I wept over that letter which untill I was sixteen was +the only relick I had to remind me of my parents. “Pardon me,” it +said, “for the uneasiness I have unavoidably given you: but while in +that unhappy island, where every thing breathes <i>her</i> spirit whom I +have lost for ever, a spell held me. It is broken: I have quitted +England for many years, perhaps for ever. But to convince you that +selfish feeling does not entirely engross me I shall remain in this +town untill you have made by letter every arrangement that you judge +necessary. When I leave this place do not expect to hear from me: I +must break all ties that at present exist. I shall become a wanderer, +a miserable outcast—alone! alone!”—In another part of the letter he +mentioned me—“As for that unhappy little being whom I could not see, +and hardly dare mention, I leave her under your protection. Take care +of her and cherish her: one day I may claim her at your hands; but +futurity is dark, make the present happy to her.”</p> + +<p>My father remained three months at Hamburgh; when he quitted it he +changed his name, my aunt could never discover that which he adopted +and only by faint hints, could conjecture that he had taken the road +of Germany and Hungary to Turkey.<a name="FNanchor_10_34" id="FNanchor_10_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_34"><sup>[10]</sup></a></p> + +<p>Thus this towering spirit who had excited interest and high +expectation in all who knew and could value him became at once, as it +were, extinct. He existed from this moment for himself only. His +friends remembered him as a brilliant vision which would never again +return to them. The memory of what he had been faded away as years +passed; and he who before had been as a part of themselves and of +their hopes was now no longer counted among the living.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<p>I now come to my own story. During the early part of my life there is +little to relate, and I will be brief; but I must be allowed to dwell +a little on the years of my childhood that it may be apparent how when +one hope failed all life was to be a blank; and how when the only +affection I was permitted to cherish was blasted my existence was +extinguished with it.</p> + +<p>I have said that my aunt was very unlike my father. I believe that +without the slightest tinge of a bad heart she had the coldest that +ever filled a human breast: it was totally incapable of any affection. +She took me under her protection because she considered it her duty; +but she had too long lived alone and undisturbed by the noise and +prattle of children to allow that I should disturb her quiet. She had +never been married; and for the last five years had lived perfectly +alone on an estate, that had descended to her through her mother, on +the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland. My father had expressed a wish +in his letters that she should reside with me at his family mansion +which was situated in a beautiful country near Richmond in Yorkshire. +She would not consent to this proposition, but as soon as she had +arranged the affairs which her brother’s departure had caused to fall +to her care, she quitted England and took me with her to her scotch +estate.</p> + +<p>The care of me while a baby, and afterwards untill I had reached my +eighth year devolved on a servant of my mother’s, who had accompanied +us in our retirement for that purpose. I was placed in a remote part +of the house, and only saw my aunt at stated hours. These occurred +twice a day; once about noon she came to my nursery, and once after +her dinner I was taken to her. She never caressed me, and seemed all +the time I staid in the room to fear that I should annoy her by some +childish freak. My good nurse always schooled me with the greatest +care before she ventured into the parlour—and the awe my aunt’s cold +looks and few constrained words inspired was so great that I seldom +disgraced her lessons or was betrayed from the exemplary stillness +which I was taught to observe during these short visits.<a name="FNanchor_11_35" id="FNanchor_11_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_35"><sup>[11]</sup></a> +<a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a></p> + +<p>Under my good nurse’s care I ran wild about our park and the +neighbouring fields. The offspring of the deepest love I displayed +from my earliest years the greatest sensibility of disposition. I +cannot say with what passion I loved every thing even the inanimate +objects that surrounded me. I believe that I bore an individual +attachment to every tree in our park; every animal that inhabited it +knew me and I loved them. Their occasional deaths filled my infant +heart with anguish. I cannot number the birds that I have saved during +the long and severe winters of that climate; or the hares and rabbits +that I have defended from the attacks of our dogs, or have nursed when +accidentally wounded.</p> + +<p>When I was seven years of age my nurse left me. I now forget the cause +of her departure if indeed I ever knew it. She returned to England, +and the bitter tears she shed at parting were the last I saw flow for +love of me for many years. My grief was terrible: I had no friend but +her in the whole world. By degrees I became reconciled to solitude but +no one supplied her place in my affections. I lived in a desolate +country where</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>——— there were none to praise<br /></span> +<span>And very few to love.<a name="FNanchor_A_19" id="FNanchor_A_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_19"><sup>[A]</sup></a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is true that I now saw a little more of my aunt, but she was in +every way an unsocial being; and to a timid child she was as a plant +beneath a thick covering of ice; I should cut my hands in endeavouring +to get at it. So I was entirely thrown upon my own resourses. The +neighbouring minister was engaged to give me lessons in reading, +writing and french, but he was without family and his manners even to +me were always perfectly characteristic of the profession in the +exercise of whose functions he chiefly shone, that of a schoolmaster. +I sometimes strove to form friendships with the most attractive of the +girls who inhabited the neighbouring village; but I believe I should +never have succeeded [even] had not my aunt interposed her authority +to prevent all intercourse between me and the peasantry; for she was +fearful lest I should acquire the scotch accent and dialect; a little +of it I had, although great pains was taken that my tongue should not +disgrace my English origin.</p> + +<p><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>As I grew older my liberty encreased with my desires, and my +wanderings extended from our park to the neighbouring country. Our +house was situated on the shores of the lake and the lawn came down to +the water’s edge. I rambled amidst the wild scenery of this lovely +country and became a complete mountaineer: I passed hours on the steep +brow of a mountain that overhung a waterfall or rowed myself in a +little skiff to some one of the islands. I wandered for ever about +these lovely solitudes, gathering flower after flower</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Ond’ era pinta tutta la mia via<a name="FNanchor_B_20" id="FNanchor_B_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_20"><sup>[B]</sup></a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>singing as I might the wild melodies of the country, or occupied by +pleasant day dreams. My greatest pleasure was the enjoyment of a +serene sky amidst these verdant woods: yet I loved all the changes of +Nature; and rain, and storm, and the beautiful clouds of heaven +brought their delights with them. When rocked by the waves of the lake +my spirits rose in triumph as a horseman feels with pride the motions +of his high fed steed.</p> + +<p>But my pleasures arose from the contemplation of nature alone, I had +no companion: my warm affections finding no return from any other +human heart were forced to run waste on inanimate objects.<a name="FNanchor_12_36" id="FNanchor_12_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_36"><sup>[12]</sup></a> +Sometimes indeed I wept when my aunt received my caresses with +repulsive coldness, and when I looked round and found none to love; +but I quickly dried my tears. As I grew older books in some degree +supplied the place of human intercourse: the library of my aunt was +very small; Shakespear, Milton, Pope and Cowper were the strangley +[<i>sic</i>] assorted poets of her collection; and among the prose authors +a translation of Livy and Rollin’s ancient history were my chief +favourites although as I emerged from childhood I found others highly +interesting which I had before neglected as dull.</p> + +<p>When I was twelve years old it occurred to my aunt that I ought to +learn music; she herself played upon the harp. It was with great +hesitation that she persuaded herself to undertake my instruction; yet +believing this accomplishment a necessary part of my education, and +balancing the evils of this measure or of having some one in the house +to instruct me she submitted to the inconvenience. A harp was sent for +that my playing might not interfere <a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a>with hers, and I began: she found +me a docile and when I had conquered the first rudiments a very apt +scholar. I had acquired in my harp a companion in rainy days; a sweet +soother of my feelings when any untoward accident ruffled them: I +often addressed it as my only friend; I could pour forth to it my +hopes and loves, and I fancied that its sweet accents answered me. I +have now mentioned all my studies.</p> + +<p>I was a solitary being, and from my infant years, ever since my dear +nurse left me, I had been a dreamer. I brought Rosalind and Miranda +and the lady of Comus to life to be my companions, or on my isle acted +over their parts imagining myself to be in their situations. Then I +wandered from the fancies of others and formed affections and +intimacies with the aerial creations of my own brain—but still +clinging to reality I gave a name to these conceptions and nursed them +in the hope of realization. I clung to the memory of my parents; my +mother I should never see, she was dead: but the idea of [my] unhappy, +wandering father was the idol of my imagination. I bestowed on him all +my affections; there was a miniature of him that I gazed on +continually; I copied his last letter and read it again and again. +Sometimes it made me weep; and at other [times] I repeated with +transport those words,—“One day I may claim her at your hands.” I was +to be his consoler, his companion in after years. My favourite vision +was that when I grew up I would leave my aunt, whose coldness lulled +my conscience, and disguised like a boy I would seek my father through +the world. My imagination hung upon the scene of recognition; his +miniature, which I should continually wear exposed on my breast, would +be the means and I imaged the moment to my mind a thousand and a +thousand times, perpetually varying the circumstances. Sometimes it +would be in a desart; in a populous city; at a ball; we should perhaps +meet in a vessel; and his first words constantly were, “My daughter, I +love thee”! What extactic moments have I passed in these dreams! How +many tears I have shed; how often have I laughed aloud.<a name="FNanchor_13_37" id="FNanchor_13_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_37"><sup>[13]</sup></a></p> + +<p>This was my life for sixteen years. At fourteen and fifteen I often +thought that the time was come when I should commence my pilgrimage, +which I had cheated my own mind into believing was my imperious duty: +but a reluctance to quit my Aunt; a remorse for the grief which, I +could not conceal from myself, I should<a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a> occasion her for ever +withheld me. Sometimes when I had planned the next morning for my +escape a word of more than usual affection from her lips made me +postpone my resolution. I reproached myself bitterly for what I called +a culpable weakness; but this weakness returned upon me whenever the +critical moment approached, and I never found courage to depart.<a name="FNanchor_14_38" id="FNanchor_14_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_38"><sup>[14]</sup></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<p>It was on my sixteenth birthday that my aunt received a letter from my +father. I cannot describe the tumult of emotions that arose within me +as I read it. It was dated from London; he had returned!<a name="FNanchor_15_39" id="FNanchor_15_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_39"><sup>[15]</sup></a> I could +only relieve my transports by tears, tears of unmingled joy. He had +returned, and he wrote to know whether my aunt would come to London or +whether he should visit her in Scotland. How delicious to me were the +words of his letter that concerned me: “I cannot tell you,” it said, +“how ardently I desire to see my Mathilda. I look on her as the +creature who will form the happiness of my future life: she is all +that exists on earth that interests me. I can hardly prevent myself +from hastening immediately to you but I am necessarily detained a week +and I write because if you come here I may see you somewhat sooner.” I +read these words with devouring eyes; I kissed them, wept over them +and exclaimed, “He will love me!”—</p> + +<p>My aunt would not undertake so long a journey, and in a fortnight we +had another letter from my father, it was dated Edinburgh: he wrote +that he should be with us in three days. “As he approached his desire +of seeing me,” he said, “became more and more ardent, and he felt that +the moment when he should first clasp me in his arms would be the +happiest of his life.”</p> + +<p>How irksome were these three days to me! All sleep and appetite fled +from me; I could only read and re-read his letter, and in the solitude +of the woods imagine the moment of our meeting. On the eve of the +third day I retired early to my room; I could not sleep but paced all +night about my chamber and, as you may in Scotland at midsummer, +watched the crimson track of the sun as it almost skirted the northern +horizon. At day break I hastened to the woods; the hours past on while +I indulged in wild dreams that gave wings to the slothful steps of +time, and beguiled my eager impatience. My father was expected at noon +but when I wished to return to me[e]t him I found that I had lost my +way: it seemed that in every attempt to find it I only became more +involved in the intracacies of the woods, and the trees hid all trace +by<a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a> which I might be guided.<a name="FNanchor_16_40" id="FNanchor_16_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_40"><sup>[16]</sup></a> I grew impatient, I wept; [<i>sic</i>] and +wrung my hands but still I could not discover my path.</p> + +<p>It was past two o’clock when by a sudden turn I found myself close to +the lake near a cove where a little skiff was moored—It was not far +from our house and I saw my father and aunt walking on the lawn. I +jumped into the boat, and well accustomed to such feats, I pushed it +from shore, and exerted all my strength to row swiftly across. As I +came, dressed in white, covered only by my tartan <i>rachan</i>, my hair +streaming on my shoulders, and shooting across with greater speed that +it could be supposed I could give to my boat, my father has often told +me that I looked more like a spirit than a human maid. I approached +the shore, my father held the boat, I leapt lightly out, and in a +moment was in his arms.</p> + +<p>And now I began to live. All around me was changed from a dull +uniformity to the brightest scene of joy and delight. The happiness I +enjoyed in the company of my father far exceeded my sanguine +expectations. We were for ever together; and the subjects of our +conversations were inexhaustible. He had passed the sixteen years of +absence among nations nearly unknown to Europe; he had wandered +through Persia, Arabia and the north of India and had penetrated among +the habitations of the natives with a freedom permitted to few +Europeans. His relations of their manners, his anecdotes and +descriptions of scenery whiled away delicious hours, when we were +tired of talking of our own plans of future life.</p> + +<p>The voice of affection was so new to me that I hung with delight upon +his words when he told me what he had felt concerning me during these +long years of apparent forgetfulness. “At first”—said he, “I could +not bear to think of my poor little girl; but afterwards as grief wore +off and hope again revisited me I could only turn to her, and amidst +cities and desarts her little fairy form, such as I imagined it, for +ever flitted before me. The northern breeze as it refreshed me was +sweeter and more balmy for it seemed to carry some of your spirit +along with it. I often thought that I would instantly return and take +you along with me to some fertile island where we should live at peace +for ever. As I returned my fervent hopes were dashed by so many fears; +my impatience became in the highest degree painful. I dared not think +that the sun should shine and the moon rise not on your living form +but on<a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a> your grave. But, no, it is not so; I have my Mathilda, my +consolation, and my hope.”—</p> + +<p>My father was very little changed from what he described himself to be +before his misfortunes. It is intercourse with civilized society; it +is the disappointment of cherished hopes, the falsehood of friends, or +the perpetual clash of mean passions that changes the heart and damps +the ardour of youthful feelings; lonly wanderings in a wild country +among people of simple or savage manners may inure the body but will +not tame the soul, or extinguish the ardour and freshness of feeling +incident to youth. The burning sun of India, and the freedom from all +restraint had rather encreased the energy of his character: before he +bowed under, now he was impatient of any censure except that of his +own mind. He had seen so many customs and witnessed so great a variety +of moral creeds that he had been obliged to form an independant one +for himself which had no relation to the peculiar notions of any one +country: his early prejudices of course influenced his judgement in +the formation of his principles, and some raw colledge ideas were +strangely mingled with the deepest deductions of his penetrating mind.</p> + +<p>The vacuity his heart endured of any deep interest in life during his +long absence from his native country had had a singular effect upon +his ideas. There was a curious feeling of unreality attached by him to +his foreign life in comparison with the years of his youth. All the +time he had passed out of England was as a dream, and all the interest +of his soul[,] all his affections belonged to events which had +happened and persons who had existed sixteen years before. It was +strange when you heard him talk to see how he passed over this lapse +of time as a night of visions; while the remembrances of his youth +standing seperate as they did from his after life had lost none of +their vigour. He talked of my Mother as if she had lived but a few +weeks before; not that he expressed poignant grief, but his +discription of her person, and his relation of all anecdotes connected +with her was thus fervent and vivid.</p> + +<p>In all this there was a strangeness that attracted and enchanted me. +He was, as it were, now awakened from his long, visionary sleep, and +he felt some what like one of the seven sleepers, or like +Nourjahad,<a name="FNanchor_17_41" id="FNanchor_17_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_41"><sup>[17]</sup></a> +in that sweet imitation of an eastern tale: Diana<a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a> was +gone; his friends were changed or dead, and now on his awakening I was +all that he had to love on earth.</p> + +<p>How dear to me were the waters, and mountains, and woods of Loch +Lomond now that I had so beloved a companion for my rambles. I visited +with my father every delightful spot, either on the islands, or by the +side of the tree-sheltered waterfalls; every shady path, or dingle +entangled with underwood and fern. My ideas were enlarged by his +conversation. I felt as if I were recreated and had about me all the +freshness and life of a new being: I was, as it were, transported +since his arrival from a narrow spot of earth into a universe +boundless to the imagination and the understanding. My life had been +before as a pleasing country rill, never destined to leave its native +fields, but when its task was fulfilled quietly to be absorbed, and +leave no trace. Now it seemed to me to be as a various river flowing +through a fertile and lovely lanscape, ever changing and ever +beautiful. Alas! I knew not the desart it was about to reach; the +rocks that would tear its waters, and the hideous scene that would be +reflected in a more distorted manner in its waves. Life was then +brilliant; I began to learn to hope and what brings a more bitter +despair to the heart than hope destroyed?</p> + +<p>Is it not strange<a name="FNanchor_18_42" id="FNanchor_18_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_42"><sup>[18]</sup></a> that grief should quickly follow so divine a +happiness? I drank of an enchanted cup but gall was at the bottom of +its long drawn sweetness. My heart was full of deep affection, but it +was calm from its very depth and fulness. I had no idea that misery +could arise from love, and this lesson that all at last must learn was +taught me in a manner few are obliged to receive it. I lament now, I +must ever lament, those few short months of Paradisaical bliss; I +disobeyed no command, I ate no apple, and yet I was ruthlessly driven +from it. Alas! my companion did, and I was precipitated in his +fall.<a name="FNanchor_19_43" id="FNanchor_19_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_43"><sup>[19]</sup></a> But I wander from my relation—let woe come at its appointed +time; I may at this stage of my story still talk of happiness.</p> + +<p>Three months passed away in this delightful intercourse, when my aunt +fell ill. I passed a whole month in her chamber nursing her, but her +disease was mortal and she died, leaving me for some time +inconsolable, Death is so dreadful to the living;<a name="FNanchor_20_44" id="FNanchor_20_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_44"><sup>[20]</sup></a> the chains of +habit are so strong even when affection does not link them that the +heart must be agonized when they break. But my father was beside me to +console me and to drive away bitter memories by<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a> bright hopes: +methought that it was sweet to grieve that he might dry my tears.</p> + +<p>Then again he distracted my thoughts from my sorrow by comparing it +with his despair when he lost my mother. Even at that time I shuddered +at the picture he drew of his passions: he had the imagination of a +poet, and when he described the whirlwind that then tore his feelings +he gave his words the impress of life so vividly that I believed while +I trembled. I wondered how he could ever again have entered into the +offices of life after his wild thoughts seemed to have given him +affinity with the unearthly; while he spoke so tremendous were the +ideas which he conveyed that it appeared as if the human heart were +far too bounded for their conception. His feelings seemed better +fitted for a spirit whose habitation is the earthquake and the volcano +than for one confined to a mortal body and human lineaments. But these +were merely memories; he was changed since then. He was now all love, +all softness; and when I raised my eyes in wonder at him as he spoke +the smile on his lips told me that his heart was possessed by the +gentlest passions.</p> + +<p>Two months after my aunt’s death we removed to London where I was led +by my father to attend to deeper studies than had before occupied me. +My improvement was his delight; he was with me during all my studies +and assisted or joined with me in every lesson. We saw a great deal of +society, and no day passed that my father did not endeavour to +embellish by some new enjoyment. The tender attachment that he bore +me, and the love and veneration with which I returned it cast a charm +over every moment. The hours were slow for each minute was employed; +we lived more in one week than many do in the course of several months +and the variety and novelty of our pleasures gave zest to each.</p> + +<p>We perpetually made excursions together. And whether it were to visit +beautiful scenery, or to see fine pictures, or sometimes for no object +but to seek amusement as it might chance to arise, I was always happy +when near my father. It was a subject of regret to me whenever we were +joined by a third person, yet if I turned with a disturbed look +towards my father, his eyes fixed on me and beaming with tenderness +instantly restored joy to my heart. O, hours of intense delight! Short +as ye were ye are made as long to me as a whole life when looked back +upon through the mist of<a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a> grief that rose immediately after as if to +shut ye from my view. Alas! ye were the last of happiness that I ever +enjoyed; a few, a very few weeks and all was destroyed. Like +Psyche<a name="FNanchor_21_45" id="FNanchor_21_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_45"><sup>[21]</sup></a> I lived for awhile in an enchanted palace, amidst odours, +and music, and every luxurious delight; when suddenly I was left on a +barren rock; a wide ocean of despair rolled around me: above all was +black, and my eyes closed while I still inhabited a universal death. +Still I would not hurry on; I would pause for ever on the +recollections of these happy weeks; I would repeat every word, and how +many do I remember, record every enchantment of the faery habitation. +But, no, my tale must not pause; it must be as rapid as was my +fate,—I can only describe in short although strong expressions my +precipitate and irremediable change from happiness to despair.<a name="FNanchor_22_46" id="FNanchor_22_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_46"><sup>[22]</sup></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<p>Among our most assiduous visitors was a young man of rank, well +informed, and agreable in his person. After we had spent a few weeks +in London his attentions towards me became marked and his visits more +frequent. I was too much taken up by my own occupations and feelings +to attend much to this, and then indeed I hardly noticed more than the +bare surface of events as they passed around me; but I now remember +that my father was restless and uneasy whenever this person visited +us, and when we talked together watched us with the greatest apparent +anxiety although he himself maintained a profound silence. At length +these obnoxious visits suddenly ceased altogether, but from that +moment I must date the change of my father: a change that to remember +makes me shudder and then filled me with the deepest grief. There were +no degrees which could break my fall from happiness to misery; it was +as the stroke of lightning—sudden and entire.<a name="FNanchor_23_47" id="FNanchor_23_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_47"><sup>[23]</sup></a> Alas! I now met +frowns where before I had been welcomed only with smiles: he, my +beloved father, shunned me, and either treated me with harshness or a +more heart-breaking coldness. We took no more sweet counsel together; +and when I tried to win him again to me, his anger, and the terrible +emotions that he exhibited drove me to silence and tears.</p> + +<p>And this was sudden. The day before we had passed alone together in +the country; I remember we had talked of future travels that we should +undertake together—. There was an eager delight in our tones and +gestures that could only spring from deep & mutual love joined to the +most unrestrained confidence[;] and now the next day, the next hour, I +saw his brows contracted, his eyes fixed in sullen fierceness on the +ground, and his voice so gentle and so dear made me shiver when he +addressed me. Often, when my wandering fancy brought by its various +images now consolation and now aggravation of grief to my heart,<a name="FNanchor_24_48" id="FNanchor_24_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_48"><sup>[24]</sup></a> I +have compared myself to Proserpine who was gaily and heedlessly +gathering flowers on the sweet plain of Enna, when the King of Hell +snatched her away to the abodes of death and misery. Alas! I who so +lately knew of nought but the joy of life; who had slept only to +dream<a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a> sweet dreams and awoke to incomparable happiness, I now passed +my days and nights in tears. I who sought and had found joy in the +love-breathing countenance of my father now when I dared fix on him a +supplicating look it was ever answered by an angry frown. I dared not +speak to him; and when sometimes I had worked up courage to meet him +and to ask an explanation one glance at his face where a chaos of +mighty passion seemed for ever struggling made me tremble and shrink +to silence. I was dashed down from heaven to earth as a silly sparrow +when pounced on by a hawk; my eyes swam and my head was bewildered by +the sudden apparition of grief. Day after day<a name="FNanchor_25_49" id="FNanchor_25_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_49"><sup>[25]</sup></a> passed marked only +by my complaints and my tears; often I lifted my soul in vain prayer +for a softer descent from joy to woe, or if that were denied me that I +might be allowed to die, and fade for ever under the cruel blast that +swept over me,</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>——— for what should I do here,<br /></span> +<span>Like a decaying flower, still withering<br /></span> +<span>Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat<br /></span> +<span>Should give my poor heart life?<a name="FNanchor_C_21" id="FNanchor_C_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_C_21"><sup>[C]</sup></a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Sometimes I said to myself, this is an enchantment, and I must strive +against it. My father is blinded by some malignant vision which I must +remove. And then, like David, I would try music to win the evil spirit +from him; and once while singing I lifted my eyes towards him and saw +his fixed on me and filled with tears; all his muscles seemed relaxed +to softness. I sprung towards him with a cry of joy and would have +thrown myself into his arms, but he pushed me roughly from him and +left me. And even from this slight incident he contracted fresh gloom +and an additional severity of manner.</p> + +<p>There are many incidents that I might relate which shewed the diseased +yet incomprehensible state of his mind; but I will mention one that +occurred while we were in company with several other persons. On this +occasion I chanced to say that I thought Myrrha the best of Alfieri’s +tragedies; as I said this I chanced to cast my eyes on my father and +met his: for the first time the expression of those beloved eyes +displeased me, and I saw with affright that his whole frame shook with +some concealed emotion that in spite <a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>of his efforts half conquered +him: as this tempest faded from his soul he became melancholy and +silent. Every day some new scene occured and displayed in him a mind +working as [it] were with an unknown horror that now he could master +but which at times threatened to overturn his reason, and to throw the +bright seat of his intelligence into a perpetual chaos.</p> + +<p>I will not dwell longer than I need on these disastrous +circumstances.<a name="FNanchor_26_50" id="FNanchor_26_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_50"><sup>[26]</sup></a> I might waste days in describing how anxiously I +watched every change of fleeting circumstance that promised better +days, and with what despair I found that each effort of mine +aggravated his seeming madness. To tell all my grief I might as well +attempt to count the tears that have fallen from these eyes, or every +sign that has torn my heart. I will be brief for there is in all this +a horror that will not bear many words, and I sink almost a second +time to death while I recall these sad scenes to my memory. Oh, my +beloved father! Indeed you made me miserable beyond all words, but how +truly did I even then forgive you, and how entirely did you possess my +whole heart while I endeavoured, as a rainbow gleams upon a +cataract,<a name="FNanchor_D_22" id="FNanchor_D_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_D_22"><sup>[D]</sup></a><a name="FNanchor_27_51" id="FNanchor_27_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_51"><sup>[27]</sup></a> to soften thy tremendous sorrows.</p> + +<p>Thus did this change come about. I seem perhaps to have dashed too +suddenly into the description, but thus suddenly did it happen. In one +sentence I have passed from the idea of unspeakable happiness to that +of unspeakable grief but they were thus closely linked together. We +had remained five months in London three of joy and two of sorrow. My +father and I were now seldom alone or if we were he generally kept +silence with his eyes fixed on the ground—the dark full orbs in which +before I delighted to read all sweet and gentle feeling shadowed from +my sight by their lids and the long lashes that fringed them. When we +were in company he affected gaiety but I wept to hear his hollow +laugh—begun by an empty smile and often ending in a bitter sneer such +as never before this fatal period had wrinkled his lips. When others +were there he often spoke to me and his eyes perpetually followed my +slightest motion. His accents whenever he addressed me were cold and +constrained although his voice would tremble when he perceived that my +full heart choked the answer to words proffered with a mien yet new to +me. <a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a></p> + +<p>But days of peaceful melancholy were of rare occurence[:] they were +often broken in upon by gusts of passion that drove me as a weak boat +on a stormy sea to seek a cove for shelter; but the winds blew from my +native harbour and I was cast far, far out untill shattered I perished +when the tempest had passed and the sea was apparently calm. I do not +know that I can describe his emotions: sometimes he only betrayed them +by a word or gesture, and then retired to his chamber and I crept as +near it as I dared and listened with fear to every sound, yet still +more dreading a sudden silence—dreading I knew not what, but ever +full of fear.</p> + +<p>It was after one tremendous day when his eyes had glared on me like +lightning—and his voice sharp and broken seemed unable to express the +extent of his emotion that in the evening when I was alone he joined +me with a calm countenance, and not noticing my tears which I quickly +dried when he approached, told me that in three days that [<i>sic</i>] he +intended to remove with me to his estate in Yorkshire, and bidding me +prepare left me hastily as if afraid of being questioned.</p> + +<p>This determination on his part indeed surprised me. This estate was +that which he had inhabited in childhood and near which my mother +resided while a girl; this was the scene of their youthful loves and +where they had lived after their marriage; in happier days my father +had often told me that however he might appear weaned from his widow +sorrow, and free from bitter recollections elsewhere, yet he would +never dare visit the spot where he had enjoyed her society or trust +himself to see the rooms that so many years ago they had inhabited +together; her favourite walks and the gardens the flowers of which she +had delighted to cultivate. And now while he suffered intense misery +he determined to plunge into still more intense, and strove for +greater emotion than that which already tore him. I was perplexed, and +most anxious to know what this portended; ah, what could it po[r]tend +but ruin!</p> + +<p>I saw little of my father during this interval, but he appeared calmer +although not less unhappy than before. On the morning of the third day +he informed me that he had determined to go to Yorkshire first alone, +and that I should follow him in a fortnight unless I heard any thing +from him in the mean time that should contradict this command. He +departed the same day, and four days afterwards I received a letter +from his steward telling me<a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a> in his name to join him with as little +delay as possible. After travelling day and night I arrived with an +anxious, yet a hoping heart, for why should he send for me if it were +only to avoid me and to treat me with the apparent aversion that he +had in London. I met him at the distance of thirty miles from our +mansion. His demeanour was sad; for a moment he appeared glad to see +me and then he checked himself as if unwilling to betray his feelings. +He was silent during our ride, yet his manner was kinder than before +and I thought I beheld a softness in his eyes that gave me hope.</p> + +<p>When we arrived, after a little rest, he led me over the house and +pointed out to me the rooms which my mother had inhabited. Although +more than sixteen years had passed since her death nothing had been +changed; her work box, her writing desk were still there and in her +room a book lay open on the table as she had left it. My father +pointed out these circumstances with a serious and unaltered mien, +only now and then fixing his deep and liquid eyes upon me; there was +something strange and awful in his look that overcame me, and in spite +of myself I wept, nor did he attempt to console me, but I saw his lips +quiver and the muscles of his countenance seemed convulsed.</p> + +<p>We walked together in the gardens and in the evening when I would have +retired he asked me to stay and read to him; and first said, “When I +was last here your mother read Dante to me; you shall go on where she +left off.” And then in a moment he said, “No, that must not be; you +must not read Dante. Do you choose a book.” I took up Spencer and read +the descent of Sir Guyon to the halls of Avarice;<a name="FNanchor_28_52" id="FNanchor_28_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_52"><sup>[28]</sup></a> while he +listened his eyes fixed on me in sad profound silence.</p> + +<p>I heard the next morning from the steward that upon his arrival he had +been in a most terrible state of mind: he had passed the first night +in the garden lying on the damp grass; he did not sleep but groaned +perpetually. “Alas!” said the old man[,] who gave me this account with +tears in his eyes, “it wrings my heart to see my lord in this state: +when I heard that he was coming down here with you, my young lady, I +thought we should have the happy days over again that we enjoyed +during the short life of my lady your mother—But that would be too +much happiness for us poor creatures born to tears—and that was why +she was taken from us so soon;<a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a> [s]he was too beautiful and good for +us[.] It was a happy day as we all thought it when my lord married +her: I knew her when she was a child and many a good turn has she done +for me in my old lady’s time—You are like her although there is more +of my lord in you—But has he been thus ever since his return? All my +joy turned to sorrow when I first beheld him with that melancholy +countenance enter these doors as it were the day after my lady’s +funeral—He seemed to recover himself a little after he had bidden me +write to you—but still it is a woful thing to see him so +unhappy.”<a name="FNanchor_29_53" id="FNanchor_29_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_53"><sup>[29]</sup></a> These were the feelings of an old, faithful servant: +what must be those of an affectionate daughter. Alas! Even then my +heart was almost broken.</p> + +<p>We spent two months together in this house. My father spent the +greater part of his time with me; he accompanied me in my walks, +listened to my music, and leant over me as I read or painted. When he +conversed with me his manner was cold and constrained; his eyes only +seemed to speak, and as he turned their black, full lustre towards me +they expressed a living sadness. There was somthing in those dark deep +orbs so liquid, and intense that even in happiness I could never meet +their full gaze that mine did not overflow. Yet it was with sweet +tears; now there was a depth of affliction in their gentle appeal that +rent my heart with sympathy; they seemed to desire peace for me; for +himself a heart patient to suffer; a craving for sympathy, yet a +perpetual self denial. It was only when he was absent from me that his +passion subdued him,—that he clinched his hands—knit his brows—and +with haggard looks called for death to his despair, raving wildly, +untill exhausted he sank down nor was revived untill I joined him.</p> + +<p>While we were in London there was a harshness and sulleness in his +sorrow which had now entirely disappeared. There I shrunk and fled +from him, now I only wished to be with him that I might soothe him to +peace. When he was silent I tried to divert him, and when sometimes I +stole to him during the energy of his passion I wept but did not +desire to leave him. Yet he suffered fearful agony; during the day he +was more calm, but at night when I could not be with him he seemed to +give the reins to his grief: he often passed his nights either on the +floor in my mother’s room, or in the garden; and when in the morning +he saw me view with poignant grief his exhausted frame, and his person +languid almost to death with<a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a> watching he wept; but during all this +time he spoke no word by which I might guess the cause of his +unhappiness[.] If I ventured to enquire he would either leave me or +press his finger on his lips, and with a deprecating look that I could +not resist, turn away. If I wept he would gaze on me in silence but he +was no longer harsh and although he repulsed every caress yet it was +with gentleness.</p> + +<p>He seemed to cherish a mild grief and softer emotions although sad as +a relief from despair—He contrived in many ways to nurse his +melancholy as an antidote to wilder passion[.] He perpetually +frequented the walks that had been favourites with him when he and my +mother wandered together talking of love and happiness; he collected +every relick that remained of her and always sat opposite her picture +which hung in the room fixing on it a look of sad despair—and all +this was done in a mystic and awful silence. If his passion subdued +him he locked himself in his room; and at night when he wandered +restlessly about the house, it was when every other creature slept.</p> + +<p>It may easily be imagined that I wearied myself with conjecture to +guess the cause of his sorrow. The solution that seemed to me the most +probable was that during his residence in London he had fallen in love +with some unworthy person, and that his passion mastered him although +he would not gratify it: he loved me too well to sacrifise me to this +inclination, and that he had now visited this house that by reviving +the memory of my mother whom he so passionately adored he might weaken +the present impression. This was possible; but it was a mere +conjecture unfounded on any fact. Could there be guilt in it? He was +too upright and noble to <i>do</i> aught that his conscience would not +approve; I did not yet know of the crime there may be in involuntary +feeling and therefore ascribed his tumultuous starts and gloomy looks +wholly to the struggles of his mind and not any as they were partly +due to the worst fiend of all—Remorse.<a name="FNanchor_30_54" id="FNanchor_30_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_54"><sup>[30]</sup></a></p> + +<p>But still do I flatter myself that this would have passed away. His +paroxisms of passion were terrific but his soul bore him through them +triumphant, though almost destroyed by victory; but the day would +finally have been won had not I, foolish and presumtuous wretch! +hurried him on untill there was no recall, no hope. My rashness gave +the victory in this dreadful fight to the enemy who triumphed over him +as he lay fallen and vanquished. I! I<a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a> alone was the cause of his +defeat and justly did I pay the fearful penalty. I said to myself, let +him receive sympathy and these struggles will cease. Let him confide +his misery to another heart and half the weight of it will be +lightened. I will win him to me; he shall not deny his grief to me and +when I know his secret then will I pour a balm into his soul and again +I shall enjoy the ravishing delight of beholding his smile, and of +again seeing his eyes beam if not with pleasure at least with gentle +love and thankfulness. This will I do, I said. Half I accomplished; I +gained his secret and we were both lost for ever.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<p>Nearly a year had past since my father’s return, and the seasons had +almost finished their round—It was now the end of May; the woods were +clothed in their freshest verdure, and the sweet smell of the new mown +grass was in the fields. I thought that the balmy air and the lovely +face of Nature might aid me in inspiring him with mild sensations, and +give him gentle feelings of peace and love preparatory to the +confidence I determined to win from him.</p> + +<p>I chose therefore the evening of one of these days for my attempt. I +invited him to walk with me, and led him to a neighbouring wood of +beech trees whose light shade shielded us from the slant and dazzling +beams of the descending sun—After walking for some time in silence I +seated my self with him on a mossy hillock—It is strange but even now +I seem to see the spot—the slim and smooth trunks were many of them +wound round by ivy whose shining leaves of the darkest green +contrasted with the white bark and the light leaves of the young +sprouts of beech that grew from their parent trunks—the short grass +was mingled with moss and was partly covered by the dead leaves of the +last autumn that driven by the winds had here and there collected in +little hillocks—there were a few moss grown stumps about—The leaves +were gently moved by the breeze and through their green canopy you +could see the bright blue sky—As evening came on the distant trunks +were reddened by the sun and the wind died entirely away while a few +birds flew past us to their evening rest.</p> + +<p>Well it was here we sat together, and when you hear all that past—all +that of terrible tore our souls even in this placid spot, which but +for strange passions might have been a paradise to us, you will not +wonder that I remember it as I looked on it that its calm might give +me calm, and inspire me not only with courage but with persuasive +words. I saw all these things and in a vacant manner noted them in my +mind<a name="FNanchor_31_55" id="FNanchor_31_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_55"><sup>[31]</sup></a> while I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts in fitting order +for my attempt. My heart beat fast as I worked myself up to speak to +him, for I was determined not to be repulsed but I trembled to imagine +what effect my words might have on him; at length, with much +hesitation I began:<a name="FNanchor_32_56" id="FNanchor_32_56"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_56"><sup>[32]</sup></a><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a></p> + +<p>“Your kindness to me, my dearest father, and the affection—the +excessive affection—that you had for me when you first returned will +I hope excuse me in your eyes that I dare speak to you, although with +the tender affection of a daughter, yet also with the freedom of a +friend and equal. But pardon me, I entreat you and listen to me: do +not turn away from me; do not be impatient; you may easily intimidate +me into silence, but my heart is bursting, nor can I willingly consent +to endure for one moment longer the agony of uncertitude which for the +last four months has been my portion.</p> + +<p>“Listen to me, dearest friend, and permit me to gain your confidence. +Are the happy days of mutual love which have passed to be to me as a +dream never to return? Alas! You have a secret grief that destroys us +both: but you must permit me to win this secret from you. Tell me, can +I do nothing? You well know that on the whole earth there is no +sacrifise that I would not make, no labour that I would not undergo +with the mere hope that I might bring you ease. But if no endeavour on +my part can contribute to your happiness, let me at least know your +sorrow, and surely my earnest love and deep sympathy must soothe your +despair.</p> + +<p>“I fear that I speak in a constrained manner: my heart is overflowing +with the ardent desire I have of bringing calm once more to your +thoughts and looks; but I fear to aggravate your grief, or to raise +that in you which is death to me, anger and distaste. Do not then +continue to fix your eyes on the earth; raise them on me for I can +read your soul in them: speak to me to me [<i>sic</i>], and pardon my +presumption. Alas! I am a most unhappy creature!”</p> + +<p>I was breathless with emotion, and I paused fixing my earnest eyes on +my father, after I had dashed away the intrusive tears that dimmed +them. He did not raise his, but after a short silence he replied to me +in a low voice: “You are indeed presumptuous, Mathilda, presumptuous +and very rash. In the heart of one like me there are secret thoughts +working, and secret tortures which you ought not to seek to discover. +I cannot tell you how it adds to my grief to know that I am the cause +of uneasiness to you; but this will pass away, and I hope that soon we +shall be as we were a few months ago. Restrain your impatience or you +may mar what you attempt to alleviate. Do not again speak to me in +this strain; but wait in submissive patience the event of what is +passing around you.”</p> + +<p>“<a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a>Oh, yes!” I passionately replied, “I will be very patient; I will +not be rash or presumptuous: I will see the agonies, and tears, and +despair of my father, my only friend, my hope, my shelter, I will see +it all with folded arms and downcast eyes. You do not treat me with +candour; it is not true what you say; this will not soon pass away, it +will last forever if you deign not to speak to me; to admit my +consolations.</p> + +<p>“Dearest, dearest father, pity me and pardon me: I entreat you do not +drive me to despair; indeed I must not be repulsed; there is one thing +that which [<i>sic</i>] although it may torture me to know, yet that you +must tell me. I demand, and most solemnly I demand if in any way I am +the cause of your unhappiness. Do you not see my tears which I in vain +strive against—You hear unmoved my voice broken by sobs—Feel how my +hand trembles: my whole heart is in the words I speak and you must not +endeavour to silence me by mere words barren of meaning: the agony of +my doubt hurries me on, and you must reply. I beseech you; by your +former love for me now lost, I adjure you to answer that one question. +Am I the cause of your grief?”</p> + +<p>He raised his eyes from the ground, but still turning them away from +me, said: “Besought by that plea I will answer your rash question. +Yes, you are the sole, the agonizing cause of all I suffer, of all I +must suffer untill I die. Now, beware! Be silent! Do not urge me to +your destruction. I am struck by the storm, rooted up, laid waste: but +you can stand against it; you are young and your passions are at +peace. One word I might speak and then you would be implicated in my +destruction; yet that word is hovering on my lips. Oh! There is a +fearful chasm; but I adjure you to beware!”</p> + +<p>“Ah, dearest friend!” I cried, “do not fear! Speak that word; it will +bring peace, not death. If there is a chasm our mutual love will give +us wings to pass it, and we shall find flowers, and verdure, and +delight on the other side.” I threw myself at his feet, and took his +hand, “Yes, speak, and we shall be happy; there will no longer be +doubt, no dreadful uncertainty; trust me, my affection will soothe +your sorrow; speak that word and all danger will be past, and we shall +love each other as before, and for ever.”</p> + +<p>He snatched his hand from me, and rose in violent disorder: “What do +you mean? You know not what you mean. Why do<a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a> you bring me out, and +torture me, and tempt me, and kill me—Much happier would [it] be for +you and for me if in your frantic curiosity you tore my heart from my +breast and tried to read its secrets in it as its life’s blood was +dropping from it. Thus you may console me by reducing me to +nothing—but your words I cannot bear; soon they will make me mad, +quite mad, and then I shall utter strange words, and you will believe +them, and we shall be both lost for ever. I tell you I am on the very +verge of insanity; why, cruel girl, do you drive me on: you will +repent and I shall die.”</p> + +<p>When I repeat his words I wonder at my pertinacious folly; I hardly +know what feelings resis[t]lessly impelled me. I believe it was that +coming out with a determination not to be repulsed I went right +forward to my object without well weighing his replies: I was led by +passion and drew him with frantic heedlessness into the abyss that he +so fearfully avoided—I replied to his terrific words: “You fill me +with affright it is true, dearest father, but you only confirm my +resolution to put an end to this state of doubt. I will not be put off +thus: do you think that I can live thus fearfully from day to day—the +sword in my bosom yet kept from its mortal wound by a hair—a word!—I +demand that dreadful word; though it be as a flash of lightning to +destroy me, speak it.</p> + +<p>“Alas! Alas! What am I become? But a few months have elapsed since I +believed that I was all the world to you; and that there was no +happiness or grief for you on earth unshared by your Mathilda—your +child: that happy time is no longer, and what I most dreaded in this +world is come upon me. In the despair of my heart I see what you +cannot conceal: you no longer love me. I adjure you, my father, has +not an unnatural passion seized upon your heart? Am I not the most +miserable worm that crawls? Do I not embrace your knees, and you most +cruelly repulse me? I know it—I see it—you hate me!”</p> + +<p>I was transported by violent emotion, and rising from his feet, at +which I had thrown myself, I leant against a tree, wildly raising my +eyes to heaven. He began to answer with violence: “Yes, yes, I hate +you! You are my bane, my poison, my disgust! Oh! No[!]” And then his +manner changed, and fixing his eyes on me with an expression that +convulsed every nerve and member of my frame—“you are none of all +these; you are my light, my only one, my life.—My daughter, I love +you!” The last words died away in<a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a> a hoarse whisper, but I heard them +and sunk on the ground, covering my face and almost dead with excess +of sickness and fear: a cold perspiration covered my forehead and I +shivered in every limb—But he continued, clasping his hands with a +frantic gesture:</p> + +<p>“Now I have dashed from the top of the rock to the bottom! Now I have +precipitated myself down the fearful chasm! The danger is over; she is +alive! Oh, Mathilda, lift up those dear eyes in the light of which I +live. Let me hear the sweet tones of your beloved voice in peace and +calm. Monster as I am, you are still, as you ever were, lovely, +beautiful beyond expression. What I have become since this last moment +I know not; perhaps I am changed in mien as the fallen archangel. I do +believe I am for I have surely a new soul within me, and my blood +riots through my veins: I am burnt up with fever. But these are +precious moments; devil as I am become, yet that is my Mathilda before +me whom I love as one was never before loved: and she knows it now; +she listens to these words which I thought, fool as I was, would blast +her to death. Come, come, the worst is past: no more grief, tears or +despair; were not those the words you uttered?—We have leapt the +chasm I told you of, and now, mark me, Mathilda, we are to find +flowers, and verdure and delight, or is it hell, and fire, and +tortures? Oh! Beloved One, I am borne away; I can no longer sustain +myself; surely this is death that is coming. Let me lay my head near +your heart; let me die in your arms!”—He sunk to the earth fainting, +while I, nearly as lifeless, gazed on him in despair.</p> + +<p>Yes it was despair I felt; for the first time that phantom seized me; +the first and only time for it has never since left me—After the +first moments of speechless agony I felt her fangs on my heart: I tore +my hair; I raved aloud; at one moment in pity for his sufferings I +would have clasped my father in my arms; and then starting back with +horror I spurned him with my foot; I felt as if stung by a serpent, as +if scourged by a whip of scorpions which drove me—Ah! +Whither—Whither?</p> + +<p>Well, this could not last. One idea rushed on my mind; never, never +may I speak to him again. As this terrible conviction came upon <i>him</i> +[<i>me</i>?] it melted my soul to tenderness and love—I gazed on him as to +take my last farewell—he lay insensible—his eyes closed as [<i>and</i>?] +his cheeks deathly pale. Above, the leaves of the<a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a> beech wood cast a +flickering shadow on his face, and waved in mournful melody over +him—I saw all these things and said, “Aye, this is his grave!” And +then I wept aloud, and raised my eyes to heaven to entreat for a +respite to my despair and an alleviation for his unnatural +suffering—the tears that gushed in a warm & healing stream from my +eyes relieved the burthen that oppressed my heart almost to madness. I +wept for a long time untill I saw him about to revive, when horror and +misery again recurred, and the tide of my sensations rolled back to +their former channel: with a terror I could not restrain—I sprung up +and fled, with winged speed, along the paths of the wood and across +the fields untill nearly dead I reached our house and just ordering +the servants to seek my father at the spot I indicated, I shut myself +up in my own room[.]<a name="FNanchor_33_57" id="FNanchor_33_57"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_57"><sup>[33]</sup></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<p>My chamber was in a retired part of the house, and looked upon the +garden so that no sound of the other inhabitants could reach it; and +here in perfect solitude I wept for several hours. When a servant came +to ask me if I would take food I learnt from him that my father had +returned, and was apparently well and this relieved me from a load of +anxiety, yet I did not cease to weep bitterly. As [<i>At</i>] first, as the +memory of former happiness contrasted to my present despair came +across me, I gave relief to the oppression of heart that I felt by +words, and groans, and heart rending sighs: but nature became wearied, +and this more violent grief gave place to a passionate but mute flood +of tears: my whole soul seemed to dissolve [in] them. I did not wring +my hands, or tear my hair, or utter wild exclamations, but as Boccacio +describes the intense and quiet grief [of] Sigismunda over the heart +of Guiscardo,<a name="FNanchor_34_58" id="FNanchor_34_58"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_58"><sup>[34]</sup></a> I sat with my hands folded, silently letting fall a +perpetual stream from my eyes. Such was the depth of my emotion that I +had no feeling of what caused my distress, my thoughts even wandered +to many indifferent objects; but still neither moving limb or feature +my tears fell untill, as if the fountains were exhausted, they +gradually subsided, and I awoke to life as from a dream.</p> + +<p>When I had ceased to weep reason and memory returned upon me, and I +began to reflect with greater calmness on what had happened, and how +it became me to act—A few hours only had passed but a mighty +revolution had taken place with regard to me—the natural work of +years had been transacted since the morning: my father was as dead to +me, and I felt for a moment as if he with white hairs were laid in his +coffin and I—youth vanished in approaching age, were weeping at his +timely dissolution. But it was not so, I was yet young, Oh! far too +young, nor was he dead to others; but I, most miserable, must never +see or speak to him again. I must fly from him with more earnestness +than from my greatest enemy: in solitude or in cities I must never +more behold him. That consideration made me breathless with anguish, +and impressing itself on my imagination I was unable for a time to +follow up any train of ideas. Ever after this, I thought, I would<a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a> +live in the most dreary seclusion. I would retire to the Continent and +become a nun; not for religion’s sake, for I was not a Catholic, but +that I might be for ever shut out from the world. I should there find +solitude where I might weep, and the voices of life might never reach +me.</p> + +<p>But my father; my beloved and most wretched father? Would he die? +Would he never overcome the fierce passion that now held pityless +dominion over him? Might he not many, many years hence, when age had +quenched the burning sensations that he now experienced, might he not +then be again a father to me? This reflection unwrinkled my brow, and +I could feel (and I wept to feel it) a half melancholy smile draw from +my lips their expression of suffering: I dared indulge better hopes +for my future life; years must pass but they would speed lightly away +winged by hope, or if they passed heavily, still they would pass and I +had not lost my father for ever. Let him spend another sixteen years +of desolate wandering: let him once more utter his wild complaints to +the vast woods and the tremendous cataracts of another clime: let him +again undergo fearful danger and soul-quelling hardships: let the hot +sun of the south again burn his passion worn cheeks and the cold night +rains fall on him and chill his blood.</p> + +<p>To this life, miserable father, I devote thee!—Go!—Be thy days +passed with savages, and thy nights under the cope of heaven! Be thy +limbs worn and thy heart chilled, and all youth be dead within thee! +Let thy hairs be as snow; thy walk trembling and thy voice have lost +its mellow tones! Let the liquid lustre of thine eyes be quenched; and +then return to me, return to thy Mathilda, thy child, who may then be +clasped in thy loved arms, while thy heart beats with sinless emotion. +Go, Devoted One, and return thus!—This is my curse, a daughter’s +curse: go, and return pure to thy child, who will never love aught but +thee.</p> + +<p>These were my thoughts; and with trembling hands I prepared to begin a +letter to my unhappy parent. I had now spent many hours in tears and +mournful meditation; it was past twelve o’clock; all was at peace in +the house, and the gentle air that stole in at my window did not +rustle the leaves of the twining plants that shadowed it. I felt the +entire tranquillity of the hour when my own breath and involuntary +sobs were all the sounds that struck upon the air. On a sudden I heard +a gentle step ascending the stairs; I paused<a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a> breathless, and as it +approached glided into an obscure corner of the room; the steps paused +at my door, but after a few moments they again receeded[,] descended +the stairs and I heard no more.</p> + +<p>This slight incident gave rise in me to the most painful reflections; +nor do I now dare express the emotions I felt. That he should be +restless I understood; that he should wander as an unlaid ghost and +find no quiet from the burning hell that consumed his heart. But why +approach my chamber? Was not that sacred? I felt almost ready to faint +while he had stood there, but I had not betrayed my wakefulness by the +slightest motion, although I had heard my own heart beat with violent +fear. He had withdrawn. Oh, never, never, may I see him again! +Tomorrow night the same roof may not cover us; he or I must depart. +The mutual link of our destinies is broken; we must be divided by +seas—by land. The stars and the sun must not rise at the same period +to us: he must not say, looking at the setting crescent of the moon, +“Mathilda now watches its fall.”—No, all must be changed. Be it light +with him when it is darkness with me! Let him feel the sun of summer +while I am chilled by the snows of winter! Let there be the distance +of the antipodes between us!</p> + +<p>At length the east began to brighten, and the comfortable light of +morning streamed into my room. I was weary with watching and for some +time I had combated with the heavy sleep that weighed down my eyelids: +but now, no longer fearful, I threw myself on my bed. I sought for +repose although I did not hope for forgetfulness; I knew I should be +pursued by dreams, but did not dread the frightful one that I really +had. I thought that I had risen and went to seek my father to inform +him of my determination to seperate myself from him. I sought him in +the house, in the park, and then in the fields and the woods, but I +could not find him. At length I saw him at some distance, seated under +a tree, and when he perceived me he waved his hand several times, +beckoning me to approach; there was something unearthly in his mien +that awed and chilled me, but I drew near. When at [a] short distance +from him I saw that he was deadlily [<i>sic</i>] pale, and clothed in +flowing garments of white. Suddenly he started up and fled from me; I +pursued him: we sped over the fields, and by the skirts of woods, and +on the banks of rivers; he flew fast and I followed. We came at last, +methought, to the brow of a huge cliff that over hung the<a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a> sea which, +troubled by the winds, dashed against its base at a distance. I heard +the roar of the waters: he held his course right on towards the brink +and I became breathless with fear lest he should plunge down the +dreadful precipice; I tried to augment my speed, but my knees failed +beneath me, yet I had just reached him; just caught a part of his +flowing robe, when he leapt down and I awoke with a violent scream. I +was trembling and my pillow was wet with my tears; for a few moments +my heart beat hard, but the bright beams of the sun and the chirping +of the birds quickly restored me to myself, and I rose with a languid +spirit, yet wondering what events the day would bring forth. Some time +passed before I summoned courage to ring the bell for my servant, and +when she came I still dared not utter my father’s name. I ordered her +to bring my breakfast to my room, and was again left alone—yet still +I could make no resolve, but only thought that I might write a note to +my father to beg his permission to pay a visit to a relation who lived +about thirty miles off, and who had before invited me to her house, +but I had refused for then I could not quit my suffering father. When +the servant came back she gave me a letter.</p> + +<p>“From whom is this letter[?]” I asked trembling.</p> + +<p>“Your father left it, madam, with his servant, to be given to you when +you should rise.”</p> + +<p>“My father left it! Where is he? Is he not here?”</p> + +<p>“No; he quitted the house before four this morning.”</p> + +<p>“Good God! He is gone! But tell how this was; speak quick!”</p> + +<p>Her relation was short. He had gone in the carriage to the nearest +town where he took a post chaise and horses with orders for the London +road. He dismissed his servants there, only telling them that he had a +sudden call of business and that they were to obey me as their +mistress untill his return.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<p>With a beating heart and fearful, I knew not why, I dismissed the +servant and locking my door, sat down to read my father’s letter. +These are the words that it contained.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“My dear Child</p> + +<p>“I have betrayed your confidence; I have endeavoured to pollute your +mind, and have made your innocent heart acquainted with the looks and +language of unlawful and monstrous passion. I must expiate these +crimes, and must endeavour in some degree to proportionate my +punishment to my guilt. You are I doubt not prepared for what I am +about to announce; we must seperate and be divided for ever.</p> + +<p>“I deprive you of your parent and only friend. You are cast out +shelterless on the world: your hopes are blasted; the peace and +security of your pure mind destroyed; memory will bring to you +frightful images of guilt, and the anguish of innocent love betrayed. +Yet I who draw down all this misery upon you; I who cast you forth and +remorselessly have set the seal of distrust and agony on the heart and +brow of my own child, who with devilish levity have endeavoured to +steal away her loveliness to place in its stead the foul deformity of +sin; I, in the overflowing anguish of my heart, supplicate you to +forgive me.</p> + +<p>“I do not ask your pity; you must and do abhor me: but pardon me, +Mathilda, and let not your thoughts follow me in my banishment with +unrelenting anger. I must never more behold you; never more hear your +voice; but the soft whisperings of your forgiveness will reach me and +cool the burning of my disordered brain and heart; I am sure I should +feel it even in my grave. And I dare enforce this request by relating +how miserably I was betrayed into this net of fiery anguish and all my +struggles to release myself: indeed if your soul were less pure and +bright I would not attempt to exculpate myself to you; I should fear +that if I led you to regard me with less abhorrence you might hate +vice less: but in addressing you I feel as if I appealed to an angelic +judge. I cannot depart without your forgiveness and I must endeavour +to gain it, or I<a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a> must despair.<a name="FNanchor_35_59" id="FNanchor_35_59"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_59"><sup>[35]</sup></a> I conjure you therefore to listen +to my words, and if with the good guilt may be in any degree +extenuated by sharp agony, and remorse that rends the brain as madness +perhaps you may think, though I dare not, that I have some claim to +your compassion.</p> + +<p>“I entreat you to call to your remembrance our first happy life on the +shores of Loch Lomond. I had arrived from a weary wandering of sixteen +years, during which, although I had gone through many dangers and +misfortunes, my affections had been an entire blank. If I grieved it +was for your mother, if I loved it was your image; these sole emotions +filled my heart in quietness. The human creatures around me excited in +me no sympathy and I thought that the mighty change that the death of +your mother had wrought within me had rendered me callous to any +future impression. I saw the lovely and I did not love, I imagined +therefore that all warmth was extinguished in my heart except that +which led me ever to dwell on your then infantine image.</p> + +<p>“It is a strange link in my fate that without having seen you I should +passionately love you. During my wanderings I never slept without +first calling down gentle dreams on your head. If I saw a lovely +woman, I thought, does my Mathilda resemble her? All delightful +things, sublime scenery, soft breezes, exquisite music seemed to me +associated with you and only through you to be pleasant to me. At +length I saw you. You appeared as the deity of a lovely region, the +ministering Angel of a Paradise to which of all human kind you +admitted only me. I dared hardly consider you as my daughter; your +beauty, artlessness and untaught wisdom seemed to belong to a higher +order of beings; your voice breathed forth only words of love: if +there was aught of earthly in you it was only what you derived from +the beauty of the world; you seemed to have gained a grace from the +mountain breezes—the waterfalls and the lake; and this was all of +earthly except your affections that you had; there was no dross, no +bad feeling in the composition. You yet even have not seen enough<a name="FNanchor_36_60" id="FNanchor_36_60"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_60"><sup>[36]</sup></a> +of the world to know the stupendous difference that exists between the +women we meet in dayly life and a nymph of the woods such as you were, +in whose eyes alone mankind may study for centuries & grow wiser & +purer. Those divine lights which shone on me as did those of Beatrice +upon Dante, and well might I say with him yet with what different +feelings<a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a></p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>E quasi mi perdei gli occhi chini.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Can you wonder, Mathilda, that I dwelt on your looks, your words, your +motions, & drank in unmixed delight?</p> + +<p>[“]But I am afraid that I wander from my purpose. I must be more brief +for night draws on apace and all my hours in this house are counted. +Well, we removed to London, and still I felt only the peace of sinless +passion. You were ever with me, and I desired no more than to gaze on +your countenance, and to know that I was all the world to you; I was +lapped in a fool’s paradise of enjoyment and security. Was my love +blamable? If it was I was ignorant of it; I desired only that which I +possessed, and if I enjoyed from your looks, and words, and most +innocent caresses a rapture usually excluded from the feelings of a +parent towards his child, yet no uneasiness, no wish, no casual idea +awoke me to a sense of guilt. I loved you as a human father might be +supposed to love a daughter borne to him by a heavenly mother; as +Anchises might have regarded the child of Venus if the sex had been +changed; love mingled with respect and adoration. Perhaps also my +passion was lulled to content by the deep and exclusive affection you +felt for me.</p> + +<p>“But when I saw you become the object of another’s love; when I +imagined that you might be loved otherwise than as a sacred type and +image of loveliness and excellence; or that you might love another +with a more ardent affection than that which you bore to me, then the +fiend awoke within me; I dismissed your lover; and from that moment I +have known no peace. I have sought in vain for sleep and rest; my lids +refused to close, and my blood was for ever in a tumult. I awoke to a +new life as one who dies in hope might wake in Hell. I will not sully +your imagination by recounting my combats, my self-anger and my +despair. Let a veil be drawn over the unimaginable sensations of a +guilty father; the secrets of so agonized a heart may not be made +vulgar. All was uproar, crime, remorse and hate, yet still the +tenderest love; and what first awoke me to the firm resolve of +conquering my passion and of restoring her father to my child was the +sight of your bitter and sympathizing sorrows. It was this that led me +here: I thought that if I could again awaken in my heart the grief I +had felt at the loss of your mother, and the many associations with +her memory which had been laid to sleep for seventeen years, that all<a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a> +love for her child would become extinct. In a fit of heroism I +determined to go alone; to quit you, the life of my life, and not to +see you again untill I might guiltlessly. But it would not do: I rated +my fortitude too high, or my love too low. I should certainly have +died if you had not hastened to me. Would that I had been indeed +extinguished!</p> + +<p>“And now, Mathilda I must make you my last confession. I have been +miserably mistaken in imagining that I could conquer my love for you; +I never can. The sight of this house, these fields and woods which my +first love inhabited seems to have encreased it: in my madness I dared +say to myself—Diana died to give her birth; her mother’s spirit was +transferred into her frame, and she ought to be as Diana to me.<a name="FNanchor_37_61" id="FNanchor_37_61"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_61"><sup>[37]</sup></a> +With every effort to cast it off, this love clings closer, this guilty +love more unnatural than hate, that withers your hopes and destroys me +for ever.</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Better have loved despair, & safer kissed her.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>No time or space can tear from my soul that which makes a part of it. +Since my arrival here I have not for a moment ceased to feel the hell +of passion which has been implanted in me to burn untill all be cold, +and stiff, and dead. Yet I will not die; alas! how dare I go where I +may meet Diana, when I have disobeyed her last request; her last words +said in a faint voice when all feeling but love, which survives all +things else was already dead, she then bade me make her child happy: +that thought alone gives a double sting to death. I will wander away +from you, away from all life—in the solitude I shall seek I alone +shall breathe of human kind. I must endure life; and as it is my duty +so I shall untill the grave dreaded yet desired, receive me free from +pain: for while I feel it will be pain that must make up the whole sum +of my sensations. Is not this a fearful curse that I labour under? Do +I not look forward to a miserable future? My child, if after this life +I am permitted to see you again, if pain can purify the heart, mine +will be pure: if remorse may expiate guilt, I shall be guiltless.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>[“]I have been at the door of your chamber: every thing is silent. You +sleep. Do you indeed sleep, Mathilda? Spirits of Good, behold the +tears of my earnest prayer! Bless my child! Protect her from<a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a> the +selfish among her fellow creatures: protect her from the agonies of +passion, and the despair of disappointment! Peace, Hope and Love be +thy guardians, oh, thou soul of my soul: thou in whom I breathe!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>[“]I dare not read my letter over for I have no time to write another, +and yet I fear that some expressions in it might displease me. Since I +last saw you I have been constantly employed in writing letters, and +have several more to write; for I do not intend that any one shall +hear of me after I depart. I need not conjure you to look upon me as +one of whom all links that once existed between us are broken. Your +own delicacy will not allow you, I am convinced, to attempt to trace +me. It is far better for your peace that you should be ignorant of my +destination. You will not follow me, for when I bannish myself would +you nourish guilt by obtruding yourself upon me? You will not do this, +I know you will not. You must forget me and all the evil that I have +taught you. Cast off the only gift that I have bestowed upon you, your +grief, and rise from under my blighting influence as no flower so +sweet ever did rise from beneath so much evil.</p> + +<p>“You will never hear from me again: receive these then as the last +words of mine that will ever reach you; and although I have forfeited +your filial love, yet regard them I conjure you as a father’s command. +Resolutely shake of[f] the wretchedness that this first misfortune in +early life must occasion you. Bear boldly up against the storm: +continue wise and mild, but believe it, and indeed it is, your duty to +be happy. You are very young; let not this check for more than a +moment retard your glorious course; hold on, beloved one. The sun of +youth is not set for you; it will restore vigour and life to you; do +not resist with obstinate grief its beneficent influence, oh, my +child! bless me with the hope that I have not utterly destroyed you.</p> + +<p>“Farewell, Mathilda. I go with the belief that I have your pardon. +Your gentle nature would not permit you to hate your greatest enemy +and though I be he, although I have rent happiness from your +grasp;<a name="FNanchor_38_62" id="FNanchor_38_62"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_62"><sup>[38]</sup></a> though I have passed over your young love and hopes as the +angel of destruction, finding beauty and joy, and leaving blight and +despair, yet you will forgive me, and with eyes<a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a> overflowing with +tears I thank you; my beloved one, I accept your pardon with a +gratitude that will never die, and that will, indeed it will, outlive +guilt and remorse.</p> + +<p>“Farewell for ever!”</p></div> + +<p>The moment I finished this letter I ordered the carriage and prepared +to follow my father. The words of his letter by which he had dissuaded +me from this step were those that determined me. Why did he write +them? He must know that if I believed that his intention was merely to +absent himself from me that instead of opposing him it would be that +which I should myself require—or if he thought that any lurking +feeling, yet he could not think that, should lead me to him would he +endeavour to overthrow the only hope he could have of ever seeing me +again; a lover, there was madness in the thought, yet he was my lover, +would not act thus. No, he had determined to die, and he wished to +spare me the misery of knowing it. The few ineffectual words he had +said concerning his duty were to me a further proof—and the more I +studied the letter the more did I perceive a thousand slight +expressions that could only indicate a knowledge that life was now +over for him. He was about to die! My blood froze at the thought: a +sickening feeling of horror came over me that allowed not of tears. As +I waited for the carriage I walked up and down with a quick pace; then +kneeling and passionately clasping my hands I tried to pray but my +voice was choked by convulsive sobs—Oh the sun shone[,] the air was +balmy—he must yet live for if he were dead all would surely be black +as night to me!<a name="FNanchor_39_63" id="FNanchor_39_63"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_63"><sup>[39]</sup></a></p> + +<p>The motion of the carriage knowing that it carried me towards him and +that I might perhaps find him alive somewhat revived my courage: yet I +had a dreadful ride. Hope only supported me, the hope that I should +not be too late[.] I did not weep, but I wiped the perspiration from +my brow, and tried to still my brain and heart beating almost to +madness. Oh! I must not be mad when I see him; or perhaps it were as +well that I should be, my distraction might calm his, and recall him +to the endurance of life. Yet untill I find him I must force reason to +keep her seat, and I pressed my forehead hard with my hands—Oh do not +leave me; or I shall forget what I am about—instead of driving on as +we ought with the speed of lightning they will attend to me, and we +shall be too late. Oh! God help me! Let him be alive! It is all dark; +in<a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a> my abject misery I demand no more: no hope, no good: only passion, +and guilt, and horror; but alive! Alive! My sensations choked me—No +tears fell yet I sobbed, and breathed short and hard; one only thought +possessed me, and I could only utter one word, that half screaming was +perpetually on my lips; Alive! Alive!—</p> + +<p>I had taken the steward<a name="FNanchor_40_64" id="FNanchor_40_64"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_64"><sup>[40]</sup></a> with me for he, much better than I[,] +could make the requisite enquiries—the poor old man could not +restrain his tears as he saw my deep distress and knew the cause—he +sometimes uttered a few broken words of consolation: in moments like +these the mistress and servant become in a manner equals and when I +saw his old dim eyes wet with sympathizing tears; his gray hair thinly +scattered on an age-wrinkled brow I thought oh if my father were as he +is—decrepid & hoary—then I should be spared this pain—</p> + +<p>When I had arrived at the nearest town I took post horses and followed +the road my father had taken. At every inn where we changed horses we +heard of him, and I was possessed by alternate hope and fear. A length +I found that he had altered his route; at first he had followed the +London road; but now he changed it, and upon enquiry I found that the +one which he now pursued led <i>towards the sea</i>. My dream recurred to +my thoughts; I was not usually superstitious but in wretchedness every +one is so. The sea was fifty miles off, yet it was towards it that he +fled. The idea was terrible to my half crazed imagination, and almost +over-turned the little self possession that still remained to me. I +journied all day; every moment my misery encreased and the fever of my +blood became intolerable. The summer sun shone in an unclouded sky; +the air was close but all was cool to me except my own scorching skin. +Towards evening dark thunder clouds arose above the horrizon and I +heard its distant roll—after sunset they darkened the whole sky and +it began to rain[,] the lightning lighted up the whole country and the +thunder drowned the noise of our carriage. At the next inn my father +had not taken horses; he had left a box there saying he would return, +and had walked over the fields to the town of —— a seacost town +eight miles off.</p> + +<p>For a moment I was almost paralized by fear; but my energy returned +and I demanded a guide to accompany me in following his steps. The +night was tempestuous but my bribe was high and I easily procured a +countryman. We passed through many lanes and<a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a> over fields and wild +downs; the rain poured down in torrents; and the loud thunder broke in +terrible crashes over our heads. Oh! What a night it was! And I passed +on with quick steps among the high, dank grass amid the rain and +tempest. My dream was for ever in my thoughts, and with a kind of half +insanity that often possesses the mind in despair, I said aloud; +“Courage! We are not near the sea; we are yet several miles from the +ocean”—Yet it was towards the sea that our direction lay and that +heightened the confusion of my ideas. Once, overcome by fatigue, I +sunk on the wet earth; about two hundred yards distant, alone in a +large meadow stood a magnificent oak; the lightnings shewed its myriad +boughs torn by the storm. A strange idea seized me; a person must have +felt all the agonies of doubt concerning the life and death of one who +is the whole world to them before they can enter into my feelings—for +in that state, the mind working unrestrained by the will makes strange +and fanciful combinations with outward circumstances and weaves the +chances and changes of nature into an immediate connexion with the +event they dread. It was with this feeling that I turned to the old +Steward who stood pale and trembling beside me; “Mark, Gaspar, if the +next flash of lightning rend not that oak my father will be alive.”</p> + +<p>I had scarcely uttered these words than a flash instantly followed by +a tremendous peal of thunder descended on it; and when my eyes +recovered their sight after the dazzling light, the oak no longer +stood in the meadow—The old man uttered a wild exclamation of horror +when he saw so sudden an interpretation given to my prophesy. I +started up, my strength returned; [<i>sic</i>] with my terror; I cried, +“Oh, God! Is this thy decree? Yet perhaps I shall not be too late.”</p> + +<p>Although still several miles distant we continued to approach the sea. +We came at last to the road that led to the town of——and at an inn +there we heard that my father had passed by somewhat before sunset; he +had observed the approaching storm and had hired a horse for the next +town which was situated a mile from the sea that he might arrive there +before it should commence: this town was five miles off. We hired a +chaise here, and with four horses drove with speed through the storm. +My garments were wet and clung around me, and my hair hung in straight +locks on my neck when not blown aside by the wind. I shivered, yet my +pulse was high with fever. Great God! What agony I endured. I shed no<a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a> +tears but my eyes wild and inflamed were starting from my head; I +could hardly support the weight that pressed upon my brain. We arrived +at the town of —— in a little more than half an hour. When my father +had arrived the storm had already begun, but he had refused to stop +and leaving his horse there he walked on—<i>towards the sea</i>. Alas! it +was double cruelty in him to have chosen the sea for his fatal +resolve; it was adding madness to my despair.<a name="FNanchor_41_65" id="FNanchor_41_65"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_65"><sup>[41]</sup></a></p> + +<p>The poor old servant who was with me endeavoured to persuade me to +remain here and to let him go alone—I shook my head silently and +sadly; sick almost to death I leant upon his arm, and as there was no +road for a chaise dragged my weary steps across the desolate downs to +meet my fate, now too certain for the agony of doubt. Almost fainting +I slowly approached the fatal waters; when we had quitted the town we +heard their roaring[.] I whispered to myself in a muttering +voice—“The sound is the same as that which I heard in my dream. It is +the knell of my father which I hear.”<a name="FNanchor_42_66" id="FNanchor_42_66"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_66"><sup>[42]</sup></a></p> + +<p>The rain had ceased; there was no more thunder and lightning; the wind +had paused. My heart no longer beat wildly; I did not feel any fever: +but I was chilled; my knees sunk under me—I almost slept as I walked +with excess of weariness; every limb trembled. I was silent: all was +silent except the roaring of the sea which became louder and more +dreadful. Yet we advanced slowly: sometimes I thought that we should +never arrive; that the sound of waves would still allure us, and that +we should walk on for ever and ever: field succeeding field, never +would our weary journey cease, nor night nor day; but still we should +hear the dashing of the sea, and to all this there would be no end. +Wild beyond the imagination of the happy are the thoughts bred by +misery and despair.</p> + +<p>At length we reached the overhanging beach; a cottage stood beside the +path; we knocked at the door and it was opened: the bed within +instantly caught my eye; something stiff and straight lay on it, +covered by a sheet; the cottagers looked aghast. The first words that +they uttered confirmed what I before knew. I did not feel shocked or +overcome: I believe that I asked one or two questions and listened to +the answers. I har[d]ly know, but in a few moments I sank lifeless to +the ground; and so would that then all had been at an end!</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<p>I was carried to the next town: fever succeeded to convulsions and +faintings, & for some weeks my unhappy spirit hovered on the very +verge of death. But life was yet strong within me; I recovered: nor +did it a little aid my returning health that my recollections were at +first vague, and that I was too weak to feel any violent emotion. I +often said to myself, my father is dead. He loved me with a guilty +passion, and stung by remorse and despair he killed himself. Why is it +that I feel no horror? Are these circumstances not dreadful? Is it not +enough that I shall never more meet the eyes of my beloved father; +never more hear his voice; no caress, no look? All cold, and stiff, +and dead! Alas! I am quite callous: the night I was out in was fearful +and the cold rain that fell about my heart has acted like the waters +of the cavern of Antiparos<a name="FNanchor_43_67" id="FNanchor_43_67"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_67"><sup>[43]</sup></a> and has changed it to stone. I do not +weep or sigh; but I must reason with myself, and force myself to feel +sorrow and despair. This is not resignation that I feel, for I am dead +to all regret.</p> + +<p>I communed in this manner with myself, but I was silent to all around +me. I hardly replied to the slightest question, and was uneasy when I +saw a human creature near me. I was surrounded by my female relations, +but they were all of them nearly strangers to me: I did not listen to +their consolations; and so little did they work their designed effect +that they seemed to me to be spoken in an unknown tongue. I found if +sorrow was dead within me, so was love and desire of sympathy. Yet +sorrow only slept to revive more fierce, but love never woke +again—its ghost, ever hovering over my father’s grave, alone +survived—since his death all the world was to me a blank except where +woe had stampt its burning words telling me to smile no more—the +living were not fit companions for me, and I was ever meditating by +what means I might shake them all off, and never be heard of again.</p> + +<p>My convalescence rapidly advanced, yet this was the thought that +haunted me, and I was for ever forming plans how I might hereafter +contrive to escape the tortures that were prepared for me when I +should mix in society, and to find that solitude which alone could +suit one whom an untold grief seperated from her fellow<a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a> creatures. +Who can be more solitary even in a crowd than one whose history and +the never ending feelings and remembrances arising from it is [<i>sic</i>] +known to no living soul. There was too deep a horror in my tale for +confidence; I was on earth the sole depository of my own secret. I +might tell it to the winds and to the desart heaths but I must never +among my fellow creatures, either by word or look give allowance to +the smallest conjecture of the dread reality: I must shrink before the +eye of man lest he should read my father’s guilt in my glazed eyes: I +must be silent lest my faltering voice should betray unimagined +horrors. Over the deep grave of my secret I must heap an impenetrable +heap of false smiles and words: cunning frauds, treacherous laughter +and a mixture of all light deceits would form a mist to blind others +and be as the poisonous simoon to me.<a name="FNanchor_44_68" id="FNanchor_44_68"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_68"><sup>[44]</sup></a> I, the offspring of love, +the child of the woods, the nursling of Nature’s bright self was to +submit to this? I dared not.</p> + +<p>How must I escape? I was rich and young, and had a guardian appointed +for me; and all about me would act as if I were one of their great +society, while I must keep the secret that I really was cut off from +them for ever. If I fled I should be pursued; in life there was no +escape for me: why then I must die. I shuddered; I dared not die even +though the cold grave held all I loved; although I might say with Job</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Where is now my hope? For my hope who shall see it?<br /> +They shall go down together to the bars of the pit, when our +rest together is in the dust—<a name="FNanchor_45_69" id="FNanchor_45_69"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_69"><sup>[45]</sup></a> </p></div> + +<p>Yes my hope was corruption and dust and all to which death brings +us.—Or after life—No, no, I will not persuade myself to die, I may +not, dare not. And then I wept; yes, warm tears once more struggled +into my eyes soothing yet bitter; and after I had wept much and called +with unavailing anguish, with outstretched arms, for my cruel father; +after my weak frame was exhausted by all variety of plaint I sank once +more into reverie, and once more reflected on how I might find that +which I most desired; dear to me if aught were dear, a death-like +solitude.</p> + +<p>I dared not die, but I might feign death, and thus escape from my +comforters: they will believe me united to my father, and so indeed I +shall be. For alone, when no voice can disturb my dream,<a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a> and no cold +eye meet mine to check its fire, then I may commune with his spirit; +on a lone heath, at noon or at midnight, still I should be near him. +His last injunction to me was that I should be happy; perhaps he did +not mean the shadowy happiness that I promised myself, yet it was that +alone which I could taste. He did not conceive that ever [qu. +<i>never</i>?] again I could make one of the smiling hunters that go +coursing after bubles that break to nothing when caught, and then +after a new one with brighter colours; my hope also had proved a +buble, but it had been so lovely, so adorned that I saw none that +could attract me after it; besides I was wearied with the pursuit, +nearly dead with weariness.</p> + +<p>I would feign to die; my contented heirs would seize upon my wealth, +and I should purchase freedom. But then my plan must be laid with art; +I would not be left destitute, I must secure some money. Alas! to what +loathsome shifts must I be driven? Yet a whole life of falsehood was +otherwise my portion: and when remorse at being the contriver of any +cheat made me shrink from my design I was irresistably led back and +confirmed in it by the visit of some aunt or cousin, who would tell me +that death was the end of all men. And then say that my father had +surely lost his wits ever since my mother’s death; that he was mad and +that I was fortunate, for in one of his fits he might have killed me +instead of destroying his own crazed being. And all this, to be sure, +was delicately put; not in broad words for my feelings might be hurt +but</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Whispered so and so<br /></span> +<span>In dark hint soft and low<a name="FNanchor_E_23" id="FNanchor_E_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_E_23"><sup>[E]</sup></a> +<a name="FNanchor_46_70" id="FNanchor_46_70"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_70"><sup>[46]</sup></a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>with downcast eyes, and sympathizing smiles or whimpers; and I +listened with quiet countenance while every nerve trembled; I that +dared not utter aye or no to all this blasphemy. Oh, this was a +delicious life quite void of guile! I with my dove’s look and fox’s +heart: for indeed I felt only the degradation of falsehood, and not +any sacred sentiment of conscious innocence that might redeem it. I +who had before clothed myself in the bright garb of sincerity must now +borrow one of divers colours: it might sit awkwardly at first, but use +would enable me to place it in elegant folds, to lie with grace. Aye, +I might die my soul with falsehood untill I had <a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>quite hid its native +colour. Oh, beloved father! Accept the pure heart of your unhappy +daughter; permit me to join you unspotted as I was or you will not +recognize my altered semblance. As grief might change Constance<a name="FNanchor_47_71" id="FNanchor_47_71"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_71"><sup>[47]</sup></a> so +would deceit change me untill in heaven you would say, “This is not my +child”—My father, to be happy both now and when again we meet I must +fly from all this life which is mockery to one like me. In solitude +only shall I be myself; in solitude I shall be thine.</p> + +<p>Alas! I even now look back with disgust at my artifices and +contrivances by which, after many painful struggles, I effected my +retreat. I might enter into a long detail of the means I used, first +to secure myself a slight maintenance for the remainder of my life, +and afterwards to ensure the conviction of my death: I might, but I +will not. I even now blush at the falsehoods I uttered; my heart +sickens: I will leave this complication of what I hope I may in a +manner call innocent deceit to be imagined by the reader. The +remembrance haunts me like a crime—I know that if I were to endeavour +to relate it my tale would at length remain unfinished.<a name="FNanchor_48_72" id="FNanchor_48_72"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_72"><sup>[48]</sup></a> I was led +to London, and had to endure for some weeks cold looks, cold words and +colder consolations: but I escaped; they tried to bind me with fetters +that they thought silken, yet which weighed on me like iron, although +I broke them more easily than a girth formed of a single straw and +fled to freedom.</p> + +<p>The few weeks that I spent in London were the most miserable of my +life: a great city is a frightful habitation to one sorrowing. The +sunset and the gentle moon, the blessed motion of the leaves and the +murmuring of waters are all sweet physicians to a distempered mind. +The soul is expanded and drinks in quiet, a lulling medecine—to me it +was as the sight of the lovely water snakes to the bewitched +mariner—in loving and blessing Nature I unawares, called down a +blessing on my own soul. But in a city all is closed shut like a +prison, a wiry prison from which you can peep at the sky only. I can +not describe to you what were [<i>sic</i>] the frantic nature of my +sensations while I resided there; I was often on the verge of madness. +Nay, when I look back on many of my wild thoughts, thoughts with which +actions sometimes endeavoured to keep pace; when I tossed my hands +high calling down the cope of heaven to fall on me and bury me; when I +tore my hair and throwing it to the winds cried, “Ye are free, go seek +my father!”<a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a> And then, like the unfortunate Constance, catching at +them again and tying them up, that nought might find him if I might +not. How, on my knees I have fancied myself close to my father’s grave +and struck the ground in anger that it should cover him from me. Oft +when I have listened with gasping attention for the sound of the ocean +mingled with my father’s groans; and then wept untill my strength was +gone and I was calm and faint, when I have recollected all this I have +asked myself if this were not madness. While in London these and many +other dreadful thoughts too harrowing for words were my portion: I +lost all this suffering when I was free; when I saw the wild heath +around me, and the evening star in the west, then I could weep, gently +weep, and be at peace.</p> + +<p>Do not mistake me; I never was really mad. I was always conscious of +my state when my wild thoughts seemed to drive me to insanity, and +never betrayed them to aught but silence and solitude. The people +around me saw nothing of all this. They only saw a poor girl broken in +spirit, who spoke in a low and gentle voice, and from underneath whose +downcast lids tears would sometimes steal which she strove to hide. +One who loved to be alone, and shrunk from observation; who never +smiled; oh, no! I never smiled—and that was all.</p> + +<p>Well, I escaped. I left my guardian’s house and I was never heard of +again; it was believed from the letters that I left and other +circumstances that I planned that I had destroyed myself. I was sought +after therefore with less care than would otherwise have been the +case; and soon all trace and memory of me was lost. I left London in a +small vessel bound for a port in the north of England. And now having +succeeded in my attempt, and being quite alone peace returned to me. +The sea was calm and the vessel moved gently onwards, I sat upon deck +under the open canopy of heaven and methought I was an altered +creature. Not the wild, raving & most miserable Mathilda but a +youthful Hermitess dedicated to seclusion and whose bosom she must +strive to keep free from all tumult and unholy despair—The fanciful +nunlike dress that I had adopted;<a name="FNanchor_49_73" id="FNanchor_49_73"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_73"><sup>[49]</sup></a> the knowledge that my very +existence was a secret known only to myself; the solitude to which I +was for ever hereafter destined nursed gentle thoughts in my wounded +heart. The breeze that played in my hair revived me, and I watched<a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a> +with quiet eyes the sunbeams that glittered on the waves, and the +birds that coursed each other over the waters just brushing them with +their plumes. I slept too undisturbed by dreams; and awoke refreshed +to again enjoy my tranquil freedom.</p> + +<p>In four days we arrived at the harbour to which we were bound. I would +not remain on the sea coast, but proceeded immediately inland. I had +already planned the situation where I would live. It should be a +solitary house on a wide plain near no other habitation: where I could +behold the whole horizon, and wander far without molestation from the +sight of my fellow creatures. I was not mysanthropic, but I felt that +the gentle current of my feelings depended upon my being alone. I +fixed myself on a wide solitude. On a dreary heath bestrewen with +stones, among which short grass grew; and here and there a few rushes +beside a little pool. Not far from my cottage was a small cluster of +pines the only trees to be seen for many miles: I had a path cut +through the furze from my door to this little wood, from whose topmost +branches the birds saluted the rising sun and awoke me to my daily +meditation. My view was bounded only by the horizon except on one side +where a distant wood made a black spot on the heath, that every where +else stretched out its faint hues as far as the eye could reach, wide +and very desolate. Here I could mark the net work of the clouds as +they wove themselves into thick masses: I could watch the slow rise of +the heavy thunder clouds and could see the rack as it was driven +across the heavens, or under the pine trees I could enjoy the +stillness of the azure sky.</p> + +<p>My life was very peaceful. I had one female servant who spent the +greater part of the day at a village two miles off. My amusements were +simple and very innocent; I fed the birds who built on the pines or +among the ivy that covered the wall of my little garden, and they soon +knew me: the bolder ones pecked the crumbs from my hands and perched +on my fingers to sing their thankfulness. When I had lived here some +time other animals visited me and a fox came every day for a portion +of food appropriated for him & would suffer me to pat his head. I had +besides many books and a harp with which when despairing I could +soothe my spirits, and raise myself to sympathy and love.</p> + +<p>Love! What had I to love? Oh many things: there was the moonshine, and +the bright stars; the breezes and the refreshing<a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a> rains; there was the +whole earth and the sky that covers it: all lovely forms that visited +my imagination[,] all memories of heroism and virtue. Yet this was +very unlike my early life although as then I was confined to Nature +and books. Then I bounded across the fields; my spirit often seemed to +ride upon the winds, and to mingle in joyful sympathy with the ambient +air. Then if I wandered slowly I cheered myself with a sweet song or +sweeter day dreams. I felt a holy rapture spring from all I saw. I +drank in joy with life; my steps were light; my eyes, clear from the +love that animated them, sought the heavens, and with my long hair +loosened to the winds I gave my body and my mind to sympathy and +delight. But now my walk was slow—My eyes were seldom raised and +often filled with tears; no song; no smiles; no careless motion that +might bespeak a mind intent on what surrounded it—I was gathered up +into myself—a selfish solitary creature ever pondering on my regrets +and faded hopes.</p> + +<p>Mine was an idle, useless life; it was so; but say not to the lily +laid prostrate by the storm arise, and bloom as before. My heart was +bleeding from its death’s wound; I could live no otherwise—Often amid +apparent calm I was visited by despair and melancholy; gloom that +nought could dissipate or overcome; a hatred of life; a carelessness +of beauty; all these would by fits hold me nearly annihilated by their +powers. Never for one moment when most placid did I cease to pray for +death. I could be found in no state of mind which I would not +willingly have exchanged for nothingness. And morning and evening my +tearful eyes raised to heaven, my hands clasped tight in the energy of +prayer, I have repeated with the poet—</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Before I see another day<br /></span> +<span>Oh, let this body die away!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Let me not be reproached then with inutility; I believed that by +suicide I should violate a divine law of nature, and I thought that I +sufficiently fulfilled my part in submitting to the hard task of +enduring the crawling hours & minutes<a name="FNanchor_50_74" id="FNanchor_50_74"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_74"><sup>[50]</sup></a>—in bearing the load of time +that weighed miserably upon me and that in abstaining from what I in +my calm moments considered a crime, I deserved the reward of virtue. +There were periods, dreadful ones, during which I despaired—& doubted +the existence of all duty & the reality of crime—but I shudder, and +turn from the rememberance.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p>Thus I passed two years. Day after day so many hundreds wore on; they +brought no outward changes with them, but some few slowly operated on +my mind as I glided on towards death. I began to study more; to +sympathize more in the thoughts of others as expressed in books; to +read history, and to lose my individuallity among the crowd that had +existed before me. Thus perhaps as the sensation of immediate +suffering wore off, I became more human. Solitude also lost to me some +of its charms: I began again to wish for sympathy; not that I was ever +tempted to seek the crowd, but I wished for one friend to love me. You +will say perhaps that I gradually became fitted to return to society. +I do not think so. For the sympathy that I desired must be so pure, so +divested of influence from outward circumstances that in the world I +could not fail of being balked by the gross materials that perpetually +mingle even with its best feelings. Believe me, I was then less fitted +for any communion with my fellow creatures than before. When I left +them they had tormented me but it was in the same way as pain and +sickness may torment; somthing extraneous to the mind that galled it, +and that I wished to cast aside. But now I should have desired +sympathy; I should wish to knit my soul to some one of theirs, and +should have prepared for myself plentiful draughts of disappointment +and suffering; for I was tender as the sensitive plant, all nerve. I +did not desire sympathy and aid in ambition or wisdom, but sweet and +mutual affection; smiles to cheer me and gentle words of comfort. I +wished for one heart in which I could pour unrestrained my plaints, +and by the heavenly nature of the soil blessed fruit might spring from +such bad seed. Yet how could I find this? The love that is the soul of +friendship is a soft spirit seldom found except when two amiable +creatures are knit from early youth, or when bound by mutual suffering +and pursuits; it comes to some of the elect unsought and unaware; it +descends as gentle dew on chosen spots which however barren they were +before become under its benign influence fertile in all sweet plants; +but when desired it flies; it scoffs at the prayers of its votaries; +it will bestow, but not be sought.<a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a></p> + +<p>I knew all this and did not go to seek sympathy; but there on my +solitary heath, under my lowly roof where all around was desart, it +came to me as a sun beam in winter to adorn while it helps to dissolve +the drifted snow.—Alas the sun shone on blighted fruit; I did not +revive under its radiance for I was too utterly undone to feel its +kindly power. My father had been and his memory was the life of my +life. I might feel gratitude to another but I never more could love or +hope as I had done; it was all suffering; even my pleasures were +endured, not enjoyed. I was as a solitary spot among mountains shut in +on all sides by steep black precipices; where no ray of heat could +penetrate; and from which there was no outlet to sunnier fields. And +thus it was that although the spirit of friendship soothed me for a +while it could not restore me. It came as some gentle visitation; it +went and I hardly felt the loss. The spirit of existence was dead +within me; be not surprised therefore that when it came I welcomed not +more gladly, or when it departed I lamented not more bitterly the best +gift of heaven—a friend.</p> + +<p>The name of my friend was Woodville.<a name="FNanchor_51_75" id="FNanchor_51_75"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_75"><sup>[51]</sup></a> I will briefly relate his +history that you may judge how cold my heart must have been not to be +warmed by his eloquent words and tender sympathy; and how he also +being most unhappy we were well fitted to be a mutual consolation to +each other, if I had not been hardened to stone by the Medusa head of +Misery. The misfortunes of Woodville were not of the hearts core like +mine; his was a natural grief, not to destroy but to purify the heart +and from which he might, when its shadow had passed from over him, +shine forth brighter and happier than before.</p> + +<p>Woodville was the son of a poor clergyman and had received a classical +education. He was one of those very few whom fortune favours from +their birth; on whom she bestows all gifts of intellect and person +with a profusion that knew no bounds, and whom under her peculiar +protection, no imperfection however slight, or disappointment however +transitory has leave to touch. She seemed to have formed his mind of +that excellence which no dross can tarnish, and his understanding was +such that no error could pervert. His genius was transcendant, and +when it rose as a bright star in the east all eyes were turned towards +it in admiration. He was a Poet. That name has so often been degraded +that it will not convey the<a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a> idea of all that he was. He was like a +poet of old whom the muses had crowned in his cradle, and on whose +lips bees had fed. As he walked among other men he seemed encompassed +with a heavenly halo that divided him from and lifted him above them. +It was his surpassing beauty, the dazzling fire of his eyes, and his +words whose rich accents wrapt the listener in mute and extactic +wonder, that made him transcend all others so that before him they +appeared only formed to minister to his superior excellence.</p> + +<p>He was glorious from his youth. Every one loved him; no shadow of envy +or hate cast even from the meanest mind ever fell upon him. He was, as +one the peculiar delight of the Gods, railed and fenced in by his own +divinity, so that nought but love and admiration could approach him. +His heart was simple like a child, unstained by arrogance or vanity. +He mingled in society unknowing of his superiority over his +companions, not because he undervalued himself but because he did not +perceive the inferiority of others. He seemed incapable of conceiving +of the full extent of the power that selfishness & vice possesses in +the world: when I knew him, although he had suffered disappointment in +his dearest hopes, he had not experienced any that arose from the +meaness and self love of men: his station was too high to allow of his +suffering through their hardheartedness; and too low for him to have +experienced ingratitude and encroaching selfishness: it is one of the +blessings of a moderate fortune, that by preventing the possessor from +confering pecuniary favours it prevents him also from diving into the +arcana of human weakness or malice—To bestow on your fellow men is a +Godlike attribute—So indeed it is and as such not one fit for +mortality;—the giver like Adam and Prometheus, must pay the penalty +of rising above his nature by being the martyr to his own excellence. +Woodville was free from all these evils; and if slight examples did +come across him<a name="FNanchor_52_76" id="FNanchor_52_76"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_76"><sup>[52]</sup></a> he did not notice them but passed on in his course +as an angel with winged feet might glide along the earth unimpeded by +all those little obstacles over which we of earthly origin stumble. He +was a believer in the divinity of genius and always opposed a stern +disbelief to the objections of those petty cavillers and minor critics +who wish to reduce all men to their own miserable level—“I will make +a scientific simile” he would say, “[i]n the manner, if you will, of +Dr. Darwin—I consider the alledged errors of a man of genius as the +aberrations<a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a> of the fixed stars. It is our distance from them and our +imperfect means of communication that makes them appear to move; in +truth they always remain stationary, a glorious centre, giving us a +fine lesson of modesty if we would thus receive it.”<a name="FNanchor_53_77" id="FNanchor_53_77"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_77"><sup>[53]</sup></a></p> + +<p>I have said that he was a poet: when he was three and twenty years of +age he first published a poem, and it was hailed by the whole nation +with enthusiasm and delight. His good star perpetually shone upon him; +a reputation had never before been made so rapidly: it was universal. +The multitude extolled the same poems that formed the wonder of the +sage in his closet: there was not one dissentient voice.<a name="FNanchor_54_78" id="FNanchor_54_78"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_78"><sup>[54]</sup></a></p> + +<p>It was at this time, in the height of his glory, that he became +acquainted with Elinor. She was a young heiress of exquisite beauty +who lived under the care of her guardian: from the moment they were +seen together they appeared formed for each other. Elinor had not the +genius of Woodville but she was generous and noble, and exalted by her +youth and the love that she every where excited above the knowledge of +aught but virtue and excellence. She was lovely; her manners were +frank and simple; her deep blue eyes swam in a lustre which could only +be given by sensibility joined to wisdom.</p> + +<p>They were formed for one another and they soon loved. Woodville for +the first time felt the delight of love; and Elinor was enraptured in +possessing the heart of one so beautiful and glorious among his fellow +men. Could any thing but unmixed joy flow from such a union?</p> + +<p>Woodville was a Poet—he was sought for by every society and all eyes +were turned on him alone when he appeared; but he was the son of a +poor clergyman and Elinor was a rich heiress. Her guardian was not +displeased with their mutual affection: the merit of Woodville was too +eminent to admit of cavil on account of his inferior wealth; but the +dying will of her father did not allow her to marry before she was of +age and her fortune depended upon her obeying this injunction. She had +just entered her twentieth year, and she and her lover were obliged to +submit to this delay. But they were ever together and their happiness +seemed that of Paradise: they studied together: formed plans of future +occupations, and drinking in love and joy from each other’s eyes and +words they hardly repined at the delay to their entire union. +Woodville for ever rose<a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a> in glory; and Elinor become more lovely and +wise under the lessons of her accomplished lover.</p> + +<p>In two months Elinor would be twenty one: every thing was prepared for +their union. How shall I relate the catastrophe to so much joy; but +the earth would not be the earth it is covered with blight and sorrow +if one such pair as these angelic creatures had been suffered to exist +for one another: search through the world and you will not find the +perfect happiness which their marriage would have caused them to +enjoy; there must have been a revolution in the order of things as +established among us miserable earth-dwellers to have admitted of such +consummate joy. The chain of necessity ever bringing misery must have +been broken and the malignant fate that presides over it would not +permit this breach of her eternal laws. But why should I repine at +this? Misery was my element, and nothing but what was miserable could +approach me; if Woodville had been happy I should never have known +him. And can I who for many years was fed by tears, and nourished +under the dew of grief, can I pause to relate a tale of woe and +death?<a name="FNanchor_55_79" id="FNanchor_55_79"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_79"><sup>[55]</sup></a></p> + +<p>Woodville was obliged to make a journey into the country and was +detained from day to day in irksome absence from his lovely bride. He +received a letter from her to say that she was slightly ill, but +telling him to hasten to her, that from his eyes she would receive +health and that his company would be her surest medecine. He was +detained three days longer and then he hastened to her. His heart, he +knew not why prognosticated misfortune; he had not heard from her +again; he feared she might be worse and this fear made him impatient +and restless for the moment of beholding her once more stand before +him arrayed in health and beauty; for a sinister voice seemed always +to whisper to him, “You will never more behold her as she was.”</p> + +<p>When he arrived at her habitation all was silent in it: he made his +way through several rooms; in one he saw a servant weeping bitterly: +he was faint with fear and could hardly ask, “Is she dead?” and just +listened to the dreadful answer, “Not yet.” These astounding words +came on him as of less fearful import than those which he had +expected; and to learn that she was still in being, and that he might +still hope was an alleviation to him. He remembered the words of her +letter and he indulged the wild idea that<a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a> his kisses breathing warm +love and life would infuse new spirit into her, and that with him near +her she could not die; that his presence was the talisman of her life.</p> + +<p>He hastened to her sick room; she lay, her cheeks burning with fever, +yet her eyes were closed and she was seemingly senseless. He wrapt her +in his arms; he imprinted breathless kisses on her burning lips; he +called to her in a voice of subdued anguish by the tenderest names; +“Return Elinor; I am with you; your life, your love. Return; dearest +one, you promised me this boon, that I should bring you health. Let +your sweet spirit revive; you cannot die near me: What is death? To +see you no more? To part with what is a part of myself; without whom I +have no memory and no futurity? Elinor die! This is frenzy and the +most miserable despair: you cannot die while I am near.”</p> + +<p>And again he kissed her eyes and lips, and hung over her inanimate +form in agony, gazing on her countenance still lovely although +changed, watching every slight convulsion, and varying colour which +denoted life still lingering although about to depart. Once for a +moment she revived and recognized his voice; a smile, a last lovely +smile, played upon her lips. He watched beside her for twelve hours +and then she died.<a name="FNanchor_56_80" id="FNanchor_56_80"></a><a href="#Footnote_56_80"><sup>[56]</sup></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<p>It was six months after this miserable conclusion to his long nursed +hopes that I first saw him. He had retired to a part of the country +where he was not known that he might peacefully indulge his grief. All +the world, by the death of his beloved Elinor, was changed to him, and +he could no longer remain in any spot where he had seen her or where +her image mingled with the most rapturous hopes had brightened all +around with a light of joy which would now be transformed to a +darkness blacker than midnight since she, the sun of his life, was set +for ever.</p> + +<p>He lived for some time never looking on the light of heaven but +shrouding his eyes in a perpetual darkness far from all that could +remind him of what he had been; but as time softened his grief<a name="FNanchor_57_81" id="FNanchor_57_81"></a><a href="#Footnote_57_81"><sup>[57]</sup></a> +like a true child of Nature he sought in the enjoyment of her beauties +for a consolation in his unhappiness. He came to a part of the country +where he was entirely unknown and where in the deepest solitude he +could converse only with his own heart. He found a relief to his +impatient grief in the breezes of heaven and in the sound of waters +and woods. He became fond of riding; this exercise distracted his mind +and elevated his spirits; on a swift horse he could for a moment gain +respite from the image that else for ever followed him; Elinor on her +death bed, her sweet features changed, and the soft spirit that +animated her gradually waning into extinction. For many months +Woodville had in vain endeavoured to cast off this terrible +remembrance; it still hung on him untill memory was too great a +burthen for his loaded soul, but when on horseback the spell that +seemingly held him to this idea was snapt; then if he thought of his +lost bride he pictured her radiant in beauty; he could hear her voice, +and fancy her “a sylvan Huntress by his side,” while his eyes +brightened as he thought he gazed on her cherished form. I had several +times seen him ride across the heath and felt angry that my solitude +should be disturbed. It was so long [since] I had spoken to any but +peasants that I felt a disagreable sensation at being gazed on by one +of superior rank. I feared also that it might be some one who had seen +me before: I might be recognized, my impostures discovered<a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a> and I +dragged back to a life of worse torture than that I had before +endured. These were dreadful fears and they even haunted my +dreams.<a name="FNanchor_58_82" id="FNanchor_58_82"></a><a href="#Footnote_58_82"><sup>[58]</sup></a></p> + +<p>I was one day seated on the verge of the clump of pines when Woodville +rode past. As soon as I perceived him I suddenly rose to escape from +his observation by entering among the trees. My rising startled his +horse; he reared and plunged and the Rider was at length thrown. The +horse then galopped swiftly across the heath and the stranger remained +on the ground stunned by his fall. He was not materially hurt, a +little fresh water soon recovered him. I was struck by his exceeding +beauty, and as he spoke to thank me the sweet but melancholy cadence +of his voice brought tears into my eyes.</p> + +<p>A short conversation passed between us, but the next day he again +stopped at my cottage and by degrees an intimacy grew between us. It +was strange to him to see a female in extreme youth, I was not yet +twenty, evidently belonging to the first classes of society & +possessing every accomplishment an excellent education could bestow, +living alone on a desolate health [<i>sic</i>]—One on whose forehead the +impress of grief was strongly marked, and whose words and motions +betrayed that her thoughts did not follow them but were intent on far +other ideas; bitter and overwhelming miseries. I was dressed also in a +whimsical nunlike habit which denoted that I did not retire to +solitude from necessity, but that I might indulge in a luxury of +grief, and fanciful seclusion.</p> + +<p>He soon took great interest in me, and sometimes forgot his own grief +to sit beside me and endeavour to cheer me. He could not fail to +interest even one who had shut herself from the whole world, whose +hope was death, and who lived only with the departed. His personal +beauty; his conversation which glowed with imagination and +sensibility; the poetry that seemed to hang upon his lips and to make +the very air mute to listen to him were charms that no one could +resist. He was younger, less worn, more passionless than my father and +in no degree reminded me of him: he suffered under immediate grief yet +its gentle influence instead of calling feelings otherwise dormant +into action, seemed only to veil that which otherwise would have been +too dazzling for me. When we were together I spoke little yet my +selfish mind was sometimes borne away by the rapid course of his +ideas; I would lift my eyes<a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a> with momentary brilliancy until memories +that never died and seldom slept would recur, and a tear would dim +them.</p> + +<p>Woodville for ever tried to lead me to the contemplation of what is +beautiful and happy in the world.<a name="FNanchor_59_83" id="FNanchor_59_83"></a><a href="#Footnote_59_83"><sup>[59]</sup></a> His own mind was constitunially +[<i>sic</i>] bent to a former belief in good [rather] than in evil and this +feeling which must even exhilirate the hopeless ever shone forth in +his words. He would talk of the wonderful powers of man, of their +present state and of their hopes: of what they had been and what they +were, and when reason could no longer guide him, his imagination as if +inspired shed light on the obscurity that veils the past and the +future. He loved to dwell on what might have been the state of the +earth before man lived on it, and how he first arose and gradually +became the strange, complicated, but as he said, the glorious creature +he now is. Covering the earth with their creations and forming by the +power of their minds another world more lovely than the visible frame +of things, even all the world that we find in their writings. A +beautiful creation, he would say, which may claim this superiority to +its model, that good and evil is more easily seperated[:] the good +rewarded in the way they themselves desire; the evil punished as all +things evil ought to be punished, not by pain which is revolting to +all philanthropy to consider but by quiet obscurity, which simply +deprives them of their harmful qualities; why kill the serpent when +you have extracted his fangs?</p> + +<p>The poetry of his language and ideas which my words ill convey held me +enchained to his discourses. It was a melancholy pleasure to me to +listen to his inspired words; to catch for a moment the light of his +eyes[;] to feel a transient sympathy and then to awaken from the +delusion, again to know that all this was nothing,—a dream—a shadow +for that there was no reallity for me; my father had for ever deserted +me, leaving me only memories which set an eternal barrier between me +and my fellow creatures. I was indeed fellow to none. He—Woodville, +mourned the loss of his bride: others wept the various forms of misery +as they visited them: but infamy and guilt was mingled with my +portion; unlawful and detestable passion had poured its poison into my +ears and changed all my blood, so that it was no longer the kindly +stream that supports life but a cold fountain of bitterness corrupted +in its very source.<a name="FNanchor_60_84" id="FNanchor_60_84"></a><a href="#Footnote_60_84"><sup>[60]</sup></a> It must be the excess of madness that could +make me<a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a> imagine that I could ever be aught but one alone; struck off +from humanity; bearing no affinity to man or woman; a wretch on whom +Nature had set her ban.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Woodville talked to me of himself. He related his history +brief in happiness and woe and dwelt with passion on his and Elinor’s +mutual love. “She was[”], he said, “the brightest vision that ever +came upon the earth: there was somthing in her frank countenance, in +her voice, and in every motion of her graceful form that overpowered +me, as if it were a celestial creature that deigned to mingle with me +in intercourse more sweet than man had ever before enjoyed. Sorrow +fled before her; and her smile seemed to possess an influence like +light to irradiate all mental darkness. It was not like a human +loveliness that these gentle smiles went and came; but as a sunbeam on +a lake, now light and now obscure, flitting before as you strove to +catch them, and fold them for ever to your heart. I saw this smile +fade for ever. Alas! I could never have believed that it was indeed +Elinor that died if once when I spoke she had not lifted her almost +benighted eyes, and for one moment like nought beside on earth, more +lovely than a sunbeam, slighter, quicker than the waving plumage of a +bird, dazzling as lightning and like it giving day to night, yet mild +and faint, that smile came; it went, and then there was an end of all +joy to me.”</p> + +<p>Thus his own sorrows, or the shapes copied from nature that dwelt in +his mind with beauty greater than their own, occupied our talk while I +railed in my own griefs with cautious secresy. If for a moment he +shewed curiosity, my eyes fell, my voice died away and my evident +suffering made him quickly endeavour to banish the ideas he had +awakened; yet he for ever mingled consolation in his talk, and tried +to soften my despair by demonstrations of deep sympathy and +compassion. “We are both unhappy—” he would say to me; “I have told +you my melancholy tale and we have wept together the loss of that +lovely spirit that has so cruelly deserted me; but you hide your +griefs: I do not ask you to disclose them, but tell me if I may not +console you. It seems to me a wild adventure to find in this desart +one like you quite solitary: you are young and lovely; your manners +are refined and attractive; yet there is in your settled melancholy, +and something, I know not what, in your expressive eyes that seems to +seperate you from your<a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a> kind: you shudder; pardon me, I entreat you +but I cannot help expressing this once at least the lively interest I +feel in your destiny.</p> + +<p>“You never smile: your voice is low, and you utter your words as if +you were afraid of the slight sound they would produce: the expression +of awful and intense sorrow never for a moment fades from your +countenance. I have lost for ever the loveliest companion that any man +could ever have possessed, one who rather appears to have been a +superior spirit who by some strange accident wandered among us earthly +creatures, than as belonging to our kind. Yet I smile, and sometimes I +speak almost forgetful of the change I have endured. But your sad mien +never alters; your pulses beat and you breathe, yet you seem already +to belong to another world; and sometimes, pray pardon my wild +thoughts, when you touch my hand I am surprised to find your hand warm +when all the fire of life seems extinct within you.</p> + +<p>“When I look upon you, the tears you shed, the soft deprecating look +with which you withstand enquiry; the deep sympathy your voice +expresses when I speak of my lesser sorrows add to my interest for +you. You stand here shelterless[.] You have cast yourself from among +us and you wither on this wild plain fo[r]lorn and helpless: some +dreadful calamity must have befallen you. Do not turn from me; I do +not ask you to reveal it: I only entreat you to listen to me and to +become familiar with the voice of consolation and kindness. If pity, +and admiration, and gentle affection can wean you from despair let me +attempt the task. I cannot see your look of deep grief without +endeavouring to restore you to happier feelings. Unbend your brow; +relax the stern melancholy of your regard; permit a friend, a sincere, +affectionate friend, I will be one, to convey some relief, some +momentary pause to your sufferings.</p> + +<p>“Do not think that I would intrude upon your confidence: I only ask +your patience. Do not for ever look sorrow and never speak it; utter +one word of bitter complaint and I will reprove it with gentle +exhortation and pour on you the balm of compassion. You must not shut +me from all communion with you: do not tell me why you grieve but only +say the words, “I am unhappy,” and you will feel relieved as if for +some time excluded from all intercourse by some magic spell you should +suddenly enter again the pale of human sympathy. I entreat you to +believe in my most sincere professions and to treat me as an old and +tried friend:<a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a> promise me never to forget me, never causelessly to +banish me; but try to love me as one who would devote all his energies +to make you happy. Give me the name of friend; I will fulfill its +duties; and if for a moment complaint and sorrow would shape +themselves into words let me be near to speak peace to your vext +soul.”</p> + +<p>I repeat his persuasions in faint terms and cannot give you at the +same time the tone and gesture that animated them. Like a refreshing +shower on an arid soil they revived me, and although I still kept +their cause secret he led me to pour forth my bitter complaints and to +clothe my woe in words of gall and fire. With all the energy of +desperate grief I told him how I had fallen at once from bliss to +misery; how that for me there was no joy, no hope; that death however +bitter would be the welcome seal to all my pangs; death the skeleton +was to be beautiful as love. I know not why but I found it sweet to +utter these words to human ears; and though I derided all consolation +yet I was pleased to see it offered me with gentleness and kindness. I +listened quietly, and when he paused would again pour out my misery in +expressions that shewed how far too deep my wounds were for any cure.</p> + +<p>But now also I began to reap the fruits of my perfect solitude. I had +become unfit for any intercourse, even with Woodville the most gentle +and sympathizing creature that existed. I had become captious and +unreasonable: my temper was utterly spoilt. I called him my friend but +I viewed all he did with jealous eyes. If he did not visit me at the +appointed hour I was angry, very angry, and told him that if indeed he +did feel interest in me it was cold, and could not be fitted for me, a +poor worn creature, whose deep unhappiness demanded much more than his +worldly heart could give. When for a moment I imagined that his manner +was cold I would fretfully say to him—“I was at peace before you +came; why have you disturbed me? You have given me new wants and now +your trifle with me as if my heart were as whole as yours, as if I +were not in truth a shorn lamb thrust out on the bleak hill side, +tortured by every blast. I wished for no friend, no sympathy[.] I +avoided you, you know I did, but you forced yourself upon me and gave +me those wants which you see with triump[h] give you power over me. Oh +the brave power of the bitter north wind which freezes the tears it +has caused to shed! But I will not bear this; go: the sun will rise +and set as before you came, and I shall sit<a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a> among the pines or wander +on the heath weeping and complaining without wishing for you to +listen. You are cruel, very cruel, to treat me who bleed at every pore +in this rough manner.”<a name="FNanchor_61_85" id="FNanchor_61_85"></a><a href="#Footnote_61_85"><sup>[61]</sup></a></p> + +<p>And then, when in answer to my peevish words, I saw his countenance +bent with living pity on me[,] when I saw him</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante<br /></span> +<span>Che madre fa sopra figlioul deliro</span> +</div> +<p> +P[a]radiso. C 1.<a name="FNanchor_62_86" id="FNanchor_62_86"></a><a href="#Footnote_62_86"><sup>[62]</sup></a><br /> +</p></div> + +<p>I wept and said, “Oh, pardon me! You are good and kind but I am not +fit for life. Why am I obliged to live? To drag hour after hour, to +see the trees wave their branches restlessly, to feel the air, & to +suffer in all I feel keenest agony. My frame is strong, but my soul +sinks beneath this endurance of living anguish. Death is the goal that +I would attain, but, alas! I do not even see the end of the course. Do +you, my compassionate friend,<a name="FNanchor_63_87" id="FNanchor_63_87"></a><a href="#Footnote_63_87"><sup>[63]</sup></a> tell me how to die peacefully and +innocently and I will bless you: all that I, poor wretch, can desire +is a painless death.”</p> + +<p>But Woodville’s words had magic in them, when beginning with the +sweetest pity, he would raise me by degrees out of myself and my +sorrows until I wondered at my own selfishness: but he left me and +despair returned; the work of consolation was ever to begin anew. I +often desired his entire absence; for I found that I was grown out of +the ways of life and that by long seclusion, although I could support +my accustomed grief, and drink the bitter daily draught with some +degree of patience, yet I had become unfit for the slightest novelty +of feeling. Expectation, and hopes, and affection were all too much +for me. I knew this, but at other times I was unreasonable and laid +the blame upon him, who was most blameless, and pevishly thought that +if his gentle soul were more gentle, if his intense sympathy were more +intense, he could drive the fiend from my soul and make me more human. +I am, I thought, a tragedy; a character that he comes to see act: now +and then he gives me my cue<a name="FNanchor_64_88" id="FNanchor_64_88"></a><a href="#Footnote_64_88"><sup>[64]</sup></a> that I may make a speech more to his +purpose: perhaps he is already planning a poem in which I am to +figure. I am a farce and play to him, but to me this is all dreary +reality: he takes all the profit and I bear all the burthen.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<p>It is a strange circumstance but it often occurs that blessings by +their use turn to curses; and that I who in solitude had desired +sympathy as the only relief I could enjoy should now find it an +additional torture to me. During my father’s life time I had always +been of an affectionate and forbearing disposition, but since those +days of joy alas! I was much changed. I had become arrogant, peevish, +and above all suspicious. Although the real interest of my narration +is now ended and I ought quickly to wind up its melancholy +catastrophe, yet I will relate one instance of my sad suspicion and +despair and how Woodville with the goodness and almost the power of an +angel, softened my rugged feelings and led me back to gentleness.<a name="FNanchor_65_89" id="FNanchor_65_89"></a><a href="#Footnote_65_89"><sup>[65]</sup></a></p> + +<p>He had promised to spend some hours with me one afternoon but a +violent and continual rain<a name="FNanchor_66_90" id="FNanchor_66_90"></a><a href="#Footnote_66_90"><sup>[66]</sup></a> prevented him. I was alone the whole +evening. I had passed two whole years alone unrepining, but now I was +miserable. He could not really care for me, I thought, for if he did +the storm would rather have made him come even if I had not expected +him, than, as it did, prevent a promised visit. He would well know +that this drear sky and gloomy rain would load my spirit almost to +madness: if the weather had been fine I should not have regretted his +absence as heavily as I necessarily must shut up in this miserable +cottage with no companions but my own wretched thoughts. If he were +truly my friend he would have calculated all this; and let me now +calculate this boasted friendship, and discover its real worth. He got +over his grief for Elinor, and the country became dull to him, so he +was glad to find even me for amusement; and when he does not know what +else to do he passes his lazy hours here, and calls this +friendship—It is true that his presence is a consolation to me, and +that his words are sweet, and, when he will he can pour forth thoughts +that win me from despair. His words are sweet,—and so, truly, is the +honey of the bee, but the bee has a sting, and unkindness is a worse +smart that that received from an insect’s venom. I will<a name="FNanchor_67_91" id="FNanchor_67_91"></a><a href="#Footnote_67_91"><sup>[67]</sup></a> put him to +the proof. He says all hope is dead to him, and I know that it is dead +to me, so we are both equally fitted for death. Let<a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a> me try if he will +die with me; and as I fear to die alone, if he will accompany [me] to +cheer me, and thus he can shew himself my friend in the only manner my +misery will permit.<a name="FNanchor_68_92" id="FNanchor_68_92"></a><a href="#Footnote_68_92"><sup>[68]</sup></a></p> + +<p>It was madness I believe, but I so worked myself up to this idea that +I could think of nothing else. If he dies with me it is well, and +there will be an end of two miserable beings; and if he will not, then +will I scoff at his friendship and drink the poison before him to +shame his cowardice. I planned the whole scene with an earnest heart +and franticly set my soul on this project. I procured Laudanum and +placing it in two glasses on the table, filled my room with flowers +and decorated the last scene of my tragedy with the nicest care. As +the hour for his coming approached my heart softened and I wept; not +that I gave up my plan, but even when resolved the mind must undergo +several revolutions of feeling before it can drink its death.</p> + +<p>Now all was ready and Woodville came. I received him at the door of my +cottage and leading him solemnly into the room, I said: “My friend, I +wish to die. I am quite weary of enduring the misery which hourly I do +endure, and I will throw it off. What slave will not, if he may, +escape from his chains? Look, I weep: for more than two years I have +never enjoyed one moment free from anguish. I have often desired to +die; but I am a very coward. It is hard for one so young who was once +so happy as I was; [<i>sic</i>] voluntarily to divest themselves of all +sensation and to go alone to the dreary grave; I dare not. I must die, +yet my fear chills me; I pause and shudder and then for months I +endure my excess of wretchedness. But now the time is come when I may +quit life, I have a friend who will not refuse to accompany me in this +dark journey; such is my request:<a name="FNanchor_69_93" id="FNanchor_69_93"></a><a href="#Footnote_69_93"><sup>[69]</sup></a> earnestly do I entreat and +implore you to die with me. Then we shall find Elinor and what I have +lost. Look, I am prepared; there is the death draught, let us drink it +together and willingly & joyfully quit this hated round of daily +life[.]</p> + +<p>“You turn from me; yet before you deny me reflect, Woodville, how +sweet it were to cast off the load of tears and misery under which we +now labour: and surely we shall find light after we have passed the +dark valley. That drink will plunge us in a sweet slumber, and when we +awaken what joy will be ours to find all our sorrows and fears past. +<i>A little patience, and all will be over</i>;<a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a> aye, a very little +patience; for, look, there is the key of our prison; we hold it in our +own hands, and are we more debased than slaves to cast it away and +give ourselves up to voluntary bondage? Even now if we had courage we +might be free. Behold, my cheek is flushed with pleasure at the +imagination of death; all that we love are dead. Come, give me your +hand, one look of joyous sympathy and we will go together and seek +them; a lulling journey; where our arrival will bring bliss and our +waking be that of angels. Do you delay? Are you a coward, Woodville? +Oh fie! Cast off this blank look of human melancholy. Oh! that I had +words to express the luxury of death that I might win you. I tell you +we are no longer miserable mortals; we are about to become Gods; +spirits free and happy as gods. What fool on a bleak shore, seeing a +flowery isle on the other side with his lost love beckoning to him +from it would pause because the wave is dark and turbid?</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>“What if some little payne the passage have<br /></span> +<span>That makes frayle flesh to fear the bitter wave?<br /></span> +<span>Is not short payne well borne that brings long ease,<br /></span> +<span>And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave?<a name="FNanchor_F_24" id="FNanchor_F_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_F_24"><sup>[F]</sup></a><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>“Do you mark my words; I have learned the language of despair: I have +it all by heart, for I am Despair; and a strange being am I, joyous, +triumphant Despair. But those words are false, for the wave may be +dark but it is not bitter. We lie down, and close our eyes with a +gentle good night, and when we wake, we are free. Come then, no more +delay, thou tardy one! Behold the pleasant potion! Look, I am a spirit +of good, and not a human maid that invites thee, and with winning +accents, (oh, that they would win thee!) says, Come and drink.”<a name="FNanchor_70_94" id="FNanchor_70_94"></a><a href="#Footnote_70_94"><sup>[70]</sup></a></p> + +<p>As I spoke I fixed my eyes upon his countenance, and his exquisite +beauty, the heavenly compassion that beamed from his eyes, his gentle +yet earnest look of deprecation and wonder even before he spoke +wrought a change in my high strained feelings taking from me all the +sterness of despair and filling me only with the softest grief. I saw +his eyes humid also as he took both my hands in his; and sitting down +near me, he said:<a name="FNanchor_71_95" id="FNanchor_71_95"></a><a href="#Footnote_71_95"><sup>[71]</sup></a></p> + +<p>“This is a sad deed to which you would lead me, dearest friend, <a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>and +your woe must indeed be deep that could fill you with these unhappy +thoughts. You long for death and yet you fear it and wish me to be +your companion. But I have less courage than you and even thus +accompanied I dare not die. Listen to me, and then reflect if you +ought to win me to your project, even if with the over-bearing +eloquence of despair you could make black death so inviting that the +fair heaven should appear darkness. Listen I entreat you to the words +of one who has himself nurtured desperate thoughts, and longed with +impatient desire for death, but who has at length trampled the phantom +under foot, and crushed his sting. Come, as you have played Despair +with me I will play the part of Una with you and bring you hurtless +from his dark cavern. Listen to me, and let yourself be softened by +words in which no selfish passion lingers.</p> + +<p>“We know not what all this wide world means; its strange mixture of +good and evil. But we have been placed here and bid live and hope. I +know not what we are to hope; but there is some good beyond us that we +must seek; and that is our earthly task. If misfortune come against us +we must fight with her; we must cast her aside, and still go on to +find out that which it is our nature to desire. Whether this prospect +of future good be the preparation for another existence I know not; or +whether that it is merely that we, as workmen in God’s vineyard, must +lend a hand to smooth the way for our posterity. If it indeed be that; +if the efforts of the virtuous now, are to make the future inhabitants +of this fair world more happy; if the labours of those who cast aside +selfishness, and try to know the truth of things, are to free the men +of ages, now far distant but which will one day come, from the burthen +under which those who now live groan, and like you weep bitterly; if +they free them but from one of what are now the necessary evils of +life, truly I will not fail but will with my whole soul aid the work. +From my youth I have said, I will be virtuous; I will dedicate my life +for the good of others; I will do my best to extirpate evil and if the +spirit who protects ill should so influence circumstances that I +should suffer through my endeavour, yet while there is hope and hope +there ever must be, of success, cheerfully do I gird myself to my +task.</p> + +<p>“I have powers; my countrymen think well of them. Do you think I sow +my seed in the barren air, & have no end in what I do?<a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a> Believe me, I +will never desert life untill this last hope is torn from my bosom, +that in some way my labours may form a link in the chain of gold with +which we ought all to strive to drag Happiness from where she sits +enthroned above the clouds, now far beyond our reach, to inhabit the +earth with us. Let us suppose that Socrates, or Shakespear, or +Rousseau had been seized with despair and died in youth when they were +as young as I am; do you think that we and all the world should not +have lost incalculable improvement in our good feelings and our +happiness thro’ their destruction. I am not like one of these; they +influenced millions: but if I can influence but a hundred, but ten, +but one solitary individual, so as in any way to lead him from ill to +good, that will be a joy to repay me for all my sufferings, though +they were a million times multiplied; and that hope will support me to +bear them[.]</p> + +<p>“And those who do not work for posterity; or working, as may be my +case, will not be known by it; yet they, believe me, have also their +duties. You grieve because you are unhappy[;] it is happiness you seek +but you despair of obtaining it. But if you can bestow happiness on +another; if you can give one other person only one hour of joy ought +you not to live to do it? And every one has it in their power to do +that. The inhabitants of this world suffer so much pain. In crowded +cities, among cultivated plains, or on the desart mountains, pain is +thickly sown, and if we can tear up but one of these noxious weeds, or +more, if in its stead we can sow one seed of corn, or plant one fair +flower, let that be motive sufficient against suicide. Let us not +desert our task while there is the slightest hope that we may in a +future day do this.</p> + +<p>“Indeed I dare not die. I have a mother whose support and hope I am. I +have a friend who loves me as his life, and in whose breast I should +infix a mortal sting if I ungratefully left him. So I will not die. +Nor shall you, my friend; cheer up; cease to weep, I entreat you. Are +you not young, and fair, and good? Why should you despair? Or if you +must for yourself, why for others? If you can never be happy, can you +never bestow happiness[?] Oh! believe me, if you beheld on lips pale +with grief one smile of joy and gratitude, and knew that you were +parent of that smile, and that without you it had never been, you +would feel so pure and warm<a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a> a happiness that you would wish to live +for ever again and again to enjoy the same pleasure[.]</p> + +<p>“Come, I see that you have already cast aside the sad thoughts you +before franticly indulged. Look in that mirror; when I came your brow +was contracted, your eyes deep sunk in your head, your lips quivering; +your hands trembled violently when I took them; but now all is +tranquil and soft. You are grieved and there is grief in the +expression of your countenance but it is gentle and sweet. You allow +me to throw away this cursed drink; you smile; oh, Congratulate me, +hope is triumphant, and I have done some good.”</p> + +<p>These words are shadowy as I repeat them but they were indeed words of +fire and produced a warm hope in me (I, miserable wretch, to hope!) +that tingled like pleasure in my veins. He did not leave me for many +hours; not until he had improved the spark that he had kindled, and +with an angelic hand fostered the return of somthing that seemed like +joy. He left me but I still was calm, and after I had saluted the +starry sky and dewy earth with eyes of love and a contented good +night, I slept sweetly, visited by dreams, the first of pleasure I had +had for many long months.</p> + +<p>But this was only a momentary relief and my old habits of feeling +returned; for I was doomed while in life to grieve, and to the natural +sorrow of my father’s death and its most terrific cause, immagination +added a tenfold weight of woe. I believed myself to be polluted by the +unnatural love I had inspired, and that I was a creature cursed and +set apart by nature. I thought that like another Cain, I had a mark +set on my forehead to shew mankind that there was a barrier between me +and they [<i>sic</i>].<a name="FNanchor_72_96" id="FNanchor_72_96"></a><a href="#Footnote_72_96"><sup>[72]</sup></a> Woodville had told me that there was in my +countenance an expression as if I belonged to another world; so he had +seen that sign: and there it lay a gloomy mark to tell the world that +there was that within my soul that no silence could render +sufficiently obscure. Why when fate drove me to become this outcast +from human feeling; this monster with whom none might mingle in +converse and love; why had she not from that fatal and most accursed +moment, shrouded me in thick mists and placed real darkness between me +and my fellows so that I might never more be seen?, [<i>sic</i>] and as I +passed, like a murky cloud loaded with blight, they might only +perceive me by the cold chill I should cast upon them; telling them,<a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a> +how truly, that something unholy was near? Then I should have lived +upon this dreary heath unvisited, and blasting none by my unhallowed +gaze. Alas! I verily believe that if the near prospect of death did +not dull and soften my bitter [fe]elings, if for a few months longer I +had continued to live as I then lived, strong in body, but my soul +corrupted to its core by a deadly cancer[,] if day after day I had +dwelt on these dreadful sentiments I should have become mad, and +should have fancied myself a living pestilence: so horrible to my own +solitary thoughts did this form, this voice, and all this wretched +self appear; for had it not been the source of guilt that wants a +name?<a name="FNanchor_73_97" id="FNanchor_73_97"></a><a href="#Footnote_73_97"><sup>[73]</sup></a></p> + +<p>This was superstition. I did not feel thus franticly when first I knew +that the holy name of father was become a curse to me: but my lonely +life inspired me with wild thoughts; and then when I saw Woodville & +day after day he tried to win my confidence and I never dared give +words to my dark tale, I was impressed more strongly with the +withering fear that I was in truth a marked creature, a pariah, only +fit for death.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p>As I was perpetually haunted by these ideas, you may imagine that the +influence of Woodville’s words was very temporary; and that although I +did not again accuse him of unkindness, yet I soon became as unhappy +as before. Soon after this incident we parted. He heard that his +mother was ill, and he hastened to her. He came to take leave of me, +and we walked together on the heath for the last time. He promised +that he would come and see me again; and bade me take cheer, and to +encourage what happy thoughts I could, untill time and fortitude +should overcome my misery, and I could again mingle in society.</p> + +<p>“Above all other admonition on my part,” he said, “cherish and follow +this one: do not despair. That is the most dangerous gulph on which +you perpetually totter; but you must reassure your steps, and take +hope to guide you.<a name="FNanchor_74_98" id="FNanchor_74_98"></a><a href="#Footnote_74_98"><sup>[74]</sup></a> Hope, and your wounds will be already half +healed: but if you obstinately despair, there never more will be +comfort for you. Believe me, my dearest friend, that there is a joy +that the sun and earth and all its beauties can bestow that you will +one day feel. The refreshing bliss of Love will again visit your +heart, and undo the spell that binds you to woe, untill you wonder how +your eyes could be closed in the long night that burthens you. I dare +not hope that I have inspired you with sufficient interest that the +thought of me, and the affection that I shall ever bear you, will +soften your melancholy and decrease the bitterness of your tears. But +if my friendship can make you look on life with less disgust, beware +how you injure it with suspicion. Love is a delicate sprite<a name="FNanchor_75_99" id="FNanchor_75_99"></a><a href="#Footnote_75_99"><sup>[75]</sup></a> and +easily hurt by rough jealousy. Guard, I entreat you, a firm persuasion +of my sincerity in the inmost recesses of your heart out of the reach +of the casual winds that may disturb its surface. Your temper is made +unequal by suffering, and the tenor of your mind is, I fear, sometimes +shaken by unworthy causes; but let your confidence in my sympathy and +love be deeper far, and incapable of being reached by these agitations +that come and go, and if they touch not your affections leave you +uninjured.”</p> + +<p>These were some of Woodville’s last lessons. I wept as I listened<a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a> to +him; and after we had taken an affectionate farewell, I followed him +far with my eyes until they saw the last of my earthly comforter. I +had insisted on accompanying him across the heath towards the town +where he dwelt: the sun was yet high when he left me, and I turned my +steps towards my cottage. It was at the latter end of the month of +September when the nights have become chill. But the weather was +serene, and as I walked on I fell into no unpleasing reveries. I +thought of Woodville with gratitude and kindness and did not, I know +not why, regret his departure with any bitterness. It seemed that +after one great shock all other change was trivial to me; and I walked +on wondering when the time would come when we should all four, my +dearest father restored to me, meet in some sweet Paradise[.] I +pictured to myself a lovely river such as that on whose banks Dante +describes Mathilda gathering flowers, which ever flows</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">—— bruna, bruna,<br /></span> +<span>Sotto l’ombra perpetua, che mai<br /></span> +<span>Raggiar non lascia sole ivi, nè Luna.<a name="FNanchor_76_100" id="FNanchor_76_100"></a><a href="#Footnote_76_100"><sup>[76]</sup></a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And then I repeated to myself all that lovely passage that relates the +entrance of Dante into the terrestrial Paradise; and thought it would +be sweet when I wandered on those lovely banks to see the car of light +descend with my long lost parent to be restored to me. As I waited +there in expectation of that moment, I thought how, of the lovely +flowers that grew there, I would wind myself a chaplet and crown +myself for joy: I would sing <i>sul margine d’un rio</i>,<a name="FNanchor_77_101" id="FNanchor_77_101"></a><a href="#Footnote_77_101"><sup>[77]</sup></a> my father’s +favourite song, and that my voice gliding through the windless air +would announce to him in whatever bower he sat expecting the moment of +our union, that his daughter was come. Then the mark of misery would +have faded from my brow, and I should raise my eyes fearlessly to meet +his, which ever beamed with the soft lustre of innocent love. When I +reflected on the magic look of those deep eyes I wept, but gently, +lest my sobs should disturb the fairy scene.</p> + +<p>I was so entirely wrapt in this reverie that I wandered on, taking no +heed of my steps until I actually stooped down to gather a flower for +my wreath on that bleak plain where no flower grew, when I awoke from +my day dream and found myself I knew not where.<a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a></p> + +<p>The sun had set and the roseate hue which the clouds had caught from +him in his descent had nearly died away. A wind swept across the +plain, I looked around me and saw no object that told me where I was; +I had lost myself, and in vain attempted to find my path. I wandered +on, and the coming darkness made every trace indistinct by which I +might be guided. At length all was veiled in the deep obscurity of +blackest night; I became weary and knowing that my servant was to +sleep that night at the neighbouring village, so that my absence would +alarm no one; and that I was safe in this wild spot from every +intruder, I resolved to spend the night where I was. Indeed I was too +weary to walk further: the air was chill but I was careless of bodily +inconvenience, and I thought that I was well inured to the weather +during my two years of solitude, when no change of seasons prevented +my perpetual wanderings.</p> + +<p>I lay upon the grass surrounded by a darkness which not the slightest +beam of light penetrated—There was no sound for the deep night had +laid to sleep the insects, the only creatures that lived on the lone +spot where no tree or shrub could afford shelter to aught else—There +was a wondrous silence in the air that calmed my senses yet which +enlivened my soul, my mind hurried from image to image and seemed to +grasp an eternity. All in my heart was shadowy yet calm, untill my +ideas became confused and at length died away in sleep.<a name="FNanchor_78_102" id="FNanchor_78_102"></a><a href="#Footnote_78_102"><sup>[78]</sup></a></p> + +<p>When I awoke it rained:<a name="FNanchor_79_103" id="FNanchor_79_103"></a><a href="#Footnote_79_103"><sup>[79]</sup></a> I was already quite wet, and my limbs were +stiff and my head giddy with the chill of night. It was a drizzling, +penetrating shower; as my dank hair clung to my neck and partly +covered my face, I had hardly strength to part with my fingers, the +long strait locks that fell before my eyes. The darkness was much +dissipated and in the east where the clouds were least dense the moon +was visible behind the thin grey cloud—</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>The moon is behind, and at the full<br /></span> +<span>And yet she looks both small and dull.<a name="FNanchor_80_104" id="FNanchor_80_104"></a><a href="#Footnote_80_104"><sup>[80]</sup></a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Its presence gave me a hope that by its means I might find my home. +But I was languid and many hours passed before I could reach the +cottage, dragging as I did my slow steps, and often resting on the wet +earth unable to proceed.</p> + +<p>I particularly mark this night, for it was that which has hurried on +the last scene of my tragedy, which else might have dwindled<a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a> on +through long years of listless sorrow. I was very ill when I arrived +and quite incapable of taking off my wet clothes that clung about me. +In the morning, on her return, my servant found me almost lifeless, +while possessed by a high fever I was lying on the floor of my room.</p> + +<p>I was very ill for a long time, and when I recovered from the +immediate danger of fever, every symptom of a rapid consumption +declared itself. I was for some time ignorant of this and thought that +my excessive weakness was the consequence of the fever; [<i>sic</i>] But my +strength became less and less; as winter came on I had a cough; and my +sunken cheek, before pale, burned with a hectic fever. One by one +these symptoms struck me; & I became convinced that the moment I had +so much desired was about to arrive and that I was dying. I was +sitting by my fire, the physician who had attended me ever since my +fever had just left me, and I looked over his prescription in which +digitalis was the prominent medecine. “Yes,” I said, “I see how this +is, and it is strange that I should have deceived myself so long; I am +about to die an innocent death, and it will be sweeter even than that +which the opium promised.”</p> + +<p>I rose and walked slowly to the window; the wide heath was covered by +snow which sparkled under the beams of the sun that shone brightly +thro’ the pure, frosty air: a few birds were pecking some crumbs under +my window.<a name="FNanchor_81_105" id="FNanchor_81_105"></a><a href="#Footnote_81_105"><sup>[81]</sup></a> I smiled with quiet joy; and in my thoughts, which +through long habit would for ever connect themselves into one train, +as if I shaped them into words, I thus addressed the scene before me:</p> + +<p>“I salute thee, beautiful Sun, and thou, white Earth, fair and cold! +Perhaps I shall never see thee again covered with green, and the sweet +flowers of the coming spring will blossom on my grave. I am about to +leave thee; soon this living spirit which is ever busy among strange +shapes and ideas, which belong not to thee, soon it will have flown to +other regions and this emaciated body will rest insensate on thy bosom</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>“Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course<br /></span> +<span>With rocks, and stones, and trees.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>“For it will be the same with thee, who art called our Universal +Mother,<a name="FNanchor_82_106" id="FNanchor_82_106"></a><a href="#Footnote_82_106"><sup>[82]</sup></a> when I am gone. I have loved thee; and in my days both of +happiness and sorrow I have peopled your solitudes with<a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a> wild fancies +of my own creation. The woods, and lakes, and mountains which I have +loved, have for me a thousand associations; and thou, oh, Sun! hast +smiled upon, and borne your part in many imaginations that sprung to +life in my soul alone, and which will die with me. Your solitudes, +sweet land, your trees and waters will still exist, moved by your +winds, or still beneath the eye of noon, though<a name="FNanchor_83_107" id="FNanchor_83_107"></a><a href="#Footnote_83_107"><sup>[83]</sup></a> [w]hat I have felt +about ye, and all my dreams which have often strangely deformed thee, +will die with me. You will exist to reflect other images in other +minds, and ever will remain the same, although your reflected +semblance vary in a thousand ways, changeable as the hearts of those +who view thee. One of these fragile mirrors, that ever doted on thine +image, is about to be broken, crumbled to dust. But everteeming Nature +will create another and another, and thou wilt loose nought by my +destruction.<a name="FNanchor_84_108" id="FNanchor_84_108"></a><a href="#Footnote_84_108"><sup>[84]</sup></a></p> + +<p>“Thou wilt ever be the same. Recieve then the grateful farewell of a +fleeting shadow who is about to disappear, who joyfully leaves thee, +yet with a last look of affectionate thankfulness. Farewell! Sky, and +fields and woods; the lovely flowers that grow on thee; thy mountains +& thy rivers; to the balmy air and the strong wind of the north, to +all, a last farewell. I shall shed no more tears for my task is almost +fulfilled, and I am about to be rewarded for long and most burthensome +suffering. Bless thy child even even [<i>sic</i>] in death, as I bless +thee; and let me sleep at peace in my quiet grave.”</p> + +<p>I feel death to be near at hand and I am calm. I no longer despair, +but look on all around me with placid affection. I find it sweet to +watch the progressive decay of my strength, and to repeat to myself, +another day and yet another, but again I shall not see the red leaves +of autumn; before that time I shall be with my father. I am glad +Woodville is not with me for perhaps he would grieve, and I desire to +see smiles alone during the last scene of my life; when I last wrote +to him I told him of my ill health but not of its mortal tendency, +lest he should conceive it to be his duty to come to me for I fear +lest the tears of friendship should destroy the blessed calm of my +mind. I take pleasure in arranging all the little details which will +occur when I shall no longer be. In truth I am in love with death; no +maiden ever took more pleasure in the contemplation of her bridal +attire than I in fancying my limbs already<a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a> enwrapt in their shroud: +is it not my marriage dress? Alone it will unite me to my father when +in an eternal mental union we shall never part.</p> + +<p>I will not dwell on the last changes that I feel in the final decay of +nature. It is rapid but without pain: I feel a strange pleasure in it. +For long years these are the first days of peace that have visited me. +I no longer exhaust my miserable heart by bitter tears and frantic +complaints; I no longer the [<i>sic</i>] reproach the sun, the earth, the +air, for pain and wretchedness. I wait in quiet expectation for the +closing hours of a life which has been to me most sweet & bitter. I do +not die not having enjoyed life; for sixteen years I was happy: during +the first months of my father’s return I had enjoyed ages of pleasure: +now indeed I am grown old in grief; my steps are feeble like those of +age; I have become peevish and unfit for life; so having passed little +more than twenty years upon the earth I am more fit for my narrow +grave than many are when they reach the natural term of their lives.</p> + +<p>Again and again I have passed over in my remembrance the different +scenes of my short life: if the world is a stage and I merely an actor +on it my part has been strange, and, alas! tragical. Almost from +infancy I was deprived of all the testimonies of affection which +children generally receive; I was thrown entirely upon my own +resources, and I enjoyed what I may almost call unnatural pleasures, +for they were dreams and not realities. The earth was to me a magic +lantern and I [a] gazer, and a listener but no actor; but then came +the transporting and soul-reviving era of my existence: my father +returned and I could pour my warm affections on a human heart; there +was a new sun and a new earth created to me; the waters of existence +sparkled: joy! joy! but, alas! what grief! My bliss was more rapid +than the progress of a sunbeam on a mountain, which discloses its +glades & woods, and then leaves it dark & blank; to my happiness +followed madness and agony, closed by despair.</p> + +<p>This was the drama of my life which I have now depicted upon paper. +During three months I have been employed in this task. The memory of +sorrow has brought tears; the memory of happiness a warm glow the +lively shadow of that joy. Now my tears are dried; the glow has faded +from my cheeks, and with a few words of farewell to you, Woodville, I +close my work: the last that I shall perform.<a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a></p> + +<p>Farewell, my only living friend; you are the sole tie that binds me to +existence, and now I break it[.] It gives me no pain to leave you; nor +can our seperation give you much. You never regarded me as one of this +world, but rather as a being, who for some penance was sent from the +Kingdom of Shadows; and she passed a few days weeping on the earth and +longing to return to her native soil. You will weep but they will be +tears of gentleness. I would, if I thought that it would lessen your +regret, tell you to smile and congratulate me on my departure from the +misery you beheld me endure. I would say; Woodville, rejoice with your +friend, I triumph now and am most happy. But I check these +expressions; these may not be the consolations of the living; they +weep for their own misery, and not for that of the being they have +lost. No; shed a few natural tears due to my memory: and if you ever +visit my grave, pluck from thence a flower, and lay it to your heart; +for your heart is the only tomb in which my memory will be enterred.</p> + +<p>My death is rapidly approaching and you are not near to watch the +flitting and vanishing of my spirit. Do no[t] regret this; for death +is a too terrible an [<i>sic</i>] object for the living. It is one of those +adversities which hurt instead of purifying the heart; for it is so +intense a misery that it hardens & dulls the feelings. Dreadful as the +time was when I pursued my father towards the ocean, & found their +[<i>sic</i>] only his lifeless corpse; yet for my own sake I should prefer +that to the watching one by one his senses fade; his pulse weaken—and +sleeplessly as it were devour his life in gazing. To see life in his +limbs & to know that soon life would no longer be there; to see the +warm breath issue from his lips and to know they would soon be +chill—I will not continue to trace this frightful picture; you +suffered this torture once; I never did.<a name="FNanchor_85_109" id="FNanchor_85_109"></a><a href="#Footnote_85_109"><sup>[85]</sup></a> And the remembrance fills +your heart sometimes with bitter despair when otherwise your feelings +would have melted into soft sorrow.</p> + +<p>So day by day I become weaker, and life flickers in my wasting form, +as a lamp about to loose it vivifying oil. I now behold the glad sun +of May. It was May, four years ago, that I first saw my beloved +father; it was in May, three years ago that my folly destroyed the +only being I was doomed to love. May is returned, and I die. Three +days ago, the anniversary of our meeting; and, alas! of our eternal +seperation, after a day of killing emotion, I caused myself to be led +once more to behold the face of nature.<a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a> I caused myself to be carried +to some meadows some miles distant from my cottage; the grass was +being mowed, and there was the scent of hay in the fields; all the +earth look[ed] fresh and its inhabitants happy. Evening approached and +I beheld the sun set. Three years ago and on that day and hour it +shone through the branches and leaves of the beech wood and its beams +flickered upon the countenance of him whom I then beheld for the last +time.<a name="FNanchor_86_110" id="FNanchor_86_110"></a><a href="#Footnote_86_110"><sup>[86]</sup></a> I now saw that divine orb, gilding all the clouds with +unwonted splendour, sink behind the horizon; it disappeared from a +world where he whom I would seek exists not; it approached a world +where he exists not[.] Why do I weep so bitterly? Why my [<i>sic</i>] does +my heart heave with vain endeavour to cast aside the bitter anguish +that covers it “as the waters cover the sea.” I go from this world +where he is no longer and soon I shall meet him in another.</p> + +<p>Farewell, Woodville, the turf will soon be green on my grave; and the +violets will bloom on it. <i>There</i> is my hope and my expectation; +your’s are in this world; may they be fulfilled.<a name="FNanchor_87_111" id="FNanchor_87_111"></a><a href="#Footnote_87_111"><sup>[87]</sup></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="THE_FIELDS_OF_FANCY" id="THE_FIELDS_OF_FANCY"></a><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>THE FIELDS OF FANCY<a name="FNanchor_88_112" id="FNanchor_88_112"></a><a href="#Footnote_88_112"><sup>[88]</sup></a></h2> + +<p>It was in Rome—the Queen of the World that I suffered a misfortune +that reduced me to misery & despair<a name="FNanchor_89_113" id="FNanchor_89_113"></a><a href="#Footnote_89_113"><sup>[89]</sup></a>—The bright sun & deep azure +sky were oppressive but nought was so hateful as the voice of Man—I +loved to walk by the shores of the Tiber which were solitary & if the +sirocco blew to see the swift clouds pass over St. Peters and the many +domes of Rome or if the sun shone I turned my eyes from the sky whose +light was too dazzling & gay to be reflected in my tearful eyes I +turned them to the river whose swift course was as the speedy +departure of happiness and whose turbid colour was gloomy as grief—</p> + +<p>Whether I slept I know not or whether it was in one of those many +hours which I spent seated on the ground my mind a chaos of despair & +my eyes for ever wet by tears but I was here visited by a lovely +spirit whom I have ever worshiped & who tried to repay my adoration by +diverting my mind from the hideous memories that racked it. At first +indeed this wanton spirit played a false part & appearing with sable +wings & gloomy countenance seemed to take a pleasure in exagerating +all my miseries—and as small hopes arose to snatch them from me & +give me in their place gigantic fears which under her fairy hand +appeared close, impending & unavoidable—sometimes she would cruelly +leave me while I was thus on the verge of madness and without +consoling me leave me nought but heavy leaden sleep—but at other +times she would wilily link less unpleasing thoughts to these most +dreadful ones & before I was aware place hopes before me—futile but +consoling<a name="FNanchor_90_114" id="FNanchor_90_114"></a><a href="#Footnote_90_114"><sup>[90]</sup></a>—</p> + +<p>One day this lovely spirit—whose name as she told me was Fantasia +came to me in one of her consolotary moods—her wings which seemed +coloured by her tone of mind were not gay but beautiful like that of +the partridge & her lovely eyes although they ever burned with an +unquenshable fire were shaded & softened by her heavy lids & the black +long fringe of her eye lashes—She thus addressed me—You mourn for +the loss of those you love. They are gone for ever & great as my power +is I cannot recall them to you—if indeed I wave my wand over you you +will fancy<a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a> that you feel their gentle spirits in the soft air that +steals over your cheeks & the distant sound of winds & waters may +image to you their voices which will bid you rejoice for that they +live—This will not take away your grief but you will shed sweeter +tears than those which full of anguish & hopelessness now start from +your eyes—This I can do & also can I take you to see many of my +provinces my fairy lands which you have not yet visited and whose +beauty will while away the heavy time—I have many lovely spots under +my command which poets of old have visited and have seen those sights +the relation of which has been as a revelation to the world—many +spots I have still in keeping of lovely fields or horrid rocks peopled +by the beautiful or the tremendous which I keep in reserve for my +future worshippers—to one of those whose grim terrors frightened +sleep from the eye I formerly led you<a name="FNanchor_91_115" id="FNanchor_91_115"></a><a href="#Footnote_91_115"><sup>[91]</sup></a> but you now need more +pleasing images & although I will not promise you to shew you any new +scenes yet if I lead you to one often visited by my followers you will +at least see new combinations that will sooth if they do not delight +you—Follow me—</p> + +<p>Alas! I replied—when have you found me slow to obey your voice—some +times indeed I have called you & you have not come—but when before +have I not followed your slightest sign and have left what was either +of joy or sorrow in our world to dwell with you in yours till you have +dismissed me ever unwilling to depart—But now the weight of grief +that oppresses me takes from me that lightness which is necessary to +follow your quick & winged motions alas in the midst of my course one +thought would make me droop to the ground while you would outspeed me +to your Kingdom of Glory & leave me here darkling</p> + +<p>Ungrateful! replied the Spirit Do I not tell you that I will sustain & +console you My wings shall aid your heavy steps & I will command my +winds to disperse the mist that over casts you—I will lead you to a +place where you will not hear laughter that disturbs you or see the +sun that dazzles you—We will choose some of the most sombre walks of +the Elysian fields—</p> + +<p>The Elysian fields—I exclaimed with a quick scream—shall I then see? +I gasped & could not ask that which I longed to know—the friendly +spirit replied more gravely—I have told you that you will not see +those whom you mourn—But I must away—follow me or I must leave you +weeping deserted by the spirit that now checks your tears—<a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a></p> + +<p>Go—I replied I cannot follow—I can only sit here & grieve—& long to +see those who are gone for ever for to nought but what has relation to +them can I listen—</p> + +<p>The spirit left me to groan & weep to wish the sun quenched in eternal +darkness—to accuse the air the waters all—all the universe of my +utter & irremediable misery—Fantasia came again and ever when she +came tempted me to follow her but as to follow her was to leave for a +while the thought of those loved ones whose memories were my all +although they were my torment I dared not go—Stay with me I cried & +help me to clothe my bitter thoughts in lovelier colours give me hope +although fallacious & images of what has been although it never will +be again—diversion I cannot take cruel fairy do you leave me alas all +my joy fades at thy departure but I may not follow thee—</p> + +<p>One day after one of these combats when the spirit had left me I +wandered on along the banks of the river to try to disperse the +excessive misery that I felt untill overcome by fatigue—my eyes +weighed down by tears—I lay down under the shade of trees & fell +asleep—I slept long and when I awoke I knew not where I was—I did +not see the river or the distant city—but I lay beside a lovely +fountain shadowed over by willows & surrounded by blooming myrtles—at +a short distance the air seemed pierced by the spiry pines & cypresses +and the ground was covered by short moss & sweet smelling heath—the +sky was blue but not dazzling like that of Rome and on every side I +saw long allies—clusters of trees with intervening lawns & gently +stealing rivers—Where am I? [I] exclaimed—& looking around me I +beheld Fantasia—She smiled & as she smiled all the enchanting scene +appeared lovelier—rainbows played in the fountain & the heath flowers +at our feet appeared as if just refreshed by dew—I have seized you, +said she—as you slept and will for some little time retain you as my +prisoner—I will introduce you to some of the inhabitants of these +peaceful Gardens—It shall not be to any whose exuberant happiness +will form an u[n]pleasing contrast with your heavy grief but it shall +be to those whose chief care here is to acquired knowledged [<i>sic</i>] & +virtue—or to those who having just escaped from care & pain have not +yet recovered full sense of enjoyment—This part of these Elysian +Gardens is devoted to those who as before in your world wished to +become wise & virtuous by study & action here endeavour<a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a> after the +same ends by contemplation—They are still unknowing of their final +destination but they have a clear knowledge of what on earth is only +supposed by some which is that their happiness now & hereafter depends +upon their intellectual improvement—Nor do they only study the forms +of this universe but search deeply in their own minds and love to meet +& converse on all those high subjects of which the philosophers of +Athens loved to treat—With deep feelings but with no outward +circumstances to excite their passions you will perhaps imagine that +their life is uniform & dull—but these sages are of that disposition +fitted to find wisdom in every thing & in every lovely colour or form +ideas that excite their love—Besides many years are consumed before +they arrive here—When a soul longing for knowledge & pining at its +narrow conceptions escapes from your earth many spirits wait to +receive it and to open its eyes to the mysteries of the universe—many +centuries are often consumed in these travels and they at last retire +here to digest their knowledge & to become still wiser by thought and +imagination working upon memory <a name="FNanchor_92_116" id="FNanchor_92_116"></a><a href="#Footnote_92_116"><sup>[92]</sup></a>—When the fitting period is +accomplished they leave this garden to inhabit another world fitted +for the reception of beings almost infinitely wise—but what this +world is neither can you conceive or I teach you—some of the spirits +whom you will see here are yet unknowing in the secrets of +nature—They are those whom care & sorrow have consumed on earth & +whose hearts although active in virtue have been shut through +suffering from knowledge—These spend sometime here to recover their +equanimity & to get a thirst of knowledge from converse with their +wiser companions—They now securely hope to see again those whom they +love & know that it is ignorance alone that detains them from them. As +for those who in your world knew not the loveliness of benevolence & +justice they are placed apart some claimed by the evil spirit & in +vain sought for by the good but She whose delight is to reform the +wicked takes all she can & delivers them to her ministers not to be +punished but to be exercised & instructed untill acquiring a love of +virtue they are fitted for these gardens where they will acquire a +love of knowledge</p> + +<p>As Fantasia talked I saw various groupes of figures as they walked +among the allies of the gardens or were seated on the grassy plots +either in contemplation or conversation several advanced together +towards the fountain where I sat—As they approached I<a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a> observed the +principal figure to be that of a woman about 40 years of age her eyes +burned with a deep fire and every line of her face expressed +enthusiasm & wisdom—Poetry seemed seated on her lips which were +beautifully formed & every motion of her limbs although not youthful +was inexpressibly graceful—her black hair was bound in tresses round +her head and her brows were encompassed by a fillet—her dress was +that of a simple tunic bound at the waist by a broad girdle and a +mantle which fell over her left arm she was encompassed by several +youths of both sexes who appeared to hang on her words & to catch the +inspiration as it flowed from her with looks either of eager wonder or +stedfast attention with eyes all bent towards her eloquent countenance +which beamed with the mind within—I am going said Fantasia but I +leave my spirit with you without which this scene wd fade away—I +leave you in good company—that female whose eyes like the loveliest +planet in the heavens draw all to gaze on her is the Prophetess +Diotima the instructress of Socrates<a name="FNanchor_93_117" id="FNanchor_93_117"></a><a href="#Footnote_93_117"><sup>[93]</sup></a>—The company about her are +those just escaped from the world there they were unthinking or +misconducted in the pursuit of knowledge. She leads them to truth & +wisdom untill the time comes when they shall be fitted for the journey +through the universe which all must one day undertake—farewell—</p> + +<p>And now, gentlest reader—I must beg your indulgence—I am a being too +weak to record the words of Diotima her matchless wisdom & heavenly +eloquence[.] What I shall repeat will be as the faint shadow of a tree +by moonlight—some what of the form will be preserved but there will +be no life in it—Plato alone of Mortals could record the thoughts of +Diotima hopeless therefore I shall not dwell so much on her words as +on those of her pupils which being more earthly can better than hers +be related by living lips[.]</p> + +<p>Diotima approached the fountain & seated herself on a mossy mound near +it and her disciples placed themselves on the grass near her—Without +noticing me who sat close under her she continued her discourse +addressing as it happened one or other of her listeners—but before I +attempt to repeat her words I will describe the chief of these whom +she appeared to wish principally to impress—One was a woman of about +23 years of age in the full enjoyment of the most exquisite beauty her +golden hair floated in ringlets on her shoulders—her hazle eyes were +shaded by heavy lids and her mouth the lips apart seemed to breathe +sensibility<a name="FNanchor_94_118" id="FNanchor_94_118"></a><a href="#Footnote_94_118"><sup>[94]</sup></a>—But she appeared<a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a> thoughtful & unhappy—her cheek was +pale she seemed as if accustomed to suffer and as if the lessons she +now heard were the only words of wisdom to which she had ever +listened—The youth beside her had a far different aspect—his form +was emaciated nearly to a shadow—his features were handsome but thin +& worn—& his eyes glistened as if animating the visage of decay—his +forehead was expansive but there was a doubt & perplexity in his looks +that seemed to say that although he had sought wisdom he had got +entangled in some mysterious mazes from which he in vain endeavoured +to extricate himself—As Diotima spoke his colour went & came with +quick changes & the flexible muscles of his countenance shewed every +impression that his mind received—he seemed one who in life had +studied hard but whose feeble frame sunk beneath the weight of the +mere exertion of life—the spark of intelligence burned with uncommon +strength within him but that of life seemed ever on the eve of +fading<a name="FNanchor_95_119" id="FNanchor_95_119"></a><a href="#Footnote_95_119"><sup>[95]</sup></a>—At present I shall not describe any other of this groupe +but with deep attention try to recall in my memory some of the words +of Diotima—they were words of fire but their path is faintly marked +on my recollection—<a name="FNanchor_96_120" id="FNanchor_96_120"></a><a href="#Footnote_96_120"><sup>[96]</sup></a></p> + +<p>It requires a just hand, said she continuing her discourse, to weigh & +divide the good from evil—On the earth they are inextricably +entangled and if you would cast away what there appears an evil a +multitude of beneficial causes or effects cling to it & mock your +labour—When I was on earth and have walked in a solitary country +during the silence of night & have beheld the multitude of stars, the +soft radiance of the moon reflected on the sea, which was studded by +lovely islands—When I have felt the soft breeze steal across my cheek +& as the words of love it has soothed & cherished me—then my mind +seemed almost to quit the body that confined it to the earth & with a +quick mental sense to mingle with the scene that I hardly saw—I +felt—Then I have exclaimed, oh world how beautiful thou art!—Oh +brightest universe behold thy worshiper!—spirit of beauty & of +sympathy which pervades all things, & now lifts my soul as with wings, +how have you animated the light & the breezes!—Deep & inexplicable +spirit give me words to express my adoration; my mind is hurried away +but with language I cannot tell how I feel thy loveliness! Silence or +the song of the nightingale the momentary apparition of some bird that +flies quietly past—all seems animated with thee & more than all<a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a> the +deep sky studded with worlds!”—If the winds roared & tore the sea and +the dreadful lightnings seemed falling around me—still love was +mingled with the sacred terror I felt; the majesty of loveliness was +deeply impressed on me—So also I have felt when I have seen a lovely +countenance—or heard solemn music or the eloquence of divine wisdom +flowing from the lips of one of its worshippers—a lovely animal or +even the graceful undulations of trees & inanimate objects have +excited in me the same deep feeling of love & beauty; a feeling which +while it made me alive & eager to seek the cause & animator of the +scene, yet satisfied me by its very depth as if I had already found +the solution to my enquires [<i>sic</i>] & as if in feeling myself a part +of the great whole I had found the truth & secret of the universe—But +when retired in my cell I have studied & contemplated the various +motions and actions in the world the weight of evil has confounded +me—If I thought of the creation I saw an eternal chain of evil linked +one to the other—from the great whale who in the sea swallows & +destroys multitudes & the smaller fish that live on him also & torment +him to madness—to the cat whose pleasure it is to torment her prey I +saw the whole creation filled with pain—each creature seems to exist +through the misery of another & death & havoc is the watchword of the +animated world—And Man also—even in Athens the most civilized spot +on the earth what a multitude of mean passions—envy, malice—a +restless desire to depreciate all that was great and good did I +see—And in the dominions of the great being I saw man [reduced?]<a name="FNanchor_97_121" id="FNanchor_97_121"></a><a href="#Footnote_97_121"><sup>[97]</sup></a> +far below the animals of the field preying on one anothers [<i>sic</i>] +hearts; happy in the downfall of others—themselves holding on with +bent necks and cruel eyes to a wretch more a slave if possible than +they to his miserable passions—And if I said these are the +consequences of civilization & turned to the savage world I saw only +ignorance unrepaid by any noble feeling—a mere animal, love of life +joined to a low love of power & a fiendish love of destruction—I saw +a creature drawn on by his senses & his selfish passions but untouched +by aught noble or even Human—</p> + +<p>And then when I sought for consolation in the various faculties man is +possessed of & which I felt burning within me—I found that spirit of +union with love & beauty which formed my happiness & pride degraded +into superstition & turned from its natural growth which could bring +forth only good fruit:—cruelty—& intolerance & hard<a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a> tyranny was +grafted on its trunk & from it sprung fruit suitable to such +grafts—If I mingled with my fellow creatures was the voice I heard +that of love & virtue or that of selfishness & vice, still misery was +ever joined to it & the tears of mankind formed a vast sea ever blown +on by its sighs & seldom illuminated by its smiles—Such taking only +one side of the picture & shutting wisdom from the view is a just +portraiture of the creation as seen on earth</p> + +<p>But when I compared the good & evil of the world & wished to divide +them into two seperate principles I found them inextricably intwined +together & I was again cast into perplexity & doubt—I might have +considered the earth as an imperfect formation where having bad +materials to work on the Creator could only palliate the evil effects +of his combinations but I saw a wanton malignity in many parts & +particularly in the mind of man that baffled me a delight in mischief +a love of evil for evils sake—a siding of the multitude—a dastardly +applause which in their hearts the crowd gave to triumphant +wick[ed]ness over lowly virtue that filled me with painful sensations. +Meditation, painful & continual thought only encreased my doubts—I +dared not commit the blasphemy of ascribing the slightest evil to a +beneficent God—To whom then should I ascribe the creation? To two +principles? Which was the upermost? They were certainly independant +for neither could the good spirit allow the existence of evil or the +evil one the existence of good—Tired of these doubts to which I could +form no probable solution—Sick of forming theories which I destroyed +as quickly as I built them I was one evening on the top of Hymettus +beholding the lovely prospect as the sun set in the glowing sea—I +looked towards Athens & in my heart I exclaimed—oh busy hive of men! +What heroism & what meaness exists within thy walls! And alas! both to +the good & to the wicked what incalculable misery—Freemen ye call +yourselves yet every free man has ten slaves to build up his +freedom—and these slaves are men as they are yet d[e]graded by their +station to all that is mean & loathsome—Yet in how many hearts now +beating in that city do high thoughts live & magnanimity that should +methinks redeem the whole human race—What though the good man is +unhappy has he not that in his heart to satisfy him? And will a +contented conscience compensate for fallen hopes—a slandered name +torn affections & all the miseries of civilized life?—<a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a></p> + +<p>Oh Sun how beautiful thou art! And how glorious is the golden ocean +that receives thee! My heart is at peace—I feel no sorrow—a holy +love stills my senses—I feel as if my mind also partook of the +inexpressible loveliness of surrounding nature—What shall I do? Shall +I disturb this calm by mingling in the world?—shall I with an aching +heart seek the spectacle of misery to discover its cause or shall I +hopless leave the search of knowledge & devote myself to the pleasures +they say this world affords?—Oh! no—I will become wise! I will study +my own heart—and there discovering as I may the spring of the virtues +I possess I will teach others how to look for them in their own +souls—I will find whence arrises this unquenshable love of beauty I +possess that seems the ruling star of my life—I will learn how I may +direct it aright and by what loving I may become more like that beauty +which I adore And when I have traced the steps of the godlike feeling +which ennobles me & makes me that which I esteem myself to be then I +will teach others & if I gain but one proselyte—if I can teach but +one other mind what is the beauty which they ought to love—and what +is the sympathy to which they ought to aspire what is the true end of +their being—which must be the true end of that of all men then shall +I be satisfied & think I have done enough—</p> + +<p>Farewell doubts—painful meditation of evil—& the great, ever +inexplicable cause of all that we see—I am content to be ignorant of +all this happy that not resting my mind on any unstable theories I +have come to the conclusion that of the great secret of the universe I +<i>can know nothing</i>—There is a veil before it—my eyes are not +piercing enough to see through it my arms not long enough to reach it +to withdraw it—I will study the end of my being—oh thou universal +love inspire me—oh thou beauty which I see glowing around me lift me +to a fit understanding of thee! Such was the conclusion of my long +wanderings I sought the end of my being & I found it to be knowledge +of itself—Nor think this a confined study—Not only did it lead me to +search the mazes of the human soul—but I found that there existed +nought on earth which contained not a part of that universal beauty +with which it [was] my aim & object to become acquainted—the motions +of the stars of heaven the study of all that philosophers have +unfolded of wondrous in nature became as it where [<i>sic</i>] the steps by +which my soul rose to the full contemplation & enjoyment of the +beautiful—Oh ye<a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a> who have just escaped from the world ye know not +what fountains of love will be opened in your hearts or what exquisite +delight your minds will receive when the secrets of the world will be +unfolded to you and ye shall become acquainted with the beauty of the +universe—Your souls now growing eager for the acquirement of +knowledge will then rest in its possession disengaged from every +particle of evil and knowing all things ye will as it were be mingled +in the universe & ye will become a part of that celestial beauty that +you admire—<a name="FNanchor_98_122" id="FNanchor_98_122"></a><a href="#Footnote_98_122"><sup>[98]</sup></a></p> + +<p>Diotima ceased and a profound silence ensued—the youth with his +cheeks flushed and his eyes burning with the fire communicated from +hers still fixed them on her face which was lifted to heaven as in +inspiration—The lovely female bent hers to the ground & after a deep +sigh was the first to break the silence—</p> + +<p>Oh divinest prophetess, said she—how new & to me how strange are your +lessons—If such be the end of our being how wayward a course did I +pursue on earth—Diotima you know not how torn affections & misery +incalculable misery—withers up the soul. How petty do the actions of +our earthly life appear when the whole universe is opened to our +gaze—yet there our passions are deep & irrisisbable [<i>sic</i>] and as we +are floating hopless yet clinging to hope down the impetuous stream +can we perceive the beauty of its banks which alas my soul was too +turbid to reflect—If knowledge is the end of our being why are +passions & feelings implanted in us that hurries [<i>sic</i>] us from +wisdom to selfconcentrated misery & narrow selfish feeling? Is it as a +trial? On earth I thought that I had well fulfilled my trial & my last +moments became peaceful with the reflection that I deserved no +blame—but you take from me that feeling—My passions were there my +all to me and the hopeless misery that possessed me shut all love & +all images of beauty from my soul—Nature was to me as the blackest +night & if rays of loveliness ever strayed into my darkness it was +only to draw bitter tears of hopeless anguish from my eyes—Oh on +earth what consolation is there to misery?</p> + +<p>Your heart I fear, replied Diotima, was broken by your sufferings—but +if you had struggled—if when you found all hope of earthly happiness +wither within you while desire of it scorched your soul—if you had +near you a friend to have raised you to the contemplation of beauty & +the search of knowledge you would have found perhaps<a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a> not new hopes +spring within you but a new life distinct from that of passion by +which you had before existed<a name="FNanchor_99_123" id="FNanchor_99_123"></a><a href="#Footnote_99_123"><sup>[99]</sup></a>—relate to me what this misery was +that thus engroses you—tell me what were the vicissitudes of feeling +that you endured on earth—after death our actions & worldly interest +fade as nothing before us but the traces of our feelings exist & the +memories of those are what furnish us here with eternal subject of +meditation.</p> + +<p>A blush spread over the cheek of the lovely girl—Alas, replied she +what a tale must I relate what dark & phre[n]zied passions must I +unfold—When you Diotima lived on earth your soul seemed to mingle in +love only with its own essence & to be unknowing of the various +tortures which that heart endures who if it has not sympathized with +has been witness of the dreadful struggles of a soul enchained by dark +deep passions which were its hell & yet from which it could not +escape—Are there in the peaceful language used by the inhabitants of +these regions—words burning enough to paint the tortures of the human +heart—Can you understand them? or can you in any way sympathize with +them—alas though dead I do and my tears flow as when I lived when my +memory recalls the dreadful images of the past—</p> + +<p>—As the lovely girl spoke my own eyes filled with bitter drops—the +spirit of Fantasia seemed to fade from within me and when after +placing my hand before my swimming eyes I withdrew it again I found +myself under the trees on the banks of the Tiber—The sun was just +setting & tinging with crimson the clouds that floated over St. +Peters—all was still no human voice was heard—the very air was quiet +I rose—& bewildered with the grief that I felt within me the +recollection of what I had heard—I hastened to the city that I might +see human beings not that I might forget my wandering recollections +but that I might impress on my mind what was reality & what was either +dream—or at least not of this earth—The Corso of Rome was filled +with carriages and as I walked up the Trinita dei’ Montes I became +disgusted with the crowd that I saw about me & the vacancy & want of +beauty not to say deformity of the many beings who meaninglessly +buzzed about me—I hastened to my room which overlooked the whole city +which as night came on became tranquil—Silent lovely Rome I now gaze +on thee—thy domes are illuminated by the moon—and the ghosts of +lovely memories float with the night breeze among thy ruins—<a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a> +contemplating thy loveliness which half soothes my miserable heart I +record what I have seen—Tomorrow I will again woo Fantasia to lead me +to the same walks & invite her to visit me with her visions which I +before neglected—Oh let me learn this lesson while yet it may be +useful to me that to a mind hopeless & unhappy as mine—a moment of +forgetfullness a moment [in] which it can pass out of itself is worth +a life of painful recollection.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>CHAP. 2</h2> + +<p>The next morning while sitting on the steps of the temple of +Aesculapius in the Borghese gardens Fantasia again visited me & +smilingly beckoned to me to follow her—My flight was at first heavy +but the breezes commanded by the spirit to convoy me grew stronger as +I advanced—a pleasing languour seized my senses & when I recovered I +found my self by the Elysian fountain near Diotima—The beautiful +female who[m] I had left on the point of narrating her earthly history +seemed to have waited for my return and as soon as I appeared she +spoke thus—<a name="FNanchor_100_124" id="FNanchor_100_124"></a><a href="#Footnote_100_124"><sup>[100]</sup></a></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<div class="footnotes"> + +<h3>AUTHOR’S FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_19" id="Footnote_A_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_19"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Wordsworth</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_20" id="Footnote_B_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_20"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> Dante</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_C_21" id="Footnote_C_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_C_21"><span class="label">[C]</span></a> Fletcher’s comedy of the Captain.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_D_22" id="Footnote_D_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_D_22"><span class="label">[D]</span></a> Lord Byron</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_E_23" id="Footnote_E_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_E_23"><span class="label">[E]</span></a> Coleridge’s Fire, Famine and Slaughter.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_F_24" id="Footnote_F_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_F_24"><span class="label">[F]</span></a> Spencer’s Faery Queen Book 1—Canto [9]</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h3>FOOTNOTES TO THE PREFACE:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_I_1" id="Footnote_I_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_I_1"><span class="label">[i]</span></a> They are listed in Nitchie, <i>Mary Shelley</i>, Appendix II, +pp. 205-208. To them should be added an unfinished and unpublished +novel, <i>Cecil</i>, in Lord Abinger’s collection.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_II_2" id="Footnote_II_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_II_2"><span class="label">[ii]</span></a> On the basis of the Bodleian notebook and some +information about the complete story kindly furnished me by Miss R. +Glynn Grylls, I wrote an article, “Mary Shelley’s <i>Mathilda</i>, an +Unpublished Story and Its Biographical Significance,” which appeared +in <i>Studies in Philology</i>, XL (1943), 447-462. When the other +manuscripts became available, I was able to use them for my book, +<i>Mary Shelley</i>, and to draw conclusions more certain and well-founded +than the conjectures I had made ten years earlier.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_III_3" id="Footnote_III_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_III_3"><span class="label">[iii]</span></a> A note, probably in Richard Garnett’s hand, enclosed in +a MS box with the two notebooks in Lord Abinger’s collection describes +them as of Italian make with “slanting head bands, inserted through +the covers.” Professor Lewis Patton’s list of the contents of the +microfilms in the Duke University Library (<i>Library Notes</i>, No. 27, +April, 1953) describes them as vellum bound, the back cover of the +<i>Mathilda</i> notebook being missing. Lord Abinger’s notebooks are on +Reel 11. The Bodleian notebook is catalogued as MSS. Shelley d. 1, the +Shelley-Rolls fragments as MSS. Shelley adds c. 5.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_IV_4" id="Footnote_IV_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_IV_4"><span class="label">[iv]</span></a> See note 83 to <i>Mathilda</i>, page 89.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_V_5" id="Footnote_V_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_V_5"><span class="label">[v]</span></a> See <i>Posthumous Works of the Author of a Vindication of +the Rights of Woman</i> (4 vols., London, 1798), IV, 97-155.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_VI_6" id="Footnote_VI_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_VI_6"><span class="label">[vi]</span></a> See <i>Maria Gisborne & Edward E. Williams ... Their +Journals and Letters</i>, ed. by Frederick L. Jones (Norman: University +of Oklahoma Press, [1951]), p. 27.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_VII_7" id="Footnote_VII_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_VII_7"><span class="label">[vii]</span></a> See Thomas Medwin, <i>The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley</i>, +revised, with introduction and notes by H. Buxton Forman (London, +1913), p. 252.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_VIII_8" id="Footnote_VIII_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_VIII_8"><span class="label">[viii]</span></a> <i>Journal</i>, pp. 159, 160.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_IX_9" id="Footnote_IX_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_IX_9"><span class="label">[ix]</span></a> <i>Maria Gisborne, etc.</i>, pp. 43-44.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_X_10" id="Footnote_X_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_X_10"><span class="label">[x]</span></a> <i>Letters</i>, I, 182.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XI_11" id="Footnote_XI_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XI_11"><span class="label">[xi]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, I, 224.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XII_12" id="Footnote_XII_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XII_12"><span class="label">[xii]</span></a> See White, <i>Shelley</i>, II, 40-56.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XIII_13" id="Footnote_XIII_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XIII_13"><span class="label">[xiii]</span></a> See <i>Letters</i>, II, 88, and note 23 to <i>Mathilda</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XIV_14" id="Footnote_XIV_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XIV_14"><span class="label">[xiv]</span></a> See <i>Shelley and Mary</i> (4 vols. Privately printed [for +Sir Percy and Lady Shelley], 1882), II, 338A.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XV_15" id="Footnote_XV_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XV_15"><span class="label">[xv]</span></a> See Mrs. Julian Marshall, <i>The Life and Letters of Mary +W. Shelley</i> (2 vols. London: Richard Bentley & Son, 1889), I, 255.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XVI_16" id="Footnote_XVI_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XVI_16"><span class="label">[xvi]</span></a> Julian <i>Works</i>, X, 69.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XVII_17" id="Footnote_XVII_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XVII_17"><span class="label">[xvii]</span></a> <i>Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men +of Italy, Spain, and Portugal</i> (3 vols., Nos. 63, 71, and 96 of the +Rev. Dionysius Lardner’s <i>Cabinet Cyclopaedia</i>, London, 1835-1837), +II, 291-292.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_XVIII_18" id="Footnote_XVIII_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_XVIII_18"><span class="label">[xviii]</span></a> The most significant revisions are considered in +detail in the notes. The text of the opening of <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>, +containing the fanciful framework of the story, later discarded, is +printed after the text of <i>Mathilda</i>.</p></div> + +<hr /> + +<h3><a name="NOTES_TO_MATHILDA" id="NOTES_TO_MATHILDA"></a>NOTES TO <i>MATHILDA</i></h3> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: .5em;">Abbreviations:<br /></span> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>F of F—A</i> <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>, in Lord Abinger’s notebook<br /></span> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>F of F—B</i> <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>, in the notebook in the Bodleian Library</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>S-R fr</i> fragments of <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> among the papers of the</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">late Sir John Shelley-Rolls, now in the Bodleian Library</span> +</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_25" id="Footnote_1_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_25"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The name is spelled thus in the MSS of <i>Mathilda</i> and +<i>The Fields of Fancy</i>, though in the printed <i>Journal</i> (taken from +<i>Shelley and Mary</i>) and in the <i>Letters</i> it is spelled <i>Matilda</i>. In +the MS of the journal, however, it is spelled first <i>Matilda</i>, later +<i>Mathilda</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_26" id="Footnote_2_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_26"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Mary has here added detail and contrast to the +description in <i>F of F—A</i>, in which the passage “save a few black +patches ... on the plain ground” does not appear.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_27" id="Footnote_3_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_27"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> The addition of “I am alone ... withered me” motivates +Mathilda’s state of mind and her resolve to write her history.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_28" id="Footnote_4_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_28"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Mathilda too is the unwitting victim in a story of +incest. Like Oedipus, she has lost her parent-lover by suicide; like +him she leaves the scene of the revelation overwhelmed by a sense of +her own guilt, “a sacred horror”; like him, she finds a measure of +peace as she is about to die.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_29" id="Footnote_5_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_29"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> The addition of “the precious memorials ... gratitude +towards you,” by its suggestion of the relationship between Mathilda +and Woodville, serves to justify the detailed narration.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_30" id="Footnote_6_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_30"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> At this point two sheets have been removed from the +notebook. There is no break in continuity, however.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_31" id="Footnote_7_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_31"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> The descriptions of Mathilda’s father and mother and the +account of their marriage in the next few pages are greatly expanded +from <i>F of F—A</i>, where there is only one brief paragraph. The process +of expansion can be followed in <i>S-R fr</i> and in <i>F of F—B</i>. The +development of the character of Diana (who represents Mary’s own +mother, Mary Wollstonecraft) gave Mary the most trouble. For the +identifications with Mary’s father and mother, see Nitchie, <i>Mary +Shelley</i>, pp. 11, 90-93, 96-97.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_32" id="Footnote_8_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_32"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> The passage “There was a gentleman ... school & college +vacations” is on a slip of paper pasted on page 11 of the MS. In the +margin are two fragments, crossed out, evidently parts of what is +supplanted by the substituted passage: “an angelic disposition and a +quick, penetrating understanding” and “her visits ... to ... his house +were long & frequent & there.” In <i>F of F—B</i> Mary wrote of Diana’s +understanding “that often receives the name of masculine from its +firmness and strength.” This adjective had often been applied to Mary +Wollstonecraft’s mind. Mary Shelley’s own understanding had been +called masculine by Leigh Hunt in 1817 in the <i>Examiner</i>. The word was +used also by a reviewer of her last published work, <i>Rambles in +Germany and Italy, 1844</i>. (See Nitchie, <i>Mary Shelley</i>, p. 178.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_33" id="Footnote_9_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_33"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> The account of Diana in <i>Mathilda</i> is much better ordered +and more coherent than that in <i>F of F—B</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_34" id="Footnote_10_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_34"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> The description of the effect of Diana’s death on her +husband is largely new in <i>Mathilda</i>. <i>F of F—B</i> is frankly +incomplete; <i>F of F—A</i> contains some of this material; <i>Mathilda</i> +puts it in order and fills in the gaps.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_35" id="Footnote_11_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_35"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> This paragraph is an elaboration of the description of +her aunt’s coldness as found in <i>F of F—B</i>. There is only one +sentence in <i>F of F—A</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_36" id="Footnote_12_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_36"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> The description of Mathilda’s love of nature and of +animals is elaborated from both rough drafts. The effect, like that of +the preceding addition (see note 11), is to emphasize Mathilda’s +loneliness. For the theme of loneliness in Mary Shelley’s work, see +Nitchie, <i>Mary Shelley</i>, pp. 13-17.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_37" id="Footnote_13_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_37"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> This paragraph is a revision of <i>F of F—B</i>, which is +fragmentary. There is nothing in <i>F of F—A</i> and only one scored-out +sentence in <i>S-R fr</i>. None of the rough drafts tells of her plans to +join her father.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_38" id="Footnote_14_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_38"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> The final paragraph in Chapter II is entirely new.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_39" id="Footnote_15_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_39"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> The account of the return of Mathilda’s father is very +slightly revised from that in <i>F of F—A</i>. <i>F of F—B</i> has only a few +fragmentary sentences, scored out. It resumes with the paragraph +beginning, “My father was very little changed.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_40" id="Footnote_16_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_40"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Symbolic of Mathilda’s subsequent life.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_41" id="Footnote_17_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_41"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> <i>Illusion, or the Trances of Nourjahad</i>, a melodrama, +was performed at Drury Lane, November 25, 1813. It was anonymous, but +it was attributed by some reviewers to Byron, a charge which he +indignantly denied. See Byron, <i>Letters and Journals</i>, ed. by Rowland +E. Prothero (6 vols. London: Murray, 1902-1904), II, 288.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_42" id="Footnote_18_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_42"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> This paragraph is in <i>F of F—B</i> but not in <i>F of F—A</i>. +In the margin of the latter, however, is written: “It was not of the +tree of knowledge that I ate for no evil followed—it must be of the +tree of life that grows close beside it or—”. Perhaps this was +intended to go in the preceding paragraph after “My ideas were +enlarged by his conversation.” Then, when this paragraph was added, +the figure, noticeably changed, was included here.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_43" id="Footnote_19_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_43"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> Here the MS of <i>F of F—B</i> breaks off to resume only +with the meeting of Mathilda and Woodville.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_44" id="Footnote_20_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_44"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> At the end of the story (p. 79) Mathilda says, “Death is +too terrible an object for the living.” Mary was thinking of the +deaths of her two children.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_45" id="Footnote_21_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_45"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> Mary had read the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius +in 1817 and she had made an Italian translation, the MS of which is +now in the Library of Congress. See <i>Journal</i>, pp. 79, 85-86.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_46" id="Footnote_22_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_46"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> The end of this paragraph gave Mary much trouble. In <i>F +of F—A</i> after the words, “my tale must,” she develops an elaborate +figure: “go with the stream that hurries on—& now was this stream +precipitated by an overwhelming fall from the pleasant vallies through +which it wandered—down hideous precipieces to a desart black & +hopeless—”. This, the original ending of the chapter, was scored out, +and a new, simplified version which, with some deletions and changes, +became that used in <i>Mathilda</i> was written in the margins of two +pages (ff. 57, 58). This revision is a good example of Mary’s frequent +improvement of her style by the omission of purple patches.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_47" id="Footnote_23_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_47"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> In <i>F of F—A</i> there follows a passage which has been +scored out and which does not appear in <i>Mathilda</i>: “I have tried in +somewhat feeble language to describe the excess of what I may almost +call my adoration for my father—you may then in some faint manner +imagine my despair when I found that he shunned [me] & that all the +little arts I used to re-awaken his lost love made him”—. This is a +good example of Mary’s frequent revision for the better by the +omission of the obvious and expository. But the passage also has +intrinsic interest. Mathilda’s “adoration” for her father may be +compared to Mary’s feeling for Godwin. In an unpublished letter (1822) +to Jane Williams she wrote, “Until I met Shelley I [could?] justly say +that he was my God—and I remember many childish instances of the +[ex]cess of attachment I bore for him.” See Nitchie, <i>Mary Shelley</i>, +p. 89, and note 9.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_48" id="Footnote_24_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_48"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Cf. the account of the services of Fantasia in the +opening chapter of <i>F of F—A</i> (see pp. 90-102) together with note 3 +to <i>The Fields of Fancy</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_49" id="Footnote_25_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_49"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> This passage beginning “Day after day” and closing with +the quotation is not in <i>F of F—A</i>, but it is in <i>S-R fr</i>. The +quotation is from <i>The Captain</i> by John Fletcher and a collaborator, +possibly Massinger. These lines from Act I, Sc. 3 are part of a speech +by Lelia addressed to her lover. Later in the play Lelia attempts to +seduce her father—possibly a reason for Mary’s selection of the +lines.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_50" id="Footnote_26_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_50"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> At this point (f. 56 of the notebook) begins a long +passage, continuing through Chapter V, in which Mary’s emotional +disturbance in writing about the change in Mathilda’s father +(representing both Shelley and Godwin?) shows itself on the pages of +the MS. They look more like the rough draft than the fair copy. There +are numerous slips of the pen, corrections in phrasing and sentence +structure, dashes instead of other marks of punctuation, a large blot +of ink on f. 57, one major deletion (see note 32).</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_51" id="Footnote_27_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_51"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> In the margin of <i>F of F—A</i> Mary wrote, “Lord B’s +Ch<sup>de</sup> Harold.” The reference is to stanzas 71 and 72 of Canto IV. +Byron compares the rainbow on the cataract first to “Hope upon a +death-bed” and finally +</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene,<br /></span> +<span>Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.</span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_52" id="Footnote_28_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_52"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> In <i>F of F—A</i> Mathilda “took up Ariosto & read the +story of Isabella.” Mary’s reason for the change is not clear. Perhaps +she thought that the fate of Isabella, a tale of love and lust and +death (though not of incest), was too close to what was to be +Mathilda’s fate. She may have felt—and rightly—that the allusions to +Lelia and to Myrrha were ample foreshadowings. The reasons for the +choice of the seventh canto of Book II of the <i>Faerie Queene</i> may lie +in the allegorical meaning of Guyon, or Temperance, and the “dread and +horror” of his experience.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_53" id="Footnote_29_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_53"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> With this speech, which is not in <i>F of F—A</i>, Mary +begins to develop the character of the Steward, who later accompanies +Mathilda on her search for her father. Although he is to a very great +extent the stereptyped faithful servant, he does serve to dramatize +the situation both here and in the later scene.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_54" id="Footnote_30_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_54"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> This clause is substituted for a more conventional and +less dramatic passage in <i>F of F—A</i>: “& besides there appeared more +of struggle than remorse in his manner although sometimes I thought I +saw glim[p]ses of the latter feeling in his tumultuous starts & gloomy +look.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_55" id="Footnote_31_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_55"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> These paragraphs beginning Chapter V are much expanded +from <i>F of F—A</i>. Some of the details are in the <i>S-R fr</i>. This scene +is recalled at the end of the story. (See page 80) Cf. what Mary says +about places that are associated with former emotions in her <i>Rambles +in Germany and Italy</i> (2 vols., London: Moxon, 1844), II, 78-79. She +is writing of her approach to Venice, where, twenty-five years before, +little Clara had died. “It is a strange, but to any person who has +suffered, a familiar circumstance, that those who are enduring mental +or corporeal agony are strangely alive to immediate external objects, +and their imagination even exercises its wild power over them.... Thus +the banks of the Brenta presented to me a moving scene; not a palace, +not a tree of which I did not recognize, as marked and recorded, at a +moment when life and death hung upon our speedy arrival at Venice.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_56" id="Footnote_32_56"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_56"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> The remainder of this chapter, which describes the +crucial scene between Mathilda and her father, is the result of much +revision from <i>F of F—A</i>. Some of the revisions are in <i>S-R fr</i>. In +general the text of <i>Mathilda</i> is improved in style. Mary adds +concrete, specific words and phrases; e.g., at the end of the first +paragraph of Mathilda’s speech, the words “of incertitude” appear in +<i>Mathilda</i> for the first time. She cancels, even in this final draft, +an over-elaborate figure of speech after the words in the father’s +reply, “implicated in my destruction”; the cancelled passage is too +flowery to be appropriate here: “as if when a vulture is carrying off +some hare it is struck by an arrow his helpless victim entangled in +the same fate is killed by the defeat of its enemy. One word would do +all this.” Furthermore the revised text shows greater understanding +and penetration of the feelings of both speakers: the addition of “Am +I the cause of your grief?” which brings out more dramatically what +Mathilda has said in the first part of this paragraph; the analysis of +the reasons for her presistent questioning; the addition of the final +paragraph of her plea, “Alas! Alas!... you hate me!” which prepares +for the father’s reply.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_57" id="Footnote_33_57"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_57"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> Almost all the final paragraph of the chapter is added +to <i>F of F—A</i>. Three brief <i>S-R fr</i> are much revised and simplified.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_58" id="Footnote_34_58"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_58"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> <i>Decameron</i>, 4th day, 1st story. Mary had read the +<i>Decameron</i> in May, 1819. See <i>Journal</i>, p. 121.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_59" id="Footnote_35_59"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_59"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> The passage “I should fear ... I must despair” is in +<i>S-R fr</i> but not in <i>F of F—A</i>. There, in the margin, is the +following: “Is it not the prerogative of superior virtue to pardon the +erring and to weigh with mercy their offenses?” This sentence does not +appear in <i>Mathilda</i>. Also in the margin of <i>F of F—A</i> is the number +(9), the number of the <i>S-R fr</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_60" id="Footnote_36_60"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_60"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> The passage “enough of the world ... in unmixed delight” +is on a slip pasted over the middle of the page. Some of the obscured +text is visible in the margin, heavily scored out. Also in the margin +is “Canto IV Vers Ult,” referring to the quotation from Dante’s +<i>Paradiso</i>. This quotation, with the preceding passage beginning “in +whose eyes,” appears in <i>Mathilda</i> only.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_61" id="Footnote_37_61"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_61"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> The reference to Diana, with the father’s +rationalization of his love for Mathilda, is in <i>S-R fr</i> but not in <i>F +of F—A</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_62" id="Footnote_38_62"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_62"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> In <i>F of F—A</i> this is followed by a series of other +gloomy concessive clauses which have been scored out to the advantage +of the text.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_63" id="Footnote_39_63"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_63"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> This paragraph has been greatly improved by the omission +of elaborate over-statement; e.g., “to pray for mercy & respite from +my fear” (<i>F of F—A</i>) becomes merely “to pray.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_40_64" id="Footnote_40_64"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_64"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> This paragraph about the Steward is added in <i>Mathilda</i>. +In <i>F of F—A</i> he is called a servant and his name is Harry. See note +29.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_41_65" id="Footnote_41_65"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_65"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> This sentence, not in <i>F of F—A</i>, recalls Mathilda’s +dream.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_42_66" id="Footnote_42_66"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_66"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> This passage is somewhat more dramatic than that in <i>F +of F—A</i>, putting what is there merely a descriptive statement into +quotation marks.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43_67" id="Footnote_43_67"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_67"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> A stalactite grotto on the island of Antiparos in the +Aegean Sea.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_44_68" id="Footnote_44_68"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_68"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> A good description of Mary’s own behavior in England +after Shelley’s death, of the surface placidity which concealed stormy +emotion. See Nitchie, <i>Mary Shelley</i>, pp. 8-10.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_45_69" id="Footnote_45_69"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_69"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> <i>Job</i>, 17: 15-16, slightly misquoted.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_46_70" id="Footnote_46_70"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_70"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> Not in <i>F of F—A</i>. The quotation should read: +</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>Fam. Whisper it, sister! so and so!<br /></span> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">In a dark hint, soft and slow.</span> +</div></div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_47_71" id="Footnote_47_71"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_71"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> The mother of Prince Arthur in Shakespeare’s <i>King +John</i>. In the MS the words “the little Arthur” are written in pencil +above the name of Constance.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_48_72" id="Footnote_48_72"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_72"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> In <i>F of F—A</i> this account of her plans is addressed to +Diotima, and Mathilda’s excuse for not detailing them is that they are +too trivial to interest spirits no longer on earth; this is the only +intrusion of the framework into Mathilda’s narrative in <i>The Fields of +Fancy</i>. Mathilda’s refusal to recount her stratagems, though the +omission is a welcome one to the reader, may represent the flagging of +Mary’s invention. Similarly in <i>Frankenstein</i> she offers excuses for +not explaining how the Monster was brought to life. The entire +passage, “Alas! I even now ... remain unfinished. I was,” is on a slip +of paper pasted on the page.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_49_73" id="Footnote_49_73"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_73"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> The comparison to a Hermitess and the wearing of the +“fanciful nunlike dress” are appropriate though melodramatic. They +appear only in <i>Mathilda</i>. Mathilda refers to her “whimsical nunlike +habit” again after she meets Woodville (see page 60) and tells us in a +deleted passage that it was “a close nunlike gown of black silk.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_50_74" id="Footnote_50_74"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_74"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> Cf. Shelley, <i>Prometheus Unbound</i>, I, 48: “the wingless, +crawling hours.” This phrase (“my part in submitting ... minutes”) and +the remainder of the paragraph are an elaboration of the simple phrase +in <i>F of F—A</i>, “my part in enduring it—,” with its ambiguous +pronoun. The last page of Chapter VIII shows many corrections, even in +the MS of <i>Mathilda</i>. It is another passage that Mary seems to have +written in some agitation of spirit. Cf. note 26.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_51_75" id="Footnote_51_75"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_75"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> In <i>F of F—A</i> there are several false starts before +this sentence. The name there is Welford; on the next page it becomes +Lovel, which is thereafter used throughout <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> and +appears twice, probably inadvertently, in <i>Mathilda</i>, where it is +crossed out. In a few of the <i>S-R fr</i> it is Herbert. In <i>Mathilda</i> it +is at first Herbert, which is used until after the rewritten +conclusion (see note 83) but is corrected throughout to Woodville. On +the final pages Woodville alone is used. (It is interesting, though +not particularly significant, that one of the minor characters in +Lamb’s <i>John Woodvil</i> is named Lovel. Such mellifluous names rolled +easily from the pens of all the romantic writers.) This, her first +portrait of Shelley in fiction, gave Mary considerable trouble: +revisions from the rough drafts are numerous. The passage on +Woodville’s endowment by fortune, for example, is much more concise +and effective than that in <i>S-R fr</i>. Also Mary curbed somewhat the +extravagance of her praise of Woodville, omitting such hyperboles as +“When he appeared a new sun seemed to rise on the day & he had all the +benignity of the dispensor of light,” and “he seemed to come as the +God of the world.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_52_76" id="Footnote_52_76"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_76"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> This passage beginning “his station was too high” is not +in <i>F of F—A</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_53_77" id="Footnote_53_77"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_77"><span class="label">[53]</span></a> This passage beginning “He was a believer in the +divinity of genius” is not in <i>F of F—A</i>. Cf. the discussion of +genius in “Giovanni Villani” (Mary Shelley’s essay in <i>The Liberal</i>, +No. IV, 1823), including the sentence: “The fixed stars appear to +abberate [<i>sic</i>]; but it is we that move, not they.” It is tempting to +conclude that this is a quotation or echo of something which Shelley +said, perhaps in conversation with Byron. I have not found it in any +of his published writings.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_54_78" id="Footnote_54_78"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_78"><span class="label">[54]</span></a> Is this wishful thinking about Shelley’s poetry? It is +well known that a year later Mary remonstrated with Shelley about <i>The +Witch of Atlas</i>, desiring, as she said in her 1839 note, “that Shelley +should increase his popularity.... It was not only that I wished him +to acquire popularity as redounding to his fame; but I believed that +he would obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, and greater +happiness in his mind, if public applause crowned his endeavours.... +Even now I believe that I was in the right.” Shelley’s response is in +the six introductory stanzas of the poem.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_55_79" id="Footnote_55_79"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_79"><span class="label">[55]</span></a> The preceding paragraphs about Elinor and Woodville are +the result of considerable revision for the better of <i>F of F—A</i> and +<i>S-R fr</i>. Mary scored out a paragraph describing Elinor, thus getting +rid of several clichés (“fortune had smiled on her,” “a favourite of +fortune,” “turning tears of misery to those of joy”); she omitted a +clause which offered a weak motivation of Elinor’s father’s will (the +possibility of her marrying, while hardly more than a child, one of +her guardian’s sons); she curtailed the extravagance of a rhapsody on +the perfect happiness which Woodville and Elinor would have enjoyed.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_56_80" id="Footnote_56_80"></a><a href="#FNanchor_56_80"><span class="label">[56]</span></a> The death scene is elaborated from <i>F of F—A</i> and made +more melodramatic by the addition of Woodville’s plea and of his vigil +by the death-bed.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_57_81" id="Footnote_57_81"></a><a href="#FNanchor_57_81"><span class="label">[57]</span></a> <i>F of F—A</i> ends here and <i>F of F—B</i> resumes.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_58_82" id="Footnote_58_82"></a><a href="#FNanchor_58_82"><span class="label">[58]</span></a> A similar passage about Mathilda’s fears is cancelled in +<i>F of F—B</i> but it appears in revised form in <i>S-R fr</i>. There is also +among these fragments a long passage, not used in <i>Mathilda</i>, +identifying Woodville as someone she had met in London. Mary was wise +to discard it for the sake of her story. But the first part of it is +interesting for its correspondence with fact: “I knew him when I first +went to London with my father he was in the height of his glory & +happiness—Elinor was living & in her life he lived—I did not know +her but he had been introduced to my father & had once or twice +visited us—I had then gazed with wonder on his beauty & listened to +him with delight—” Shelley had visited Godwin more than “once or +twice” while Harriet was still living, and Mary had seen him. Of +course she had seen Harriet too, in 1812, when she came with Shelley +to call on Godwin. Elinor and Harriet, however, are completely +unlike.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_59_83" id="Footnote_59_83"></a><a href="#FNanchor_59_83"><span class="label">[59]</span></a> Here and on many succeeding pages, where Mathilda +records the words and opinions of Woodville, it is possible to hear +the voice of Shelley. This paragraph, which is much expanded from <i>F +of F—B</i>, may be compared with the discussion of good and evil in +<i>Julian and Maddalo</i> and with <i>Prometheus Unbound</i> and <i>A Defence of +Poetry</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_60_84" id="Footnote_60_84"></a><a href="#FNanchor_60_84"><span class="label">[60]</span></a> In the revision of this passage Mathilda’s sense of her +pollution is intensified; for example, by addition of “infamy and +guilt was mingled with my portion.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_61_85" id="Footnote_61_85"></a><a href="#FNanchor_61_85"><span class="label">[61]</span></a> Some phrases of self-criticism are added in this +paragraph.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_62_86" id="Footnote_62_86"></a><a href="#FNanchor_62_86"><span class="label">[62]</span></a> In <i>F of F—B</i> this quotation is used in the laudanum +scene, just before Level’s (Woodville’s) long speech of dissuasion.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_63_87" id="Footnote_63_87"></a><a href="#FNanchor_63_87"><span class="label">[63]</span></a> The passage “air, & to suffer ... my compassionate +friend” is on a slip of paper pasted across the page.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_64_88" id="Footnote_64_88"></a><a href="#FNanchor_64_88"><span class="label">[64]</span></a> This phrase sustains the metaphor better than that in <i>F +of F—B</i>: “puts in a word.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_65_89" id="Footnote_65_89"></a><a href="#FNanchor_65_89"><span class="label">[65]</span></a> This entire paragraph is added to <i>F of F—B</i>; it is in +rough draft in <i>S-R fr</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_66_90" id="Footnote_66_90"></a><a href="#FNanchor_66_90"><span class="label">[66]</span></a> This is changed in the MS of <i>Mathilda</i> from “a violent +thunderstorm.” Evidently Mary decided to avoid using another +thunderstorm at a crisis in the story.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_67_91" id="Footnote_67_91"></a><a href="#FNanchor_67_91"><span class="label">[67]</span></a> The passage “It is true ... I will” is on a slip of +paper pasted across the page.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_68_92" id="Footnote_68_92"></a><a href="#FNanchor_68_92"><span class="label">[68]</span></a> In the revision from <i>F of F—B</i> the style of this whole +episode becomes more concise and specific.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_69_93" id="Footnote_69_93"></a><a href="#FNanchor_69_93"><span class="label">[69]</span></a> An improvement over the awkward phrasing in <i>F of F—B</i>: +“a friend who will not repulse my request that he would accompany +me.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_70_94" id="Footnote_70_94"></a><a href="#FNanchor_70_94"><span class="label">[70]</span></a> These two paragraphs are not in <i>F of F—B</i>; portions of +them are in <i>S-R fr</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_71_95" id="Footnote_71_95"></a><a href="#FNanchor_71_95"><span class="label">[71]</span></a> This speech is greatly improved in style over that in <i>F +of F—B</i>, more concise in expression (though somewhat expanded), more +specific. There are no corresponding <i>S-R fr</i> to show the process of +revision. With the ideas expressed here cf. Shelley, <i>Julian and +Maddalo</i>, ll. 182-187, 494-499, and his letter to Claire in November, +1820 (Julian <i>Works</i>, X, 226). See also White, <i>Shelley</i>, II, 378.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_72_96" id="Footnote_72_96"></a><a href="#FNanchor_72_96"><span class="label">[72]</span></a> This solecism, copied from <i>F of F—B</i>, is not +characteristic of Mary Shelley.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_73_97" id="Footnote_73_97"></a><a href="#FNanchor_73_97"><span class="label">[73]</span></a> This paragraph prepares for the eventual softening of +Mathilda’s feeling. The idea is somewhat elaborated from <i>F of F—B</i>. +Other changes are necessitated by the change in the mode of presenting +the story. In <i>The Fields of Fancy</i> Mathilda speaks as one who has +already died.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_74_98" id="Footnote_74_98"></a><a href="#FNanchor_74_98"><span class="label">[74]</span></a> Cf. Shelley’s emphasis on hope and its association with +love in all his work. When Mary wrote <i>Mathilda</i> she knew <i>Queen Mab</i> +(see Part VIII, ll. 50-57, and Part IX, ll. 207-208), the <i>Hymn to +Intellectual Beauty</i>, and the first three acts of <i>Prometheus +Unbound</i>. The fourth act was written in the winter of 1819, but +Demogorgon’s words may already have been at least adumbrated before +the beginning of November: +</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span>To love and bear, to hope till hope creates<br /></span> +<span>From its own wreck the thing it contemplates.</span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_75_99" id="Footnote_75_99"></a><a href="#FNanchor_75_99"><span class="label">[75]</span></a> Shelley had written, “Desolation is a delicate thing” +(<i>Prometheus Unbound</i>, Act I, l. 772) and called the Spirit of the +Earth “a delicate spirit” (<i>Ibid.</i>, Act III, Sc. iv, l. 6).</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_76_100" id="Footnote_76_100"></a><a href="#FNanchor_76_100"><span class="label">[76]</span></a> <i>Purgatorio</i>, Canto 28, ll. 31-33. Perhaps by this time +Shelley had translated ll. 1-51 of this canto. He had read the +<i>Purgatorio</i> in April, 1818, and again with Mary in August, 1819, just +as she was beginning to write <i>Mathilda</i>. Shelley showed his +translation to Medwin in 1820, but there seems to be no record of the +date of composition.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_77_101" id="Footnote_77_101"></a><a href="#FNanchor_77_101"><span class="label">[77]</span></a> An air with this title was published about 1800 in +London by Robert Birchall. See <i>Catalogue of Printed Music Published +between 1487 and 1800 and now in the British Museum</i>, by W. Barclay +Squire, 1912. Neither author nor composer is listed in the +<i>Catalogue</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_78_102" id="Footnote_78_102"></a><a href="#FNanchor_78_102"><span class="label">[78]</span></a> This paragraph is materially changed from <i>F of F—B</i>. +Clouds and darkness are substituted for starlight, silence for the +sound of the wind. The weather here matches Mathilda’s mood. Four and +a half lines of verse (which I have not been able to identify, though +they sound Shelleyan—are they Mary’s own?) are omitted: of the stars +she says, +</p> + +<div class='poem'><div class='stanza'> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">the wind is in the tree<br /></span> +<span>But they are silent;—still they roll along<br /></span> +<span>Immeasurably distant; & the vault<br /></span> +<span>Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds<br /></span> +<span>Still deepens its unfathomable depth.</span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_79_103" id="Footnote_79_103"></a><a href="#FNanchor_79_103"><span class="label">[79]</span></a> If Mary quotes Coleridge’s <i>Ancient Mariner</i> +intentionally here, she is ironic, for this is no merciful rain, +except for the fact that it brings on the illness which leads to +Mathilda’s death, for which she longs.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_80_104" id="Footnote_80_104"></a><a href="#FNanchor_80_104"><span class="label">[80]</span></a> This quotation from <i>Christabel</i> (which suggests that +the preceding echo is intentional) is not in <i>F of F—B</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_81_105" id="Footnote_81_105"></a><a href="#FNanchor_81_105"><span class="label">[81]</span></a> Cf. the description which opens <i>Mathilda</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_82_106" id="Footnote_82_106"></a><a href="#FNanchor_82_106"><span class="label">[82]</span></a> Among Lord Abinger’s papers, in Mary’s hand, are some +comparable (but very bad) fragmentary verses addressed to Mother +Earth.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_83_107" id="Footnote_83_107"></a><a href="#FNanchor_83_107"><span class="label">[83]</span></a> At this point four sheets are cut out of the notebook. +They are evidently those with pages numbered 217 to 223 which are +among the <i>S-R fr</i>. They contain the conclusion of the story, ending, +as does <i>F of F—B</i> with Mathilda’s words spoken to Diotima in the +Elysian Fields: “I am here, not with my father, but listening to +lessons of wisdom, which will one day bring me to him when we shall +never part. THE END.” Some passages are scored out, but not this final +sentence. Tenses are changed from past to future. The name <i>Herbert</i> +is changed to <i>Woodville</i>. The explanation must be that Mary was +hurrying to finish the revision (quite drastic on these final pages) +and the transcription of her story before her confinement, and that in +her haste she copied the pages from <i>F of F—B</i> as they stood. Then, +realizing that they did not fit <i>Mathilda</i>, she began to revise them; +but to keep her MS neat, she cut out these pages and wrote the fair +copy. There is no break in <i>Mathilda</i> in story or in pagination. This +fair copy also shows signs of haste: slips of the pen, repetition of +words, a number of unimportant revisions.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_84_108" id="Footnote_84_108"></a><a href="#FNanchor_84_108"><span class="label">[84]</span></a> Here in <i>F of F—B</i> there is an index number which +evidently points to a note at the bottom of the next page. The note is +omitted in <i>Mathilda</i>. It reads: +</p> +<span class="blockquot">“Dante in his Purgatorio describes a grifon as remaining + unchanged but his reflection in the eyes of Beatrice as + perpetually varying (Purg. Cant. 31) So nature is ever the same + but seen differently by almost every spectator and even by the + same at various times. All minds, as mirrors, receive her + forms—yet in each mirror the shapes apparently reflected vary & + are perpetually changing—”</span> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_85_109" id="Footnote_85_109"></a><a href="#FNanchor_85_109"><span class="label">[85]</span></a> See note 20. Mary Shelley had suffered this torture when +Clara and William died.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_86_110" id="Footnote_86_110"></a><a href="#FNanchor_86_110"><span class="label">[86]</span></a> See the end of Chapter V.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_87_111" id="Footnote_87_111"></a><a href="#FNanchor_87_111"><span class="label">[87]</span></a> This sentence is not in <i>F of F—B</i> or in <i>S-R fr</i>.</p></div> + + +<hr /> + + +<h3><a name="NOTES_TO_THE_FIELDS_OF_FANCY" id="NOTES_TO_THE_FIELDS_OF_FANCY"></a>NOTES TO <i>THE FIELDS OF FANCY</i></h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_88_112" id="Footnote_88_112"></a><a href="#FNanchor_88_112"><span class="label">[88]</span></a> Here is printed the opening of <i>F of F—A</i>, which +contains the fanciful framework abandoned in <i>Mathilda</i>. It has some +intrinsic interest, as it shows that Mary as well as Shelley had been +reading Plato, and especially as it reveals the close connection of +the writing of <i>Mathilda</i> with Mary’s own grief and depression. The +first chapter is a fairly good rough draft. Punctuation, to be sure, +consists largely of dashes or is non-existent, and there are some +corrections. But there are not as many changes as there are in the +remainder of this MS or in <i>F of F—B</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_89_113" id="Footnote_89_113"></a><a href="#FNanchor_89_113"><span class="label">[89]</span></a> It was in Rome that Mary’s oldest child, William, died +on June 7, 1819.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_90_114" id="Footnote_90_114"></a><a href="#FNanchor_90_114"><span class="label">[90]</span></a> Cf. two entries in Mary Shelley’s journal. An +unpublished entry for October 27, 1822, reads: “Before when I wrote +Mathilda, miserable as I was, the inspiration was sufficient to quell +my wretchedness temporarily.” Another entry, that for December 2, +1834, is quoted in abbreviated and somewhat garbled form by R. Glynn +Grylls in <i>Mary Shelley</i> (London: Oxford University Press, 1938), p. +194, and reprinted by Professor Jones (<i>Journal</i>, p. 203). The full +passage follows: “Little harm has my imagination done to me & how much +good!—My poor heart pierced through & through has found balm from +it—it has been the aegis to my sensibility—Sometimes there have been +periods when Misery has pushed it aside—& those indeed were periods I +shudder to remember—but the fairy only stept aside, she watched her +time—& at the first opportunity her ... beaming face peeped in, & the +weight of deadly woe was lightened.”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_91_115" id="Footnote_91_115"></a><a href="#FNanchor_91_115"><span class="label">[91]</span></a> An obvious reference to <i>Frankenstein</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_92_116" id="Footnote_92_116"></a><a href="#FNanchor_92_116"><span class="label">[92]</span></a> With the words of Fantasia (and those of Diotima), cf. +the association of wisdom and virtue in Plato’s <i>Phaedo</i>, the myth of +Er in the <i>Republic</i>, and the doctrine of love and beauty in the +<i>Symposium</i>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_93_117" id="Footnote_93_117"></a><a href="#FNanchor_93_117"><span class="label">[93]</span></a> See Plato’s <i>Symposium</i>. According to Mary’s note in her +edition of Shelley’s <i>Essays, Letters from Abroad, etc</i>. (1840), +Shelley planned to use the name for the instructress of the Stranger +in his unfinished prose tale, <i>The Coliseum</i>, which was written before +<i>Mathilda</i>, in the winter of 1818-1819. Probably at this same time +Mary was writing an unfinished (and unpublished) tale about Valerius, +an ancient Roman brought back to life in modern Rome. Valerius, like +Shelley’s Stranger, was instructed by a woman whom he met in the +Coliseum. Mary’s story is indebted to Shelley’s in other ways as +well.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_94_118" id="Footnote_94_118"></a><a href="#FNanchor_94_118"><span class="label">[94]</span></a> Mathilda.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_95_119" id="Footnote_95_119"></a><a href="#FNanchor_95_119"><span class="label">[95]</span></a> I cannot find a prototype for this young man, though in +some ways he resembles Shelley.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_96_120" id="Footnote_96_120"></a><a href="#FNanchor_96_120"><span class="label">[96]</span></a> Following this paragraph is an incomplete one which is +scored out in the MS. The comment on the intricacy of modern life is +interesting. Mary wrote: “The world you have just quitted she said is +one of doubt & perplexity often of pain & misery—The modes of +suffering seem to me to be much multiplied there since I made one of +the throng & modern feelings seem to have acquired an intracacy then +unknown but now the veil is torn aside—the events that you felt +deeply on earth have passed away & you see them in their nakedness all +but your knowledge & affections have passed away as a dream you now +wonder at the effect trifles had on you and that the events of so +passing a scene should have interested you so deeply—You complain, my +friends of the”</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_97_121" id="Footnote_97_121"></a><a href="#FNanchor_97_121"><span class="label">[97]</span></a> The word is blotted and virtually illegible.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_98_122" id="Footnote_98_122"></a><a href="#FNanchor_98_122"><span class="label">[98]</span></a> With Diotima’s conclusion here cf. her words in the +<i>Symposium</i>: “When any one ascending from a correct system of Love, +begins to contemplate this supreme beauty, he already touches the +consummation of his labour. For such as discipline themselves upon +this system, or are conducted by another beginning to ascend through +these transitory objects which are beautiful, towards that which is +beauty itself, proceeding as on steps from the love of one form to +that of two, and from that of two, to that of all forms which are +beautiful; and from beautiful forms to beautiful habits and +institutions, and from institutions to beautiful doctrines; until, +from the meditation of many doctrines, they arrive at that which is +nothing else than the doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the +knowledge and contemplation of which at length they repose.” +(Shelley’s translation) Love, beauty, and self-knowledge are keywords +not only in Plato but in Shelley’s thought and poetry, and he was much +concerned with the problem of the presence of good and evil. Some of +these themes are discussed by Woodville in <i>Mathilda</i>. The repetition +may have been one reason why Mary discarded the framework.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_99_123" id="Footnote_99_123"></a><a href="#FNanchor_99_123"><span class="label">[99]</span></a> Mathilda did have such a friend, but, as she admits, she +profited little from his teachings.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_100_124" id="Footnote_100_124"></a><a href="#FNanchor_100_124"><span class="label">[100]</span></a> In <i>F of F—B</i> there is another, longer version (three +and a half pages) of this incident, scored out, recounting the +author’s return to the Elysian gardens, Diotima’s consolation of +Mathilda, and her request for Mathilda’s story. After wandering +through the alleys and woods adjacent to the gardens, the author came +upon Diotima seated beside Mathilda. “It is true indeed she said our +affections outlive our earthly forms and I can well sympathize in your +disappointment that you do not find what you loved in the life now +ended to welcome you here[.] But one day you will all meet how soon +entirely depends upon yourself—It is by the acquirement of wisdom and +the loss of the selfishness that is now attached to the sole feeling +that possesses you that you will at last mingle in that universal +world of which we all now make a divided part.” Diotima urges Mathilda +to tell her story, and she, hoping that by doing so she will break the +bonds that weigh heavily upon her, proceeds to “tell this history of +strange woe.”</p></div> + +</div> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b8ebd0 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #15238 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15238) diff --git a/old/15238-8.txt b/old/15238-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0fe9be2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/15238-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5007 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mathilda, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mathilda + +Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley + +Release Date: March 2, 2005 [EBook #15238] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Cori Samuel and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + +MATHILDA + +By MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY + +Edited by ELIZABETH NITCHIE + + +THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA PRESS +CHAPEL HILL + +Mathilda _is being published +in paper as Extra Series #3 +of_ Studies in Philology. + + + + +PREFACE + + +This volume prints for the first time the full text of Mary Shelley's +novelette _Mathilda_ together with the opening pages of its rough +draft, _The Fields of Fancy_. They are transcribed from the microfilm +of the notebooks belonging to Lord Abinger which is in the library of +Duke University. + +The text follows Mary Shelley's manuscript exactly except for the +omission of mere corrections by the author, most of which are +negligible; those that are significant are included and explained in +the notes. Footnotes indicated by an asterisk are Mrs. Shelley's own +notes. She was in general a fairly good speller, but certain words, +especially those in which there was a question of doubling or not +doubling a letter, gave her trouble: untill (though occasionally she +deleted the final _l_ or wrote the word correctly), agreable, occured, +confering, buble, meaness, receeded, as well as hopless, lonly, +seperate, extactic, sacrifise, desart, and words ending in -ance or +-ence. These and other mispellings (even those of proper names) are +reproduced without change or comment. The use of _sic_ and of square +brackets is reserved to indicate evident slips of the pen, obviously +incorrect, unclear, or incomplete phrasing and punctuation, and my +conjectures in emending them. + +I am very grateful to the library of Duke University and to its +librarian, Dr. Benjamin E. Powell, not only for permission to +transcribe and publish this work by Mary Shelley but also for the many +courtesies shown to me when they welcomed me as a visiting scholar in +1956. To Lord Abinger also my thanks are due for adding his approval +of my undertaking, and to the Curators of the Bodleian Library for +permiting me to use and to quote from the papers in the reserved +Shelley Collection. Other libraries and individuals helped me while I +was editing _Mathilda_: the Enoch Pratt Free Library of Baltimore, +whose Literature and Reference Departments went to endless trouble for +me; the Julia Rogers Library of Goucher College and its staff; the +library of the University of Pennsylvania; Miss R. Glynn Grylls (Lady +Mander); Professor Lewis Patton of Duke University; Professor +Frederick L. Jones of the University of Pennsylvania; and many other +persons who did me favors that seemed to them small but that to me +were very great. + +I owe much also to previous books by and about the Shelleys. Those to +which I have referred more than once in the introduction and notes are +here given with the abbreviated form which I have used: + +Frederick L. Jones, ed. _The Letters of Mary W. Shelley_, 2 vols. +Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1944 (_Letters_) + +---- _Mary Shelley's Journal_. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, +1947 (_Journal_) + +Roger Ingpen and W.E. Peck, eds. _The Complete Works of Percy Bysshe +Shelley_, Julian Edition, 10 vols. London, 1926-1930 (Julian _Works_) + +Newman Ivey White. _Shelley_, 2 vols. New York: Knopf, 1940 (White, +_Shelley_) + +Elizabeth Nitchie. _Mary Shelley, Author of "Frankenstein."_ New +Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1953 (Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_) + +ELIZABETH NITCHIE + +May, 1959 + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + +PREFACE iii + +INTRODUCTION vii + +MATHILDA 1 + +NOTES TO MATHILDA 81 + +THE FIELDS OF FANCY 90 + +NOTES TO THE FIELDS OF FANCY 103 + + +INTRODUCTION + +Of all the novels and stories which Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley left +in manuscript,[i] only one novelette, _Mathilda_, is complete. It +exists in both rough draft and final copy. In this story, as in all +Mary Shelley's writing, there is much that is autobiographical: it +would be hard to find a more self-revealing work. For an understanding +of Mary's character, especially as she saw herself, and of her +attitude toward Shelley and toward Godwin in 1819, this tale is an +important document. Although the main narrative, that of the father's +incestuous love for his daughter, his suicide, and Mathilda's +consequent withdrawal from society to a lonely heath, is not in any +real sense autobiographical, many elements in it are drawn from +reality. The three main characters are clearly Mary herself, Godwin, +and Shelley, and their relations can easily be reassorted to +correspond with actuality. + +Highly personal as the story was, Mary Shelley hoped that it would be +published, evidently believing that the characters and the situations +were sufficiently disguised. In May of 1820 she sent it to England by +her friends, the Gisbornes, with a request that her father would +arrange for its publication. But _Mathilda_, together with its rough +draft entitled _The Fields of Fancy_, remained unpublished among the +Shelley papers. Although Mary's references to it in her letters and +journal aroused some curiosity among scholars, it also remained +unexamined until comparatively recently. + +This seeming neglect was due partly to the circumstances attending the +distribution of the family papers after the deaths of Sir Percy and +Lady Shelley. One part of them went to the Bodleian Library to become +a reserved collection which, by the terms of Lady Shelley's will, was +opened to scholars only under definite restrictions. Another part went +to Lady Shelley's niece and, in turn, to her heirs, who for a time did +not make the manuscripts available for study. A third part went to Sir +John Shelley-Rolls, the poet's grand-nephew, who released much +important Shelley material, but not all the scattered manuscripts. In +this division, the two notebooks containing the finished draft of +_Mathilda_ and a portion of _The Fields of Fancy_ went to Lord +Abinger, the notebook containing the remainder of the rough draft to +the Bodleian Library, and some loose sheets containing additions and +revisions to Sir John Shelley-Rolls. Happily all the manuscripts are +now accessible to scholars, and it is possible to publish the full +text of _Mathilda_ with such additions from _The Fields of Fancy_ as +are significant.[ii] + +The three notebooks are alike in format.[iii] One of Lord Abinger's +notebooks contains the first part of _The Fields of Fancy_, Chapter 1 +through the beginning of Chapter 10, 116 pages. The concluding portion +occupies the first fifty-four pages of the Bodleian notebook. There is +then a blank page, followed by three and a half pages, scored out, of +what seems to be a variant of the end of Chapter 1 and the beginning +of Chapter 2. A revised and expanded version of the first part of +Mathilda's narrative follows (Chapter 2 and the beginning of Chapter +3), with a break between the account of her girlhood in Scotland and +the brief description of her father after his return. Finally there +are four pages of a new opening, which was used in _Mathilda_. This is +an extremely rough draft: punctuation is largely confined to the dash, +and there are many corrections and alterations. The Shelley-Rolls +fragments, twenty-five sheets or slips of paper, usually represent +additions to or revisions of _The Fields of Fancy_: many of them are +numbered, and some are keyed into the manuscript in Lord Abinger's +notebook. Most of the changes were incorporated in _Mathilda_. + +The second Abinger notebook contains the complete and final draft of +_Mathilda_, 226 pages. It is for the most part a fair copy. The text +is punctuated and there are relatively few corrections, most of them, +apparently the result of a final rereading, made to avoid the +repetition of words. A few additions are written in the margins. On +several pages slips of paper containing evident revisions (quite +possibly originally among the Shelley-Rolls fragments) have been +pasted over the corresponding lines of the text. An occasional passage +is scored out and some words and phrases are crossed out to make way +for a revision. Following page 216, four sheets containing the +conclusion of the story are cut out of the notebook. They appear, the +pages numbered 217 to 223, among the Shelley-Rolls fragments. A +revised version, pages 217 to 226, follows the cut.[iv] + +The mode of telling the story in the final draft differs radically +from that in the rough draft. In _The Fields of Fancy_ Mathilda's +history is set in a fanciful framework. The author is transported by +the fairy Fantasia to the Elysian Fields, where she listens to the +discourse of Diotima and meets Mathilda. Mathilda tells her story, +which closes with her death. In the final draft this unrealistic and +largely irrelevant framework is discarded: Mathilda, whose death is +approaching, writes out for her friend Woodville the full details of +her tragic history which she had never had the courage to tell him in +person. + +The title of the rough draft, _The Fields of Fancy_, and the setting +and framework undoubtedly stem from Mary Wollstonecraft's unfinished +tale, _The Cave of Fancy_, in which one of the souls confined in the +center of the earth to purify themselves from the dross of their +earthly existence tells to Sagesta (who may be compared with Diotima) +the story of her ill-fated love for a man whom she hopes to rejoin +after her purgation is completed.[v] Mary was completely familiar with +her mother's works. This title was, of course, abandoned when the +framework was abandoned, and the name of the heroine was substituted. +Though it is worth noticing that Mary chose a name with the same +initial letter as her own, it was probably taken from Dante. There are +several references in the story to the cantos of the _Purgatorio_ in +which Mathilda appears. Mathilda's father is never named, nor is +Mathilda's surname given. The name of the poet went through several +changes: Welford, Lovel, Herbert, and finally Woodville. + +The evidence for dating _Mathilda_ in the late summer and autumn of +1819 comes partly from the manuscript, partly from Mary's journal. On +the pages succeeding the portions of _The Fields of Fancy_ in the +Bodleian notebook are some of Shelley's drafts of verse and prose, +including parts of _Prometheus Unbound_ and of _Epipsychidion_, both +in Italian, and of the preface to the latter in English, some prose +fragments, and extended portions of the _Defence of Poetry_. Written +from the other end of the book are the _Ode to Naples_ and _The Witch +of Atlas_. Since these all belong to the years 1819, 1820, and 1821, +it is probable that Mary finished her rough draft some time in 1819, +and that when she had copied her story, Shelley took over the +notebook. Chapter 1 of _Mathilda_ in Lord Abinger's notebook is +headed, "Florence Nov. 9th. 1819." Since the whole of Mathilda's story +takes place in England and Scotland, the date must be that of the +manuscript. Mary was in Florence at that time. + +These dates are supported by entries in Mary's journal which indicate +that she began writing _Mathilda_, early in August, while the Shelleys +were living in the Villa Valosano, near Leghorn. On August 4, 1819, +after a gap of two months from the time of her little son's death, she +resumed her diary. Almost every day thereafter for a month she +recorded, "Write," and by September 4, she was saying, "Copy." On +September 12 she wrote, "Finish copying my Tale." The next entry to +indicate literary activity is the one word, "write," on November 8. On +the 12th Percy Florence was born, and Mary did no more writing until +March, when she was working on _Valperga_. It is probable, therefore, +that Mary wrote and copied _Mathilda_ between August 5 and September +12, 1819, that she did some revision on November 8 and finally dated +the manuscript November 9. + +The subsequent history of the manuscript is recorded in letters and +journals. When the Gisbornes went to England on May 2, 1820, they took +_Mathilda_ with them; they read it on the journey and recorded their +admiration of it in their journal.[vi] They were to show it to Godwin +and get his advice about publishing it. Although Medwin heard about +the story when he was with the Shelleys in 1820[vii] and Mary read +it--perhaps from the rough draft--to Edward and Jane Williams in the +summer of 1821,[viii] this manuscript apparently stayed in Godwin's +hands. He evidently did not share the Gisbornes' enthusiasm: his +approval was qualified. He thought highly of certain parts of it, less +highly of others; and he regarded the subject as "disgusting and +detestable," saying that the story would need a preface to prevent +readers "from being tormented by the apprehension ... of the fall of +the heroine,"--that is, if it was ever published.[ix] There is, +however, no record of his having made any attempt to get it into +print. From January 18 through June 2, 1822, Mary repeatedly asked +Mrs. Gisborne to retrieve the manuscript and have it copied for her, +and Mrs. Gisborne invariably reported her failure to do so. The last +references to the story are after Shelley's death in an unpublished +journal entry and two of Mary's letters. In her journal for October +27, 1822, she told of the solace for her misery she had once found in +writing _Mathilda_. In one letter to Mrs. Gisborne she compared the +journey of herself and Jane to Pisa and Leghorn to get news of Shelley +and Williams to that of Mathilda in search of her father, +"driving--(like Matilda), towards the _sea_ to learn if we were to be +for ever doomed to misery."[x] And on May 6, 1823, she wrote, "Matilda +foretells even many small circumstances most truly--and the whole of +it is a monument of what now is."[xi] + +These facts not only date the manuscript but also show Mary's feeling +of personal involvement in the story. In the events of 1818-1819 it is +possible to find the basis for this morbid tale and consequently to +assess its biographical significance. + +On September 24, 1818, the Shelleys' daughter, Clara Everina, barely a +year old, died at Venice. Mary and her children had gone from Bagni di +Lucca to Este to join Shelley at Byron's villa. Clara was not well +when they started, and she grew worse on the journey. From Este +Shelley and Mary took her to Venice to consult a physician, a trip +which was beset with delays and difficulties. She died almost as soon +as they arrived. According to Newman Ivey White,[xii] Mary, in the +unreasoning agony of her grief, blamed Shelley for the child's death +and for a time felt toward him an extreme physical antagonism which +subsided into apathy and spiritual alienation. Mary's black moods made +her difficult to live with, and Shelley himself fell into deep +dejection. He expressed his sense of their estrangement in some of the +lyrics of 1818--"all my saddest poems." In one fragment of verse, for +example, he lamented that Mary had left him "in this dreary world +alone." + + Thy form is here indeed--a lovely one-- + But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road, + That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode. + Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, + Where + For thine own sake I cannot follow thee. + +Professor White believed that Shelley recorded this estrangement only +"in veiled terms" in _Julian and Maddalo_ or in poems that he did not +show to Mary, and that Mary acknowledged it only after Shelley's +death, in her poem "The Choice" and in her editorial notes on his +poems of that year. But this unpublished story, written after the +death of their other child William, certainly contains, though also in +veiled terms, Mary's immediate recognition and remorse. Mary well +knew, I believe, what she was doing to Shelley. In an effort to purge +her own emotions and to acknowledge her fault, she poured out on the +pages of _Mathilda_ the suffering and the loneliness, the bitterness +and the self-recrimination of the past months. + +The biographical elements are clear: Mathilda is certainly Mary +herself; Mathilda's father is Godwin; Woodville is an idealized +Shelley. + +Like Mathilda Mary was a woman of strong passions and affections which +she often hid from the world under a placid appearance. Like +Mathilda's, Mary's mother had died a few days after giving her birth. +Like Mathilda she spent part of her girlhood in Scotland. Like +Mathilda she met and loved a poet of "exceeding beauty," and--also +like Mathilda--in that sad year she had treated him ill, having become +"captious and unreasonable" in her sorrow. Mathilda's loneliness, +grief, and remorse can be paralleled in Mary's later journal and in +"The Choice." This story was the outlet for her emotions in 1819. + +Woodville, the poet, is virtually perfect, "glorious from his youth," +like "an angel with winged feet"--all beauty, all goodness, all +gentleness. He is also successful as a poet, his poem written at the +age of twenty-three having been universally acclaimed. Making +allowance for Mary's exaggeration and wishful thinking, we easily +recognize Shelley: Woodville has his poetic ideals, the charm of his +conversation, his high moral qualities, his sense of dedication and +responsibility to those he loved and to all humanity. He is Mary's +earliest portrait of her husband, drawn in a year when she was slowly +returning to him from "the hearth of pale despair." + +The early circumstances and education of Godwin and of Mathilda's +father were different. But they produced similar men, each +extravagant, generous, vain, dogmatic. There is more of Godwin in this +tale than the account of a great man ruined by character and +circumstance. The relationship between father and daughter, before it +was destroyed by the father's unnatural passion, is like that between +Godwin and Mary. She herself called her love for him "excessive and +romantic."[xiii] She may well have been recording, in Mathilda's +sorrow over her alienation from her father and her loss of him by +death, her own grief at a spiritual separation from Godwin through +what could only seem to her his cruel lack of sympathy. He had accused +her of being cowardly and insincere in her grief over Clara's +death[xiv] and later he belittled her loss of William.[xv] He had also +called Shelley "a disgraceful and flagrant person" because of +Shelley's refusal to send him more money.[xvi] No wonder if Mary felt +that, like Mathilda, she had lost a beloved but cruel father. + +Thus Mary took all the blame for the rift with Shelley upon herself +and transferred the physical alienation to the break in sympathy with +Godwin. That she turned these facts into a story of incest is +undoubtedly due to the interest which she and Shelley felt in the +subject at this time. They regarded it as a dramatic and effective +theme. In August of 1819 Shelley completed _The Cenci_. During its +progress he had talked over with Mary the arrangement of scenes; he +had even suggested at the outset that she write the tragedy herself. +And about a year earlier he had been urging upon her a translation of +Alfieri's _Myrrha_. Thomas Medwin, indeed, thought that the story +which she was writing in 1819 was specifically based on _Myrrha_. That +she was thinking of that tragedy while writing _Mathilda_ is evident +from her effective use of it at one of the crises in the tale. And +perhaps she was remembering her own handling of the theme when she +wrote the biographical sketch of Alfieri for Lardner's _Cabinet +Cyclopaedia_ nearly twenty years later. She then spoke of the +difficulties inherent in such a subject, "inequality of age adding to +the unnatural incest. To shed any interest over such an attachment, +the dramatist ought to adorn the father with such youthful attributes +as would be by no means contrary to probability."[xvii] This she +endeavored to do in _Mathilda_ (aided indeed by the fact that the +situation was the reverse of that in _Myrrha_). Mathilda's father was +young: he married before he was twenty. When he returned to Mathilda, +he still showed "the ardour and freshness of feeling incident to +youth." He lived in the past and saw his dead wife reincarnated in his +daughter. Thus Mary attempts to validate the situation and make it "by +no means contrary to probability." + +_Mathilda_ offers a good example of Mary Shelley's methods of +revision. A study of the manuscript shows that she was a careful +workman, and that in polishing this bizarre story she strove +consistently for greater credibility and realism, more dramatic (if +sometimes melodramatic) presentation of events, better motivation, +conciseness, and exclusion of purple passages. In the revision and +rewriting, many additions were made, so that _Mathilda_ is appreciably +longer than _The Fields of Fancy_. But the additions are usually +improvements: a much fuller account of Mathilda's father and mother +and of their marriage, which makes of them something more than lay +figures and to a great extent explains the tragedy; development of the +character of the Steward, at first merely the servant who accompanies +Mathilda in her search for her father, into the sympathetic confidant +whose responses help to dramatise the situation; an added word or +short phrase that marks Mary Shelley's penetration into the motives +and actions of both Mathilda and her father. Therefore _Mathilda_ does +not impress the reader as being longer than _The Fields of Fancy_ +because it better sustains his interest. And with all the additions +there are also effective omissions of the obvious, of the +tautological, of the artificially elaborate.[xviii] + +The finished draft, _Mathilda_, still shows Mary Shelley's faults as a +writer: verbosity, loose plotting, somewhat stereotyped and +extravagant characterization. The reader must be tolerant of its +heroine's overwhelming lamentations. But she is, after all, in the +great tradition of romantic heroines: she compares her own weeping to +that of Boccaccio's Ghismonda over the heart of Guiscardo. If the +reader can accept Mathilda on her own terms, he will find not only +biographical interest in her story but also intrinsic merits: a +feeling for character and situation and phrasing that is often +vigorous and precise. + + +Footnotes: + +[i] They are listed in Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, Appendix II, pp. +205-208. To them should be added an unfinished and unpublished novel, +_Cecil_, in Lord Abinger's collection. + +[ii] On the basis of the Bodleian notebook and some information about +the complete story kindly furnished me by Miss R. Glynn Grylls, I +wrote an article, "Mary Shelley's _Mathilda_, an Unpublished Story and +Its Biographical Significance," which appeared in _Studies in +Philology_, XL (1943), 447-462. When the other manuscripts became +available, I was able to use them for my book, _Mary Shelley_, and to +draw conclusions more certain and well-founded than the conjectures I +had made ten years earlier. + +[iii] A note, probably in Richard Garnett's hand, enclosed in a MS box +with the two notebooks in Lord Abinger's collection describes them as +of Italian make with "slanting head bands, inserted through the +covers." Professor Lewis Patton's list of the contents of the +microfilms in the Duke University Library (_Library Notes_, No. 27, +April, 1953) describes them as vellum bound, the back cover of the +_Mathilda_ notebook being missing. Lord Abinger's notebooks are on +Reel 11. The Bodleian notebook is catalogued as MSS. Shelley d. 1, the +Shelley-Rolls fragments as MSS. Shelley adds c. 5. + +[iv] See note 83 to _Mathilda_, page 89. + +[v] See _Posthumous Works of the Author of a Vindication of the Rights +of Woman_ (4 vols., London, 1798), IV, 97-155. + +[vi] See _Maria Gisborne & Edward E. Williams ... Their Journals and +Letters_, ed. by Frederick L. Jones (Norman: University of Oklahoma +Press, [1951]), p. 27. + +[vii] See Thomas Medwin, _The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley_, revised, +with introduction and notes by H. Buxton Forman (London, 1913), p. +252. + +[viii] _Journal_, pp. 159, 160. + +[ix] _Maria Gisborne, etc._, pp. 43-44. + +[x] _Letters_, I, 182. + +[xi] _Ibid._, I, 224. + +[xii] See White, _Shelley_, II, 40-56. + +[xiii] See _Letters_, II, 88, and note 23 to _Mathilda_. + +[xiv] See _Shelley and Mary_ (4 vols. Privately printed [for Sir Percy +and Lady Shelley], 1882), II, 338A. + +[xv] See Mrs. Julian Marshall, _The Life and Letters of Mary W. +Shelley_ (2 vols. London: Richard Bentley & Son, 1889), I, 255. + +[xvi] Julian _Works_, X, 69. + +[xvii] _Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of +Italy, Spain, and Portugal_ (3 vols., Nos. 63, 71, and 96 of the Rev. +Dionysius Lardner's _Cabinet Cyclopaedia_, London, 1835-1837), II, +291-292. + +[xviii] The most significant revisions are considered in detail in the +notes. The text of the opening of _The Fields of Fancy_, containing +the fanciful framework of the story, later discarded, is printed after +the text of _Mathilda_. + + + + +MATHILDA[1] + + + + +CHAP. I + + +Florence. Nov. 9th 1819 + +It is only four o'clock; but it is winter and the sun has already set: +there are no clouds in the clear, frosty sky to reflect its slant +beams, but the air itself is tinged with a slight roseate colour which +is again reflected on the snow that covers the ground. I live in a +lone cottage on a solitary, wide heath: no voice of life reaches me. I +see the desolate plain covered with white, save a few black patches +that the noonday sun has made at the top of those sharp pointed +hillocks from which the snow, sliding as it fell, lay thinner than on +the plain ground: a few birds are pecking at the hard ice that covers +the pools--for the frost has been of long continuance.[2] + +I am in a strange state of mind.[3] I am alone--quite alone--in the +world--the blight of misfortune has passed over me and withered me; I +know that I am about to die and I feel happy--joyous.--I feel my +pulse; it beats fast: I place my thin hand on my cheek; it burns: +there is a slight, quick spirit within me which is now emitting its +last sparks. I shall never see the snows of another winter--I do +believe that I shall never again feel the vivifying warmth of another +summer sun; and it is in this persuasion that I begin to write my +tragic history. Perhaps a history such as mine had better die with me, +but a feeling that I cannot define leads me on and I am too weak both +in body and mind to resist the slightest impulse. While life was +strong within me I thought indeed that there was a sacred horror in my +tale that rendered it unfit for utterance, and now about to die I +pollute its mystic terrors. It is as the wood of the Eumenides none +but the dying may enter; and Oedipus is about to die.[4] + +What am I writing?--I must collect my thoughts. I do not know that any +will peruse these pages except you, my friend, who will receive them +at my death. I do not address them to you alone because it will give +me pleasure to dwell upon our friendship in a way that would be +needless if you alone read what I shall write. I shall relate my tale +therefore as if I wrote for strangers. You have often asked me the +cause of my solitary life; my tears; and above all of my impenetrable +and unkind silence. In life I dared not; in death I unveil the +mystery. Others will toss these pages lightly over: to you, Woodville, +kind, affectionate friend, they will be dear--the precious memorials +of a heart-broken girl who, dying, is still warmed by gratitude +towards you:[5] your tears will fall on the words that record my +misfortunes; I know they will--and while I have life I thank you for +your sympathy. + +But enough of this. I will begin my tale: it is my last task, and I +hope I have strength sufficient to fulfill it. I record no crimes; my +faults may easily be pardoned; for they proceeded not from evil motive +but from want of judgement; and I believe few would say that they +could, by a different conduct and superior wisdom, have avoided the +misfortunes to which I am the victim. My fate has been governed by +necessity, a hideous necessity. It required hands stronger than mine; +stronger I do believe than any human force to break the thick, +adamantine chain that has bound me, once breathing nothing but joy, +ever possessed by a warm love & delight in goodness,--to misery only +to be ended, and now about to be ended, in death. But I forget myself, +my tale is yet untold. I will pause a few moments, wipe my dim eyes, +and endeavour to lose the present obscure but heavy feeling of +unhappiness in the more acute emotions of the past.[6] + +I was born in England. My father was a man of rank:[7] he had lost his +father early, and was educated by a weak mother with all the +indulgence she thought due to a nobleman of wealth. He was sent to +Eton and afterwards to college; & allowed from childhood the free use +of large sums of money; thus enjoying from his earliest youth the +independance which a boy with these advantages, always acquires at a +public school. + +Under the influence of these circumstances his passions found a deep +soil wherein they might strike their roots and flourish either as +flowers or weeds as was their nature. By being always allowed to act +for himself his character became strongly and early marked and +exhibited a various surface on which a quick sighted observer might +see the seeds of virtues and of misfortunes. His careless +extravagance, which made him squander immense sums of money to satisfy +passing whims, which from their apparent energy he dignified with the +name of passions, often displayed itself in unbounded generosity. Yet +while he earnestly occupied himself about the wants of others his own +desires were gratified to their fullest extent. He gave his money, but +none of his own wishes were sacrifised to his gifts; he gave his time, +which he did not value, and his affections which he was happy in any +manner to have called into action. + +I do not say that if his own desires had been put in competition with +those of others that he would have displayed undue selfishness, but +this trial was never made. He was nurtured in prosperity and attended +by all its advantages; every one loved him and wished to gratify him. +He was ever employed in promoting the pleasures of his companions--but +their pleasures were his; and if he bestowed more attention upon the +feelings of others than is usual with schoolboys it was because his +social temper could never enjoy itself if every brow was not as free +from care as his own. + +While at school, emulation and his own natural abilities made him hold +a conspicuous rank in the forms among his equals; at college he +discarded books; he believed that he had other lessons to learn than +those which they could teach him. He was now to enter into life and he +was still young enough to consider study as a school-boy shackle, +employed merely to keep the unruly out of mischief but as having no +real connexion with life--whose wisdom of riding--gaming &c. he +considered with far deeper interest--So he quickly entered into all +college follies although his heart was too well moulded to be +contaminated by them--it might be light but it was never cold. He was +a sincere and sympathizing friend--but he had met with none who +superior or equal to himself could aid him in unfolding his mind, or +make him seek for fresh stores of thought by exhausting the old ones. +He felt himself superior in quickness of judgement to those around +him: his talents, his rank and wealth made him the chief of his party, +and in that station he rested not only contented but glorying, +conceiving it to be the only ambition worthy for him to aim at in the +world. + +By a strange narrowness of ideas he viewed all the world in connexion +only as it was or was not related to his little society. He considered +queer and out of fashion all opinions that were exploded by his circle +of intimates, and he became at the same time dogmatic and yet fearful +of not coinciding with the only sentiments he could consider orthodox. +To the generality of spectators he appeared careless of censure, and +with high disdain to throw aside all dependance on public prejudices; +but at the same time that he strode with a triumphant stride over the +rest of the world, he cowered, with self disguised lowliness, to his +own party, and although its [chi]ef never dared express an opinion or +a feeling until he was assured that it would meet with the approbation +of his companions. + +Yet he had one secret hidden from these dear friends; a secret he had +nurtured from his earliest years, and although he loved his fellow +collegiates he would not trust it to the delicacy or sympathy of any +one among them. He loved. He feared that the intensity of his passion +might become the subject of their ridicule; and he could not bear that +they should blaspheme it by considering that trivial and transitory +which he felt was the life of his life. + +There was a gentleman of small fortune who lived near his family +mansion who had three lovely daughters. The eldest was far the most +beautiful, but her beauty was only an addition to her other +qualities--her understanding was clear & strong and her disposition +angelically gentle. She and my father had been playmates from infancy: +Diana, even in her childhood had been a favourite with his mother; +this partiality encreased with the years of this beautiful and lively +girl and thus during his school & college vacations[8] they were +perpetually together. Novels and all the various methods by which +youth in civilized life are led to a knowledge of the existence of +passions before they really feel them, had produced a strong effect on +him who was so peculiarly susceptible of every impression. At eleven +years of age Diana was his favourite playmate but he already talked +the language of love. Although she was elder than he by nearly two +years the nature of her education made her more childish at least in +the knowledge and expression of feeling; she received his warm +protestations with innocence, and returned them unknowing of what they +meant. She had read no novels and associated only with her younger +sisters, what could she know of the difference between love and +friendship? And when the development of her understanding disclosed +the true nature of this intercourse to her, her affections were +already engaged to her friend, and all she feared was lest other +attractions and fickleness might make him break his infant vows. + +But they became every day more ardent and tender. It was a passion +that had grown with his growth; it had become entwined with every +faculty and every sentiment and only to be lost with life. None knew +of their love except their own two hearts; yet although in all things +else, and even in this he dreaded the censure of his companions, for +thus truly loving one inferior to him in fortune, nothing was ever +able for a moment to shake his purpose of uniting himself to her as +soon as he could muster courage sufficient to meet those difficulties +he was determined to surmount. + +Diana was fully worthy of his deepest affection. There were few who +could boast of so pure a heart, and so much real humbleness of soul +joined to a firm reliance on her own integrity and a belief in that of +others. She had from her birth lived a retired life. She had lost her +mother when very young, but her father had devoted himself to the care +of her education--He had many peculiar ideas which influenced the +system he had adopted with regard to her--She was well acquainted with +the heroes of Greece and Rome or with those of England who had lived +some hundred years ago, while she was nearly ignorant of the passing +events of the day: she had read few authors who had written during at +least the last fifty years but her reading with this exception was +very extensive. Thus although she appeared to be less initiated in the +mysteries of life and society than he her knowledge was of a deeper +kind and laid on firmer foundations; and if even her beauty and +sweetness had not fascinated him her understanding would ever have +held his in thrall. He looked up to her as his guide, and such was his +adoration that he delighted to augment to his own mind the sense of +inferiority with which she sometimes impressed him.[9] + +When he was nineteen his mother died. He left college on this event +and shaking off for a while his old friends he retired to the +neighbourhood of his Diana and received all his consolation from her +sweet voice and dearer caresses. This short seperation from his +companions gave him courage to assert his independance. He had a +feeling that however they might express ridicule of his intended +marriage they would not dare display it when it had taken place; +therefore seeking the consent of his guardian which with some +difficulty he obtained, and of the father of his mistress which was +more easily given, without acquainting any one else of his intention, +by the time he had attained his twentieth birthday he had become the +husband of Diana. + +He loved her with passion and her tenderness had a charm for him that +would not permit him to think of aught but her. He invited some of his +college friends to see him but their frivolity disgusted him. Diana +had torn the veil which had before kept him in his boyhood: he was +become a man and he was surprised how he could ever have joined in the +cant words and ideas of his fellow collegiates or how for a moment he +had feared the censure of such as these. He discarded his old +friendships not from fickleness but because they were indeed unworthy +of him. Diana filled up all his heart: he felt as if by his union with +her he had received a new and better soul. She was his monitress as he +learned what were the true ends of life. It was through her beloved +lessons that he cast off his old pursuits and gradually formed himself +to become one among his fellow men; a distinguished member of society, +a Patriot; and an enlightened lover of truth and virtue.--He loved her +for her beauty and for her amiable disposition but he seemed to love +her more for what he considered her superior wisdom. They studied, +they rode together; they were never seperate and seldom admitted a +third to their society. + +Thus my father, born in affluence, and always prosperous, clombe +without the difficulty and various disappointments that all human +beings seem destined to encounter, to the very topmost pinacle of +happiness: Around him was sunshine, and clouds whose shapes of beauty +made the prospect divine concealed from him the barren reality which +lay hidden below them. From this dizzy point he was dashed at once as +he unawares congratulated himself on his felicity. Fifteen months +after their marriage I was born, and my mother died a few days after +my birth. + +A sister of my father was with him at this period. She was nearly +fifteen years older than he, and was the offspring of a former +marriage of his father. When the latter died this sister was taken by +her maternal relations: they had seldom seen one another, and were +quite unlike in disposition. This aunt, to whose care I was afterwards +consigned, has often related to me the effect that this catastrophe +had on my father's strong and susceptible character. From the moment +of my mother's death untill his departure she never heard him utter a +single word: buried in the deepest melancholy he took no notice of any +one; often for hours his eyes streamed tears or a more fearful gloom +overpowered him. All outward things seemed to have lost their +existence relatively to him and only one circumstance could in any +degree recall him from his motionless and mute despair: he would never +see me. He seemed insensible to the presence of any one else, but if, +as a trial to awaken his sensibility, my aunt brought me into the room +he would instantly rush out with every symptom of fury and +distraction. At the end of a month he suddenly quitted his house and, +unatteneded [_sic_] by any servant, departed from that part of the +country without by word or writing informing any one of his +intentions. My aunt was only relieved of her anxiety concerning his +fate by a letter from him dated Hamburgh. + +How often have I wept over that letter which untill I was sixteen was +the only relick I had to remind me of my parents. "Pardon me," it +said, "for the uneasiness I have unavoidably given you: but while in +that unhappy island, where every thing breathes _her_ spirit whom I +have lost for ever, a spell held me. It is broken: I have quitted +England for many years, perhaps for ever. But to convince you that +selfish feeling does not entirely engross me I shall remain in this +town untill you have made by letter every arrangement that you judge +necessary. When I leave this place do not expect to hear from me: I +must break all ties that at present exist. I shall become a wanderer, +a miserable outcast--alone! alone!"--In another part of the letter he +mentioned me--"As for that unhappy little being whom I could not see, +and hardly dare mention, I leave her under your protection. Take care +of her and cherish her: one day I may claim her at your hands; but +futurity is dark, make the present happy to her." + +My father remained three months at Hamburgh; when he quitted it he +changed his name, my aunt could never discover that which he adopted +and only by faint hints, could conjecture that he had taken the road +of Germany and Hungary to Turkey.[10] + +Thus this towering spirit who had excited interest and high +expectation in all who knew and could value him became at once, as it +were, extinct. He existed from this moment for himself only. His +friends remembered him as a brilliant vision which would never again +return to them. The memory of what he had been faded away as years +passed; and he who before had been as a part of themselves and of +their hopes was now no longer counted among the living. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +I now come to my own story. During the early part of my life there is +little to relate, and I will be brief; but I must be allowed to dwell +a little on the years of my childhood that it may be apparent how when +one hope failed all life was to be a blank; and how when the only +affection I was permitted to cherish was blasted my existence was +extinguished with it. + +I have said that my aunt was very unlike my father. I believe that +without the slightest tinge of a bad heart she had the coldest that +ever filled a human breast: it was totally incapable of any affection. +She took me under her protection because she considered it her duty; +but she had too long lived alone and undisturbed by the noise and +prattle of children to allow that I should disturb her quiet. She had +never been married; and for the last five years had lived perfectly +alone on an estate, that had descended to her through her mother, on +the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland. My father had expressed a wish +in his letters that she should reside with me at his family mansion +which was situated in a beautiful country near Richmond in Yorkshire. +She would not consent to this proposition, but as soon as she had +arranged the affairs which her brother's departure had caused to fall +to her care, she quitted England and took me with her to her scotch +estate. + +The care of me while a baby, and afterwards untill I had reached my +eighth year devolved on a servant of my mother's, who had accompanied +us in our retirement for that purpose. I was placed in a remote part +of the house, and only saw my aunt at stated hours. These occurred +twice a day; once about noon she came to my nursery, and once after +her dinner I was taken to her. She never caressed me, and seemed all +the time I staid in the room to fear that I should annoy her by some +childish freak. My good nurse always schooled me with the greatest +care before she ventured into the parlour--and the awe my aunt's cold +looks and few constrained words inspired was so great that I seldom +disgraced her lessons or was betrayed from the exemplary stillness +which I was taught to observe during these short visits.[11] + +Under my good nurse's care I ran wild about our park and the +neighbouring fields. The offspring of the deepest love I displayed +from my earliest years the greatest sensibility of disposition. I +cannot say with what passion I loved every thing even the inanimate +objects that surrounded me. I believe that I bore an individual +attachment to every tree in our park; every animal that inhabited it +knew me and I loved them. Their occasional deaths filled my infant +heart with anguish. I cannot number the birds that I have saved during +the long and severe winters of that climate; or the hares and rabbits +that I have defended from the attacks of our dogs, or have nursed when +accidentally wounded. + +When I was seven years of age my nurse left me. I now forget the cause +of her departure if indeed I ever knew it. She returned to England, +and the bitter tears she shed at parting were the last I saw flow for +love of me for many years. My grief was terrible: I had no friend but +her in the whole world. By degrees I became reconciled to solitude but +no one supplied her place in my affections. I lived in a desolate +country where + + ------ there were none to praise + And very few to love.[A] + +It is true that I now saw a little more of my aunt, but she was in +every way an unsocial being; and to a timid child she was as a plant +beneath a thick covering of ice; I should cut my hands in endeavouring +to get at it. So I was entirely thrown upon my own resourses. The +neighbouring minister was engaged to give me lessons in reading, +writing and french, but he was without family and his manners even to +me were always perfectly characteristic of the profession in the +exercise of whose functions he chiefly shone, that of a schoolmaster. +I sometimes strove to form friendships with the most attractive of the +girls who inhabited the neighbouring village; but I believe I should +never have succeeded [even] had not my aunt interposed her authority +to prevent all intercourse between me and the peasantry; for she was +fearful lest I should acquire the scotch accent and dialect; a little +of it I had, although great pains was taken that my tongue should not +disgrace my English origin. + +As I grew older my liberty encreased with my desires, and my +wanderings extended from our park to the neighbouring country. Our +house was situated on the shores of the lake and the lawn came down to +the water's edge. I rambled amidst the wild scenery of this lovely +country and became a complete mountaineer: I passed hours on the steep +brow of a mountain that overhung a waterfall or rowed myself in a +little skiff to some one of the islands. I wandered for ever about +these lovely solitudes, gathering flower after flower + + Ond' era pinta tutta la mia via[B] + +singing as I might the wild melodies of the country, or occupied by +pleasant day dreams. My greatest pleasure was the enjoyment of a +serene sky amidst these verdant woods: yet I loved all the changes of +Nature; and rain, and storm, and the beautiful clouds of heaven +brought their delights with them. When rocked by the waves of the lake +my spirits rose in triumph as a horseman feels with pride the motions +of his high fed steed. + +But my pleasures arose from the contemplation of nature alone, I had +no companion: my warm affections finding no return from any other +human heart were forced to run waste on inanimate objects.[12] +Sometimes indeed I wept when my aunt received my caresses with +repulsive coldness, and when I looked round and found none to love; +but I quickly dried my tears. As I grew older books in some degree +supplied the place of human intercourse: the library of my aunt was +very small; Shakespear, Milton, Pope and Cowper were the strangley +[_sic_] assorted poets of her collection; and among the prose authors +a translation of Livy and Rollin's ancient history were my chief +favourites although as I emerged from childhood I found others highly +interesting which I had before neglected as dull. + +When I was twelve years old it occurred to my aunt that I ought to +learn music; she herself played upon the harp. It was with great +hesitation that she persuaded herself to undertake my instruction; yet +believing this accomplishment a necessary part of my education, and +balancing the evils of this measure or of having some one in the house +to instruct me she submitted to the inconvenience. A harp was sent for +that my playing might not interfere with hers, and I began: she found +me a docile and when I had conquered the first rudiments a very apt +scholar. I had acquired in my harp a companion in rainy days; a sweet +soother of my feelings when any untoward accident ruffled them: I +often addressed it as my only friend; I could pour forth to it my +hopes and loves, and I fancied that its sweet accents answered me. I +have now mentioned all my studies. + +I was a solitary being, and from my infant years, ever since my dear +nurse left me, I had been a dreamer. I brought Rosalind and Miranda +and the lady of Comus to life to be my companions, or on my isle acted +over their parts imagining myself to be in their situations. Then I +wandered from the fancies of others and formed affections and +intimacies with the aerial creations of my own brain--but still +clinging to reality I gave a name to these conceptions and nursed them +in the hope of realization. I clung to the memory of my parents; my +mother I should never see, she was dead: but the idea of [my] unhappy, +wandering father was the idol of my imagination. I bestowed on him all +my affections; there was a miniature of him that I gazed on +continually; I copied his last letter and read it again and again. +Sometimes it made me weep; and at other [times] I repeated with +transport those words,--"One day I may claim her at your hands." I was +to be his consoler, his companion in after years. My favourite vision +was that when I grew up I would leave my aunt, whose coldness lulled +my conscience, and disguised like a boy I would seek my father through +the world. My imagination hung upon the scene of recognition; his +miniature, which I should continually wear exposed on my breast, would +be the means and I imaged the moment to my mind a thousand and a +thousand times, perpetually varying the circumstances. Sometimes it +would be in a desart; in a populous city; at a ball; we should perhaps +meet in a vessel; and his first words constantly were, "My daughter, I +love thee"! What extactic moments have I passed in these dreams! How +many tears I have shed; how often have I laughed aloud.[13] + +This was my life for sixteen years. At fourteen and fifteen I often +thought that the time was come when I should commence my pilgrimage, +which I had cheated my own mind into believing was my imperious duty: +but a reluctance to quit my Aunt; a remorse for the grief which, I +could not conceal from myself, I should occasion her for ever +withheld me. Sometimes when I had planned the next morning for my +escape a word of more than usual affection from her lips made me +postpone my resolution. I reproached myself bitterly for what I called +a culpable weakness; but this weakness returned upon me whenever the +critical moment approached, and I never found courage to depart.[14] + + +[A] Wordsworth + +[B] Dante + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +It was on my sixteenth birthday that my aunt received a letter from my +father. I cannot describe the tumult of emotions that arose within me +as I read it. It was dated from London; he had returned![15] I could +only relieve my transports by tears, tears of unmingled joy. He had +returned, and he wrote to know whether my aunt would come to London or +whether he should visit her in Scotland. How delicious to me were the +words of his letter that concerned me: "I cannot tell you," it said, +"how ardently I desire to see my Mathilda. I look on her as the +creature who will form the happiness of my future life: she is all +that exists on earth that interests me. I can hardly prevent myself +from hastening immediately to you but I am necessarily detained a week +and I write because if you come here I may see you somewhat sooner." I +read these words with devouring eyes; I kissed them, wept over them +and exclaimed, "He will love me!"-- + +My aunt would not undertake so long a journey, and in a fortnight we +had another letter from my father, it was dated Edinburgh: he wrote +that he should be with us in three days. "As he approached his desire +of seeing me," he said, "became more and more ardent, and he felt that +the moment when he should first clasp me in his arms would be the +happiest of his life." + +How irksome were these three days to me! All sleep and appetite fled +from me; I could only read and re-read his letter, and in the solitude +of the woods imagine the moment of our meeting. On the eve of the +third day I retired early to my room; I could not sleep but paced all +night about my chamber and, as you may in Scotland at midsummer, +watched the crimson track of the sun as it almost skirted the northern +horizon. At day break I hastened to the woods; the hours past on while +I indulged in wild dreams that gave wings to the slothful steps of +time, and beguiled my eager impatience. My father was expected at noon +but when I wished to return to me[e]t him I found that I had lost my +way: it seemed that in every attempt to find it I only became more +involved in the intracacies of the woods, and the trees hid all trace +by which I might be guided.[16] I grew impatient, I wept; [_sic_] and +wrung my hands but still I could not discover my path. + +It was past two o'clock when by a sudden turn I found myself close to +the lake near a cove where a little skiff was moored--It was not far +from our house and I saw my father and aunt walking on the lawn. I +jumped into the boat, and well accustomed to such feats, I pushed it +from shore, and exerted all my strength to row swiftly across. As I +came, dressed in white, covered only by my tartan _rachan_, my hair +streaming on my shoulders, and shooting across with greater speed that +it could be supposed I could give to my boat, my father has often told +me that I looked more like a spirit than a human maid. I approached +the shore, my father held the boat, I leapt lightly out, and in a +moment was in his arms. + +And now I began to live. All around me was changed from a dull +uniformity to the brightest scene of joy and delight. The happiness I +enjoyed in the company of my father far exceeded my sanguine +expectations. We were for ever together; and the subjects of our +conversations were inexhaustible. He had passed the sixteen years of +absence among nations nearly unknown to Europe; he had wandered +through Persia, Arabia and the north of India and had penetrated among +the habitations of the natives with a freedom permitted to few +Europeans. His relations of their manners, his anecdotes and +descriptions of scenery whiled away delicious hours, when we were +tired of talking of our own plans of future life. + +The voice of affection was so new to me that I hung with delight upon +his words when he told me what he had felt concerning me during these +long years of apparent forgetfulness. "At first"--said he, "I could +not bear to think of my poor little girl; but afterwards as grief wore +off and hope again revisited me I could only turn to her, and amidst +cities and desarts her little fairy form, such as I imagined it, for +ever flitted before me. The northern breeze as it refreshed me was +sweeter and more balmy for it seemed to carry some of your spirit +along with it. I often thought that I would instantly return and take +you along with me to some fertile island where we should live at peace +for ever. As I returned my fervent hopes were dashed by so many fears; +my impatience became in the highest degree painful. I dared not think +that the sun should shine and the moon rise not on your living form +but on your grave. But, no, it is not so; I have my Mathilda, my +consolation, and my hope."-- + +My father was very little changed from what he described himself to be +before his misfortunes. It is intercourse with civilized society; it +is the disappointment of cherished hopes, the falsehood of friends, or +the perpetual clash of mean passions that changes the heart and damps +the ardour of youthful feelings; lonly wanderings in a wild country +among people of simple or savage manners may inure the body but will +not tame the soul, or extinguish the ardour and freshness of feeling +incident to youth. The burning sun of India, and the freedom from all +restraint had rather encreased the energy of his character: before he +bowed under, now he was impatient of any censure except that of his +own mind. He had seen so many customs and witnessed so great a variety +of moral creeds that he had been obliged to form an independant one +for himself which had no relation to the peculiar notions of any one +country: his early prejudices of course influenced his judgement in +the formation of his principles, and some raw colledge ideas were +strangely mingled with the deepest deductions of his penetrating mind. + +The vacuity his heart endured of any deep interest in life during his +long absence from his native country had had a singular effect upon +his ideas. There was a curious feeling of unreality attached by him to +his foreign life in comparison with the years of his youth. All the +time he had passed out of England was as a dream, and all the interest +of his soul[,] all his affections belonged to events which had +happened and persons who had existed sixteen years before. It was +strange when you heard him talk to see how he passed over this lapse +of time as a night of visions; while the remembrances of his youth +standing seperate as they did from his after life had lost none of +their vigour. He talked of my Mother as if she had lived but a few +weeks before; not that he expressed poignant grief, but his +discription of her person, and his relation of all anecdotes connected +with her was thus fervent and vivid. + +In all this there was a strangeness that attracted and enchanted me. +He was, as it were, now awakened from his long, visionary sleep, and +he felt some what like one of the seven sleepers, or like +Nourjahad,[17] in that sweet imitation of an eastern tale: Diana was +gone; his friends were changed or dead, and now on his awakening I was +all that he had to love on earth. + +How dear to me were the waters, and mountains, and woods of Loch +Lomond now that I had so beloved a companion for my rambles. I visited +with my father every delightful spot, either on the islands, or by the +side of the tree-sheltered waterfalls; every shady path, or dingle +entangled with underwood and fern. My ideas were enlarged by his +conversation. I felt as if I were recreated and had about me all the +freshness and life of a new being: I was, as it were, transported +since his arrival from a narrow spot of earth into a universe +boundless to the imagination and the understanding. My life had been +before as a pleasing country rill, never destined to leave its native +fields, but when its task was fulfilled quietly to be absorbed, and +leave no trace. Now it seemed to me to be as a various river flowing +through a fertile and lovely lanscape, ever changing and ever +beautiful. Alas! I knew not the desart it was about to reach; the +rocks that would tear its waters, and the hideous scene that would be +reflected in a more distorted manner in its waves. Life was then +brilliant; I began to learn to hope and what brings a more bitter +despair to the heart than hope destroyed? + +Is it not strange[18] that grief should quickly follow so divine a +happiness? I drank of an enchanted cup but gall was at the bottom of +its long drawn sweetness. My heart was full of deep affection, but it +was calm from its very depth and fulness. I had no idea that misery +could arise from love, and this lesson that all at last must learn was +taught me in a manner few are obliged to receive it. I lament now, I +must ever lament, those few short months of Paradisaical bliss; I +disobeyed no command, I ate no apple, and yet I was ruthlessly driven +from it. Alas! my companion did, and I was precipitated in his +fall.[19] But I wander from my relation--let woe come at its appointed +time; I may at this stage of my story still talk of happiness. + +Three months passed away in this delightful intercourse, when my aunt +fell ill. I passed a whole month in her chamber nursing her, but her +disease was mortal and she died, leaving me for some time +inconsolable, Death is so dreadful to the living;[20] the chains of +habit are so strong even when affection does not link them that the +heart must be agonized when they break. But my father was beside me to +console me and to drive away bitter memories by bright hopes: +methought that it was sweet to grieve that he might dry my tears. + +Then again he distracted my thoughts from my sorrow by comparing it +with his despair when he lost my mother. Even at that time I shuddered +at the picture he drew of his passions: he had the imagination of a +poet, and when he described the whirlwind that then tore his feelings +he gave his words the impress of life so vividly that I believed while +I trembled. I wondered how he could ever again have entered into the +offices of life after his wild thoughts seemed to have given him +affinity with the unearthly; while he spoke so tremendous were the +ideas which he conveyed that it appeared as if the human heart were +far too bounded for their conception. His feelings seemed better +fitted for a spirit whose habitation is the earthquake and the volcano +than for one confined to a mortal body and human lineaments. But these +were merely memories; he was changed since then. He was now all love, +all softness; and when I raised my eyes in wonder at him as he spoke +the smile on his lips told me that his heart was possessed by the +gentlest passions. + +Two months after my aunt's death we removed to London where I was led +by my father to attend to deeper studies than had before occupied me. +My improvement was his delight; he was with me during all my studies +and assisted or joined with me in every lesson. We saw a great deal of +society, and no day passed that my father did not endeavour to +embellish by some new enjoyment. The tender attachment that he bore +me, and the love and veneration with which I returned it cast a charm +over every moment. The hours were slow for each minute was employed; +we lived more in one week than many do in the course of several months +and the variety and novelty of our pleasures gave zest to each. + +We perpetually made excursions together. And whether it were to visit +beautiful scenery, or to see fine pictures, or sometimes for no object +but to seek amusement as it might chance to arise, I was always happy +when near my father. It was a subject of regret to me whenever we were +joined by a third person, yet if I turned with a disturbed look +towards my father, his eyes fixed on me and beaming with tenderness +instantly restored joy to my heart. O, hours of intense delight! Short +as ye were ye are made as long to me as a whole life when looked back +upon through the mist of grief that rose immediately after as if to +shut ye from my view. Alas! ye were the last of happiness that I ever +enjoyed; a few, a very few weeks and all was destroyed. Like +Psyche[21] I lived for awhile in an enchanted palace, amidst odours, +and music, and every luxurious delight; when suddenly I was left on a +barren rock; a wide ocean of despair rolled around me: above all was +black, and my eyes closed while I still inhabited a universal death. +Still I would not hurry on; I would pause for ever on the +recollections of these happy weeks; I would repeat every word, and how +many do I remember, record every enchantment of the faery habitation. +But, no, my tale must not pause; it must be as rapid as was my +fate,--I can only describe in short although strong expressions my +precipitate and irremediable change from happiness to despair.[22] + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Among our most assiduous visitors was a young man of rank, well +informed, and agreable in his person. After we had spent a few weeks +in London his attentions towards me became marked and his visits more +frequent. I was too much taken up by my own occupations and feelings +to attend much to this, and then indeed I hardly noticed more than the +bare surface of events as they passed around me; but I now remember +that my father was restless and uneasy whenever this person visited +us, and when we talked together watched us with the greatest apparent +anxiety although he himself maintained a profound silence. At length +these obnoxious visits suddenly ceased altogether, but from that +moment I must date the change of my father: a change that to remember +makes me shudder and then filled me with the deepest grief. There were +no degrees which could break my fall from happiness to misery; it was +as the stroke of lightning--sudden and entire.[23] Alas! I now met +frowns where before I had been welcomed only with smiles: he, my +beloved father, shunned me, and either treated me with harshness or a +more heart-breaking coldness. We took no more sweet counsel together; +and when I tried to win him again to me, his anger, and the terrible +emotions that he exhibited drove me to silence and tears. + +And this was sudden. The day before we had passed alone together in +the country; I remember we had talked of future travels that we should +undertake together--. There was an eager delight in our tones and +gestures that could only spring from deep & mutual love joined to the +most unrestrained confidence[;] and now the next day, the next hour, I +saw his brows contracted, his eyes fixed in sullen fierceness on the +ground, and his voice so gentle and so dear made me shiver when he +addressed me. Often, when my wandering fancy brought by its various +images now consolation and now aggravation of grief to my heart,[24] I +have compared myself to Proserpine who was gaily and heedlessly +gathering flowers on the sweet plain of Enna, when the King of Hell +snatched her away to the abodes of death and misery. Alas! I who so +lately knew of nought but the joy of life; who had slept only to +dream sweet dreams and awoke to incomparable happiness, I now passed +my days and nights in tears. I who sought and had found joy in the +love-breathing countenance of my father now when I dared fix on him a +supplicating look it was ever answered by an angry frown. I dared not +speak to him; and when sometimes I had worked up courage to meet him +and to ask an explanation one glance at his face where a chaos of +mighty passion seemed for ever struggling made me tremble and shrink +to silence. I was dashed down from heaven to earth as a silly sparrow +when pounced on by a hawk; my eyes swam and my head was bewildered by +the sudden apparition of grief. Day after day[25] passed marked only +by my complaints and my tears; often I lifted my soul in vain prayer +for a softer descent from joy to woe, or if that were denied me that I +might be allowed to die, and fade for ever under the cruel blast that +swept over me, + + ------ for what should I do here, + Like a decaying flower, still withering + Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat + Should give my poor heart life?[C] + +Sometimes I said to myself, this is an enchantment, and I must strive +against it. My father is blinded by some malignant vision which I must +remove. And then, like David, I would try music to win the evil spirit +from him; and once while singing I lifted my eyes towards him and saw +his fixed on me and filled with tears; all his muscles seemed relaxed +to softness. I sprung towards him with a cry of joy and would have +thrown myself into his arms, but he pushed me roughly from him and +left me. And even from this slight incident he contracted fresh gloom +and an additional severity of manner. + +There are many incidents that I might relate which shewed the diseased +yet incomprehensible state of his mind; but I will mention one that +occurred while we were in company with several other persons. On this +occasion I chanced to say that I thought Myrrha the best of Alfieri's +tragedies; as I said this I chanced to cast my eyes on my father and +met his: for the first time the expression of those beloved eyes +displeased me, and I saw with affright that his whole frame shook with +some concealed emotion that in spite of his efforts half conquered +him: as this tempest faded from his soul he became melancholy and +silent. Every day some new scene occured and displayed in him a mind +working as [it] were with an unknown horror that now he could master +but which at times threatened to overturn his reason, and to throw the +bright seat of his intelligence into a perpetual chaos. + +I will not dwell longer than I need on these disastrous +circumstances.[26] I might waste days in describing how anxiously I +watched every change of fleeting circumstance that promised better +days, and with what despair I found that each effort of mine +aggravated his seeming madness. To tell all my grief I might as well +attempt to count the tears that have fallen from these eyes, or every +sign that has torn my heart. I will be brief for there is in all this +a horror that will not bear many words, and I sink almost a second +time to death while I recall these sad scenes to my memory. Oh, my +beloved father! Indeed you made me miserable beyond all words, but how +truly did I even then forgive you, and how entirely did you possess my +whole heart while I endeavoured, as a rainbow gleams upon a +cataract,[D][27] to soften thy tremendous sorrows. + +Thus did this change come about. I seem perhaps to have dashed too +suddenly into the description, but thus suddenly did it happen. In one +sentence I have passed from the idea of unspeakable happiness to that +of unspeakable grief but they were thus closely linked together. We +had remained five months in London three of joy and two of sorrow. My +father and I were now seldom alone or if we were he generally kept +silence with his eyes fixed on the ground--the dark full orbs in which +before I delighted to read all sweet and gentle feeling shadowed from +my sight by their lids and the long lashes that fringed them. When we +were in company he affected gaiety but I wept to hear his hollow +laugh--begun by an empty smile and often ending in a bitter sneer such +as never before this fatal period had wrinkled his lips. When others +were there he often spoke to me and his eyes perpetually followed my +slightest motion. His accents whenever he addressed me were cold and +constrained although his voice would tremble when he perceived that my +full heart choked the answer to words proffered with a mien yet new to +me. + +But days of peaceful melancholy were of rare occurence[:] they were +often broken in upon by gusts of passion that drove me as a weak boat +on a stormy sea to seek a cove for shelter; but the winds blew from my +native harbour and I was cast far, far out untill shattered I perished +when the tempest had passed and the sea was apparently calm. I do not +know that I can describe his emotions: sometimes he only betrayed them +by a word or gesture, and then retired to his chamber and I crept as +near it as I dared and listened with fear to every sound, yet still +more dreading a sudden silence--dreading I knew not what, but ever +full of fear. + +It was after one tremendous day when his eyes had glared on me like +lightning--and his voice sharp and broken seemed unable to express the +extent of his emotion that in the evening when I was alone he joined +me with a calm countenance, and not noticing my tears which I quickly +dried when he approached, told me that in three days that [_sic_] he +intended to remove with me to his estate in Yorkshire, and bidding me +prepare left me hastily as if afraid of being questioned. + +This determination on his part indeed surprised me. This estate was +that which he had inhabited in childhood and near which my mother +resided while a girl; this was the scene of their youthful loves and +where they had lived after their marriage; in happier days my father +had often told me that however he might appear weaned from his widow +sorrow, and free from bitter recollections elsewhere, yet he would +never dare visit the spot where he had enjoyed her society or trust +himself to see the rooms that so many years ago they had inhabited +together; her favourite walks and the gardens the flowers of which she +had delighted to cultivate. And now while he suffered intense misery +he determined to plunge into still more intense, and strove for +greater emotion than that which already tore him. I was perplexed, and +most anxious to know what this portended; ah, what could it po[r]tend +but ruin! + +I saw little of my father during this interval, but he appeared calmer +although not less unhappy than before. On the morning of the third day +he informed me that he had determined to go to Yorkshire first alone, +and that I should follow him in a fortnight unless I heard any thing +from him in the mean time that should contradict this command. He +departed the same day, and four days afterwards I received a letter +from his steward telling me in his name to join him with as little +delay as possible. After travelling day and night I arrived with an +anxious, yet a hoping heart, for why should he send for me if it were +only to avoid me and to treat me with the apparent aversion that he +had in London. I met him at the distance of thirty miles from our +mansion. His demeanour was sad; for a moment he appeared glad to see +me and then he checked himself as if unwilling to betray his feelings. +He was silent during our ride, yet his manner was kinder than before +and I thought I beheld a softness in his eyes that gave me hope. + +When we arrived, after a little rest, he led me over the house and +pointed out to me the rooms which my mother had inhabited. Although +more than sixteen years had passed since her death nothing had been +changed; her work box, her writing desk were still there and in her +room a book lay open on the table as she had left it. My father +pointed out these circumstances with a serious and unaltered mien, +only now and then fixing his deep and liquid eyes upon me; there was +something strange and awful in his look that overcame me, and in spite +of myself I wept, nor did he attempt to console me, but I saw his lips +quiver and the muscles of his countenance seemed convulsed. + +We walked together in the gardens and in the evening when I would have +retired he asked me to stay and read to him; and first said, "When I +was last here your mother read Dante to me; you shall go on where she +left off." And then in a moment he said, "No, that must not be; you +must not read Dante. Do you choose a book." I took up Spencer and read +the descent of Sir Guyon to the halls of Avarice;[28] while he +listened his eyes fixed on me in sad profound silence. + +I heard the next morning from the steward that upon his arrival he had +been in a most terrible state of mind: he had passed the first night +in the garden lying on the damp grass; he did not sleep but groaned +perpetually. "Alas!" said the old man[,] who gave me this account with +tears in his eyes, "it wrings my heart to see my lord in this state: +when I heard that he was coming down here with you, my young lady, I +thought we should have the happy days over again that we enjoyed +during the short life of my lady your mother--But that would be too +much happiness for us poor creatures born to tears--and that was why +she was taken from us so soon; [s]he was too beautiful and good for +us[.] It was a happy day as we all thought it when my lord married +her: I knew her when she was a child and many a good turn has she done +for me in my old lady's time--You are like her although there is more +of my lord in you--But has he been thus ever since his return? All my +joy turned to sorrow when I first beheld him with that melancholy +countenance enter these doors as it were the day after my lady's +funeral--He seemed to recover himself a little after he had bidden me +write to you--but still it is a woful thing to see him so +unhappy."[29] These were the feelings of an old, faithful servant: +what must be those of an affectionate daughter. Alas! Even then my +heart was almost broken. + +We spent two months together in this house. My father spent the +greater part of his time with me; he accompanied me in my walks, +listened to my music, and leant over me as I read or painted. When he +conversed with me his manner was cold and constrained; his eyes only +seemed to speak, and as he turned their black, full lustre towards me +they expressed a living sadness. There was somthing in those dark deep +orbs so liquid, and intense that even in happiness I could never meet +their full gaze that mine did not overflow. Yet it was with sweet +tears; now there was a depth of affliction in their gentle appeal that +rent my heart with sympathy; they seemed to desire peace for me; for +himself a heart patient to suffer; a craving for sympathy, yet a +perpetual self denial. It was only when he was absent from me that his +passion subdued him,--that he clinched his hands--knit his brows--and +with haggard looks called for death to his despair, raving wildly, +untill exhausted he sank down nor was revived untill I joined him. + +While we were in London there was a harshness and sulleness in his +sorrow which had now entirely disappeared. There I shrunk and fled +from him, now I only wished to be with him that I might soothe him to +peace. When he was silent I tried to divert him, and when sometimes I +stole to him during the energy of his passion I wept but did not +desire to leave him. Yet he suffered fearful agony; during the day he +was more calm, but at night when I could not be with him he seemed to +give the reins to his grief: he often passed his nights either on the +floor in my mother's room, or in the garden; and when in the morning +he saw me view with poignant grief his exhausted frame, and his person +languid almost to death with watching he wept; but during all this +time he spoke no word by which I might guess the cause of his +unhappiness[.] If I ventured to enquire he would either leave me or +press his finger on his lips, and with a deprecating look that I could +not resist, turn away. If I wept he would gaze on me in silence but he +was no longer harsh and although he repulsed every caress yet it was +with gentleness. + +He seemed to cherish a mild grief and softer emotions although sad as +a relief from despair--He contrived in many ways to nurse his +melancholy as an antidote to wilder passion[.] He perpetually +frequented the walks that had been favourites with him when he and my +mother wandered together talking of love and happiness; he collected +every relick that remained of her and always sat opposite her picture +which hung in the room fixing on it a look of sad despair--and all +this was done in a mystic and awful silence. If his passion subdued +him he locked himself in his room; and at night when he wandered +restlessly about the house, it was when every other creature slept. + +It may easily be imagined that I wearied myself with conjecture to +guess the cause of his sorrow. The solution that seemed to me the most +probable was that during his residence in London he had fallen in love +with some unworthy person, and that his passion mastered him although +he would not gratify it: he loved me too well to sacrifise me to this +inclination, and that he had now visited this house that by reviving +the memory of my mother whom he so passionately adored he might weaken +the present impression. This was possible; but it was a mere +conjecture unfounded on any fact. Could there be guilt in it? He was +too upright and noble to _do_ aught that his conscience would not +approve; I did not yet know of the crime there may be in involuntary +feeling and therefore ascribed his tumultuous starts and gloomy looks +wholly to the struggles of his mind and not any as they were partly +due to the worst fiend of all--Remorse.[30] + +But still do I flatter myself that this would have passed away. His +paroxisms of passion were terrific but his soul bore him through them +triumphant, though almost destroyed by victory; but the day would +finally have been won had not I, foolish and presumtuous wretch! +hurried him on untill there was no recall, no hope. My rashness gave +the victory in this dreadful fight to the enemy who triumphed over him +as he lay fallen and vanquished. I! I alone was the cause of his +defeat and justly did I pay the fearful penalty. I said to myself, let +him receive sympathy and these struggles will cease. Let him confide +his misery to another heart and half the weight of it will be +lightened. I will win him to me; he shall not deny his grief to me and +when I know his secret then will I pour a balm into his soul and again +I shall enjoy the ravishing delight of beholding his smile, and of +again seeing his eyes beam if not with pleasure at least with gentle +love and thankfulness. This will I do, I said. Half I accomplished; I +gained his secret and we were both lost for ever. + + +[C] Fletcher's comedy of the Captain. + +[D] Lord Byron + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Nearly a year had past since my father's return, and the seasons had +almost finished their round--It was now the end of May; the woods were +clothed in their freshest verdure, and the sweet smell of the new mown +grass was in the fields. I thought that the balmy air and the lovely +face of Nature might aid me in inspiring him with mild sensations, and +give him gentle feelings of peace and love preparatory to the +confidence I determined to win from him. + +I chose therefore the evening of one of these days for my attempt. I +invited him to walk with me, and led him to a neighbouring wood of +beech trees whose light shade shielded us from the slant and dazzling +beams of the descending sun--After walking for some time in silence I +seated my self with him on a mossy hillock--It is strange but even now +I seem to see the spot--the slim and smooth trunks were many of them +wound round by ivy whose shining leaves of the darkest green +contrasted with the white bark and the light leaves of the young +sprouts of beech that grew from their parent trunks--the short grass +was mingled with moss and was partly covered by the dead leaves of the +last autumn that driven by the winds had here and there collected in +little hillocks--there were a few moss grown stumps about--The leaves +were gently moved by the breeze and through their green canopy you +could see the bright blue sky--As evening came on the distant trunks +were reddened by the sun and the wind died entirely away while a few +birds flew past us to their evening rest. + +Well it was here we sat together, and when you hear all that past--all +that of terrible tore our souls even in this placid spot, which but +for strange passions might have been a paradise to us, you will not +wonder that I remember it as I looked on it that its calm might give +me calm, and inspire me not only with courage but with persuasive +words. I saw all these things and in a vacant manner noted them in my +mind[31] while I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts in fitting order +for my attempt. My heart beat fast as I worked myself up to speak to +him, for I was determined not to be repulsed but I trembled to imagine +what effect my words might have on him; at length, with much +hesitation I began:[32] + +"Your kindness to me, my dearest father, and the affection--the +excessive affection--that you had for me when you first returned will +I hope excuse me in your eyes that I dare speak to you, although with +the tender affection of a daughter, yet also with the freedom of a +friend and equal. But pardon me, I entreat you and listen to me: do +not turn away from me; do not be impatient; you may easily intimidate +me into silence, but my heart is bursting, nor can I willingly consent +to endure for one moment longer the agony of uncertitude which for the +last four months has been my portion. + +"Listen to me, dearest friend, and permit me to gain your confidence. +Are the happy days of mutual love which have passed to be to me as a +dream never to return? Alas! You have a secret grief that destroys us +both: but you must permit me to win this secret from you. Tell me, can +I do nothing? You well know that on the whole earth there is no +sacrifise that I would not make, no labour that I would not undergo +with the mere hope that I might bring you ease. But if no endeavour on +my part can contribute to your happiness, let me at least know your +sorrow, and surely my earnest love and deep sympathy must soothe your +despair. + +"I fear that I speak in a constrained manner: my heart is overflowing +with the ardent desire I have of bringing calm once more to your +thoughts and looks; but I fear to aggravate your grief, or to raise +that in you which is death to me, anger and distaste. Do not then +continue to fix your eyes on the earth; raise them on me for I can +read your soul in them: speak to me to me [_sic_], and pardon my +presumption. Alas! I am a most unhappy creature!" + +I was breathless with emotion, and I paused fixing my earnest eyes on +my father, after I had dashed away the intrusive tears that dimmed +them. He did not raise his, but after a short silence he replied to me +in a low voice: "You are indeed presumptuous, Mathilda, presumptuous +and very rash. In the heart of one like me there are secret thoughts +working, and secret tortures which you ought not to seek to discover. +I cannot tell you how it adds to my grief to know that I am the cause +of uneasiness to you; but this will pass away, and I hope that soon we +shall be as we were a few months ago. Restrain your impatience or you +may mar what you attempt to alleviate. Do not again speak to me in +this strain; but wait in submissive patience the event of what is +passing around you." + +"Oh, yes!" I passionately replied, "I will be very patient; I will +not be rash or presumptuous: I will see the agonies, and tears, and +despair of my father, my only friend, my hope, my shelter, I will see +it all with folded arms and downcast eyes. You do not treat me with +candour; it is not true what you say; this will not soon pass away, it +will last forever if you deign not to speak to me; to admit my +consolations. + +"Dearest, dearest father, pity me and pardon me: I entreat you do not +drive me to despair; indeed I must not be repulsed; there is one thing +that which [_sic_] although it may torture me to know, yet that you +must tell me. I demand, and most solemnly I demand if in any way I am +the cause of your unhappiness. Do you not see my tears which I in vain +strive against--You hear unmoved my voice broken by sobs--Feel how my +hand trembles: my whole heart is in the words I speak and you must not +endeavour to silence me by mere words barren of meaning: the agony of +my doubt hurries me on, and you must reply. I beseech you; by your +former love for me now lost, I adjure you to answer that one question. +Am I the cause of your grief?" + +He raised his eyes from the ground, but still turning them away from +me, said: "Besought by that plea I will answer your rash question. +Yes, you are the sole, the agonizing cause of all I suffer, of all I +must suffer untill I die. Now, beware! Be silent! Do not urge me to +your destruction. I am struck by the storm, rooted up, laid waste: but +you can stand against it; you are young and your passions are at +peace. One word I might speak and then you would be implicated in my +destruction; yet that word is hovering on my lips. Oh! There is a +fearful chasm; but I adjure you to beware!" + +"Ah, dearest friend!" I cried, "do not fear! Speak that word; it will +bring peace, not death. If there is a chasm our mutual love will give +us wings to pass it, and we shall find flowers, and verdure, and +delight on the other side." I threw myself at his feet, and took his +hand, "Yes, speak, and we shall be happy; there will no longer be +doubt, no dreadful uncertainty; trust me, my affection will soothe +your sorrow; speak that word and all danger will be past, and we shall +love each other as before, and for ever." + +He snatched his hand from me, and rose in violent disorder: "What do +you mean? You know not what you mean. Why do you bring me out, and +torture me, and tempt me, and kill me--Much happier would [it] be for +you and for me if in your frantic curiosity you tore my heart from my +breast and tried to read its secrets in it as its life's blood was +dropping from it. Thus you may console me by reducing me to +nothing--but your words I cannot bear; soon they will make me mad, +quite mad, and then I shall utter strange words, and you will believe +them, and we shall be both lost for ever. I tell you I am on the very +verge of insanity; why, cruel girl, do you drive me on: you will +repent and I shall die." + +When I repeat his words I wonder at my pertinacious folly; I hardly +know what feelings resis[t]lessly impelled me. I believe it was that +coming out with a determination not to be repulsed I went right +forward to my object without well weighing his replies: I was led by +passion and drew him with frantic heedlessness into the abyss that he +so fearfully avoided--I replied to his terrific words: "You fill me +with affright it is true, dearest father, but you only confirm my +resolution to put an end to this state of doubt. I will not be put off +thus: do you think that I can live thus fearfully from day to day--the +sword in my bosom yet kept from its mortal wound by a hair--a word!--I +demand that dreadful word; though it be as a flash of lightning to +destroy me, speak it. + +"Alas! Alas! What am I become? But a few months have elapsed since I +believed that I was all the world to you; and that there was no +happiness or grief for you on earth unshared by your Mathilda--your +child: that happy time is no longer, and what I most dreaded in this +world is come upon me. In the despair of my heart I see what you +cannot conceal: you no longer love me. I adjure you, my father, has +not an unnatural passion seized upon your heart? Am I not the most +miserable worm that crawls? Do I not embrace your knees, and you most +cruelly repulse me? I know it--I see it--you hate me!" + +I was transported by violent emotion, and rising from his feet, at +which I had thrown myself, I leant against a tree, wildly raising my +eyes to heaven. He began to answer with violence: "Yes, yes, I hate +you! You are my bane, my poison, my disgust! Oh! No[!]" And then his +manner changed, and fixing his eyes on me with an expression that +convulsed every nerve and member of my frame--"you are none of all +these; you are my light, my only one, my life.--My daughter, I love +you!" The last words died away in a hoarse whisper, but I heard them +and sunk on the ground, covering my face and almost dead with excess +of sickness and fear: a cold perspiration covered my forehead and I +shivered in every limb--But he continued, clasping his hands with a +frantic gesture: + +"Now I have dashed from the top of the rock to the bottom! Now I have +precipitated myself down the fearful chasm! The danger is over; she is +alive! Oh, Mathilda, lift up those dear eyes in the light of which I +live. Let me hear the sweet tones of your beloved voice in peace and +calm. Monster as I am, you are still, as you ever were, lovely, +beautiful beyond expression. What I have become since this last moment +I know not; perhaps I am changed in mien as the fallen archangel. I do +believe I am for I have surely a new soul within me, and my blood +riots through my veins: I am burnt up with fever. But these are +precious moments; devil as I am become, yet that is my Mathilda before +me whom I love as one was never before loved: and she knows it now; +she listens to these words which I thought, fool as I was, would blast +her to death. Come, come, the worst is past: no more grief, tears or +despair; were not those the words you uttered?--We have leapt the +chasm I told you of, and now, mark me, Mathilda, we are to find +flowers, and verdure and delight, or is it hell, and fire, and +tortures? Oh! Beloved One, I am borne away; I can no longer sustain +myself; surely this is death that is coming. Let me lay my head near +your heart; let me die in your arms!"--He sunk to the earth fainting, +while I, nearly as lifeless, gazed on him in despair. + +Yes it was despair I felt; for the first time that phantom seized me; +the first and only time for it has never since left me--After the +first moments of speechless agony I felt her fangs on my heart: I tore +my hair; I raved aloud; at one moment in pity for his sufferings I +would have clasped my father in my arms; and then starting back with +horror I spurned him with my foot; I felt as if stung by a serpent, +as if scourged by a whip of scorpions which drove me--Ah! +Whither--Whither? + +Well, this could not last. One idea rushed on my mind; never, never +may I speak to him again. As this terrible conviction came upon _him_ +[_me_?] it melted my soul to tenderness and love--I gazed on him as to +take my last farewell--he lay insensible--his eyes closed as [_and_?] +his cheeks deathly pale. Above, the leaves of the beech wood cast a +flickering shadow on his face, and waved in mournful melody over +him--I saw all these things and said, "Aye, this is his grave!" And +then I wept aloud, and raised my eyes to heaven to entreat for a +respite to my despair and an alleviation for his unnatural +suffering--the tears that gushed in a warm & healing stream from my +eyes relieved the burthen that oppressed my heart almost to madness. I +wept for a long time untill I saw him about to revive, when horror and +misery again recurred, and the tide of my sensations rolled back to +their former channel: with a terror I could not restrain--I sprung up +and fled, with winged speed, along the paths of the wood and across +the fields untill nearly dead I reached our house and just ordering +the servants to seek my father at the spot I indicated, I shut myself +up in my own room[.][33] + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +My chamber was in a retired part of the house, and looked upon the +garden so that no sound of the other inhabitants could reach it; and +here in perfect solitude I wept for several hours. When a servant came +to ask me if I would take food I learnt from him that my father had +returned, and was apparently well and this relieved me from a load of +anxiety, yet I did not cease to weep bitterly. As [_At_] first, as the +memory of former happiness contrasted to my present despair came +across me, I gave relief to the oppression of heart that I felt by +words, and groans, and heart rending sighs: but nature became wearied, +and this more violent grief gave place to a passionate but mute flood +of tears: my whole soul seemed to dissolve [in] them. I did not wring +my hands, or tear my hair, or utter wild exclamations, but as Boccacio +describes the intense and quiet grief [of] Sigismunda over the heart +of Guiscardo,[34] I sat with my hands folded, silently letting fall a +perpetual stream from my eyes. Such was the depth of my emotion that I +had no feeling of what caused my distress, my thoughts even wandered +to many indifferent objects; but still neither moving limb or feature +my tears fell untill, as if the fountains were exhausted, they +gradually subsided, and I awoke to life as from a dream. + +When I had ceased to weep reason and memory returned upon me, and I +began to reflect with greater calmness on what had happened, and how +it became me to act--A few hours only had passed but a mighty +revolution had taken place with regard to me--the natural work of +years had been transacted since the morning: my father was as dead to +me, and I felt for a moment as if he with white hairs were laid in his +coffin and I--youth vanished in approaching age, were weeping at his +timely dissolution. But it was not so, I was yet young, Oh! far too +young, nor was he dead to others; but I, most miserable, must never +see or speak to him again. I must fly from him with more earnestness +than from my greatest enemy: in solitude or in cities I must never +more behold him. That consideration made me breathless with anguish, +and impressing itself on my imagination I was unable for a time to +follow up any train of ideas. Ever after this, I thought, I would +live in the most dreary seclusion. I would retire to the Continent and +become a nun; not for religion's sake, for I was not a Catholic, but +that I might be for ever shut out from the world. I should there find +solitude where I might weep, and the voices of life might never reach +me. + +But my father; my beloved and most wretched father? Would he die? +Would he never overcome the fierce passion that now held pityless +dominion over him? Might he not many, many years hence, when age had +quenched the burning sensations that he now experienced, might he not +then be again a father to me? This reflection unwrinkled my brow, and +I could feel (and I wept to feel it) a half melancholy smile draw from +my lips their expression of suffering: I dared indulge better hopes +for my future life; years must pass but they would speed lightly away +winged by hope, or if they passed heavily, still they would pass and I +had not lost my father for ever. Let him spend another sixteen years +of desolate wandering: let him once more utter his wild complaints to +the vast woods and the tremendous cataracts of another clime: let him +again undergo fearful danger and soul-quelling hardships: let the hot +sun of the south again burn his passion worn cheeks and the cold night +rains fall on him and chill his blood. + +To this life, miserable father, I devote thee!--Go!--Be thy days +passed with savages, and thy nights under the cope of heaven! Be thy +limbs worn and thy heart chilled, and all youth be dead within thee! +Let thy hairs be as snow; thy walk trembling and thy voice have lost +its mellow tones! Let the liquid lustre of thine eyes be quenched; and +then return to me, return to thy Mathilda, thy child, who may then be +clasped in thy loved arms, while thy heart beats with sinless emotion. +Go, Devoted One, and return thus!--This is my curse, a daughter's +curse: go, and return pure to thy child, who will never love aught but +thee. + +These were my thoughts; and with trembling hands I prepared to begin a +letter to my unhappy parent. I had now spent many hours in tears and +mournful meditation; it was past twelve o'clock; all was at peace in +the house, and the gentle air that stole in at my window did not +rustle the leaves of the twining plants that shadowed it. I felt the +entire tranquillity of the hour when my own breath and involuntary +sobs were all the sounds that struck upon the air. On a sudden I heard +a gentle step ascending the stairs; I paused breathless, and as it +approached glided into an obscure corner of the room; the steps paused +at my door, but after a few moments they again receeded[,] descended +the stairs and I heard no more. + +This slight incident gave rise in me to the most painful reflections; +nor do I now dare express the emotions I felt. That he should be +restless I understood; that he should wander as an unlaid ghost and +find no quiet from the burning hell that consumed his heart. But why +approach my chamber? Was not that sacred? I felt almost ready to faint +while he had stood there, but I had not betrayed my wakefulness by the +slightest motion, although I had heard my own heart beat with violent +fear. He had withdrawn. Oh, never, never, may I see him again! +Tomorrow night the same roof may not cover us; he or I must depart. +The mutual link of our destinies is broken; we must be divided by +seas--by land. The stars and the sun must not rise at the same period +to us: he must not say, looking at the setting crescent of the moon, +"Mathilda now watches its fall."--No, all must be changed. Be it light +with him when it is darkness with me! Let him feel the sun of summer +while I am chilled by the snows of winter! Let there be the distance +of the antipodes between us! + +At length the east began to brighten, and the comfortable light of +morning streamed into my room. I was weary with watching and for some +time I had combated with the heavy sleep that weighed down my eyelids: +but now, no longer fearful, I threw myself on my bed. I sought for +repose although I did not hope for forgetfulness; I knew I should be +pursued by dreams, but did not dread the frightful one that I really +had. I thought that I had risen and went to seek my father to inform +him of my determination to seperate myself from him. I sought him in +the house, in the park, and then in the fields and the woods, but I +could not find him. At length I saw him at some distance, seated under +a tree, and when he perceived me he waved his hand several times, +beckoning me to approach; there was something unearthly in his mien +that awed and chilled me, but I drew near. When at [a] short distance +from him I saw that he was deadlily [_sic_] pale, and clothed in +flowing garments of white. Suddenly he started up and fled from me; I +pursued him: we sped over the fields, and by the skirts of woods, and +on the banks of rivers; he flew fast and I followed. We came at last, +methought, to the brow of a huge cliff that over hung the sea which, +troubled by the winds, dashed against its base at a distance. I heard +the roar of the waters: he held his course right on towards the brink +and I became breathless with fear lest he should plunge down the +dreadful precipice; I tried to augment my speed, but my knees failed +beneath me, yet I had just reached him; just caught a part of his +flowing robe, when he leapt down and I awoke with a violent scream. I +was trembling and my pillow was wet with my tears; for a few moments +my heart beat hard, but the bright beams of the sun and the chirping +of the birds quickly restored me to myself, and I rose with a languid +spirit, yet wondering what events the day would bring forth. Some time +passed before I summoned courage to ring the bell for my servant, and +when she came I still dared not utter my father's name. I ordered her +to bring my breakfast to my room, and was again left alone--yet still +I could make no resolve, but only thought that I might write a note to +my father to beg his permission to pay a visit to a relation who lived +about thirty miles off, and who had before invited me to her house, +but I had refused for then I could not quit my suffering father. When +the servant came back she gave me a letter. + +"From whom is this letter[?]" I asked trembling. + +"Your father left it, madam, with his servant, to be given to you when +you should rise." + +"My father left it! Where is he? Is he not here?" + +"No; he quitted the house before four this morning." + +"Good God! He is gone! But tell how this was; speak quick!" + +Her relation was short. He had gone in the carriage to the nearest +town where he took a post chaise and horses with orders for the London +road. He dismissed his servants there, only telling them that he had a +sudden call of business and that they were to obey me as their +mistress untill his return. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +With a beating heart and fearful, I knew not why, I dismissed the +servant and locking my door, sat down to read my father's letter. +These are the words that it contained. + +"My dear Child + +"I have betrayed your confidence; I have endeavoured to pollute your +mind, and have made your innocent heart acquainted with the looks and +language of unlawful and monstrous passion. I must expiate these +crimes, and must endeavour in some degree to proportionate my +punishment to my guilt. You are I doubt not prepared for what I am +about to announce; we must seperate and be divided for ever. + +"I deprive you of your parent and only friend. You are cast out +shelterless on the world: your hopes are blasted; the peace and +security of your pure mind destroyed; memory will bring to you +frightful images of guilt, and the anguish of innocent love betrayed. +Yet I who draw down all this misery upon you; I who cast you forth and +remorselessly have set the seal of distrust and agony on the heart and +brow of my own child, who with devilish levity have endeavoured to +steal away her loveliness to place in its stead the foul deformity of +sin; I, in the overflowing anguish of my heart, supplicate you to +forgive me. + +"I do not ask your pity; you must and do abhor me: but pardon me, +Mathilda, and let not your thoughts follow me in my banishment with +unrelenting anger. I must never more behold you; never more hear your +voice; but the soft whisperings of your forgiveness will reach me and +cool the burning of my disordered brain and heart; I am sure I should +feel it even in my grave. And I dare enforce this request by relating +how miserably I was betrayed into this net of fiery anguish and all my +struggles to release myself: indeed if your soul were less pure and +bright I would not attempt to exculpate myself to you; I should fear +that if I led you to regard me with less abhorrence you might hate +vice less: but in addressing you I feel as if I appealed to an angelic +judge. I cannot depart without your forgiveness and I must endeavour +to gain it, or I must despair.[35] I conjure you therefore to listen +to my words, and if with the good guilt may be in any degree +extenuated by sharp agony, and remorse that rends the brain as madness +perhaps you may think, though I dare not, that I have some claim to +your compassion. + +"I entreat you to call to your remembrance our first happy life on the +shores of Loch Lomond. I had arrived from a weary wandering of sixteen +years, during which, although I had gone through many dangers and +misfortunes, my affections had been an entire blank. If I grieved it +was for your mother, if I loved it was your image; these sole emotions +filled my heart in quietness. The human creatures around me excited in +me no sympathy and I thought that the mighty change that the death of +your mother had wrought within me had rendered me callous to any +future impression. I saw the lovely and I did not love, I imagined +therefore that all warmth was extinguished in my heart except that +which led me ever to dwell on your then infantine image. + +"It is a strange link in my fate that without having seen you I should +passionately love you. During my wanderings I never slept without +first calling down gentle dreams on your head. If I saw a lovely +woman, I thought, does my Mathilda resemble her? All delightful +things, sublime scenery, soft breezes, exquisite music seemed to me +associated with you and only through you to be pleasant to me. At +length I saw you. You appeared as the deity of a lovely region, the +ministering Angel of a Paradise to which of all human kind you +admitted only me. I dared hardly consider you as my daughter; your +beauty, artlessness and untaught wisdom seemed to belong to a higher +order of beings; your voice breathed forth only words of love: if +there was aught of earthly in you it was only what you derived from +the beauty of the world; you seemed to have gained a grace from the +mountain breezes--the waterfalls and the lake; and this was all of +earthly except your affections that you had; there was no dross, no +bad feeling in the composition. You yet even have not seen enough[36] +of the world to know the stupendous difference that exists between the +women we meet in dayly life and a nymph of the woods such as you were, +in whose eyes alone mankind may study for centuries & grow wiser & +purer. Those divine lights which shone on me as did those of Beatrice +upon Dante, and well might I say with him yet with what different +feelings + + E quasi mi perdei gli occhi chini. + +Can you wonder, Mathilda, that I dwelt on your looks, your words, your +motions, & drank in unmixed delight? + +["]But I am afraid that I wander from my purpose. I must be more brief +for night draws on apace and all my hours in this house are counted. +Well, we removed to London, and still I felt only the peace of sinless +passion. You were ever with me, and I desired no more than to gaze on +your countenance, and to know that I was all the world to you; I was +lapped in a fool's paradise of enjoyment and security. Was my love +blamable? If it was I was ignorant of it; I desired only that which I +possessed, and if I enjoyed from your looks, and words, and most +innocent caresses a rapture usually excluded from the feelings of a +parent towards his child, yet no uneasiness, no wish, no casual idea +awoke me to a sense of guilt. I loved you as a human father might be +supposed to love a daughter borne to him by a heavenly mother; as +Anchises might have regarded the child of Venus if the sex had been +changed; love mingled with respect and adoration. Perhaps also my +passion was lulled to content by the deep and exclusive affection you +felt for me. + +"But when I saw you become the object of another's love; when I +imagined that you might be loved otherwise than as a sacred type and +image of loveliness and excellence; or that you might love another +with a more ardent affection than that which you bore to me, then the +fiend awoke within me; I dismissed your lover; and from that moment I +have known no peace. I have sought in vain for sleep and rest; my lids +refused to close, and my blood was for ever in a tumult. I awoke to a +new life as one who dies in hope might wake in Hell. I will not sully +your imagination by recounting my combats, my self-anger and my +despair. Let a veil be drawn over the unimaginable sensations of a +guilty father; the secrets of so agonized a heart may not be made +vulgar. All was uproar, crime, remorse and hate, yet still the +tenderest love; and what first awoke me to the firm resolve of +conquering my passion and of restoring her father to my child was the +sight of your bitter and sympathizing sorrows. It was this that led me +here: I thought that if I could again awaken in my heart the grief I +had felt at the loss of your mother, and the many associations with +her memory which had been laid to sleep for seventeen years, that all +love for her child would become extinct. In a fit of heroism I +determined to go alone; to quit you, the life of my life, and not to +see you again untill I might guiltlessly. But it would not do: I rated +my fortitude too high, or my love too low. I should certainly have +died if you had not hastened to me. Would that I had been indeed +extinguished! + +"And now, Mathilda I must make you my last confession. I have been +miserably mistaken in imagining that I could conquer my love for you; +I never can. The sight of this house, these fields and woods which my +first love inhabited seems to have encreased it: in my madness I dared +say to myself--Diana died to give her birth; her mother's spirit was +transferred into her frame, and she ought to be as Diana to me.[37] +With every effort to cast it off, this love clings closer, this guilty +love more unnatural than hate, that withers your hopes and destroys me +for ever. + + Better have loved despair, & safer kissed her. + +No time or space can tear from my soul that which makes a part of it. +Since my arrival here I have not for a moment ceased to feel the hell +of passion which has been implanted in me to burn untill all be cold, +and stiff, and dead. Yet I will not die; alas! how dare I go where I +may meet Diana, when I have disobeyed her last request; her last words +said in a faint voice when all feeling but love, which survives all +things else was already dead, she then bade me make her child happy: +that thought alone gives a double sting to death. I will wander away +from you, away from all life--in the solitude I shall seek I alone +shall breathe of human kind. I must endure life; and as it is my duty +so I shall untill the grave dreaded yet desired, receive me free from +pain: for while I feel it will be pain that must make up the whole sum +of my sensations. Is not this a fearful curse that I labour under? Do +I not look forward to a miserable future? My child, if after this life +I am permitted to see you again, if pain can purify the heart, mine +will be pure: if remorse may expiate guilt, I shall be guiltless. + + * * * * * + +["]I have been at the door of your chamber: every thing is silent. You +sleep. Do you indeed sleep, Mathilda? Spirits of Good, behold the +tears of my earnest prayer! Bless my child! Protect her from the +selfish among her fellow creatures: protect her from the agonies of +passion, and the despair of disappointment! Peace, Hope and Love be +thy guardians, oh, thou soul of my soul: thou in whom I breathe! + + * * * * * + +["]I dare not read my letter over for I have no time to write another, +and yet I fear that some expressions in it might displease me. Since I +last saw you I have been constantly employed in writing letters, and +have several more to write; for I do not intend that any one shall +hear of me after I depart. I need not conjure you to look upon me as +one of whom all links that once existed between us are broken. Your +own delicacy will not allow you, I am convinced, to attempt to trace +me. It is far better for your peace that you should be ignorant of my +destination. You will not follow me, for when I bannish myself would +you nourish guilt by obtruding yourself upon me? You will not do this, +I know you will not. You must forget me and all the evil that I have +taught you. Cast off the only gift that I have bestowed upon you, your +grief, and rise from under my blighting influence as no flower so +sweet ever did rise from beneath so much evil. + +"You will never hear from me again: receive these then as the last +words of mine that will ever reach you; and although I have forfeited +your filial love, yet regard them I conjure you as a father's command. +Resolutely shake of[f] the wretchedness that this first misfortune in +early life must occasion you. Bear boldly up against the storm: +continue wise and mild, but believe it, and indeed it is, your duty to +be happy. You are very young; let not this check for more than a +moment retard your glorious course; hold on, beloved one. The sun of +youth is not set for you; it will restore vigour and life to you; do +not resist with obstinate grief its beneficent influence, oh, my +child! bless me with the hope that I have not utterly destroyed you. + +"Farewell, Mathilda. I go with the belief that I have your pardon. +Your gentle nature would not permit you to hate your greatest enemy +and though I be he, although I have rent happiness from your +grasp;[38] though I have passed over your young love and hopes as the +angel of destruction, finding beauty and joy, and leaving blight and +despair, yet you will forgive me, and with eyes overflowing with +tears I thank you; my beloved one, I accept your pardon with a +gratitude that will never die, and that will, indeed it will, outlive +guilt and remorse. + +"Farewell for ever!" + +The moment I finished this letter I ordered the carriage and prepared +to follow my father. The words of his letter by which he had dissuaded +me from this step were those that determined me. Why did he write +them? He must know that if I believed that his intention was merely to +absent himself from me that instead of opposing him it would be that +which I should myself require--or if he thought that any lurking +feeling, yet he could not think that, should lead me to him would he +endeavour to overthrow the only hope he could have of ever seeing me +again; a lover, there was madness in the thought, yet he was my lover, +would not act thus. No, he had determined to die, and he wished to +spare me the misery of knowing it. The few ineffectual words he had +said concerning his duty were to me a further proof--and the more I +studied the letter the more did I perceive a thousand slight +expressions that could only indicate a knowledge that life was now +over for him. He was about to die! My blood froze at the thought: a +sickening feeling of horror came over me that allowed not of tears. As +I waited for the carriage I walked up and down with a quick pace; then +kneeling and passionately clasping my hands I tried to pray but my +voice was choked by convulsive sobs--Oh the sun shone[,] the air was +balmy--he must yet live for if he were dead all would surely be black +as night to me![39] + +The motion of the carriage knowing that it carried me towards him and +that I might perhaps find him alive somewhat revived my courage: yet I +had a dreadful ride. Hope only supported me, the hope that I should +not be too late[.] I did not weep, but I wiped the perspiration from +my brow, and tried to still my brain and heart beating almost to +madness. Oh! I must not be mad when I see him; or perhaps it were as +well that I should be, my distraction might calm his, and recall him +to the endurance of life. Yet untill I find him I must force reason to +keep her seat, and I pressed my forehead hard with my hands--Oh do not +leave me; or I shall forget what I am about--instead of driving on as +we ought with the speed of lightning they will attend to me, and we +shall be too late. Oh! God help me! Let him be alive! It is all dark; +in my abject misery I demand no more: no hope, no good: only passion, +and guilt, and horror; but alive! Alive! My sensations choked me--No +tears fell yet I sobbed, and breathed short and hard; one only thought +possessed me, and I could only utter one word, that half screaming was +perpetually on my lips; Alive! Alive!-- + +I had taken the steward[40] with me for he, much better than I[,] +could make the requisite enquiries--the poor old man could not +restrain his tears as he saw my deep distress and knew the cause--he +sometimes uttered a few broken words of consolation: in moments like +these the mistress and servant become in a manner equals and when I +saw his old dim eyes wet with sympathizing tears; his gray hair thinly +scattered on an age-wrinkled brow I thought oh if my father were as he +is--decrepid & hoary--then I should be spared this pain-- + +When I had arrived at the nearest town I took post horses and followed +the road my father had taken. At every inn where we changed horses we +heard of him, and I was possessed by alternate hope and fear. A length +I found that he had altered his route; at first he had followed the +London road; but now he changed it, and upon enquiry I found that the +one which he now pursued led _towards the sea_. My dream recurred to +my thoughts; I was not usually superstitious but in wretchedness every +one is so. The sea was fifty miles off, yet it was towards it that he +fled. The idea was terrible to my half crazed imagination, and almost +over-turned the little self possession that still remained to me. I +journied all day; every moment my misery encreased and the fever of my +blood became intolerable. The summer sun shone in an unclouded sky; +the air was close but all was cool to me except my own scorching skin. +Towards evening dark thunder clouds arose above the horrizon and I +heard its distant roll--after sunset they darkened the whole sky and +it began to rain[,] the lightning lighted up the whole country and the +thunder drowned the noise of our carriage. At the next inn my father +had not taken horses; he had left a box there saying he would return, +and had walked over the fields to the town of ---- a seacost town +eight miles off. + +For a moment I was almost paralized by fear; but my energy returned +and I demanded a guide to accompany me in following his steps. The +night was tempestuous but my bribe was high and I easily procured a +countryman. We passed through many lanes and over fields and wild +downs; the rain poured down in torrents; and the loud thunder broke in +terrible crashes over our heads. Oh! What a night it was! And I passed +on with quick steps among the high, dank grass amid the rain and +tempest. My dream was for ever in my thoughts, and with a kind of half +insanity that often possesses the mind in despair, I said aloud; +"Courage! We are not near the sea; we are yet several miles from the +ocean"--Yet it was towards the sea that our direction lay and that +heightened the confusion of my ideas. Once, overcome by fatigue, I +sunk on the wet earth; about two hundred yards distant, alone in a +large meadow stood a magnificent oak; the lightnings shewed its myriad +boughs torn by the storm. A strange idea seized me; a person must have +felt all the agonies of doubt concerning the life and death of one who +is the whole world to them before they can enter into my feelings--for +in that state, the mind working unrestrained by the will makes strange +and fanciful combinations with outward circumstances and weaves the +chances and changes of nature into an immediate connexion with the +event they dread. It was with this feeling that I turned to the old +Steward who stood pale and trembling beside me; "Mark, Gaspar, if the +next flash of lightning rend not that oak my father will be alive." + +I had scarcely uttered these words than a flash instantly followed by +a tremendous peal of thunder descended on it; and when my eyes +recovered their sight after the dazzling light, the oak no longer +stood in the meadow--The old man uttered a wild exclamation of horror +when he saw so sudden an interpretation given to my prophesy. I +started up, my strength returned; [_sic_] with my terror; I cried, +"Oh, God! Is this thy decree? Yet perhaps I shall not be too late." + +Although still several miles distant we continued to approach the sea. +We came at last to the road that led to the town of----and at an inn +there we heard that my father had passed by somewhat before sunset; he +had observed the approaching storm and had hired a horse for the next +town which was situated a mile from the sea that he might arrive there +before it should commence: this town was five miles off. We hired a +chaise here, and with four horses drove with speed through the storm. +My garments were wet and clung around me, and my hair hung in straight +locks on my neck when not blown aside by the wind. I shivered, yet my +pulse was high with fever. Great God! What agony I endured. I shed no +tears but my eyes wild and inflamed were starting from my head; I +could hardly support the weight that pressed upon my brain. We arrived +at the town of ---- in a little more than half an hour. When my father +had arrived the storm had already begun, but he had refused to stop +and leaving his horse there he walked on--_towards the sea_. Alas! it +was double cruelty in him to have chosen the sea for his fatal +resolve; it was adding madness to my despair.[41] + +The poor old servant who was with me endeavoured to persuade me to +remain here and to let him go alone--I shook my head silently and +sadly; sick almost to death I leant upon his arm, and as there was no +road for a chaise dragged my weary steps across the desolate downs to +meet my fate, now too certain for the agony of doubt. Almost fainting +I slowly approached the fatal waters; when we had quitted the town we +heard their roaring[.] I whispered to myself in a muttering +voice--"The sound is the same as that which I heard in my dream. It is +the knell of my father which I hear."[42] + +The rain had ceased; there was no more thunder and lightning; the wind +had paused. My heart no longer beat wildly; I did not feel any fever: +but I was chilled; my knees sunk under me--I almost slept as I walked +with excess of weariness; every limb trembled. I was silent: all was +silent except the roaring of the sea which became louder and more +dreadful. Yet we advanced slowly: sometimes I thought that we should +never arrive; that the sound of waves would still allure us, and that +we should walk on for ever and ever: field succeeding field, never +would our weary journey cease, nor night nor day; but still we should +hear the dashing of the sea, and to all this there would be no end. +Wild beyond the imagination of the happy are the thoughts bred by +misery and despair. + +At length we reached the overhanging beach; a cottage stood beside the +path; we knocked at the door and it was opened: the bed within +instantly caught my eye; something stiff and straight lay on it, +covered by a sheet; the cottagers looked aghast. The first words that +they uttered confirmed what I before knew. I did not feel shocked or +overcome: I believe that I asked one or two questions and listened to +the answers. I har[d]ly know, but in a few moments I sank lifeless to +the ground; and so would that then all had been at an end! + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +I was carried to the next town: fever succeeded to convulsions and +faintings, & for some weeks my unhappy spirit hovered on the very +verge of death. But life was yet strong within me; I recovered: nor +did it a little aid my returning health that my recollections were at +first vague, and that I was too weak to feel any violent emotion. I +often said to myself, my father is dead. He loved me with a guilty +passion, and stung by remorse and despair he killed himself. Why is it +that I feel no horror? Are these circumstances not dreadful? Is it not +enough that I shall never more meet the eyes of my beloved father; +never more hear his voice; no caress, no look? All cold, and stiff, +and dead! Alas! I am quite callous: the night I was out in was fearful +and the cold rain that fell about my heart has acted like the waters +of the cavern of Antiparos[43] and has changed it to stone. I do not +weep or sigh; but I must reason with myself, and force myself to feel +sorrow and despair. This is not resignation that I feel, for I am dead +to all regret. + +I communed in this manner with myself, but I was silent to all around +me. I hardly replied to the slightest question, and was uneasy when I +saw a human creature near me. I was surrounded by my female relations, +but they were all of them nearly strangers to me: I did not listen to +their consolations; and so little did they work their designed effect +that they seemed to me to be spoken in an unknown tongue. I found if +sorrow was dead within me, so was love and desire of sympathy. Yet +sorrow only slept to revive more fierce, but love never woke +again--its ghost, ever hovering over my father's grave, alone +survived--since his death all the world was to me a blank except where +woe had stampt its burning words telling me to smile no more--the +living were not fit companions for me, and I was ever meditating by +what means I might shake them all off, and never be heard of again. + +My convalescence rapidly advanced, yet this was the thought that +haunted me, and I was for ever forming plans how I might hereafter +contrive to escape the tortures that were prepared for me when I +should mix in society, and to find that solitude which alone could +suit one whom an untold grief seperated from her fellow creatures. +Who can be more solitary even in a crowd than one whose history and +the never ending feelings and remembrances arising from it is [_sic_] +known to no living soul. There was too deep a horror in my tale for +confidence; I was on earth the sole depository of my own secret. I +might tell it to the winds and to the desart heaths but I must never +among my fellow creatures, either by word or look give allowance to +the smallest conjecture of the dread reality: I must shrink before the +eye of man lest he should read my father's guilt in my glazed eyes: I +must be silent lest my faltering voice should betray unimagined +horrors. Over the deep grave of my secret I must heap an impenetrable +heap of false smiles and words: cunning frauds, treacherous laughter +and a mixture of all light deceits would form a mist to blind others +and be as the poisonous simoon to me.[44] I, the offspring of love, +the child of the woods, the nursling of Nature's bright self was to +submit to this? I dared not. + +How must I escape? I was rich and young, and had a guardian appointed +for me; and all about me would act as if I were one of their great +society, while I must keep the secret that I really was cut off from +them for ever. If I fled I should be pursued; in life there was no +escape for me: why then I must die. I shuddered; I dared not die even +though the cold grave held all I loved; although I might say with Job + + Where is now my hope? For my hope who shall see it? + + They shall go down together to the bars of the pit, when our + rest together is in the dust--[45] + +Yes my hope was corruption and dust and all to which death brings +us.--Or after life--No, no, I will not persuade myself to die, I may +not, dare not. And then I wept; yes, warm tears once more struggled +into my eyes soothing yet bitter; and after I had wept much and called +with unavailing anguish, with outstretched arms, for my cruel father; +after my weak frame was exhausted by all variety of plaint I sank once +more into reverie, and once more reflected on how I might find that +which I most desired; dear to me if aught were dear, a death-like +solitude. + +I dared not die, but I might feign death, and thus escape from my +comforters: they will believe me united to my father, and so indeed I +shall be. For alone, when no voice can disturb my dream, and no cold +eye meet mine to check its fire, then I may commune with his spirit; +on a lone heath, at noon or at midnight, still I should be near him. +His last injunction to me was that I should be happy; perhaps he did +not mean the shadowy happiness that I promised myself, yet it was that +alone which I could taste. He did not conceive that ever [qu. +_never_?] again I could make one of the smiling hunters that go +coursing after bubles that break to nothing when caught, and then +after a new one with brighter colours; my hope also had proved a +buble, but it had been so lovely, so adorned that I saw none that +could attract me after it; besides I was wearied with the pursuit, +nearly dead with weariness. + +I would feign to die; my contented heirs would seize upon my wealth, +and I should purchase freedom. But then my plan must be laid with art; +I would not be left destitute, I must secure some money. Alas! to what +loathsome shifts must I be driven? Yet a whole life of falsehood was +otherwise my portion: and when remorse at being the contriver of any +cheat made me shrink from my design I was irresistably led back and +confirmed in it by the visit of some aunt or cousin, who would tell me +that death was the end of all men. And then say that my father had +surely lost his wits ever since my mother's death; that he was mad and +that I was fortunate, for in one of his fits he might have killed me +instead of destroying his own crazed being. And all this, to be sure, +was delicately put; not in broad words for my feelings might be hurt +but + + Whispered so and so + In dark hint soft and low[E][46] + +with downcast eyes, and sympathizing smiles or whimpers; and I +listened with quiet countenance while every nerve trembled; I that +dared not utter aye or no to all this blasphemy. Oh, this was a +delicious life quite void of guile! I with my dove's look and fox's +heart: for indeed I felt only the degradation of falsehood, and not +any sacred sentiment of conscious innocence that might redeem it. I +who had before clothed myself in the bright garb of sincerity must now +borrow one of divers colours: it might sit awkwardly at first, but use +would enable me to place it in elegant folds, to lie with grace. Aye, +I might die my soul with falsehood untill I had quite hid its native +colour. Oh, beloved father! Accept the pure heart of your unhappy +daughter; permit me to join you unspotted as I was or you will not +recognize my altered semblance. As grief might change Constance[47] so +would deceit change me untill in heaven you would say, "This is not my +child"--My father, to be happy both now and when again we meet I must +fly from all this life which is mockery to one like me. In solitude +only shall I be myself; in solitude I shall be thine. + +Alas! I even now look back with disgust at my artifices and +contrivances by which, after many painful struggles, I effected my +retreat. I might enter into a long detail of the means I used, first +to secure myself a slight maintenance for the remainder of my life, +and afterwards to ensure the conviction of my death: I might, but I +will not. I even now blush at the falsehoods I uttered; my heart +sickens: I will leave this complication of what I hope I may in a +manner call innocent deceit to be imagined by the reader. The +remembrance haunts me like a crime--I know that if I were to endeavour +to relate it my tale would at length remain unfinished.[48] I was led +to London, and had to endure for some weeks cold looks, cold words and +colder consolations: but I escaped; they tried to bind me with fetters +that they thought silken, yet which weighed on me like iron, although +I broke them more easily than a girth formed of a single straw and +fled to freedom. + +The few weeks that I spent in London were the most miserable of my +life: a great city is a frightful habitation to one sorrowing. The +sunset and the gentle moon, the blessed motion of the leaves and the +murmuring of waters are all sweet physicians to a distempered mind. +The soul is expanded and drinks in quiet, a lulling medecine--to me it +was as the sight of the lovely water snakes to the bewitched +mariner--in loving and blessing Nature I unawares, called down a +blessing on my own soul. But in a city all is closed shut like a +prison, a wiry prison from which you can peep at the sky only. I can +not describe to you what were [_sic_] the frantic nature of my +sensations while I resided there; I was often on the verge of madness. +Nay, when I look back on many of my wild thoughts, thoughts with which +actions sometimes endeavoured to keep pace; when I tossed my hands +high calling down the cope of heaven to fall on me and bury me; when I +tore my hair and throwing it to the winds cried, "Ye are free, go seek +my father!" And then, like the unfortunate Constance, catching at +them again and tying them up, that nought might find him if I might +not. How, on my knees I have fancied myself close to my father's grave +and struck the ground in anger that it should cover him from me. Oft +when I have listened with gasping attention for the sound of the ocean +mingled with my father's groans; and then wept untill my strength was +gone and I was calm and faint, when I have recollected all this I have +asked myself if this were not madness. While in London these and many +other dreadful thoughts too harrowing for words were my portion: I +lost all this suffering when I was free; when I saw the wild heath +around me, and the evening star in the west, then I could weep, gently +weep, and be at peace. + +Do not mistake me; I never was really mad. I was always conscious of +my state when my wild thoughts seemed to drive me to insanity, and +never betrayed them to aught but silence and solitude. The people +around me saw nothing of all this. They only saw a poor girl broken in +spirit, who spoke in a low and gentle voice, and from underneath whose +downcast lids tears would sometimes steal which she strove to hide. +One who loved to be alone, and shrunk from observation; who never +smiled; oh, no! I never smiled--and that was all. + +Well, I escaped. I left my guardian's house and I was never heard of +again; it was believed from the letters that I left and other +circumstances that I planned that I had destroyed myself. I was sought +after therefore with less care than would otherwise have been the +case; and soon all trace and memory of me was lost. I left London in a +small vessel bound for a port in the north of England. And now having +succeeded in my attempt, and being quite alone peace returned to me. +The sea was calm and the vessel moved gently onwards, I sat upon deck +under the open canopy of heaven and methought I was an altered +creature. Not the wild, raving & most miserable Mathilda but a +youthful Hermitess dedicated to seclusion and whose bosom she must +strive to keep free from all tumult and unholy despair--The fanciful +nunlike dress that I had adopted;[49] the knowledge that my very +existence was a secret known only to myself; the solitude to which I +was for ever hereafter destined nursed gentle thoughts in my wounded +heart. The breeze that played in my hair revived me, and I watched +with quiet eyes the sunbeams that glittered on the waves, and the +birds that coursed each other over the waters just brushing them with +their plumes. I slept too undisturbed by dreams; and awoke refreshed +to again enjoy my tranquil freedom. + +In four days we arrived at the harbour to which we were bound. I would +not remain on the sea coast, but proceeded immediately inland. I had +already planned the situation where I would live. It should be a +solitary house on a wide plain near no other habitation: where I could +behold the whole horizon, and wander far without molestation from the +sight of my fellow creatures. I was not mysanthropic, but I felt that +the gentle current of my feelings depended upon my being alone. I +fixed myself on a wide solitude. On a dreary heath bestrewen with +stones, among which short grass grew; and here and there a few rushes +beside a little pool. Not far from my cottage was a small cluster of +pines the only trees to be seen for many miles: I had a path cut +through the furze from my door to this little wood, from whose topmost +branches the birds saluted the rising sun and awoke me to my daily +meditation. My view was bounded only by the horizon except on one side +where a distant wood made a black spot on the heath, that every where +else stretched out its faint hues as far as the eye could reach, wide +and very desolate. Here I could mark the net work of the clouds as +they wove themselves into thick masses: I could watch the slow rise of +the heavy thunder clouds and could see the rack as it was driven +across the heavens, or under the pine trees I could enjoy the +stillness of the azure sky. + +My life was very peaceful. I had one female servant who spent the +greater part of the day at a village two miles off. My amusements were +simple and very innocent; I fed the birds who built on the pines or +among the ivy that covered the wall of my little garden, and they soon +knew me: the bolder ones pecked the crumbs from my hands and perched +on my fingers to sing their thankfulness. When I had lived here some +time other animals visited me and a fox came every day for a portion +of food appropriated for him & would suffer me to pat his head. I had +besides many books and a harp with which when despairing I could +soothe my spirits, and raise myself to sympathy and love. + +Love! What had I to love? Oh many things: there was the moonshine, and +the bright stars; the breezes and the refreshing rains; there was the +whole earth and the sky that covers it: all lovely forms that visited +my imagination[,] all memories of heroism and virtue. Yet this was +very unlike my early life although as then I was confined to Nature +and books. Then I bounded across the fields; my spirit often seemed to +ride upon the winds, and to mingle in joyful sympathy with the ambient +air. Then if I wandered slowly I cheered myself with a sweet song or +sweeter day dreams. I felt a holy rapture spring from all I saw. I +drank in joy with life; my steps were light; my eyes, clear from the +love that animated them, sought the heavens, and with my long hair +loosened to the winds I gave my body and my mind to sympathy and +delight. But now my walk was slow--My eyes were seldom raised and +often filled with tears; no song; no smiles; no careless motion that +might bespeak a mind intent on what surrounded it--I was gathered up +into myself--a selfish solitary creature ever pondering on my regrets +and faded hopes. + +Mine was an idle, useless life; it was so; but say not to the lily +laid prostrate by the storm arise, and bloom as before. My heart was +bleeding from its death's wound; I could live no otherwise--Often amid +apparent calm I was visited by despair and melancholy; gloom that +nought could dissipate or overcome; a hatred of life; a carelessness +of beauty; all these would by fits hold me nearly annihilated by their +powers. Never for one moment when most placid did I cease to pray for +death. I could be found in no state of mind which I would not +willingly have exchanged for nothingness. And morning and evening my +tearful eyes raised to heaven, my hands clasped tight in the energy of +prayer, I have repeated with the poet-- + + Before I see another day + Oh, let this body die away! + +Let me not be reproached then with inutility; I believed that by +suicide I should violate a divine law of nature, and I thought that I +sufficiently fulfilled my part in submitting to the hard task of +enduring the crawling hours & minutes[50]--in bearing the load of time +that weighed miserably upon me and that in abstaining from what I in +my calm moments considered a crime, I deserved the reward of virtue. +There were periods, dreadful ones, during which I despaired--& doubted +the existence of all duty & the reality of crime--but I shudder, and +turn from the rememberance. + + +[E] Coleridge's Fire, Famine and Slaughter. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Thus I passed two years. Day after day so many hundreds wore on; they +brought no outward changes with them, but some few slowly operated on +my mind as I glided on towards death. I began to study more; to +sympathize more in the thoughts of others as expressed in books; to +read history, and to lose my individuallity among the crowd that had +existed before me. Thus perhaps as the sensation of immediate +suffering wore off, I became more human. Solitude also lost to me some +of its charms: I began again to wish for sympathy; not that I was ever +tempted to seek the crowd, but I wished for one friend to love me. You +will say perhaps that I gradually became fitted to return to society. +I do not think so. For the sympathy that I desired must be so pure, so +divested of influence from outward circumstances that in the world I +could not fail of being balked by the gross materials that perpetually +mingle even with its best feelings. Believe me, I was then less fitted +for any communion with my fellow creatures than before. When I left +them they had tormented me but it was in the same way as pain and +sickness may torment; somthing extraneous to the mind that galled it, +and that I wished to cast aside. But now I should have desired +sympathy; I should wish to knit my soul to some one of theirs, and +should have prepared for myself plentiful draughts of disappointment +and suffering; for I was tender as the sensitive plant, all nerve. I +did not desire sympathy and aid in ambition or wisdom, but sweet and +mutual affection; smiles to cheer me and gentle words of comfort. I +wished for one heart in which I could pour unrestrained my plaints, +and by the heavenly nature of the soil blessed fruit might spring from +such bad seed. Yet how could I find this? The love that is the soul of +friendship is a soft spirit seldom found except when two amiable +creatures are knit from early youth, or when bound by mutual suffering +and pursuits; it comes to some of the elect unsought and unaware; it +descends as gentle dew on chosen spots which however barren they were +before become under its benign influence fertile in all sweet plants; +but when desired it flies; it scoffs at the prayers of its votaries; +it will bestow, but not be sought. + +I knew all this and did not go to seek sympathy; but there on my +solitary heath, under my lowly roof where all around was desart, it +came to me as a sun beam in winter to adorn while it helps to dissolve +the drifted snow.--Alas the sun shone on blighted fruit; I did not +revive under its radiance for I was too utterly undone to feel its +kindly power. My father had been and his memory was the life of my +life. I might feel gratitude to another but I never more could love or +hope as I had done; it was all suffering; even my pleasures were +endured, not enjoyed. I was as a solitary spot among mountains shut in +on all sides by steep black precipices; where no ray of heat could +penetrate; and from which there was no outlet to sunnier fields. And +thus it was that although the spirit of friendship soothed me for a +while it could not restore me. It came as some gentle visitation; it +went and I hardly felt the loss. The spirit of existence was dead +within me; be not surprised therefore that when it came I welcomed not +more gladly, or when it departed I lamented not more bitterly the best +gift of heaven--a friend. + +The name of my friend was Woodville.[51] I will briefly relate his +history that you may judge how cold my heart must have been not to be +warmed by his eloquent words and tender sympathy; and how he also +being most unhappy we were well fitted to be a mutual consolation to +each other, if I had not been hardened to stone by the Medusa head of +Misery. The misfortunes of Woodville were not of the hearts core like +mine; his was a natural grief, not to destroy but to purify the heart +and from which he might, when its shadow had passed from over him, +shine forth brighter and happier than before. + +Woodville was the son of a poor clergyman and had received a classical +education. He was one of those very few whom fortune favours from +their birth; on whom she bestows all gifts of intellect and person +with a profusion that knew no bounds, and whom under her peculiar +protection, no imperfection however slight, or disappointment however +transitory has leave to touch. She seemed to have formed his mind of +that excellence which no dross can tarnish, and his understanding was +such that no error could pervert. His genius was transcendant, and +when it rose as a bright star in the east all eyes were turned towards +it in admiration. He was a Poet. That name has so often been degraded +that it will not convey the idea of all that he was. He was like a +poet of old whom the muses had crowned in his cradle, and on whose +lips bees had fed. As he walked among other men he seemed encompassed +with a heavenly halo that divided him from and lifted him above them. +It was his surpassing beauty, the dazzling fire of his eyes, and his +words whose rich accents wrapt the listener in mute and extactic +wonder, that made him transcend all others so that before him they +appeared only formed to minister to his superior excellence. + +He was glorious from his youth. Every one loved him; no shadow of envy +or hate cast even from the meanest mind ever fell upon him. He was, as +one the peculiar delight of the Gods, railed and fenced in by his own +divinity, so that nought but love and admiration could approach him. +His heart was simple like a child, unstained by arrogance or vanity. +He mingled in society unknowing of his superiority over his +companions, not because he undervalued himself but because he did not +perceive the inferiority of others. He seemed incapable of conceiving +of the full extent of the power that selfishness & vice possesses in +the world: when I knew him, although he had suffered disappointment in +his dearest hopes, he had not experienced any that arose from the +meaness and self love of men: his station was too high to allow of his +suffering through their hardheartedness; and too low for him to have +experienced ingratitude and encroaching selfishness: it is one of the +blessings of a moderate fortune, that by preventing the possessor from +confering pecuniary favours it prevents him also from diving into the +arcana of human weakness or malice--To bestow on your fellow men is a +Godlike attribute--So indeed it is and as such not one fit for +mortality;--the giver like Adam and Prometheus, must pay the penalty +of rising above his nature by being the martyr to his own excellence. +Woodville was free from all these evils; and if slight examples did +come across him[52] he did not notice them but passed on in his course +as an angel with winged feet might glide along the earth unimpeded by +all those little obstacles over which we of earthly origin stumble. He +was a believer in the divinity of genius and always opposed a stern +disbelief to the objections of those petty cavillers and minor critics +who wish to reduce all men to their own miserable level--"I will make +a scientific simile" he would say, "[i]n the manner, if you will, of +Dr. Darwin--I consider the alledged errors of a man of genius as the +aberrations of the fixed stars. It is our distance from them and our +imperfect means of communication that makes them appear to move; in +truth they always remain stationary, a glorious centre, giving us a +fine lesson of modesty if we would thus receive it."[53] + +I have said that he was a poet: when he was three and twenty years of +age he first published a poem, and it was hailed by the whole nation +with enthusiasm and delight. His good star perpetually shone upon him; +a reputation had never before been made so rapidly: it was universal. +The multitude extolled the same poems that formed the wonder of the +sage in his closet: there was not one dissentient voice.[54] + +It was at this time, in the height of his glory, that he became +acquainted with Elinor. She was a young heiress of exquisite beauty +who lived under the care of her guardian: from the moment they were +seen together they appeared formed for each other. Elinor had not the +genius of Woodville but she was generous and noble, and exalted by her +youth and the love that she every where excited above the knowledge of +aught but virtue and excellence. She was lovely; her manners were +frank and simple; her deep blue eyes swam in a lustre which could only +be given by sensibility joined to wisdom. + +They were formed for one another and they soon loved. Woodville for +the first time felt the delight of love; and Elinor was enraptured in +possessing the heart of one so beautiful and glorious among his fellow +men. Could any thing but unmixed joy flow from such a union? + +Woodville was a Poet--he was sought for by every society and all eyes +were turned on him alone when he appeared; but he was the son of a +poor clergyman and Elinor was a rich heiress. Her guardian was not +displeased with their mutual affection: the merit of Woodville was too +eminent to admit of cavil on account of his inferior wealth; but the +dying will of her father did not allow her to marry before she was of +age and her fortune depended upon her obeying this injunction. She had +just entered her twentieth year, and she and her lover were obliged to +submit to this delay. But they were ever together and their happiness +seemed that of Paradise: they studied together: formed plans of future +occupations, and drinking in love and joy from each other's eyes and +words they hardly repined at the delay to their entire union. +Woodville for ever rose in glory; and Elinor become more lovely and +wise under the lessons of her accomplished lover. + +In two months Elinor would be twenty one: every thing was prepared for +their union. How shall I relate the catastrophe to so much joy; but +the earth would not be the earth it is covered with blight and sorrow +if one such pair as these angelic creatures had been suffered to exist +for one another: search through the world and you will not find the +perfect happiness which their marriage would have caused them to +enjoy; there must have been a revolution in the order of things as +established among us miserable earth-dwellers to have admitted of such +consummate joy. The chain of necessity ever bringing misery must have +been broken and the malignant fate that presides over it would not +permit this breach of her eternal laws. But why should I repine at +this? Misery was my element, and nothing but what was miserable could +approach me; if Woodville had been happy I should never have known +him. And can I who for many years was fed by tears, and nourished +under the dew of grief, can I pause to relate a tale of woe and +death?[55] + +Woodville was obliged to make a journey into the country and was +detained from day to day in irksome absence from his lovely bride. He +received a letter from her to say that she was slightly ill, but +telling him to hasten to her, that from his eyes she would receive +health and that his company would be her surest medecine. He was +detained three days longer and then he hastened to her. His heart, he +knew not why prognosticated misfortune; he had not heard from her +again; he feared she might be worse and this fear made him impatient +and restless for the moment of beholding her once more stand before +him arrayed in health and beauty; for a sinister voice seemed always +to whisper to him, "You will never more behold her as she was." + +When he arrived at her habitation all was silent in it: he made his +way through several rooms; in one he saw a servant weeping bitterly: +he was faint with fear and could hardly ask, "Is she dead?" and just +listened to the dreadful answer, "Not yet." These astounding words +came on him as of less fearful import than those which he had +expected; and to learn that she was still in being, and that he might +still hope was an alleviation to him. He remembered the words of her +letter and he indulged the wild idea that his kisses breathing warm +love and life would infuse new spirit into her, and that with him near +her she could not die; that his presence was the talisman of her life. + +He hastened to her sick room; she lay, her cheeks burning with fever, +yet her eyes were closed and she was seemingly senseless. He wrapt her +in his arms; he imprinted breathless kisses on her burning lips; he +called to her in a voice of subdued anguish by the tenderest names; +"Return Elinor; I am with you; your life, your love. Return; dearest +one, you promised me this boon, that I should bring you health. Let +your sweet spirit revive; you cannot die near me: What is death? To +see you no more? To part with what is a part of myself; without whom I +have no memory and no futurity? Elinor die! This is frenzy and the +most miserable despair: you cannot die while I am near." + +And again he kissed her eyes and lips, and hung over her inanimate +form in agony, gazing on her countenance still lovely although +changed, watching every slight convulsion, and varying colour which +denoted life still lingering although about to depart. Once for a +moment she revived and recognized his voice; a smile, a last lovely +smile, played upon her lips. He watched beside her for twelve hours +and then she died.[56] + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +It was six months after this miserable conclusion to his long nursed +hopes that I first saw him. He had retired to a part of the country +where he was not known that he might peacefully indulge his grief. All +the world, by the death of his beloved Elinor, was changed to him, and +he could no longer remain in any spot where he had seen her or where +her image mingled with the most rapturous hopes had brightened all +around with a light of joy which would now be transformed to a +darkness blacker than midnight since she, the sun of his life, was set +for ever. + +He lived for some time never looking on the light of heaven but +shrouding his eyes in a perpetual darkness far from all that could +remind him of what he had been; but as time softened his grief[57] +like a true child of Nature he sought in the enjoyment of her beauties +for a consolation in his unhappiness. He came to a part of the country +where he was entirely unknown and where in the deepest solitude he +could converse only with his own heart. He found a relief to his +impatient grief in the breezes of heaven and in the sound of waters +and woods. He became fond of riding; this exercise distracted his mind +and elevated his spirits; on a swift horse he could for a moment gain +respite from the image that else for ever followed him; Elinor on her +death bed, her sweet features changed, and the soft spirit that +animated her gradually waning into extinction. For many months +Woodville had in vain endeavoured to cast off this terrible +remembrance; it still hung on him untill memory was too great a +burthen for his loaded soul, but when on horseback the spell that +seemingly held him to this idea was snapt; then if he thought of his +lost bride he pictured her radiant in beauty; he could hear her voice, +and fancy her "a sylvan Huntress by his side," while his eyes +brightened as he thought he gazed on her cherished form. I had several +times seen him ride across the heath and felt angry that my solitude +should be disturbed. It was so long [since] I had spoken to any but +peasants that I felt a disagreable sensation at being gazed on by one +of superior rank. I feared also that it might be some one who had seen +me before: I might be recognized, my impostures discovered and I +dragged back to a life of worse torture than that I had before +endured. These were dreadful fears and they even haunted my +dreams.[58] + +I was one day seated on the verge of the clump of pines when Woodville +rode past. As soon as I perceived him I suddenly rose to escape from +his observation by entering among the trees. My rising startled his +horse; he reared and plunged and the Rider was at length thrown. The +horse then galopped swiftly across the heath and the stranger remained +on the ground stunned by his fall. He was not materially hurt, a +little fresh water soon recovered him. I was struck by his exceeding +beauty, and as he spoke to thank me the sweet but melancholy cadence +of his voice brought tears into my eyes. + +A short conversation passed between us, but the next day he again +stopped at my cottage and by degrees an intimacy grew between us. It +was strange to him to see a female in extreme youth, I was not yet +twenty, evidently belonging to the first classes of society & +possessing every accomplishment an excellent education could bestow, +living alone on a desolate health [_sic_]--One on whose forehead the +impress of grief was strongly marked, and whose words and motions +betrayed that her thoughts did not follow them but were intent on far +other ideas; bitter and overwhelming miseries. I was dressed also in a +whimsical nunlike habit which denoted that I did not retire to +solitude from necessity, but that I might indulge in a luxury of +grief, and fanciful seclusion. + +He soon took great interest in me, and sometimes forgot his own grief +to sit beside me and endeavour to cheer me. He could not fail to +interest even one who had shut herself from the whole world, whose +hope was death, and who lived only with the departed. His personal +beauty; his conversation which glowed with imagination and +sensibility; the poetry that seemed to hang upon his lips and to make +the very air mute to listen to him were charms that no one could +resist. He was younger, less worn, more passionless than my father and +in no degree reminded me of him: he suffered under immediate grief yet +its gentle influence instead of calling feelings otherwise dormant +into action, seemed only to veil that which otherwise would have been +too dazzling for me. When we were together I spoke little yet my +selfish mind was sometimes borne away by the rapid course of his +ideas; I would lift my eyes with momentary brilliancy until memories +that never died and seldom slept would recur, and a tear would dim +them. + +Woodville for ever tried to lead me to the contemplation of what is +beautiful and happy in the world.[59] His own mind was constitunially +[_sic_] bent to a former belief in good [rather] than in evil and this +feeling which must even exhilirate the hopeless ever shone forth in +his words. He would talk of the wonderful powers of man, of their +present state and of their hopes: of what they had been and what they +were, and when reason could no longer guide him, his imagination as if +inspired shed light on the obscurity that veils the past and the +future. He loved to dwell on what might have been the state of the +earth before man lived on it, and how he first arose and gradually +became the strange, complicated, but as he said, the glorious creature +he now is. Covering the earth with their creations and forming by the +power of their minds another world more lovely than the visible frame +of things, even all the world that we find in their writings. A +beautiful creation, he would say, which may claim this superiority to +its model, that good and evil is more easily seperated[:] the good +rewarded in the way they themselves desire; the evil punished as all +things evil ought to be punished, not by pain which is revolting to +all philanthropy to consider but by quiet obscurity, which simply +deprives them of their harmful qualities; why kill the serpent when +you have extracted his fangs? + +The poetry of his language and ideas which my words ill convey held me +enchained to his discourses. It was a melancholy pleasure to me to +listen to his inspired words; to catch for a moment the light of his +eyes[;] to feel a transient sympathy and then to awaken from the +delusion, again to know that all this was nothing,--a dream--a shadow +for that there was no reallity for me; my father had for ever deserted +me, leaving me only memories which set an eternal barrier between me +and my fellow creatures. I was indeed fellow to none. He--Woodville, +mourned the loss of his bride: others wept the various forms of misery +as they visited them: but infamy and guilt was mingled with my +portion; unlawful and detestable passion had poured its poison into my +ears and changed all my blood, so that it was no longer the kindly +stream that supports life but a cold fountain of bitterness corrupted +in its very source.[60] It must be the excess of madness that could +make me imagine that I could ever be aught but one alone; struck off +from humanity; bearing no affinity to man or woman; a wretch on whom +Nature had set her ban. + +Sometimes Woodville talked to me of himself. He related his history +brief in happiness and woe and dwelt with passion on his and Elinor's +mutual love. "She was["], he said, "the brightest vision that ever +came upon the earth: there was somthing in her frank countenance, in +her voice, and in every motion of her graceful form that overpowered +me, as if it were a celestial creature that deigned to mingle with me +in intercourse more sweet than man had ever before enjoyed. Sorrow +fled before her; and her smile seemed to possess an influence like +light to irradiate all mental darkness. It was not like a human +loveliness that these gentle smiles went and came; but as a sunbeam on +a lake, now light and now obscure, flitting before as you strove to +catch them, and fold them for ever to your heart. I saw this smile +fade for ever. Alas! I could never have believed that it was indeed +Elinor that died if once when I spoke she had not lifted her almost +benighted eyes, and for one moment like nought beside on earth, more +lovely than a sunbeam, slighter, quicker than the waving plumage of a +bird, dazzling as lightning and like it giving day to night, yet mild +and faint, that smile came; it went, and then there was an end of all +joy to me." + +Thus his own sorrows, or the shapes copied from nature that dwelt in +his mind with beauty greater than their own, occupied our talk while I +railed in my own griefs with cautious secresy. If for a moment he +shewed curiosity, my eyes fell, my voice died away and my evident +suffering made him quickly endeavour to banish the ideas he had +awakened; yet he for ever mingled consolation in his talk, and tried +to soften my despair by demonstrations of deep sympathy and +compassion. "We are both unhappy--" he would say to me; "I have told +you my melancholy tale and we have wept together the loss of that +lovely spirit that has so cruelly deserted me; but you hide your +griefs: I do not ask you to disclose them, but tell me if I may not +console you. It seems to me a wild adventure to find in this desart +one like you quite solitary: you are young and lovely; your manners +are refined and attractive; yet there is in your settled melancholy, +and something, I know not what, in your expressive eyes that seems to +seperate you from your kind: you shudder; pardon me, I entreat you +but I cannot help expressing this once at least the lively interest I +feel in your destiny. + +"You never smile: your voice is low, and you utter your words as if +you were afraid of the slight sound they would produce: the expression +of awful and intense sorrow never for a moment fades from your +countenance. I have lost for ever the loveliest companion that any man +could ever have possessed, one who rather appears to have been a +superior spirit who by some strange accident wandered among us earthly +creatures, than as belonging to our kind. Yet I smile, and sometimes I +speak almost forgetful of the change I have endured. But your sad mien +never alters; your pulses beat and you breathe, yet you seem already +to belong to another world; and sometimes, pray pardon my wild +thoughts, when you touch my hand I am surprised to find your hand warm +when all the fire of life seems extinct within you. + +"When I look upon you, the tears you shed, the soft deprecating look +with which you withstand enquiry; the deep sympathy your voice +expresses when I speak of my lesser sorrows add to my interest for +you. You stand here shelterless[.] You have cast yourself from among +us and you wither on this wild plain fo[r]lorn and helpless: some +dreadful calamity must have befallen you. Do not turn from me; I do +not ask you to reveal it: I only entreat you to listen to me and to +become familiar with the voice of consolation and kindness. If pity, +and admiration, and gentle affection can wean you from despair let me +attempt the task. I cannot see your look of deep grief without +endeavouring to restore you to happier feelings. Unbend your brow; +relax the stern melancholy of your regard; permit a friend, a sincere, +affectionate friend, I will be one, to convey some relief, some +momentary pause to your sufferings. + +"Do not think that I would intrude upon your confidence: I only ask +your patience. Do not for ever look sorrow and never speak it; utter +one word of bitter complaint and I will reprove it with gentle +exhortation and pour on you the balm of compassion. You must not shut +me from all communion with you: do not tell me why you grieve but only +say the words, "I am unhappy," and you will feel relieved as if for +some time excluded from all intercourse by some magic spell you should +suddenly enter again the pale of human sympathy. I entreat you to +believe in my most sincere professions and to treat me as an old and +tried friend: promise me never to forget me, never causelessly to +banish me; but try to love me as one who would devote all his energies +to make you happy. Give me the name of friend; I will fulfill its +duties; and if for a moment complaint and sorrow would shape +themselves into words let me be near to speak peace to your vext +soul." + +I repeat his persuasions in faint terms and cannot give you at the +same time the tone and gesture that animated them. Like a refreshing +shower on an arid soil they revived me, and although I still kept +their cause secret he led me to pour forth my bitter complaints and to +clothe my woe in words of gall and fire. With all the energy of +desperate grief I told him how I had fallen at once from bliss to +misery; how that for me there was no joy, no hope; that death however +bitter would be the welcome seal to all my pangs; death the skeleton +was to be beautiful as love. I know not why but I found it sweet to +utter these words to human ears; and though I derided all consolation +yet I was pleased to see it offered me with gentleness and kindness. I +listened quietly, and when he paused would again pour out my misery in +expressions that shewed how far too deep my wounds were for any cure. + +But now also I began to reap the fruits of my perfect solitude. I had +become unfit for any intercourse, even with Woodville the most gentle +and sympathizing creature that existed. I had become captious and +unreasonable: my temper was utterly spoilt. I called him my friend but +I viewed all he did with jealous eyes. If he did not visit me at the +appointed hour I was angry, very angry, and told him that if indeed he +did feel interest in me it was cold, and could not be fitted for me, a +poor worn creature, whose deep unhappiness demanded much more than his +worldly heart could give. When for a moment I imagined that his manner +was cold I would fretfully say to him--"I was at peace before you +came; why have you disturbed me? You have given me new wants and now +your trifle with me as if my heart were as whole as yours, as if I +were not in truth a shorn lamb thrust out on the bleak hill side, +tortured by every blast. I wished for no friend, no sympathy[.] I +avoided you, you know I did, but you forced yourself upon me and gave +me those wants which you see with triump[h] give you power over me. Oh +the brave power of the bitter north wind which freezes the tears it +has caused to shed! But I will not bear this; go: the sun will rise +and set as before you came, and I shall sit among the pines or wander +on the heath weeping and complaining without wishing for you to +listen. You are cruel, very cruel, to treat me who bleed at every pore +in this rough manner."[61] + +And then, when in answer to my peevish words, I saw his countenance +bent with living pity on me[,] when I saw him + + Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante + Che madre fa sopra figlioul deliro P[a]radiso. C 1.[62] + +I wept and said, "Oh, pardon me! You are good and kind but I am not +fit for life. Why am I obliged to live? To drag hour after hour, to +see the trees wave their branches restlessly, to feel the air, & to +suffer in all I feel keenest agony. My frame is strong, but my soul +sinks beneath this endurance of living anguish. Death is the goal that +I would attain, but, alas! I do not even see the end of the course. Do +you, my compassionate friend,[63] tell me how to die peacefully and +innocently and I will bless you: all that I, poor wretch, can desire +is a painless death." + +But Woodville's words had magic in them, when beginning with the +sweetest pity, he would raise me by degrees out of myself and my +sorrows until I wondered at my own selfishness: but he left me and +despair returned; the work of consolation was ever to begin anew. I +often desired his entire absence; for I found that I was grown out of +the ways of life and that by long seclusion, although I could support +my accustomed grief, and drink the bitter daily draught with some +degree of patience, yet I had become unfit for the slightest novelty +of feeling. Expectation, and hopes, and affection were all too much +for me. I knew this, but at other times I was unreasonable and laid +the blame upon him, who was most blameless, and pevishly thought that +if his gentle soul were more gentle, if his intense sympathy were more +intense, he could drive the fiend from my soul and make me more human. +I am, I thought, a tragedy; a character that he comes to see act: now +and then he gives me my cue[64] that I may make a speech more to his +purpose: perhaps he is already planning a poem in which I am to +figure. I am a farce and play to him, but to me this is all dreary +reality: he takes all the profit and I bear all the burthen. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It is a strange circumstance but it often occurs that blessings by +their use turn to curses; and that I who in solitude had desired +sympathy as the only relief I could enjoy should now find it an +additional torture to me. During my father's life time I had always +been of an affectionate and forbearing disposition, but since those +days of joy alas! I was much changed. I had become arrogant, peevish, +and above all suspicious. Although the real interest of my narration +is now ended and I ought quickly to wind up its melancholy +catastrophe, yet I will relate one instance of my sad suspicion and +despair and how Woodville with the goodness and almost the power of an +angel, softened my rugged feelings and led me back to gentleness.[65] + +He had promised to spend some hours with me one afternoon but a +violent and continual rain[66] prevented him. I was alone the whole +evening. I had passed two whole years alone unrepining, but now I was +miserable. He could not really care for me, I thought, for if he did +the storm would rather have made him come even if I had not expected +him, than, as it did, prevent a promised visit. He would well know +that this drear sky and gloomy rain would load my spirit almost to +madness: if the weather had been fine I should not have regretted his +absence as heavily as I necessarily must shut up in this miserable +cottage with no companions but my own wretched thoughts. If he were +truly my friend he would have calculated all this; and let me now +calculate this boasted friendship, and discover its real worth. He got +over his grief for Elinor, and the country became dull to him, so he +was glad to find even me for amusement; and when he does not know what +else to do he passes his lazy hours here, and calls this +friendship--It is true that his presence is a consolation to me, and +that his words are sweet, and, when he will he can pour forth thoughts +that win me from despair. His words are sweet,--and so, truly, is the +honey of the bee, but the bee has a sting, and unkindness is a worse +smart that that received from an insect's venom. I will[67] put him to +the proof. He says all hope is dead to him, and I know that it is dead +to me, so we are both equally fitted for death. Let me try if he will +die with me; and as I fear to die alone, if he will accompany [me] to +cheer me, and thus he can shew himself my friend in the only manner my +misery will permit.[68] + +It was madness I believe, but I so worked myself up to this idea that +I could think of nothing else. If he dies with me it is well, and +there will be an end of two miserable beings; and if he will not, then +will I scoff at his friendship and drink the poison before him to +shame his cowardice. I planned the whole scene with an earnest heart +and franticly set my soul on this project. I procured Laudanum and +placing it in two glasses on the table, filled my room with flowers +and decorated the last scene of my tragedy with the nicest care. As +the hour for his coming approached my heart softened and I wept; not +that I gave up my plan, but even when resolved the mind must undergo +several revolutions of feeling before it can drink its death. + +Now all was ready and Woodville came. I received him at the door of my +cottage and leading him solemnly into the room, I said: "My friend, I +wish to die. I am quite weary of enduring the misery which hourly I do +endure, and I will throw it off. What slave will not, if he may, +escape from his chains? Look, I weep: for more than two years I have +never enjoyed one moment free from anguish. I have often desired to +die; but I am a very coward. It is hard for one so young who was once +so happy as I was; [_sic_] voluntarily to divest themselves of all +sensation and to go alone to the dreary grave; I dare not. I must die, +yet my fear chills me; I pause and shudder and then for months I +endure my excess of wretchedness. But now the time is come when I may +quit life, I have a friend who will not refuse to accompany me in this +dark journey; such is my request:[69] earnestly do I entreat and +implore you to die with me. Then we shall find Elinor and what I have +lost. Look, I am prepared; there is the death draught, let us drink it +together and willingly & joyfully quit this hated round of daily +life[.] + +"You turn from me; yet before you deny me reflect, Woodville, how +sweet it were to cast off the load of tears and misery under which we +now labour: and surely we shall find light after we have passed the +dark valley. That drink will plunge us in a sweet slumber, and when we +awaken what joy will be ours to find all our sorrows and fears past. +_A little patience, and all will be over_; aye, a very little +patience; for, look, there is the key of our prison; we hold it in our +own hands, and are we more debased than slaves to cast it away and +give ourselves up to voluntary bondage? Even now if we had courage we +might be free. Behold, my cheek is flushed with pleasure at the +imagination of death; all that we love are dead. Come, give me your +hand, one look of joyous sympathy and we will go together and seek +them; a lulling journey; where our arrival will bring bliss and our +waking be that of angels. Do you delay? Are you a coward, Woodville? +Oh fie! Cast off this blank look of human melancholy. Oh! that I had +words to express the luxury of death that I might win you. I tell you +we are no longer miserable mortals; we are about to become Gods; +spirits free and happy as gods. What fool on a bleak shore, seeing a +flowery isle on the other side with his lost love beckoning to him +from it would pause because the wave is dark and turbid? + + "What if some little payne the passage have + That makes frayle flesh to fear the bitter wave? + Is not short payne well borne that brings long ease, + And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave?[F] + +"Do you mark my words; I have learned the language of despair: I have +it all by heart, for I am Despair; and a strange being am I, joyous, +triumphant Despair. But those words are false, for the wave may be +dark but it is not bitter. We lie down, and close our eyes with a +gentle good night, and when we wake, we are free. Come then, no more +delay, thou tardy one! Behold the pleasant potion! Look, I am a spirit +of good, and not a human maid that invites thee, and with winning +accents, (oh, that they would win thee!) says, Come and drink."[70] + +As I spoke I fixed my eyes upon his countenance, and his exquisite +beauty, the heavenly compassion that beamed from his eyes, his gentle +yet earnest look of deprecation and wonder even before he spoke +wrought a change in my high strained feelings taking from me all the +sterness of despair and filling me only with the softest grief. I saw +his eyes humid also as he took both my hands in his; and sitting down +near me, he said:[71] + +"This is a sad deed to which you would lead me, dearest friend, and +your woe must indeed be deep that could fill you with these unhappy +thoughts. You long for death and yet you fear it and wish me to be +your companion. But I have less courage than you and even thus +accompanied I dare not die. Listen to me, and then reflect if you +ought to win me to your project, even if with the over-bearing +eloquence of despair you could make black death so inviting that the +fair heaven should appear darkness. Listen I entreat you to the words +of one who has himself nurtured desperate thoughts, and longed with +impatient desire for death, but who has at length trampled the phantom +under foot, and crushed his sting. Come, as you have played Despair +with me I will play the part of Una with you and bring you hurtless +from his dark cavern. Listen to me, and let yourself be softened by +words in which no selfish passion lingers. + +"We know not what all this wide world means; its strange mixture of +good and evil. But we have been placed here and bid live and hope. I +know not what we are to hope; but there is some good beyond us that we +must seek; and that is our earthly task. If misfortune come against us +we must fight with her; we must cast her aside, and still go on to +find out that which it is our nature to desire. Whether this prospect +of future good be the preparation for another existence I know not; or +whether that it is merely that we, as workmen in God's vineyard, must +lend a hand to smooth the way for our posterity. If it indeed be that; +if the efforts of the virtuous now, are to make the future inhabitants +of this fair world more happy; if the labours of those who cast aside +selfishness, and try to know the truth of things, are to free the men +of ages, now far distant but which will one day come, from the burthen +under which those who now live groan, and like you weep bitterly; if +they free them but from one of what are now the necessary evils of +life, truly I will not fail but will with my whole soul aid the work. +From my youth I have said, I will be virtuous; I will dedicate my life +for the good of others; I will do my best to extirpate evil and if the +spirit who protects ill should so influence circumstances that I +should suffer through my endeavour, yet while there is hope and hope +there ever must be, of success, cheerfully do I gird myself to my +task. + +"I have powers; my countrymen think well of them. Do you think I sow +my seed in the barren air, & have no end in what I do? Believe me, I +will never desert life untill this last hope is torn from my bosom, +that in some way my labours may form a link in the chain of gold with +which we ought all to strive to drag Happiness from where she sits +enthroned above the clouds, now far beyond our reach, to inhabit the +earth with us. Let us suppose that Socrates, or Shakespear, or +Rousseau had been seized with despair and died in youth when they were +as young as I am; do you think that we and all the world should not +have lost incalculable improvement in our good feelings and our +happiness thro' their destruction. I am not like one of these; they +influenced millions: but if I can influence but a hundred, but ten, +but one solitary individual, so as in any way to lead him from ill to +good, that will be a joy to repay me for all my sufferings, though +they were a million times multiplied; and that hope will support me to +bear them[.] + +"And those who do not work for posterity; or working, as may be my +case, will not be known by it; yet they, believe me, have also their +duties. You grieve because you are unhappy[;] it is happiness you seek +but you despair of obtaining it. But if you can bestow happiness on +another; if you can give one other person only one hour of joy ought +you not to live to do it? And every one has it in their power to do +that. The inhabitants of this world suffer so much pain. In crowded +cities, among cultivated plains, or on the desart mountains, pain is +thickly sown, and if we can tear up but one of these noxious weeds, or +more, if in its stead we can sow one seed of corn, or plant one fair +flower, let that be motive sufficient against suicide. Let us not +desert our task while there is the slightest hope that we may in a +future day do this. + +"Indeed I dare not die. I have a mother whose support and hope I am. I +have a friend who loves me as his life, and in whose breast I should +infix a mortal sting if I ungratefully left him. So I will not die. +Nor shall you, my friend; cheer up; cease to weep, I entreat you. Are +you not young, and fair, and good? Why should you despair? Or if you +must for yourself, why for others? If you can never be happy, can you +never bestow happiness[?] Oh! believe me, if you beheld on lips pale +with grief one smile of joy and gratitude, and knew that you were +parent of that smile, and that without you it had never been, you +would feel so pure and warm a happiness that you would wish to live +for ever again and again to enjoy the same pleasure[.] + +"Come, I see that you have already cast aside the sad thoughts you +before franticly indulged. Look in that mirror; when I came your brow +was contracted, your eyes deep sunk in your head, your lips quivering; +your hands trembled violently when I took them; but now all is +tranquil and soft. You are grieved and there is grief in the +expression of your countenance but it is gentle and sweet. You allow +me to throw away this cursed drink; you smile; oh, Congratulate me, +hope is triumphant, and I have done some good." + +These words are shadowy as I repeat them but they were indeed words of +fire and produced a warm hope in me (I, miserable wretch, to hope!) +that tingled like pleasure in my veins. He did not leave me for many +hours; not until he had improved the spark that he had kindled, and +with an angelic hand fostered the return of somthing that seemed like +joy. He left me but I still was calm, and after I had saluted the +starry sky and dewy earth with eyes of love and a contented good +night, I slept sweetly, visited by dreams, the first of pleasure I had +had for many long months. + +But this was only a momentary relief and my old habits of feeling +returned; for I was doomed while in life to grieve, and to the natural +sorrow of my father's death and its most terrific cause, immagination +added a tenfold weight of woe. I believed myself to be polluted by the +unnatural love I had inspired, and that I was a creature cursed and +set apart by nature. I thought that like another Cain, I had a mark +set on my forehead to shew mankind that there was a barrier between me +and they [_sic_].[72] Woodville had told me that there was in my +countenance an expression as if I belonged to another world; so he had +seen that sign: and there it lay a gloomy mark to tell the world that +there was that within my soul that no silence could render +sufficiently obscure. Why when fate drove me to become this outcast +from human feeling; this monster with whom none might mingle in +converse and love; why had she not from that fatal and most accursed +moment, shrouded me in thick mists and placed real darkness between me +and my fellows so that I might never more be seen?, [_sic_] and as I +passed, like a murky cloud loaded with blight, they might only +perceive me by the cold chill I should cast upon them; telling them, +how truly, that something unholy was near? Then I should have lived +upon this dreary heath unvisited, and blasting none by my unhallowed +gaze. Alas! I verily believe that if the near prospect of death did +not dull and soften my bitter [fe]elings, if for a few months longer I +had continued to live as I then lived, strong in body, but my soul +corrupted to its core by a deadly cancer[,] if day after day I had +dwelt on these dreadful sentiments I should have become mad, and +should have fancied myself a living pestilence: so horrible to my own +solitary thoughts did this form, this voice, and all this wretched +self appear; for had it not been the source of guilt that wants a +name?[73] + +This was superstition. I did not feel thus franticly when first I knew +that the holy name of father was become a curse to me: but my lonely +life inspired me with wild thoughts; and then when I saw Woodville & +day after day he tried to win my confidence and I never dared give +words to my dark tale, I was impressed more strongly with the +withering fear that I was in truth a marked creature, a pariah, only +fit for death. + + +[F] Spencer's Faery Queen Book 1--Canto [9] + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +As I was perpetually haunted by these ideas, you may imagine that the +influence of Woodville's words was very temporary; and that although I +did not again accuse him of unkindness, yet I soon became as unhappy +as before. Soon after this incident we parted. He heard that his +mother was ill, and he hastened to her. He came to take leave of me, +and we walked together on the heath for the last time. He promised +that he would come and see me again; and bade me take cheer, and to +encourage what happy thoughts I could, untill time and fortitude +should overcome my misery, and I could again mingle in society. + +"Above all other admonition on my part," he said, "cherish and follow +this one: do not despair. That is the most dangerous gulph on which +you perpetually totter; but you must reassure your steps, and take +hope to guide you.[74] Hope, and your wounds will be already half +healed: but if you obstinately despair, there never more will be +comfort for you. Believe me, my dearest friend, that there is a joy +that the sun and earth and all its beauties can bestow that you will +one day feel. The refreshing bliss of Love will again visit your +heart, and undo the spell that binds you to woe, untill you wonder how +your eyes could be closed in the long night that burthens you. I dare +not hope that I have inspired you with sufficient interest that the +thought of me, and the affection that I shall ever bear you, will +soften your melancholy and decrease the bitterness of your tears. But +if my friendship can make you look on life with less disgust, beware +how you injure it with suspicion. Love is a delicate sprite[75] and +easily hurt by rough jealousy. Guard, I entreat you, a firm persuasion +of my sincerity in the inmost recesses of your heart out of the reach +of the casual winds that may disturb its surface. Your temper is made +unequal by suffering, and the tenor of your mind is, I fear, sometimes +shaken by unworthy causes; but let your confidence in my sympathy and +love be deeper far, and incapable of being reached by these agitations +that come and go, and if they touch not your affections leave you +uninjured." + +These were some of Woodville's last lessons. I wept as I listened to +him; and after we had taken an affectionate farewell, I followed him +far with my eyes until they saw the last of my earthly comforter. I +had insisted on accompanying him across the heath towards the town +where he dwelt: the sun was yet high when he left me, and I turned my +steps towards my cottage. It was at the latter end of the month of +September when the nights have become chill. But the weather was +serene, and as I walked on I fell into no unpleasing reveries. I +thought of Woodville with gratitude and kindness and did not, I know +not why, regret his departure with any bitterness. It seemed that +after one great shock all other change was trivial to me; and I walked +on wondering when the time would come when we should all four, my +dearest father restored to me, meet in some sweet Paradise[.] I +pictured to myself a lovely river such as that on whose banks Dante +describes Mathilda gathering flowers, which ever flows + + ---- bruna, bruna, + Sotto l'ombra perpetua, che mai + Raggiar non lascia sole ivi, n Luna.[76] + +And then I repeated to myself all that lovely passage that relates the +entrance of Dante into the terrestrial Paradise; and thought it would +be sweet when I wandered on those lovely banks to see the car of light +descend with my long lost parent to be restored to me. As I waited +there in expectation of that moment, I thought how, of the lovely +flowers that grew there, I would wind myself a chaplet and crown +myself for joy: I would sing _sul margine d'un rio_,[77] my father's +favourite song, and that my voice gliding through the windless air +would announce to him in whatever bower he sat expecting the moment of +our union, that his daughter was come. Then the mark of misery would +have faded from my brow, and I should raise my eyes fearlessly to meet +his, which ever beamed with the soft lustre of innocent love. When I +reflected on the magic look of those deep eyes I wept, but gently, +lest my sobs should disturb the fairy scene. + +I was so entirely wrapt in this reverie that I wandered on, taking no +heed of my steps until I actually stooped down to gather a flower for +my wreath on that bleak plain where no flower grew, when I awoke from +my day dream and found myself I knew not where. + +The sun had set and the roseate hue which the clouds had caught from +him in his descent had nearly died away. A wind swept across the +plain, I looked around me and saw no object that told me where I was; +I had lost myself, and in vain attempted to find my path. I wandered +on, and the coming darkness made every trace indistinct by which I +might be guided. At length all was veiled in the deep obscurity of +blackest night; I became weary and knowing that my servant was to +sleep that night at the neighbouring village, so that my absence would +alarm no one; and that I was safe in this wild spot from every +intruder, I resolved to spend the night where I was. Indeed I was too +weary to walk further: the air was chill but I was careless of bodily +inconvenience, and I thought that I was well inured to the weather +during my two years of solitude, when no change of seasons prevented +my perpetual wanderings. + +I lay upon the grass surrounded by a darkness which not the slightest +beam of light penetrated--There was no sound for the deep night had +laid to sleep the insects, the only creatures that lived on the lone +spot where no tree or shrub could afford shelter to aught else--There +was a wondrous silence in the air that calmed my senses yet which +enlivened my soul, my mind hurried from image to image and seemed to +grasp an eternity. All in my heart was shadowy yet calm, untill my +ideas became confused and at length died away in sleep.[78] + +When I awoke it rained:[79] I was already quite wet, and my limbs were +stiff and my head giddy with the chill of night. It was a drizzling, +penetrating shower; as my dank hair clung to my neck and partly +covered my face, I had hardly strength to part with my fingers, the +long strait locks that fell before my eyes. The darkness was much +dissipated and in the east where the clouds were least dense the moon +was visible behind the thin grey cloud-- + + The moon is behind, and at the full + And yet she looks both small and dull.[80] + +Its presence gave me a hope that by its means I might find my home. +But I was languid and many hours passed before I could reach the +cottage, dragging as I did my slow steps, and often resting on the wet +earth unable to proceed. + +I particularly mark this night, for it was that which has hurried on +the last scene of my tragedy, which else might have dwindled on +through long years of listless sorrow. I was very ill when I arrived +and quite incapable of taking off my wet clothes that clung about me. +In the morning, on her return, my servant found me almost lifeless, +while possessed by a high fever I was lying on the floor of my room. + +I was very ill for a long time, and when I recovered from the +immediate danger of fever, every symptom of a rapid consumption +declared itself. I was for some time ignorant of this and thought that +my excessive weakness was the consequence of the fever; [_sic_] But my +strength became less and less; as winter came on I had a cough; and my +sunken cheek, before pale, burned with a hectic fever. One by one +these symptoms struck me; & I became convinced that the moment I had +so much desired was about to arrive and that I was dying. I was +sitting by my fire, the physician who had attended me ever since my +fever had just left me, and I looked over his prescription in which +digitalis was the prominent medecine. "Yes," I said, "I see how this +is, and it is strange that I should have deceived myself so long; I am +about to die an innocent death, and it will be sweeter even than that +which the opium promised." + +I rose and walked slowly to the window; the wide heath was covered by +snow which sparkled under the beams of the sun that shone brightly +thro' the pure, frosty air: a few birds were pecking some crumbs under +my window.[81] I smiled with quiet joy; and in my thoughts, which +through long habit would for ever connect themselves into one train, +as if I shaped them into words, I thus addressed the scene before me: + +"I salute thee, beautiful Sun, and thou, white Earth, fair and cold! +Perhaps I shall never see thee again covered with green, and the sweet +flowers of the coming spring will blossom on my grave. I am about to +leave thee; soon this living spirit which is ever busy among strange +shapes and ideas, which belong not to thee, soon it will have flown to +other regions and this emaciated body will rest insensate on thy bosom + + "Rolled round in earth's diurnal course + With rocks, and stones, and trees. + +"For it will be the same with thee, who art called our Universal +Mother,[82] when I am gone. I have loved thee; and in my days both of +happiness and sorrow I have peopled your solitudes with wild fancies +of my own creation. The woods, and lakes, and mountains which I have +loved, have for me a thousand associations; and thou, oh, Sun! hast +smiled upon, and borne your part in many imaginations that sprung to +life in my soul alone, and which will die with me. Your solitudes, +sweet land, your trees and waters will still exist, moved by your +winds, or still beneath the eye of noon, though[83] [w]hat I have felt +about ye, and all my dreams which have often strangely deformed thee, +will die with me. You will exist to reflect other images in other +minds, and ever will remain the same, although your reflected +semblance vary in a thousand ways, changeable as the hearts of those +who view thee. One of these fragile mirrors, that ever doted on thine +image, is about to be broken, crumbled to dust. But everteeming Nature +will create another and another, and thou wilt loose nought by my +destruction.[84] + +"Thou wilt ever be the same. Recieve then the grateful farewell of a +fleeting shadow who is about to disappear, who joyfully leaves thee, +yet with a last look of affectionate thankfulness. Farewell! Sky, and +fields and woods; the lovely flowers that grow on thee; thy mountains +& thy rivers; to the balmy air and the strong wind of the north, to +all, a last farewell. I shall shed no more tears for my task is almost +fulfilled, and I am about to be rewarded for long and most burthensome +suffering. Bless thy child even even [_sic_] in death, as I bless +thee; and let me sleep at peace in my quiet grave." + +I feel death to be near at hand and I am calm. I no longer despair, +but look on all around me with placid affection. I find it sweet to +watch the progressive decay of my strength, and to repeat to myself, +another day and yet another, but again I shall not see the red leaves +of autumn; before that time I shall be with my father. I am glad +Woodville is not with me for perhaps he would grieve, and I desire to +see smiles alone during the last scene of my life; when I last wrote +to him I told him of my ill health but not of its mortal tendency, +lest he should conceive it to be his duty to come to me for I fear +lest the tears of friendship should destroy the blessed calm of my +mind. I take pleasure in arranging all the little details which will +occur when I shall no longer be. In truth I am in love with death; no +maiden ever took more pleasure in the contemplation of her bridal +attire than I in fancying my limbs already enwrapt in their shroud: +is it not my marriage dress? Alone it will unite me to my father when +in an eternal mental union we shall never part. + +I will not dwell on the last changes that I feel in the final decay of +nature. It is rapid but without pain: I feel a strange pleasure in it. +For long years these are the first days of peace that have visited me. +I no longer exhaust my miserable heart by bitter tears and frantic +complaints; I no longer the [_sic_] reproach the sun, the earth, the +air, for pain and wretchedness. I wait in quiet expectation for the +closing hours of a life which has been to me most sweet & bitter. I do +not die not having enjoyed life; for sixteen years I was happy: during +the first months of my father's return I had enjoyed ages of pleasure: +now indeed I am grown old in grief; my steps are feeble like those of +age; I have become peevish and unfit for life; so having passed little +more than twenty years upon the earth I am more fit for my narrow +grave than many are when they reach the natural term of their lives. + +Again and again I have passed over in my remembrance the different +scenes of my short life: if the world is a stage and I merely an actor +on it my part has been strange, and, alas! tragical. Almost from +infancy I was deprived of all the testimonies of affection which +children generally receive; I was thrown entirely upon my own +resources, and I enjoyed what I may almost call unnatural pleasures, +for they were dreams and not realities. The earth was to me a magic +lantern and I [a] gazer, and a listener but no actor; but then came +the transporting and soul-reviving era of my existence: my father +returned and I could pour my warm affections on a human heart; there +was a new sun and a new earth created to me; the waters of existence +sparkled: joy! joy! but, alas! what grief! My bliss was more rapid +than the progress of a sunbeam on a mountain, which discloses its +glades & woods, and then leaves it dark & blank; to my happiness +followed madness and agony, closed by despair. + +This was the drama of my life which I have now depicted upon paper. +During three months I have been employed in this task. The memory of +sorrow has brought tears; the memory of happiness a warm glow the +lively shadow of that joy. Now my tears are dried; the glow has faded +from my cheeks, and with a few words of farewell to you, Woodville, I +close my work: the last that I shall perform. + +Farewell, my only living friend; you are the sole tie that binds me to +existence, and now I break it[.] It gives me no pain to leave you; nor +can our seperation give you much. You never regarded me as one of this +world, but rather as a being, who for some penance was sent from the +Kingdom of Shadows; and she passed a few days weeping on the earth and +longing to return to her native soil. You will weep but they will be +tears of gentleness. I would, if I thought that it would lessen your +regret, tell you to smile and congratulate me on my departure from the +misery you beheld me endure. I would say; Woodville, rejoice with your +friend, I triumph now and am most happy. But I check these +expressions; these may not be the consolations of the living; they +weep for their own misery, and not for that of the being they have +lost. No; shed a few natural tears due to my memory: and if you ever +visit my grave, pluck from thence a flower, and lay it to your heart; +for your heart is the only tomb in which my memory will be enterred. + +My death is rapidly approaching and you are not near to watch the +flitting and vanishing of my spirit. Do no[t] regret this; for death +is a too terrible an [_sic_] object for the living. It is one of those +adversities which hurt instead of purifying the heart; for it is so +intense a misery that it hardens & dulls the feelings. Dreadful as the +time was when I pursued my father towards the ocean, & found their +[_sic_] only his lifeless corpse; yet for my own sake I should prefer +that to the watching one by one his senses fade; his pulse weaken--and +sleeplessly as it were devour his life in gazing. To see life in his +limbs & to know that soon life would no longer be there; to see the +warm breath issue from his lips and to know they would soon be +chill--I will not continue to trace this frightful picture; you +suffered this torture once; I never did.[85] And the remembrance fills +your heart sometimes with bitter despair when otherwise your feelings +would have melted into soft sorrow. + +So day by day I become weaker, and life flickers in my wasting form, +as a lamp about to loose it vivifying oil. I now behold the glad sun +of May. It was May, four years ago, that I first saw my beloved +father; it was in May, three years ago that my folly destroyed the +only being I was doomed to love. May is returned, and I die. Three +days ago, the anniversary of our meeting; and, alas! of our eternal +seperation, after a day of killing emotion, I caused myself to be led +once more to behold the face of nature. I caused myself to be carried +to some meadows some miles distant from my cottage; the grass was +being mowed, and there was the scent of hay in the fields; all the +earth look[ed] fresh and its inhabitants happy. Evening approached and +I beheld the sun set. Three years ago and on that day and hour it +shone through the branches and leaves of the beech wood and its beams +flickered upon the countenance of him whom I then beheld for the last +time.[86] I now saw that divine orb, gilding all the clouds with +unwonted splendour, sink behind the horizon; it disappeared from a +world where he whom I would seek exists not; it approached a world +where he exists not[.] Why do I weep so bitterly? Why my [_sic_] does +my heart heave with vain endeavour to cast aside the bitter anguish +that covers it "as the waters cover the sea." I go from this world +where he is no longer and soon I shall meet him in another. + +Farewell, Woodville, the turf will soon be green on my grave; and the +violets will bloom on it. _There_ is my hope and my expectation; +your's are in this world; may they be fulfilled.[87] + + + + +NOTES TO _MATHILDA_ + +Abbreviations: + +_F of F--A_ _The Fields of Fancy_, in Lord Abinger's notebook +_F of F--B_ _The Fields of Fancy_, in the notebook in the Bodleian Library +_S-R fr_ fragments of _The Fields of Fancy_ among the papers of the + late Sir John Shelley-Rolls, now in the Bodleian Library + +[1] The name is spelled thus in the MSS of _Mathilda_ and _The Fields +of Fancy_, though in the printed _Journal_ (taken from _Shelley and +Mary_) and in the _Letters_ it is spelled _Matilda_. In the MS of the +journal, however, it is spelled first _Matilda_, later _Mathilda_. + +[2] Mary has here added detail and contrast to the description in _F +of F--A_, in which the passage "save a few black patches ... on the +plain ground" does not appear. + +[3] The addition of "I am alone ... withered me" motivates Mathilda's +state of mind and her resolve to write her history. + +[4] Mathilda too is the unwitting victim in a story of incest. Like +Oedipus, she has lost her parent-lover by suicide; like him she leaves +the scene of the revelation overwhelmed by a sense of her own guilt, +"a sacred horror"; like him, she finds a measure of peace as she is +about to die. + +[5] The addition of "the precious memorials ... gratitude towards +you," by its suggestion of the relationship between Mathilda and +Woodville, serves to justify the detailed narration. + +[6] At this point two sheets have been removed from the notebook. +There is no break in continuity, however. + +[7] The descriptions of Mathilda's father and mother and the account +of their marriage in the next few pages are greatly expanded from _F +of F--A_, where there is only one brief paragraph. The process of +expansion can be followed in _S-R fr_ and in _F of F--B_. The +development of the character of Diana (who represents Mary's own +mother, Mary Wollstonecraft) gave Mary the most trouble. For the +identifications with Mary's father and mother, see Nitchie, _Mary +Shelley_, pp. 11, 90-93, 96-97. + +[8] The passage "There was a gentleman ... school & college vacations" +is on a slip of paper pasted on page 11 of the MS. In the margin are +two fragments, crossed out, evidently parts of what is supplanted by +the substituted passage: "an angelic disposition and a quick, +penetrating understanding" and "her visits ... to ... his house were +long & frequent & there." In _F of F--B_ Mary wrote of Diana's +understanding "that often receives the name of masculine from its +firmness and strength." This adjective had often been applied to Mary +Wollstonecraft's mind. Mary Shelley's own understanding had been +called masculine by Leigh Hunt in 1817 in the _Examiner_. The word was +used also by a reviewer of her last published work, _Rambles in +Germany and Italy, 1844_. (See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, p. 178.) + +[9] The account of Diana in _Mathilda_ is much better ordered and more +coherent than that in _F of F--B_. + +[10] The description of the effect of Diana's death on her husband is +largely new in _Mathilda_. _F of F--B_ is frankly incomplete; _F of +F--A_ contains some of this material; _Mathilda_ puts it in order and +fills in the gaps. + +[11] This paragraph is an elaboration of the description of her aunt's +coldness as found in _F of F--B_. There is only one sentence in _F of +F--A_. + +[12] The description of Mathilda's love of nature and of animals is +elaborated from both rough drafts. The effect, like that of the +preceding addition (see note 11), is to emphasize Mathilda's +loneliness. For the theme of loneliness in Mary Shelley's work, see +Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, pp. 13-17. + +[13] This paragraph is a revision of _F of F--B_, which is +fragmentary. There is nothing in _F of F--A_ and only one scored-out +sentence in _S-R fr_. None of the rough drafts tells of her plans to +join her father. + +[14] The final paragraph in Chapter II is entirely new. + +[15] The account of the return of Mathilda's father is very slightly +revised from that in _F of F--A_. _F of F--B_ has only a few +fragmentary sentences, scored out. It resumes with the paragraph +beginning, "My father was very little changed." + +[16] Symbolic of Mathilda's subsequent life. + +[17] _Illusion, or the Trances of Nourjahad_, a melodrama, was +performed at Drury Lane, November 25, 1813. It was anonymous, but it +was attributed by some reviewers to Byron, a charge which he +indignantly denied. See Byron, _Letters and Journals_, ed. by Rowland +E. Prothero (6 vols. London: Murray, 1902-1904), II, 288. + +[18] This paragraph is in _F of F--B_ but not in _F of F--A_. In the +margin of the latter, however, is written: "It was not of the tree of +knowledge that I ate for no evil followed--it must be of the tree of +life that grows close beside it or--". Perhaps this was intended to go +in the preceding paragraph after "My ideas were enlarged by his +conversation." Then, when this paragraph was added, the figure, +noticeably changed, was included here. + +[19] Here the MS of _F of F--B_ breaks off to resume only with the +meeting of Mathilda and Woodville. + +[20] At the end of the story (p. 79) Mathilda says, "Death is too +terrible an object for the living." Mary was thinking of the deaths of +her two children. + +[21] Mary had read the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius in 1817 +and she had made an Italian translation, the MS of which is now in the +Library of Congress. See _Journal_, pp. 79, 85-86. + +[22] The end of this paragraph gave Mary much trouble. In _F of F--A_ +after the words, "my tale must," she develops an elaborate figure: "go +with the stream that hurries on--& now was this stream precipitated by +an overwhelming fall from the pleasant vallies through which it +wandered--down hideous precipieces to a desart black & hopeless--". +This, the original ending of the chapter, was scored out, and a new, +simplified version which, with some deletions and changes, became that +used in _Mathilda_ was written in the margins of two pages (ff. 57, +58). This revision is a good example of Mary's frequent improvement of +her style by the omission of purple patches. + +[23] In _F of F--A_ there follows a passage which has been scored out +and which does not appear in _Mathilda_: "I have tried in somewhat +feeble language to describe the excess of what I may almost call my +adoration for my father--you may then in some faint manner imagine my +despair when I found that he shunned [me] & that all the little arts I +used to re-awaken his lost love made him"--. This is a good example of +Mary's frequent revision for the better by the omission of the obvious +and expository. But the passage also has intrinsic interest. +Mathilda's "adoration" for her father may be compared to Mary's +feeling for Godwin. In an unpublished letter (1822) to Jane Williams +she wrote, "Until I met Shelley I [could?] justly say that he was my +God--and I remember many childish instances of the [ex]cess of +attachment I bore for him." See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, p. 89, and +note 9. + +[24] Cf. the account of the services of Fantasia in the opening +chapter of _F of F--A_ (see pp. 90-102) together with note 3 to _The +Fields of Fancy_. + +[25] This passage beginning "Day after day" and closing with the +quotation is not in _F of F--A_, but it is in _S-R fr_. The quotation +is from _The Captain_ by John Fletcher and a collaborator, possibly +Massinger. These lines from Act I, Sc. 3 are part of a speech by Lelia +addressed to her lover. Later in the play Lelia attempts to seduce her +father--possibly a reason for Mary's selection of the lines. + +[26] At this point (f. 56 of the notebook) begins a long passage, +continuing through Chapter V, in which Mary's emotional disturbance in +writing about the change in Mathilda's father (representing both +Shelley and Godwin?) shows itself on the pages of the MS. They look +more like the rough draft than the fair copy. There are numerous slips +of the pen, corrections in phrasing and sentence structure, dashes +instead of other marks of punctuation, a large blot of ink on f. 57, +one major deletion (see note 32). + +[27] In the margin of _F of F--A_ Mary wrote, "Lord B's Ch'de Harold." +The reference is to stanzas 71 and 72 of Canto IV. Byron compares the +rainbow on the cataract first to "Hope upon a death-bed" and finally + +Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with +unalterable mien. + + + +[28] In _F of F--A_ Mathilda "took up Ariosto & read the story of +Isabella." Mary's reason for the change is not clear. Perhaps she +thought that the fate of Isabella, a tale of love and lust and death +(though not of incest), was too close to what was to be Mathilda's +fate. She may have felt--and rightly--that the allusions to Lelia and +to Myrrha were ample foreshadowings. The reasons for the choice of the +seventh canto of Book II of the _Faerie Queene_ may lie in the +allegorical meaning of Guyon, or Temperance, and the "dread and +horror" of his experience. + +[29] With this speech, which is not in _F of F--A_, Mary begins to +develop the character of the Steward, who later accompanies Mathilda +on her search for her father. Although he is to a very great extent +the stereptyped faithful servant, he does serve to dramatize the +situation both here and in the later scene. + +[30] This clause is substituted for a more conventional and less +dramatic passage in _F of F--A_: "& besides there appeared more of +struggle than remorse in his manner although sometimes I thought I saw +glim[p]ses of the latter feeling in his tumultuous starts & gloomy +look." + +[31] These paragraphs beginning Chapter V are much expanded from _F of +F--A_. Some of the details are in the _S-R fr_. This scene is recalled +at the end of the story. (See page 80) Cf. what Mary says about places +that are associated with former emotions in her _Rambles in Germany +and Italy_ (2 vols., London: Moxon, 1844), II, 78-79. She is writing +of her approach to Venice, where, twenty-five years before, little +Clara had died. "It is a strange, but to any person who has suffered, +a familiar circumstance, that those who are enduring mental or +corporeal agony are strangely alive to immediate external objects, and +their imagination even exercises its wild power over them.... Thus the +banks of the Brenta presented to me a moving scene; not a palace, not +a tree of which I did not recognize, as marked and recorded, at a +moment when life and death hung upon our speedy arrival at Venice." + +[32] The remainder of this chapter, which describes the crucial scene +between Mathilda and her father, is the result of much revision from +_F of F--A_. Some of the revisions are in _S-R fr_. In general the +text of _Mathilda_ is improved in style. Mary adds concrete, specific +words and phrases; e.g., at the end of the first paragraph of +Mathilda's speech, the words "of incertitude" appear in _Mathilda_ for +the first time. She cancels, even in this final draft, an +over-elaborate figure of speech after the words in the father's reply, +"implicated in my destruction"; the cancelled passage is too flowery +to be appropriate here: "as if when a vulture is carrying off some +hare it is struck by an arrow his helpless victim entangled in the +same fate is killed by the defeat of its enemy. One word would do all +this." Furthermore the revised text shows greater understanding and +penetration of the feelings of both speakers: the addition of "Am I +the cause of your grief?" which brings out more dramatically what +Mathilda has said in the first part of this paragraph; the analysis of +the reasons for her presistent questioning; the addition of the final +paragraph of her plea, "Alas! Alas!... you hate me!" which prepares +for the father's reply. + +[33] Almost all the final paragraph of the chapter is added to _F of +F--A_. Three brief _S-R fr_ are much revised and simplified. + +[34] _Decameron_, 4th day, 1st story. Mary had read the _Decameron_ in +May, 1819. See _Journal_, p. 121. + +[35] The passage "I should fear ... I must despair" is in _S-R fr_ but +not in _F of F--A_. There, in the margin, is the following: "Is it not +the prerogative of superior virtue to pardon the erring and to weigh +with mercy their offenses?" This sentence does not appear in +_Mathilda_. Also in the margin of _F of F--A_ is the number (9), the +number of the _S-R fr_. + +[36] The passage "enough of the world ... in unmixed delight" is on a +slip pasted over the middle of the page. Some of the obscured text is +visible in the margin, heavily scored out. Also in the margin is +"Canto IV Vers Ult," referring to the quotation from Dante's +_Paradiso_. This quotation, with the preceding passage beginning "in +whose eyes," appears in _Mathilda_ only. + +[37] The reference to Diana, with the father's rationalization of his +love for Mathilda, is in _S-R fr_ but not in _F of F--A_. + +[38] In _F of F--A_ this is followed by a series of other gloomy +concessive clauses which have been scored out to the advantage of the +text. + +[39] This paragraph has been greatly improved by the omission of +elaborate over-statement; e.g., "to pray for mercy & respite from my +fear" (_F of F--A_) becomes merely "to pray." + +[40] This paragraph about the Steward is added in _Mathilda_. In _F of +F--A_ he is called a servant and his name is Harry. See note 29. + +[41] This sentence, not in _F of F--A_, recalls Mathilda's dream. + +[42] This passage is somewhat more dramatic than that in _F of F--A_, +putting what is there merely a descriptive statement into quotation +marks. + +[43] A stalactite grotto on the island of Antiparos in the Aegean Sea. + +[44] A good description of Mary's own behavior in England after +Shelley's death, of the surface placidity which concealed stormy +emotion. See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, pp. 8-10. + +[45] _Job_, 17: 15-16, slightly misquoted. + +[46] Not in _F of F--A_. The quotation should read: + +Fam. Whisper it, sister! so and so! In a dark hint, soft and slow. + + + +[47] The mother of Prince Arthur in Shakespeare's _King John_. In the +MS the words "the little Arthur" are written in pencil above the name +of Constance. + +[48] In _F of F--A_ this account of her plans is addressed to Diotima, +and Mathilda's excuse for not detailing them is that they are too +trivial to interest spirits no longer on earth; this is the only +intrusion of the framework into Mathilda's narrative in _The Fields of +Fancy_. Mathilda's refusal to recount her stratagems, though the +omission is a welcome one to the reader, may represent the flagging of +Mary's invention. Similarly in _Frankenstein_ she offers excuses for +not explaining how the Monster was brought to life. The entire +passage, "Alas! I even now ... remain unfinished. I was," is on a slip +of paper pasted on the page. + +[49] The comparison to a Hermitess and the wearing of the "fanciful +nunlike dress" are appropriate though melodramatic. They appear only +in _Mathilda_. Mathilda refers to her "whimsical nunlike habit" again +after she meets Woodville (see page 60) and tells us in a deleted +passage that it was "a close nunlike gown of black silk." + +[50] Cf. Shelley, _Prometheus Unbound_, I, 48: "the wingless, crawling +hours." This phrase ("my part in submitting ... minutes") and the +remainder of the paragraph are an elaboration of the simple phrase in +_F of F--A_, "my part in enduring it--," with its ambiguous pronoun. +The last page of Chapter VIII shows many corrections, even in the MS +of _Mathilda_. It is another passage that Mary seems to have written +in some agitation of spirit. Cf. note 26. + +[51] In _F of F--A_ there are several false starts before this +sentence. The name there is Welford; on the next page it becomes +Lovel, which is thereafter used throughout _The Fields of Fancy_ and +appears twice, probably inadvertently, in _Mathilda_, where it is +crossed out. In a few of the _S-R fr_ it is Herbert. In _Mathilda_ it +is at first Herbert, which is used until after the rewritten +conclusion (see note 83) but is corrected throughout to Woodville. On +the final pages Woodville alone is used. (It is interesting, though +not particularly significant, that one of the minor characters in +Lamb's _John Woodvil_ is named Lovel. Such mellifluous names rolled +easily from the pens of all the romantic writers.) This, her first +portrait of Shelley in fiction, gave Mary considerable trouble: +revisions from the rough drafts are numerous. The passage on +Woodville's endowment by fortune, for example, is much more concise +and effective than that in _S-R fr_. Also Mary curbed somewhat the +extravagance of her praise of Woodville, omitting such hyperboles as +"When he appeared a new sun seemed to rise on the day & he had all the +benignity of the dispensor of light," and "he seemed to come as the +God of the world." + +[52] This passage beginning "his station was too high" is not in _F of +F--A_. + +[53] This passage beginning "He was a believer in the divinity of +genius" is not in _F of F--A_. Cf. the discussion of genius in +"Giovanni Villani" (Mary Shelley's essay in _The Liberal_, No. IV, +1823), including the sentence: "The fixed stars appear to abberate +[_sic_]; but it is we that move, not they." It is tempting to conclude +that this is a quotation or echo of something which Shelley said, +perhaps in conversation with Byron. I have not found it in any of his +published writings. + +[54] Is this wishful thinking about Shelley's poetry? It is well known +that a year later Mary remonstrated with Shelley about _The Witch of +Atlas_, desiring, as she said in her 1839 note, "that Shelley should +increase his popularity.... It was not only that I wished him to +acquire popularity as redounding to his fame; but I believed that he +would obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, and greater +happiness in his mind, if public applause crowned his endeavours.... +Even now I believe that I was in the right." Shelley's response is in +the six introductory stanzas of the poem. + +[55] The preceding paragraphs about Elinor and Woodville are the +result of considerable revision for the better of _F of F--A_ and _S-R +fr_. Mary scored out a paragraph describing Elinor, thus getting rid +of several clichs ("fortune had smiled on her," "a favourite of +fortune," "turning tears of misery to those of joy"); she omitted a +clause which offered a weak motivation of Elinor's father's will (the +possibility of her marrying, while hardly more than a child, one of +her guardian's sons); she curtailed the extravagance of a rhapsody on +the perfect happiness which Woodville and Elinor would have enjoyed. + +[56] The death scene is elaborated from _F of F--A_ and made more +melodramatic by the addition of Woodville's plea and of his vigil by +the death-bed. + +[57] _F of F--A_ ends here and _F of F--B_ resumes. + +[58] A similar passage about Mathilda's fears is cancelled in _F of +F--B_ but it appears in revised form in _S-R fr_. There is also among +these fragments a long passage, not used in _Mathilda_, identifying +Woodville as someone she had met in London. Mary was wise to discard +it for the sake of her story. But the first part of it is interesting +for its correspondence with fact: "I knew him when I first went to +London with my father he was in the height of his glory & +happiness--Elinor was living & in her life he lived--I did not know +her but he had been introduced to my father & had once or twice +visited us--I had then gazed with wonder on his beauty & listened to +him with delight--" Shelley had visited Godwin more than "once or +twice" while Harriet was still living, and Mary had seen him. Of +course she had seen Harriet too, in 1812, when she came with Shelley +to call on Godwin. Elinor and Harriet, however, are completely unlike. + +[59] Here and on many succeeding pages, where Mathilda records the +words and opinions of Woodville, it is possible to hear the voice of +Shelley. This paragraph, which is much expanded from _F of F--B_, may +be compared with the discussion of good and evil in _Julian and +Maddalo_ and with _Prometheus Unbound_ and _A Defence of Poetry_. + +[60] In the revision of this passage Mathilda's sense of her pollution +is intensified; for example, by addition of "infamy and guilt was +mingled with my portion." + +[61] Some phrases of self-criticism are added in this paragraph. + +[62] In _F of F--B_ this quotation is used in the laudanum scene, just +before Level's (Woodville's) long speech of dissuasion. + +[63] The passage "air, & to suffer ... my compassionate friend" is on +a slip of paper pasted across the page. + +[64] This phrase sustains the metaphor better than that in _F of +F--B_: "puts in a word." + +[65] This entire paragraph is added to _F of F--B_; it is in rough +draft in _S-R fr_. + +[66] This is changed in the MS of _Mathilda_ from "a violent +thunderstorm." Evidently Mary decided to avoid using another +thunderstorm at a crisis in the story. + +[67] The passage "It is true ... I will" is on a slip of paper pasted +across the page. + +[68] In the revision from _F of F--B_ the style of this whole episode +becomes more concise and specific. + +[69] An improvement over the awkward phrasing in _F of F--B_: "a +friend who will not repulse my request that he would accompany me." + +[70] These two paragraphs are not in _F of F--B_; portions of them are +in _S-R fr_. + +[71] This speech is greatly improved in style over that in _F of +F--B_, more concise in expression (though somewhat expanded), more +specific. There are no corresponding _S-R fr_ to show the process of +revision. With the ideas expressed here cf. Shelley, _Julian and +Maddalo_, ll. 182-187, 494-499, and his letter to Claire in November, +1820 (Julian _Works_, X, 226). See also White, _Shelley_, II, 378. + +[72] This solecism, copied from _F of F--B_, is not characteristic of +Mary Shelley. + +[73] This paragraph prepares for the eventual softening of Mathilda's +feeling. The idea is somewhat elaborated from _F of F--B_. Other +changes are necessitated by the change in the mode of presenting the +story. In _The Fields of Fancy_ Mathilda speaks as one who has already +died. + +[74] Cf. Shelley's emphasis on hope and its association with love in +all his work. When Mary wrote _Mathilda_ she knew _Queen Mab_ (see +Part VIII, ll. 50-57, and Part IX, ll. 207-208), the _Hymn to +Intellectual Beauty_, and the first three acts of _Prometheus +Unbound_. The fourth act was written in the winter of 1819, but +Demogorgon's words may already have been at least adumbrated before +the beginning of November: + +To love and bear, to hope till hope creates From its own wreck the +thing it contemplates. + + + +[75] Shelley had written, "Desolation is a delicate thing" +(_Prometheus Unbound_, Act I, l. 772) and called the Spirit of the +Earth "a delicate spirit" (_Ibid._, Act III, Sc. iv, l. 6). + +[76] _Purgatorio_, Canto 28, ll. 31-33. Perhaps by this time Shelley +had translated ll. 1-51 of this canto. He had read the _Purgatorio_ in +April, 1818, and again with Mary in August, 1819, just as she was +beginning to write _Mathilda_. Shelley showed his translation to +Medwin in 1820, but there seems to be no record of the date of +composition. + +[77] An air with this title was published about 1800 in London by +Robert Birchall. See _Catalogue of Printed Music Published between +1487 and 1800 and now in the British Museum_, by W. Barclay Squire, +1912. Neither author nor composer is listed in the _Catalogue_. + +[78] This paragraph is materially changed from _F of F--B_. Clouds and +darkness are substituted for starlight, silence for the sound of the +wind. The weather here matches Mathilda's mood. Four and a half lines +of verse (which I have not been able to identify, though they sound +Shelleyan--are they Mary's own?) are omitted: of the stars she says, + + the wind is in the tree + But they are silent;--still they roll along + Immeasurably distant; & the vault + Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds + Still deepens its unfathomable depth. + + + +[79] If Mary quotes Coleridge's _Ancient Mariner_ intentionally here, +she is ironic, for this is no merciful rain, except for the fact that +it brings on the illness which leads to Mathilda's death, for which +she longs. + +[80] This quotation from _Christabel_ (which suggests that the +preceding echo is intentional) is not in _F of F--B_. + +[81] Cf. the description which opens _Mathilda_. + +[82] Among Lord Abinger's papers, in Mary's hand, are some comparable +(but very bad) fragmentary verses addressed to Mother Earth. + +[83] At this point four sheets are cut out of the notebook. They are +evidently those with pages numbered 217 to 223 which are among the +_S-R fr_. They contain the conclusion of the story, ending, as does _F +of F--B_ with Mathilda's words spoken to Diotima in the Elysian +Fields: "I am here, not with my father, but listening to lessons of +wisdom, which will one day bring me to him when we shall never part. +THE END." Some passages are scored out, but not this final sentence. +Tenses are changed from past to future. The name _Herbert_ is changed +to _Woodville_. The explanation must be that Mary was hurrying to +finish the revision (quite drastic on these final pages) and the +transcription of her story before her confinement, and that in her +haste she copied the pages from _F of F--B_ as they stood. Then, +realizing that they did not fit _Mathilda_, she began to revise them; +but to keep her MS neat, she cut out these pages and wrote the fair +copy. There is no break in _Mathilda_ in story or in pagination. This +fair copy also shows signs of haste: slips of the pen, repetition of +words, a number of unimportant revisions. + +[84] Here in _F of F--B_ there is an index number which evidently +points to a note at the bottom of the next page. The note is omitted +in _Mathilda_. It reads: + +"Dante in his Purgatorio describes a grifon as remaining unchanged but +his reflection in the eyes of Beatrice as perpetually varying (Purg. +Cant. 31) So nature is ever the same but seen differently by almost +every spectator and even by the same at various times. All minds, as +mirrors, receive her forms--yet in each mirror the shapes apparently +reflected vary & are perpetually changing--" + + + +[85] See note 20. Mary Shelley had suffered this torture when Clara +and William died. + +[86] See the end of Chapter V. + +[87] This sentence is not in _F of F--B_ or in _S-R fr_. + + + + +THE FIELDS OF FANCY[88] + + +It was in Rome--the Queen of the World that I suffered a misfortune +that reduced me to misery & despair[89]--The bright sun & deep azure +sky were oppressive but nought was so hateful as the voice of Man--I +loved to walk by the shores of the Tiber which were solitary & if the +sirocco blew to see the swift clouds pass over St. Peters and the many +domes of Rome or if the sun shone I turned my eyes from the sky whose +light was too dazzling & gay to be reflected in my tearful eyes I +turned them to the river whose swift course was as the speedy +departure of happiness and whose turbid colour was gloomy as grief-- + +Whether I slept I know not or whether it was in one of those many +hours which I spent seated on the ground my mind a chaos of despair & +my eyes for ever wet by tears but I was here visited by a lovely +spirit whom I have ever worshiped & who tried to repay my adoration by +diverting my mind from the hideous memories that racked it. At first +indeed this wanton spirit played a false part & appearing with sable +wings & gloomy countenance seemed to take a pleasure in exagerating +all my miseries--and as small hopes arose to snatch them from me & +give me in their place gigantic fears which under her fairy hand +appeared close, impending & unavoidable--sometimes she would cruelly +leave me while I was thus on the verge of madness and without +consoling me leave me nought but heavy leaden sleep--but at other +times she would wilily link less unpleasing thoughts to these most +dreadful ones & before I was aware place hopes before me--futile but +consoling[90]-- + +One day this lovely spirit--whose name as she told me was Fantasia +came to me in one of her consolotary moods--her wings which seemed +coloured by her tone of mind were not gay but beautiful like that of +the partridge & her lovely eyes although they ever burned with an +unquenshable fire were shaded & softened by her heavy lids & the black +long fringe of her eye lashes--She thus addressed me--You mourn for +the loss of those you love. They are gone for ever & great as my power +is I cannot recall them to you--if indeed I wave my wand over you you +will fancy that you feel their gentle spirits in the soft air that +steals over your cheeks & the distant sound of winds & waters may +image to you their voices which will bid you rejoice for that they +live--This will not take away your grief but you will shed sweeter +tears than those which full of anguish & hopelessness now start from +your eyes--This I can do & also can I take you to see many of my +provinces my fairy lands which you have not yet visited and whose +beauty will while away the heavy time--I have many lovely spots under +my command which poets of old have visited and have seen those sights +the relation of which has been as a revelation to the world--many +spots I have still in keeping of lovely fields or horrid rocks peopled +by the beautiful or the tremendous which I keep in reserve for my +future worshippers--to one of those whose grim terrors frightened +sleep from the eye I formerly led you[91] but you now need more +pleasing images & although I will not promise you to shew you any new +scenes yet if I lead you to one often visited by my followers you will +at least see new combinations that will sooth if they do not delight +you--Follow me-- + +Alas! I replied--when have you found me slow to obey your voice--some +times indeed I have called you & you have not come--but when before +have I not followed your slightest sign and have left what was either +of joy or sorrow in our world to dwell with you in yours till you have +dismissed me ever unwilling to depart--But now the weight of grief +that oppresses me takes from me that lightness which is necessary to +follow your quick & winged motions alas in the midst of my course one +thought would make me droop to the ground while you would outspeed me +to your Kingdom of Glory & leave me here darkling + +Ungrateful! replied the Spirit Do I not tell you that I will sustain & +console you My wings shall aid your heavy steps & I will command my +winds to disperse the mist that over casts you--I will lead you to a +place where you will not hear laughter that disturbs you or see the +sun that dazzles you--We will choose some of the most sombre walks of +the Elysian fields-- + +The Elysian fields--I exclaimed with a quick scream--shall I then see? +I gasped & could not ask that which I longed to know--the friendly +spirit replied more gravely--I have told you that you will not see +those whom you mourn--But I must away--follow me or I must leave you +weeping deserted by the spirit that now checks your tears-- + +Go--I replied I cannot follow--I can only sit here & grieve--& long to +see those who are gone for ever for to nought but what has relation to +them can I listen-- + +The spirit left me to groan & weep to wish the sun quenched in eternal +darkness--to accuse the air the waters all--all the universe of my +utter & irremediable misery--Fantasia came again and ever when she +came tempted me to follow her but as to follow her was to leave for a +while the thought of those loved ones whose memories were my all +although they were my torment I dared not go--Stay with me I cried & +help me to clothe my bitter thoughts in lovelier colours give me hope +although fallacious & images of what has been although it never will +be again--diversion I cannot take cruel fairy do you leave me alas all +my joy fades at thy departure but I may not follow thee-- + +One day after one of these combats when the spirit had left me I +wandered on along the banks of the river to try to disperse the +excessive misery that I felt untill overcome by fatigue--my eyes +weighed down by tears--I lay down under the shade of trees & fell +asleep--I slept long and when I awoke I knew not where I was--I did +not see the river or the distant city--but I lay beside a lovely +fountain shadowed over by willows & surrounded by blooming myrtles--at +a short distance the air seemed pierced by the spiry pines & cypresses +and the ground was covered by short moss & sweet smelling heath--the +sky was blue but not dazzling like that of Rome and on every side I +saw long allies--clusters of trees with intervening lawns & gently +stealing rivers--Where am I? [I] exclaimed--& looking around me I +beheld Fantasia--She smiled & as she smiled all the enchanting scene +appeared lovelier--rainbows played in the fountain & the heath flowers +at our feet appeared as if just refreshed by dew--I have seized you, +said she--as you slept and will for some little time retain you as my +prisoner--I will introduce you to some of the inhabitants of these +peaceful Gardens--It shall not be to any whose exuberant happiness +will form an u[n]pleasing contrast with your heavy grief but it shall +be to those whose chief care here is to acquired knowledged [_sic_] & +virtue--or to those who having just escaped from care & pain have not +yet recovered full sense of enjoyment--This part of these Elysian +Gardens is devoted to those who as before in your world wished to +become wise & virtuous by study & action here endeavour after the +same ends by contemplation--They are still unknowing of their final +destination but they have a clear knowledge of what on earth is only +supposed by some which is that their happiness now & hereafter depends +upon their intellectual improvement--Nor do they only study the forms +of this universe but search deeply in their own minds and love to meet +& converse on all those high subjects of which the philosophers of +Athens loved to treat--With deep feelings but with no outward +circumstances to excite their passions you will perhaps imagine that +their life is uniform & dull--but these sages are of that disposition +fitted to find wisdom in every thing & in every lovely colour or form +ideas that excite their love--Besides many years are consumed before +they arrive here--When a soul longing for knowledge & pining at its +narrow conceptions escapes from your earth many spirits wait to +receive it and to open its eyes to the mysteries of the universe--many +centuries are often consumed in these travels and they at last retire +here to digest their knowledge & to become still wiser by thought and +imagination working upon memory [92]--When the fitting period is +accomplished they leave this garden to inhabit another world fitted +for the reception of beings almost infinitely wise--but what this +world is neither can you conceive or I teach you--some of the spirits +whom you will see here are yet unknowing in the secrets of +nature--They are those whom care & sorrow have consumed on earth & +whose hearts although active in virtue have been shut through +suffering from knowledge--These spend sometime here to recover their +equanimity & to get a thirst of knowledge from converse with their +wiser companions--They now securely hope to see again those whom they +love & know that it is ignorance alone that detains them from them. As +for those who in your world knew not the loveliness of benevolence & +justice they are placed apart some claimed by the evil spirit & in +vain sought for by the good but She whose delight is to reform the +wicked takes all she can & delivers them to her ministers not to be +punished but to be exercised & instructed untill acquiring a love of +virtue they are fitted for these gardens where they will acquire a +love of knowledge + +As Fantasia talked I saw various groupes of figures as they walked +among the allies of the gardens or were seated on the grassy plots +either in contemplation or conversation several advanced together +towards the fountain where I sat--As they approached I observed the +principal figure to be that of a woman about 40 years of age her eyes +burned with a deep fire and every line of her face expressed +enthusiasm & wisdom--Poetry seemed seated on her lips which were +beautifully formed & every motion of her limbs although not youthful +was inexpressibly graceful--her black hair was bound in tresses round +her head and her brows were encompassed by a fillet--her dress was +that of a simple tunic bound at the waist by a broad girdle and a +mantle which fell over her left arm she was encompassed by several +youths of both sexes who appeared to hang on her words & to catch the +inspiration as it flowed from her with looks either of eager wonder or +stedfast attention with eyes all bent towards her eloquent countenance +which beamed with the mind within--I am going said Fantasia but I +leave my spirit with you without which this scene wd fade away--I +leave you in good company--that female whose eyes like the loveliest +planet in the heavens draw all to gaze on her is the Prophetess +Diotima the instructress of Socrates[93]--The company about her are +those just escaped from the world there they were unthinking or +misconducted in the pursuit of knowledge. She leads them to truth & +wisdom untill the time comes when they shall be fitted for the journey +through the universe which all must one day undertake--farewell-- + +And now, gentlest reader--I must beg your indulgence--I am a being too +weak to record the words of Diotima her matchless wisdom & heavenly +eloquence[.] What I shall repeat will be as the faint shadow of a tree +by moonlight--some what of the form will be preserved but there will +be no life in it--Plato alone of Mortals could record the thoughts of +Diotima hopeless therefore I shall not dwell so much on her words as +on those of her pupils which being more earthly can better than hers +be related by living lips[.] + +Diotima approached the fountain & seated herself on a mossy mound near +it and her disciples placed themselves on the grass near her--Without +noticing me who sat close under her she continued her discourse +addressing as it happened one or other of her listeners--but before I +attempt to repeat her words I will describe the chief of these whom +she appeared to wish principally to impress--One was a woman of about +23 years of age in the full enjoyment of the most exquisite beauty her +golden hair floated in ringlets on her shoulders--her hazle eyes were +shaded by heavy lids and her mouth the lips apart seemed to breathe +sensibility[94]--But she appeared thoughtful & unhappy--her cheek was +pale she seemed as if accustomed to suffer and as if the lessons she +now heard were the only words of wisdom to which she had ever +listened--The youth beside her had a far different aspect--his form +was emaciated nearly to a shadow--his features were handsome but thin +& worn--& his eyes glistened as if animating the visage of decay--his +forehead was expansive but there was a doubt & perplexity in his looks +that seemed to say that although he had sought wisdom he had got +entangled in some mysterious mazes from which he in vain endeavoured +to extricate himself--As Diotima spoke his colour went & came with +quick changes & the flexible muscles of his countenance shewed every +impression that his mind received--he seemed one who in life had +studied hard but whose feeble frame sunk beneath the weight of the +mere exertion of life--the spark of intelligence burned with uncommon +strength within him but that of life seemed ever on the eve of +fading[95]--At present I shall not describe any other of this groupe +but with deep attention try to recall in my memory some of the words +of Diotima--they were words of fire but their path is faintly marked +on my recollection--[96] + +It requires a just hand, said she continuing her discourse, to weigh & +divide the good from evil--On the earth they are inextricably +entangled and if you would cast away what there appears an evil a +multitude of beneficial causes or effects cling to it & mock your +labour--When I was on earth and have walked in a solitary country +during the silence of night & have beheld the multitude of stars, the +soft radiance of the moon reflected on the sea, which was studded by +lovely islands--When I have felt the soft breeze steal across my cheek +& as the words of love it has soothed & cherished me--then my mind +seemed almost to quit the body that confined it to the earth & with a +quick mental sense to mingle with the scene that I hardly saw--I +felt--Then I have exclaimed, oh world how beautiful thou art!--Oh +brightest universe behold thy worshiper!--spirit of beauty & of +sympathy which pervades all things, & now lifts my soul as with wings, +how have you animated the light & the breezes!--Deep & inexplicable +spirit give me words to express my adoration; my mind is hurried away +but with language I cannot tell how I feel thy loveliness! Silence or +the song of the nightingale the momentary apparition of some bird that +flies quietly past--all seems animated with thee & more than all the +deep sky studded with worlds!"--If the winds roared & tore the sea and +the dreadful lightnings seemed falling around me--still love was +mingled with the sacred terror I felt; the majesty of loveliness was +deeply impressed on me--So also I have felt when I have seen a lovely +countenance--or heard solemn music or the eloquence of divine wisdom +flowing from the lips of one of its worshippers--a lovely animal or +even the graceful undulations of trees & inanimate objects have +excited in me the same deep feeling of love & beauty; a feeling which +while it made me alive & eager to seek the cause & animator of the +scene, yet satisfied me by its very depth as if I had already found +the solution to my enquires [_sic_] & as if in feeling myself a part +of the great whole I had found the truth & secret of the universe--But +when retired in my cell I have studied & contemplated the various +motions and actions in the world the weight of evil has confounded +me--If I thought of the creation I saw an eternal chain of evil linked +one to the other--from the great whale who in the sea swallows & +destroys multitudes & the smaller fish that live on him also & torment +him to madness--to the cat whose pleasure it is to torment her prey I +saw the whole creation filled with pain--each creature seems to exist +through the misery of another & death & havoc is the watchword of the +animated world--And Man also--even in Athens the most civilized spot +on the earth what a multitude of mean passions--envy, malice--a +restless desire to depreciate all that was great and good did I +see--And in the dominions of the great being I saw man [reduced?][97] +far below the animals of the field preying on one anothers [_sic_] +hearts; happy in the downfall of others--themselves holding on with +bent necks and cruel eyes to a wretch more a slave if possible than +they to his miserable passions--And if I said these are the +consequences of civilization & turned to the savage world I saw only +ignorance unrepaid by any noble feeling--a mere animal, love of life +joined to a low love of power & a fiendish love of destruction--I saw +a creature drawn on by his senses & his selfish passions but untouched +by aught noble or even Human-- + +And then when I sought for consolation in the various faculties man is +possessed of & which I felt burning within me--I found that spirit of +union with love & beauty which formed my happiness & pride degraded +into superstition & turned from its natural growth which could bring +forth only good fruit:--cruelty--& intolerance & hard tyranny was +grafted on its trunk & from it sprung fruit suitable to such +grafts--If I mingled with my fellow creatures was the voice I heard +that of love & virtue or that of selfishness & vice, still misery was +ever joined to it & the tears of mankind formed a vast sea ever blown +on by its sighs & seldom illuminated by its smiles--Such taking only +one side of the picture & shutting wisdom from the view is a just +portraiture of the creation as seen on earth + +But when I compared the good & evil of the world & wished to divide +them into two seperate principles I found them inextricably intwined +together & I was again cast into perplexity & doubt--I might have +considered the earth as an imperfect formation where having bad +materials to work on the Creator could only palliate the evil effects +of his combinations but I saw a wanton malignity in many parts & +particularly in the mind of man that baffled me a delight in mischief +a love of evil for evils sake--a siding of the multitude--a dastardly +applause which in their hearts the crowd gave to triumphant +wick[ed]ness over lowly virtue that filled me with painful sensations. +Meditation, painful & continual thought only encreased my doubts--I +dared not commit the blasphemy of ascribing the slightest evil to a +beneficent God--To whom then should I ascribe the creation? To two +principles? Which was the upermost? They were certainly independant +for neither could the good spirit allow the existence of evil or the +evil one the existence of good--Tired of these doubts to which I could +form no probable solution--Sick of forming theories which I destroyed +as quickly as I built them I was one evening on the top of Hymettus +beholding the lovely prospect as the sun set in the glowing sea--I +looked towards Athens & in my heart I exclaimed--oh busy hive of men! +What heroism & what meaness exists within thy walls! And alas! both to +the good & to the wicked what incalculable misery--Freemen ye call +yourselves yet every free man has ten slaves to build up his +freedom--and these slaves are men as they are yet d[e]graded by their +station to all that is mean & loathsome--Yet in how many hearts now +beating in that city do high thoughts live & magnanimity that should +methinks redeem the whole human race--What though the good man is +unhappy has he not that in his heart to satisfy him? And will a +contented conscience compensate for fallen hopes--a slandered name +torn affections & all the miseries of civilized life?-- + +Oh Sun how beautiful thou art! And how glorious is the golden ocean +that receives thee! My heart is at peace--I feel no sorrow--a holy +love stills my senses--I feel as if my mind also partook of the +inexpressible loveliness of surrounding nature--What shall I do? Shall +I disturb this calm by mingling in the world?--shall I with an aching +heart seek the spectacle of misery to discover its cause or shall I +hopless leave the search of knowledge & devote myself to the pleasures +they say this world affords?--Oh! no--I will become wise! I will study +my own heart--and there discovering as I may the spring of the virtues +I possess I will teach others how to look for them in their own +souls--I will find whence arrises this unquenshable love of beauty I +possess that seems the ruling star of my life--I will learn how I may +direct it aright and by what loving I may become more like that beauty +which I adore And when I have traced the steps of the godlike feeling +which ennobles me & makes me that which I esteem myself to be then I +will teach others & if I gain but one proselyte--if I can teach but +one other mind what is the beauty which they ought to love--and what +is the sympathy to which they ought to aspire what is the true end of +their being--which must be the true end of that of all men then shall +I be satisfied & think I have done enough-- + +Farewell doubts--painful meditation of evil--& the great, ever +inexplicable cause of all that we see--I am content to be ignorant of +all this happy that not resting my mind on any unstable theories I +have come to the conclusion that of the great secret of the universe I +_can know nothing_--There is a veil before it--my eyes are not +piercing enough to see through it my arms not long enough to reach it +to withdraw it--I will study the end of my being--oh thou universal +love inspire me--oh thou beauty which I see glowing around me lift me +to a fit understanding of thee! Such was the conclusion of my long +wanderings I sought the end of my being & I found it to be knowledge +of itself--Nor think this a confined study--Not only did it lead me to +search the mazes of the human soul--but I found that there existed +nought on earth which contained not a part of that universal beauty +with which it [was] my aim & object to become acquainted--the motions +of the stars of heaven the study of all that philosophers have +unfolded of wondrous in nature became as it where [_sic_] the steps by +which my soul rose to the full contemplation & enjoyment of the +beautiful--Oh ye who have just escaped from the world ye know not +what fountains of love will be opened in your hearts or what exquisite +delight your minds will receive when the secrets of the world will be +unfolded to you and ye shall become acquainted with the beauty of the +universe--Your souls now growing eager for the acquirement of +knowledge will then rest in its possession disengaged from every +particle of evil and knowing all things ye will as it were be mingled +in the universe & ye will become a part of that celestial beauty that +you admire--[98] + +Diotima ceased and a profound silence ensued--the youth with his +cheeks flushed and his eyes burning with the fire communicated from +hers still fixed them on her face which was lifted to heaven as in +inspiration--The lovely female bent hers to the ground & after a deep +sigh was the first to break the silence-- + +Oh divinest prophetess, said she--how new & to me how strange are your +lessons--If such be the end of our being how wayward a course did I +pursue on earth--Diotima you know not how torn affections & misery +incalculable misery--withers up the soul. How petty do the actions of +our earthly life appear when the whole universe is opened to our +gaze--yet there our passions are deep & irrisisbable [_sic_] and as we +are floating hopless yet clinging to hope down the impetuous stream +can we perceive the beauty of its banks which alas my soul was too +turbid to reflect--If knowledge is the end of our being why are +passions & feelings implanted in us that hurries [_sic_] us from +wisdom to selfconcentrated misery & narrow selfish feeling? Is it as a +trial? On earth I thought that I had well fulfilled my trial & my last +moments became peaceful with the reflection that I deserved no +blame--but you take from me that feeling--My passions were there my +all to me and the hopeless misery that possessed me shut all love & +all images of beauty from my soul--Nature was to me as the blackest +night & if rays of loveliness ever strayed into my darkness it was +only to draw bitter tears of hopeless anguish from my eyes--Oh on +earth what consolation is there to misery? + +Your heart I fear, replied Diotima, was broken by your sufferings--but +if you had struggled--if when you found all hope of earthly happiness +wither within you while desire of it scorched your soul--if you had +near you a friend to have raised you to the contemplation of beauty & +the search of knowledge you would have found perhaps not new hopes +spring within you but a new life distinct from that of passion by +which you had before existed[99]--relate to me what this misery was +that thus engroses you--tell me what were the vicissitudes of feeling +that you endured on earth--after death our actions & worldly interest +fade as nothing before us but the traces of our feelings exist & the +memories of those are what furnish us here with eternal subject of +meditation. + +A blush spread over the cheek of the lovely girl--Alas, replied she +what a tale must I relate what dark & phre[n]zied passions must I +unfold--When you Diotima lived on earth your soul seemed to mingle in +love only with its own essence & to be unknowing of the various +tortures which that heart endures who if it has not sympathized with +has been witness of the dreadful struggles of a soul enchained by dark +deep passions which were its hell & yet from which it could not +escape--Are there in the peaceful language used by the inhabitants of +these regions--words burning enough to paint the tortures of the human +heart--Can you understand them? or can you in any way sympathize with +them--alas though dead I do and my tears flow as when I lived when my +memory recalls the dreadful images of the past-- + +--As the lovely girl spoke my own eyes filled with bitter drops--the +spirit of Fantasia seemed to fade from within me and when after +placing my hand before my swimming eyes I withdrew it again I found +myself under the trees on the banks of the Tiber--The sun was just +setting & tinging with crimson the clouds that floated over St. +Peters--all was still no human voice was heard--the very air was quiet +I rose--& bewildered with the grief that I felt within me the +recollection of what I had heard--I hastened to the city that I might +see human beings not that I might forget my wandering recollections +but that I might impress on my mind what was reality & what was either +dream--or at least not of this earth--The Corso of Rome was filled +with carriages and as I walked up the Trinita dei' Montes I became +disgusted with the crowd that I saw about me & the vacancy & want of +beauty not to say deformity of the many beings who meaninglessly +buzzed about me--I hastened to my room which overlooked the whole city +which as night came on became tranquil--Silent lovely Rome I now gaze +on thee--thy domes are illuminated by the moon--and the ghosts of +lovely memories float with the night breeze among thy ruins-- +contemplating thy loveliness which half soothes my miserable heart I +record what I have seen--Tomorrow I will again woo Fantasia to lead me +to the same walks & invite her to visit me with her visions which I +before neglected--Oh let me learn this lesson while yet it may be +useful to me that to a mind hopeless & unhappy as mine--a moment of +forgetfullness a moment [in] which it can pass out of itself is worth +a life of painful recollection. + + + + +CHAP. 2 + + +The next morning while sitting on the steps of the temple of +Aesculapius in the Borghese gardens Fantasia again visited me & +smilingly beckoned to me to follow her--My flight was at first heavy +but the breezes commanded by the spirit to convoy me grew stronger as +I advanced--a pleasing languour seized my senses & when I recovered I +found my self by the Elysian fountain near Diotima--The beautiful +female who[m] I had left on the point of narrating her earthly history +seemed to have waited for my return and as soon as I appeared she +spoke thus--[100] + + + + +NOTES TO _THE FIELDS OF FANCY_ + + +[88] Here is printed the opening of _F of F--A_, which contains the +fanciful framework abandoned in _Mathilda_. It has some intrinsic +interest, as it shows that Mary as well as Shelley had been reading +Plato, and especially as it reveals the close connection of the +writing of _Mathilda_ with Mary's own grief and depression. The first +chapter is a fairly good rough draft. Punctuation, to be sure, +consists largely of dashes or is non-existent, and there are some +corrections. But there are not as many changes as there are in the +remainder of this MS or in _F of F--B_. + +[89] It was in Rome that Mary's oldest child, William, died on June 7, +1819. + +[90] Cf. two entries in Mary Shelley's journal. An unpublished entry +for October 27, 1822, reads: "Before when I wrote Mathilda, miserable +as I was, the inspiration was sufficient to quell my wretchedness +temporarily." Another entry, that for December 2, 1834, is quoted in +abbreviated and somewhat garbled form by R. Glynn Grylls in _Mary +Shelley_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1938), p. 194, and +reprinted by Professor Jones (_Journal_, p. 203). The full passage +follows: "Little harm has my imagination done to me & how much +good!--My poor heart pierced through & through has found balm from +it--it has been the aegis to my sensibility--Sometimes there have been +periods when Misery has pushed it aside--& those indeed were periods I +shudder to remember--but the fairy only stept aside, she watched her +time--& at the first opportunity her ... beaming face peeped in, & the +weight of deadly woe was lightened." + +[91] An obvious reference to _Frankenstein_. + +[92] With the words of Fantasia (and those of Diotima), cf. the +association of wisdom and virtue in Plato's _Phaedo_, the myth of Er +in the _Republic_, and the doctrine of love and beauty in the +_Symposium_. + +[93] See Plato's _Symposium_. According to Mary's note in her edition +of Shelley's _Essays, Letters from Abroad, etc_. (1840), Shelley +planned to use the name for the instructress of the Stranger in his +unfinished prose tale, _The Coliseum_, which was written before +_Mathilda_, in the winter of 1818-1819. Probably at this same time +Mary was writing an unfinished (and unpublished) tale about Valerius, +an ancient Roman brought back to life in modern Rome. Valerius, like +Shelley's Stranger, was instructed by a woman whom he met in the +Coliseum. Mary's story is indebted to Shelley's in other ways as well. + +[94] Mathilda. + +[95] I cannot find a prototype for this young man, though in some ways +he resembles Shelley. + +[96] Following this paragraph is an incomplete one which is scored out +in the MS. The comment on the intricacy of modern life is interesting. +Mary wrote: "The world you have just quitted she said is one of doubt +& perplexity often of pain & misery--The modes of suffering seem to +me to be much multiplied there since I made one of the throng & +modern feelings seem to have acquired an intracacy then unknown but +now the veil is torn aside--the events that you felt deeply on earth +have passed away & you see them in their nakedness all but your +knowledge & affections have passed away as a dream you now wonder at +the effect trifles had on you and that the events of so passing a +scene should have interested you so deeply--You complain, my friends +of the" + +[97] The word is blotted and virtually illegible. + +[98] With Diotima's conclusion here cf. her words in the _Symposium_: +"When any one ascending from a correct system of Love, begins to +contemplate this supreme beauty, he already touches the consummation +of his labour. For such as discipline themselves upon this system, or +are conducted by another beginning to ascend through these transitory +objects which are beautiful, towards that which is beauty itself, +proceeding as on steps from the love of one form to that of two, and +from that of two, to that of all forms which are beautiful; and from +beautiful forms to beautiful habits and institutions, and from +institutions to beautiful doctrines; until, from the meditation of +many doctrines, they arrive at that which is nothing else than the +doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the knowledge and +contemplation of which at length they repose." (Shelley's translation) +Love, beauty, and self-knowledge are keywords not only in Plato but in +Shelley's thought and poetry, and he was much concerned with the +problem of the presence of good and evil. Some of these themes are +discussed by Woodville in _Mathilda_. The repetition may have been one +reason why Mary discarded the framework. + +[99] Mathilda did have such a friend, but, as she admits, she profited +little from his teachings. + +[100] In _F of F--B_ there is another, longer version (three and a +half pages) of this incident, scored out, recounting the author's +return to the Elysian gardens, Diotima's consolation of Mathilda, and +her request for Mathilda's story. After wandering through the alleys +and woods adjacent to the gardens, the author came upon Diotima seated +beside Mathilda. "It is true indeed she said our affections outlive +our earthly forms and I can well sympathize in your disappointment +that you do not find what you loved in the life now ended to welcome +you here[.] But one day you will all meet how soon entirely depends +upon yourself--It is by the acquirement of wisdom and the loss of the +selfishness that is now attached to the sole feeling that possesses +you that you will at last mingle in that universal world of which we +all now make a divided part." Diotima urges Mathilda to tell her +story, and she, hoping that by doing so she will break the bonds that +weigh heavily upon her, proceeds to "tell this history of strange +woe." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mathilda, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA *** + +***** This file should be named 15238-8.txt or 15238-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/2/3/15238/ + +Produced by David Starner, Cori Samuel and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mathilda + +Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley + +Release Date: March 2, 2005 [EBook #15238] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA *** + + + + +Produced by David Starner, Cori Samuel and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + +MATHILDA + +By MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY + +Edited by ELIZABETH NITCHIE + + +THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA PRESS +CHAPEL HILL + +Mathilda _is being published +in paper as Extra Series #3 +of_ Studies in Philology. + + + + +PREFACE + + +This volume prints for the first time the full text of Mary Shelley's +novelette _Mathilda_ together with the opening pages of its rough +draft, _The Fields of Fancy_. They are transcribed from the microfilm +of the notebooks belonging to Lord Abinger which is in the library of +Duke University. + +The text follows Mary Shelley's manuscript exactly except for the +omission of mere corrections by the author, most of which are +negligible; those that are significant are included and explained in +the notes. Footnotes indicated by an asterisk are Mrs. Shelley's own +notes. She was in general a fairly good speller, but certain words, +especially those in which there was a question of doubling or not +doubling a letter, gave her trouble: untill (though occasionally she +deleted the final _l_ or wrote the word correctly), agreable, occured, +confering, buble, meaness, receeded, as well as hopless, lonly, +seperate, extactic, sacrifise, desart, and words ending in -ance or +-ence. These and other mispellings (even those of proper names) are +reproduced without change or comment. The use of _sic_ and of square +brackets is reserved to indicate evident slips of the pen, obviously +incorrect, unclear, or incomplete phrasing and punctuation, and my +conjectures in emending them. + +I am very grateful to the library of Duke University and to its +librarian, Dr. Benjamin E. Powell, not only for permission to +transcribe and publish this work by Mary Shelley but also for the many +courtesies shown to me when they welcomed me as a visiting scholar in +1956. To Lord Abinger also my thanks are due for adding his approval +of my undertaking, and to the Curators of the Bodleian Library for +permiting me to use and to quote from the papers in the reserved +Shelley Collection. Other libraries and individuals helped me while I +was editing _Mathilda_: the Enoch Pratt Free Library of Baltimore, +whose Literature and Reference Departments went to endless trouble for +me; the Julia Rogers Library of Goucher College and its staff; the +library of the University of Pennsylvania; Miss R. Glynn Grylls (Lady +Mander); Professor Lewis Patton of Duke University; Professor +Frederick L. Jones of the University of Pennsylvania; and many other +persons who did me favors that seemed to them small but that to me +were very great. + +I owe much also to previous books by and about the Shelleys. Those to +which I have referred more than once in the introduction and notes are +here given with the abbreviated form which I have used: + +Frederick L. Jones, ed. _The Letters of Mary W. Shelley_, 2 vols. +Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1944 (_Letters_) + +---- _Mary Shelley's Journal_. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, +1947 (_Journal_) + +Roger Ingpen and W.E. Peck, eds. _The Complete Works of Percy Bysshe +Shelley_, Julian Edition, 10 vols. London, 1926-1930 (Julian _Works_) + +Newman Ivey White. _Shelley_, 2 vols. New York: Knopf, 1940 (White, +_Shelley_) + +Elizabeth Nitchie. _Mary Shelley, Author of "Frankenstein."_ New +Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1953 (Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_) + +ELIZABETH NITCHIE + +May, 1959 + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + +PREFACE iii + +INTRODUCTION vii + +MATHILDA 1 + +NOTES TO MATHILDA 81 + +THE FIELDS OF FANCY 90 + +NOTES TO THE FIELDS OF FANCY 103 + + +INTRODUCTION + +Of all the novels and stories which Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley left +in manuscript,[i] only one novelette, _Mathilda_, is complete. It +exists in both rough draft and final copy. In this story, as in all +Mary Shelley's writing, there is much that is autobiographical: it +would be hard to find a more self-revealing work. For an understanding +of Mary's character, especially as she saw herself, and of her +attitude toward Shelley and toward Godwin in 1819, this tale is an +important document. Although the main narrative, that of the father's +incestuous love for his daughter, his suicide, and Mathilda's +consequent withdrawal from society to a lonely heath, is not in any +real sense autobiographical, many elements in it are drawn from +reality. The three main characters are clearly Mary herself, Godwin, +and Shelley, and their relations can easily be reassorted to +correspond with actuality. + +Highly personal as the story was, Mary Shelley hoped that it would be +published, evidently believing that the characters and the situations +were sufficiently disguised. In May of 1820 she sent it to England by +her friends, the Gisbornes, with a request that her father would +arrange for its publication. But _Mathilda_, together with its rough +draft entitled _The Fields of Fancy_, remained unpublished among the +Shelley papers. Although Mary's references to it in her letters and +journal aroused some curiosity among scholars, it also remained +unexamined until comparatively recently. + +This seeming neglect was due partly to the circumstances attending the +distribution of the family papers after the deaths of Sir Percy and +Lady Shelley. One part of them went to the Bodleian Library to become +a reserved collection which, by the terms of Lady Shelley's will, was +opened to scholars only under definite restrictions. Another part went +to Lady Shelley's niece and, in turn, to her heirs, who for a time did +not make the manuscripts available for study. A third part went to Sir +John Shelley-Rolls, the poet's grand-nephew, who released much +important Shelley material, but not all the scattered manuscripts. In +this division, the two notebooks containing the finished draft of +_Mathilda_ and a portion of _The Fields of Fancy_ went to Lord +Abinger, the notebook containing the remainder of the rough draft to +the Bodleian Library, and some loose sheets containing additions and +revisions to Sir John Shelley-Rolls. Happily all the manuscripts are +now accessible to scholars, and it is possible to publish the full +text of _Mathilda_ with such additions from _The Fields of Fancy_ as +are significant.[ii] + +The three notebooks are alike in format.[iii] One of Lord Abinger's +notebooks contains the first part of _The Fields of Fancy_, Chapter 1 +through the beginning of Chapter 10, 116 pages. The concluding portion +occupies the first fifty-four pages of the Bodleian notebook. There is +then a blank page, followed by three and a half pages, scored out, of +what seems to be a variant of the end of Chapter 1 and the beginning +of Chapter 2. A revised and expanded version of the first part of +Mathilda's narrative follows (Chapter 2 and the beginning of Chapter +3), with a break between the account of her girlhood in Scotland and +the brief description of her father after his return. Finally there +are four pages of a new opening, which was used in _Mathilda_. This is +an extremely rough draft: punctuation is largely confined to the dash, +and there are many corrections and alterations. The Shelley-Rolls +fragments, twenty-five sheets or slips of paper, usually represent +additions to or revisions of _The Fields of Fancy_: many of them are +numbered, and some are keyed into the manuscript in Lord Abinger's +notebook. Most of the changes were incorporated in _Mathilda_. + +The second Abinger notebook contains the complete and final draft of +_Mathilda_, 226 pages. It is for the most part a fair copy. The text +is punctuated and there are relatively few corrections, most of them, +apparently the result of a final rereading, made to avoid the +repetition of words. A few additions are written in the margins. On +several pages slips of paper containing evident revisions (quite +possibly originally among the Shelley-Rolls fragments) have been +pasted over the corresponding lines of the text. An occasional passage +is scored out and some words and phrases are crossed out to make way +for a revision. Following page 216, four sheets containing the +conclusion of the story are cut out of the notebook. They appear, the +pages numbered 217 to 223, among the Shelley-Rolls fragments. A +revised version, pages 217 to 226, follows the cut.[iv] + +The mode of telling the story in the final draft differs radically +from that in the rough draft. In _The Fields of Fancy_ Mathilda's +history is set in a fanciful framework. The author is transported by +the fairy Fantasia to the Elysian Fields, where she listens to the +discourse of Diotima and meets Mathilda. Mathilda tells her story, +which closes with her death. In the final draft this unrealistic and +largely irrelevant framework is discarded: Mathilda, whose death is +approaching, writes out for her friend Woodville the full details of +her tragic history which she had never had the courage to tell him in +person. + +The title of the rough draft, _The Fields of Fancy_, and the setting +and framework undoubtedly stem from Mary Wollstonecraft's unfinished +tale, _The Cave of Fancy_, in which one of the souls confined in the +center of the earth to purify themselves from the dross of their +earthly existence tells to Sagesta (who may be compared with Diotima) +the story of her ill-fated love for a man whom she hopes to rejoin +after her purgation is completed.[v] Mary was completely familiar with +her mother's works. This title was, of course, abandoned when the +framework was abandoned, and the name of the heroine was substituted. +Though it is worth noticing that Mary chose a name with the same +initial letter as her own, it was probably taken from Dante. There are +several references in the story to the cantos of the _Purgatorio_ in +which Mathilda appears. Mathilda's father is never named, nor is +Mathilda's surname given. The name of the poet went through several +changes: Welford, Lovel, Herbert, and finally Woodville. + +The evidence for dating _Mathilda_ in the late summer and autumn of +1819 comes partly from the manuscript, partly from Mary's journal. On +the pages succeeding the portions of _The Fields of Fancy_ in the +Bodleian notebook are some of Shelley's drafts of verse and prose, +including parts of _Prometheus Unbound_ and of _Epipsychidion_, both +in Italian, and of the preface to the latter in English, some prose +fragments, and extended portions of the _Defence of Poetry_. Written +from the other end of the book are the _Ode to Naples_ and _The Witch +of Atlas_. Since these all belong to the years 1819, 1820, and 1821, +it is probable that Mary finished her rough draft some time in 1819, +and that when she had copied her story, Shelley took over the +notebook. Chapter 1 of _Mathilda_ in Lord Abinger's notebook is +headed, "Florence Nov. 9th. 1819." Since the whole of Mathilda's story +takes place in England and Scotland, the date must be that of the +manuscript. Mary was in Florence at that time. + +These dates are supported by entries in Mary's journal which indicate +that she began writing _Mathilda_, early in August, while the Shelleys +were living in the Villa Valosano, near Leghorn. On August 4, 1819, +after a gap of two months from the time of her little son's death, she +resumed her diary. Almost every day thereafter for a month she +recorded, "Write," and by September 4, she was saying, "Copy." On +September 12 she wrote, "Finish copying my Tale." The next entry to +indicate literary activity is the one word, "write," on November 8. On +the 12th Percy Florence was born, and Mary did no more writing until +March, when she was working on _Valperga_. It is probable, therefore, +that Mary wrote and copied _Mathilda_ between August 5 and September +12, 1819, that she did some revision on November 8 and finally dated +the manuscript November 9. + +The subsequent history of the manuscript is recorded in letters and +journals. When the Gisbornes went to England on May 2, 1820, they took +_Mathilda_ with them; they read it on the journey and recorded their +admiration of it in their journal.[vi] They were to show it to Godwin +and get his advice about publishing it. Although Medwin heard about +the story when he was with the Shelleys in 1820[vii] and Mary read +it--perhaps from the rough draft--to Edward and Jane Williams in the +summer of 1821,[viii] this manuscript apparently stayed in Godwin's +hands. He evidently did not share the Gisbornes' enthusiasm: his +approval was qualified. He thought highly of certain parts of it, less +highly of others; and he regarded the subject as "disgusting and +detestable," saying that the story would need a preface to prevent +readers "from being tormented by the apprehension ... of the fall of +the heroine,"--that is, if it was ever published.[ix] There is, +however, no record of his having made any attempt to get it into +print. From January 18 through June 2, 1822, Mary repeatedly asked +Mrs. Gisborne to retrieve the manuscript and have it copied for her, +and Mrs. Gisborne invariably reported her failure to do so. The last +references to the story are after Shelley's death in an unpublished +journal entry and two of Mary's letters. In her journal for October +27, 1822, she told of the solace for her misery she had once found in +writing _Mathilda_. In one letter to Mrs. Gisborne she compared the +journey of herself and Jane to Pisa and Leghorn to get news of Shelley +and Williams to that of Mathilda in search of her father, +"driving--(like Matilda), towards the _sea_ to learn if we were to be +for ever doomed to misery."[x] And on May 6, 1823, she wrote, "Matilda +foretells even many small circumstances most truly--and the whole of +it is a monument of what now is."[xi] + +These facts not only date the manuscript but also show Mary's feeling +of personal involvement in the story. In the events of 1818-1819 it is +possible to find the basis for this morbid tale and consequently to +assess its biographical significance. + +On September 24, 1818, the Shelleys' daughter, Clara Everina, barely a +year old, died at Venice. Mary and her children had gone from Bagni di +Lucca to Este to join Shelley at Byron's villa. Clara was not well +when they started, and she grew worse on the journey. From Este +Shelley and Mary took her to Venice to consult a physician, a trip +which was beset with delays and difficulties. She died almost as soon +as they arrived. According to Newman Ivey White,[xii] Mary, in the +unreasoning agony of her grief, blamed Shelley for the child's death +and for a time felt toward him an extreme physical antagonism which +subsided into apathy and spiritual alienation. Mary's black moods made +her difficult to live with, and Shelley himself fell into deep +dejection. He expressed his sense of their estrangement in some of the +lyrics of 1818--"all my saddest poems." In one fragment of verse, for +example, he lamented that Mary had left him "in this dreary world +alone." + + Thy form is here indeed--a lovely one-- + But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road, + That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode. + Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, + Where + For thine own sake I cannot follow thee. + +Professor White believed that Shelley recorded this estrangement only +"in veiled terms" in _Julian and Maddalo_ or in poems that he did not +show to Mary, and that Mary acknowledged it only after Shelley's +death, in her poem "The Choice" and in her editorial notes on his +poems of that year. But this unpublished story, written after the +death of their other child William, certainly contains, though also in +veiled terms, Mary's immediate recognition and remorse. Mary well +knew, I believe, what she was doing to Shelley. In an effort to purge +her own emotions and to acknowledge her fault, she poured out on the +pages of _Mathilda_ the suffering and the loneliness, the bitterness +and the self-recrimination of the past months. + +The biographical elements are clear: Mathilda is certainly Mary +herself; Mathilda's father is Godwin; Woodville is an idealized +Shelley. + +Like Mathilda Mary was a woman of strong passions and affections which +she often hid from the world under a placid appearance. Like +Mathilda's, Mary's mother had died a few days after giving her birth. +Like Mathilda she spent part of her girlhood in Scotland. Like +Mathilda she met and loved a poet of "exceeding beauty," and--also +like Mathilda--in that sad year she had treated him ill, having become +"captious and unreasonable" in her sorrow. Mathilda's loneliness, +grief, and remorse can be paralleled in Mary's later journal and in +"The Choice." This story was the outlet for her emotions in 1819. + +Woodville, the poet, is virtually perfect, "glorious from his youth," +like "an angel with winged feet"--all beauty, all goodness, all +gentleness. He is also successful as a poet, his poem written at the +age of twenty-three having been universally acclaimed. Making +allowance for Mary's exaggeration and wishful thinking, we easily +recognize Shelley: Woodville has his poetic ideals, the charm of his +conversation, his high moral qualities, his sense of dedication and +responsibility to those he loved and to all humanity. He is Mary's +earliest portrait of her husband, drawn in a year when she was slowly +returning to him from "the hearth of pale despair." + +The early circumstances and education of Godwin and of Mathilda's +father were different. But they produced similar men, each +extravagant, generous, vain, dogmatic. There is more of Godwin in this +tale than the account of a great man ruined by character and +circumstance. The relationship between father and daughter, before it +was destroyed by the father's unnatural passion, is like that between +Godwin and Mary. She herself called her love for him "excessive and +romantic."[xiii] She may well have been recording, in Mathilda's +sorrow over her alienation from her father and her loss of him by +death, her own grief at a spiritual separation from Godwin through +what could only seem to her his cruel lack of sympathy. He had accused +her of being cowardly and insincere in her grief over Clara's +death[xiv] and later he belittled her loss of William.[xv] He had also +called Shelley "a disgraceful and flagrant person" because of +Shelley's refusal to send him more money.[xvi] No wonder if Mary felt +that, like Mathilda, she had lost a beloved but cruel father. + +Thus Mary took all the blame for the rift with Shelley upon herself +and transferred the physical alienation to the break in sympathy with +Godwin. That she turned these facts into a story of incest is +undoubtedly due to the interest which she and Shelley felt in the +subject at this time. They regarded it as a dramatic and effective +theme. In August of 1819 Shelley completed _The Cenci_. During its +progress he had talked over with Mary the arrangement of scenes; he +had even suggested at the outset that she write the tragedy herself. +And about a year earlier he had been urging upon her a translation of +Alfieri's _Myrrha_. Thomas Medwin, indeed, thought that the story +which she was writing in 1819 was specifically based on _Myrrha_. That +she was thinking of that tragedy while writing _Mathilda_ is evident +from her effective use of it at one of the crises in the tale. And +perhaps she was remembering her own handling of the theme when she +wrote the biographical sketch of Alfieri for Lardner's _Cabinet +Cyclopaedia_ nearly twenty years later. She then spoke of the +difficulties inherent in such a subject, "inequality of age adding to +the unnatural incest. To shed any interest over such an attachment, +the dramatist ought to adorn the father with such youthful attributes +as would be by no means contrary to probability."[xvii] This she +endeavored to do in _Mathilda_ (aided indeed by the fact that the +situation was the reverse of that in _Myrrha_). Mathilda's father was +young: he married before he was twenty. When he returned to Mathilda, +he still showed "the ardour and freshness of feeling incident to +youth." He lived in the past and saw his dead wife reincarnated in his +daughter. Thus Mary attempts to validate the situation and make it "by +no means contrary to probability." + +_Mathilda_ offers a good example of Mary Shelley's methods of +revision. A study of the manuscript shows that she was a careful +workman, and that in polishing this bizarre story she strove +consistently for greater credibility and realism, more dramatic (if +sometimes melodramatic) presentation of events, better motivation, +conciseness, and exclusion of purple passages. In the revision and +rewriting, many additions were made, so that _Mathilda_ is appreciably +longer than _The Fields of Fancy_. But the additions are usually +improvements: a much fuller account of Mathilda's father and mother +and of their marriage, which makes of them something more than lay +figures and to a great extent explains the tragedy; development of the +character of the Steward, at first merely the servant who accompanies +Mathilda in her search for her father, into the sympathetic confidant +whose responses help to dramatise the situation; an added word or +short phrase that marks Mary Shelley's penetration into the motives +and actions of both Mathilda and her father. Therefore _Mathilda_ does +not impress the reader as being longer than _The Fields of Fancy_ +because it better sustains his interest. And with all the additions +there are also effective omissions of the obvious, of the +tautological, of the artificially elaborate.[xviii] + +The finished draft, _Mathilda_, still shows Mary Shelley's faults as a +writer: verbosity, loose plotting, somewhat stereotyped and +extravagant characterization. The reader must be tolerant of its +heroine's overwhelming lamentations. But she is, after all, in the +great tradition of romantic heroines: she compares her own weeping to +that of Boccaccio's Ghismonda over the heart of Guiscardo. If the +reader can accept Mathilda on her own terms, he will find not only +biographical interest in her story but also intrinsic merits: a +feeling for character and situation and phrasing that is often +vigorous and precise. + + +Footnotes: + +[i] They are listed in Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, Appendix II, pp. +205-208. To them should be added an unfinished and unpublished novel, +_Cecil_, in Lord Abinger's collection. + +[ii] On the basis of the Bodleian notebook and some information about +the complete story kindly furnished me by Miss R. Glynn Grylls, I +wrote an article, "Mary Shelley's _Mathilda_, an Unpublished Story and +Its Biographical Significance," which appeared in _Studies in +Philology_, XL (1943), 447-462. When the other manuscripts became +available, I was able to use them for my book, _Mary Shelley_, and to +draw conclusions more certain and well-founded than the conjectures I +had made ten years earlier. + +[iii] A note, probably in Richard Garnett's hand, enclosed in a MS box +with the two notebooks in Lord Abinger's collection describes them as +of Italian make with "slanting head bands, inserted through the +covers." Professor Lewis Patton's list of the contents of the +microfilms in the Duke University Library (_Library Notes_, No. 27, +April, 1953) describes them as vellum bound, the back cover of the +_Mathilda_ notebook being missing. Lord Abinger's notebooks are on +Reel 11. The Bodleian notebook is catalogued as MSS. Shelley d. 1, the +Shelley-Rolls fragments as MSS. Shelley adds c. 5. + +[iv] See note 83 to _Mathilda_, page 89. + +[v] See _Posthumous Works of the Author of a Vindication of the Rights +of Woman_ (4 vols., London, 1798), IV, 97-155. + +[vi] See _Maria Gisborne & Edward E. Williams ... Their Journals and +Letters_, ed. by Frederick L. Jones (Norman: University of Oklahoma +Press, [1951]), p. 27. + +[vii] See Thomas Medwin, _The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley_, revised, +with introduction and notes by H. Buxton Forman (London, 1913), p. +252. + +[viii] _Journal_, pp. 159, 160. + +[ix] _Maria Gisborne, etc._, pp. 43-44. + +[x] _Letters_, I, 182. + +[xi] _Ibid._, I, 224. + +[xii] See White, _Shelley_, II, 40-56. + +[xiii] See _Letters_, II, 88, and note 23 to _Mathilda_. + +[xiv] See _Shelley and Mary_ (4 vols. Privately printed [for Sir Percy +and Lady Shelley], 1882), II, 338A. + +[xv] See Mrs. Julian Marshall, _The Life and Letters of Mary W. +Shelley_ (2 vols. London: Richard Bentley & Son, 1889), I, 255. + +[xvi] Julian _Works_, X, 69. + +[xvii] _Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of +Italy, Spain, and Portugal_ (3 vols., Nos. 63, 71, and 96 of the Rev. +Dionysius Lardner's _Cabinet Cyclopaedia_, London, 1835-1837), II, +291-292. + +[xviii] The most significant revisions are considered in detail in the +notes. The text of the opening of _The Fields of Fancy_, containing +the fanciful framework of the story, later discarded, is printed after +the text of _Mathilda_. + + + + +MATHILDA[1] + + + + +CHAP. I + + +Florence. Nov. 9th 1819 + +It is only four o'clock; but it is winter and the sun has already set: +there are no clouds in the clear, frosty sky to reflect its slant +beams, but the air itself is tinged with a slight roseate colour which +is again reflected on the snow that covers the ground. I live in a +lone cottage on a solitary, wide heath: no voice of life reaches me. I +see the desolate plain covered with white, save a few black patches +that the noonday sun has made at the top of those sharp pointed +hillocks from which the snow, sliding as it fell, lay thinner than on +the plain ground: a few birds are pecking at the hard ice that covers +the pools--for the frost has been of long continuance.[2] + +I am in a strange state of mind.[3] I am alone--quite alone--in the +world--the blight of misfortune has passed over me and withered me; I +know that I am about to die and I feel happy--joyous.--I feel my +pulse; it beats fast: I place my thin hand on my cheek; it burns: +there is a slight, quick spirit within me which is now emitting its +last sparks. I shall never see the snows of another winter--I do +believe that I shall never again feel the vivifying warmth of another +summer sun; and it is in this persuasion that I begin to write my +tragic history. Perhaps a history such as mine had better die with me, +but a feeling that I cannot define leads me on and I am too weak both +in body and mind to resist the slightest impulse. While life was +strong within me I thought indeed that there was a sacred horror in my +tale that rendered it unfit for utterance, and now about to die I +pollute its mystic terrors. It is as the wood of the Eumenides none +but the dying may enter; and Oedipus is about to die.[4] + +What am I writing?--I must collect my thoughts. I do not know that any +will peruse these pages except you, my friend, who will receive them +at my death. I do not address them to you alone because it will give +me pleasure to dwell upon our friendship in a way that would be +needless if you alone read what I shall write. I shall relate my tale +therefore as if I wrote for strangers. You have often asked me the +cause of my solitary life; my tears; and above all of my impenetrable +and unkind silence. In life I dared not; in death I unveil the +mystery. Others will toss these pages lightly over: to you, Woodville, +kind, affectionate friend, they will be dear--the precious memorials +of a heart-broken girl who, dying, is still warmed by gratitude +towards you:[5] your tears will fall on the words that record my +misfortunes; I know they will--and while I have life I thank you for +your sympathy. + +But enough of this. I will begin my tale: it is my last task, and I +hope I have strength sufficient to fulfill it. I record no crimes; my +faults may easily be pardoned; for they proceeded not from evil motive +but from want of judgement; and I believe few would say that they +could, by a different conduct and superior wisdom, have avoided the +misfortunes to which I am the victim. My fate has been governed by +necessity, a hideous necessity. It required hands stronger than mine; +stronger I do believe than any human force to break the thick, +adamantine chain that has bound me, once breathing nothing but joy, +ever possessed by a warm love & delight in goodness,--to misery only +to be ended, and now about to be ended, in death. But I forget myself, +my tale is yet untold. I will pause a few moments, wipe my dim eyes, +and endeavour to lose the present obscure but heavy feeling of +unhappiness in the more acute emotions of the past.[6] + +I was born in England. My father was a man of rank:[7] he had lost his +father early, and was educated by a weak mother with all the +indulgence she thought due to a nobleman of wealth. He was sent to +Eton and afterwards to college; & allowed from childhood the free use +of large sums of money; thus enjoying from his earliest youth the +independance which a boy with these advantages, always acquires at a +public school. + +Under the influence of these circumstances his passions found a deep +soil wherein they might strike their roots and flourish either as +flowers or weeds as was their nature. By being always allowed to act +for himself his character became strongly and early marked and +exhibited a various surface on which a quick sighted observer might +see the seeds of virtues and of misfortunes. His careless +extravagance, which made him squander immense sums of money to satisfy +passing whims, which from their apparent energy he dignified with the +name of passions, often displayed itself in unbounded generosity. Yet +while he earnestly occupied himself about the wants of others his own +desires were gratified to their fullest extent. He gave his money, but +none of his own wishes were sacrifised to his gifts; he gave his time, +which he did not value, and his affections which he was happy in any +manner to have called into action. + +I do not say that if his own desires had been put in competition with +those of others that he would have displayed undue selfishness, but +this trial was never made. He was nurtured in prosperity and attended +by all its advantages; every one loved him and wished to gratify him. +He was ever employed in promoting the pleasures of his companions--but +their pleasures were his; and if he bestowed more attention upon the +feelings of others than is usual with schoolboys it was because his +social temper could never enjoy itself if every brow was not as free +from care as his own. + +While at school, emulation and his own natural abilities made him hold +a conspicuous rank in the forms among his equals; at college he +discarded books; he believed that he had other lessons to learn than +those which they could teach him. He was now to enter into life and he +was still young enough to consider study as a school-boy shackle, +employed merely to keep the unruly out of mischief but as having no +real connexion with life--whose wisdom of riding--gaming &c. he +considered with far deeper interest--So he quickly entered into all +college follies although his heart was too well moulded to be +contaminated by them--it might be light but it was never cold. He was +a sincere and sympathizing friend--but he had met with none who +superior or equal to himself could aid him in unfolding his mind, or +make him seek for fresh stores of thought by exhausting the old ones. +He felt himself superior in quickness of judgement to those around +him: his talents, his rank and wealth made him the chief of his party, +and in that station he rested not only contented but glorying, +conceiving it to be the only ambition worthy for him to aim at in the +world. + +By a strange narrowness of ideas he viewed all the world in connexion +only as it was or was not related to his little society. He considered +queer and out of fashion all opinions that were exploded by his circle +of intimates, and he became at the same time dogmatic and yet fearful +of not coinciding with the only sentiments he could consider orthodox. +To the generality of spectators he appeared careless of censure, and +with high disdain to throw aside all dependance on public prejudices; +but at the same time that he strode with a triumphant stride over the +rest of the world, he cowered, with self disguised lowliness, to his +own party, and although its [chi]ef never dared express an opinion or +a feeling until he was assured that it would meet with the approbation +of his companions. + +Yet he had one secret hidden from these dear friends; a secret he had +nurtured from his earliest years, and although he loved his fellow +collegiates he would not trust it to the delicacy or sympathy of any +one among them. He loved. He feared that the intensity of his passion +might become the subject of their ridicule; and he could not bear that +they should blaspheme it by considering that trivial and transitory +which he felt was the life of his life. + +There was a gentleman of small fortune who lived near his family +mansion who had three lovely daughters. The eldest was far the most +beautiful, but her beauty was only an addition to her other +qualities--her understanding was clear & strong and her disposition +angelically gentle. She and my father had been playmates from infancy: +Diana, even in her childhood had been a favourite with his mother; +this partiality encreased with the years of this beautiful and lively +girl and thus during his school & college vacations[8] they were +perpetually together. Novels and all the various methods by which +youth in civilized life are led to a knowledge of the existence of +passions before they really feel them, had produced a strong effect on +him who was so peculiarly susceptible of every impression. At eleven +years of age Diana was his favourite playmate but he already talked +the language of love. Although she was elder than he by nearly two +years the nature of her education made her more childish at least in +the knowledge and expression of feeling; she received his warm +protestations with innocence, and returned them unknowing of what they +meant. She had read no novels and associated only with her younger +sisters, what could she know of the difference between love and +friendship? And when the development of her understanding disclosed +the true nature of this intercourse to her, her affections were +already engaged to her friend, and all she feared was lest other +attractions and fickleness might make him break his infant vows. + +But they became every day more ardent and tender. It was a passion +that had grown with his growth; it had become entwined with every +faculty and every sentiment and only to be lost with life. None knew +of their love except their own two hearts; yet although in all things +else, and even in this he dreaded the censure of his companions, for +thus truly loving one inferior to him in fortune, nothing was ever +able for a moment to shake his purpose of uniting himself to her as +soon as he could muster courage sufficient to meet those difficulties +he was determined to surmount. + +Diana was fully worthy of his deepest affection. There were few who +could boast of so pure a heart, and so much real humbleness of soul +joined to a firm reliance on her own integrity and a belief in that of +others. She had from her birth lived a retired life. She had lost her +mother when very young, but her father had devoted himself to the care +of her education--He had many peculiar ideas which influenced the +system he had adopted with regard to her--She was well acquainted with +the heroes of Greece and Rome or with those of England who had lived +some hundred years ago, while she was nearly ignorant of the passing +events of the day: she had read few authors who had written during at +least the last fifty years but her reading with this exception was +very extensive. Thus although she appeared to be less initiated in the +mysteries of life and society than he her knowledge was of a deeper +kind and laid on firmer foundations; and if even her beauty and +sweetness had not fascinated him her understanding would ever have +held his in thrall. He looked up to her as his guide, and such was his +adoration that he delighted to augment to his own mind the sense of +inferiority with which she sometimes impressed him.[9] + +When he was nineteen his mother died. He left college on this event +and shaking off for a while his old friends he retired to the +neighbourhood of his Diana and received all his consolation from her +sweet voice and dearer caresses. This short seperation from his +companions gave him courage to assert his independance. He had a +feeling that however they might express ridicule of his intended +marriage they would not dare display it when it had taken place; +therefore seeking the consent of his guardian which with some +difficulty he obtained, and of the father of his mistress which was +more easily given, without acquainting any one else of his intention, +by the time he had attained his twentieth birthday he had become the +husband of Diana. + +He loved her with passion and her tenderness had a charm for him that +would not permit him to think of aught but her. He invited some of his +college friends to see him but their frivolity disgusted him. Diana +had torn the veil which had before kept him in his boyhood: he was +become a man and he was surprised how he could ever have joined in the +cant words and ideas of his fellow collegiates or how for a moment he +had feared the censure of such as these. He discarded his old +friendships not from fickleness but because they were indeed unworthy +of him. Diana filled up all his heart: he felt as if by his union with +her he had received a new and better soul. She was his monitress as he +learned what were the true ends of life. It was through her beloved +lessons that he cast off his old pursuits and gradually formed himself +to become one among his fellow men; a distinguished member of society, +a Patriot; and an enlightened lover of truth and virtue.--He loved her +for her beauty and for her amiable disposition but he seemed to love +her more for what he considered her superior wisdom. They studied, +they rode together; they were never seperate and seldom admitted a +third to their society. + +Thus my father, born in affluence, and always prosperous, clombe +without the difficulty and various disappointments that all human +beings seem destined to encounter, to the very topmost pinacle of +happiness: Around him was sunshine, and clouds whose shapes of beauty +made the prospect divine concealed from him the barren reality which +lay hidden below them. From this dizzy point he was dashed at once as +he unawares congratulated himself on his felicity. Fifteen months +after their marriage I was born, and my mother died a few days after +my birth. + +A sister of my father was with him at this period. She was nearly +fifteen years older than he, and was the offspring of a former +marriage of his father. When the latter died this sister was taken by +her maternal relations: they had seldom seen one another, and were +quite unlike in disposition. This aunt, to whose care I was afterwards +consigned, has often related to me the effect that this catastrophe +had on my father's strong and susceptible character. From the moment +of my mother's death untill his departure she never heard him utter a +single word: buried in the deepest melancholy he took no notice of any +one; often for hours his eyes streamed tears or a more fearful gloom +overpowered him. All outward things seemed to have lost their +existence relatively to him and only one circumstance could in any +degree recall him from his motionless and mute despair: he would never +see me. He seemed insensible to the presence of any one else, but if, +as a trial to awaken his sensibility, my aunt brought me into the room +he would instantly rush out with every symptom of fury and +distraction. At the end of a month he suddenly quitted his house and, +unatteneded [_sic_] by any servant, departed from that part of the +country without by word or writing informing any one of his +intentions. My aunt was only relieved of her anxiety concerning his +fate by a letter from him dated Hamburgh. + +How often have I wept over that letter which untill I was sixteen was +the only relick I had to remind me of my parents. "Pardon me," it +said, "for the uneasiness I have unavoidably given you: but while in +that unhappy island, where every thing breathes _her_ spirit whom I +have lost for ever, a spell held me. It is broken: I have quitted +England for many years, perhaps for ever. But to convince you that +selfish feeling does not entirely engross me I shall remain in this +town untill you have made by letter every arrangement that you judge +necessary. When I leave this place do not expect to hear from me: I +must break all ties that at present exist. I shall become a wanderer, +a miserable outcast--alone! alone!"--In another part of the letter he +mentioned me--"As for that unhappy little being whom I could not see, +and hardly dare mention, I leave her under your protection. Take care +of her and cherish her: one day I may claim her at your hands; but +futurity is dark, make the present happy to her." + +My father remained three months at Hamburgh; when he quitted it he +changed his name, my aunt could never discover that which he adopted +and only by faint hints, could conjecture that he had taken the road +of Germany and Hungary to Turkey.[10] + +Thus this towering spirit who had excited interest and high +expectation in all who knew and could value him became at once, as it +were, extinct. He existed from this moment for himself only. His +friends remembered him as a brilliant vision which would never again +return to them. The memory of what he had been faded away as years +passed; and he who before had been as a part of themselves and of +their hopes was now no longer counted among the living. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +I now come to my own story. During the early part of my life there is +little to relate, and I will be brief; but I must be allowed to dwell +a little on the years of my childhood that it may be apparent how when +one hope failed all life was to be a blank; and how when the only +affection I was permitted to cherish was blasted my existence was +extinguished with it. + +I have said that my aunt was very unlike my father. I believe that +without the slightest tinge of a bad heart she had the coldest that +ever filled a human breast: it was totally incapable of any affection. +She took me under her protection because she considered it her duty; +but she had too long lived alone and undisturbed by the noise and +prattle of children to allow that I should disturb her quiet. She had +never been married; and for the last five years had lived perfectly +alone on an estate, that had descended to her through her mother, on +the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland. My father had expressed a wish +in his letters that she should reside with me at his family mansion +which was situated in a beautiful country near Richmond in Yorkshire. +She would not consent to this proposition, but as soon as she had +arranged the affairs which her brother's departure had caused to fall +to her care, she quitted England and took me with her to her scotch +estate. + +The care of me while a baby, and afterwards untill I had reached my +eighth year devolved on a servant of my mother's, who had accompanied +us in our retirement for that purpose. I was placed in a remote part +of the house, and only saw my aunt at stated hours. These occurred +twice a day; once about noon she came to my nursery, and once after +her dinner I was taken to her. She never caressed me, and seemed all +the time I staid in the room to fear that I should annoy her by some +childish freak. My good nurse always schooled me with the greatest +care before she ventured into the parlour--and the awe my aunt's cold +looks and few constrained words inspired was so great that I seldom +disgraced her lessons or was betrayed from the exemplary stillness +which I was taught to observe during these short visits.[11] + +Under my good nurse's care I ran wild about our park and the +neighbouring fields. The offspring of the deepest love I displayed +from my earliest years the greatest sensibility of disposition. I +cannot say with what passion I loved every thing even the inanimate +objects that surrounded me. I believe that I bore an individual +attachment to every tree in our park; every animal that inhabited it +knew me and I loved them. Their occasional deaths filled my infant +heart with anguish. I cannot number the birds that I have saved during +the long and severe winters of that climate; or the hares and rabbits +that I have defended from the attacks of our dogs, or have nursed when +accidentally wounded. + +When I was seven years of age my nurse left me. I now forget the cause +of her departure if indeed I ever knew it. She returned to England, +and the bitter tears she shed at parting were the last I saw flow for +love of me for many years. My grief was terrible: I had no friend but +her in the whole world. By degrees I became reconciled to solitude but +no one supplied her place in my affections. I lived in a desolate +country where + + ------ there were none to praise + And very few to love.[A] + +It is true that I now saw a little more of my aunt, but she was in +every way an unsocial being; and to a timid child she was as a plant +beneath a thick covering of ice; I should cut my hands in endeavouring +to get at it. So I was entirely thrown upon my own resourses. The +neighbouring minister was engaged to give me lessons in reading, +writing and french, but he was without family and his manners even to +me were always perfectly characteristic of the profession in the +exercise of whose functions he chiefly shone, that of a schoolmaster. +I sometimes strove to form friendships with the most attractive of the +girls who inhabited the neighbouring village; but I believe I should +never have succeeded [even] had not my aunt interposed her authority +to prevent all intercourse between me and the peasantry; for she was +fearful lest I should acquire the scotch accent and dialect; a little +of it I had, although great pains was taken that my tongue should not +disgrace my English origin. + +As I grew older my liberty encreased with my desires, and my +wanderings extended from our park to the neighbouring country. Our +house was situated on the shores of the lake and the lawn came down to +the water's edge. I rambled amidst the wild scenery of this lovely +country and became a complete mountaineer: I passed hours on the steep +brow of a mountain that overhung a waterfall or rowed myself in a +little skiff to some one of the islands. I wandered for ever about +these lovely solitudes, gathering flower after flower + + Ond' era pinta tutta la mia via[B] + +singing as I might the wild melodies of the country, or occupied by +pleasant day dreams. My greatest pleasure was the enjoyment of a +serene sky amidst these verdant woods: yet I loved all the changes of +Nature; and rain, and storm, and the beautiful clouds of heaven +brought their delights with them. When rocked by the waves of the lake +my spirits rose in triumph as a horseman feels with pride the motions +of his high fed steed. + +But my pleasures arose from the contemplation of nature alone, I had +no companion: my warm affections finding no return from any other +human heart were forced to run waste on inanimate objects.[12] +Sometimes indeed I wept when my aunt received my caresses with +repulsive coldness, and when I looked round and found none to love; +but I quickly dried my tears. As I grew older books in some degree +supplied the place of human intercourse: the library of my aunt was +very small; Shakespear, Milton, Pope and Cowper were the strangley +[_sic_] assorted poets of her collection; and among the prose authors +a translation of Livy and Rollin's ancient history were my chief +favourites although as I emerged from childhood I found others highly +interesting which I had before neglected as dull. + +When I was twelve years old it occurred to my aunt that I ought to +learn music; she herself played upon the harp. It was with great +hesitation that she persuaded herself to undertake my instruction; yet +believing this accomplishment a necessary part of my education, and +balancing the evils of this measure or of having some one in the house +to instruct me she submitted to the inconvenience. A harp was sent for +that my playing might not interfere with hers, and I began: she found +me a docile and when I had conquered the first rudiments a very apt +scholar. I had acquired in my harp a companion in rainy days; a sweet +soother of my feelings when any untoward accident ruffled them: I +often addressed it as my only friend; I could pour forth to it my +hopes and loves, and I fancied that its sweet accents answered me. I +have now mentioned all my studies. + +I was a solitary being, and from my infant years, ever since my dear +nurse left me, I had been a dreamer. I brought Rosalind and Miranda +and the lady of Comus to life to be my companions, or on my isle acted +over their parts imagining myself to be in their situations. Then I +wandered from the fancies of others and formed affections and +intimacies with the aerial creations of my own brain--but still +clinging to reality I gave a name to these conceptions and nursed them +in the hope of realization. I clung to the memory of my parents; my +mother I should never see, she was dead: but the idea of [my] unhappy, +wandering father was the idol of my imagination. I bestowed on him all +my affections; there was a miniature of him that I gazed on +continually; I copied his last letter and read it again and again. +Sometimes it made me weep; and at other [times] I repeated with +transport those words,--"One day I may claim her at your hands." I was +to be his consoler, his companion in after years. My favourite vision +was that when I grew up I would leave my aunt, whose coldness lulled +my conscience, and disguised like a boy I would seek my father through +the world. My imagination hung upon the scene of recognition; his +miniature, which I should continually wear exposed on my breast, would +be the means and I imaged the moment to my mind a thousand and a +thousand times, perpetually varying the circumstances. Sometimes it +would be in a desart; in a populous city; at a ball; we should perhaps +meet in a vessel; and his first words constantly were, "My daughter, I +love thee"! What extactic moments have I passed in these dreams! How +many tears I have shed; how often have I laughed aloud.[13] + +This was my life for sixteen years. At fourteen and fifteen I often +thought that the time was come when I should commence my pilgrimage, +which I had cheated my own mind into believing was my imperious duty: +but a reluctance to quit my Aunt; a remorse for the grief which, I +could not conceal from myself, I should occasion her for ever +withheld me. Sometimes when I had planned the next morning for my +escape a word of more than usual affection from her lips made me +postpone my resolution. I reproached myself bitterly for what I called +a culpable weakness; but this weakness returned upon me whenever the +critical moment approached, and I never found courage to depart.[14] + + +[A] Wordsworth + +[B] Dante + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +It was on my sixteenth birthday that my aunt received a letter from my +father. I cannot describe the tumult of emotions that arose within me +as I read it. It was dated from London; he had returned![15] I could +only relieve my transports by tears, tears of unmingled joy. He had +returned, and he wrote to know whether my aunt would come to London or +whether he should visit her in Scotland. How delicious to me were the +words of his letter that concerned me: "I cannot tell you," it said, +"how ardently I desire to see my Mathilda. I look on her as the +creature who will form the happiness of my future life: she is all +that exists on earth that interests me. I can hardly prevent myself +from hastening immediately to you but I am necessarily detained a week +and I write because if you come here I may see you somewhat sooner." I +read these words with devouring eyes; I kissed them, wept over them +and exclaimed, "He will love me!"-- + +My aunt would not undertake so long a journey, and in a fortnight we +had another letter from my father, it was dated Edinburgh: he wrote +that he should be with us in three days. "As he approached his desire +of seeing me," he said, "became more and more ardent, and he felt that +the moment when he should first clasp me in his arms would be the +happiest of his life." + +How irksome were these three days to me! All sleep and appetite fled +from me; I could only read and re-read his letter, and in the solitude +of the woods imagine the moment of our meeting. On the eve of the +third day I retired early to my room; I could not sleep but paced all +night about my chamber and, as you may in Scotland at midsummer, +watched the crimson track of the sun as it almost skirted the northern +horizon. At day break I hastened to the woods; the hours past on while +I indulged in wild dreams that gave wings to the slothful steps of +time, and beguiled my eager impatience. My father was expected at noon +but when I wished to return to me[e]t him I found that I had lost my +way: it seemed that in every attempt to find it I only became more +involved in the intracacies of the woods, and the trees hid all trace +by which I might be guided.[16] I grew impatient, I wept; [_sic_] and +wrung my hands but still I could not discover my path. + +It was past two o'clock when by a sudden turn I found myself close to +the lake near a cove where a little skiff was moored--It was not far +from our house and I saw my father and aunt walking on the lawn. I +jumped into the boat, and well accustomed to such feats, I pushed it +from shore, and exerted all my strength to row swiftly across. As I +came, dressed in white, covered only by my tartan _rachan_, my hair +streaming on my shoulders, and shooting across with greater speed that +it could be supposed I could give to my boat, my father has often told +me that I looked more like a spirit than a human maid. I approached +the shore, my father held the boat, I leapt lightly out, and in a +moment was in his arms. + +And now I began to live. All around me was changed from a dull +uniformity to the brightest scene of joy and delight. The happiness I +enjoyed in the company of my father far exceeded my sanguine +expectations. We were for ever together; and the subjects of our +conversations were inexhaustible. He had passed the sixteen years of +absence among nations nearly unknown to Europe; he had wandered +through Persia, Arabia and the north of India and had penetrated among +the habitations of the natives with a freedom permitted to few +Europeans. His relations of their manners, his anecdotes and +descriptions of scenery whiled away delicious hours, when we were +tired of talking of our own plans of future life. + +The voice of affection was so new to me that I hung with delight upon +his words when he told me what he had felt concerning me during these +long years of apparent forgetfulness. "At first"--said he, "I could +not bear to think of my poor little girl; but afterwards as grief wore +off and hope again revisited me I could only turn to her, and amidst +cities and desarts her little fairy form, such as I imagined it, for +ever flitted before me. The northern breeze as it refreshed me was +sweeter and more balmy for it seemed to carry some of your spirit +along with it. I often thought that I would instantly return and take +you along with me to some fertile island where we should live at peace +for ever. As I returned my fervent hopes were dashed by so many fears; +my impatience became in the highest degree painful. I dared not think +that the sun should shine and the moon rise not on your living form +but on your grave. But, no, it is not so; I have my Mathilda, my +consolation, and my hope."-- + +My father was very little changed from what he described himself to be +before his misfortunes. It is intercourse with civilized society; it +is the disappointment of cherished hopes, the falsehood of friends, or +the perpetual clash of mean passions that changes the heart and damps +the ardour of youthful feelings; lonly wanderings in a wild country +among people of simple or savage manners may inure the body but will +not tame the soul, or extinguish the ardour and freshness of feeling +incident to youth. The burning sun of India, and the freedom from all +restraint had rather encreased the energy of his character: before he +bowed under, now he was impatient of any censure except that of his +own mind. He had seen so many customs and witnessed so great a variety +of moral creeds that he had been obliged to form an independant one +for himself which had no relation to the peculiar notions of any one +country: his early prejudices of course influenced his judgement in +the formation of his principles, and some raw colledge ideas were +strangely mingled with the deepest deductions of his penetrating mind. + +The vacuity his heart endured of any deep interest in life during his +long absence from his native country had had a singular effect upon +his ideas. There was a curious feeling of unreality attached by him to +his foreign life in comparison with the years of his youth. All the +time he had passed out of England was as a dream, and all the interest +of his soul[,] all his affections belonged to events which had +happened and persons who had existed sixteen years before. It was +strange when you heard him talk to see how he passed over this lapse +of time as a night of visions; while the remembrances of his youth +standing seperate as they did from his after life had lost none of +their vigour. He talked of my Mother as if she had lived but a few +weeks before; not that he expressed poignant grief, but his +discription of her person, and his relation of all anecdotes connected +with her was thus fervent and vivid. + +In all this there was a strangeness that attracted and enchanted me. +He was, as it were, now awakened from his long, visionary sleep, and +he felt some what like one of the seven sleepers, or like +Nourjahad,[17] in that sweet imitation of an eastern tale: Diana was +gone; his friends were changed or dead, and now on his awakening I was +all that he had to love on earth. + +How dear to me were the waters, and mountains, and woods of Loch +Lomond now that I had so beloved a companion for my rambles. I visited +with my father every delightful spot, either on the islands, or by the +side of the tree-sheltered waterfalls; every shady path, or dingle +entangled with underwood and fern. My ideas were enlarged by his +conversation. I felt as if I were recreated and had about me all the +freshness and life of a new being: I was, as it were, transported +since his arrival from a narrow spot of earth into a universe +boundless to the imagination and the understanding. My life had been +before as a pleasing country rill, never destined to leave its native +fields, but when its task was fulfilled quietly to be absorbed, and +leave no trace. Now it seemed to me to be as a various river flowing +through a fertile and lovely lanscape, ever changing and ever +beautiful. Alas! I knew not the desart it was about to reach; the +rocks that would tear its waters, and the hideous scene that would be +reflected in a more distorted manner in its waves. Life was then +brilliant; I began to learn to hope and what brings a more bitter +despair to the heart than hope destroyed? + +Is it not strange[18] that grief should quickly follow so divine a +happiness? I drank of an enchanted cup but gall was at the bottom of +its long drawn sweetness. My heart was full of deep affection, but it +was calm from its very depth and fulness. I had no idea that misery +could arise from love, and this lesson that all at last must learn was +taught me in a manner few are obliged to receive it. I lament now, I +must ever lament, those few short months of Paradisaical bliss; I +disobeyed no command, I ate no apple, and yet I was ruthlessly driven +from it. Alas! my companion did, and I was precipitated in his +fall.[19] But I wander from my relation--let woe come at its appointed +time; I may at this stage of my story still talk of happiness. + +Three months passed away in this delightful intercourse, when my aunt +fell ill. I passed a whole month in her chamber nursing her, but her +disease was mortal and she died, leaving me for some time +inconsolable, Death is so dreadful to the living;[20] the chains of +habit are so strong even when affection does not link them that the +heart must be agonized when they break. But my father was beside me to +console me and to drive away bitter memories by bright hopes: +methought that it was sweet to grieve that he might dry my tears. + +Then again he distracted my thoughts from my sorrow by comparing it +with his despair when he lost my mother. Even at that time I shuddered +at the picture he drew of his passions: he had the imagination of a +poet, and when he described the whirlwind that then tore his feelings +he gave his words the impress of life so vividly that I believed while +I trembled. I wondered how he could ever again have entered into the +offices of life after his wild thoughts seemed to have given him +affinity with the unearthly; while he spoke so tremendous were the +ideas which he conveyed that it appeared as if the human heart were +far too bounded for their conception. His feelings seemed better +fitted for a spirit whose habitation is the earthquake and the volcano +than for one confined to a mortal body and human lineaments. But these +were merely memories; he was changed since then. He was now all love, +all softness; and when I raised my eyes in wonder at him as he spoke +the smile on his lips told me that his heart was possessed by the +gentlest passions. + +Two months after my aunt's death we removed to London where I was led +by my father to attend to deeper studies than had before occupied me. +My improvement was his delight; he was with me during all my studies +and assisted or joined with me in every lesson. We saw a great deal of +society, and no day passed that my father did not endeavour to +embellish by some new enjoyment. The tender attachment that he bore +me, and the love and veneration with which I returned it cast a charm +over every moment. The hours were slow for each minute was employed; +we lived more in one week than many do in the course of several months +and the variety and novelty of our pleasures gave zest to each. + +We perpetually made excursions together. And whether it were to visit +beautiful scenery, or to see fine pictures, or sometimes for no object +but to seek amusement as it might chance to arise, I was always happy +when near my father. It was a subject of regret to me whenever we were +joined by a third person, yet if I turned with a disturbed look +towards my father, his eyes fixed on me and beaming with tenderness +instantly restored joy to my heart. O, hours of intense delight! Short +as ye were ye are made as long to me as a whole life when looked back +upon through the mist of grief that rose immediately after as if to +shut ye from my view. Alas! ye were the last of happiness that I ever +enjoyed; a few, a very few weeks and all was destroyed. Like +Psyche[21] I lived for awhile in an enchanted palace, amidst odours, +and music, and every luxurious delight; when suddenly I was left on a +barren rock; a wide ocean of despair rolled around me: above all was +black, and my eyes closed while I still inhabited a universal death. +Still I would not hurry on; I would pause for ever on the +recollections of these happy weeks; I would repeat every word, and how +many do I remember, record every enchantment of the faery habitation. +But, no, my tale must not pause; it must be as rapid as was my +fate,--I can only describe in short although strong expressions my +precipitate and irremediable change from happiness to despair.[22] + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Among our most assiduous visitors was a young man of rank, well +informed, and agreable in his person. After we had spent a few weeks +in London his attentions towards me became marked and his visits more +frequent. I was too much taken up by my own occupations and feelings +to attend much to this, and then indeed I hardly noticed more than the +bare surface of events as they passed around me; but I now remember +that my father was restless and uneasy whenever this person visited +us, and when we talked together watched us with the greatest apparent +anxiety although he himself maintained a profound silence. At length +these obnoxious visits suddenly ceased altogether, but from that +moment I must date the change of my father: a change that to remember +makes me shudder and then filled me with the deepest grief. There were +no degrees which could break my fall from happiness to misery; it was +as the stroke of lightning--sudden and entire.[23] Alas! I now met +frowns where before I had been welcomed only with smiles: he, my +beloved father, shunned me, and either treated me with harshness or a +more heart-breaking coldness. We took no more sweet counsel together; +and when I tried to win him again to me, his anger, and the terrible +emotions that he exhibited drove me to silence and tears. + +And this was sudden. The day before we had passed alone together in +the country; I remember we had talked of future travels that we should +undertake together--. There was an eager delight in our tones and +gestures that could only spring from deep & mutual love joined to the +most unrestrained confidence[;] and now the next day, the next hour, I +saw his brows contracted, his eyes fixed in sullen fierceness on the +ground, and his voice so gentle and so dear made me shiver when he +addressed me. Often, when my wandering fancy brought by its various +images now consolation and now aggravation of grief to my heart,[24] I +have compared myself to Proserpine who was gaily and heedlessly +gathering flowers on the sweet plain of Enna, when the King of Hell +snatched her away to the abodes of death and misery. Alas! I who so +lately knew of nought but the joy of life; who had slept only to +dream sweet dreams and awoke to incomparable happiness, I now passed +my days and nights in tears. I who sought and had found joy in the +love-breathing countenance of my father now when I dared fix on him a +supplicating look it was ever answered by an angry frown. I dared not +speak to him; and when sometimes I had worked up courage to meet him +and to ask an explanation one glance at his face where a chaos of +mighty passion seemed for ever struggling made me tremble and shrink +to silence. I was dashed down from heaven to earth as a silly sparrow +when pounced on by a hawk; my eyes swam and my head was bewildered by +the sudden apparition of grief. Day after day[25] passed marked only +by my complaints and my tears; often I lifted my soul in vain prayer +for a softer descent from joy to woe, or if that were denied me that I +might be allowed to die, and fade for ever under the cruel blast that +swept over me, + + ------ for what should I do here, + Like a decaying flower, still withering + Under his bitter words, whose kindly heat + Should give my poor heart life?[C] + +Sometimes I said to myself, this is an enchantment, and I must strive +against it. My father is blinded by some malignant vision which I must +remove. And then, like David, I would try music to win the evil spirit +from him; and once while singing I lifted my eyes towards him and saw +his fixed on me and filled with tears; all his muscles seemed relaxed +to softness. I sprung towards him with a cry of joy and would have +thrown myself into his arms, but he pushed me roughly from him and +left me. And even from this slight incident he contracted fresh gloom +and an additional severity of manner. + +There are many incidents that I might relate which shewed the diseased +yet incomprehensible state of his mind; but I will mention one that +occurred while we were in company with several other persons. On this +occasion I chanced to say that I thought Myrrha the best of Alfieri's +tragedies; as I said this I chanced to cast my eyes on my father and +met his: for the first time the expression of those beloved eyes +displeased me, and I saw with affright that his whole frame shook with +some concealed emotion that in spite of his efforts half conquered +him: as this tempest faded from his soul he became melancholy and +silent. Every day some new scene occured and displayed in him a mind +working as [it] were with an unknown horror that now he could master +but which at times threatened to overturn his reason, and to throw the +bright seat of his intelligence into a perpetual chaos. + +I will not dwell longer than I need on these disastrous +circumstances.[26] I might waste days in describing how anxiously I +watched every change of fleeting circumstance that promised better +days, and with what despair I found that each effort of mine +aggravated his seeming madness. To tell all my grief I might as well +attempt to count the tears that have fallen from these eyes, or every +sign that has torn my heart. I will be brief for there is in all this +a horror that will not bear many words, and I sink almost a second +time to death while I recall these sad scenes to my memory. Oh, my +beloved father! Indeed you made me miserable beyond all words, but how +truly did I even then forgive you, and how entirely did you possess my +whole heart while I endeavoured, as a rainbow gleams upon a +cataract,[D][27] to soften thy tremendous sorrows. + +Thus did this change come about. I seem perhaps to have dashed too +suddenly into the description, but thus suddenly did it happen. In one +sentence I have passed from the idea of unspeakable happiness to that +of unspeakable grief but they were thus closely linked together. We +had remained five months in London three of joy and two of sorrow. My +father and I were now seldom alone or if we were he generally kept +silence with his eyes fixed on the ground--the dark full orbs in which +before I delighted to read all sweet and gentle feeling shadowed from +my sight by their lids and the long lashes that fringed them. When we +were in company he affected gaiety but I wept to hear his hollow +laugh--begun by an empty smile and often ending in a bitter sneer such +as never before this fatal period had wrinkled his lips. When others +were there he often spoke to me and his eyes perpetually followed my +slightest motion. His accents whenever he addressed me were cold and +constrained although his voice would tremble when he perceived that my +full heart choked the answer to words proffered with a mien yet new to +me. + +But days of peaceful melancholy were of rare occurence[:] they were +often broken in upon by gusts of passion that drove me as a weak boat +on a stormy sea to seek a cove for shelter; but the winds blew from my +native harbour and I was cast far, far out untill shattered I perished +when the tempest had passed and the sea was apparently calm. I do not +know that I can describe his emotions: sometimes he only betrayed them +by a word or gesture, and then retired to his chamber and I crept as +near it as I dared and listened with fear to every sound, yet still +more dreading a sudden silence--dreading I knew not what, but ever +full of fear. + +It was after one tremendous day when his eyes had glared on me like +lightning--and his voice sharp and broken seemed unable to express the +extent of his emotion that in the evening when I was alone he joined +me with a calm countenance, and not noticing my tears which I quickly +dried when he approached, told me that in three days that [_sic_] he +intended to remove with me to his estate in Yorkshire, and bidding me +prepare left me hastily as if afraid of being questioned. + +This determination on his part indeed surprised me. This estate was +that which he had inhabited in childhood and near which my mother +resided while a girl; this was the scene of their youthful loves and +where they had lived after their marriage; in happier days my father +had often told me that however he might appear weaned from his widow +sorrow, and free from bitter recollections elsewhere, yet he would +never dare visit the spot where he had enjoyed her society or trust +himself to see the rooms that so many years ago they had inhabited +together; her favourite walks and the gardens the flowers of which she +had delighted to cultivate. And now while he suffered intense misery +he determined to plunge into still more intense, and strove for +greater emotion than that which already tore him. I was perplexed, and +most anxious to know what this portended; ah, what could it po[r]tend +but ruin! + +I saw little of my father during this interval, but he appeared calmer +although not less unhappy than before. On the morning of the third day +he informed me that he had determined to go to Yorkshire first alone, +and that I should follow him in a fortnight unless I heard any thing +from him in the mean time that should contradict this command. He +departed the same day, and four days afterwards I received a letter +from his steward telling me in his name to join him with as little +delay as possible. After travelling day and night I arrived with an +anxious, yet a hoping heart, for why should he send for me if it were +only to avoid me and to treat me with the apparent aversion that he +had in London. I met him at the distance of thirty miles from our +mansion. His demeanour was sad; for a moment he appeared glad to see +me and then he checked himself as if unwilling to betray his feelings. +He was silent during our ride, yet his manner was kinder than before +and I thought I beheld a softness in his eyes that gave me hope. + +When we arrived, after a little rest, he led me over the house and +pointed out to me the rooms which my mother had inhabited. Although +more than sixteen years had passed since her death nothing had been +changed; her work box, her writing desk were still there and in her +room a book lay open on the table as she had left it. My father +pointed out these circumstances with a serious and unaltered mien, +only now and then fixing his deep and liquid eyes upon me; there was +something strange and awful in his look that overcame me, and in spite +of myself I wept, nor did he attempt to console me, but I saw his lips +quiver and the muscles of his countenance seemed convulsed. + +We walked together in the gardens and in the evening when I would have +retired he asked me to stay and read to him; and first said, "When I +was last here your mother read Dante to me; you shall go on where she +left off." And then in a moment he said, "No, that must not be; you +must not read Dante. Do you choose a book." I took up Spencer and read +the descent of Sir Guyon to the halls of Avarice;[28] while he +listened his eyes fixed on me in sad profound silence. + +I heard the next morning from the steward that upon his arrival he had +been in a most terrible state of mind: he had passed the first night +in the garden lying on the damp grass; he did not sleep but groaned +perpetually. "Alas!" said the old man[,] who gave me this account with +tears in his eyes, "it wrings my heart to see my lord in this state: +when I heard that he was coming down here with you, my young lady, I +thought we should have the happy days over again that we enjoyed +during the short life of my lady your mother--But that would be too +much happiness for us poor creatures born to tears--and that was why +she was taken from us so soon; [s]he was too beautiful and good for +us[.] It was a happy day as we all thought it when my lord married +her: I knew her when she was a child and many a good turn has she done +for me in my old lady's time--You are like her although there is more +of my lord in you--But has he been thus ever since his return? All my +joy turned to sorrow when I first beheld him with that melancholy +countenance enter these doors as it were the day after my lady's +funeral--He seemed to recover himself a little after he had bidden me +write to you--but still it is a woful thing to see him so +unhappy."[29] These were the feelings of an old, faithful servant: +what must be those of an affectionate daughter. Alas! Even then my +heart was almost broken. + +We spent two months together in this house. My father spent the +greater part of his time with me; he accompanied me in my walks, +listened to my music, and leant over me as I read or painted. When he +conversed with me his manner was cold and constrained; his eyes only +seemed to speak, and as he turned their black, full lustre towards me +they expressed a living sadness. There was somthing in those dark deep +orbs so liquid, and intense that even in happiness I could never meet +their full gaze that mine did not overflow. Yet it was with sweet +tears; now there was a depth of affliction in their gentle appeal that +rent my heart with sympathy; they seemed to desire peace for me; for +himself a heart patient to suffer; a craving for sympathy, yet a +perpetual self denial. It was only when he was absent from me that his +passion subdued him,--that he clinched his hands--knit his brows--and +with haggard looks called for death to his despair, raving wildly, +untill exhausted he sank down nor was revived untill I joined him. + +While we were in London there was a harshness and sulleness in his +sorrow which had now entirely disappeared. There I shrunk and fled +from him, now I only wished to be with him that I might soothe him to +peace. When he was silent I tried to divert him, and when sometimes I +stole to him during the energy of his passion I wept but did not +desire to leave him. Yet he suffered fearful agony; during the day he +was more calm, but at night when I could not be with him he seemed to +give the reins to his grief: he often passed his nights either on the +floor in my mother's room, or in the garden; and when in the morning +he saw me view with poignant grief his exhausted frame, and his person +languid almost to death with watching he wept; but during all this +time he spoke no word by which I might guess the cause of his +unhappiness[.] If I ventured to enquire he would either leave me or +press his finger on his lips, and with a deprecating look that I could +not resist, turn away. If I wept he would gaze on me in silence but he +was no longer harsh and although he repulsed every caress yet it was +with gentleness. + +He seemed to cherish a mild grief and softer emotions although sad as +a relief from despair--He contrived in many ways to nurse his +melancholy as an antidote to wilder passion[.] He perpetually +frequented the walks that had been favourites with him when he and my +mother wandered together talking of love and happiness; he collected +every relick that remained of her and always sat opposite her picture +which hung in the room fixing on it a look of sad despair--and all +this was done in a mystic and awful silence. If his passion subdued +him he locked himself in his room; and at night when he wandered +restlessly about the house, it was when every other creature slept. + +It may easily be imagined that I wearied myself with conjecture to +guess the cause of his sorrow. The solution that seemed to me the most +probable was that during his residence in London he had fallen in love +with some unworthy person, and that his passion mastered him although +he would not gratify it: he loved me too well to sacrifise me to this +inclination, and that he had now visited this house that by reviving +the memory of my mother whom he so passionately adored he might weaken +the present impression. This was possible; but it was a mere +conjecture unfounded on any fact. Could there be guilt in it? He was +too upright and noble to _do_ aught that his conscience would not +approve; I did not yet know of the crime there may be in involuntary +feeling and therefore ascribed his tumultuous starts and gloomy looks +wholly to the struggles of his mind and not any as they were partly +due to the worst fiend of all--Remorse.[30] + +But still do I flatter myself that this would have passed away. His +paroxisms of passion were terrific but his soul bore him through them +triumphant, though almost destroyed by victory; but the day would +finally have been won had not I, foolish and presumtuous wretch! +hurried him on untill there was no recall, no hope. My rashness gave +the victory in this dreadful fight to the enemy who triumphed over him +as he lay fallen and vanquished. I! I alone was the cause of his +defeat and justly did I pay the fearful penalty. I said to myself, let +him receive sympathy and these struggles will cease. Let him confide +his misery to another heart and half the weight of it will be +lightened. I will win him to me; he shall not deny his grief to me and +when I know his secret then will I pour a balm into his soul and again +I shall enjoy the ravishing delight of beholding his smile, and of +again seeing his eyes beam if not with pleasure at least with gentle +love and thankfulness. This will I do, I said. Half I accomplished; I +gained his secret and we were both lost for ever. + + +[C] Fletcher's comedy of the Captain. + +[D] Lord Byron + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Nearly a year had past since my father's return, and the seasons had +almost finished their round--It was now the end of May; the woods were +clothed in their freshest verdure, and the sweet smell of the new mown +grass was in the fields. I thought that the balmy air and the lovely +face of Nature might aid me in inspiring him with mild sensations, and +give him gentle feelings of peace and love preparatory to the +confidence I determined to win from him. + +I chose therefore the evening of one of these days for my attempt. I +invited him to walk with me, and led him to a neighbouring wood of +beech trees whose light shade shielded us from the slant and dazzling +beams of the descending sun--After walking for some time in silence I +seated my self with him on a mossy hillock--It is strange but even now +I seem to see the spot--the slim and smooth trunks were many of them +wound round by ivy whose shining leaves of the darkest green +contrasted with the white bark and the light leaves of the young +sprouts of beech that grew from their parent trunks--the short grass +was mingled with moss and was partly covered by the dead leaves of the +last autumn that driven by the winds had here and there collected in +little hillocks--there were a few moss grown stumps about--The leaves +were gently moved by the breeze and through their green canopy you +could see the bright blue sky--As evening came on the distant trunks +were reddened by the sun and the wind died entirely away while a few +birds flew past us to their evening rest. + +Well it was here we sat together, and when you hear all that past--all +that of terrible tore our souls even in this placid spot, which but +for strange passions might have been a paradise to us, you will not +wonder that I remember it as I looked on it that its calm might give +me calm, and inspire me not only with courage but with persuasive +words. I saw all these things and in a vacant manner noted them in my +mind[31] while I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts in fitting order +for my attempt. My heart beat fast as I worked myself up to speak to +him, for I was determined not to be repulsed but I trembled to imagine +what effect my words might have on him; at length, with much +hesitation I began:[32] + +"Your kindness to me, my dearest father, and the affection--the +excessive affection--that you had for me when you first returned will +I hope excuse me in your eyes that I dare speak to you, although with +the tender affection of a daughter, yet also with the freedom of a +friend and equal. But pardon me, I entreat you and listen to me: do +not turn away from me; do not be impatient; you may easily intimidate +me into silence, but my heart is bursting, nor can I willingly consent +to endure for one moment longer the agony of uncertitude which for the +last four months has been my portion. + +"Listen to me, dearest friend, and permit me to gain your confidence. +Are the happy days of mutual love which have passed to be to me as a +dream never to return? Alas! You have a secret grief that destroys us +both: but you must permit me to win this secret from you. Tell me, can +I do nothing? You well know that on the whole earth there is no +sacrifise that I would not make, no labour that I would not undergo +with the mere hope that I might bring you ease. But if no endeavour on +my part can contribute to your happiness, let me at least know your +sorrow, and surely my earnest love and deep sympathy must soothe your +despair. + +"I fear that I speak in a constrained manner: my heart is overflowing +with the ardent desire I have of bringing calm once more to your +thoughts and looks; but I fear to aggravate your grief, or to raise +that in you which is death to me, anger and distaste. Do not then +continue to fix your eyes on the earth; raise them on me for I can +read your soul in them: speak to me to me [_sic_], and pardon my +presumption. Alas! I am a most unhappy creature!" + +I was breathless with emotion, and I paused fixing my earnest eyes on +my father, after I had dashed away the intrusive tears that dimmed +them. He did not raise his, but after a short silence he replied to me +in a low voice: "You are indeed presumptuous, Mathilda, presumptuous +and very rash. In the heart of one like me there are secret thoughts +working, and secret tortures which you ought not to seek to discover. +I cannot tell you how it adds to my grief to know that I am the cause +of uneasiness to you; but this will pass away, and I hope that soon we +shall be as we were a few months ago. Restrain your impatience or you +may mar what you attempt to alleviate. Do not again speak to me in +this strain; but wait in submissive patience the event of what is +passing around you." + +"Oh, yes!" I passionately replied, "I will be very patient; I will +not be rash or presumptuous: I will see the agonies, and tears, and +despair of my father, my only friend, my hope, my shelter, I will see +it all with folded arms and downcast eyes. You do not treat me with +candour; it is not true what you say; this will not soon pass away, it +will last forever if you deign not to speak to me; to admit my +consolations. + +"Dearest, dearest father, pity me and pardon me: I entreat you do not +drive me to despair; indeed I must not be repulsed; there is one thing +that which [_sic_] although it may torture me to know, yet that you +must tell me. I demand, and most solemnly I demand if in any way I am +the cause of your unhappiness. Do you not see my tears which I in vain +strive against--You hear unmoved my voice broken by sobs--Feel how my +hand trembles: my whole heart is in the words I speak and you must not +endeavour to silence me by mere words barren of meaning: the agony of +my doubt hurries me on, and you must reply. I beseech you; by your +former love for me now lost, I adjure you to answer that one question. +Am I the cause of your grief?" + +He raised his eyes from the ground, but still turning them away from +me, said: "Besought by that plea I will answer your rash question. +Yes, you are the sole, the agonizing cause of all I suffer, of all I +must suffer untill I die. Now, beware! Be silent! Do not urge me to +your destruction. I am struck by the storm, rooted up, laid waste: but +you can stand against it; you are young and your passions are at +peace. One word I might speak and then you would be implicated in my +destruction; yet that word is hovering on my lips. Oh! There is a +fearful chasm; but I adjure you to beware!" + +"Ah, dearest friend!" I cried, "do not fear! Speak that word; it will +bring peace, not death. If there is a chasm our mutual love will give +us wings to pass it, and we shall find flowers, and verdure, and +delight on the other side." I threw myself at his feet, and took his +hand, "Yes, speak, and we shall be happy; there will no longer be +doubt, no dreadful uncertainty; trust me, my affection will soothe +your sorrow; speak that word and all danger will be past, and we shall +love each other as before, and for ever." + +He snatched his hand from me, and rose in violent disorder: "What do +you mean? You know not what you mean. Why do you bring me out, and +torture me, and tempt me, and kill me--Much happier would [it] be for +you and for me if in your frantic curiosity you tore my heart from my +breast and tried to read its secrets in it as its life's blood was +dropping from it. Thus you may console me by reducing me to +nothing--but your words I cannot bear; soon they will make me mad, +quite mad, and then I shall utter strange words, and you will believe +them, and we shall be both lost for ever. I tell you I am on the very +verge of insanity; why, cruel girl, do you drive me on: you will +repent and I shall die." + +When I repeat his words I wonder at my pertinacious folly; I hardly +know what feelings resis[t]lessly impelled me. I believe it was that +coming out with a determination not to be repulsed I went right +forward to my object without well weighing his replies: I was led by +passion and drew him with frantic heedlessness into the abyss that he +so fearfully avoided--I replied to his terrific words: "You fill me +with affright it is true, dearest father, but you only confirm my +resolution to put an end to this state of doubt. I will not be put off +thus: do you think that I can live thus fearfully from day to day--the +sword in my bosom yet kept from its mortal wound by a hair--a word!--I +demand that dreadful word; though it be as a flash of lightning to +destroy me, speak it. + +"Alas! Alas! What am I become? But a few months have elapsed since I +believed that I was all the world to you; and that there was no +happiness or grief for you on earth unshared by your Mathilda--your +child: that happy time is no longer, and what I most dreaded in this +world is come upon me. In the despair of my heart I see what you +cannot conceal: you no longer love me. I adjure you, my father, has +not an unnatural passion seized upon your heart? Am I not the most +miserable worm that crawls? Do I not embrace your knees, and you most +cruelly repulse me? I know it--I see it--you hate me!" + +I was transported by violent emotion, and rising from his feet, at +which I had thrown myself, I leant against a tree, wildly raising my +eyes to heaven. He began to answer with violence: "Yes, yes, I hate +you! You are my bane, my poison, my disgust! Oh! No[!]" And then his +manner changed, and fixing his eyes on me with an expression that +convulsed every nerve and member of my frame--"you are none of all +these; you are my light, my only one, my life.--My daughter, I love +you!" The last words died away in a hoarse whisper, but I heard them +and sunk on the ground, covering my face and almost dead with excess +of sickness and fear: a cold perspiration covered my forehead and I +shivered in every limb--But he continued, clasping his hands with a +frantic gesture: + +"Now I have dashed from the top of the rock to the bottom! Now I have +precipitated myself down the fearful chasm! The danger is over; she is +alive! Oh, Mathilda, lift up those dear eyes in the light of which I +live. Let me hear the sweet tones of your beloved voice in peace and +calm. Monster as I am, you are still, as you ever were, lovely, +beautiful beyond expression. What I have become since this last moment +I know not; perhaps I am changed in mien as the fallen archangel. I do +believe I am for I have surely a new soul within me, and my blood +riots through my veins: I am burnt up with fever. But these are +precious moments; devil as I am become, yet that is my Mathilda before +me whom I love as one was never before loved: and she knows it now; +she listens to these words which I thought, fool as I was, would blast +her to death. Come, come, the worst is past: no more grief, tears or +despair; were not those the words you uttered?--We have leapt the +chasm I told you of, and now, mark me, Mathilda, we are to find +flowers, and verdure and delight, or is it hell, and fire, and +tortures? Oh! Beloved One, I am borne away; I can no longer sustain +myself; surely this is death that is coming. Let me lay my head near +your heart; let me die in your arms!"--He sunk to the earth fainting, +while I, nearly as lifeless, gazed on him in despair. + +Yes it was despair I felt; for the first time that phantom seized me; +the first and only time for it has never since left me--After the +first moments of speechless agony I felt her fangs on my heart: I tore +my hair; I raved aloud; at one moment in pity for his sufferings I +would have clasped my father in my arms; and then starting back with +horror I spurned him with my foot; I felt as if stung by a serpent, +as if scourged by a whip of scorpions which drove me--Ah! +Whither--Whither? + +Well, this could not last. One idea rushed on my mind; never, never +may I speak to him again. As this terrible conviction came upon _him_ +[_me_?] it melted my soul to tenderness and love--I gazed on him as to +take my last farewell--he lay insensible--his eyes closed as [_and_?] +his cheeks deathly pale. Above, the leaves of the beech wood cast a +flickering shadow on his face, and waved in mournful melody over +him--I saw all these things and said, "Aye, this is his grave!" And +then I wept aloud, and raised my eyes to heaven to entreat for a +respite to my despair and an alleviation for his unnatural +suffering--the tears that gushed in a warm & healing stream from my +eyes relieved the burthen that oppressed my heart almost to madness. I +wept for a long time untill I saw him about to revive, when horror and +misery again recurred, and the tide of my sensations rolled back to +their former channel: with a terror I could not restrain--I sprung up +and fled, with winged speed, along the paths of the wood and across +the fields untill nearly dead I reached our house and just ordering +the servants to seek my father at the spot I indicated, I shut myself +up in my own room[.][33] + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +My chamber was in a retired part of the house, and looked upon the +garden so that no sound of the other inhabitants could reach it; and +here in perfect solitude I wept for several hours. When a servant came +to ask me if I would take food I learnt from him that my father had +returned, and was apparently well and this relieved me from a load of +anxiety, yet I did not cease to weep bitterly. As [_At_] first, as the +memory of former happiness contrasted to my present despair came +across me, I gave relief to the oppression of heart that I felt by +words, and groans, and heart rending sighs: but nature became wearied, +and this more violent grief gave place to a passionate but mute flood +of tears: my whole soul seemed to dissolve [in] them. I did not wring +my hands, or tear my hair, or utter wild exclamations, but as Boccacio +describes the intense and quiet grief [of] Sigismunda over the heart +of Guiscardo,[34] I sat with my hands folded, silently letting fall a +perpetual stream from my eyes. Such was the depth of my emotion that I +had no feeling of what caused my distress, my thoughts even wandered +to many indifferent objects; but still neither moving limb or feature +my tears fell untill, as if the fountains were exhausted, they +gradually subsided, and I awoke to life as from a dream. + +When I had ceased to weep reason and memory returned upon me, and I +began to reflect with greater calmness on what had happened, and how +it became me to act--A few hours only had passed but a mighty +revolution had taken place with regard to me--the natural work of +years had been transacted since the morning: my father was as dead to +me, and I felt for a moment as if he with white hairs were laid in his +coffin and I--youth vanished in approaching age, were weeping at his +timely dissolution. But it was not so, I was yet young, Oh! far too +young, nor was he dead to others; but I, most miserable, must never +see or speak to him again. I must fly from him with more earnestness +than from my greatest enemy: in solitude or in cities I must never +more behold him. That consideration made me breathless with anguish, +and impressing itself on my imagination I was unable for a time to +follow up any train of ideas. Ever after this, I thought, I would +live in the most dreary seclusion. I would retire to the Continent and +become a nun; not for religion's sake, for I was not a Catholic, but +that I might be for ever shut out from the world. I should there find +solitude where I might weep, and the voices of life might never reach +me. + +But my father; my beloved and most wretched father? Would he die? +Would he never overcome the fierce passion that now held pityless +dominion over him? Might he not many, many years hence, when age had +quenched the burning sensations that he now experienced, might he not +then be again a father to me? This reflection unwrinkled my brow, and +I could feel (and I wept to feel it) a half melancholy smile draw from +my lips their expression of suffering: I dared indulge better hopes +for my future life; years must pass but they would speed lightly away +winged by hope, or if they passed heavily, still they would pass and I +had not lost my father for ever. Let him spend another sixteen years +of desolate wandering: let him once more utter his wild complaints to +the vast woods and the tremendous cataracts of another clime: let him +again undergo fearful danger and soul-quelling hardships: let the hot +sun of the south again burn his passion worn cheeks and the cold night +rains fall on him and chill his blood. + +To this life, miserable father, I devote thee!--Go!--Be thy days +passed with savages, and thy nights under the cope of heaven! Be thy +limbs worn and thy heart chilled, and all youth be dead within thee! +Let thy hairs be as snow; thy walk trembling and thy voice have lost +its mellow tones! Let the liquid lustre of thine eyes be quenched; and +then return to me, return to thy Mathilda, thy child, who may then be +clasped in thy loved arms, while thy heart beats with sinless emotion. +Go, Devoted One, and return thus!--This is my curse, a daughter's +curse: go, and return pure to thy child, who will never love aught but +thee. + +These were my thoughts; and with trembling hands I prepared to begin a +letter to my unhappy parent. I had now spent many hours in tears and +mournful meditation; it was past twelve o'clock; all was at peace in +the house, and the gentle air that stole in at my window did not +rustle the leaves of the twining plants that shadowed it. I felt the +entire tranquillity of the hour when my own breath and involuntary +sobs were all the sounds that struck upon the air. On a sudden I heard +a gentle step ascending the stairs; I paused breathless, and as it +approached glided into an obscure corner of the room; the steps paused +at my door, but after a few moments they again receeded[,] descended +the stairs and I heard no more. + +This slight incident gave rise in me to the most painful reflections; +nor do I now dare express the emotions I felt. That he should be +restless I understood; that he should wander as an unlaid ghost and +find no quiet from the burning hell that consumed his heart. But why +approach my chamber? Was not that sacred? I felt almost ready to faint +while he had stood there, but I had not betrayed my wakefulness by the +slightest motion, although I had heard my own heart beat with violent +fear. He had withdrawn. Oh, never, never, may I see him again! +Tomorrow night the same roof may not cover us; he or I must depart. +The mutual link of our destinies is broken; we must be divided by +seas--by land. The stars and the sun must not rise at the same period +to us: he must not say, looking at the setting crescent of the moon, +"Mathilda now watches its fall."--No, all must be changed. Be it light +with him when it is darkness with me! Let him feel the sun of summer +while I am chilled by the snows of winter! Let there be the distance +of the antipodes between us! + +At length the east began to brighten, and the comfortable light of +morning streamed into my room. I was weary with watching and for some +time I had combated with the heavy sleep that weighed down my eyelids: +but now, no longer fearful, I threw myself on my bed. I sought for +repose although I did not hope for forgetfulness; I knew I should be +pursued by dreams, but did not dread the frightful one that I really +had. I thought that I had risen and went to seek my father to inform +him of my determination to seperate myself from him. I sought him in +the house, in the park, and then in the fields and the woods, but I +could not find him. At length I saw him at some distance, seated under +a tree, and when he perceived me he waved his hand several times, +beckoning me to approach; there was something unearthly in his mien +that awed and chilled me, but I drew near. When at [a] short distance +from him I saw that he was deadlily [_sic_] pale, and clothed in +flowing garments of white. Suddenly he started up and fled from me; I +pursued him: we sped over the fields, and by the skirts of woods, and +on the banks of rivers; he flew fast and I followed. We came at last, +methought, to the brow of a huge cliff that over hung the sea which, +troubled by the winds, dashed against its base at a distance. I heard +the roar of the waters: he held his course right on towards the brink +and I became breathless with fear lest he should plunge down the +dreadful precipice; I tried to augment my speed, but my knees failed +beneath me, yet I had just reached him; just caught a part of his +flowing robe, when he leapt down and I awoke with a violent scream. I +was trembling and my pillow was wet with my tears; for a few moments +my heart beat hard, but the bright beams of the sun and the chirping +of the birds quickly restored me to myself, and I rose with a languid +spirit, yet wondering what events the day would bring forth. Some time +passed before I summoned courage to ring the bell for my servant, and +when she came I still dared not utter my father's name. I ordered her +to bring my breakfast to my room, and was again left alone--yet still +I could make no resolve, but only thought that I might write a note to +my father to beg his permission to pay a visit to a relation who lived +about thirty miles off, and who had before invited me to her house, +but I had refused for then I could not quit my suffering father. When +the servant came back she gave me a letter. + +"From whom is this letter[?]" I asked trembling. + +"Your father left it, madam, with his servant, to be given to you when +you should rise." + +"My father left it! Where is he? Is he not here?" + +"No; he quitted the house before four this morning." + +"Good God! He is gone! But tell how this was; speak quick!" + +Her relation was short. He had gone in the carriage to the nearest +town where he took a post chaise and horses with orders for the London +road. He dismissed his servants there, only telling them that he had a +sudden call of business and that they were to obey me as their +mistress untill his return. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +With a beating heart and fearful, I knew not why, I dismissed the +servant and locking my door, sat down to read my father's letter. +These are the words that it contained. + +"My dear Child + +"I have betrayed your confidence; I have endeavoured to pollute your +mind, and have made your innocent heart acquainted with the looks and +language of unlawful and monstrous passion. I must expiate these +crimes, and must endeavour in some degree to proportionate my +punishment to my guilt. You are I doubt not prepared for what I am +about to announce; we must seperate and be divided for ever. + +"I deprive you of your parent and only friend. You are cast out +shelterless on the world: your hopes are blasted; the peace and +security of your pure mind destroyed; memory will bring to you +frightful images of guilt, and the anguish of innocent love betrayed. +Yet I who draw down all this misery upon you; I who cast you forth and +remorselessly have set the seal of distrust and agony on the heart and +brow of my own child, who with devilish levity have endeavoured to +steal away her loveliness to place in its stead the foul deformity of +sin; I, in the overflowing anguish of my heart, supplicate you to +forgive me. + +"I do not ask your pity; you must and do abhor me: but pardon me, +Mathilda, and let not your thoughts follow me in my banishment with +unrelenting anger. I must never more behold you; never more hear your +voice; but the soft whisperings of your forgiveness will reach me and +cool the burning of my disordered brain and heart; I am sure I should +feel it even in my grave. And I dare enforce this request by relating +how miserably I was betrayed into this net of fiery anguish and all my +struggles to release myself: indeed if your soul were less pure and +bright I would not attempt to exculpate myself to you; I should fear +that if I led you to regard me with less abhorrence you might hate +vice less: but in addressing you I feel as if I appealed to an angelic +judge. I cannot depart without your forgiveness and I must endeavour +to gain it, or I must despair.[35] I conjure you therefore to listen +to my words, and if with the good guilt may be in any degree +extenuated by sharp agony, and remorse that rends the brain as madness +perhaps you may think, though I dare not, that I have some claim to +your compassion. + +"I entreat you to call to your remembrance our first happy life on the +shores of Loch Lomond. I had arrived from a weary wandering of sixteen +years, during which, although I had gone through many dangers and +misfortunes, my affections had been an entire blank. If I grieved it +was for your mother, if I loved it was your image; these sole emotions +filled my heart in quietness. The human creatures around me excited in +me no sympathy and I thought that the mighty change that the death of +your mother had wrought within me had rendered me callous to any +future impression. I saw the lovely and I did not love, I imagined +therefore that all warmth was extinguished in my heart except that +which led me ever to dwell on your then infantine image. + +"It is a strange link in my fate that without having seen you I should +passionately love you. During my wanderings I never slept without +first calling down gentle dreams on your head. If I saw a lovely +woman, I thought, does my Mathilda resemble her? All delightful +things, sublime scenery, soft breezes, exquisite music seemed to me +associated with you and only through you to be pleasant to me. At +length I saw you. You appeared as the deity of a lovely region, the +ministering Angel of a Paradise to which of all human kind you +admitted only me. I dared hardly consider you as my daughter; your +beauty, artlessness and untaught wisdom seemed to belong to a higher +order of beings; your voice breathed forth only words of love: if +there was aught of earthly in you it was only what you derived from +the beauty of the world; you seemed to have gained a grace from the +mountain breezes--the waterfalls and the lake; and this was all of +earthly except your affections that you had; there was no dross, no +bad feeling in the composition. You yet even have not seen enough[36] +of the world to know the stupendous difference that exists between the +women we meet in dayly life and a nymph of the woods such as you were, +in whose eyes alone mankind may study for centuries & grow wiser & +purer. Those divine lights which shone on me as did those of Beatrice +upon Dante, and well might I say with him yet with what different +feelings + + E quasi mi perdei gli occhi chini. + +Can you wonder, Mathilda, that I dwelt on your looks, your words, your +motions, & drank in unmixed delight? + +["]But I am afraid that I wander from my purpose. I must be more brief +for night draws on apace and all my hours in this house are counted. +Well, we removed to London, and still I felt only the peace of sinless +passion. You were ever with me, and I desired no more than to gaze on +your countenance, and to know that I was all the world to you; I was +lapped in a fool's paradise of enjoyment and security. Was my love +blamable? If it was I was ignorant of it; I desired only that which I +possessed, and if I enjoyed from your looks, and words, and most +innocent caresses a rapture usually excluded from the feelings of a +parent towards his child, yet no uneasiness, no wish, no casual idea +awoke me to a sense of guilt. I loved you as a human father might be +supposed to love a daughter borne to him by a heavenly mother; as +Anchises might have regarded the child of Venus if the sex had been +changed; love mingled with respect and adoration. Perhaps also my +passion was lulled to content by the deep and exclusive affection you +felt for me. + +"But when I saw you become the object of another's love; when I +imagined that you might be loved otherwise than as a sacred type and +image of loveliness and excellence; or that you might love another +with a more ardent affection than that which you bore to me, then the +fiend awoke within me; I dismissed your lover; and from that moment I +have known no peace. I have sought in vain for sleep and rest; my lids +refused to close, and my blood was for ever in a tumult. I awoke to a +new life as one who dies in hope might wake in Hell. I will not sully +your imagination by recounting my combats, my self-anger and my +despair. Let a veil be drawn over the unimaginable sensations of a +guilty father; the secrets of so agonized a heart may not be made +vulgar. All was uproar, crime, remorse and hate, yet still the +tenderest love; and what first awoke me to the firm resolve of +conquering my passion and of restoring her father to my child was the +sight of your bitter and sympathizing sorrows. It was this that led me +here: I thought that if I could again awaken in my heart the grief I +had felt at the loss of your mother, and the many associations with +her memory which had been laid to sleep for seventeen years, that all +love for her child would become extinct. In a fit of heroism I +determined to go alone; to quit you, the life of my life, and not to +see you again untill I might guiltlessly. But it would not do: I rated +my fortitude too high, or my love too low. I should certainly have +died if you had not hastened to me. Would that I had been indeed +extinguished! + +"And now, Mathilda I must make you my last confession. I have been +miserably mistaken in imagining that I could conquer my love for you; +I never can. The sight of this house, these fields and woods which my +first love inhabited seems to have encreased it: in my madness I dared +say to myself--Diana died to give her birth; her mother's spirit was +transferred into her frame, and she ought to be as Diana to me.[37] +With every effort to cast it off, this love clings closer, this guilty +love more unnatural than hate, that withers your hopes and destroys me +for ever. + + Better have loved despair, & safer kissed her. + +No time or space can tear from my soul that which makes a part of it. +Since my arrival here I have not for a moment ceased to feel the hell +of passion which has been implanted in me to burn untill all be cold, +and stiff, and dead. Yet I will not die; alas! how dare I go where I +may meet Diana, when I have disobeyed her last request; her last words +said in a faint voice when all feeling but love, which survives all +things else was already dead, she then bade me make her child happy: +that thought alone gives a double sting to death. I will wander away +from you, away from all life--in the solitude I shall seek I alone +shall breathe of human kind. I must endure life; and as it is my duty +so I shall untill the grave dreaded yet desired, receive me free from +pain: for while I feel it will be pain that must make up the whole sum +of my sensations. Is not this a fearful curse that I labour under? Do +I not look forward to a miserable future? My child, if after this life +I am permitted to see you again, if pain can purify the heart, mine +will be pure: if remorse may expiate guilt, I shall be guiltless. + + * * * * * + +["]I have been at the door of your chamber: every thing is silent. You +sleep. Do you indeed sleep, Mathilda? Spirits of Good, behold the +tears of my earnest prayer! Bless my child! Protect her from the +selfish among her fellow creatures: protect her from the agonies of +passion, and the despair of disappointment! Peace, Hope and Love be +thy guardians, oh, thou soul of my soul: thou in whom I breathe! + + * * * * * + +["]I dare not read my letter over for I have no time to write another, +and yet I fear that some expressions in it might displease me. Since I +last saw you I have been constantly employed in writing letters, and +have several more to write; for I do not intend that any one shall +hear of me after I depart. I need not conjure you to look upon me as +one of whom all links that once existed between us are broken. Your +own delicacy will not allow you, I am convinced, to attempt to trace +me. It is far better for your peace that you should be ignorant of my +destination. You will not follow me, for when I bannish myself would +you nourish guilt by obtruding yourself upon me? You will not do this, +I know you will not. You must forget me and all the evil that I have +taught you. Cast off the only gift that I have bestowed upon you, your +grief, and rise from under my blighting influence as no flower so +sweet ever did rise from beneath so much evil. + +"You will never hear from me again: receive these then as the last +words of mine that will ever reach you; and although I have forfeited +your filial love, yet regard them I conjure you as a father's command. +Resolutely shake of[f] the wretchedness that this first misfortune in +early life must occasion you. Bear boldly up against the storm: +continue wise and mild, but believe it, and indeed it is, your duty to +be happy. You are very young; let not this check for more than a +moment retard your glorious course; hold on, beloved one. The sun of +youth is not set for you; it will restore vigour and life to you; do +not resist with obstinate grief its beneficent influence, oh, my +child! bless me with the hope that I have not utterly destroyed you. + +"Farewell, Mathilda. I go with the belief that I have your pardon. +Your gentle nature would not permit you to hate your greatest enemy +and though I be he, although I have rent happiness from your +grasp;[38] though I have passed over your young love and hopes as the +angel of destruction, finding beauty and joy, and leaving blight and +despair, yet you will forgive me, and with eyes overflowing with +tears I thank you; my beloved one, I accept your pardon with a +gratitude that will never die, and that will, indeed it will, outlive +guilt and remorse. + +"Farewell for ever!" + +The moment I finished this letter I ordered the carriage and prepared +to follow my father. The words of his letter by which he had dissuaded +me from this step were those that determined me. Why did he write +them? He must know that if I believed that his intention was merely to +absent himself from me that instead of opposing him it would be that +which I should myself require--or if he thought that any lurking +feeling, yet he could not think that, should lead me to him would he +endeavour to overthrow the only hope he could have of ever seeing me +again; a lover, there was madness in the thought, yet he was my lover, +would not act thus. No, he had determined to die, and he wished to +spare me the misery of knowing it. The few ineffectual words he had +said concerning his duty were to me a further proof--and the more I +studied the letter the more did I perceive a thousand slight +expressions that could only indicate a knowledge that life was now +over for him. He was about to die! My blood froze at the thought: a +sickening feeling of horror came over me that allowed not of tears. As +I waited for the carriage I walked up and down with a quick pace; then +kneeling and passionately clasping my hands I tried to pray but my +voice was choked by convulsive sobs--Oh the sun shone[,] the air was +balmy--he must yet live for if he were dead all would surely be black +as night to me![39] + +The motion of the carriage knowing that it carried me towards him and +that I might perhaps find him alive somewhat revived my courage: yet I +had a dreadful ride. Hope only supported me, the hope that I should +not be too late[.] I did not weep, but I wiped the perspiration from +my brow, and tried to still my brain and heart beating almost to +madness. Oh! I must not be mad when I see him; or perhaps it were as +well that I should be, my distraction might calm his, and recall him +to the endurance of life. Yet untill I find him I must force reason to +keep her seat, and I pressed my forehead hard with my hands--Oh do not +leave me; or I shall forget what I am about--instead of driving on as +we ought with the speed of lightning they will attend to me, and we +shall be too late. Oh! God help me! Let him be alive! It is all dark; +in my abject misery I demand no more: no hope, no good: only passion, +and guilt, and horror; but alive! Alive! My sensations choked me--No +tears fell yet I sobbed, and breathed short and hard; one only thought +possessed me, and I could only utter one word, that half screaming was +perpetually on my lips; Alive! Alive!-- + +I had taken the steward[40] with me for he, much better than I[,] +could make the requisite enquiries--the poor old man could not +restrain his tears as he saw my deep distress and knew the cause--he +sometimes uttered a few broken words of consolation: in moments like +these the mistress and servant become in a manner equals and when I +saw his old dim eyes wet with sympathizing tears; his gray hair thinly +scattered on an age-wrinkled brow I thought oh if my father were as he +is--decrepid & hoary--then I should be spared this pain-- + +When I had arrived at the nearest town I took post horses and followed +the road my father had taken. At every inn where we changed horses we +heard of him, and I was possessed by alternate hope and fear. A length +I found that he had altered his route; at first he had followed the +London road; but now he changed it, and upon enquiry I found that the +one which he now pursued led _towards the sea_. My dream recurred to +my thoughts; I was not usually superstitious but in wretchedness every +one is so. The sea was fifty miles off, yet it was towards it that he +fled. The idea was terrible to my half crazed imagination, and almost +over-turned the little self possession that still remained to me. I +journied all day; every moment my misery encreased and the fever of my +blood became intolerable. The summer sun shone in an unclouded sky; +the air was close but all was cool to me except my own scorching skin. +Towards evening dark thunder clouds arose above the horrizon and I +heard its distant roll--after sunset they darkened the whole sky and +it began to rain[,] the lightning lighted up the whole country and the +thunder drowned the noise of our carriage. At the next inn my father +had not taken horses; he had left a box there saying he would return, +and had walked over the fields to the town of ---- a seacost town +eight miles off. + +For a moment I was almost paralized by fear; but my energy returned +and I demanded a guide to accompany me in following his steps. The +night was tempestuous but my bribe was high and I easily procured a +countryman. We passed through many lanes and over fields and wild +downs; the rain poured down in torrents; and the loud thunder broke in +terrible crashes over our heads. Oh! What a night it was! And I passed +on with quick steps among the high, dank grass amid the rain and +tempest. My dream was for ever in my thoughts, and with a kind of half +insanity that often possesses the mind in despair, I said aloud; +"Courage! We are not near the sea; we are yet several miles from the +ocean"--Yet it was towards the sea that our direction lay and that +heightened the confusion of my ideas. Once, overcome by fatigue, I +sunk on the wet earth; about two hundred yards distant, alone in a +large meadow stood a magnificent oak; the lightnings shewed its myriad +boughs torn by the storm. A strange idea seized me; a person must have +felt all the agonies of doubt concerning the life and death of one who +is the whole world to them before they can enter into my feelings--for +in that state, the mind working unrestrained by the will makes strange +and fanciful combinations with outward circumstances and weaves the +chances and changes of nature into an immediate connexion with the +event they dread. It was with this feeling that I turned to the old +Steward who stood pale and trembling beside me; "Mark, Gaspar, if the +next flash of lightning rend not that oak my father will be alive." + +I had scarcely uttered these words than a flash instantly followed by +a tremendous peal of thunder descended on it; and when my eyes +recovered their sight after the dazzling light, the oak no longer +stood in the meadow--The old man uttered a wild exclamation of horror +when he saw so sudden an interpretation given to my prophesy. I +started up, my strength returned; [_sic_] with my terror; I cried, +"Oh, God! Is this thy decree? Yet perhaps I shall not be too late." + +Although still several miles distant we continued to approach the sea. +We came at last to the road that led to the town of----and at an inn +there we heard that my father had passed by somewhat before sunset; he +had observed the approaching storm and had hired a horse for the next +town which was situated a mile from the sea that he might arrive there +before it should commence: this town was five miles off. We hired a +chaise here, and with four horses drove with speed through the storm. +My garments were wet and clung around me, and my hair hung in straight +locks on my neck when not blown aside by the wind. I shivered, yet my +pulse was high with fever. Great God! What agony I endured. I shed no +tears but my eyes wild and inflamed were starting from my head; I +could hardly support the weight that pressed upon my brain. We arrived +at the town of ---- in a little more than half an hour. When my father +had arrived the storm had already begun, but he had refused to stop +and leaving his horse there he walked on--_towards the sea_. Alas! it +was double cruelty in him to have chosen the sea for his fatal +resolve; it was adding madness to my despair.[41] + +The poor old servant who was with me endeavoured to persuade me to +remain here and to let him go alone--I shook my head silently and +sadly; sick almost to death I leant upon his arm, and as there was no +road for a chaise dragged my weary steps across the desolate downs to +meet my fate, now too certain for the agony of doubt. Almost fainting +I slowly approached the fatal waters; when we had quitted the town we +heard their roaring[.] I whispered to myself in a muttering +voice--"The sound is the same as that which I heard in my dream. It is +the knell of my father which I hear."[42] + +The rain had ceased; there was no more thunder and lightning; the wind +had paused. My heart no longer beat wildly; I did not feel any fever: +but I was chilled; my knees sunk under me--I almost slept as I walked +with excess of weariness; every limb trembled. I was silent: all was +silent except the roaring of the sea which became louder and more +dreadful. Yet we advanced slowly: sometimes I thought that we should +never arrive; that the sound of waves would still allure us, and that +we should walk on for ever and ever: field succeeding field, never +would our weary journey cease, nor night nor day; but still we should +hear the dashing of the sea, and to all this there would be no end. +Wild beyond the imagination of the happy are the thoughts bred by +misery and despair. + +At length we reached the overhanging beach; a cottage stood beside the +path; we knocked at the door and it was opened: the bed within +instantly caught my eye; something stiff and straight lay on it, +covered by a sheet; the cottagers looked aghast. The first words that +they uttered confirmed what I before knew. I did not feel shocked or +overcome: I believe that I asked one or two questions and listened to +the answers. I har[d]ly know, but in a few moments I sank lifeless to +the ground; and so would that then all had been at an end! + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +I was carried to the next town: fever succeeded to convulsions and +faintings, & for some weeks my unhappy spirit hovered on the very +verge of death. But life was yet strong within me; I recovered: nor +did it a little aid my returning health that my recollections were at +first vague, and that I was too weak to feel any violent emotion. I +often said to myself, my father is dead. He loved me with a guilty +passion, and stung by remorse and despair he killed himself. Why is it +that I feel no horror? Are these circumstances not dreadful? Is it not +enough that I shall never more meet the eyes of my beloved father; +never more hear his voice; no caress, no look? All cold, and stiff, +and dead! Alas! I am quite callous: the night I was out in was fearful +and the cold rain that fell about my heart has acted like the waters +of the cavern of Antiparos[43] and has changed it to stone. I do not +weep or sigh; but I must reason with myself, and force myself to feel +sorrow and despair. This is not resignation that I feel, for I am dead +to all regret. + +I communed in this manner with myself, but I was silent to all around +me. I hardly replied to the slightest question, and was uneasy when I +saw a human creature near me. I was surrounded by my female relations, +but they were all of them nearly strangers to me: I did not listen to +their consolations; and so little did they work their designed effect +that they seemed to me to be spoken in an unknown tongue. I found if +sorrow was dead within me, so was love and desire of sympathy. Yet +sorrow only slept to revive more fierce, but love never woke +again--its ghost, ever hovering over my father's grave, alone +survived--since his death all the world was to me a blank except where +woe had stampt its burning words telling me to smile no more--the +living were not fit companions for me, and I was ever meditating by +what means I might shake them all off, and never be heard of again. + +My convalescence rapidly advanced, yet this was the thought that +haunted me, and I was for ever forming plans how I might hereafter +contrive to escape the tortures that were prepared for me when I +should mix in society, and to find that solitude which alone could +suit one whom an untold grief seperated from her fellow creatures. +Who can be more solitary even in a crowd than one whose history and +the never ending feelings and remembrances arising from it is [_sic_] +known to no living soul. There was too deep a horror in my tale for +confidence; I was on earth the sole depository of my own secret. I +might tell it to the winds and to the desart heaths but I must never +among my fellow creatures, either by word or look give allowance to +the smallest conjecture of the dread reality: I must shrink before the +eye of man lest he should read my father's guilt in my glazed eyes: I +must be silent lest my faltering voice should betray unimagined +horrors. Over the deep grave of my secret I must heap an impenetrable +heap of false smiles and words: cunning frauds, treacherous laughter +and a mixture of all light deceits would form a mist to blind others +and be as the poisonous simoon to me.[44] I, the offspring of love, +the child of the woods, the nursling of Nature's bright self was to +submit to this? I dared not. + +How must I escape? I was rich and young, and had a guardian appointed +for me; and all about me would act as if I were one of their great +society, while I must keep the secret that I really was cut off from +them for ever. If I fled I should be pursued; in life there was no +escape for me: why then I must die. I shuddered; I dared not die even +though the cold grave held all I loved; although I might say with Job + + Where is now my hope? For my hope who shall see it? + + They shall go down together to the bars of the pit, when our + rest together is in the dust--[45] + +Yes my hope was corruption and dust and all to which death brings +us.--Or after life--No, no, I will not persuade myself to die, I may +not, dare not. And then I wept; yes, warm tears once more struggled +into my eyes soothing yet bitter; and after I had wept much and called +with unavailing anguish, with outstretched arms, for my cruel father; +after my weak frame was exhausted by all variety of plaint I sank once +more into reverie, and once more reflected on how I might find that +which I most desired; dear to me if aught were dear, a death-like +solitude. + +I dared not die, but I might feign death, and thus escape from my +comforters: they will believe me united to my father, and so indeed I +shall be. For alone, when no voice can disturb my dream, and no cold +eye meet mine to check its fire, then I may commune with his spirit; +on a lone heath, at noon or at midnight, still I should be near him. +His last injunction to me was that I should be happy; perhaps he did +not mean the shadowy happiness that I promised myself, yet it was that +alone which I could taste. He did not conceive that ever [qu. +_never_?] again I could make one of the smiling hunters that go +coursing after bubles that break to nothing when caught, and then +after a new one with brighter colours; my hope also had proved a +buble, but it had been so lovely, so adorned that I saw none that +could attract me after it; besides I was wearied with the pursuit, +nearly dead with weariness. + +I would feign to die; my contented heirs would seize upon my wealth, +and I should purchase freedom. But then my plan must be laid with art; +I would not be left destitute, I must secure some money. Alas! to what +loathsome shifts must I be driven? Yet a whole life of falsehood was +otherwise my portion: and when remorse at being the contriver of any +cheat made me shrink from my design I was irresistably led back and +confirmed in it by the visit of some aunt or cousin, who would tell me +that death was the end of all men. And then say that my father had +surely lost his wits ever since my mother's death; that he was mad and +that I was fortunate, for in one of his fits he might have killed me +instead of destroying his own crazed being. And all this, to be sure, +was delicately put; not in broad words for my feelings might be hurt +but + + Whispered so and so + In dark hint soft and low[E][46] + +with downcast eyes, and sympathizing smiles or whimpers; and I +listened with quiet countenance while every nerve trembled; I that +dared not utter aye or no to all this blasphemy. Oh, this was a +delicious life quite void of guile! I with my dove's look and fox's +heart: for indeed I felt only the degradation of falsehood, and not +any sacred sentiment of conscious innocence that might redeem it. I +who had before clothed myself in the bright garb of sincerity must now +borrow one of divers colours: it might sit awkwardly at first, but use +would enable me to place it in elegant folds, to lie with grace. Aye, +I might die my soul with falsehood untill I had quite hid its native +colour. Oh, beloved father! Accept the pure heart of your unhappy +daughter; permit me to join you unspotted as I was or you will not +recognize my altered semblance. As grief might change Constance[47] so +would deceit change me untill in heaven you would say, "This is not my +child"--My father, to be happy both now and when again we meet I must +fly from all this life which is mockery to one like me. In solitude +only shall I be myself; in solitude I shall be thine. + +Alas! I even now look back with disgust at my artifices and +contrivances by which, after many painful struggles, I effected my +retreat. I might enter into a long detail of the means I used, first +to secure myself a slight maintenance for the remainder of my life, +and afterwards to ensure the conviction of my death: I might, but I +will not. I even now blush at the falsehoods I uttered; my heart +sickens: I will leave this complication of what I hope I may in a +manner call innocent deceit to be imagined by the reader. The +remembrance haunts me like a crime--I know that if I were to endeavour +to relate it my tale would at length remain unfinished.[48] I was led +to London, and had to endure for some weeks cold looks, cold words and +colder consolations: but I escaped; they tried to bind me with fetters +that they thought silken, yet which weighed on me like iron, although +I broke them more easily than a girth formed of a single straw and +fled to freedom. + +The few weeks that I spent in London were the most miserable of my +life: a great city is a frightful habitation to one sorrowing. The +sunset and the gentle moon, the blessed motion of the leaves and the +murmuring of waters are all sweet physicians to a distempered mind. +The soul is expanded and drinks in quiet, a lulling medecine--to me it +was as the sight of the lovely water snakes to the bewitched +mariner--in loving and blessing Nature I unawares, called down a +blessing on my own soul. But in a city all is closed shut like a +prison, a wiry prison from which you can peep at the sky only. I can +not describe to you what were [_sic_] the frantic nature of my +sensations while I resided there; I was often on the verge of madness. +Nay, when I look back on many of my wild thoughts, thoughts with which +actions sometimes endeavoured to keep pace; when I tossed my hands +high calling down the cope of heaven to fall on me and bury me; when I +tore my hair and throwing it to the winds cried, "Ye are free, go seek +my father!" And then, like the unfortunate Constance, catching at +them again and tying them up, that nought might find him if I might +not. How, on my knees I have fancied myself close to my father's grave +and struck the ground in anger that it should cover him from me. Oft +when I have listened with gasping attention for the sound of the ocean +mingled with my father's groans; and then wept untill my strength was +gone and I was calm and faint, when I have recollected all this I have +asked myself if this were not madness. While in London these and many +other dreadful thoughts too harrowing for words were my portion: I +lost all this suffering when I was free; when I saw the wild heath +around me, and the evening star in the west, then I could weep, gently +weep, and be at peace. + +Do not mistake me; I never was really mad. I was always conscious of +my state when my wild thoughts seemed to drive me to insanity, and +never betrayed them to aught but silence and solitude. The people +around me saw nothing of all this. They only saw a poor girl broken in +spirit, who spoke in a low and gentle voice, and from underneath whose +downcast lids tears would sometimes steal which she strove to hide. +One who loved to be alone, and shrunk from observation; who never +smiled; oh, no! I never smiled--and that was all. + +Well, I escaped. I left my guardian's house and I was never heard of +again; it was believed from the letters that I left and other +circumstances that I planned that I had destroyed myself. I was sought +after therefore with less care than would otherwise have been the +case; and soon all trace and memory of me was lost. I left London in a +small vessel bound for a port in the north of England. And now having +succeeded in my attempt, and being quite alone peace returned to me. +The sea was calm and the vessel moved gently onwards, I sat upon deck +under the open canopy of heaven and methought I was an altered +creature. Not the wild, raving & most miserable Mathilda but a +youthful Hermitess dedicated to seclusion and whose bosom she must +strive to keep free from all tumult and unholy despair--The fanciful +nunlike dress that I had adopted;[49] the knowledge that my very +existence was a secret known only to myself; the solitude to which I +was for ever hereafter destined nursed gentle thoughts in my wounded +heart. The breeze that played in my hair revived me, and I watched +with quiet eyes the sunbeams that glittered on the waves, and the +birds that coursed each other over the waters just brushing them with +their plumes. I slept too undisturbed by dreams; and awoke refreshed +to again enjoy my tranquil freedom. + +In four days we arrived at the harbour to which we were bound. I would +not remain on the sea coast, but proceeded immediately inland. I had +already planned the situation where I would live. It should be a +solitary house on a wide plain near no other habitation: where I could +behold the whole horizon, and wander far without molestation from the +sight of my fellow creatures. I was not mysanthropic, but I felt that +the gentle current of my feelings depended upon my being alone. I +fixed myself on a wide solitude. On a dreary heath bestrewen with +stones, among which short grass grew; and here and there a few rushes +beside a little pool. Not far from my cottage was a small cluster of +pines the only trees to be seen for many miles: I had a path cut +through the furze from my door to this little wood, from whose topmost +branches the birds saluted the rising sun and awoke me to my daily +meditation. My view was bounded only by the horizon except on one side +where a distant wood made a black spot on the heath, that every where +else stretched out its faint hues as far as the eye could reach, wide +and very desolate. Here I could mark the net work of the clouds as +they wove themselves into thick masses: I could watch the slow rise of +the heavy thunder clouds and could see the rack as it was driven +across the heavens, or under the pine trees I could enjoy the +stillness of the azure sky. + +My life was very peaceful. I had one female servant who spent the +greater part of the day at a village two miles off. My amusements were +simple and very innocent; I fed the birds who built on the pines or +among the ivy that covered the wall of my little garden, and they soon +knew me: the bolder ones pecked the crumbs from my hands and perched +on my fingers to sing their thankfulness. When I had lived here some +time other animals visited me and a fox came every day for a portion +of food appropriated for him & would suffer me to pat his head. I had +besides many books and a harp with which when despairing I could +soothe my spirits, and raise myself to sympathy and love. + +Love! What had I to love? Oh many things: there was the moonshine, and +the bright stars; the breezes and the refreshing rains; there was the +whole earth and the sky that covers it: all lovely forms that visited +my imagination[,] all memories of heroism and virtue. Yet this was +very unlike my early life although as then I was confined to Nature +and books. Then I bounded across the fields; my spirit often seemed to +ride upon the winds, and to mingle in joyful sympathy with the ambient +air. Then if I wandered slowly I cheered myself with a sweet song or +sweeter day dreams. I felt a holy rapture spring from all I saw. I +drank in joy with life; my steps were light; my eyes, clear from the +love that animated them, sought the heavens, and with my long hair +loosened to the winds I gave my body and my mind to sympathy and +delight. But now my walk was slow--My eyes were seldom raised and +often filled with tears; no song; no smiles; no careless motion that +might bespeak a mind intent on what surrounded it--I was gathered up +into myself--a selfish solitary creature ever pondering on my regrets +and faded hopes. + +Mine was an idle, useless life; it was so; but say not to the lily +laid prostrate by the storm arise, and bloom as before. My heart was +bleeding from its death's wound; I could live no otherwise--Often amid +apparent calm I was visited by despair and melancholy; gloom that +nought could dissipate or overcome; a hatred of life; a carelessness +of beauty; all these would by fits hold me nearly annihilated by their +powers. Never for one moment when most placid did I cease to pray for +death. I could be found in no state of mind which I would not +willingly have exchanged for nothingness. And morning and evening my +tearful eyes raised to heaven, my hands clasped tight in the energy of +prayer, I have repeated with the poet-- + + Before I see another day + Oh, let this body die away! + +Let me not be reproached then with inutility; I believed that by +suicide I should violate a divine law of nature, and I thought that I +sufficiently fulfilled my part in submitting to the hard task of +enduring the crawling hours & minutes[50]--in bearing the load of time +that weighed miserably upon me and that in abstaining from what I in +my calm moments considered a crime, I deserved the reward of virtue. +There were periods, dreadful ones, during which I despaired--& doubted +the existence of all duty & the reality of crime--but I shudder, and +turn from the rememberance. + + +[E] Coleridge's Fire, Famine and Slaughter. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Thus I passed two years. Day after day so many hundreds wore on; they +brought no outward changes with them, but some few slowly operated on +my mind as I glided on towards death. I began to study more; to +sympathize more in the thoughts of others as expressed in books; to +read history, and to lose my individuallity among the crowd that had +existed before me. Thus perhaps as the sensation of immediate +suffering wore off, I became more human. Solitude also lost to me some +of its charms: I began again to wish for sympathy; not that I was ever +tempted to seek the crowd, but I wished for one friend to love me. You +will say perhaps that I gradually became fitted to return to society. +I do not think so. For the sympathy that I desired must be so pure, so +divested of influence from outward circumstances that in the world I +could not fail of being balked by the gross materials that perpetually +mingle even with its best feelings. Believe me, I was then less fitted +for any communion with my fellow creatures than before. When I left +them they had tormented me but it was in the same way as pain and +sickness may torment; somthing extraneous to the mind that galled it, +and that I wished to cast aside. But now I should have desired +sympathy; I should wish to knit my soul to some one of theirs, and +should have prepared for myself plentiful draughts of disappointment +and suffering; for I was tender as the sensitive plant, all nerve. I +did not desire sympathy and aid in ambition or wisdom, but sweet and +mutual affection; smiles to cheer me and gentle words of comfort. I +wished for one heart in which I could pour unrestrained my plaints, +and by the heavenly nature of the soil blessed fruit might spring from +such bad seed. Yet how could I find this? The love that is the soul of +friendship is a soft spirit seldom found except when two amiable +creatures are knit from early youth, or when bound by mutual suffering +and pursuits; it comes to some of the elect unsought and unaware; it +descends as gentle dew on chosen spots which however barren they were +before become under its benign influence fertile in all sweet plants; +but when desired it flies; it scoffs at the prayers of its votaries; +it will bestow, but not be sought. + +I knew all this and did not go to seek sympathy; but there on my +solitary heath, under my lowly roof where all around was desart, it +came to me as a sun beam in winter to adorn while it helps to dissolve +the drifted snow.--Alas the sun shone on blighted fruit; I did not +revive under its radiance for I was too utterly undone to feel its +kindly power. My father had been and his memory was the life of my +life. I might feel gratitude to another but I never more could love or +hope as I had done; it was all suffering; even my pleasures were +endured, not enjoyed. I was as a solitary spot among mountains shut in +on all sides by steep black precipices; where no ray of heat could +penetrate; and from which there was no outlet to sunnier fields. And +thus it was that although the spirit of friendship soothed me for a +while it could not restore me. It came as some gentle visitation; it +went and I hardly felt the loss. The spirit of existence was dead +within me; be not surprised therefore that when it came I welcomed not +more gladly, or when it departed I lamented not more bitterly the best +gift of heaven--a friend. + +The name of my friend was Woodville.[51] I will briefly relate his +history that you may judge how cold my heart must have been not to be +warmed by his eloquent words and tender sympathy; and how he also +being most unhappy we were well fitted to be a mutual consolation to +each other, if I had not been hardened to stone by the Medusa head of +Misery. The misfortunes of Woodville were not of the hearts core like +mine; his was a natural grief, not to destroy but to purify the heart +and from which he might, when its shadow had passed from over him, +shine forth brighter and happier than before. + +Woodville was the son of a poor clergyman and had received a classical +education. He was one of those very few whom fortune favours from +their birth; on whom she bestows all gifts of intellect and person +with a profusion that knew no bounds, and whom under her peculiar +protection, no imperfection however slight, or disappointment however +transitory has leave to touch. She seemed to have formed his mind of +that excellence which no dross can tarnish, and his understanding was +such that no error could pervert. His genius was transcendant, and +when it rose as a bright star in the east all eyes were turned towards +it in admiration. He was a Poet. That name has so often been degraded +that it will not convey the idea of all that he was. He was like a +poet of old whom the muses had crowned in his cradle, and on whose +lips bees had fed. As he walked among other men he seemed encompassed +with a heavenly halo that divided him from and lifted him above them. +It was his surpassing beauty, the dazzling fire of his eyes, and his +words whose rich accents wrapt the listener in mute and extactic +wonder, that made him transcend all others so that before him they +appeared only formed to minister to his superior excellence. + +He was glorious from his youth. Every one loved him; no shadow of envy +or hate cast even from the meanest mind ever fell upon him. He was, as +one the peculiar delight of the Gods, railed and fenced in by his own +divinity, so that nought but love and admiration could approach him. +His heart was simple like a child, unstained by arrogance or vanity. +He mingled in society unknowing of his superiority over his +companions, not because he undervalued himself but because he did not +perceive the inferiority of others. He seemed incapable of conceiving +of the full extent of the power that selfishness & vice possesses in +the world: when I knew him, although he had suffered disappointment in +his dearest hopes, he had not experienced any that arose from the +meaness and self love of men: his station was too high to allow of his +suffering through their hardheartedness; and too low for him to have +experienced ingratitude and encroaching selfishness: it is one of the +blessings of a moderate fortune, that by preventing the possessor from +confering pecuniary favours it prevents him also from diving into the +arcana of human weakness or malice--To bestow on your fellow men is a +Godlike attribute--So indeed it is and as such not one fit for +mortality;--the giver like Adam and Prometheus, must pay the penalty +of rising above his nature by being the martyr to his own excellence. +Woodville was free from all these evils; and if slight examples did +come across him[52] he did not notice them but passed on in his course +as an angel with winged feet might glide along the earth unimpeded by +all those little obstacles over which we of earthly origin stumble. He +was a believer in the divinity of genius and always opposed a stern +disbelief to the objections of those petty cavillers and minor critics +who wish to reduce all men to their own miserable level--"I will make +a scientific simile" he would say, "[i]n the manner, if you will, of +Dr. Darwin--I consider the alledged errors of a man of genius as the +aberrations of the fixed stars. It is our distance from them and our +imperfect means of communication that makes them appear to move; in +truth they always remain stationary, a glorious centre, giving us a +fine lesson of modesty if we would thus receive it."[53] + +I have said that he was a poet: when he was three and twenty years of +age he first published a poem, and it was hailed by the whole nation +with enthusiasm and delight. His good star perpetually shone upon him; +a reputation had never before been made so rapidly: it was universal. +The multitude extolled the same poems that formed the wonder of the +sage in his closet: there was not one dissentient voice.[54] + +It was at this time, in the height of his glory, that he became +acquainted with Elinor. She was a young heiress of exquisite beauty +who lived under the care of her guardian: from the moment they were +seen together they appeared formed for each other. Elinor had not the +genius of Woodville but she was generous and noble, and exalted by her +youth and the love that she every where excited above the knowledge of +aught but virtue and excellence. She was lovely; her manners were +frank and simple; her deep blue eyes swam in a lustre which could only +be given by sensibility joined to wisdom. + +They were formed for one another and they soon loved. Woodville for +the first time felt the delight of love; and Elinor was enraptured in +possessing the heart of one so beautiful and glorious among his fellow +men. Could any thing but unmixed joy flow from such a union? + +Woodville was a Poet--he was sought for by every society and all eyes +were turned on him alone when he appeared; but he was the son of a +poor clergyman and Elinor was a rich heiress. Her guardian was not +displeased with their mutual affection: the merit of Woodville was too +eminent to admit of cavil on account of his inferior wealth; but the +dying will of her father did not allow her to marry before she was of +age and her fortune depended upon her obeying this injunction. She had +just entered her twentieth year, and she and her lover were obliged to +submit to this delay. But they were ever together and their happiness +seemed that of Paradise: they studied together: formed plans of future +occupations, and drinking in love and joy from each other's eyes and +words they hardly repined at the delay to their entire union. +Woodville for ever rose in glory; and Elinor become more lovely and +wise under the lessons of her accomplished lover. + +In two months Elinor would be twenty one: every thing was prepared for +their union. How shall I relate the catastrophe to so much joy; but +the earth would not be the earth it is covered with blight and sorrow +if one such pair as these angelic creatures had been suffered to exist +for one another: search through the world and you will not find the +perfect happiness which their marriage would have caused them to +enjoy; there must have been a revolution in the order of things as +established among us miserable earth-dwellers to have admitted of such +consummate joy. The chain of necessity ever bringing misery must have +been broken and the malignant fate that presides over it would not +permit this breach of her eternal laws. But why should I repine at +this? Misery was my element, and nothing but what was miserable could +approach me; if Woodville had been happy I should never have known +him. And can I who for many years was fed by tears, and nourished +under the dew of grief, can I pause to relate a tale of woe and +death?[55] + +Woodville was obliged to make a journey into the country and was +detained from day to day in irksome absence from his lovely bride. He +received a letter from her to say that she was slightly ill, but +telling him to hasten to her, that from his eyes she would receive +health and that his company would be her surest medecine. He was +detained three days longer and then he hastened to her. His heart, he +knew not why prognosticated misfortune; he had not heard from her +again; he feared she might be worse and this fear made him impatient +and restless for the moment of beholding her once more stand before +him arrayed in health and beauty; for a sinister voice seemed always +to whisper to him, "You will never more behold her as she was." + +When he arrived at her habitation all was silent in it: he made his +way through several rooms; in one he saw a servant weeping bitterly: +he was faint with fear and could hardly ask, "Is she dead?" and just +listened to the dreadful answer, "Not yet." These astounding words +came on him as of less fearful import than those which he had +expected; and to learn that she was still in being, and that he might +still hope was an alleviation to him. He remembered the words of her +letter and he indulged the wild idea that his kisses breathing warm +love and life would infuse new spirit into her, and that with him near +her she could not die; that his presence was the talisman of her life. + +He hastened to her sick room; she lay, her cheeks burning with fever, +yet her eyes were closed and she was seemingly senseless. He wrapt her +in his arms; he imprinted breathless kisses on her burning lips; he +called to her in a voice of subdued anguish by the tenderest names; +"Return Elinor; I am with you; your life, your love. Return; dearest +one, you promised me this boon, that I should bring you health. Let +your sweet spirit revive; you cannot die near me: What is death? To +see you no more? To part with what is a part of myself; without whom I +have no memory and no futurity? Elinor die! This is frenzy and the +most miserable despair: you cannot die while I am near." + +And again he kissed her eyes and lips, and hung over her inanimate +form in agony, gazing on her countenance still lovely although +changed, watching every slight convulsion, and varying colour which +denoted life still lingering although about to depart. Once for a +moment she revived and recognized his voice; a smile, a last lovely +smile, played upon her lips. He watched beside her for twelve hours +and then she died.[56] + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +It was six months after this miserable conclusion to his long nursed +hopes that I first saw him. He had retired to a part of the country +where he was not known that he might peacefully indulge his grief. All +the world, by the death of his beloved Elinor, was changed to him, and +he could no longer remain in any spot where he had seen her or where +her image mingled with the most rapturous hopes had brightened all +around with a light of joy which would now be transformed to a +darkness blacker than midnight since she, the sun of his life, was set +for ever. + +He lived for some time never looking on the light of heaven but +shrouding his eyes in a perpetual darkness far from all that could +remind him of what he had been; but as time softened his grief[57] +like a true child of Nature he sought in the enjoyment of her beauties +for a consolation in his unhappiness. He came to a part of the country +where he was entirely unknown and where in the deepest solitude he +could converse only with his own heart. He found a relief to his +impatient grief in the breezes of heaven and in the sound of waters +and woods. He became fond of riding; this exercise distracted his mind +and elevated his spirits; on a swift horse he could for a moment gain +respite from the image that else for ever followed him; Elinor on her +death bed, her sweet features changed, and the soft spirit that +animated her gradually waning into extinction. For many months +Woodville had in vain endeavoured to cast off this terrible +remembrance; it still hung on him untill memory was too great a +burthen for his loaded soul, but when on horseback the spell that +seemingly held him to this idea was snapt; then if he thought of his +lost bride he pictured her radiant in beauty; he could hear her voice, +and fancy her "a sylvan Huntress by his side," while his eyes +brightened as he thought he gazed on her cherished form. I had several +times seen him ride across the heath and felt angry that my solitude +should be disturbed. It was so long [since] I had spoken to any but +peasants that I felt a disagreable sensation at being gazed on by one +of superior rank. I feared also that it might be some one who had seen +me before: I might be recognized, my impostures discovered and I +dragged back to a life of worse torture than that I had before +endured. These were dreadful fears and they even haunted my +dreams.[58] + +I was one day seated on the verge of the clump of pines when Woodville +rode past. As soon as I perceived him I suddenly rose to escape from +his observation by entering among the trees. My rising startled his +horse; he reared and plunged and the Rider was at length thrown. The +horse then galopped swiftly across the heath and the stranger remained +on the ground stunned by his fall. He was not materially hurt, a +little fresh water soon recovered him. I was struck by his exceeding +beauty, and as he spoke to thank me the sweet but melancholy cadence +of his voice brought tears into my eyes. + +A short conversation passed between us, but the next day he again +stopped at my cottage and by degrees an intimacy grew between us. It +was strange to him to see a female in extreme youth, I was not yet +twenty, evidently belonging to the first classes of society & +possessing every accomplishment an excellent education could bestow, +living alone on a desolate health [_sic_]--One on whose forehead the +impress of grief was strongly marked, and whose words and motions +betrayed that her thoughts did not follow them but were intent on far +other ideas; bitter and overwhelming miseries. I was dressed also in a +whimsical nunlike habit which denoted that I did not retire to +solitude from necessity, but that I might indulge in a luxury of +grief, and fanciful seclusion. + +He soon took great interest in me, and sometimes forgot his own grief +to sit beside me and endeavour to cheer me. He could not fail to +interest even one who had shut herself from the whole world, whose +hope was death, and who lived only with the departed. His personal +beauty; his conversation which glowed with imagination and +sensibility; the poetry that seemed to hang upon his lips and to make +the very air mute to listen to him were charms that no one could +resist. He was younger, less worn, more passionless than my father and +in no degree reminded me of him: he suffered under immediate grief yet +its gentle influence instead of calling feelings otherwise dormant +into action, seemed only to veil that which otherwise would have been +too dazzling for me. When we were together I spoke little yet my +selfish mind was sometimes borne away by the rapid course of his +ideas; I would lift my eyes with momentary brilliancy until memories +that never died and seldom slept would recur, and a tear would dim +them. + +Woodville for ever tried to lead me to the contemplation of what is +beautiful and happy in the world.[59] His own mind was constitunially +[_sic_] bent to a former belief in good [rather] than in evil and this +feeling which must even exhilirate the hopeless ever shone forth in +his words. He would talk of the wonderful powers of man, of their +present state and of their hopes: of what they had been and what they +were, and when reason could no longer guide him, his imagination as if +inspired shed light on the obscurity that veils the past and the +future. He loved to dwell on what might have been the state of the +earth before man lived on it, and how he first arose and gradually +became the strange, complicated, but as he said, the glorious creature +he now is. Covering the earth with their creations and forming by the +power of their minds another world more lovely than the visible frame +of things, even all the world that we find in their writings. A +beautiful creation, he would say, which may claim this superiority to +its model, that good and evil is more easily seperated[:] the good +rewarded in the way they themselves desire; the evil punished as all +things evil ought to be punished, not by pain which is revolting to +all philanthropy to consider but by quiet obscurity, which simply +deprives them of their harmful qualities; why kill the serpent when +you have extracted his fangs? + +The poetry of his language and ideas which my words ill convey held me +enchained to his discourses. It was a melancholy pleasure to me to +listen to his inspired words; to catch for a moment the light of his +eyes[;] to feel a transient sympathy and then to awaken from the +delusion, again to know that all this was nothing,--a dream--a shadow +for that there was no reallity for me; my father had for ever deserted +me, leaving me only memories which set an eternal barrier between me +and my fellow creatures. I was indeed fellow to none. He--Woodville, +mourned the loss of his bride: others wept the various forms of misery +as they visited them: but infamy and guilt was mingled with my +portion; unlawful and detestable passion had poured its poison into my +ears and changed all my blood, so that it was no longer the kindly +stream that supports life but a cold fountain of bitterness corrupted +in its very source.[60] It must be the excess of madness that could +make me imagine that I could ever be aught but one alone; struck off +from humanity; bearing no affinity to man or woman; a wretch on whom +Nature had set her ban. + +Sometimes Woodville talked to me of himself. He related his history +brief in happiness and woe and dwelt with passion on his and Elinor's +mutual love. "She was["], he said, "the brightest vision that ever +came upon the earth: there was somthing in her frank countenance, in +her voice, and in every motion of her graceful form that overpowered +me, as if it were a celestial creature that deigned to mingle with me +in intercourse more sweet than man had ever before enjoyed. Sorrow +fled before her; and her smile seemed to possess an influence like +light to irradiate all mental darkness. It was not like a human +loveliness that these gentle smiles went and came; but as a sunbeam on +a lake, now light and now obscure, flitting before as you strove to +catch them, and fold them for ever to your heart. I saw this smile +fade for ever. Alas! I could never have believed that it was indeed +Elinor that died if once when I spoke she had not lifted her almost +benighted eyes, and for one moment like nought beside on earth, more +lovely than a sunbeam, slighter, quicker than the waving plumage of a +bird, dazzling as lightning and like it giving day to night, yet mild +and faint, that smile came; it went, and then there was an end of all +joy to me." + +Thus his own sorrows, or the shapes copied from nature that dwelt in +his mind with beauty greater than their own, occupied our talk while I +railed in my own griefs with cautious secresy. If for a moment he +shewed curiosity, my eyes fell, my voice died away and my evident +suffering made him quickly endeavour to banish the ideas he had +awakened; yet he for ever mingled consolation in his talk, and tried +to soften my despair by demonstrations of deep sympathy and +compassion. "We are both unhappy--" he would say to me; "I have told +you my melancholy tale and we have wept together the loss of that +lovely spirit that has so cruelly deserted me; but you hide your +griefs: I do not ask you to disclose them, but tell me if I may not +console you. It seems to me a wild adventure to find in this desart +one like you quite solitary: you are young and lovely; your manners +are refined and attractive; yet there is in your settled melancholy, +and something, I know not what, in your expressive eyes that seems to +seperate you from your kind: you shudder; pardon me, I entreat you +but I cannot help expressing this once at least the lively interest I +feel in your destiny. + +"You never smile: your voice is low, and you utter your words as if +you were afraid of the slight sound they would produce: the expression +of awful and intense sorrow never for a moment fades from your +countenance. I have lost for ever the loveliest companion that any man +could ever have possessed, one who rather appears to have been a +superior spirit who by some strange accident wandered among us earthly +creatures, than as belonging to our kind. Yet I smile, and sometimes I +speak almost forgetful of the change I have endured. But your sad mien +never alters; your pulses beat and you breathe, yet you seem already +to belong to another world; and sometimes, pray pardon my wild +thoughts, when you touch my hand I am surprised to find your hand warm +when all the fire of life seems extinct within you. + +"When I look upon you, the tears you shed, the soft deprecating look +with which you withstand enquiry; the deep sympathy your voice +expresses when I speak of my lesser sorrows add to my interest for +you. You stand here shelterless[.] You have cast yourself from among +us and you wither on this wild plain fo[r]lorn and helpless: some +dreadful calamity must have befallen you. Do not turn from me; I do +not ask you to reveal it: I only entreat you to listen to me and to +become familiar with the voice of consolation and kindness. If pity, +and admiration, and gentle affection can wean you from despair let me +attempt the task. I cannot see your look of deep grief without +endeavouring to restore you to happier feelings. Unbend your brow; +relax the stern melancholy of your regard; permit a friend, a sincere, +affectionate friend, I will be one, to convey some relief, some +momentary pause to your sufferings. + +"Do not think that I would intrude upon your confidence: I only ask +your patience. Do not for ever look sorrow and never speak it; utter +one word of bitter complaint and I will reprove it with gentle +exhortation and pour on you the balm of compassion. You must not shut +me from all communion with you: do not tell me why you grieve but only +say the words, "I am unhappy," and you will feel relieved as if for +some time excluded from all intercourse by some magic spell you should +suddenly enter again the pale of human sympathy. I entreat you to +believe in my most sincere professions and to treat me as an old and +tried friend: promise me never to forget me, never causelessly to +banish me; but try to love me as one who would devote all his energies +to make you happy. Give me the name of friend; I will fulfill its +duties; and if for a moment complaint and sorrow would shape +themselves into words let me be near to speak peace to your vext +soul." + +I repeat his persuasions in faint terms and cannot give you at the +same time the tone and gesture that animated them. Like a refreshing +shower on an arid soil they revived me, and although I still kept +their cause secret he led me to pour forth my bitter complaints and to +clothe my woe in words of gall and fire. With all the energy of +desperate grief I told him how I had fallen at once from bliss to +misery; how that for me there was no joy, no hope; that death however +bitter would be the welcome seal to all my pangs; death the skeleton +was to be beautiful as love. I know not why but I found it sweet to +utter these words to human ears; and though I derided all consolation +yet I was pleased to see it offered me with gentleness and kindness. I +listened quietly, and when he paused would again pour out my misery in +expressions that shewed how far too deep my wounds were for any cure. + +But now also I began to reap the fruits of my perfect solitude. I had +become unfit for any intercourse, even with Woodville the most gentle +and sympathizing creature that existed. I had become captious and +unreasonable: my temper was utterly spoilt. I called him my friend but +I viewed all he did with jealous eyes. If he did not visit me at the +appointed hour I was angry, very angry, and told him that if indeed he +did feel interest in me it was cold, and could not be fitted for me, a +poor worn creature, whose deep unhappiness demanded much more than his +worldly heart could give. When for a moment I imagined that his manner +was cold I would fretfully say to him--"I was at peace before you +came; why have you disturbed me? You have given me new wants and now +your trifle with me as if my heart were as whole as yours, as if I +were not in truth a shorn lamb thrust out on the bleak hill side, +tortured by every blast. I wished for no friend, no sympathy[.] I +avoided you, you know I did, but you forced yourself upon me and gave +me those wants which you see with triump[h] give you power over me. Oh +the brave power of the bitter north wind which freezes the tears it +has caused to shed! But I will not bear this; go: the sun will rise +and set as before you came, and I shall sit among the pines or wander +on the heath weeping and complaining without wishing for you to +listen. You are cruel, very cruel, to treat me who bleed at every pore +in this rough manner."[61] + +And then, when in answer to my peevish words, I saw his countenance +bent with living pity on me[,] when I saw him + + Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante + Che madre fa sopra figlioul deliro P[a]radiso. C 1.[62] + +I wept and said, "Oh, pardon me! You are good and kind but I am not +fit for life. Why am I obliged to live? To drag hour after hour, to +see the trees wave their branches restlessly, to feel the air, & to +suffer in all I feel keenest agony. My frame is strong, but my soul +sinks beneath this endurance of living anguish. Death is the goal that +I would attain, but, alas! I do not even see the end of the course. Do +you, my compassionate friend,[63] tell me how to die peacefully and +innocently and I will bless you: all that I, poor wretch, can desire +is a painless death." + +But Woodville's words had magic in them, when beginning with the +sweetest pity, he would raise me by degrees out of myself and my +sorrows until I wondered at my own selfishness: but he left me and +despair returned; the work of consolation was ever to begin anew. I +often desired his entire absence; for I found that I was grown out of +the ways of life and that by long seclusion, although I could support +my accustomed grief, and drink the bitter daily draught with some +degree of patience, yet I had become unfit for the slightest novelty +of feeling. Expectation, and hopes, and affection were all too much +for me. I knew this, but at other times I was unreasonable and laid +the blame upon him, who was most blameless, and pevishly thought that +if his gentle soul were more gentle, if his intense sympathy were more +intense, he could drive the fiend from my soul and make me more human. +I am, I thought, a tragedy; a character that he comes to see act: now +and then he gives me my cue[64] that I may make a speech more to his +purpose: perhaps he is already planning a poem in which I am to +figure. I am a farce and play to him, but to me this is all dreary +reality: he takes all the profit and I bear all the burthen. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It is a strange circumstance but it often occurs that blessings by +their use turn to curses; and that I who in solitude had desired +sympathy as the only relief I could enjoy should now find it an +additional torture to me. During my father's life time I had always +been of an affectionate and forbearing disposition, but since those +days of joy alas! I was much changed. I had become arrogant, peevish, +and above all suspicious. Although the real interest of my narration +is now ended and I ought quickly to wind up its melancholy +catastrophe, yet I will relate one instance of my sad suspicion and +despair and how Woodville with the goodness and almost the power of an +angel, softened my rugged feelings and led me back to gentleness.[65] + +He had promised to spend some hours with me one afternoon but a +violent and continual rain[66] prevented him. I was alone the whole +evening. I had passed two whole years alone unrepining, but now I was +miserable. He could not really care for me, I thought, for if he did +the storm would rather have made him come even if I had not expected +him, than, as it did, prevent a promised visit. He would well know +that this drear sky and gloomy rain would load my spirit almost to +madness: if the weather had been fine I should not have regretted his +absence as heavily as I necessarily must shut up in this miserable +cottage with no companions but my own wretched thoughts. If he were +truly my friend he would have calculated all this; and let me now +calculate this boasted friendship, and discover its real worth. He got +over his grief for Elinor, and the country became dull to him, so he +was glad to find even me for amusement; and when he does not know what +else to do he passes his lazy hours here, and calls this +friendship--It is true that his presence is a consolation to me, and +that his words are sweet, and, when he will he can pour forth thoughts +that win me from despair. His words are sweet,--and so, truly, is the +honey of the bee, but the bee has a sting, and unkindness is a worse +smart that that received from an insect's venom. I will[67] put him to +the proof. He says all hope is dead to him, and I know that it is dead +to me, so we are both equally fitted for death. Let me try if he will +die with me; and as I fear to die alone, if he will accompany [me] to +cheer me, and thus he can shew himself my friend in the only manner my +misery will permit.[68] + +It was madness I believe, but I so worked myself up to this idea that +I could think of nothing else. If he dies with me it is well, and +there will be an end of two miserable beings; and if he will not, then +will I scoff at his friendship and drink the poison before him to +shame his cowardice. I planned the whole scene with an earnest heart +and franticly set my soul on this project. I procured Laudanum and +placing it in two glasses on the table, filled my room with flowers +and decorated the last scene of my tragedy with the nicest care. As +the hour for his coming approached my heart softened and I wept; not +that I gave up my plan, but even when resolved the mind must undergo +several revolutions of feeling before it can drink its death. + +Now all was ready and Woodville came. I received him at the door of my +cottage and leading him solemnly into the room, I said: "My friend, I +wish to die. I am quite weary of enduring the misery which hourly I do +endure, and I will throw it off. What slave will not, if he may, +escape from his chains? Look, I weep: for more than two years I have +never enjoyed one moment free from anguish. I have often desired to +die; but I am a very coward. It is hard for one so young who was once +so happy as I was; [_sic_] voluntarily to divest themselves of all +sensation and to go alone to the dreary grave; I dare not. I must die, +yet my fear chills me; I pause and shudder and then for months I +endure my excess of wretchedness. But now the time is come when I may +quit life, I have a friend who will not refuse to accompany me in this +dark journey; such is my request:[69] earnestly do I entreat and +implore you to die with me. Then we shall find Elinor and what I have +lost. Look, I am prepared; there is the death draught, let us drink it +together and willingly & joyfully quit this hated round of daily +life[.] + +"You turn from me; yet before you deny me reflect, Woodville, how +sweet it were to cast off the load of tears and misery under which we +now labour: and surely we shall find light after we have passed the +dark valley. That drink will plunge us in a sweet slumber, and when we +awaken what joy will be ours to find all our sorrows and fears past. +_A little patience, and all will be over_; aye, a very little +patience; for, look, there is the key of our prison; we hold it in our +own hands, and are we more debased than slaves to cast it away and +give ourselves up to voluntary bondage? Even now if we had courage we +might be free. Behold, my cheek is flushed with pleasure at the +imagination of death; all that we love are dead. Come, give me your +hand, one look of joyous sympathy and we will go together and seek +them; a lulling journey; where our arrival will bring bliss and our +waking be that of angels. Do you delay? Are you a coward, Woodville? +Oh fie! Cast off this blank look of human melancholy. Oh! that I had +words to express the luxury of death that I might win you. I tell you +we are no longer miserable mortals; we are about to become Gods; +spirits free and happy as gods. What fool on a bleak shore, seeing a +flowery isle on the other side with his lost love beckoning to him +from it would pause because the wave is dark and turbid? + + "What if some little payne the passage have + That makes frayle flesh to fear the bitter wave? + Is not short payne well borne that brings long ease, + And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave?[F] + +"Do you mark my words; I have learned the language of despair: I have +it all by heart, for I am Despair; and a strange being am I, joyous, +triumphant Despair. But those words are false, for the wave may be +dark but it is not bitter. We lie down, and close our eyes with a +gentle good night, and when we wake, we are free. Come then, no more +delay, thou tardy one! Behold the pleasant potion! Look, I am a spirit +of good, and not a human maid that invites thee, and with winning +accents, (oh, that they would win thee!) says, Come and drink."[70] + +As I spoke I fixed my eyes upon his countenance, and his exquisite +beauty, the heavenly compassion that beamed from his eyes, his gentle +yet earnest look of deprecation and wonder even before he spoke +wrought a change in my high strained feelings taking from me all the +sterness of despair and filling me only with the softest grief. I saw +his eyes humid also as he took both my hands in his; and sitting down +near me, he said:[71] + +"This is a sad deed to which you would lead me, dearest friend, and +your woe must indeed be deep that could fill you with these unhappy +thoughts. You long for death and yet you fear it and wish me to be +your companion. But I have less courage than you and even thus +accompanied I dare not die. Listen to me, and then reflect if you +ought to win me to your project, even if with the over-bearing +eloquence of despair you could make black death so inviting that the +fair heaven should appear darkness. Listen I entreat you to the words +of one who has himself nurtured desperate thoughts, and longed with +impatient desire for death, but who has at length trampled the phantom +under foot, and crushed his sting. Come, as you have played Despair +with me I will play the part of Una with you and bring you hurtless +from his dark cavern. Listen to me, and let yourself be softened by +words in which no selfish passion lingers. + +"We know not what all this wide world means; its strange mixture of +good and evil. But we have been placed here and bid live and hope. I +know not what we are to hope; but there is some good beyond us that we +must seek; and that is our earthly task. If misfortune come against us +we must fight with her; we must cast her aside, and still go on to +find out that which it is our nature to desire. Whether this prospect +of future good be the preparation for another existence I know not; or +whether that it is merely that we, as workmen in God's vineyard, must +lend a hand to smooth the way for our posterity. If it indeed be that; +if the efforts of the virtuous now, are to make the future inhabitants +of this fair world more happy; if the labours of those who cast aside +selfishness, and try to know the truth of things, are to free the men +of ages, now far distant but which will one day come, from the burthen +under which those who now live groan, and like you weep bitterly; if +they free them but from one of what are now the necessary evils of +life, truly I will not fail but will with my whole soul aid the work. +From my youth I have said, I will be virtuous; I will dedicate my life +for the good of others; I will do my best to extirpate evil and if the +spirit who protects ill should so influence circumstances that I +should suffer through my endeavour, yet while there is hope and hope +there ever must be, of success, cheerfully do I gird myself to my +task. + +"I have powers; my countrymen think well of them. Do you think I sow +my seed in the barren air, & have no end in what I do? Believe me, I +will never desert life untill this last hope is torn from my bosom, +that in some way my labours may form a link in the chain of gold with +which we ought all to strive to drag Happiness from where she sits +enthroned above the clouds, now far beyond our reach, to inhabit the +earth with us. Let us suppose that Socrates, or Shakespear, or +Rousseau had been seized with despair and died in youth when they were +as young as I am; do you think that we and all the world should not +have lost incalculable improvement in our good feelings and our +happiness thro' their destruction. I am not like one of these; they +influenced millions: but if I can influence but a hundred, but ten, +but one solitary individual, so as in any way to lead him from ill to +good, that will be a joy to repay me for all my sufferings, though +they were a million times multiplied; and that hope will support me to +bear them[.] + +"And those who do not work for posterity; or working, as may be my +case, will not be known by it; yet they, believe me, have also their +duties. You grieve because you are unhappy[;] it is happiness you seek +but you despair of obtaining it. But if you can bestow happiness on +another; if you can give one other person only one hour of joy ought +you not to live to do it? And every one has it in their power to do +that. The inhabitants of this world suffer so much pain. In crowded +cities, among cultivated plains, or on the desart mountains, pain is +thickly sown, and if we can tear up but one of these noxious weeds, or +more, if in its stead we can sow one seed of corn, or plant one fair +flower, let that be motive sufficient against suicide. Let us not +desert our task while there is the slightest hope that we may in a +future day do this. + +"Indeed I dare not die. I have a mother whose support and hope I am. I +have a friend who loves me as his life, and in whose breast I should +infix a mortal sting if I ungratefully left him. So I will not die. +Nor shall you, my friend; cheer up; cease to weep, I entreat you. Are +you not young, and fair, and good? Why should you despair? Or if you +must for yourself, why for others? If you can never be happy, can you +never bestow happiness[?] Oh! believe me, if you beheld on lips pale +with grief one smile of joy and gratitude, and knew that you were +parent of that smile, and that without you it had never been, you +would feel so pure and warm a happiness that you would wish to live +for ever again and again to enjoy the same pleasure[.] + +"Come, I see that you have already cast aside the sad thoughts you +before franticly indulged. Look in that mirror; when I came your brow +was contracted, your eyes deep sunk in your head, your lips quivering; +your hands trembled violently when I took them; but now all is +tranquil and soft. You are grieved and there is grief in the +expression of your countenance but it is gentle and sweet. You allow +me to throw away this cursed drink; you smile; oh, Congratulate me, +hope is triumphant, and I have done some good." + +These words are shadowy as I repeat them but they were indeed words of +fire and produced a warm hope in me (I, miserable wretch, to hope!) +that tingled like pleasure in my veins. He did not leave me for many +hours; not until he had improved the spark that he had kindled, and +with an angelic hand fostered the return of somthing that seemed like +joy. He left me but I still was calm, and after I had saluted the +starry sky and dewy earth with eyes of love and a contented good +night, I slept sweetly, visited by dreams, the first of pleasure I had +had for many long months. + +But this was only a momentary relief and my old habits of feeling +returned; for I was doomed while in life to grieve, and to the natural +sorrow of my father's death and its most terrific cause, immagination +added a tenfold weight of woe. I believed myself to be polluted by the +unnatural love I had inspired, and that I was a creature cursed and +set apart by nature. I thought that like another Cain, I had a mark +set on my forehead to shew mankind that there was a barrier between me +and they [_sic_].[72] Woodville had told me that there was in my +countenance an expression as if I belonged to another world; so he had +seen that sign: and there it lay a gloomy mark to tell the world that +there was that within my soul that no silence could render +sufficiently obscure. Why when fate drove me to become this outcast +from human feeling; this monster with whom none might mingle in +converse and love; why had she not from that fatal and most accursed +moment, shrouded me in thick mists and placed real darkness between me +and my fellows so that I might never more be seen?, [_sic_] and as I +passed, like a murky cloud loaded with blight, they might only +perceive me by the cold chill I should cast upon them; telling them, +how truly, that something unholy was near? Then I should have lived +upon this dreary heath unvisited, and blasting none by my unhallowed +gaze. Alas! I verily believe that if the near prospect of death did +not dull and soften my bitter [fe]elings, if for a few months longer I +had continued to live as I then lived, strong in body, but my soul +corrupted to its core by a deadly cancer[,] if day after day I had +dwelt on these dreadful sentiments I should have become mad, and +should have fancied myself a living pestilence: so horrible to my own +solitary thoughts did this form, this voice, and all this wretched +self appear; for had it not been the source of guilt that wants a +name?[73] + +This was superstition. I did not feel thus franticly when first I knew +that the holy name of father was become a curse to me: but my lonely +life inspired me with wild thoughts; and then when I saw Woodville & +day after day he tried to win my confidence and I never dared give +words to my dark tale, I was impressed more strongly with the +withering fear that I was in truth a marked creature, a pariah, only +fit for death. + + +[F] Spencer's Faery Queen Book 1--Canto [9] + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +As I was perpetually haunted by these ideas, you may imagine that the +influence of Woodville's words was very temporary; and that although I +did not again accuse him of unkindness, yet I soon became as unhappy +as before. Soon after this incident we parted. He heard that his +mother was ill, and he hastened to her. He came to take leave of me, +and we walked together on the heath for the last time. He promised +that he would come and see me again; and bade me take cheer, and to +encourage what happy thoughts I could, untill time and fortitude +should overcome my misery, and I could again mingle in society. + +"Above all other admonition on my part," he said, "cherish and follow +this one: do not despair. That is the most dangerous gulph on which +you perpetually totter; but you must reassure your steps, and take +hope to guide you.[74] Hope, and your wounds will be already half +healed: but if you obstinately despair, there never more will be +comfort for you. Believe me, my dearest friend, that there is a joy +that the sun and earth and all its beauties can bestow that you will +one day feel. The refreshing bliss of Love will again visit your +heart, and undo the spell that binds you to woe, untill you wonder how +your eyes could be closed in the long night that burthens you. I dare +not hope that I have inspired you with sufficient interest that the +thought of me, and the affection that I shall ever bear you, will +soften your melancholy and decrease the bitterness of your tears. But +if my friendship can make you look on life with less disgust, beware +how you injure it with suspicion. Love is a delicate sprite[75] and +easily hurt by rough jealousy. Guard, I entreat you, a firm persuasion +of my sincerity in the inmost recesses of your heart out of the reach +of the casual winds that may disturb its surface. Your temper is made +unequal by suffering, and the tenor of your mind is, I fear, sometimes +shaken by unworthy causes; but let your confidence in my sympathy and +love be deeper far, and incapable of being reached by these agitations +that come and go, and if they touch not your affections leave you +uninjured." + +These were some of Woodville's last lessons. I wept as I listened to +him; and after we had taken an affectionate farewell, I followed him +far with my eyes until they saw the last of my earthly comforter. I +had insisted on accompanying him across the heath towards the town +where he dwelt: the sun was yet high when he left me, and I turned my +steps towards my cottage. It was at the latter end of the month of +September when the nights have become chill. But the weather was +serene, and as I walked on I fell into no unpleasing reveries. I +thought of Woodville with gratitude and kindness and did not, I know +not why, regret his departure with any bitterness. It seemed that +after one great shock all other change was trivial to me; and I walked +on wondering when the time would come when we should all four, my +dearest father restored to me, meet in some sweet Paradise[.] I +pictured to myself a lovely river such as that on whose banks Dante +describes Mathilda gathering flowers, which ever flows + + ---- bruna, bruna, + Sotto l'ombra perpetua, che mai + Raggiar non lascia sole ivi, ne Luna.[76] + +And then I repeated to myself all that lovely passage that relates the +entrance of Dante into the terrestrial Paradise; and thought it would +be sweet when I wandered on those lovely banks to see the car of light +descend with my long lost parent to be restored to me. As I waited +there in expectation of that moment, I thought how, of the lovely +flowers that grew there, I would wind myself a chaplet and crown +myself for joy: I would sing _sul margine d'un rio_,[77] my father's +favourite song, and that my voice gliding through the windless air +would announce to him in whatever bower he sat expecting the moment of +our union, that his daughter was come. Then the mark of misery would +have faded from my brow, and I should raise my eyes fearlessly to meet +his, which ever beamed with the soft lustre of innocent love. When I +reflected on the magic look of those deep eyes I wept, but gently, +lest my sobs should disturb the fairy scene. + +I was so entirely wrapt in this reverie that I wandered on, taking no +heed of my steps until I actually stooped down to gather a flower for +my wreath on that bleak plain where no flower grew, when I awoke from +my day dream and found myself I knew not where. + +The sun had set and the roseate hue which the clouds had caught from +him in his descent had nearly died away. A wind swept across the +plain, I looked around me and saw no object that told me where I was; +I had lost myself, and in vain attempted to find my path. I wandered +on, and the coming darkness made every trace indistinct by which I +might be guided. At length all was veiled in the deep obscurity of +blackest night; I became weary and knowing that my servant was to +sleep that night at the neighbouring village, so that my absence would +alarm no one; and that I was safe in this wild spot from every +intruder, I resolved to spend the night where I was. Indeed I was too +weary to walk further: the air was chill but I was careless of bodily +inconvenience, and I thought that I was well inured to the weather +during my two years of solitude, when no change of seasons prevented +my perpetual wanderings. + +I lay upon the grass surrounded by a darkness which not the slightest +beam of light penetrated--There was no sound for the deep night had +laid to sleep the insects, the only creatures that lived on the lone +spot where no tree or shrub could afford shelter to aught else--There +was a wondrous silence in the air that calmed my senses yet which +enlivened my soul, my mind hurried from image to image and seemed to +grasp an eternity. All in my heart was shadowy yet calm, untill my +ideas became confused and at length died away in sleep.[78] + +When I awoke it rained:[79] I was already quite wet, and my limbs were +stiff and my head giddy with the chill of night. It was a drizzling, +penetrating shower; as my dank hair clung to my neck and partly +covered my face, I had hardly strength to part with my fingers, the +long strait locks that fell before my eyes. The darkness was much +dissipated and in the east where the clouds were least dense the moon +was visible behind the thin grey cloud-- + + The moon is behind, and at the full + And yet she looks both small and dull.[80] + +Its presence gave me a hope that by its means I might find my home. +But I was languid and many hours passed before I could reach the +cottage, dragging as I did my slow steps, and often resting on the wet +earth unable to proceed. + +I particularly mark this night, for it was that which has hurried on +the last scene of my tragedy, which else might have dwindled on +through long years of listless sorrow. I was very ill when I arrived +and quite incapable of taking off my wet clothes that clung about me. +In the morning, on her return, my servant found me almost lifeless, +while possessed by a high fever I was lying on the floor of my room. + +I was very ill for a long time, and when I recovered from the +immediate danger of fever, every symptom of a rapid consumption +declared itself. I was for some time ignorant of this and thought that +my excessive weakness was the consequence of the fever; [_sic_] But my +strength became less and less; as winter came on I had a cough; and my +sunken cheek, before pale, burned with a hectic fever. One by one +these symptoms struck me; & I became convinced that the moment I had +so much desired was about to arrive and that I was dying. I was +sitting by my fire, the physician who had attended me ever since my +fever had just left me, and I looked over his prescription in which +digitalis was the prominent medecine. "Yes," I said, "I see how this +is, and it is strange that I should have deceived myself so long; I am +about to die an innocent death, and it will be sweeter even than that +which the opium promised." + +I rose and walked slowly to the window; the wide heath was covered by +snow which sparkled under the beams of the sun that shone brightly +thro' the pure, frosty air: a few birds were pecking some crumbs under +my window.[81] I smiled with quiet joy; and in my thoughts, which +through long habit would for ever connect themselves into one train, +as if I shaped them into words, I thus addressed the scene before me: + +"I salute thee, beautiful Sun, and thou, white Earth, fair and cold! +Perhaps I shall never see thee again covered with green, and the sweet +flowers of the coming spring will blossom on my grave. I am about to +leave thee; soon this living spirit which is ever busy among strange +shapes and ideas, which belong not to thee, soon it will have flown to +other regions and this emaciated body will rest insensate on thy bosom + + "Rolled round in earth's diurnal course + With rocks, and stones, and trees. + +"For it will be the same with thee, who art called our Universal +Mother,[82] when I am gone. I have loved thee; and in my days both of +happiness and sorrow I have peopled your solitudes with wild fancies +of my own creation. The woods, and lakes, and mountains which I have +loved, have for me a thousand associations; and thou, oh, Sun! hast +smiled upon, and borne your part in many imaginations that sprung to +life in my soul alone, and which will die with me. Your solitudes, +sweet land, your trees and waters will still exist, moved by your +winds, or still beneath the eye of noon, though[83] [w]hat I have felt +about ye, and all my dreams which have often strangely deformed thee, +will die with me. You will exist to reflect other images in other +minds, and ever will remain the same, although your reflected +semblance vary in a thousand ways, changeable as the hearts of those +who view thee. One of these fragile mirrors, that ever doted on thine +image, is about to be broken, crumbled to dust. But everteeming Nature +will create another and another, and thou wilt loose nought by my +destruction.[84] + +"Thou wilt ever be the same. Recieve then the grateful farewell of a +fleeting shadow who is about to disappear, who joyfully leaves thee, +yet with a last look of affectionate thankfulness. Farewell! Sky, and +fields and woods; the lovely flowers that grow on thee; thy mountains +& thy rivers; to the balmy air and the strong wind of the north, to +all, a last farewell. I shall shed no more tears for my task is almost +fulfilled, and I am about to be rewarded for long and most burthensome +suffering. Bless thy child even even [_sic_] in death, as I bless +thee; and let me sleep at peace in my quiet grave." + +I feel death to be near at hand and I am calm. I no longer despair, +but look on all around me with placid affection. I find it sweet to +watch the progressive decay of my strength, and to repeat to myself, +another day and yet another, but again I shall not see the red leaves +of autumn; before that time I shall be with my father. I am glad +Woodville is not with me for perhaps he would grieve, and I desire to +see smiles alone during the last scene of my life; when I last wrote +to him I told him of my ill health but not of its mortal tendency, +lest he should conceive it to be his duty to come to me for I fear +lest the tears of friendship should destroy the blessed calm of my +mind. I take pleasure in arranging all the little details which will +occur when I shall no longer be. In truth I am in love with death; no +maiden ever took more pleasure in the contemplation of her bridal +attire than I in fancying my limbs already enwrapt in their shroud: +is it not my marriage dress? Alone it will unite me to my father when +in an eternal mental union we shall never part. + +I will not dwell on the last changes that I feel in the final decay of +nature. It is rapid but without pain: I feel a strange pleasure in it. +For long years these are the first days of peace that have visited me. +I no longer exhaust my miserable heart by bitter tears and frantic +complaints; I no longer the [_sic_] reproach the sun, the earth, the +air, for pain and wretchedness. I wait in quiet expectation for the +closing hours of a life which has been to me most sweet & bitter. I do +not die not having enjoyed life; for sixteen years I was happy: during +the first months of my father's return I had enjoyed ages of pleasure: +now indeed I am grown old in grief; my steps are feeble like those of +age; I have become peevish and unfit for life; so having passed little +more than twenty years upon the earth I am more fit for my narrow +grave than many are when they reach the natural term of their lives. + +Again and again I have passed over in my remembrance the different +scenes of my short life: if the world is a stage and I merely an actor +on it my part has been strange, and, alas! tragical. Almost from +infancy I was deprived of all the testimonies of affection which +children generally receive; I was thrown entirely upon my own +resources, and I enjoyed what I may almost call unnatural pleasures, +for they were dreams and not realities. The earth was to me a magic +lantern and I [a] gazer, and a listener but no actor; but then came +the transporting and soul-reviving era of my existence: my father +returned and I could pour my warm affections on a human heart; there +was a new sun and a new earth created to me; the waters of existence +sparkled: joy! joy! but, alas! what grief! My bliss was more rapid +than the progress of a sunbeam on a mountain, which discloses its +glades & woods, and then leaves it dark & blank; to my happiness +followed madness and agony, closed by despair. + +This was the drama of my life which I have now depicted upon paper. +During three months I have been employed in this task. The memory of +sorrow has brought tears; the memory of happiness a warm glow the +lively shadow of that joy. Now my tears are dried; the glow has faded +from my cheeks, and with a few words of farewell to you, Woodville, I +close my work: the last that I shall perform. + +Farewell, my only living friend; you are the sole tie that binds me to +existence, and now I break it[.] It gives me no pain to leave you; nor +can our seperation give you much. You never regarded me as one of this +world, but rather as a being, who for some penance was sent from the +Kingdom of Shadows; and she passed a few days weeping on the earth and +longing to return to her native soil. You will weep but they will be +tears of gentleness. I would, if I thought that it would lessen your +regret, tell you to smile and congratulate me on my departure from the +misery you beheld me endure. I would say; Woodville, rejoice with your +friend, I triumph now and am most happy. But I check these +expressions; these may not be the consolations of the living; they +weep for their own misery, and not for that of the being they have +lost. No; shed a few natural tears due to my memory: and if you ever +visit my grave, pluck from thence a flower, and lay it to your heart; +for your heart is the only tomb in which my memory will be enterred. + +My death is rapidly approaching and you are not near to watch the +flitting and vanishing of my spirit. Do no[t] regret this; for death +is a too terrible an [_sic_] object for the living. It is one of those +adversities which hurt instead of purifying the heart; for it is so +intense a misery that it hardens & dulls the feelings. Dreadful as the +time was when I pursued my father towards the ocean, & found their +[_sic_] only his lifeless corpse; yet for my own sake I should prefer +that to the watching one by one his senses fade; his pulse weaken--and +sleeplessly as it were devour his life in gazing. To see life in his +limbs & to know that soon life would no longer be there; to see the +warm breath issue from his lips and to know they would soon be +chill--I will not continue to trace this frightful picture; you +suffered this torture once; I never did.[85] And the remembrance fills +your heart sometimes with bitter despair when otherwise your feelings +would have melted into soft sorrow. + +So day by day I become weaker, and life flickers in my wasting form, +as a lamp about to loose it vivifying oil. I now behold the glad sun +of May. It was May, four years ago, that I first saw my beloved +father; it was in May, three years ago that my folly destroyed the +only being I was doomed to love. May is returned, and I die. Three +days ago, the anniversary of our meeting; and, alas! of our eternal +seperation, after a day of killing emotion, I caused myself to be led +once more to behold the face of nature. I caused myself to be carried +to some meadows some miles distant from my cottage; the grass was +being mowed, and there was the scent of hay in the fields; all the +earth look[ed] fresh and its inhabitants happy. Evening approached and +I beheld the sun set. Three years ago and on that day and hour it +shone through the branches and leaves of the beech wood and its beams +flickered upon the countenance of him whom I then beheld for the last +time.[86] I now saw that divine orb, gilding all the clouds with +unwonted splendour, sink behind the horizon; it disappeared from a +world where he whom I would seek exists not; it approached a world +where he exists not[.] Why do I weep so bitterly? Why my [_sic_] does +my heart heave with vain endeavour to cast aside the bitter anguish +that covers it "as the waters cover the sea." I go from this world +where he is no longer and soon I shall meet him in another. + +Farewell, Woodville, the turf will soon be green on my grave; and the +violets will bloom on it. _There_ is my hope and my expectation; +your's are in this world; may they be fulfilled.[87] + + + + +NOTES TO _MATHILDA_ + +Abbreviations: + +_F of F--A_ _The Fields of Fancy_, in Lord Abinger's notebook +_F of F--B_ _The Fields of Fancy_, in the notebook in the Bodleian Library +_S-R fr_ fragments of _The Fields of Fancy_ among the papers of the + late Sir John Shelley-Rolls, now in the Bodleian Library + +[1] The name is spelled thus in the MSS of _Mathilda_ and _The Fields +of Fancy_, though in the printed _Journal_ (taken from _Shelley and +Mary_) and in the _Letters_ it is spelled _Matilda_. In the MS of the +journal, however, it is spelled first _Matilda_, later _Mathilda_. + +[2] Mary has here added detail and contrast to the description in _F +of F--A_, in which the passage "save a few black patches ... on the +plain ground" does not appear. + +[3] The addition of "I am alone ... withered me" motivates Mathilda's +state of mind and her resolve to write her history. + +[4] Mathilda too is the unwitting victim in a story of incest. Like +Oedipus, she has lost her parent-lover by suicide; like him she leaves +the scene of the revelation overwhelmed by a sense of her own guilt, +"a sacred horror"; like him, she finds a measure of peace as she is +about to die. + +[5] The addition of "the precious memorials ... gratitude towards +you," by its suggestion of the relationship between Mathilda and +Woodville, serves to justify the detailed narration. + +[6] At this point two sheets have been removed from the notebook. +There is no break in continuity, however. + +[7] The descriptions of Mathilda's father and mother and the account +of their marriage in the next few pages are greatly expanded from _F +of F--A_, where there is only one brief paragraph. The process of +expansion can be followed in _S-R fr_ and in _F of F--B_. The +development of the character of Diana (who represents Mary's own +mother, Mary Wollstonecraft) gave Mary the most trouble. For the +identifications with Mary's father and mother, see Nitchie, _Mary +Shelley_, pp. 11, 90-93, 96-97. + +[8] The passage "There was a gentleman ... school & college vacations" +is on a slip of paper pasted on page 11 of the MS. In the margin are +two fragments, crossed out, evidently parts of what is supplanted by +the substituted passage: "an angelic disposition and a quick, +penetrating understanding" and "her visits ... to ... his house were +long & frequent & there." In _F of F--B_ Mary wrote of Diana's +understanding "that often receives the name of masculine from its +firmness and strength." This adjective had often been applied to Mary +Wollstonecraft's mind. Mary Shelley's own understanding had been +called masculine by Leigh Hunt in 1817 in the _Examiner_. The word was +used also by a reviewer of her last published work, _Rambles in +Germany and Italy, 1844_. (See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, p. 178.) + +[9] The account of Diana in _Mathilda_ is much better ordered and more +coherent than that in _F of F--B_. + +[10] The description of the effect of Diana's death on her husband is +largely new in _Mathilda_. _F of F--B_ is frankly incomplete; _F of +F--A_ contains some of this material; _Mathilda_ puts it in order and +fills in the gaps. + +[11] This paragraph is an elaboration of the description of her aunt's +coldness as found in _F of F--B_. There is only one sentence in _F of +F--A_. + +[12] The description of Mathilda's love of nature and of animals is +elaborated from both rough drafts. The effect, like that of the +preceding addition (see note 11), is to emphasize Mathilda's +loneliness. For the theme of loneliness in Mary Shelley's work, see +Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, pp. 13-17. + +[13] This paragraph is a revision of _F of F--B_, which is +fragmentary. There is nothing in _F of F--A_ and only one scored-out +sentence in _S-R fr_. None of the rough drafts tells of her plans to +join her father. + +[14] The final paragraph in Chapter II is entirely new. + +[15] The account of the return of Mathilda's father is very slightly +revised from that in _F of F--A_. _F of F--B_ has only a few +fragmentary sentences, scored out. It resumes with the paragraph +beginning, "My father was very little changed." + +[16] Symbolic of Mathilda's subsequent life. + +[17] _Illusion, or the Trances of Nourjahad_, a melodrama, was +performed at Drury Lane, November 25, 1813. It was anonymous, but it +was attributed by some reviewers to Byron, a charge which he +indignantly denied. See Byron, _Letters and Journals_, ed. by Rowland +E. Prothero (6 vols. London: Murray, 1902-1904), II, 288. + +[18] This paragraph is in _F of F--B_ but not in _F of F--A_. In the +margin of the latter, however, is written: "It was not of the tree of +knowledge that I ate for no evil followed--it must be of the tree of +life that grows close beside it or--". Perhaps this was intended to go +in the preceding paragraph after "My ideas were enlarged by his +conversation." Then, when this paragraph was added, the figure, +noticeably changed, was included here. + +[19] Here the MS of _F of F--B_ breaks off to resume only with the +meeting of Mathilda and Woodville. + +[20] At the end of the story (p. 79) Mathilda says, "Death is too +terrible an object for the living." Mary was thinking of the deaths of +her two children. + +[21] Mary had read the story of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius in 1817 +and she had made an Italian translation, the MS of which is now in the +Library of Congress. See _Journal_, pp. 79, 85-86. + +[22] The end of this paragraph gave Mary much trouble. In _F of F--A_ +after the words, "my tale must," she develops an elaborate figure: "go +with the stream that hurries on--& now was this stream precipitated by +an overwhelming fall from the pleasant vallies through which it +wandered--down hideous precipieces to a desart black & hopeless--". +This, the original ending of the chapter, was scored out, and a new, +simplified version which, with some deletions and changes, became that +used in _Mathilda_ was written in the margins of two pages (ff. 57, +58). This revision is a good example of Mary's frequent improvement of +her style by the omission of purple patches. + +[23] In _F of F--A_ there follows a passage which has been scored out +and which does not appear in _Mathilda_: "I have tried in somewhat +feeble language to describe the excess of what I may almost call my +adoration for my father--you may then in some faint manner imagine my +despair when I found that he shunned [me] & that all the little arts I +used to re-awaken his lost love made him"--. This is a good example of +Mary's frequent revision for the better by the omission of the obvious +and expository. But the passage also has intrinsic interest. +Mathilda's "adoration" for her father may be compared to Mary's +feeling for Godwin. In an unpublished letter (1822) to Jane Williams +she wrote, "Until I met Shelley I [could?] justly say that he was my +God--and I remember many childish instances of the [ex]cess of +attachment I bore for him." See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, p. 89, and +note 9. + +[24] Cf. the account of the services of Fantasia in the opening +chapter of _F of F--A_ (see pp. 90-102) together with note 3 to _The +Fields of Fancy_. + +[25] This passage beginning "Day after day" and closing with the +quotation is not in _F of F--A_, but it is in _S-R fr_. The quotation +is from _The Captain_ by John Fletcher and a collaborator, possibly +Massinger. These lines from Act I, Sc. 3 are part of a speech by Lelia +addressed to her lover. Later in the play Lelia attempts to seduce her +father--possibly a reason for Mary's selection of the lines. + +[26] At this point (f. 56 of the notebook) begins a long passage, +continuing through Chapter V, in which Mary's emotional disturbance in +writing about the change in Mathilda's father (representing both +Shelley and Godwin?) shows itself on the pages of the MS. They look +more like the rough draft than the fair copy. There are numerous slips +of the pen, corrections in phrasing and sentence structure, dashes +instead of other marks of punctuation, a large blot of ink on f. 57, +one major deletion (see note 32). + +[27] In the margin of _F of F--A_ Mary wrote, "Lord B's Ch'de Harold." +The reference is to stanzas 71 and 72 of Canto IV. Byron compares the +rainbow on the cataract first to "Hope upon a death-bed" and finally + +Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with +unalterable mien. + + + +[28] In _F of F--A_ Mathilda "took up Ariosto & read the story of +Isabella." Mary's reason for the change is not clear. Perhaps she +thought that the fate of Isabella, a tale of love and lust and death +(though not of incest), was too close to what was to be Mathilda's +fate. She may have felt--and rightly--that the allusions to Lelia and +to Myrrha were ample foreshadowings. The reasons for the choice of the +seventh canto of Book II of the _Faerie Queene_ may lie in the +allegorical meaning of Guyon, or Temperance, and the "dread and +horror" of his experience. + +[29] With this speech, which is not in _F of F--A_, Mary begins to +develop the character of the Steward, who later accompanies Mathilda +on her search for her father. Although he is to a very great extent +the stereptyped faithful servant, he does serve to dramatize the +situation both here and in the later scene. + +[30] This clause is substituted for a more conventional and less +dramatic passage in _F of F--A_: "& besides there appeared more of +struggle than remorse in his manner although sometimes I thought I saw +glim[p]ses of the latter feeling in his tumultuous starts & gloomy +look." + +[31] These paragraphs beginning Chapter V are much expanded from _F of +F--A_. Some of the details are in the _S-R fr_. This scene is recalled +at the end of the story. (See page 80) Cf. what Mary says about places +that are associated with former emotions in her _Rambles in Germany +and Italy_ (2 vols., London: Moxon, 1844), II, 78-79. She is writing +of her approach to Venice, where, twenty-five years before, little +Clara had died. "It is a strange, but to any person who has suffered, +a familiar circumstance, that those who are enduring mental or +corporeal agony are strangely alive to immediate external objects, and +their imagination even exercises its wild power over them.... Thus the +banks of the Brenta presented to me a moving scene; not a palace, not +a tree of which I did not recognize, as marked and recorded, at a +moment when life and death hung upon our speedy arrival at Venice." + +[32] The remainder of this chapter, which describes the crucial scene +between Mathilda and her father, is the result of much revision from +_F of F--A_. Some of the revisions are in _S-R fr_. In general the +text of _Mathilda_ is improved in style. Mary adds concrete, specific +words and phrases; e.g., at the end of the first paragraph of +Mathilda's speech, the words "of incertitude" appear in _Mathilda_ for +the first time. She cancels, even in this final draft, an +over-elaborate figure of speech after the words in the father's reply, +"implicated in my destruction"; the cancelled passage is too flowery +to be appropriate here: "as if when a vulture is carrying off some +hare it is struck by an arrow his helpless victim entangled in the +same fate is killed by the defeat of its enemy. One word would do all +this." Furthermore the revised text shows greater understanding and +penetration of the feelings of both speakers: the addition of "Am I +the cause of your grief?" which brings out more dramatically what +Mathilda has said in the first part of this paragraph; the analysis of +the reasons for her presistent questioning; the addition of the final +paragraph of her plea, "Alas! Alas!... you hate me!" which prepares +for the father's reply. + +[33] Almost all the final paragraph of the chapter is added to _F of +F--A_. Three brief _S-R fr_ are much revised and simplified. + +[34] _Decameron_, 4th day, 1st story. Mary had read the _Decameron_ in +May, 1819. See _Journal_, p. 121. + +[35] The passage "I should fear ... I must despair" is in _S-R fr_ but +not in _F of F--A_. There, in the margin, is the following: "Is it not +the prerogative of superior virtue to pardon the erring and to weigh +with mercy their offenses?" This sentence does not appear in +_Mathilda_. Also in the margin of _F of F--A_ is the number (9), the +number of the _S-R fr_. + +[36] The passage "enough of the world ... in unmixed delight" is on a +slip pasted over the middle of the page. Some of the obscured text is +visible in the margin, heavily scored out. Also in the margin is +"Canto IV Vers Ult," referring to the quotation from Dante's +_Paradiso_. This quotation, with the preceding passage beginning "in +whose eyes," appears in _Mathilda_ only. + +[37] The reference to Diana, with the father's rationalization of his +love for Mathilda, is in _S-R fr_ but not in _F of F--A_. + +[38] In _F of F--A_ this is followed by a series of other gloomy +concessive clauses which have been scored out to the advantage of the +text. + +[39] This paragraph has been greatly improved by the omission of +elaborate over-statement; e.g., "to pray for mercy & respite from my +fear" (_F of F--A_) becomes merely "to pray." + +[40] This paragraph about the Steward is added in _Mathilda_. In _F of +F--A_ he is called a servant and his name is Harry. See note 29. + +[41] This sentence, not in _F of F--A_, recalls Mathilda's dream. + +[42] This passage is somewhat more dramatic than that in _F of F--A_, +putting what is there merely a descriptive statement into quotation +marks. + +[43] A stalactite grotto on the island of Antiparos in the Aegean Sea. + +[44] A good description of Mary's own behavior in England after +Shelley's death, of the surface placidity which concealed stormy +emotion. See Nitchie, _Mary Shelley_, pp. 8-10. + +[45] _Job_, 17: 15-16, slightly misquoted. + +[46] Not in _F of F--A_. The quotation should read: + +Fam. Whisper it, sister! so and so! In a dark hint, soft and slow. + + + +[47] The mother of Prince Arthur in Shakespeare's _King John_. In the +MS the words "the little Arthur" are written in pencil above the name +of Constance. + +[48] In _F of F--A_ this account of her plans is addressed to Diotima, +and Mathilda's excuse for not detailing them is that they are too +trivial to interest spirits no longer on earth; this is the only +intrusion of the framework into Mathilda's narrative in _The Fields of +Fancy_. Mathilda's refusal to recount her stratagems, though the +omission is a welcome one to the reader, may represent the flagging of +Mary's invention. Similarly in _Frankenstein_ she offers excuses for +not explaining how the Monster was brought to life. The entire +passage, "Alas! I even now ... remain unfinished. I was," is on a slip +of paper pasted on the page. + +[49] The comparison to a Hermitess and the wearing of the "fanciful +nunlike dress" are appropriate though melodramatic. They appear only +in _Mathilda_. Mathilda refers to her "whimsical nunlike habit" again +after she meets Woodville (see page 60) and tells us in a deleted +passage that it was "a close nunlike gown of black silk." + +[50] Cf. Shelley, _Prometheus Unbound_, I, 48: "the wingless, crawling +hours." This phrase ("my part in submitting ... minutes") and the +remainder of the paragraph are an elaboration of the simple phrase in +_F of F--A_, "my part in enduring it--," with its ambiguous pronoun. +The last page of Chapter VIII shows many corrections, even in the MS +of _Mathilda_. It is another passage that Mary seems to have written +in some agitation of spirit. Cf. note 26. + +[51] In _F of F--A_ there are several false starts before this +sentence. The name there is Welford; on the next page it becomes +Lovel, which is thereafter used throughout _The Fields of Fancy_ and +appears twice, probably inadvertently, in _Mathilda_, where it is +crossed out. In a few of the _S-R fr_ it is Herbert. In _Mathilda_ it +is at first Herbert, which is used until after the rewritten +conclusion (see note 83) but is corrected throughout to Woodville. On +the final pages Woodville alone is used. (It is interesting, though +not particularly significant, that one of the minor characters in +Lamb's _John Woodvil_ is named Lovel. Such mellifluous names rolled +easily from the pens of all the romantic writers.) This, her first +portrait of Shelley in fiction, gave Mary considerable trouble: +revisions from the rough drafts are numerous. The passage on +Woodville's endowment by fortune, for example, is much more concise +and effective than that in _S-R fr_. Also Mary curbed somewhat the +extravagance of her praise of Woodville, omitting such hyperboles as +"When he appeared a new sun seemed to rise on the day & he had all the +benignity of the dispensor of light," and "he seemed to come as the +God of the world." + +[52] This passage beginning "his station was too high" is not in _F of +F--A_. + +[53] This passage beginning "He was a believer in the divinity of +genius" is not in _F of F--A_. Cf. the discussion of genius in +"Giovanni Villani" (Mary Shelley's essay in _The Liberal_, No. IV, +1823), including the sentence: "The fixed stars appear to abberate +[_sic_]; but it is we that move, not they." It is tempting to conclude +that this is a quotation or echo of something which Shelley said, +perhaps in conversation with Byron. I have not found it in any of his +published writings. + +[54] Is this wishful thinking about Shelley's poetry? It is well known +that a year later Mary remonstrated with Shelley about _The Witch of +Atlas_, desiring, as she said in her 1839 note, "that Shelley should +increase his popularity.... It was not only that I wished him to +acquire popularity as redounding to his fame; but I believed that he +would obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, and greater +happiness in his mind, if public applause crowned his endeavours.... +Even now I believe that I was in the right." Shelley's response is in +the six introductory stanzas of the poem. + +[55] The preceding paragraphs about Elinor and Woodville are the +result of considerable revision for the better of _F of F--A_ and _S-R +fr_. Mary scored out a paragraph describing Elinor, thus getting rid +of several cliches ("fortune had smiled on her," "a favourite of +fortune," "turning tears of misery to those of joy"); she omitted a +clause which offered a weak motivation of Elinor's father's will (the +possibility of her marrying, while hardly more than a child, one of +her guardian's sons); she curtailed the extravagance of a rhapsody on +the perfect happiness which Woodville and Elinor would have enjoyed. + +[56] The death scene is elaborated from _F of F--A_ and made more +melodramatic by the addition of Woodville's plea and of his vigil by +the death-bed. + +[57] _F of F--A_ ends here and _F of F--B_ resumes. + +[58] A similar passage about Mathilda's fears is cancelled in _F of +F--B_ but it appears in revised form in _S-R fr_. There is also among +these fragments a long passage, not used in _Mathilda_, identifying +Woodville as someone she had met in London. Mary was wise to discard +it for the sake of her story. But the first part of it is interesting +for its correspondence with fact: "I knew him when I first went to +London with my father he was in the height of his glory & +happiness--Elinor was living & in her life he lived--I did not know +her but he had been introduced to my father & had once or twice +visited us--I had then gazed with wonder on his beauty & listened to +him with delight--" Shelley had visited Godwin more than "once or +twice" while Harriet was still living, and Mary had seen him. Of +course she had seen Harriet too, in 1812, when she came with Shelley +to call on Godwin. Elinor and Harriet, however, are completely unlike. + +[59] Here and on many succeeding pages, where Mathilda records the +words and opinions of Woodville, it is possible to hear the voice of +Shelley. This paragraph, which is much expanded from _F of F--B_, may +be compared with the discussion of good and evil in _Julian and +Maddalo_ and with _Prometheus Unbound_ and _A Defence of Poetry_. + +[60] In the revision of this passage Mathilda's sense of her pollution +is intensified; for example, by addition of "infamy and guilt was +mingled with my portion." + +[61] Some phrases of self-criticism are added in this paragraph. + +[62] In _F of F--B_ this quotation is used in the laudanum scene, just +before Level's (Woodville's) long speech of dissuasion. + +[63] The passage "air, & to suffer ... my compassionate friend" is on +a slip of paper pasted across the page. + +[64] This phrase sustains the metaphor better than that in _F of +F--B_: "puts in a word." + +[65] This entire paragraph is added to _F of F--B_; it is in rough +draft in _S-R fr_. + +[66] This is changed in the MS of _Mathilda_ from "a violent +thunderstorm." Evidently Mary decided to avoid using another +thunderstorm at a crisis in the story. + +[67] The passage "It is true ... I will" is on a slip of paper pasted +across the page. + +[68] In the revision from _F of F--B_ the style of this whole episode +becomes more concise and specific. + +[69] An improvement over the awkward phrasing in _F of F--B_: "a +friend who will not repulse my request that he would accompany me." + +[70] These two paragraphs are not in _F of F--B_; portions of them are +in _S-R fr_. + +[71] This speech is greatly improved in style over that in _F of +F--B_, more concise in expression (though somewhat expanded), more +specific. There are no corresponding _S-R fr_ to show the process of +revision. With the ideas expressed here cf. Shelley, _Julian and +Maddalo_, ll. 182-187, 494-499, and his letter to Claire in November, +1820 (Julian _Works_, X, 226). See also White, _Shelley_, II, 378. + +[72] This solecism, copied from _F of F--B_, is not characteristic of +Mary Shelley. + +[73] This paragraph prepares for the eventual softening of Mathilda's +feeling. The idea is somewhat elaborated from _F of F--B_. Other +changes are necessitated by the change in the mode of presenting the +story. In _The Fields of Fancy_ Mathilda speaks as one who has already +died. + +[74] Cf. Shelley's emphasis on hope and its association with love in +all his work. When Mary wrote _Mathilda_ she knew _Queen Mab_ (see +Part VIII, ll. 50-57, and Part IX, ll. 207-208), the _Hymn to +Intellectual Beauty_, and the first three acts of _Prometheus +Unbound_. The fourth act was written in the winter of 1819, but +Demogorgon's words may already have been at least adumbrated before +the beginning of November: + +To love and bear, to hope till hope creates From its own wreck the +thing it contemplates. + + + +[75] Shelley had written, "Desolation is a delicate thing" +(_Prometheus Unbound_, Act I, l. 772) and called the Spirit of the +Earth "a delicate spirit" (_Ibid._, Act III, Sc. iv, l. 6). + +[76] _Purgatorio_, Canto 28, ll. 31-33. Perhaps by this time Shelley +had translated ll. 1-51 of this canto. He had read the _Purgatorio_ in +April, 1818, and again with Mary in August, 1819, just as she was +beginning to write _Mathilda_. Shelley showed his translation to +Medwin in 1820, but there seems to be no record of the date of +composition. + +[77] An air with this title was published about 1800 in London by +Robert Birchall. See _Catalogue of Printed Music Published between +1487 and 1800 and now in the British Museum_, by W. Barclay Squire, +1912. Neither author nor composer is listed in the _Catalogue_. + +[78] This paragraph is materially changed from _F of F--B_. Clouds and +darkness are substituted for starlight, silence for the sound of the +wind. The weather here matches Mathilda's mood. Four and a half lines +of verse (which I have not been able to identify, though they sound +Shelleyan--are they Mary's own?) are omitted: of the stars she says, + + the wind is in the tree + But they are silent;--still they roll along + Immeasurably distant; & the vault + Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds + Still deepens its unfathomable depth. + + + +[79] If Mary quotes Coleridge's _Ancient Mariner_ intentionally here, +she is ironic, for this is no merciful rain, except for the fact that +it brings on the illness which leads to Mathilda's death, for which +she longs. + +[80] This quotation from _Christabel_ (which suggests that the +preceding echo is intentional) is not in _F of F--B_. + +[81] Cf. the description which opens _Mathilda_. + +[82] Among Lord Abinger's papers, in Mary's hand, are some comparable +(but very bad) fragmentary verses addressed to Mother Earth. + +[83] At this point four sheets are cut out of the notebook. They are +evidently those with pages numbered 217 to 223 which are among the +_S-R fr_. They contain the conclusion of the story, ending, as does _F +of F--B_ with Mathilda's words spoken to Diotima in the Elysian +Fields: "I am here, not with my father, but listening to lessons of +wisdom, which will one day bring me to him when we shall never part. +THE END." Some passages are scored out, but not this final sentence. +Tenses are changed from past to future. The name _Herbert_ is changed +to _Woodville_. The explanation must be that Mary was hurrying to +finish the revision (quite drastic on these final pages) and the +transcription of her story before her confinement, and that in her +haste she copied the pages from _F of F--B_ as they stood. Then, +realizing that they did not fit _Mathilda_, she began to revise them; +but to keep her MS neat, she cut out these pages and wrote the fair +copy. There is no break in _Mathilda_ in story or in pagination. This +fair copy also shows signs of haste: slips of the pen, repetition of +words, a number of unimportant revisions. + +[84] Here in _F of F--B_ there is an index number which evidently +points to a note at the bottom of the next page. The note is omitted +in _Mathilda_. It reads: + +"Dante in his Purgatorio describes a grifon as remaining unchanged but +his reflection in the eyes of Beatrice as perpetually varying (Purg. +Cant. 31) So nature is ever the same but seen differently by almost +every spectator and even by the same at various times. All minds, as +mirrors, receive her forms--yet in each mirror the shapes apparently +reflected vary & are perpetually changing--" + + + +[85] See note 20. Mary Shelley had suffered this torture when Clara +and William died. + +[86] See the end of Chapter V. + +[87] This sentence is not in _F of F--B_ or in _S-R fr_. + + + + +THE FIELDS OF FANCY[88] + + +It was in Rome--the Queen of the World that I suffered a misfortune +that reduced me to misery & despair[89]--The bright sun & deep azure +sky were oppressive but nought was so hateful as the voice of Man--I +loved to walk by the shores of the Tiber which were solitary & if the +sirocco blew to see the swift clouds pass over St. Peters and the many +domes of Rome or if the sun shone I turned my eyes from the sky whose +light was too dazzling & gay to be reflected in my tearful eyes I +turned them to the river whose swift course was as the speedy +departure of happiness and whose turbid colour was gloomy as grief-- + +Whether I slept I know not or whether it was in one of those many +hours which I spent seated on the ground my mind a chaos of despair & +my eyes for ever wet by tears but I was here visited by a lovely +spirit whom I have ever worshiped & who tried to repay my adoration by +diverting my mind from the hideous memories that racked it. At first +indeed this wanton spirit played a false part & appearing with sable +wings & gloomy countenance seemed to take a pleasure in exagerating +all my miseries--and as small hopes arose to snatch them from me & +give me in their place gigantic fears which under her fairy hand +appeared close, impending & unavoidable--sometimes she would cruelly +leave me while I was thus on the verge of madness and without +consoling me leave me nought but heavy leaden sleep--but at other +times she would wilily link less unpleasing thoughts to these most +dreadful ones & before I was aware place hopes before me--futile but +consoling[90]-- + +One day this lovely spirit--whose name as she told me was Fantasia +came to me in one of her consolotary moods--her wings which seemed +coloured by her tone of mind were not gay but beautiful like that of +the partridge & her lovely eyes although they ever burned with an +unquenshable fire were shaded & softened by her heavy lids & the black +long fringe of her eye lashes--She thus addressed me--You mourn for +the loss of those you love. They are gone for ever & great as my power +is I cannot recall them to you--if indeed I wave my wand over you you +will fancy that you feel their gentle spirits in the soft air that +steals over your cheeks & the distant sound of winds & waters may +image to you their voices which will bid you rejoice for that they +live--This will not take away your grief but you will shed sweeter +tears than those which full of anguish & hopelessness now start from +your eyes--This I can do & also can I take you to see many of my +provinces my fairy lands which you have not yet visited and whose +beauty will while away the heavy time--I have many lovely spots under +my command which poets of old have visited and have seen those sights +the relation of which has been as a revelation to the world--many +spots I have still in keeping of lovely fields or horrid rocks peopled +by the beautiful or the tremendous which I keep in reserve for my +future worshippers--to one of those whose grim terrors frightened +sleep from the eye I formerly led you[91] but you now need more +pleasing images & although I will not promise you to shew you any new +scenes yet if I lead you to one often visited by my followers you will +at least see new combinations that will sooth if they do not delight +you--Follow me-- + +Alas! I replied--when have you found me slow to obey your voice--some +times indeed I have called you & you have not come--but when before +have I not followed your slightest sign and have left what was either +of joy or sorrow in our world to dwell with you in yours till you have +dismissed me ever unwilling to depart--But now the weight of grief +that oppresses me takes from me that lightness which is necessary to +follow your quick & winged motions alas in the midst of my course one +thought would make me droop to the ground while you would outspeed me +to your Kingdom of Glory & leave me here darkling + +Ungrateful! replied the Spirit Do I not tell you that I will sustain & +console you My wings shall aid your heavy steps & I will command my +winds to disperse the mist that over casts you--I will lead you to a +place where you will not hear laughter that disturbs you or see the +sun that dazzles you--We will choose some of the most sombre walks of +the Elysian fields-- + +The Elysian fields--I exclaimed with a quick scream--shall I then see? +I gasped & could not ask that which I longed to know--the friendly +spirit replied more gravely--I have told you that you will not see +those whom you mourn--But I must away--follow me or I must leave you +weeping deserted by the spirit that now checks your tears-- + +Go--I replied I cannot follow--I can only sit here & grieve--& long to +see those who are gone for ever for to nought but what has relation to +them can I listen-- + +The spirit left me to groan & weep to wish the sun quenched in eternal +darkness--to accuse the air the waters all--all the universe of my +utter & irremediable misery--Fantasia came again and ever when she +came tempted me to follow her but as to follow her was to leave for a +while the thought of those loved ones whose memories were my all +although they were my torment I dared not go--Stay with me I cried & +help me to clothe my bitter thoughts in lovelier colours give me hope +although fallacious & images of what has been although it never will +be again--diversion I cannot take cruel fairy do you leave me alas all +my joy fades at thy departure but I may not follow thee-- + +One day after one of these combats when the spirit had left me I +wandered on along the banks of the river to try to disperse the +excessive misery that I felt untill overcome by fatigue--my eyes +weighed down by tears--I lay down under the shade of trees & fell +asleep--I slept long and when I awoke I knew not where I was--I did +not see the river or the distant city--but I lay beside a lovely +fountain shadowed over by willows & surrounded by blooming myrtles--at +a short distance the air seemed pierced by the spiry pines & cypresses +and the ground was covered by short moss & sweet smelling heath--the +sky was blue but not dazzling like that of Rome and on every side I +saw long allies--clusters of trees with intervening lawns & gently +stealing rivers--Where am I? [I] exclaimed--& looking around me I +beheld Fantasia--She smiled & as she smiled all the enchanting scene +appeared lovelier--rainbows played in the fountain & the heath flowers +at our feet appeared as if just refreshed by dew--I have seized you, +said she--as you slept and will for some little time retain you as my +prisoner--I will introduce you to some of the inhabitants of these +peaceful Gardens--It shall not be to any whose exuberant happiness +will form an u[n]pleasing contrast with your heavy grief but it shall +be to those whose chief care here is to acquired knowledged [_sic_] & +virtue--or to those who having just escaped from care & pain have not +yet recovered full sense of enjoyment--This part of these Elysian +Gardens is devoted to those who as before in your world wished to +become wise & virtuous by study & action here endeavour after the +same ends by contemplation--They are still unknowing of their final +destination but they have a clear knowledge of what on earth is only +supposed by some which is that their happiness now & hereafter depends +upon their intellectual improvement--Nor do they only study the forms +of this universe but search deeply in their own minds and love to meet +& converse on all those high subjects of which the philosophers of +Athens loved to treat--With deep feelings but with no outward +circumstances to excite their passions you will perhaps imagine that +their life is uniform & dull--but these sages are of that disposition +fitted to find wisdom in every thing & in every lovely colour or form +ideas that excite their love--Besides many years are consumed before +they arrive here--When a soul longing for knowledge & pining at its +narrow conceptions escapes from your earth many spirits wait to +receive it and to open its eyes to the mysteries of the universe--many +centuries are often consumed in these travels and they at last retire +here to digest their knowledge & to become still wiser by thought and +imagination working upon memory [92]--When the fitting period is +accomplished they leave this garden to inhabit another world fitted +for the reception of beings almost infinitely wise--but what this +world is neither can you conceive or I teach you--some of the spirits +whom you will see here are yet unknowing in the secrets of +nature--They are those whom care & sorrow have consumed on earth & +whose hearts although active in virtue have been shut through +suffering from knowledge--These spend sometime here to recover their +equanimity & to get a thirst of knowledge from converse with their +wiser companions--They now securely hope to see again those whom they +love & know that it is ignorance alone that detains them from them. As +for those who in your world knew not the loveliness of benevolence & +justice they are placed apart some claimed by the evil spirit & in +vain sought for by the good but She whose delight is to reform the +wicked takes all she can & delivers them to her ministers not to be +punished but to be exercised & instructed untill acquiring a love of +virtue they are fitted for these gardens where they will acquire a +love of knowledge + +As Fantasia talked I saw various groupes of figures as they walked +among the allies of the gardens or were seated on the grassy plots +either in contemplation or conversation several advanced together +towards the fountain where I sat--As they approached I observed the +principal figure to be that of a woman about 40 years of age her eyes +burned with a deep fire and every line of her face expressed +enthusiasm & wisdom--Poetry seemed seated on her lips which were +beautifully formed & every motion of her limbs although not youthful +was inexpressibly graceful--her black hair was bound in tresses round +her head and her brows were encompassed by a fillet--her dress was +that of a simple tunic bound at the waist by a broad girdle and a +mantle which fell over her left arm she was encompassed by several +youths of both sexes who appeared to hang on her words & to catch the +inspiration as it flowed from her with looks either of eager wonder or +stedfast attention with eyes all bent towards her eloquent countenance +which beamed with the mind within--I am going said Fantasia but I +leave my spirit with you without which this scene wd fade away--I +leave you in good company--that female whose eyes like the loveliest +planet in the heavens draw all to gaze on her is the Prophetess +Diotima the instructress of Socrates[93]--The company about her are +those just escaped from the world there they were unthinking or +misconducted in the pursuit of knowledge. She leads them to truth & +wisdom untill the time comes when they shall be fitted for the journey +through the universe which all must one day undertake--farewell-- + +And now, gentlest reader--I must beg your indulgence--I am a being too +weak to record the words of Diotima her matchless wisdom & heavenly +eloquence[.] What I shall repeat will be as the faint shadow of a tree +by moonlight--some what of the form will be preserved but there will +be no life in it--Plato alone of Mortals could record the thoughts of +Diotima hopeless therefore I shall not dwell so much on her words as +on those of her pupils which being more earthly can better than hers +be related by living lips[.] + +Diotima approached the fountain & seated herself on a mossy mound near +it and her disciples placed themselves on the grass near her--Without +noticing me who sat close under her she continued her discourse +addressing as it happened one or other of her listeners--but before I +attempt to repeat her words I will describe the chief of these whom +she appeared to wish principally to impress--One was a woman of about +23 years of age in the full enjoyment of the most exquisite beauty her +golden hair floated in ringlets on her shoulders--her hazle eyes were +shaded by heavy lids and her mouth the lips apart seemed to breathe +sensibility[94]--But she appeared thoughtful & unhappy--her cheek was +pale she seemed as if accustomed to suffer and as if the lessons she +now heard were the only words of wisdom to which she had ever +listened--The youth beside her had a far different aspect--his form +was emaciated nearly to a shadow--his features were handsome but thin +& worn--& his eyes glistened as if animating the visage of decay--his +forehead was expansive but there was a doubt & perplexity in his looks +that seemed to say that although he had sought wisdom he had got +entangled in some mysterious mazes from which he in vain endeavoured +to extricate himself--As Diotima spoke his colour went & came with +quick changes & the flexible muscles of his countenance shewed every +impression that his mind received--he seemed one who in life had +studied hard but whose feeble frame sunk beneath the weight of the +mere exertion of life--the spark of intelligence burned with uncommon +strength within him but that of life seemed ever on the eve of +fading[95]--At present I shall not describe any other of this groupe +but with deep attention try to recall in my memory some of the words +of Diotima--they were words of fire but their path is faintly marked +on my recollection--[96] + +It requires a just hand, said she continuing her discourse, to weigh & +divide the good from evil--On the earth they are inextricably +entangled and if you would cast away what there appears an evil a +multitude of beneficial causes or effects cling to it & mock your +labour--When I was on earth and have walked in a solitary country +during the silence of night & have beheld the multitude of stars, the +soft radiance of the moon reflected on the sea, which was studded by +lovely islands--When I have felt the soft breeze steal across my cheek +& as the words of love it has soothed & cherished me--then my mind +seemed almost to quit the body that confined it to the earth & with a +quick mental sense to mingle with the scene that I hardly saw--I +felt--Then I have exclaimed, oh world how beautiful thou art!--Oh +brightest universe behold thy worshiper!--spirit of beauty & of +sympathy which pervades all things, & now lifts my soul as with wings, +how have you animated the light & the breezes!--Deep & inexplicable +spirit give me words to express my adoration; my mind is hurried away +but with language I cannot tell how I feel thy loveliness! Silence or +the song of the nightingale the momentary apparition of some bird that +flies quietly past--all seems animated with thee & more than all the +deep sky studded with worlds!"--If the winds roared & tore the sea and +the dreadful lightnings seemed falling around me--still love was +mingled with the sacred terror I felt; the majesty of loveliness was +deeply impressed on me--So also I have felt when I have seen a lovely +countenance--or heard solemn music or the eloquence of divine wisdom +flowing from the lips of one of its worshippers--a lovely animal or +even the graceful undulations of trees & inanimate objects have +excited in me the same deep feeling of love & beauty; a feeling which +while it made me alive & eager to seek the cause & animator of the +scene, yet satisfied me by its very depth as if I had already found +the solution to my enquires [_sic_] & as if in feeling myself a part +of the great whole I had found the truth & secret of the universe--But +when retired in my cell I have studied & contemplated the various +motions and actions in the world the weight of evil has confounded +me--If I thought of the creation I saw an eternal chain of evil linked +one to the other--from the great whale who in the sea swallows & +destroys multitudes & the smaller fish that live on him also & torment +him to madness--to the cat whose pleasure it is to torment her prey I +saw the whole creation filled with pain--each creature seems to exist +through the misery of another & death & havoc is the watchword of the +animated world--And Man also--even in Athens the most civilized spot +on the earth what a multitude of mean passions--envy, malice--a +restless desire to depreciate all that was great and good did I +see--And in the dominions of the great being I saw man [reduced?][97] +far below the animals of the field preying on one anothers [_sic_] +hearts; happy in the downfall of others--themselves holding on with +bent necks and cruel eyes to a wretch more a slave if possible than +they to his miserable passions--And if I said these are the +consequences of civilization & turned to the savage world I saw only +ignorance unrepaid by any noble feeling--a mere animal, love of life +joined to a low love of power & a fiendish love of destruction--I saw +a creature drawn on by his senses & his selfish passions but untouched +by aught noble or even Human-- + +And then when I sought for consolation in the various faculties man is +possessed of & which I felt burning within me--I found that spirit of +union with love & beauty which formed my happiness & pride degraded +into superstition & turned from its natural growth which could bring +forth only good fruit:--cruelty--& intolerance & hard tyranny was +grafted on its trunk & from it sprung fruit suitable to such +grafts--If I mingled with my fellow creatures was the voice I heard +that of love & virtue or that of selfishness & vice, still misery was +ever joined to it & the tears of mankind formed a vast sea ever blown +on by its sighs & seldom illuminated by its smiles--Such taking only +one side of the picture & shutting wisdom from the view is a just +portraiture of the creation as seen on earth + +But when I compared the good & evil of the world & wished to divide +them into two seperate principles I found them inextricably intwined +together & I was again cast into perplexity & doubt--I might have +considered the earth as an imperfect formation where having bad +materials to work on the Creator could only palliate the evil effects +of his combinations but I saw a wanton malignity in many parts & +particularly in the mind of man that baffled me a delight in mischief +a love of evil for evils sake--a siding of the multitude--a dastardly +applause which in their hearts the crowd gave to triumphant +wick[ed]ness over lowly virtue that filled me with painful sensations. +Meditation, painful & continual thought only encreased my doubts--I +dared not commit the blasphemy of ascribing the slightest evil to a +beneficent God--To whom then should I ascribe the creation? To two +principles? Which was the upermost? They were certainly independant +for neither could the good spirit allow the existence of evil or the +evil one the existence of good--Tired of these doubts to which I could +form no probable solution--Sick of forming theories which I destroyed +as quickly as I built them I was one evening on the top of Hymettus +beholding the lovely prospect as the sun set in the glowing sea--I +looked towards Athens & in my heart I exclaimed--oh busy hive of men! +What heroism & what meaness exists within thy walls! And alas! both to +the good & to the wicked what incalculable misery--Freemen ye call +yourselves yet every free man has ten slaves to build up his +freedom--and these slaves are men as they are yet d[e]graded by their +station to all that is mean & loathsome--Yet in how many hearts now +beating in that city do high thoughts live & magnanimity that should +methinks redeem the whole human race--What though the good man is +unhappy has he not that in his heart to satisfy him? And will a +contented conscience compensate for fallen hopes--a slandered name +torn affections & all the miseries of civilized life?-- + +Oh Sun how beautiful thou art! And how glorious is the golden ocean +that receives thee! My heart is at peace--I feel no sorrow--a holy +love stills my senses--I feel as if my mind also partook of the +inexpressible loveliness of surrounding nature--What shall I do? Shall +I disturb this calm by mingling in the world?--shall I with an aching +heart seek the spectacle of misery to discover its cause or shall I +hopless leave the search of knowledge & devote myself to the pleasures +they say this world affords?--Oh! no--I will become wise! I will study +my own heart--and there discovering as I may the spring of the virtues +I possess I will teach others how to look for them in their own +souls--I will find whence arrises this unquenshable love of beauty I +possess that seems the ruling star of my life--I will learn how I may +direct it aright and by what loving I may become more like that beauty +which I adore And when I have traced the steps of the godlike feeling +which ennobles me & makes me that which I esteem myself to be then I +will teach others & if I gain but one proselyte--if I can teach but +one other mind what is the beauty which they ought to love--and what +is the sympathy to which they ought to aspire what is the true end of +their being--which must be the true end of that of all men then shall +I be satisfied & think I have done enough-- + +Farewell doubts--painful meditation of evil--& the great, ever +inexplicable cause of all that we see--I am content to be ignorant of +all this happy that not resting my mind on any unstable theories I +have come to the conclusion that of the great secret of the universe I +_can know nothing_--There is a veil before it--my eyes are not +piercing enough to see through it my arms not long enough to reach it +to withdraw it--I will study the end of my being--oh thou universal +love inspire me--oh thou beauty which I see glowing around me lift me +to a fit understanding of thee! Such was the conclusion of my long +wanderings I sought the end of my being & I found it to be knowledge +of itself--Nor think this a confined study--Not only did it lead me to +search the mazes of the human soul--but I found that there existed +nought on earth which contained not a part of that universal beauty +with which it [was] my aim & object to become acquainted--the motions +of the stars of heaven the study of all that philosophers have +unfolded of wondrous in nature became as it where [_sic_] the steps by +which my soul rose to the full contemplation & enjoyment of the +beautiful--Oh ye who have just escaped from the world ye know not +what fountains of love will be opened in your hearts or what exquisite +delight your minds will receive when the secrets of the world will be +unfolded to you and ye shall become acquainted with the beauty of the +universe--Your souls now growing eager for the acquirement of +knowledge will then rest in its possession disengaged from every +particle of evil and knowing all things ye will as it were be mingled +in the universe & ye will become a part of that celestial beauty that +you admire--[98] + +Diotima ceased and a profound silence ensued--the youth with his +cheeks flushed and his eyes burning with the fire communicated from +hers still fixed them on her face which was lifted to heaven as in +inspiration--The lovely female bent hers to the ground & after a deep +sigh was the first to break the silence-- + +Oh divinest prophetess, said she--how new & to me how strange are your +lessons--If such be the end of our being how wayward a course did I +pursue on earth--Diotima you know not how torn affections & misery +incalculable misery--withers up the soul. How petty do the actions of +our earthly life appear when the whole universe is opened to our +gaze--yet there our passions are deep & irrisisbable [_sic_] and as we +are floating hopless yet clinging to hope down the impetuous stream +can we perceive the beauty of its banks which alas my soul was too +turbid to reflect--If knowledge is the end of our being why are +passions & feelings implanted in us that hurries [_sic_] us from +wisdom to selfconcentrated misery & narrow selfish feeling? Is it as a +trial? On earth I thought that I had well fulfilled my trial & my last +moments became peaceful with the reflection that I deserved no +blame--but you take from me that feeling--My passions were there my +all to me and the hopeless misery that possessed me shut all love & +all images of beauty from my soul--Nature was to me as the blackest +night & if rays of loveliness ever strayed into my darkness it was +only to draw bitter tears of hopeless anguish from my eyes--Oh on +earth what consolation is there to misery? + +Your heart I fear, replied Diotima, was broken by your sufferings--but +if you had struggled--if when you found all hope of earthly happiness +wither within you while desire of it scorched your soul--if you had +near you a friend to have raised you to the contemplation of beauty & +the search of knowledge you would have found perhaps not new hopes +spring within you but a new life distinct from that of passion by +which you had before existed[99]--relate to me what this misery was +that thus engroses you--tell me what were the vicissitudes of feeling +that you endured on earth--after death our actions & worldly interest +fade as nothing before us but the traces of our feelings exist & the +memories of those are what furnish us here with eternal subject of +meditation. + +A blush spread over the cheek of the lovely girl--Alas, replied she +what a tale must I relate what dark & phre[n]zied passions must I +unfold--When you Diotima lived on earth your soul seemed to mingle in +love only with its own essence & to be unknowing of the various +tortures which that heart endures who if it has not sympathized with +has been witness of the dreadful struggles of a soul enchained by dark +deep passions which were its hell & yet from which it could not +escape--Are there in the peaceful language used by the inhabitants of +these regions--words burning enough to paint the tortures of the human +heart--Can you understand them? or can you in any way sympathize with +them--alas though dead I do and my tears flow as when I lived when my +memory recalls the dreadful images of the past-- + +--As the lovely girl spoke my own eyes filled with bitter drops--the +spirit of Fantasia seemed to fade from within me and when after +placing my hand before my swimming eyes I withdrew it again I found +myself under the trees on the banks of the Tiber--The sun was just +setting & tinging with crimson the clouds that floated over St. +Peters--all was still no human voice was heard--the very air was quiet +I rose--& bewildered with the grief that I felt within me the +recollection of what I had heard--I hastened to the city that I might +see human beings not that I might forget my wandering recollections +but that I might impress on my mind what was reality & what was either +dream--or at least not of this earth--The Corso of Rome was filled +with carriages and as I walked up the Trinita dei' Montes I became +disgusted with the crowd that I saw about me & the vacancy & want of +beauty not to say deformity of the many beings who meaninglessly +buzzed about me--I hastened to my room which overlooked the whole city +which as night came on became tranquil--Silent lovely Rome I now gaze +on thee--thy domes are illuminated by the moon--and the ghosts of +lovely memories float with the night breeze among thy ruins-- +contemplating thy loveliness which half soothes my miserable heart I +record what I have seen--Tomorrow I will again woo Fantasia to lead me +to the same walks & invite her to visit me with her visions which I +before neglected--Oh let me learn this lesson while yet it may be +useful to me that to a mind hopeless & unhappy as mine--a moment of +forgetfullness a moment [in] which it can pass out of itself is worth +a life of painful recollection. + + + + +CHAP. 2 + + +The next morning while sitting on the steps of the temple of +Aesculapius in the Borghese gardens Fantasia again visited me & +smilingly beckoned to me to follow her--My flight was at first heavy +but the breezes commanded by the spirit to convoy me grew stronger as +I advanced--a pleasing languour seized my senses & when I recovered I +found my self by the Elysian fountain near Diotima--The beautiful +female who[m] I had left on the point of narrating her earthly history +seemed to have waited for my return and as soon as I appeared she +spoke thus--[100] + + + + +NOTES TO _THE FIELDS OF FANCY_ + + +[88] Here is printed the opening of _F of F--A_, which contains the +fanciful framework abandoned in _Mathilda_. It has some intrinsic +interest, as it shows that Mary as well as Shelley had been reading +Plato, and especially as it reveals the close connection of the +writing of _Mathilda_ with Mary's own grief and depression. The first +chapter is a fairly good rough draft. Punctuation, to be sure, +consists largely of dashes or is non-existent, and there are some +corrections. But there are not as many changes as there are in the +remainder of this MS or in _F of F--B_. + +[89] It was in Rome that Mary's oldest child, William, died on June 7, +1819. + +[90] Cf. two entries in Mary Shelley's journal. An unpublished entry +for October 27, 1822, reads: "Before when I wrote Mathilda, miserable +as I was, the inspiration was sufficient to quell my wretchedness +temporarily." Another entry, that for December 2, 1834, is quoted in +abbreviated and somewhat garbled form by R. Glynn Grylls in _Mary +Shelley_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1938), p. 194, and +reprinted by Professor Jones (_Journal_, p. 203). The full passage +follows: "Little harm has my imagination done to me & how much +good!--My poor heart pierced through & through has found balm from +it--it has been the aegis to my sensibility--Sometimes there have been +periods when Misery has pushed it aside--& those indeed were periods I +shudder to remember--but the fairy only stept aside, she watched her +time--& at the first opportunity her ... beaming face peeped in, & the +weight of deadly woe was lightened." + +[91] An obvious reference to _Frankenstein_. + +[92] With the words of Fantasia (and those of Diotima), cf. the +association of wisdom and virtue in Plato's _Phaedo_, the myth of Er +in the _Republic_, and the doctrine of love and beauty in the +_Symposium_. + +[93] See Plato's _Symposium_. According to Mary's note in her edition +of Shelley's _Essays, Letters from Abroad, etc_. (1840), Shelley +planned to use the name for the instructress of the Stranger in his +unfinished prose tale, _The Coliseum_, which was written before +_Mathilda_, in the winter of 1818-1819. Probably at this same time +Mary was writing an unfinished (and unpublished) tale about Valerius, +an ancient Roman brought back to life in modern Rome. Valerius, like +Shelley's Stranger, was instructed by a woman whom he met in the +Coliseum. Mary's story is indebted to Shelley's in other ways as well. + +[94] Mathilda. + +[95] I cannot find a prototype for this young man, though in some ways +he resembles Shelley. + +[96] Following this paragraph is an incomplete one which is scored out +in the MS. The comment on the intricacy of modern life is interesting. +Mary wrote: "The world you have just quitted she said is one of doubt +& perplexity often of pain & misery--The modes of suffering seem to +me to be much multiplied there since I made one of the throng & +modern feelings seem to have acquired an intracacy then unknown but +now the veil is torn aside--the events that you felt deeply on earth +have passed away & you see them in their nakedness all but your +knowledge & affections have passed away as a dream you now wonder at +the effect trifles had on you and that the events of so passing a +scene should have interested you so deeply--You complain, my friends +of the" + +[97] The word is blotted and virtually illegible. + +[98] With Diotima's conclusion here cf. her words in the _Symposium_: +"When any one ascending from a correct system of Love, begins to +contemplate this supreme beauty, he already touches the consummation +of his labour. For such as discipline themselves upon this system, or +are conducted by another beginning to ascend through these transitory +objects which are beautiful, towards that which is beauty itself, +proceeding as on steps from the love of one form to that of two, and +from that of two, to that of all forms which are beautiful; and from +beautiful forms to beautiful habits and institutions, and from +institutions to beautiful doctrines; until, from the meditation of +many doctrines, they arrive at that which is nothing else than the +doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the knowledge and +contemplation of which at length they repose." (Shelley's translation) +Love, beauty, and self-knowledge are keywords not only in Plato but in +Shelley's thought and poetry, and he was much concerned with the +problem of the presence of good and evil. Some of these themes are +discussed by Woodville in _Mathilda_. The repetition may have been one +reason why Mary discarded the framework. + +[99] Mathilda did have such a friend, but, as she admits, she profited +little from his teachings. + +[100] In _F of F--B_ there is another, longer version (three and a +half pages) of this incident, scored out, recounting the author's +return to the Elysian gardens, Diotima's consolation of Mathilda, and +her request for Mathilda's story. After wandering through the alleys +and woods adjacent to the gardens, the author came upon Diotima seated +beside Mathilda. "It is true indeed she said our affections outlive +our earthly forms and I can well sympathize in your disappointment +that you do not find what you loved in the life now ended to welcome +you here[.] But one day you will all meet how soon entirely depends +upon yourself--It is by the acquirement of wisdom and the loss of the +selfishness that is now attached to the sole feeling that possesses +you that you will at last mingle in that universal world of which we +all now make a divided part." Diotima urges Mathilda to tell her +story, and she, hoping that by doing so she will break the bonds that +weigh heavily upon her, proceeds to "tell this history of strange +woe." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mathilda, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATHILDA *** + +***** This file should be named 15238.txt or 15238.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/2/3/15238/ + +Produced by David Starner, Cori Samuel and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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