by Olga Kenyon
TRANS. L. TANCOCK (1982)
A DAUGHTER PERSUADES HER FATHER TO LET HER MARRY
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689–1762) was the eldest daughter of the 1st Duke of Kingston. She fell in love with a mere Member of Parliament, Wortley Montagu, and married him against her father’s wishes. The marriage was not happy, as he proved cold and comparatively dull. However she was at first passionately attached to him, and her love letters are as dramatic as fiction. In this first one, dated 26 July 1712, she recounts what she has just written (notice the use of the letter here, though she was living in the same house) to her father, to persuade him to allow her to marry.
I said every thing in this Letter I thought proper to move him, and proffer’d in atonement for not marrying whom he would, never to marry at all. He did not think fit to answer this letter, but sent for me to him. He told me he was very much surpriz’d that I did not depend on his Judgement for my future happynesse, that he knew nothing I had to complain of etc., that he did not doubt I had some other fancy in my head which encourag’d me to this disobedience, but he assur’d me if I refus’d a settlement he has provided for me, he gave me his word, whatever proposals were made him, he would never so much as enter into a treaty with any other; that if I founded any hopes upon his death, I should find my selfe mistaken. . . . I told my intention to all my nearest Relations: I was surpriz’d at their blameing it to the greatest degree. I was told they were sorry I would ruin my selfe, but if I was so unreasonable they could not blame my F[ather] whatever he inflicted on me. I objected I did not love him. They made answer they found no Necessity of Loveing; if I liv’d well with him, that was all was requir’d of me, and that if I consider’d this Town I should find very few women in love with their Husbands and yet a many happy. It was in vain to dispute with such prudent people; they look’d upon me as a little Romantic, and I found it impossible to persuade them that liveing in London at Liberty was not the height of happynesse. . . .
ED. R. HALSBAND, THE COMPLETE LETTERS OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU (1965)
To Phillipa Mundy, August 1712:
For my part, I know not what I shall do; perhaps at last I shall do something to surprize everybody. Where ever I am, and what ever becomes of me, I am ever yours. Limbo is better than Hell. My Adventures are very odd; I may go into Limbo if I please, but its accompanny’d with such circumstances, my courage will hardly come up to it, yet perhaps it may. In short I know not what will become of me. You’l think me mad, but I know nothing certain but that I shall not dye an Old Maid, that’s positive.
ED. R. HALSBAND (1965)
To Wortley, 17 August 1712:
Every thing I apprehended is come t[o p]asse. ’Tis with the utmost difficulty [and d]anger I write this. My father is in the house. . . . I am frighted to death and know not what to say. I had yet more to suffer, for I have been forced to promise to write no more to you.
ED. R. HALSBAND (1965)
WOMEN’S VIEWS ON MEN’S LOVE
Anna Seward, who became a friend of the Ladies of Llangollen, wrote many letters at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries. She sometimes fell in love with women, but for years felt a deep, chaste love for an unhappily married choirmaster at Lichfield. In 1811 she wrote to a Mrs Hayley:
Men are rarely capable of pure unmixed tenderness to any fellow creature except their children. In general even the best of them give their friendship to their male acquaintances, and their fondness to their offspring. For their mistress, or wife, they feel, during a time, a tenderness more ardent and more secret, a friendship softer and more animated. But this inexplicable, this fascinating sentiment, which we understand by the name of love, often proves an illusion of the imagination; – a meteor that misleads her who trusts it, vanishing when she has followed it into pools and quick sands where peace and liberty are swallowed up and lost.
COLLECTED LETTERS OF ANNA SEWARD (1811)
DEATH OF A BROKEN HEART
Geraldine Jewsbury described the unhappy love affair of Mr —— and the shabby way he treated the mistress who adored him. She died of cancer ‘brought on by grief’, but ‘it now seems unreasonable to expect high-pressure efforts except from a steam-engine’.
[To Jane Carlyle]
April 19 1841
He did not come at all for some reason or another, and on the whole I was not sorry, for seeing him now is like the meeting of two ghosts on the other side Styx. Each has been connected so strangely with the history of so many feelings and incidents, which at the time seemed as if their memory could never pass away. And what has been the end of so much passionate suffering, so much love which all the parties thought would endure for ever? The woman he loved so madly – of whom he declared (to one he trusted) that he would rather obtain her friendship even, than have possession of her whole sex – died of a broken heart, or, rather, of a cancer, which Sir Astley Cooper said had been brought on by grief and anxiety of mind. She was a fine creature. I never saw her but once; but I heard of her from many quarters, and from those who knew her best. She was married to a man who did not care for her, and she, till she met ——, did not know what affection meant. His own testimony, and the way he spoke of love to me (that time we had our conversation), was enough to absolve her from all censure except the deepest commiseration. Her sister (who knew nothing of the matter) said, after her death, that she used to sit for hours gazing on the wall without seeing anything or speaking a word. When asked, ‘What are you thinking about?’ – ‘Oh, many things; don’t talk to me!’ He, for whom she has risked everything – very soon after he had obtained everything – began to grow, not indifferent exactly, but satisfied. Unfortunately for her, she and her husband were obliged to leave this country: in absence she lost her influence over him. In a very short time he forced her to break with him: he married for expediency and is now the father of a family, is a respectable man, and in prosperous circumstances. Since her death he professes, to those who knew the facts, bitterly to regret the past; but it is somewhat dubious whether these brave sentiments are real, or assumed as a piece of his respectability.
I, who was a bystander, have the recollection of the faith I then had in his good qualities, and the strong feeling I had for him, and the firm belief in his chivalrous, honourable dealing towards her, and the undoubting trust in her submission to duty, honour, and so forth. I did believe, then, in many fine things, and even now I only doubt their durability, or rather it now seems unreasonable to expect high-pressure efforts except from a steam-engine, and even that wears out; and why should we regret that things are so constituted? The fact of all that is worth having, and even life itself, being precarious, gives it a value beyond its own, and those who have an eternity to trust to, little know the desperate tenacity of those who have to make the most of Time! I cannot explain to you the superstitious value I set on those I ever love, and the sort of religious feeling with which I try to guard every word or thought which might raise a shade between us.
No, my dear, you must first have no hope of anything beyond this world, before you can know how very precious is a friend we really love. This letter has been written à plusieurs reprises, for my eyes are rather worse, if anything, to-day than they were this day week, so that now I can hardly write, and what is to become of me I don’t know!
I have more time for thinking than is at all agreeable. All this while I have never thanked you for your letter – it made me feel very sad. Those efforts after strength are weary things, and I doubt whether they do much good. They go to exhaust what strength we may possess. On the whole, I cannot help thinking it is the wisest to let ourselves be drifted along. Time brings quiet and strength naturally; in fact, the very change he works in us and in our feelings is equivalent to strength. There are two lines in Coleridge’s translation of ‘Wallenstein’ that haunt me from morning to night, and have done so ever since I began to know what endurance meant. ‘What pang is permanent with man? From the highest as from the vilest things
he learns to wean himself, and the strong hours conquer him!’
If you will, from time to time, send me word how you go on, it will be a great favour. Just now I am especially anxious to hear from you; if you cannot guess why, I won’t tell you. Do not plague yourself to write long letters, but say how you are in every way; patronise the pronoun ‘I’ as much as I do myself! Never mind telling me anything, except inasmuch as it affects or interests you! I have not said a tithe of what I have thought of when lying on the sofa. You little know the comfort it is to me to have you to think of, nor how much I think of you. If you taken an interest in my friend ——, she is rather better, at least was last Tuesday. She had a scheme in her head which had quite roused her. Heaven only knows whether it will prove wise and feasible, but even the power of hoping is no small blessing to her!
ED. A. IRELAND, SELECTIONS FROM THE LETTERS OF GERALDINE E. JEWSBURY TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE (1892)
IN LOVE
Bertrand Russell edited the letters and diaries of his parents, which he called The Amberley Papers, published in 1937. His mother, Kate Amberley, died when he was two, his father soon afterwards. Here she writes of her joy after their engagement.
Dover Street
1/2 6. p.m. Friday
Oct 14/64
My own dearest of darlings
I must just write you one line of goodnight, as I shall not be able to wish it to you to day. I feel quite lost, now I am come home & have not you to go to, or to look at. We have been shopping till this instant & it all appeared to me in another new light, when I was ordering very smart & elaborate toilettes, I could not fancy myself in them or think I should look the same Kätchen; as in the simple little blue gown.
My own great darling it does seem to me so delightful to be able to write & tell you how I love you; It is an old story I have told it you so often but I like writing it down & seeing it on paper. It makes me feel it a reality, to be able to write what I dream of for 6 months.
I do not like being away from you even now, it brings back to mind that awful feeling of when you last left me, & for an instant unconsciously the thought springs to my mind – ‘I am alone again’ – Do not think me very silly dearest Schatz but I am still feeling vexed with myself for my absurd & naughty irritation last night. It shall never happen again, at least I trust it will not. Is not one of the great objects of my life in future, to be; to keep that face, I love more than any earthly thing, free fr. all signs of vexation or care? So you can fancy how I shall blame myself if ever I am the cause of a little shade darkening its bonny brow. I am not going to tell you, that I do not wish you to look serious or to think, for I like you to do both, but there is a holy seriousness & a peaceful earnestness of expression which you have at times & which I like. The serious expression caused by thinking of man & men is so different fr. that caused by thinking of the way to be of use to them; you shall never be vexed my own darling if I can help it; those lines I sometimes see in your forehead shall be soothed away & may your’s be the peace which passeth all understanding.
I am so glad I see you again to-morrow, about 3.30 I suppose; It will seem an age till then.
Once more my own & only darling goodnight.
From your own true love
KATCHEN.
I have forgotten all about commas etc but will not put them in at hazard. I daresay you will make out the drift of what I have said without their help.
ED. BERTRAND RUSSELL, THE AMBERLEY PAPERS (1937)
ADMIRATION FOR GEORGE ELIOT
Men admired George Eliot (Marian Evans). She also aroused tremendous admiration amounting to devotion in some women. A Dutch girl wrote her eighteen effusive pages beginning:
26 Dec 1874
Dear Miss Evans,
If I were a German girl I would add: ‘much adored’, but we Dutch are not überschwänglich in affectionate expressions, as we are too much fulfilled with respect for those who awake our best soul . . . since I finished with reading Middlemarch I could not resist something within me that draws me nearer to you. . . . You must have experienced much – you must much have felt. There are cries of the heart that awake an echo in every maiden’s soul . . .
Jeanne Buskes
ED. G. HAIGHT, THE GEORGE ELIOT LETTERS (1954)
An American admirer, Melusina Fay Pierce, wrote to George Eliot for advice in 1866, and received a long thoughtful letter. In 1869 she wrote again.
Dearest ——
You will not be bored by another love letter – a little one? It is three whole years since I wrote to you before, and you sent me such a grave, kind, precious little answer. O how wise thou art! Where didst thou learn it all? . . . You wrote it for me, dearest, and often it has shamed me and spurred me on. . . .
Don’t answer this, dearest. I don’t require you to think of me as anything more than the evening breeze that sometimes kisses your cheek. I love you, you are so love-worthy. And once in a long time I love to say so to you. But I would not burden you with the weight of a rose leaf.
ED. G. HAIGHT (1954)
Marian Evans could not marry G.H. Lewes because his wife Agnes was living. Agnes had run away with another man and Evans offered devoted care to his three children. After his death she married a young admirer, John Cross. Her stepson, Charles Lewes, was so devoted to her that he forced himself to accept this unusual marriage. Here Charles’s attitude is described by Annie Thackeray Ritchie.
23 May 1880
He gave her away, and looks upon Mr Cross as an elder brother. . . . He is generous about the marriage. He says he owes everything to her, his Gertrude included, and that his father had no grain of jealousy in him, and only would have wished her happy, and that she was of such a delicate fastidious nature that she couldn’t be satisfied with anything but an ideal tête-à-tête. George Eliot said to him if she hadn’t been human with feelings and failings like other people, how could she have written her books?
He talked about his own mother in confidence, but his eyes all filled up with tears over George Eliot, and altogether it was the strangest page of life I ever skimmed over. She is an honest woman, and goes in with all her might for what she is about. She did not confide in Herbert Spencer.
ED. G. HAIGHT (1954)
EDITH WHARTON, AMERICAN NOVELIST, WRITES TO HER LOVER W. MORTON FULLERTON
Sunday
[May 1908]
Oh, mon cher aimé, I don’t think you can know what that little word of yours means to me today.
No, Dear, I don’t mistake your silence. I am never so sure of you, I mean of your being happy with me, as when you don’t feel it necessary to speak, because then I know that my nearness is no obstacle, no interruption to you; that I am part of the air you breathe.
I understand that, & I understand also what prompted you to write that little message just when you did. You knew I was sad at saying goodbye to you. You knew why sometimes I draw back from your least touch. I am so afraid – so afraid – of seeming to expect more than you can give, & of thus making my love for you less helpful to you, less what I wish it to be. And sometimes mon corps ne peut pas oublier ton corps [my body cannot forget your body], & then I am miserable.
I shouldn’t say this if you hadn’t shown me that you understood. I don’t want to have any plan of conduct with you – to behave in this way or that way – but just to be natural, to be completely myself. And the completest expression of that self is in the desire to help you, to give you the chance to develop what is in you, & to live the best life you can. Nothing else counts for me now, Dear, except the wish to do some good work, & to have you see in it the reflection of all the beauty you have shown me.
Ton amie – E.
Believe me, a man of your intellectual value has a ‘market value’ when he brings such volonté to his task as you are capable of. This I never have doubted.
Tuesday
[May 17, 1908]
Alas, Dear – if you had felt as I felt, or a fraction of what I feel, you would not have ‘wondered
if I had a friend with me,’ or if I should have been surprised at being surprised – you wouldn’t have cared, because you wd have wanted so much to see me that nothing else would have counted. . . .
Sometimes I feel that I can’t go on like this: from moments of such nearness, when the last shadow of separateness melts, back into a complete néant [nothingness] of silence, of not hearing, not knowing – being left to feel that I have been like a ‘course’ served & cleared away!. . .
Voilà ma dernière nouvelle. Et je me remets au travail –
[c. May 20, 1908]
I am mad about you Dear Heart and sick at the thought of our parting and the days of separation and longing that are to follow. It is a wonderful world that you have created for me, Morton dear, but how I am to adjust it to the other world is difficult to conceive. Perhaps when I am once more on land my mental vision may be clearer – at present, in the whole universe I see but one thing, am conscious of but one thing, you, and our love for each other.
EDS. R.W.B. AND NANCY LEWIS, THE LETTERS OF EDITH WHARTON (1988)