My dear Mr. Beauvoir—I was very sorry to receive your letter of yesterday—very sorry—because there can be only one answer that I can make—and you might well have spared me the pain of saying the word—No. You ask me if I love you. If I did—do you think it would be true love in me to tell you so, when I know what it would cost you? Oh indeed you must never marry me! In your own country you would never have heard of me—never seen me—surely never written me such a letter to tell me that you love me and want to marry me. It is not that I am ashamed of my business or of the folks around me, or ashamed that I am only the charity child of two poor players, who lived and died working for the bread for their mouths and mine. I am proud of them—yes, proud of what they did and suffered for one poorer than themselves—a little foundling out of an Indian camp. But I know the difference between you and me. You are a great man at home—you have never told me how great—but I know your father is a rich lord, and I suppose you are. It is not that I think you care for that, or think less of me because I was born different from you. I know how good—how kind—how respectful you have always been to me—my lord—and I shall never forget it—for a girl in my position knows well enough how you might have been otherwise. Oh believe me—my true friend—I am never going to forget all you have done for me—and how good it has been to have you near me—a man so different from most others—I don’t mean only the kind things you have done—the books and the thoughts and the ways you have taught me to enjoy—and all the trouble you have taken to make me something better than the stupid little girl I was when you found me—but a great deal more than that—the consideration you have had for me and for what I hold best in the world. I had never met a gentleman before—and now the first one I meet—he is my friend. That is a great deal.
Only think of it! You have been following me around now for three months, and I have been weak enough to allow it. I am going to do the right thing now. You may think it hard in me if you really mean what you say, but even if everything else were right, I would not marry you—because of your rank. I do not know how things are at your home—but something tells me it would be wrong and that your family would have a right to hate you and never forgive you. Professionals cannot go in your society. And that is even if I loved you—and I do not love you—I do not love you—I do not love you—now I have written it you will believe it.
So now it is ended—I am going back to the line I was first in—variety—and with a new name. So you can never find me—I entreat you—I beg of you—not to look for me. If you only put your mind to it—you will find it so easy to forget me—for I will not do you the wrong to think that you did not mean what you wrote in your letter or what you said that night when we sang Annie Laurie together the last time.
Your sincere friend,
Nina.
Documents Nos. 31 and 32.
Items from San Francisco “Figaro” of December 29th, 1878:
Nina Saville Co. disbanded New Centreville 26th. No particulars received.
Winston & Mack’s Comb. takes the road December 31st, opening at Tuolumne Hollow. Manager Winston announces the engagement of Anna Laurie, the Protean change artiste, with songs, “Don’t Get Weary,” “Bobbin’ Around,” “I Yoost Landet.”