I had been honoured with letters from her, in which she gave me reason to understand that she should be gratified by my presence in Syria; and I promptly expressed my readiness, in reply, to resume my situation near her person. The long intervals, however, which elapsed in the transmission of letters, (sometimes as much as four months) added to the uncertainty of what I should do, and the absolute necessity of doing something, induced me, while the correspondence was pending, to enter into a professional engagement with a gentleman of rank. When her anxiety to receive me, therefore, was definitively conveyed to me, I was placed in the painful dilemma of being obliged to apologize to her for not being able at that time to join her. This apology naturally generated a feeling of distrust in a mind so sensitive and impulsive—a feeling abundantly exhibited, in her own peculiar way, in the following extracts from letters received from her at this period. Some of these letters were written by herself, and some by her protégée Miss Williams,[1] at her dictation.
Extract of a letter from Lady Hester Stanhope to Dr. ——.
July 30, 1823.
I shall not either scold or reproach you; I only hope that the line you have taken will turn out in the end to your advantage. I confess I am sorry and mortified that, after having rendered me several services, you are still in a situation so little independent. Were I inclined to be angry, it would be with ——; for, had he been like the chevaliers of former times, he would have said, “Doctor, however it may be inconvenient for me to part with you at present, I so much respect your motives, and so much admire your fidelity, that, so far from opposing, allow me to promote your views; and I beg you will accept of this purse for your little wants. When you have finished with it, I trust you will consider me as your next friend; and I flatter myself I may expect from you the same proofs of attachment.”
But the world is spoilt; no good feeling exists; all is egotism. Had ——’s mind been as elegant as his horses, carriages, and servants were, when I saw them, years ago, he would not have acted thus, and taken advantage of a man’s circumstances, to have made him act against his inclination.[2]
I have no right to demand permanent sacrifices of you or others. The time will come when you will see with deep regret whether or not I had taken into consideration your interests as well as my own present convenience. I was surprised at your offer, so often repeated, and less surprised at your conduct; as a doubt often had occurred in my own mind, if temptations of any kind happened to be thrown in your way, whether or not you would have strength of mind to refuse present advantage and comfort. You have acted as you judged best, and as you thought circumstances authorized you to do; but you never can persuade me that General Grenville, the soul of honour and feeling, could ever have recommended a man to break his word. Had you simply asked him, before you had made up your mind, “Shall I keep my word and go, or accept of those offers? Give me, I do entreat, your candid opinion:”—I know what it would have been. But, having decided, what would you have him say? that I should be angry? No: he knew me too well not to be aware that no sacrifice, which I did not believe to be a voluntary one, could have any value in my estimation.
I cannot explain my feelings without seeming to praise myself. I make one rule for my own line of conduct, and one for that of others, and have two separate judgments; I mean, one regulated by truth and feeling, and one after the fashion of what is thought right in the world. I never judge myself and those I really love by the latter. I wish them to be pure and highminded, and to have confidence in God’s mercy, if they act from true principle. But you worldly slaves of bon ton must not be tried by such a test. Mr. Murray[3] was right—“She will not be angry,”—no, because she thinks you all children: I mean the gay world, of which you now make a part.
I need not have said all this, but it is a hint as to the future, when the folly and uselessness of modern ideas and calculations will be at an end. I have been thought mad—ridiculed and abused; but it is out of the power of man to change my way of thinking upon any subject. Without a true faith, there can be no true system of action. All the learned of the East pronounce me to be a Ulemah min Allah,[4] as I can neither write nor read; but my reasoning is profound according to the laws of Nature.
I shall say nothing of this part of the world, where I had latterly announced your speedy arrival to some of my particular friends and to my family.[5] Your interest about matters here must now be at an end; and it fatigues me so to write, that, without it is a case of absolute necessity, I must give it up. I have no assistance. My two dragomans are low-minded, curious, vulgar men, in whom I can put no confidence. In short, they can only be called very bad, idle servants, having no one property of a gentleman belonging to them.