A restless, an insatiable, curiosity, devoured me, heightened by feelings that every hour became more imperious, more uncontroulable. I proposed to myself, in the gratification of this curiosity, a satisfaction that should compensate for all the injuries I might suffer in the career. This inquietude prevented my mind from resting; and, by leaving room for conjecture, left room for the illusions of fancy, and of hope. Had I never expressed this, he might have affected ignorance of my sensations; he might have pleaded guiltless, when, in the agony of my soul, I accused him of having sacrificed my peace to his disingenuousness—but vain were all my expostulations!
'If,' said I, 'I have sought, too earnestly, to learn the state of your affections, it has been with a view to the more effectually disciplining of my own—of stifling every ignis fatuus of false hope, that making, even, impossibilities possible, will still, at times, continue to mislead me. Objects seen through obscurity, imperfectly discerned, allow to the fancy but too free a scope; the mind grows debilitated, by brooding over its apprehensions; and those apprehensions, whether real or imaginary, are carried with accumulated pain to the heart. I have said, on this subject, you have a right to be free; but I am, now, doubtful of this right: the health of my mind being involved in the question, has rendered it a question of utility—and on what other basis can morals rest?'
I frequently reiterated these reasonings, always with encreased fervor and earnestness: represented—'that every step I took in advance would be miles in return—every minute that the blow was suspended, prepared it to descend with accumulated force.' I required no particulars, but merely requested to be assured of a present, existing, engagement. I continued, from time to time, to urge this subject.
'Much,' said I, 'as I esteem you, and deeply as a thousand associations have fixed your idea in my heart—in true candour of soul, I, yet, feel myself your superior.—I recollect a sentiment of Richardson's Clarissa that always pleased me, and that may afford a test, by which each of us may judge of the integrity of our own minds—"I should be glad that you, and all the world, knew my heart; let my enemies sit in judgment upon my actions; fairly scanned, I fear not the result. Let them ask me my most secret thoughts; and, whether they make for me, or against me, I will reveal them."
'This is the principle, my friend, upon which I have acted towards you. I have said many things, I doubt not, which make against me; but I trusted them to one, who told me, that he had made the human heart his study: and it is only in compliance with the prejudices of others, if I have taken any pains to conceal all I have thought and felt on this, or on any other, subject, from the rest of the world. Had I not, in the wild career of fervent feeling, had sufficient strength of mind to stop short, and to reason calmly, how often, in the bitterness of my spirit, should I have accused you of sporting with my feelings, by involving me in a hopeless maze of conjecture—by leaving me a prey to the constant, oppressive, apprehension of hearing something, which I should not have had the fortitude to support with dignity; which, in proportion as it is delayed, still contributes to harrass, to weaken, to incapacitate, my mind from bearing its disclosure.
'I know you might reply—and more than nine-tenths of the world would justify you in this reply—"That you had already said, what ought to have been sufficient, and would have been so to any other human being;—that you had not sought the confidence I boast of having reposed in you;—and that so far from affording you any satisfaction, it has occasioned you only perplexity. If my own destiny was not equivocal, of what importance could it be to me, and what right had I to enquire after circumstances, in which, however affecting, I could have no real concern."
'You may think all this, perhaps—I will not spare myself—and it may be reasonable. But could you say it—and have you, indeed, studied the human heart—have you, indeed, ever felt the affections?—Whatever may be the event—and it is in the mind of powers only that passions are likely to become fatal—and however irreproachable every other part of your conduct may have been, I shall, here, always say, you were culpable!'
I changed my style.
'I know not,' said I, 'the nature of those stern duties, which oblige you to with-hold from me your tenderness; neither do I any longer enquire. I dread, only, lest I should acquire this knowledge when I am the least able to support it. Ignorant, then, of any reasons which should prevent me from giving up my heart to an attachment, now become interwoven with my existence, I yield myself up to these sweet and affecting emotions, so necessary to my disposition—to which apathy is abhorrent. "The affections (truly says Sterne) must be exercised on something; for, not to love, is to be miserable. Were I in a desart, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections. If I could do no better, I would fasten them upon some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to—I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection. I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desart. If their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn; and, when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them."
'An attachment, founded upon a full conviction of worth, must be both safe and salutary. My mind has not sufficient strength to form an abstract idea of perfection. I have ever found it stimulated, improved, advanced, by its affections. I will, then, continue to love you with fervor and purity; I will see you with joy, part from you with regret, grieve in your griefs, enter with zeal into your concerns, interest myself in your honour and welfare, and endeavour, with all my little power, to contribute to your comfort and satisfaction.—Is your heart so differently constituted from every other human heart, that an affection, thus ardent and sincere, excites in it no grateful, and soothing, emotions? Why, then, withdraw yourself from me, and by that means afflict, and sink into despondency, a mind that entrusts its peace to your keeping.
'Emma.'
We met the next day at the house of a common friend. My accents, involuntarily, were softened, my attentions pointed.—Manifestly agitated, embarrassed, even distressed, Augustus quitted the company at an early hour.
It would be endless to enumerate all the little incidents that occurred; which, however trifling they might appear in the recital, continued to operate in one direction. Many letters passed to the same purport. My curiosity was a consuming passion; but this inflexible, impenetrable, man, was still silent, or alternately evaded, and resented, my enquiries. We continued, occasionally, to meet, but generally in company.