Anna St. Ives

by Thomas Holcroft

A recollection of combining circumstances convinced me that he had for some time, and before I suspected it, thought on me with partiality. He believes there is great affinity in our minds; he avows it, and with a manly courage becoming his character, which abhors dissimulation, has since confessed an affection for me; nay has affirmed that unless I have conceived some repugnance to him, which I have not nor ever can conceive, I ought as a strict act of justice to myself and him to prefer him before any other.

I should acknowledge the cogency of the reasons he assigns, and certainly entertain such a preference, did it not appear to me that there are opposing and irreconcileable claims and duties. It is my principle, and perhaps still more strongly his, that neither of us must live for ourselves, but for society. In the abstract our principle is the same; but in the application we appear to differ. He thinks that the marriage of two such people can benefit society at large. I am persuaded that the little influence which it would have in the world would be injurious, and in some sort fatal to the small circle for which I seem to exist, and over which my feeble influence can extend.

For these reasons only, and in compliance with what I believe to be the rigorous but inflexible injunctions of justice, have I rejected a man whom I certainly do not merit: a man whose benevolent heart, capacious mind, and extraordinary virtues are above my praise, and I almost fear beyond my attainment.

My memory will not furnish me with every word and incident that have passed between us; and if it would such repetition would be tedious. But I wish you clearly to understand that Mr. Henley has made these declarations to me: that my mode of acting and my reasons have been such as I have mentioned; that I am not myself so perfectly satisfied with these reasons but that I sometimes am subject to recurring doubts; and that I do at present and while I have thought or sense shall continue to admire his genius and his virtue.

If what he has said or what I have done be offensive to you, if you cannot think highly of him and innocently of me, if my thoughts concerning him can possibly be stained with a criminal tinge in your eyes, it becomes you, and I now most solemnly call upon you, as a man disdaining deceit, at once to say so, and here to break off all further intercourse. Esteem, nay revere him I do and ever must; and instead of being guilty for this, my principles tell me the crime would be to esteem and revere him less.

I trust in the frankness of my heart for the proof of its sincerity. My determination is to have a clear and unspotted conscience. Purity of mind is a blessing beyond all price; and it is that purity only which is genuine or of any value. The circumstance I am going to relate may to you appear strange, and highly reprehensible—Be it so.—It must be told.

We never had but one conversation in which the subject of marriage, as it related to him and me, was directly and fairly debated. He then behaved as he has done always with that sincerity, consistency, and fortitude, by which he is so peculiarly characterised. A conversation so interesting, in which a man of such uncommon merit was to be rejected by a woman who cannot deny him to be her superior, could not but awaken all the affections of the heart. I own that mine ached in the discharge of its duties, and nothing but the most rooted determination to abide by those duties could have steeled it to refusal—It was a cruel fortitude!

But while it ached it overflowed; and to you more especially than to any other person upon earth, I think it necessary to say that, at a moment when the feeling of compassion and the dread of being unjust were excited most powerfully in my bosom, paradoxical as it may seem, my zeal to demonstrate the integrity and innocence of my mind induced me to—kiss him!

I scarcely can proceed——There are sensations almost too strong to be subdued—The mind with difficulty can endure that mistake, that contortion, which can wrest guilt out of the most sublime of its emanations—However, if it were a crime, of that crime I am guilty—I pretend not to appear other than I am; and what I am it is necessary at this moment that you should know.

This conversation and this incident happened on the day on which you met him in the corridor, coming from my chamber. A day, Mr. Clifton, worthy of your remembrance and of your emulation; for it afforded some of the strongest proofs of inflexible courage of which man is at present capable. He had been robbed of the hope dearest to his heart, had been rejected by the woman he had chosen to be the friend and companion of his life, had been enjoined the task of doing all possible good to his rival, which he had unconditionally promised, and he left her to—receive a blow from this rival's hand!