December 25th. - Last Christmas
I was a bride, with a heart overflowing
with present bliss, and full
of ardent hopes for the future,
though not unmingled with foreboding
fears. Now I am a wife: my bliss
is sobered, but not destroyed;
my hopes diminished, but not
departed; my fears increased,
but not yet thoroughly confirmed;
and, thank heaven, I am a mother
too. God has sent me a soul to
educate for heaven, and give
me a new and calmer bliss, and
stronger hopes to comfort me.
Dec. 25th, 1823. - Another
year is gone. My little Arthur
lives and thrives. He is healthy,
but not robust, full of gentle
playfulness and vivacity, already
affectionate, and susceptible
of passions and emotions it will
be long ere he can find words
to express. He has won his father's
heart at last; and now my constant
terror is, lest he should be
ruined by that father's thoughtless
indulgence. But I must beware
of my own weakness too, for I
never knew till now how strong
are a parent's temptations to
spoil an only child.
I have need of consolation
in my son, for (to this silent
paper I may confess it) I have
but little in my husband. I love
him still; and he loves me, in
his own way - but oh, how different
from the love I could have given,
and once had hoped to receive!
How little real sympathy there
exists between us; how many of
my thoughts and feelings are
gloomily cloistered within my
own mind; how much of my higher
and better self is indeed unmarried
- doomed either to harden and
sour in the sunless shade of
solitude, or to quite degenerate
and fall away for lack of nutriment
in this unwholesome soil! But,
I repeat, I have no right to
complain; only let me state the
truth - some of the truth, at
least, - and see hereafter if
any darker truths will blot these
pages. We have now been full
two years united; the 'romance'
of our attachment must be worn
away. Surely I have now got down
to the lowest gradation in Arthur's
affection, and discovered all
the evils of his nature: if there
be any further change, it must
be for the better, as we become
still more accustomed to each
other; surely we shall find no
lower depth than this. And, if
so, I can bear it well - as well,
at least, as I have borne it
hitherto.
Arthur is not what is commonly
called a bad man: he has many
good qualities; but he is a man
without self-restraint or lofty
aspirations, a lover of pleasure,
given up to animal enjoyments:
he is not a bad husband, but
his notions of matrimonial duties
and comforts are not my notions.
Judging from appearances, his
idea of a wife is a thing to
love one devotedly, and to stay
at home to wait upon her husband,
and amuse him and minister to
his comfort in every possible
way, while he chooses to stay
with her; and, when he is absent,
to attend to his interests, domestic
or otherwise, and patiently wait
his return, no matter how he
may be occupied in the meantime.
Early in spring he announced
his intention of going to London:
his affairs there demanded his
attendance, he said, and he could
refuse it no longer. He expressed
his regret at having to leave
me, but hoped I would amuse myself
with the baby till he returned.
'But why leave me?' I said.
'I can go with you: I can be
ready at any time.'
'You would not take that child
to town?'
'Yes; why not?'
The thing was absurd: the air
of the town would be certain
to disagree with him, and with
me as a nurse; the late hours
and London habits would not suit
me under such circumstances;
and altogether he assured me
that it would be excessively
troublesome, injurious, and unsafe.
I over-ruled his objections as
well as I could, for I trembled
at the thoughts of his going
alone, and would sacrifice almost
anything for myself, much even
for my child, to prevent it;
but at length he told me, plainly,
and somewhat testily, that he
could not do with me: he was
worn out with the baby's restless
nights, and must have some repose.
I proposed separate apartments;
but it would not do.
'The truth is, Arthur,' I said
at last, 'you are weary of my
company, and determined not to
have me with you. You might as
well have said so at once.'
He denied it; but I immediately
left the room, and flew to the
nursery, to hide my feelings,
if I could not soothe them, there.
I was too much hurt to express
any further dissatisfaction with
his plans, or at all to refer
to the subject again, except
for the necessary arrangements
concerning his departure and
the conduct of affairs during
his absence, till the day before
he went, when I earnestly exhorted
him to take care of himself and
keep out of the way of temptation.
He laughed at my anxiety, but
assured me there was no cause
for it, and promised to attend
to my advice.
'I suppose it is no use asking
you to fix a day for your return?'
said I.
'Why, no; I hardly can, under
the circumstances; but be assured,
love, I shall not be long away.'
'I don't wish to keep you a
prisoner at home,' I replied;
'I should not grumble at your
staying whole months away - if
you can be happy so long without
me - provided I knew you were
safe; but I don't like the idea
of your being there among your
friends, as you call them.'
'Pooh, pooh, you silly girl!
Do you think I can't take care
of myself?'
'You didn't last time. But
THIS time, Arthur,' I added,
earnestly, 'show me that you
can, and teach me that I need
not fear to trust you!'
He promised fair, but in such
a manner as we seek to soothe
a child. And did he keep his
promise? No; and henceforth I
can never trust his word. Bitter,
bitter confession! Tears blind
me while I write. It was early
in March that he went, and he
did not return till July. This
time he did not trouble himself
to make excuses as before, and
his letters were less frequent,
and shorter and less affectionate,
especially after the first few
weeks: they came slower and slower,
and more terse and careless every
time. But still, when I omitted
writing, he complained of my
neglect. When I wrote sternly
and coldly, as I confess I frequently
did at the last, he blamed my
harshness, and said it was enough
to scare him from his home: when
I tried mild persuasion, he was
a little more gentle in his replies,
and promised to return; but I
had learnt, at last, to disregard
his promises.
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