December 20th, 1824. - This
is the third anniversary of our
felicitous union. It is now two
months since our guests left
us to the enjoyment of each other's
society; and I have had nine
weeks' experience of this new
phase of conjugal life - two
persons living together, as master
and mistress of the house, and
father and mother of a winsome,
merry little child, with the
mutual understanding that there
is no love, friendship, or sympathy
between them. As far as in me
lies, I endeavour to live peaceably
with him: I treat him with unimpeachable
civility, give up my convenience
to his, wherever it may reasonably
be done, and consult him in a
business-like way on household
affairs, deferring to his pleasure
and judgment, even when I know
the latter to be inferior to
my own.
As for him, for the first week
or two, he was peevish and low,
fretting, I suppose, over his
dear Annabella's departure, and
particularly ill-tempered to
me: everything I did was wrong;
I was cold-hearted, hard, insensate;
my sour, pale face was perfectly
repulsive; my voice made him
shudder; he knew not how he could
live through the winter with
me; I should kill him by inches.
Again I proposed a separation,
but it would not do: he was not
going to be the talk of all the
old gossips in the neighbourhood:
he would not have it said that
he was such a brute his wife
could not live with him. No;
he must contrive to bear with
me.
'I must contrive to bear with
you, you mean,' said I; 'for
so long as I discharge my functions
of steward and house-keeper,
so conscientiously and well,
without pay and without thanks,
you cannot afford to part with
me. I shall therefore remit these
duties when my bondage becomes
intolerable.' This threat, I
thought, would serve to keep
him in check, if anything would.
I believe he was much disappointed
that I did not feel his offensive
sayings more acutely, for when
he had said anything particularly
well calculated to hurt my feelings,
he would stare me searchingly
in the face, and then grumble
against my 'marble heart' or
my 'brutal insensibility.' If
I had bitterly wept and deplored
his lost affection, he would,
perhaps, have condescended to
pity me, and taken me into favour
for a while, just to comfort
his solitude and console him
for the absence of his beloved
Annabella, until he could meet
her again, or some more fitting
substitute. Thank heaven, I am
not so weak as that! I was infatuated
once with a foolish, besotted
affection, that clung to him
in spite of his unworthiness,
but it is fairly gone now - wholly
crushed and withered away; and
he has none but himself and his
vices to thank for it.
At first (in compliance with
his sweet lady's injunctions,
I suppose), he abstained wonderfully
well from seeking to solace his
cares in wine; but at length
he began to relax his virtuous
efforts, and now and then exceeded
a little, and still continues
to do so; nay, sometimes, not
a little. When he is under the
exciting influence of these excesses,
he sometimes fires up and attempts
to play the brute; and then I
take little pains to suppress
my scorn and disgust. When he
is under the depressing influence
of the after-consequences, he
bemoans his sufferings and his
errors, and charges them both
upon me; he knows such indulgence
injures his health, and does
him more harm than good; but
he says I drive him to it by
my unnatural, unwomanly conduct;
it will be the ruin of him in
the end, but it is all my fault;
and then I am roused to defend
myself, sometimes with bitter
recrimination. This is a kind
of injustice I cannot patiently
endure. Have I not laboured long
and hard to save him from this
very vice? Would I not labour
still to deliver him from it
if I could? but could I do so
by fawning upon him and caressing
him when I know that he scorns
me? Is it my fault that I have
lost my influence with him, or
that he has forfeited every claim
to my regard? And should I seek
a reconciliation with him, when
I feel that I abhor him, and
that he despises me? and while
he continues still to correspond
with Lady Lowborough, as I know
he does? No, never, never, never!
he may drink himself dead, but
it is NOT my fault!
Yet I do my part to save him
still: I give him to understand
that drinking makes his eyes
dull, and his face red and bloated;
and that it tends to render him
imbecile in body and mind; and
if Annabella were to see him
as often as I do, she would speedily
be disenchanted; and that she
certainly will withdraw her favour
from him, if he continues such
courses. Such a mode of admonition
wins only coarse abuse for me
- and, indeed, I almost feel
as if I deserved it, for I hate
to use such arguments; but they
sink into his stupefied heart,
and make him pause, and ponder,
and abstain, more than anything
else I could say.
At present I am enjoying a
temporary relief from his presence:
he is gone with Hargrave to join
a distant hunt, and will probably
not be back before to-morrow
evening. How differently I used
to feel his absence!
Mr. Hargrave is still at the
Grove. He and Arthur frequently
meet to pursue their rural sports
together: he often calls upon
us here, and Arthur not unfrequently
rides over to him. I do not think
either of these soi-disant friends
is overflowing with love for
the other; but such intercourse
serves to get the time on, and
I am very willing it should continue,
as it saves me some hours of
discomfort in Arthur's society,
and gives him some better employment
than the sottish indulgence of
his sensual appetites. The only
objection I have to Mr. Hargrave's
being in the neighbourhood, is
that the fear of meeting him
at the Grove prevents me from
seeing his sister so often as
I otherwise should; for, of late,
he has conducted himself towards
me with such unerring propriety,
that I have almost forgotten
his former conduct. I suppose
he is striving to 'win my esteem.'
If he continue to act in this
way, he may win it; but what
then? The moment he attempts
to demand anything more, he will
lose it again.
February 10th. - It is a hard,
embittering thing to have one's
kind feelings and good intentions
cast back in one's teeth. I was
beginning to relent towards my
wretched partner; to pity his
forlorn, comfortless condition,
unalleviated as it is by the
consolations of intellectual
resources and the answer of a
good conscience towards God;
and to think I ought to sacrifice
my pride, and renew my efforts
once again to make his home agreeable
and lead him back to the path
of virtue; not by false professions
of love, and not by pretended
remorse, but by mitigating my
habitual coldness of manner,
and commuting my frigid civility
into kindness wherever an opportunity
occurred; and not only was I
beginning to think so, but I
had already begun to act upon
the thought - and what was the
result? No answering spark of
kindness, no awakening penitence,
but an unappeasable ill-humour,
and a spirit of tyrannous exaction
that increased with indulgence,
and a lurking gleam of self-complacent
triumph at every detection of
relenting softness in my manner,
that congealed me to marble again
as often as it recurred; and
this morning he finished the
business:- I think the petrifaction
is so completely effected at
last that nothing can melt me
again. Among his letters was
one which he perused with symptoms
of unusual gratification, and
then threw it across the table
to me, with the admonition, -
'There! read that, and take
a lesson by it!'
It was in the free, dashing
hand of Lady Lowborough. I glanced
at the first page; it seemed
full of extravagant protestations
of affection; impetuous longings
for a speedy reunion - and impious
defiance of God's mandates, and
railings against His providence
for having cast their lot asunder,
and doomed them both to the hateful
bondage of alliance with those
they could not love. He gave
a slight titter on seeing me
change colour. I folded up the
letter, rose, and returned it
to him, with no remark, but -
'Thank you, I will take a lesson
by it!'
My little Arthur was standing
between his knees, delightedly
playing with the bright, ruby
ring on his finger. Urged by
a sudden, imperative impulse
to deliver my son from that contaminating
influence, I caught him up in
my arms and carried him with
me out of the room. Not liking
this abrupt removal, the child
began to pout and cry. This was
a new stab to my already tortured
heart. I would not let him go;
but, taking him with me into
the library, I shut the door,
and, kneeling on the floor beside
him, I embraced him, kissed him,
wept over with him with passionate
fondness. Rather frightened than
consoled by this, he turned struggling
from me, and cried out aloud
for his papa. I released him
from my arms, and never were
more bitter tears than those
that now concealed him from my
blinded, burning eyes. Hearing
his cries, the father came to
the room. I instantly turned
away, lest he should see and
misconstrue my emotion. He swore
at me, and took the now pacified
child away.
It is hard that my little darling
should love him more than me;
and that, when the well-being
and culture of my son is all
I have to live for, I should
see my influence destroyed by
one whose selfish affection is
more injurious than the coldest
indifference or the harshest
tyranny could be. If I, for his
good, deny him some trifling
indulgence, he goes to his father,
and the latter, in spite of his
selfish indolence, will even
give himself some trouble to
meet the child's desires: if
I attempt to curb his will, or
look gravely on him for some
act of childish disobedience,
he knows his other parent will
smile and take his part against
me. Thus, not only have I the
father's spirit in the son to
contend against, the germs of
his evil tendencies to search
out and eradicate, and his corrupting
intercourse and example in after-life
to counteract, but already he
counteracts my arduous labour
for the child's advantage, destroys
my influence over his tender
mind, and robs me of his very
love; I had no earthly hope but
this, and he seems to take a
diabolical delight in tearing
it away.
But it is wrong to despair;
I will remember the counsel of
the inspired writer to him 'that
feareth the Lord and obeyeth
the voice of his servant, that
sitteth in darkness and hath
no light; let him trust in the
name of the Lord, and stay upon
his God!'
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