Liber Amoris, or, The New Pygmalion
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William Hazlitt >> Liber Amoris, or, The New Pygmalion
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7 This etext was prepared by Christopher Hapka, Sunnyvale, California.
LIBER AMORIS, OR, THE NEW PYGMALION
by WILLIAM HAZLITT
ADVERTISEMENT
The circumstances, an outline of which is given in these pages, happened
a very short time ago to a native of North Britain, who left his own
country early in life, in consequence of political animosities and an
ill-advised connection in marriage. It was some years after that he
formed the fatal attachment which is the subject of the following
narrative. The whole was transcribed very carefully with his own hand,
a little before be set out for the Continent in hopes of benefiting by a
change of scene, but he died soon after in the Netherlands--it is
supposed, of disappointment preying on a sickly frame and morbid state
of mind. It was his wish that what bad been his strongest feeling while
living, should be preserved in this shape when he was no more.--It has
been suggested to the friend, into whose hands the manuscript was
entrusted, that many things (particularly in the Conversations in the
First Part) either childish or redundant, might have been omitted; but a
promise was given that not a word should be altered, and the pledge was
held sacred. The names and circumstances are so far disguised, it is
presumed, as to prevent any consequences resulting from the publication,
farther than the amusement or sympathy of the reader.
PART I
THE PICTURE
H. Oh! is it you? I had something to shew you--I have got a picture
here. Do you know any one it's like?
S. No, Sir.
H. Don't you think it like yourself?
S. No: it's much handsomer than I can pretend to be.
H. That's because you don't see yourself with the same eyes that others
do. I don't think it handsomer, and the expression is hardly so fine as
yours sometimes is.
S. Now you flatter me. Besides, the complexion is fair, and mine is
dark.
H. Thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! But if your colour
were a little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hair
were let down over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken for
a picture of you. Look here, only see how like it is. The forehead is
like, with that little obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrows
are like, and the eyes are just like yours, when you look up and
say--"No--never!"
S. What then, do I always say--"No--never!" when I look up?
H. I don't know about that--I never heard you say so but once; but that
was once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, "you could
never be mine." Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long be
myself. I cannot go on as I am. My faculties leave me: I think of
nothing, I have no feeling about any thing but thee: thy sweet image has
taken possession of me, haunts me, and will drive me to distraction.
Yet I could almost wish to go mad for thy sake: for then I might fancy
that I had thy love in return, which I cannot live without!
S. Do not, I beg, talk in that manner, but tell me what this is a
picture of.
H. I hardly know; but it is a very small and delicate copy (painted in
oil on a gold ground) of some fine old Italian picture, Guido's or
Raphael's, but I think Raphael's. Some say it is a Madonna; others call
it a Magdalen, and say you may distinguish the tear upon the cheek,
though no tear is there. But it seems to me more like Raphael's St.
Cecilia, "with looks commercing with the skies," than anything
else.--See, Sarah, how beautiful it is! Ah! dear girl, these are the
ideas I have cherished in my heart, and in my brain; and I never found
any thing to realise them on earth till I met with thee, my love! While
thou didst seem sensible of my kindness, I was but too happy: but now
thou hast cruelly cast me off.
S. You have no reason to say so: you are the same to me as ever.
H. That is, nothing. You are to me everything, and I am nothing to
you. Is it not too true?
S. No.
H. Then kiss me, my sweetest. Oh! could you see your face now--your
mouth full of suppressed sensibility, your downcast eyes, the soft blush
upon that cheek, you would not say the picture is not like because it is
too handsome, or because you want complexion. Thou art heavenly-fair,
my love--like her from whom the picture was taken--the idol of the
painter's heart, as thou art of mine! Shall I make a drawing of it,
altering the dress a little, to shew you how like it is?
S. As you please.--
THE INVITATION
H. But I am afraid I tire you with this prosing description of the
French character and abuse of the English? You know there is but one
subject on which I should ever wish to talk, if you would let me.
S. I must say, you don't seem to have a very high opinion of this
country.
H. Yes, it is the place that gave you birth.
S. Do you like the French women better than the English?
H. No: though they have finer eyes, talk better, and are better made.
But they none of them look like you. I like the Italian women I have
seen, much better than the French: they have darker eyes, darker hair,
and the accents of their native tongue are much richer and more
melodious. But I will give you a better account of them when I come
back from Italy, if you would like to hear it.
S. I should much. It is for that I have sometimes had a wish for
travelling abroad, to understand something of the manners and characters
of different people.
H. My sweet girl! I will give you the best account I can--unless you
would rather go and judge for yourself.
S. I cannot.
H. Yes, you shall go with me, and you shall go WITH HONOUR--you know
what I mean
S. You know it is not in your power to take me so.
H. But it soon may: and if you would consent to bear me company, I
would swear never to think of an Italian woman while I am abroad, nor of
an English one after I return home. Thou art to me more than thy whole
sex.
S. I require no such sacrifices.
H. Is that what you thought I meant by SACRIFICES last night? But
sacrifices are no sacrifices when they are repaid a thousand fold.
S. I have no way of doing it.
H. You have not the will.--
S. I must go now.
H. Stay, and hear me a little. I shall soon be where I can no more
hear thy voice, far distant from her I love, to see what change of
climate and bright skies will do for a sad heart. I shall perhaps see
thee no more, but I shall still think of thee the same as ever--I shall
say to myself, "Where is she now?--what is she doing?" But I shall
hardly wish you to think of me, unless you could do so more favourably
than I am afraid you will. Ah! dearest creature, I shall be "far
distant from you," as you once said of another, but you will not think
of me as of him, "with the sincerest affection." The smallest share of
thy tenderness would make me blest; but couldst thou ever love me as
thou didst him, I should feel like a God! My face would change to a
different expression: my whole form would undergo alteration. I was
getting well, I was growing young in the sweet proofs of your
friendship: you see how I droop and wither under your displeasure! Thou
art divine, my love, and canst make me either more or less than mortal.
Indeed I am thy creature, thy slave--I only wish to live for your
sake--I would gladly die for you--
S. That would give me no pleasure. But indeed you greatly overrate my
power.
H. Your power over me is that of sovereign grace and beauty. When I am
near thee, nothing can harm me. Thou art an angel of light, shadowing
me with thy softness. But when I let go thy hand, I stagger on a
precipice: out of thy sight the world is dark to me and comfortless.
There is no breathing out of this house: the air of Italy will stifle
me. Go with me and lighten it. I can know no pleasure away from thee--
"But I will come again, my love, An' it were ten thousand mile!"
THE MESSAGE
S. Mrs. E---- has called for the book, Sir.
H. Oh! it is there. Let her wait a minute or two. I see this is a
busy-day with you. How beautiful your arms look in those short sleeves!
S. I do not like to wear them.
H. Then that is because you are merciful, and would spare frail mortals
who might die with gazing.
S. I have no power to kill.
H. You have, you have--Your charms are irresistible as your will is
inexorable. I wish I could see you always thus. But I would have no
one else see you so. I am jealous of all eyes but my own. I should
almost like you to wear a veil, and to be muffled up from head to foot;
but even if you were, and not a glimpse of you could be seen, it would
be to no purpose--you would only have to move, and you would be admired
as the most graceful creature in the world. You smile--Well, if you
were to be won by fine speeches--
S. You could supply them!
H. It is however no laughing matter with me; thy beauty kills me daily,
and I shall think of nothing but thy charms, till the last word trembles
on my tongue, and that will be thy name, my love--the name of my
Infelice! You will live by that name, you rogue, fifty years after you
are dead. Don't you thank me for that?
S. I have no such ambition, Sir. But Mrs. E---- is waiting.
H. She is not in love, like me. You look so handsome to-day, I cannot
let you go. You have got a colour.
S. But you say I look best when I am pale.
H. When you are pale, I think so; but when you have a colour, I then
think you still more beautiful. It is you that I admire; and whatever
you are, I like best. I like you as Miss L----, I should like you still
more as Mrs. ----. I once thought you were half inclined to be a prude,
and I admired you as a "pensive nun, devout and pure." I now think you
are more than half a coquet, and I like you for your roguery. The truth
is, I am in love with you, my angel; and whatever you are, is to me the
perfection of thy sex. I care not what thou art, while thou art still
thyself. Smile but so, and turn my heart to what shape you please!
S. I am afraid, Sir, Mrs. E---- will think you have forgotten her.
H. I had, my charmer. But go, and make her a sweet apology, all
graceful as thou art. One kiss! Ah! ought I not to think myself the
happiest of men?
THE FLAGEOLET
H. Where have you been, my love?
S. I have been down to see my aunt, Sir.
H. And I hope she has been giving you good advice.
S. I did not go to ask her opinion about any thing.
H. And yet you seem anxious and agitated. You appear pale and
dejected, as if your refusal of me had touched your own breast with
pity. Cruel girl! you look at this moment heavenly-soft, saint-like, or
resemble some graceful marble statue, in the moon's pale ray! Sadness
only heightens the elegance of your features. How can I escape from
you, when every new occasion, even your cruelty and scorn, brings out
some new charm. Nay, your rejection of me, by the way in which you do
it, is only a new link added to my chain. Raise those downcast eyes,
bend as if an angel stooped, and kiss me. . . . Ah! enchanting little
trembler! if such is thy sweetness where thou dost not love, what must
thy love have been? I cannot think how any man, having the heart of
one, could go and leave it.
S. No one did, that I know of.
H. Yes, you told me yourself he left you (though he liked you, and
though he knew--Oh! gracious God! that you loved him) he left you
because "the pride of birth would not permit a union."--For myself, I
would leave a throne to ascend to the heaven of thy charms. I live but
for thee, here--I only wish to live again to pass all eternity with
thee. But even in another world, I suppose you would turn from me to
seek him out who scorned you here.
S. If the proud scorn us here, in that place we shall all be equal.
H. Do not look so--do not talk so--unless you would drive me mad. I
could worship you at this moment. Can I witness such perfection, and
bear to think I have lost you for ever? Oh! let me hope! You see you
can mould me as you like. You can lead me by the hand, like a little
child; and with you my way would be like a little child's:--you could
strew flowers in my path, and pour new life and hope into me. I should
then indeed hail the return of spring with joy, could I indulge the
faintest hope--would you but let me try to please you!
S. Nothing can alter my resolution, Sir.
H. Will you go and leave me so?
S. It is late, and my father will be getting impatient at my stopping
so long.
H. You know he has nothing to fear for you--it is poor I that am alone
in danger. But I wanted to ask about buying you a flageolet. Could I
see that which you have? If it is a pretty one, it would hardly be
worth while; but if it isn't, I thought of bespeaking an ivory one for
you. Can't you bring up your own to shew me?
S. Not to-night, Sir.
H. I wish you could.
S. I cannot--but I will in the morning.
H. Whatever you determine, I must submit to. Good night, and bless
thee!
[The next morning, S. brought up the tea-kettle as usual; and looking
towards the tea-tray, she said, "Oh! I see my sister has forgot the
tea-pot." It was not there, sure enough; and tripping down stairs, she
came up in a minute, with the tea-pot in one hand, and the flageolet in
the other, balanced so sweetly and gracefully. It would have been
awkward to have brought up the flageolet in the tea-tray and she could
not have well gone down again on purpose to fetch it. Something,
therefore, was to be omitted as an excuse. Exquisite witch! But do I
love her the less dearly for it? I cannot.]
THE CONFESSION
H. You say you cannot love. Is there not a prior attachment in the
case? Was there any one else that you did like?
S. Yes, there was another.
H. Ah! I thought as much. Is it long ago then?
S. It is two years, Sir.
H. And has time made no alteration? Or do you still see him sometimes?
S. No, Sir! But he is one to whom I feel the sincerest affection, and
ever shall, though he is far distant.
H. And did he return your regard?
S. I had every reason to think so.
H. What then broke off your intimacy?
S. It was the pride of birth, Sir, that would not permit him to think
of a union.
H. Was he a young man of rank, then?
S. His connections were high.
H. And did he never attempt to persuade you to any other step?
S. No--he had too great a regard for me.
H. Tell me, my angel, how was it? Was he so very handsome? Or was it
the fineness of his manners?
S. It was more his manner: but I can't tell how it was. It was chiefly
my own fault. I was foolish to suppose he could ever think seriously of
me. But he used to make me read with him--and I used to be with him a
good deal, though not much neither--and I found my affections entangled
before I was aware of it.
H. And did your mother and family know of it?
S. No--I have never told any one but you; nor I should not have
mentioned it now, but I thought it might give you some satisfaction.
H. Why did he go at last?
S. We thought it better to part.
H. And do you correspond?
S. No, Sir. But perhaps I may see him again some time or other, though
it will be only in the way of friendship.
H. My God! what a heart is thine, to live for years upon that bare
hope!
S. I did not wish to live always, Sir--I wished to die for a long time
after, till I thought it not right; and since then I have endeavoured to
be as resigned as I can.
H. And do you think the impression will never wear out?
S. Not if I can judge from my feelings hitherto. It is now sometime
since,--and I find no difference.
H. May God for ever bless you! How can I thank you for your
condescension in letting me know your sweet sentiments? You have
changed my esteem into adoration.--Never can I harbour a thought of ill
in thee again.
S. Indeed, Sir, I wish for your good opinion and your friendship.
H. And can you return them?
S. Yes.
H. And nothing more?
S. No, Sir.
H. You are an angel, and I will spend my life, if you will let me, in
paying you the homage that my heart feels towards you.
THE QUARREL
H. You are angry with me?
S. Have I not reason?
H. I hope you have; for I would give the world to believe my suspicions
unjust. But, oh! my God! after what I have thought of you and felt
towards you, as little less than an angel, to have but a doubt cross my
mind for an instant that you were what I dare not name--a common
lodging-house decoy, a kissing convenience, that your lips were as
common as the stairs--
S. Let me go, Sir!
H. Nay--prove to me that you are not so, and I will fall down and
worship you. You were the only creature that ever seemed to love me;
and to have my hopes, and all my fondness for you, thus turned to a
mockery--it is too much! Tell me why you have deceived me, and singled
me out as your victim?
S. I never have, Sir. I always said I could not love.
H. There is a difference between love and making me a laughing-stock.
Yet what else could be the meaning of your little sister's running out
to you, and saying "He thought I did not see him!" when I had followed
you into the other room? Is it a joke upon me that I make free with
you? Or is not the joke against HER sister, unless you make my
courtship of you a jest to the whole house? Indeed I do not well see
how you can come and stay with me as you do, by the hour together, and
day after day, as openly as you do, unless you give it some such turn
with your family. Or do you deceive them as well as me?
S. I deceive no one, Sir. But my sister Betsey was always watching and
listening when Mr. M---- was courting my eldest sister, till he was
obliged to complain of it.
H. That I can understand, but not the other. You may remember, when
your servant Maria looked in and found you sitting in my lap one day,
and I was afraid she might tell your mother, you said "You did not care,
for you had no secrets from your mother." This seemed to me odd at the
time, but I thought no more of it, till other things brought it to my
mind. Am I to suppose, then, that you are acting a part, a vile part,
all this time, and that you come up here, and stay as long as I like,
that you sit on my knee and put your arms round my neck, and feed me
with kisses, and let me take other liberties with you, and that for a
year together; and that you do all this not out of love, or liking, or
regard, but go through your regular task, like some young witch, without
one natural feeling, to shew your cleverness, and get a few presents out
of me, and go down into the kitchen to make a fine laugh of it? There
is something monstrous in it, that I cannot believe of you.
S. Sir, you have no right to harass my feelings in the manner you do.
I have never made a jest of you to anyone, but always felt and expressed
the greatest esteem for you. You have no ground for complaint in my
conduct; and I cannot help what Betsey or others do. I have always been
consistent from the first. I told you my regard could amount to no more
than friendship.
H. Nay, Sarah, it was more than half a year before I knew that there
was an insurmountable obstacle in the way. You say your regard is
merely friendship, and that you are sorry I have ever felt anything more
for you. Yet the first time I ever asked you, you let me kiss you; the
first time I ever saw you, as you went out of the room, you turned full
round at the door, with that inimitable grace with which you do
everything, and fixed your eyes full upon me, as much as to say, "Is he
caught?"--that very week you sat upon my knee, twined your arms round
me, caressed me with every mark of tenderness consistent with modesty;
and I have not got much farther since. Now if you did all this with me,
a perfect stranger to you, and without any particular liking to me, must
I not conclude you do so as a matter of course with everyone?--Or, if
you do not do so with others, it was because you took a liking to me for
some reason or other.
S. It was gratitude, Sir, for different obligations.
H. If you mean by obligations the presents I made you, I had given you
none the first day I came. You do not consider yourself OBLIGED to
everyone who asks you for a kiss?
S. No, Sir.
H. I should not have thought anything of it in anyone but you. But you
seemed so reserved and modest, so soft, so timid, you spoke so low, you
looked so innocent--I thought it impossible you could deceive me.
Whatever favors you granted must proceed from pure regard. No betrothed
virgin ever gave the object of her choice kisses, caresses more modest
or more bewitching than those you have given me a thousand and a
thousand times. Could I have thought I should ever live to believe them
an inhuman mockery of one who had the sincerest regard for you? Do you
think they will not now turn to rank poison in my veins, and kill me,
soul and body? You say it is friendship--but if this is friendship,
I'll forswear love. Ah! Sarah! it must be something more or less than
friendship. If your caresses are sincere, they shew fondness--if they
are not, I must be more than indifferent to you. Indeed you once let
some words drop, as if I were out of the question in such matters, and
you could trifle with me with impunity. Yet you complain at other times
that no one ever took such liberties with you as I have done. I
remember once in particular your saying, as you went out at the door in
anger--"I had an attachment before, but that person never attempted
anything of the kind." Good God! How did I dwell on that word
BEFORE, thinking it implied an attachment to me also; but you have
since disclaimed any such meaning. You say you have never professed
more than esteem. Yet once, when you were sitting in your old place, on
my knee, embracing and fondly embraced, and I asked you if you could not
love, you made answer, "I could easily say so, whether I did or not--YOU
SHOULD JUDGE BY MY ACTIONS!" And another time, when you were in the
same posture, and I reproached you with indifference, you replied in
these words, "Do I SEEM INDIFFERENT?" Was I to blame after this to
indulge my passion for the loveliest of her sex? Or what can I think?
S. I am no prude, Sir.
H. Yet you might be taken for one. So your mother said, "It was hard
if you might not indulge in a little levity." She has strange notions
of levity. But levity, my dear, is quite out of character in you. Your
ordinary walk is as if you were performing some religious ceremony: you
come up to my table of a morning, when you merely bring in the
tea-things, as if you were advancing to the altar. You move in
minuet-time: you measure every step, as if you were afraid of offending
in the smallest things. I never hear your approach on the stairs, but
by a sort of hushed silence. When you enter the room, the Graces wait
on you, and Love waves round your person in gentle undulations,
breathing balm into the soul! By Heaven, you are an angel! You look
like one at this instant! Do I not adore you--and have I merited this
return?
S. I have repeatedly answered that question. You sit and fancy things
out of your own head, and then lay them to my charge. There is not a
word of truth in your suspicions.
H. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which
you were a party? Shall I repeat it?
S. I had rather not hear it!
H. Or what am I to think of this story of the footman?
S. It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort.
H. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn't * * * * * * * * *
(as I heard she did) she said "Oh, there's nothing in that, for Sarah
very often * * * * * *," and your doing so before company, is only a
trifling addition to the sport.
S. I'll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you.
H. Then she'll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were
"very persevering in your resistance to gay young men," and had been
"several times obliged to ring the bell?" Did you always ring it? Or
did you get into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the
demureness of your looks and ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or have
you two characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another, your
natural one, that you resume when you get out of the room, like an
actress who throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? Did you
not, when I was courting you on the staircase the first night Mr. C----
came, beg me to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he'd take you
for a light character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of being
TAKEN for a light character? Oh! Sarah!
S. I'll stay and hear this no longer.
H. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another?
S. Yes, and ever shall most sincerely.
H. Then, THAT is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment for
him, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is another
thing I had to say--be what you will, I love you to distraction! You
are the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and that
feeling was so new to me, and so delicious, that it "will never from my
heart." Thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in the
wilderness of my life; and though thou should'st turn out a weed, I'll
not fling thee from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all that I dread
to think--wert thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered with
rags, disease, and infamy, I'd clasp thee to my bosom, and live and die
with thee, my love. Kiss me, thou little sorceress!
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