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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