Liber Amoris, or The New Pygmalion | Page 4

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