Love Letters of Great Women, edited by Ursula Doyle.
Title: Love Letters of Great Women.
Author: (edited by) Ursula Doyle.
Genre: Non-fiction, romance, letters, history.
Country: U.S.
Language: English.
Publication Date: 1710, 1712, 1776, 1793, 1810, 1816, 1834, 1908, 1915. (This book in November 6, 2009.)
Summary: From the private papers of Anne Boleyn and Emily Dickinson to those of Empress Josephine and Queen Victoria, is an anthology of some of the most romantic letters in history. As a companion to Love Letters of Great Men, this collection gives the other side of the story: the secret hopes and lives of some of the greatest women in history, from writers and artists to politicians and queens. Also includes letters by Edith Wharton, Mary Wordsworth, Nell Gwyn (mistress of Charles II), Mary Wollstonecraft, Katherine Mansfield, and George Sand.
My rating: 8/10.
♥ There are a great many ingredients must go to the making me happy in a husband. First, as my cousin Franklin says, our humours must agree; and to do that he must have that kind of breeding that I have had, and used that kind of company. That is, he must not be so much a country gentleman as to understand nothing but hawks and dogs, and be fonder of either than his wife; nor of the next sort of them whose aim reaches no further than to be Justice of the Peace, and once in his life High Sheriff, who reads no book but Statutes, and studies nothing but how to make a speech interlarded with Latin that may amaze his disagreeing poor neighbours, and fright them rather than persuade them into quietness. He must not be a thing that began the world in a free school, was sent from thence to the university, and is at his furthest when he reaches the Inns of Court, has no acquaintances but those of his form in these places, speaks the French he has picked out of old law, and admires nothing but the stories he has heard of the revels that were kept there before his time. He must not be a town gallant neither, that lives in a tavern and an ordinary, that cannot imagine how an hour should be spent without company unless it be in sleeping, that makes court to all the women he sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs and is laughed at equally. Nor a travelled Monsieur whose head is all feather inside and outside, than can talk of nothing but dancing and duets, and has courage enough to wear slashes when every one else dies with cold to see him. He must not be a fool of no sort, nor peevish, nor ill-natured, nor proud, nor covetous; and to all this must be added, that he must love me and I him as much as we are capable of loving. Without all this, his fortune, though never so great, would not satisfy me; and with it, a moderate one would keep me from ever repenting my disposal.
To Sir William Temple, no date, Dorothy Osborne (Temple).
♥ One part of my character is not so good, nor t’other as bad as you fancy it. Should we ever live together, you would be disappointed both ways; you would find an easy equality of temper you do not expect, and a thousand faults you do not imagine.
You think, if you married me, I should be passionately fond of you one month, and of somebody else the next. Neither would happen. I can esteem, I can be a friend, but I don’t know whether I can love. Expect all that is complaisant and easy, but never what is fond, in me. You judge a very wrong of my heart when you suppose me capable of views of interest, and that anything could oblige me to flatter anybody.
Was I the most indigent creature in the world, I should answer you as I do now, without adding or diminishing. I am incapable of art, and ‘tis because I will not be capable of it. Could I deceive one minute, I should never regain my own good opinion, and who could bear to live with one they despised?
To Edward Wortley Montagu, 25 April, 1710
I tremble for what we are doing. Are you sure you will love me forever? Shall we never repent? I fear, and I hope. I foresee all that will happen on this occasion. I shall incense my family to the highest degree. The generality of the world will blame my conduct, and the relations and friends of ------ will invent a thousand stories of me. In this letter (which I am fond of) you promise me all that I wish. - Since I writ so far, I received your Friday letter. I will be only yours, and I will do what you please.
Postscript: You shall hear from me again tomorrow, not to contradict but to give some directions. My resolution is taken - love me and use me well.
To Edward Montagu, Friday night, 14 August 1712
...When you come back you may endeavour to make your father admit of seeing me, and treat with mine (tho’ I persist in thinking it will be to no purpose). But I cannot think of living in the midst of my relations and acquaintance after so unjustifiable a step - unjustifiable to the world. - But I think I can justify my self to my self.
Saturday morning, 16 August 1712, Lady Mary Pirrepont (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu).
♥ I long to hear that you have declared an independency - and by the way in the new Code of Laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make I desire you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favourable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If perticuliar care and attention is not paid to the Ladies we are determined to foment a Rebelion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation.
That your Sex are Naturally Tyrannical is a Truth so thoroughly established as to admit no dispute, but such as you wish to be happy willingly give up the harsh title of Master for the more tender and endearing one of Friend.
To John Adams, Sent from Braintree, 31 March 1776, Abigail Smith (Adams).
♥ Continue in your noble endeavours, my friend. Brutus despaired too soon of the Roman safety at the battle of Philippi. As long as a republican still breathes, is free, has his courage, he must, he can be useful. The south of France offers you in any case a refuge, and will be the asylum of honourable men. Thither you must turn your looks and wend your steps. There you will have to live, in order to serve your fellows and to exercise your virtues.
I personally shall know how to wait quietly, until the reign of justice returns, or shall undergo the last acts of violence, of tyranny in such a manner, that my example too will not be without utility…
To Léonard Buzot, Sent from prison, 22 June 1793, Manon Jeanne Philipon (Madame Roland).
♥ I had written you at my departure from Malmaison; and since then, how many times did I not wish to write to you! But I felt the reason of your silence, and I feared to be importunate by a letter. Yours has been a balm for me. Be happy; be it as much as you deserve it; it is my entire heart that speaks to you. Tiy also have just given me my share of happiness, and a share vividly felt; nothing can equal the value for me of a mark of your remembrance.
Adieu, my friend; I thank you as tenderly as I shall always love you.
To Napoleon Bonaparte, Sent from Navarra, April 1810, Marie-Joséphe-Rose Tascher de la Pagerie (Empress Joséphine).
♥ Will you admit me for two moments to settle with you there? Indeed I will not stay an instant after you tell me to go. Only so much may be said and done in a short time by an interview which writing cannot effect. Do what you will, or go where you will, refuse to see me and behave unkindly, I shall never forget you. I shall ever remember the gentleness of your manners and the wild originality of your countenance. Having been once seen, you are not to be forgotten. Perhaps this is the last time I shall ever address you. Once more, then, let me assure you that I am not ungrateful. In all things have you acted most honourably, and I am only provoked that the awkwardness of my manner and something like timidity has hitherto prevented my expressing it to you personally.
To Lord Byron, 1816, Claire Clairmont.
♥ And I’m so afraid that the treasures I long to unpack for you, that have come to me in magic ships from enchanted islands, are only, to you, the old familiar red calico & beads of the clever trader who has had dealings in every latitude, & knows just what to carry in the hold to please the simple native - I’m so afraid of this, that often & often I stuff my shining treasures back into their box, lest I should see you smiling at them!
Well! And if you do? It’s your loss, after all! And if you can’t come into the room without my feeling all over me a ripple of flame, & if, wherever you touch me, a heart beats under your touch, & if, when you hold me, & I don’t speak, it’s because all the words in me seem to have become throbbing pulses, & all my thoughts are a great golden blur - why should I be afraid of your smiling at me, when I can turn the beads & calico back into such beauty -?
To W. Morton Fullerton, Sent from 58 rue de Varenne, March 1908, Edith Newbold Jones (Wharton).
♥ Jack, I shan’t hide what I feel today. I woke up with you in my breast and on my lips. Jack, I love you terribly today. The whole world is gone. There is only you. I walk about, dress, eat, write - but all the time I am breathing you…
…Life is too short for our love even though we stayed together every moment of all the years. I cannot think of you - our life - our darling life - you, my treasure - everything about you.
No, no, no. Take me quickly into your arms. Tig is a tired girl and she is crying. I want you, I want you. Without you life is nothing.
Your woman.
To John Middleton Murry, 28 March 1915, Katherine Mansfield.
♥ To Pietro Pagello
Sent from Venice, 10 July 1834
Born under different skies we have neither the same thoughts nor the same language - have we, perhaps, hearts that resemble one another?
The mild and cloudy climate from which I come has left me with gentle and melancholy impressions; what passions has the generous sun that has bronzed your brow given you? I know how to love and how to suffer, and you, what do you know of love?
The ardour of your glances, the violent clasp of your arms, the fervour of your desire, tempt me and frighten me. I do not know whether to combat your passion or to share it. One does not love like this in my country; beside you I am no more than a pale statue that regards you with desire, with trouble, with astonishment. I do not know if you truly love me, I shall never know it. You can scarcely speak a few words of my language and I do not know enough of yours to enter into these subtle questions. Perhaps, even if I knew perfectly the language that you speak, I should not be able to make myself understood. The place where we have lived, the people that have taught us, are, doubtless, the reason that we have ideas, sentiments and needs, inexplicable one to the other. My feeble nature and your fiery temperament must produce very different thoughts. You must be ignorant of, or despise, the thousand trivial sufferings that so disturb me; you must laugh at what makes me weep. Perhaps you even do not know what tears are. Would you be for me a support or a master? Would you console me for the evils that I have endured before meeting you? Do you understand why I am sad? Do you understand compassion, patience, friendship? Perhaps you have been brought up in the idea that women have no souls. Do you think that they have? You are neither a Christian nor a Mussulman, neither civilised nor a barbarian - are you a man? What is there in that masculine bosom, behind that superb brow, those leonine eyes? Do you ever have a nobler, finer thought, a fraternal pious sentiment? When you sleep, do you dream that you are flying toward Heaven? When men wrong you do you still trust in God? Shall I be your companion or your slave? Do you desire me or love me? When your passion is satisfied will you thank me? When I have made you happy, will you know how to tell me so? Do you know what I am and does it trouble you not to know it? Am I for you an unknown being who must be sought for a dreamt of, or am I in your eyes a woman like those that fatten in harems? In your eyes, in which I think to see a divine spark, is there nothing but a lust such as these women inspire? Do you know that desire of the soul that time does not quench, that no excess deadens or wearies? When your mistress sleeps in your arms, do you stay awake to watch over her, to pray to God and to weep? Do the pleasures of love leave you breathless and brutalised or do they throw you into a divine ecstasy? Does your soul overcome your body when you leave the bosom of her whom you love? Ah, when I shall observe you withdrawn quiet, shall I know if you are thoughtful or at rest? When your glance is languishing will it be tenderness or lassitude? Perhaps you realise that I do not know you and that you do not know me. I know neither your past life, nor your character, nor what the men that know you think of you. Perhaps you are the first, perhaps the last among them. I love you without knowing if I can esteem you, I love you because you please me, and perhaps some day I shall be forced to hate you. If you were a man of my country, I should question you and you would understand me. But perhaps I should be still more unhappy, for you would mislead me. As it is, at least you will not deceive me, you will make no vain promises and false vows. You will love me as you understand love, as you can love. What I have sought for in vain in others, I shall not, perhaps, find in you, but I can always believe that you possess it. Those looks, those caresses of love that have always lied to me in others, you will allow me to interpret as I wish, without adding deceitful words to them. I shall be able to interpret your reveries and fill your silences with eloquence. I shall give to your actions the intentions that I wish them to have. When you look at me tenderly, I shall believe that your soul is gazing at mine; when you glance at heaven, I shall believe that your mind turns towards the eternity from which it sprang. Let us remain thus, do not learn my language, and I shall not look for, in yours, words to express my doubts and my fears. I want to be ignorant of what you do with your life and what part you play among your fellow me. I do not even want to know your name. Hide your soul from me that I may always believe it to be beautiful.
-George Sand (1804-76)