第65章 THE SKETCH BOOK(1)
THE BROKEN HEART
by Washington Irving
I never heard
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eatsThe leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose.
MIDDLETON.
IT IS a common practice with those who have outlived thesusceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gayheartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and totreat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelistsand poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to thinkotherwise. They have convinced me, that however the surface of thecharacter may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, orcultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there aredormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which,when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating intheir effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and goto the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it?- I believe inbroken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. I donot, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex; but Ifirmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into anearly grave.
Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads himforth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but theembellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals ofthe acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world'sthought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life isa history of the affections. The heart is her world: it is there herambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks forhidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; sheembarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and ifshipwrecked, her case is hopeless- for it is a bankruptcy of theheart.
To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bitterpangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness- it blasts some prospectsof felicity; but he is an active being- he may dissipate histhoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into thetide of pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full ofpainful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking as itwere the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts ofthe earth, and be at rest."But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and meditativelife. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings;and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she lookfor consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in herlove, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, andsacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.
How many bright eyes grow dim- how many soft cheeks grow pale- howmany lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the causethat blighted their loveliness! As the dove will clasp its wings toits side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on itsvitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the world thepangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is alwaysshy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it toherself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of herbosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace.
With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm ofexistence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exerciseswhich gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide oflife in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken-the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams-"dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks underthe slightest external injury. Look for her, after a little while, andyou find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wonderingthat one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health andbeauty, should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm."You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, thatlaid her low;- but no one knows of the mental malady whichpreviously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to thespoiler.
She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove;graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preyingat its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be mostfresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, andshedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it fallseven in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautifulruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt thatcould have smitten it with decay.
I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as ifthey had been exhaled to heaven; and have repeatedly fancied that Icould trace their death through the various declensions ofconsumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reachedthe first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kindwas lately told to me; the circumstances are well known in the countrywhere they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner inwhich they were related.