Liber Amoris, Or, The New Pygmalion E-Book

William Hazlitt

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In "Liber Amoris, Or, The New Pygmalion," William Hazlitt embarks on a deeply personal exploration of love, desire, and the complexities of passion. Written in a conversational yet poignant style, this semi-autobiographical work blurs the lines between critique and confession, articulating the intensity of romantic attachments while critiquing the societal conventions surrounding them. Hazlitt's literary context can be understood through the lens of Romanticism, wherein personal emotion and individual experience take precedence. His unflinching honesty and use of vivid imagery invite readers into the intimate landscape of his heart, challenging them to reflect on the nature of love itself. William Hazlitt, a prominent literary figure of the early 19th century, was a keen observer of human emotion and society. Influenced by the tumultuous political climate, as well as his own volatile relationships, Hazlitt's writings often reflect a genuine quest for understanding the human condition. This work stemmed from both personal heartbreak and a philosophical engagement with the complexities of affection, showcasing Hazlitt'Äôs ability to intertwine life experience with literary prowess. "Liber Amoris, Or, The New Pygmalion" is a compelling read for anyone intrigued by the intricacies of love and the search for authentic connection. Hazlitt'Äôs rich prose and reflective insights resonate across time, inviting modern readers to consider their own experiences of longing and loss. This work remains a significant discourse on romantic idealism, making it an essential addition to any literary collection.

Leseprobe

William Hazlitt

Liber Amoris, Or, The New Pygmalion

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4057664599377

Table of Contents

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART I

THE PICTURE

THE INVITATION

THE MESSAGE

THE FLAGEOLET

THE CONFESSION

THE QUARREL

THE RECONCILIATION

LETTERS TO THE SAME

TO THE SAME

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION

A PROPOSAL OF LOVE

PART II

LETTERS TO C. P——, ESQ.

LETTER II

LETTER III

LETTER IV

LETTER V

LETTER VI

LETTER VII

LETTER VIII

TO EDINBURGH

A THOUGHT

ANOTHER

ANOTHER

LETTER IX

LETTER X

LETTER XI

TO S. L.

LETTER XII.

UNALTERED LOVE

PERFECT LOVE

FROM C. P., ESQ.

LETTER XIII

LETTER THE LAST

PART III

ADDRESSED TO J. S. K.——

TO THE SAME

TO THE SAME

PART I

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THE PICTURETHE INVITATIONTHE MESSAGETHE FLAGEOLETTHE CONFESSIONTHE QUARRELTHE RECONCILIATIONLETTERS TO THE SAMETO THE SAMEWRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMIONA PROPOSAL OF LOVE

PART II

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LETTERS TO C. P., ESQ.LETTER IILETTER IIILETTER IVLETTER VLETTER VILETTER VIILETTER VIIITO EDINBURGHA THOUGHTANOTHERANOTHERLETTER IXLETTER XLETTER XITO S. L.LETTER XII.UNALTERED LOVEPERFECT LOVEFROM C. P., ESQ.LETTER XIIILETTER THE LAST

PART III

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ADDRESSED TO J. S. K.——TO THE SAME (In continuation)TO THE SAME (In conclusion)

PART I

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THE PICTURE

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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

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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

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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.