232—to Lady Caroline Lamb
[Undated.]
I never supposed you artful: we are all selfish,—nature did that for us. But even when you attempt deceit occasionally, you cannot maintain it, which is all the better; want of success will curb the tendency. Every word you utter, every line you write, proves you to be either
sincere
or a
fool
. Now as I know you are not the one, I must believe you the other.
I never knew a woman with greater or more pleasing talents,
general
as in a woman they should be, something of everything, and too much of nothing.
But
these are unfortunately coupled with a total want of common conduct
. For instance, the
note
to your
page
—do you suppose I delivered it? or did you mean that I should? I did not of course.
Then your heart, my poor Caro (what a little volcano!), that pours
lava
through your veins; and yet I cannot wish it a bit colder, to make a
marble slab
of, as you sometimes see (to understand my foolish metaphor) brought in vases, tables, etc., from Vesuvius, when hardened after an eruption. To drop my detestable tropes and figures, you know I have always thought you the cleverest, most agreeable, absurd, amiable, perplexing, dangerous, fascinating little being that lives now, or ought to have lived 2000 years ago. I won't talk to you of beauty; I am no judge. But our beauties cease to be so when near you, and therefore you have either some, or something better. And now, Caro, this nonsense is the first and last compliment (if it be such) I ever paid you. You have often reproached me as wanting in that respect; but others will make up the deficiency.
Come to Lord Grey's; at least do not let me keep you away. All that you so often
say
, I
feel
. Can more be said or felt? This same prudence is tiresome enough; but one
must
maintain it, or what
can
one do to be saved? Keep to it.
Footnote 1:
The following letter from Lady Caroline to Fletcher, Byron's valet, illustrates the statement in the text:
Fletcher,—Will you come and see me here some evening at 9, and no one will know of it. You may say you bring a letter, and wait the answer. I will send for you in. But I will let you know first, for I wish to speak with you. I also want you to take the little Foreign Page I shall send in to see Lord Byron. Do not tell him before-hand, but, when he comes with flowers, shew him in. I shall not come myself, unless just before he goes away; so do not think it is me. Besides, you will see this is quite a child, only I wish him to see my Lord if you can contrive it, which, if you tell me what hour is most convenient, will be very easy. I go out of Town to-morrow for a day or two, and I am now quite well—at least much better."
