 A letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, 16 October 1774, from the Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society, read for LibriVox.org by Rhonda Fetterman. My much-loved friend, I dare not express to you at three hundred miles distance how ardently I long for your return. I have some very miserly wishes, and cannot consent to your spending one hour in town till at least I have had you twelve. The idea plays about my heart, unnerves my hand whilst I write, awakens all the tender sentiments that years have increased and matured, and which when with me were every day dispensing to you. The whole collected stock of ten weeks' absence knows not how to brook any longer restraint, but will break forth and flow through my pen. May the like sensations enter thy breast, and in spite of all the weighty cares of state, mingle themselves with those I wish to communicate, for in giving them utterance I have felt more sincere pleasure than I have known since the tenth of August. Many have been the anxious hours I have spent since that day. The threatening aspect of our public affairs, the complicated distress of this province, the arduous and perplexed business in which you are engaged, have all conspired to agitate my bosom, with fears and apprehensions to which I have here to fore been a stranger, and far from thinking the scene closed it looks as though the curtain was but just drawn, and only the first scene of the infernal plot disclosed and whether the end will be tragical, heaven alone knows. You cannot be, I know, nor do I wish to see you in an act of spectator. But if the sword be drawn, I bid adieu to all domed stick felicity, and look forward to that country where there is neither wars nor rumors of war, and a firm belief that through the mercy of its king we shall both rejoice there together. I greatly fear that the arm of treachery and violence is lifted over us as a scourge, and heavy punishment from heaven for our numerous offenses and for the misimprovements of our great advantages. If we expect to inherit the blessings of our fathers, we should return a little more to their primitive simplicity of manners, and not sink into inglorious ease. We have too many high-sounding words and too few actions that correspond with them. I have spent one Sabbath in town since you left me. I saw no difference in respect to ornaments, but in the country you must look for that virtue, of which you find but small glimmerings in the metropolis. Indeed they have not the advantages nor the resolution to encourage our own manufacturers, which people in the country have. To the mercantile part is considered as throwing away their own bread, but they must retrench their expenses, and be content with a small share of gain for they will find but few who will wear their livery. As for me, I will seek wool and flax and work willingly with my hands, and indeed there is occasion for all our industry and economy. You mentioned the removal of our books from Boston. I believe they are safe there, and it would incommode the gentlemen to remove them, as they would not have a place to repair for study. I suppose they would not choose to be at the expense of boarding out. Mr. Williams, I believe, keeps pretty much with his mother. Mr. Hill's father had some thoughts of removing up to Braintree, provided he could be accommodated with a house, which he finds very difficult. Mr. Crouch's last determination was to tarry in town unless anything new takes place. His friends in town oppose his removal so much that he is determined to stay. The opinion you have entertained of General Gage is, I believe, just. Indeed he professes to act only upon the defensive. The people in the country begin to be very anxious for the Congress to rise. They have no idea of the weighty business you have to transact, and their blood boils with indignation at the hostile preparations they are constant witnesses of. Mr. Quincy's so secret departure is a matter of various speculation. Some say he is deputed by the Congress, others that he has gone to Holland, and the Tories say he has gone to be hanged. I rejoice at the favorable account you give me of your health. May it be continued to you. My health is much better than it was last fall. Some folks say I grow very fat. I venture to write most anything in this letter because I know the care of the bearer. He will be most sadly disappointed if you should be broke up before he arrives, as he is very desirous of being introduced by you to a number of gentlemen of respectable characters. I almost envy him that he should see you before I can. Mr. Thakser and Rice present their regards to you. Uncle Quincy too senses love to you, and he is very good to call and see me, and so have many others of my friends been. Colonel Waxon and Lady were here on Monday and send their love to you, the Colonel promised to write. Mrs. Waxon will spend a day or two on her return with me. I told Betsy to write you. She said she would if you were her husband. Your mother sends her love to you, and all your family too numerous to name desire to be remembered. You will receive letters from two who are earnest to write to papa's if the welfare of a kingdom depended upon it. If you can give any guests within a month, let me know when you think of returning to your most affectionate, Abigail Adams. End of letter. This recording is in the public domain. A letter from Don Felipe to Louise, from letter 15 of Letters of Two Brides by Honoré de Balzac, recorded for LibriVox.org by Peter Yersley. Louise, it is not for your peerless beauty I love you, nor for your gifted mind, your noble feeling, the wondrous charm of all you say and do, nor yet for your pride, your queenly scorn of baser mortals, a pride plenten you with charity, for what angel could be more tender. Louise, I love you because for the sake of a poor exile, you have unbent this lofty majesty, because by a gesture, a glance, you have brought consolation to a man so far beneath you that the utmost he could hope for was your pity, the pity of a generous heart. You are the one woman whose eyes have shone with a tenderer light when bent on me, and because you let fall this glance, a mere grain of dust, yet a grace surpassing any bestowed on me when I stood at the summit of a subject's ambition, I longed to tell you, Louise, how dear you are to me, and that my love is for yourself alone, without a thought beyond, a love that far more than fulfills the conditions laid down by you for an ideal passion. Know then, idol of my highest heaven, that there is in the world an offshoot of the Saracen race whose life is in your hands, who will receive your orders as a slave, and deem it an honor to execute them. I have given myself to you absolutely, and for the mere joy of giving, for a single glance of your eye, for a touch of the hand which one day you offered to your Spanish master, I am but your servitor, Louise, I claim no more. No, I dare not think that I could ever be loved, but perchance my devotion may win for me toleration. Since that morning when you smiled upon me with generous girlish impulse, divining the misery of my lonely and rejected heart, you reign there alone. You are the absolute ruler of my life, the queen of my thoughts, the god of my heart. I find in you the sunshine of my home, the fragrance of my flowers, the balm of the air I breathe, the pulsing of my blood, the light that visits me in sleep. One thought alone troubled this happiness, your ignorance. All unknown to you was this boundless devotion, the trusty arm, the blind slave, the silent tool, the wealth for henceforth all I possess is mine only as a trust, which lay at your disposal, unknown to you the heart waiting to receive your confidence, and yearning to replace all that your life, I know it well, has lacked, the liberal ancestors so ready to meet your needs, a father to whom you could look for protection in every difficulty, a friend, a brother. The secret of your isolation is no secret to me. If I am bold, it is because I long that you should know how much is yours. Take all, Louise, and in so doing bestow on me the one life possible for me in this world, the life of devotion. In placing the yoke on my neck you run no risk. I ask nothing but the joy of knowing myself yours, needless even to say you'll never love me. It cannot be otherwise. I must love you from afar without hope, without reward beyond my own love. In my anxiety to know whether you will accept me as your servant, I have racked my brain to find some way in which you may communicate with me without any danger of compromising yourself. Injury to your self-respect there can be none in sanctioning a devotion which has been yours for many days without your knowledge. Let this then be the token at the opera this evening, if you carry in your hand a bouquet consisting of one red and one white camellia, emblem of a man's blood at the service of the purity he worships. That will be my answer. I ask no more, thenceforth at any moment, ten years hence or tomorrow, whatever you demand shall be done as far as it is possible for man to do it, by your happy servant, Felipe Enares. PS, you must admit dear that great lords know how to love, see the spring of the African lion. What restrained fire! What loyalty! What sincerity! How high a soul! In low estate I felt quite small and dazed as I said to myself, what shall I do? End of letter. This recording is in the public domain. Don't tell the world that you're waiting for me. Three summers have gone since the first time we met, love. And still, tis in vain that I ask thee to wed. I hear no reply but a gentle, not yet love, with a smile of your lips and a shake of your head. Ah, how oft have I whispered, how oft have I sued thee, and breathed my soul's question of, when shall it be? You know, dear, how long and how truly I've wooed thee, so don't tell the world that you're waiting for me. I have fashioned a home where the fairies might dwell, love. I've planted the myrtle, the rose, and the vine. But the cottage to me is a mere hermit's cell, love, and the bloom will be dull till the flowers are thine. I've a ring of bright gold which I gaze on when lonely, and sigh with hope's eloquence, when will it be? There needs but thy yes, love, one little word only. So don't tell the world that you're waiting for me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A letter from Heloise to Peter Abelard, read for LibriVax.org by Rhonda Federman. To Peter, to her only one after Christ, she who is his alone in Christ. We were greatly surprised when instead of bringing us the healing balm of comfort, you increased our desolation and made the tears to flow, which you should have dried. For which of us could remain dry-eyed on hearing the words you wrote toward the end of your letter? But if the Lord shall deliver me into the hands of my enemies, so that they overcome and kill me? My dearest, how could you think such a thought? How could you give voice to it? Never may God be so forgetful of his humble handmaids as to let them outlive you. Never may he grant us a life which would be harder to bear than any form of death. The proper course would be for you to perform our funeral rites and for you to commend our souls to God and to send ahead of you those whom you assembled for God's service so that you need no longer be troubled by worries for us and follow after us the more gladly because freed from concern for our salvation. Spare us, I implore you, Master. Spare us words such as these which can only intensify our existing unhappiness. Do not deny us before death the one thing by which we live. Each day has trouble enough of its own, and the day shrouded in bitterness will bring with it distress enough to all it comes upon. Why is it necessary, says Seneca, to summon evil and to destroy life before death comes? You ask us, my love, if you chance to die when absent from us, to have your body brought to our burial ground so that you may reap a fuller harvest from the prayers we shall offer in constant memory of you. But how could you suppose that our memory of you could ever fade besides what time will there be then which will be fitting for prayer when extreme distress will allow us no peace when the soul will lose its power of reason and the tongue its use of speech or when the frantic mind far from being resigned may even, if I may so, rage against God himself and provoke him with complaints instead of placating him with prayers. In our misery then shall we have time only for tears and no power to pray. We shall be hurrying to follow you, not to bury you, so that we may share your grave instead of laying you in it. If we lose our life in you, we shall not be able to go on living when you leave us. I would not even have us live to see that day. For if the mere mention of your death is death for us, what will the reality be if it finds us still alive? God grant that we may never live on to perform this duty, to render you the service which we look for from you alone. In this may we go before, not after you. Let it be this way ever, dearest, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. From the Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Volume 1 of 2. Read for LibriVox.org by Caitlin Cooper. A.B.B. to R.B. Friday Morning. Postmark January 31st, 1846. Let it be this way ever, dearest, if in the time of fine weather I am not ill, then not now you shall decide, and your decisions shall be duty and desire to me both. I will make no difficulties. Remember in the meanwhile that I have decided to let it be as you shall choose, shall choose. That I love you enough to give you up for your good is proof, to myself at least, that I love you enough for any other end. But you thought too much of me in the last letter. Do not mistake me. I believe and trust in all your words. Only you are generous unawares as other men are selfish. More I meant to say of this, but you moved me as usual yesterday into the sunshine. And then I am dazzled and cannot see clearly. Still I see that you love me and that I am bound to you. And what more need I see, you may ask. Well, I cannot help looking out to the future, to the blue ridges of the kills, to the chances of you being happy with me. Well, I am yours as you see, and not yours to tease you. You shall decide everything when the time comes for doing anything. And from this to then I do not, dearest, expect you to use the liberty of leaping out of the window, unless you are sure of the house being on fire. Nobody shall push you out of the window, least of all I. For Italy, you are right. We should be nearer the sun, as you say, and further from the world, as I think, out of hearing of the great storm of gossiping when Soroko is loose. Even if you like to live altogether abroad, coming to England at intervals, it would be no sacrifice for me. And whether in Italy or England, we should have sufficient or more than sufficient means of living, without modifying by a line that good free life of yours, which you reasonably praise. Which, if it had been necessary to modify, we must have parted, because I could not have borne to see you do it. Though, that you once offered it for my sake, I never shall forget. Mr. Kenyon stayed half an hour, and asked after you went, if you had been here long, or approached him with what they had been doing at his club, the Anthium, and blackballing Douglas Gerald for one of something better to say, and he had not heard of it. There were more black than white balls, and Dickens was so enraged at the repulse of his friend, that he gave in his own resignation like a privy counselor. The really bad news is of poor Tennyson. I forgot to tell you. I forget everything. He is seriously ill with an internal complaint, and confined to his bed, as George heard from a common friend, which does not prevent his writing a new poem. He has finished the second book of it, and it is in blank verse on a fairy tale, and called the university. The university members being all females. If George has not diluted the scheme of it with some law from the inner temple, I don't know what to think. It makes me open my eyes. Now, isn't the world too old and fond of stealing for blank verse poems, and ever so many books to be written on the fairies? I hope they may cure him for the best deed they can do. He is not precisely in danger, understand? But the complaint may run into danger, so the account went. And you, how are you? Mind to tell me. May God bless you. Is Monday your Tuesday to be our day? If it were not for Mr. Kenyon, I should take courage and say Monday. But Tuesday and Saturday would do as well. Would they not? Your own BA. Shall I have a letter? End of letter. This recording is in the public domain. A letter to her husband, absent from public employment, by Anne Bradstreet, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. My head, my heart, my eyes, my life, nay more, my joy, my magazine of earthly store. If to be won, as surely thou and I, how staiest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie. So many steps, head from the heart to server. If but a neck, soon should we be together. I, like the earth this season, mourn in black. My son is gone so far in Zodiac, whom, whilst I joyed, nor storms, nor frost, I felt. His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt. My chilled limbs now numbed life forlorn. Return, return, sweet soul, from Capricorn. In this dead time, alas, what can I more than view, those fruits which through thy heart I bore. Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, true living pictures of their father's face. O strange effect, now thou art southward gone. I weary grow the tedious day so long. But when thou northward to me shalt return, I wish my son may never set, but burn within the cancer of my growing breast. The welcome house of him, my dearest guest, wherever, ever stay, and not go thence till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence. Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone, I hear, thou there, yet both but one. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. From the Love Letters of Victor Hugo. Monday, February 28th. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. I should be very sorry, my Adele, to give you back, as yesterday evening you seem to wish, that letter which, in spite of the cruel thoughts with which it inspired me, has grown dear to me, because it proves to me you love me. It is with joy I owned that all the fault was on my side. And it is with most sincere repentance that I implore you to forgive me. No, my Adele, it is not for me to punish you. To punish you? For what? Mine is but the right to defend and protect you. Let me always know all that happens to you. Tell me about all you do, and what you think of. And here I have a little thing with which to reproach you. I know that you love balls. You told me yourself, not long ago, that waltzing was for you a great temptation. Why then did you refuse the offer made you a few days since? Do not make a mistake. When for your sake I gave up balls and evening parties, it was merely to rid myself of the trouble of going to them. I was making no sacrifice. It is never a sacrifice to give up a thing which does not give you pleasure. Now I have no pleasure but in seeing you, in being near you. But in your case, since dancing amuses you, to give up a ball is a real sacrifice. I am very grateful for your intention of making it for me. But I do not feel willing to accept it. I am indeed excessively jealous. But it would be ungenerous if, for that reason, I deprived you of pleasures suited to your age, pleasures which no doubt I could myself enjoy, if you were not all in all to me. Go then, and amuse yourself. Go to the ball, and in the midst of it do not forget me. I dare say you may see other men more charming, more gallant, more brilliant than I. But I venture to say that you will not find one whose tender love for you would be so pure and so disinterested as mine. I will not worry you with my personal troubles. They are far from being irremediable. I forget them when I see you gay, serene, and happy. A do. Tell me everything, either by word of mouth or in writing. Courage, prudence, patience. Pray the good Lord to grant me these three things, the last two especially, for if you love me, I am safe to have the other. I hope you will not cry over this letter. As for me, I am joyous when I remember you are mine, and you are mine, are you not, Myadel? In spite of all future obstacles that may present themselves, I feel ready to cry with Charles the Seventh. What God has given me the devil himself shall not take from me. A do. A do. Forgive me, and let your husband fancy he is taking one of the ten kisses that you still owe him. Thy faithful Victor. End of A Love Letter by Victor Hugo This recording is in the public domain. From The Love Letters of Victor Hugo. Saturday Evening, January 1820. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake A few words from you, my beloved Adele, have again changed my state of mind. Yes, you can do anything with me. And tomorrow, where I even dead, the sweet tones of your voice, the tender pressure of your lips, would call me back to life again. How differently I shall feel as I go to sleep tonight, from what I did last evening. Yesterday, Adele, all confidence in the future had abandoned me. I no longer believed that you loved me. Yesterday, the hour of my death would have been welcomed to me. And yet I said to myself, If it is quite true she does not love me, and nothing in me has deserved her love, that love without which there is no charm left for me in life, is that any reason I should die? Is it for my own personal happiness that I exist? Oh no, my whole existence is devoted to her, shall be hers in spite of herself. And by what right have I to aspire to win her love? Am I more than an angel or a deity? I love her, it is true. I, even I, I am ready for her sake to sacrifice everything with joy, even the hope that she may love me. There is no limit to the devotion for her that I am capable of, for one of her looks, for one of her smiles. But could I do otherwise? Is she not the one supreme object in my life? If she shows me indifference, if she even hates me, it will be my misfortune. That is all. What matter can it be, since it does not impair her happiness? Oh yes, if she cannot love me, I must only blame myself. My duty is to wait upon her steps, to envelop her existence with my own, to be her defense against all perils, to offer her my head to set her foot on, even to place myself between her and every sorrow, without making any claim for myself, without expecting any reward. Too happy, if from time to time, she dames to bend upon her slave a look of pity, and oh, if only she remembers me, and turns to me in a moment of danger. Alas, would she but permit me to give my life that all her desires might be accomplished, all her caprices attained? Would she but permit me to kiss with devotion and respect, her very footsteps? Would she but consent to lean upon me sometimes in life's difficult places? Then I should have obtained the only happiness to which I have the presumption to aspire. Because I am ready to give everything up for her sake. Is that any reason she should owe me any gratitude? Is it her fault that I love her? Must she fancy herself constrained because of that? You love me? No. She may make what use she pleases of my devotion. She may pay me with hatred for my services. She may scorn my idolatry. She may treat me with contempt. But I shall have no right whatever to complain of such an angel. Nor to cease for a moment to lavish on her the care that she disdains. And when each one of my days shall have been marked by some sacrifice made for her sake, on the day of my death I shall not have paid all the infinite debt that my existence owes to her. Such were my thoughts at this time yesterday, Adele, my much beloved, and such were the resolutions of my soul. They are the same today. Only now I have the certainty of happiness, of a happiness so great that I cannot think of it without trembling and hardly believe it even now. Then it is true you love me, Adele. Tell me, may I put faith in that most ravishing idea? Does it not strike you that I might become mad with joy if I could pass my whole life at your feet? Sure of making you as happy as I should be myself. Sure of being adored by you, even as I adore you. Oh, your letter has given me back peace. Your words this evening filled me with happiness. Receive my thanks a thousand times, Adele, my beloved angel. I should like to kneel before you as I would before a divinity. How happy you have made me. Adieu, adieu. I shall have a happy night dreaming of you. Sleep, sweetly, and let your husband take the twelve dear kisses that you promised him, and many more for which you have not yet given him permission. End of A Love Letter by Victor Hugo. Only a few words today, written with a pencil, your own. My residence cannot be settled till tomorrow. What a tiresome loss of time. Why this deep grief when necessity compels? Can our love exist without sacrifices and by refraining from desiring all things? Can you alter the fact that you are not wholly mine, nor I wholly yours? Ah, contemplate the beauties of nature and reconcile your spirit to the inevitable. Love demands all and has a right to do so, and thus it is I feel towards you and you towards me. But you do not sufficiently remember that I must leave both for you and for myself. Were we wholly united, you would feel this sorrow as little as I should. My journey was terrible. I did not arrive here till four o'clock yesterday morning, as no horses were to be had. The drivers chose another route, but what a dreadful one it was. At the last stage I was warned not to travel through the night and to be aware of a certain wood, but this only incited me to go forward and I was wrong. The carriage broke down, owing to the execrable roads, mere deep rough country lanes, and had it not been for the postillions I must have been left by the wayside. Estorazy, traveling the usual road, had the same fate with eight horses whereas I had only four. Still I felt a certain degree of pleasure, which I invariably do when I have happily surmounted any difficulty. But I must now pass from the outer to the inner man. We shall, I trust, soon meet again. Today I cannot impart to you all the reflections I have made during the last few days on my life. Were our hearts closely united forever, none of these would occur to me. My heart is overflowing with all I have to say to you. There are moments when I find that speech is actually nothing. Take courage, continue to be ever my true and only love, my all, as I am yours. The gods must ordain what is further to be and shall be. You are faithful, Ludwig. Monday evening, July the 6th. You grieve, dearest of all beings. I have just heard that the letters must be sent off very early. Mondays and Thursdays are the only days when the post goes to cave from here. You grieve. Where I am, there you are ever with me. How earnestly shall I strive to pass my life with you, and what a life will it be. Whereas now, without you, and persecuted by the kindness of others, which I neither deserve nor try to deserve. The servility of man towards his fellow man pains me, and when I regard myself as a component part of the universe, what am I? What is he who is called the greatest? And yet, herein are displayed the godlike feelings of humanity. I weep in thinking that you will receive no intelligence from me till probably Saturday. However dearly you may love me, I love you more fondly still. Never conceal your feelings from me. Good night. As a patient at these baths, I must now go to rest. A few words are he effaced by Beethoven himself. Oh heavens, so near, and yet so far. Is not our love a truly celestial mention, but firm as the vault of heaven itself? July the 7th. Good morning. Even before I rise, my thoughts throng to you, my immortal beloved. Sometimes full of joy, and yet again sad, waiting to see whether fate will hear us. I must live either wholly with you, or not at all. Indeed, I have resolved to wander far from you, till the moment arrives when I can fly into your arms, and feel that they are my home, and send forth my soul in unison with yours into the realm of spirits. Alas, it must be so. You will take courage, for you know my fidelity. Never can another possess my heart. Never, never. Oh heavens, why must I fly from her eyes so fondly love? And yet my existence in W was as miserable as here. Your love made me the most happy, and yet the most unhappy of men. At my age, life requires a uniform equality. Can this be found in our mutual relations? My angel, I have this moment heard that the post goes every day, so I must conclude that you may get this letter the sooner. Be calm, for we can only attain our object of living together by the calm contemplation of our existence. Continue to love me. Yesterday, today, what longings for you, what tears for you, for you, for you, my life, my all. Farewell. Oh, love me forever, and never doubt the faithful heart of your lover, El. Ever thine, ever mine, ever each other's. End of letters. This recording is in the public domain.