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On board the Victory, May 30th, 1777.

I am writing to you from a great distance, my dearest love, and, in addition to this painful circumstance, I feel also the still more dreadful uncertainty of the time in which I may receive any news of you. I hope, however, soon to have a letter from you; and, amongst the various reasons which render me so desirous of a speedy arrival, this is the one which excites in me the greatest degree of impatience. How many fears and anxieties enhance the keen anguish I feel at being separated from all that I love most fondly in the world! How have you borne my second departure? have you loved me less? have you pardoned me? have you reflected that, at all events, I must equally have been parted from you,—wandering about in Italy,~{1} dragging on an inglorious life, surrounded by the persons most opposed to my projects, and to my manner of thinking? All these reflections did not prevent my experiencing the most bitter grief when the moment arrived for quitting my native shore. Your sorrow, that of my friends, Henrietta,~{2} all rushed upon my thoughts, and my heart was torn by a thousand painful feelings. I could not at that instant find any excuse for my own conduct. If you could know all that I have suffered, and the melancholy days that I have passed, whilst thus flying from all that I love best in the World! Must I join to this affliction the grief of hearing that you do not pardon me? I should, in truth, my love, be too unhappy. But I am not speaking to you of myself and of my health, and I well know that these details will deeply interest you.

Since writing my last letter, I have been confined to the most dreary of all regions: the sea is so melancholy, that we mutually, I believe, sadden each other. I ought to have landed by this time, but the winds have been most provokingly contrary; I shall not arrive at Charlestown for eight or ten days. It will be a great pleasure to me to land, as I am expecting to do, in that city. When I am once on shore, I shall hope each day to receive news from France; I shall learn so many interesting, things, both concerning the new country I am seeking, and, above all, that home which I have quitted with so much regret! Provided I only learn that you are in good health, that you still love me, and that a certain number of my friends entertain the same feelings towards me, I can become a perfect philosopher with respect to all the rest,—whatever it may be, or whatever land it may concern. But if my heart be attacked in its most vulnerable part, if you were to love me less, I should feel, in truth, too miserable. But I need not fear this—need I, my dearest love? I was very ill during the first part of my voyage, and I might have enjoyed the pleasure of an ill-natured person, that of knowing that I had many fellow sufferers. I treated myself according to my own judgment, and recovered sooner than the other passengers; I am now nearly the same as if I were on shore. I am certain that, on my arrival, I shall be in a perfect state of health, and continue so for a long time. Do not fancy that I shall incur any real dangers by the occupations I am undertaking. The post of general officer has always been considered like a commission for immortality. The service will be very different from the one I must have performed if I had been, for example, a colonel in the French army. My attendance will only be required in the council. Ask the opinion of all general officers,—and these are very numerous, because, having once attained that height, they are no longer exposed to any hazards, and do not therefore yield their places to inferior officers, as is the case in other situations. To prove that I do not wish to deceive you, I will acknowledge that we are at this moment exposed to some danger, from the risk of being attacked by English vessels, and that my ship is not of sufficient force for defence. But when I have once landed, I shall be in perfect safety. You see that I tell you everything, my dearest love; confide therefore in me, and do not, I conjure you, give way to idle fears. I will not write you a journal of my voyage: days succeed each other, and, what is worse, resemble each other. Always sky, always water, and the next day a repetition of the same thing. In truth, those who write volumes upon a sea voyage must be incessant babblers; for my part, I have had contrary winds, as well as other people; I have made a long voyage, like other people; I have encountered storms; I have seen vessels, and they were far more interesting for me than for any other person: well! I have not observed one single event worth the trouble of relating, or that has not been described by many other persons.

Let us speak of more important things: of yourself, of dear Henriette, and of her brother or sister. Henriette is so delightful, that she has made me in love with little girls. To whichever sex our new infant may belong, I shall receive it with unbounded joy. Lose not a moment in hastening my happiness by apprising me of its birth. I know not if it be because I am twice a father, but my parental feelings are stronger than they ever were. Mr. Deane, and my friend Carmichael, will forward your letters, and will, I am sure, neglect nothing to promote my happiness as soon as possible. Write, and even send me a confidential person, it would give me such pleasure to question any one who has seen you: Landrin, for example; in short, whom you please. You do not know the warmth and extent of my affection, if you fancy that you may neglect anything relating to yourself. You will be, at first, a long time without hearing from me; but when I am once established you will receive letters constantly, and of a very recent date. There is no great difference of time between letters from America and letters from Sicily. I own that Sicily weighs heavily on my heart. I fancied myself near seeing you again! But let me break off at the word Sicily. Adieu, my dearest love; I shall write to you from Charlestown, and write to you also before I arrive there. Good night, for the present.

7th June.

I am still floating on this dreary plain, the most wearisome of all human habitations. To console myself a little, I think of you and of my friends: I think of the pleasure of seeing you again. How delightful will be the moment of my arrival! I shall hasten to surprise and embrace you. I shall perhaps find you with your children. To think, only, of that happy moment, is an inexpressible pleasure to me; do not fancy that it is distant; although the time of my absence will appear, I own, very long to me, yet we shall meet sooner than you can expect. Without being able myself to fix the day or the month of our reunion, without being aware even of the cause of our absence, the exile prescribed by the Duke d'Ayen, until the month of January, appeared to me so immeasurably long, that I certainly shall not inflict upon myself one of equal length. You must acknowledge, my love, that the occupation and situation I shall have are very different from those that were intended for me during that useless journey. Whilst defending the liberty I adore, I shall enjoy perfect freedom myself: I but offer my service to that interesting republic from motives of the purest kind, unmixed with ambition or private views; her happiness and my glory are my only incentives to the task. I hope that, for my sake, you will become a good American, for that feeling is worthy of every noble heart. The happiness of America is intimately connected with the happiness of all mankind; she will become the safe and respected asylum of virtue, integrity, toleration, equality, and tranquil happiness.

We have occasionally some slight alarms, but, with a little skill and good luck, I am certain of reaching the port in safety. I am more pleased with this prospect, because I feel that I am becoming, every day, extremely reasonable. You know that the viscount~{3} has the habit of repeating, that "travelling forms young men;" if he said this but once every morning and once every evening, in truth it would not be too much, for I am constantly more strongly impressed with the justice of the observation. I know not where the poor viscount is at this present moment, nor the prince,~{4} nor all my other friends. This state of uncertainty is a very painful one. Whenever you chance to meet any one whom I love, tell him a thousand and ten thousand things from me. Embrace tenderly my three sisters, and tell them that they must remember me, and love me; present my compliments to Mademoiselle Marin;~{5} I recommend, also, poor Abbé Fayon to your care. As to the Marshal de Noailles, tell him that I do not write to him, for fear of tiring him, and because I should have nothing to announce to him but my arrival; that I am expecting his commissions for trees or plants, or whatever else he may desire, and that I should wish my exactness in fulfilling his wishes to be a proof of my affection for him. Present, also, my respects to the Duchess de la Trémoïlle,~{6} and tell her that I make the same offer to her as to the Marshal de Noailles, either for herself or her daughter-in-law, who has such a beautiful garden. Tell my old friend Desplaus,~{7} also, that I am well. As to my aunts, Madame d'Ayen and the viscountess, I am myself writing to them.

These are my little commissions, my love; I have also written to Sicily. We have seen, to-day, several kinds of birds, which announce that we are not far from shore. The hope of arriving is very sweet, for a ship life is a most wearisome one. My health, fortunately, allows me to occupy myself a little; I divide my time between military books and English books. I have made some progress in this language, which will become very necessary to me. Adieu; night obliges me to discontinue my letter, as I forbade some days ago, any candles being used in my vessel: see how prudent I have become! Once more, adieu; if my fingers be at all guided by my heart, it is not necessary to see clearly to tell you that I love you, and that I shall love you all my life.

15th June—At Major Hughes's.~{8}

I have arrived, my dearest love, in perfect health, at the house of an American officer; and, by the most fortunate chance in the world, a French vessel is on the point of sailing; conceive how happy I am. I am going this evening to Charlestown, from whence I will write to you. There is no important news. The campaign is opened, but there is no fighting, or at least, very little. The manners in this part of the world are simple, polite, and worthy in every respect of the country in which the noble name of liberty is constantly repeated. I intended writing to Madame d'Ayen, but I find it is impossible. Adieu, adieu, my love. From Charlestown I shall repair, by land, to Philadelphia, to rejoin the army. Is it not true that you will always love me?

Endnotes:

1. At the moment when M. de Lafayette's project of departure was taking place, he had been desired to join the Duke d'Ayen, and Madame de Tessé, his sister, who were setting out for Italy and Sicily.

2. The first-born of M. de Lafayette, which died during his voyage. (See letter 16th June, 1778.)

3. The Viscount de Noailles, brother-in-law to M. de Lafayette.

4. The Prince de Poix, son of the Marshal de Mouchy, and consequently uncle, according to the mode of Bretagne, to Madame de Lafayette.

5. Mademoiselle Marin was governess to Mesdemoiselles de Noailles; and the Abbé Fayon was tutor to M. de Lafayette.

6. Madame de Lafayette, author of the Princess de Clever, had only one daughter, who became Madame de la Tremoille, and heiress to the property of the Lafayette family; and who cheerfully consented to restore to her cousins, who inhabited the province, those estates which a love of their family might make them wish to conserve to the heritors of the name of Lafayette. Since that period, the members of that branch, of which M. de Lafayette was the last scion, have constantly kept up feelings, not only of relationship, but of friendship, with the family of la Tremoille.

7. An old valet de chambre.

8. The father of him who so generously devoted himself to save Lafayette from the prisons of Olmutz—(Note of M. de Lafayette.)