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Title: Eloisa
or, A series of original letters
Author: Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Translator: W. Kenrick
Release date: August 6, 2025 [eBook #76639]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Griffiths, Becket, and DeHondt, 1761
Credits: Veronica Litt and Subyeta Haque from scans generously made available by Gale Cengage.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELOISA ***
Eloisa:
Or, a Series of Original Letters
Collected and published by J.J. Rousseau
Translated from the French.
In Four Volumes.
The Second Edition.
London: Printed for R. Griffiths, at the Dunciad, and T. Becket
and P.A. DeHondt at Tully's Head, in the Strand.
MDCCLXI.
Translation of M. Rousseau’s Preface
Great cities require public theatres, and romances are necessary to a
corrupt people. I saw the manners of the times, and have published
these letters. Would to heaven I had lived in an age when I ought
rather to have thrown them in the fire!
Though I appear only as the editor of this work, I confess that I have
had some share in the composition. But am I the sole author, and is
the entire correspondence fictitious? Ye people of the world, of what
importance is it to you? Certainly, to you, it is all a fiction.
Every honest man will avow the books which he publishes. I have
prefixed my name to these letters, not with a design to appropriate
them to myself, but that I might be answerable for them. If they
deserve censure, let it fall on me; if they have any merit, I am not
ambitious of the praise. If it is a bad book, I am the more obliged to
own it: I do not wish to pass for better than I am.
As to the reality of the history, I declare that, though I have been
several times in the country of the two lovers, I never heard either
of Baron D’Etange, his daughter, Mr. Orbe, Lord B----, or Mr. Wolmar.
I must also inform the reader that there are several topographical
errors in this work; but whether they are the effect of ignorance or
design, I leave undetermined. This is all I am at liberty to say: let
every one think as he pleases.
The book seems not calculated for an extensive circulation, as it is
not adapted to the generality of readers. The stile will offend people
of taste, to austere men the matter will be alarming, and all the
sentiments will seem unnatural to those who know not what is meant by
the word virtue. It ought to displease the devotee, the libertine, the
philosopher; to shock all the ladies of gallantry, and to scandalize
every modest woman. By whom, therefore, will it be approved? Perhaps
only by myself: certain I am, however, that it will not meet with
_moderate_ approbation from any one.
Whoever may resolve to read these letters ought to arm himself with
patience against faults of language, rusticity of stile, and pedantry
of expression; he ought to remember that the writers are neither
natives of France, wits, academicians, nor philosophers; but that they
are young and unexperienced inhabitants of a remote village, who
mistake the romantic extravagance of their own imagination, for
philosophy.
Why should I fear to speak my thoughts? This collection of letters,
with all their gothic air, will better suit a married lady than books
of philosophy: it may even be of service to those who, in an irregular
course of life, have yet preserved some affection for virtue. As to
young ladies, they are out of the question; no chaste virgin ever read
a romance: but if perchance any young girl should dare to read a
single page of this, she is inevitably lost. Yet let her not accuse me
as the cause of her perdition: the mischief was done before; and since
she has begun, let her proceed, for she has nothing worse to fear.
May the austere reader be disgusted in the first volume, revile the
Editor, and throw the book into the fire. I shall not complain of
injustice; for probably, in his place, I might have acted in the same
manner. But if after having read to the end, any one should think fit
to blame me for having published the book, let him, if he pleases,
declare his opinion to all the world, except to me; for I perceive it
would never be in my power to esteem such a man.
Preface by the Translator
It is by no means my design to swell the volume, or detain the
reader from the pleasure he may reasonably expect in the perusal of
this work: I say _reasonably_, because the author is a writer of great
reputation. My sole intention is to give a concise account of my
conduct in the execution of this arduous task; and to anticipate such
accusations as may naturally be expected from some readers: I mean
those who are but imperfectly acquainted with the French language, or
who happen to entertain improper ideas of translation in general.
If I had chosen to preserve the original title, it would have stood
thus: _Julia, or the New Eloisa_, in the general title-page; and in
the particular one, _Letters of two Lovers, inhabitants of a small
village at the foot of the Alps, collected and published,_ &c.
Whatever objection I might have to this title, upon the whole, my
principal reason for preferring the name of Eloisa to that of Julia,
was, because the public seemed unanimous in distinguishing the work by
the former rather than the latter, and I was the more easily
determined, as it was a matter of no importance to the reader.
The English nobleman who acts a considerable part in this romance, is
called in the original, Lord Bomston, which I suppose Mr. Rousseau
thought to be an English name, or at least very like one. It may
possibly sound well enough in the ears of a Frenchman; but I believe
the English reader will not be offended with me for having substituted
that of Lord B---- in its room. It is amazing that the French
novelists should be as ignorant of our common names, and the titles of
our nobility, as they are of our manners. They seldom mention our
country, or attempt to introduce an English character, without
exposing themselves to our ridicule. I have seen one of their
celebrated romances, in which a British nobleman, called the Duke of
_Workinsheton_, is a principal personage; and another, in which the
one identical lover of the heroine is sometimes a Duke, sometimes an
Earl, and sometimes a simple Baronet; _Catombridge_ is, with them, an
English city: and yet they endeavour to impose upon their readers by
pretending that their novels are translations from the English.
With regard to this _Chef d’oeuvre_ of Mr. Rousseau, it was received
with uncommon avidity in France, Italy, Germany, Holland, and, in
short, through every part of the Continent where the French language
is understood. In England, besides a very considerable number first
imported, it has been already twice reprinted; but how much soever the
world might be delighted with the original, I found it to be the
general opinion of my countrymen, that it was one of those books which
could not possibly be translated with any tolerable degree of justice
to the author: and this general opinion, I own, was my chief motive
for undertaking the work.
There are, in this great city, a considerable number of industrious
labourers, who maintain themselves, and perhaps a numerous family, by
writing for the booksellers, by whom they are ranged in separate
classes, according to their different abilities; and the very lowest
class of all, is that of _Translators_. Now it cannot be supposed that
such poor wretches as are deemed incapable of better employment, can
be perfectly acquainted either with their own or with any other
language: besides, were they ever so well qualified, it becomes their
duty to execute as much work, in as little time, as possible; for, at
all events, their children must have bread: therefore it were
unreasonable to expect that they should spend their precious moments
in poring over a difficult sentence in order to render their version
the more elegant. This I take to be the true reason why our
translations from the French are, in general, so extremely bad.
I confess, the idioms of the two languages are very different, and
therefore that it will, in some instances, be impossible to reach the
sublime delicacy of expression in an elegant French writer; but in
return, their language is frequently so vague and diffuse, that it
must be entirely the fault of the English translator if he does not
often improve upon his original; but this will never be the case,
unless we sit down with a design to translate the _ideas_ rather than
the _words_ of our author.
Most of the translations which I have read, appear like a thin gauze
spread over the original: the French language appears through every
paragraph; but it is entirely owing to the want of bread, the want of
attention, or want of ability in the translator. Mr. Pope, and some
few others, have shewn the world, that not only the ideas of the most
sublime writers may be accurately expressed in a translation, but that
it is possible to improve and adorn them with beauties peculiar to the
English language.
If in the following pages, the reader expects to find a servile,
literal, translation, he will be mistaken. I never could, and never
will, copy the failings of my author, be his reputation ever so great,
in those instances where they evidently proceed from want of
attention. Mr. Rousseau writes with great ease and elegance, but he
sometimes wants propriety of thought, and accuracy of expression.
As to the real merit of this performance, the universal approbation it
has met with is a stronger recommendation than any thing I could say
in its praise.
A Dialogue Between a Man of Letters and Mr. J. J. Rousseau
N. There, take your Manuscript: I have read it quite through.
R. _Quite through?_ I understand you: you think there are not many
readers will follow your example.
N. _Vel duo, vel nemo._
R. _Turpe & miserabile._ But let me have your sincere opinion.
N. I dare not.
R. You have dared to the utmost by that single word: Pray explain
yourself.
N. My opinion depends upon your answer to this question: is it a real,
or fictitious, correspondence?
R. I cannot perceive the consequence. In order to give one’s
sentiments of a book, of what importance can it be to know how it was
written?
N. In this case it is of great importance. A portrait has its merit if
it resembles the original, be that original ever so strange; but in a
picture which is the produce of imagination, every human figure should
resemble human nature, or the picture is of no value: yet supposing
them both good in their kind, there is this difference, the portrait
is interesting but to a few people, whilst the picture will please the
public in general.
R. I conceive your meaning. If these letters are portraits, they are
uninteresting; if they are pictures, they are ill done. Is it not so?
N. Precisely.
R. Thus I shall snatch your answers before you speak. But, as I
cannot reply, directly to your question, I must beg leave to propose
one in my turn. Suppose the worst: my Eloisa----
N. Oh! if she had really existed.
R. Well.
N. But certainly it is no more than a fiction.
R. Be it so.
N. Why then, there never was any thing more absurd: the letters are no
letters, the romance is no romance, and the personages are people of
another world.
R. I am sorry for it, for the sake of this.
N. Console yourself; there is no want of fools among us; but yours
have no existence in nature.
R. I could----No, I perceive the drift of your curiosity. But why do
you judge so precipitately? Can you be ignorant how widely human
nature differs from itself? how opposite its characteristics? how
prejudice and manners vary according to times, places, and age. Who is
it that can prescribe bounds to nature and say, Thus far shalt thou
go, and no farther?
N. If such reasoning were allowed, monsters, giants, pygmies and
chimeras of all kinds might be specifically admitted into nature:
every object would be disfigured, and we should have no common model
of ourselves. I repeat it, in a picture of human nature, every figure
should resemble man.
R. I confess it; but then we should distinguish between the variety in
human nature and that which is essential to it. What would you say of
one who should only be able to know mankind in the picture of a
Frenchman?
N. What would you say of one who, without expressing features or
shape, should paint a human figure covered with a veil? Should we not
have reason to ask, where is the man?
R. Without expressing features or shape? Is this just? There is no
perfection in human nature: that is indeed chimerical. A young virgin
in love with virtue, yet swerving from its dictates, but reclaimed by
the horror of a greater crime; a too easy friend punished at last by
her own heart for her culpable indulgence; a young man, honest and
sensible, but weak, yet in words a philosopher; an old gentleman
bigotted to his nobility, and sacrificing every thing to opinion; a
generous and brave Englishman, passionately wise, and, without reason,
always reasoning.
N. A husband, hospitable and gay, eager to introduce into his family
his wife’s quondam paramour.
R. I refer you to the inscription of the plate. [1]
N. _Les belles ames_----Vastly fine!
R. O philosophy! What pains thou takest to contract the heart and
lessen human nature!
N. It is fallaciously elevated by a romantic imagination. But to the
point. The two friends----What do you say of them?----and that sudden
conversion at the altar?----divine grace, no doubt.----
R. But Sir.
N. A pious Christian, not instructing her children in their catechism;
who dies without praying; whose death nevertheless edifies the parson,
and converts an Atheist----Oh!
R. Sir----
N. As to the reader being interested, his concern is universal, and
therefore next to none. Not one bad action; not one wicked man to make
us fear for the good. Events so natural, and so simple, that they
scarce deserve the name of events; no surprize; no dramatic artifice;
every thing happens just as it was expected. Is it worth while to
register such actions as every man may see any day of his life in his
own house or in that of his neighbour?
R. So that you would have common men, and _un_common events? Now I
should rather desire the contrary. You took it for a romance: it is
not a romance: but, as you said before, a collection of letters.
N. Which are no letters at all: this, I think, I said also. What an
epistolary stile! how full of bombast! What exclamations! What
preparation! How emphatical to express common ideas! What big words
and weak reasoning! Frequently neither sense, accuracy, art, energy,
nor depth. Sublime language and groveling thoughts. If your personages
are in nature, confess, at least, that their stile is unnatural.
R. I own that in the light in which you are pleased to view them, it
must appear so.
N. Do you suppose the public will not judge in the same manner; and
did you not ask my opinion?
R. I did, and I answer you with a design to have it more explicitly:
now it appears that you would be better pleased with letters written
on purpose to be printed.
N. Perhaps I might; at least I am of opinion that nothing should be
printed which is not fit for the press.
R. So that in books we should behold mankind only as they chuse to
appear.
N. Most certainly, as to the author; those whom he represents, such as
they are. But in these letters this is not the case. Not one strong
delineation; not a single personage strikingly characterized; no solid
observations; no knowledge of the world. What can be learnt in the
little sphere of two or three lovers or friends constantly employed in
matters only relative to themselves?
R. We may learn to love human nature, whilst in extensive society we
learn to hate mankind. Your judgment is severe; that of the public
ought to be still more so. Without complaining of injustice, I will
tell you, in my turn, in what light these letters appear to me; not so
much to excuse their defects, as to discover their source.
The perceptions of persons in retirement are very different from those
of people in the great world; their passions being differently
modified, are differently exprest; their imaginations constantly
imprest by the same objects, are more violently affected. The same
small number of images constantly return, mix with every idea, and
create those strange and false notions so remarkable in people who
spend their lives in solitude; but does it follow that their language
is energic? No; ’tis only extraordinary: it is in our conversation
with the world that we learn to speak with energy; first, because we
must speak differently and better than others, and then, being every
moment obliged to affirm what may not be believed, and to express
sentiments which we do not feel, we endeavour at a persuasive manner
which supplies the place of interior persuasion. Do you believe that
people of real sensibility express themselves with that vivacity,
energy, and ardor which you so much admire in our drama and romances?
No; true passion, full of itself, is rather diffusive than emphatical;
it does not even think of persuasion, as it never supposes that its
existence can be doubtful. In expressing its feelings it speaks rather
for the sake of its own ease, than to inform others. Love is painted
with more vivacity in large cities, but is it in the village
therefore less violent?
N. So that the weakness of the expression is a proof of the strength
of their passion.
R. Sometimes, at least, it is an indication of its reality. Read but a
love letter written by an author who endeavours to shine as a man of
wit; if he has any warmth in his brain, his words will set fire to
the paper; but the flame will spread no farther: you may be charmed,
and perhaps a little moved, but it will be a fleeting agitation which
will leave nothing except the remembrance of words. On the contrary, a
letter really dictated by love, written by a lover influenced by a
real passion, will be tame, diffuse, prolix, unconnected, and full of
repetitions: his heart overflowing with the same sentiment, constantly
returns to the same expressions, and like a natural fountain flows
continually without being exhausted. Nothing brilliant, nothing
remarkable; one remembers neither words nor phrases; there is nothing
to be admired, nothing striking: yet we are moved without knowing why.
Though we are not struck with strength of sentiment, we are touched
with its truth, and our hearts, in spite of us, sympathize with the
writer. But men of no sensibility, who know nothing more than the
flowery jargon of the passions, are ignorant of those beauties and
despise them.
N. I am all attention.
R. Very well. I say, that in real love letters, the thoughts are
common, yet the stile is not familiar. Love is nothing more than an
illusion; it creates for itself another universe; it is surrounded
with objects which have no existence but in imagination, and its
language is always figurative; but its figures are neither just nor
regular: its eloquence consists in its disorder, and when it reasons
least it is most convincing. Enthusiasm is the last degree of this
passion. When it is arrived at its greatest height, its object appears
in a state of perfection; it then becomes its idol; it is placed in
the heavens; and as the enthusiasm of devotion borrows the language of
love, the enthusiasm of love also borrows the language of devotion.
Its ideas present nothing but Paradise, angels, the virtue of saints,
and the delights of heaven. In such transport, surrounded by such
images, is it not natural to expect sublime language? Can it possibly
debase its ideas by vulgar expressions? Will it not on the contrary
raise its stile, and speak with adequate dignity? What then becomes of
your _epistolary stile?_ it would do mighty well, to be sure, in
writing to the object of one’s adoration: in that case they are not
letters, but hymns.
N. We shall see what the world will say.
R. No: rather see the winter on my head. There is an age for
experience, and another for recollection. Our sensibility may be
extinguished by time; but the soul which was once capable of that
sensibility remains. But to return to our letters: if you read them as
the work of an author who endeavours to please, or piques himself on
his writing, they are certainly detestable. But take them for what
they are, and judge of them in their kind. Two or three young people,
simple, if you will, but sensible, who mutually expressing the real
sentiments of their hearts, have no intention to display their wit.
They know and love each other too well for self-admiration to have any
influence among them. They are children, and therefore think like
children. They are not natives of France, how then can they be
supposed to write correctly? They lived in solitude, and therefore
could know but little of the world. Entirely filled with one single
sentiment, they are in a constant delirium, and yet presume to
philosophise. Would you have them know how to observe, to judge, and
to reflect? No: of these they are ignorant; but they are versed in the
art of love, and all their words and actions are connected with that
passion. Their ideas are extravagant, but is not the importance which
they give to these romantic notions more amusing than all the wit they
could have displayed. They speak of every thing; they are constantly
mistaken; they teach us nothing, except the knowledge of themselves;
but in making themselves known, they obtain our affection. Their
errors are more engaging than the wisdom of the wise. Their honest
hearts, even in their transgressions, bear still the prejudice of
virtue, always confident and always betrayed. Nothing answers their
expectations; every event serves to undeceive them. They are deaf to
the voice of discouraging truth: they find nothing correspond with
their own feelings, and therefore, detaching themselves from the rest
of the universe, they create, in their separate society, a little
world of their own, which presents an entire new scene.
N. I confess, that a young fellow of twenty, and girls of eighteen,
though not; uninstructed, ought not to talk like philosophers, even
though they may suppose themselves such. I own also, for this
distinction has not escaped me, that these girls became wives of
merit, and the young man a better observer. I make no comparison
between the beginning and the end of the work. The detail of domestic
occurrences may efface, in some measure, the faults of their younger
years: the chaste and sensible wife, the worthy matron, may obliterate
the remembrance of former weakness. But even this is a subject for
criticism: the conclusion of the work renders the beginning
reprehensible: one would imagine them to be two different books, which
ought not to be read by the same people. If you intended to exhibit
rational personages, why would you expose them before they were become
so? Our attention to the lessons of wisdom is destroyed by the child’s
play by which they are preceded: we are scandalized at the bad, before
the good can edify us. In short, the reader is offended and throws the
book aside in the very moment when it might become serviceable.
R. On the contrary, I am of opinion, that to those who are disgusted
with the beginning, the end would be entirely superstitious: and that
the beginning will be agreeable to those readers to whom the
conclusion can be useful. So that, those who do not read to the end
will have left nothing, because it was an improper book for them; and
those to whom it may be of service would never have read it, if it had
begun with more gravity. Our lessons can never be useful unless they
are so written as to catch the attention of those for whose benefit
they were calculated.
I may have changed the means, and not the object. When I endeavoured
to speak to _men_, I was not heard; perhaps in speaking to children I
shall gain more attention; and children would have no more relish for
naked reason, than for medicines ill disguised.
_Cosi all’ egro fanciul porgiamo aspersi
Di soave licor gl’orli del vaso;
Succhi amari ingannato in tanto ei beve,
E da l’ inganno suo vita riceve._
N. Here again I am afraid you are deceived: they will sip on the edge
of the vessel, but will not drink the liquor.
R. Be it so; it will not be my fault: I shall have done all in my
power to make it palatable. My young folks are amiable; but to love
them at thirty it is necessary to have known them when they were ten
years younger: One must have lived with them a long time to be pleased
with their company; and to taste their virtues, it is necessary we
should first have deplored their failings. Their letters are not
interesting at first; but we grow attached by degrees, and can neither
continue nor quit them. They are neither elegant, easy, rational,
sensible, nor eloquent; but there is sensibility which gradually
communicates itself to our hearts, and which at last is found to
supply the place of all the rest. It is a long romance, of which no
one part has power to move us, and yet the whole produces a proper
effect. At least, such were its effects upon me: pray were not you
touched in reading it?
N. No; yet I can easily conceive your being affected: if you are the
author, nothing can be more natural; and if not, I can still account
for it. A man of the world can have no taste for the extravagant
ideas, the affected pathos, and false reasoning of your good folks;
but they will suit a recluse, for the reason which you have given:
now, before you determine to publish the manuscript, you would do well
to remember that the world is not composed of hermits. All you can
expect is that your young gentleman will be taken for a Celadon, your
Lord B---- for a Don Quixote, your young damsels for two Astreas, and
that the world will laugh at them for a company of fools. But a
continued folly cannot be entertaining. A man should write like
Cervantes before he can expect to engage his reader to accompany him
through six volumes of nonsense.
R. The very reason which would make you suppress this work, will
induce me to print it.
N. What! the certainty of its not being read?
R. A little patience, and you will understand me. As to morals, I
believe that all kinds of reading are useless to people of the world:
first, because the number of new books which they run through, so
generally contradict each other, that their effect is reciprocally
destroyed. The few choice books which deserve a second perusal, are
equally ineffectual: for, if they are written in support of received
opinions, they are superfluous; and if in opposition, they are of no
use; they are too weak to break the chain which attaches the reader to
the vices of society. A man of the world may possibly, for a moment,
be led from his wonted path by the dictates of morality; but he will
find so many obstacles in the way, that he will speedily return to his
former course. I am persuaded there are few people, who have had a
tolerable education, that have not made this essay, at least once in
their lives; but, finding their efforts vain, they are discouraged
from any future attempt, and consider the morality of books as the
jargon of idleness. The farther we retreat from business, great
cities, and numerous societies, the more the obstacles to morality
diminish. There is a certain point of distance where these obstacles
cease to be insurmountable and there it is that books may be of use.
When we live in solitude, as we do not then read with a design to
display our reading, we are less anxious to change our books, and
bestow on them more reflection; and as their principles find less
opposition from without, their internal impression is more effectual.
In retirement, the want of occupation, obliges those who have no
resource in themselves, to have recourse to books of amusement.
Romances are more read in the provincial towns than at Paris, in towns
less than in the country, and there they make the deepest impression:
the reason is plain.
Now it happens unfortunately that the books which might amuse,
instruct, and console the people in retirement, who are unhappy only
in their own imagination, are generally calculated to make them still
more dissatisfied with their situation. People of rank and fashion are
the sole personages of all our romances. The refined taste of great
cities, court maxims, the splendour of luxury, and epicurean morality;
these are their precepts, these their lesson of instruction. The
colouring of their false virtues tarnishes their real ones. Polite
manners are substituted for real duties, fine sentiments for good
actions, and virtuous simplicity is deemed want of breeding.
What effect must such representations produce in the mind of a country
gentleman, in which his freedom and hospitality is turned into
ridicule, and the joy which he spreads through his neighbourhood is
pronounced to be a low and contemptible amusement? What influence must
they not have upon his wife, when she is taught, that the care of her
family is beneath a lady of her rank; and on his daughter,
who being instructed in the jargon and affectation of the city,
disdains for his clownish behaviour, the honest neighbour whom she
would otherwise have married. With one consent, ashamed of their
rusticity, and disgusted with their village, they leave their ancient
mansion, which soon becomes a ruin, to reside in the metropolis; where
the father, with his cross of St. Lewis, from a gentleman becomes a
sharper; the mother keeps a gaming house; the daughter amuses herself
with a circle of gamesters: and frequently all three, after having led
a life of infamy, die in misery and dishonour.
Authors, men of letters, and philosophers are constantly insinuating,
that in order to fulfil the duties of society, and to serve our fellow
creatures, it is necessary that we should live in great cities:
according to them, to fly from Paris, is to hate mankind; people in
the country are nobody in their eyes; to hear them talk, one would
imagine that where there are no pensions, academies, nor open tables,
there is no existence.
All our productions verge to the same goal. Tales, romances, comedies,
all are levelled at the country; all conspire to ridicule rustic
simplicity; they all display and extol the pleasures of the great
world; it is a shame not to know them; and not to enjoy them, a
misfortune. How many of those sharpers and prostitutes, with which
Paris is so amply provided, were first seduced by the expectations of
these imaginary pleasures? Thus prejudice and opinion contribute to
effect the political system by attracting the inhabitants of each
country to a single point of territory, leaving all the rest a desert:
thus nations are depopulated, that their capitals may flourish; and
this frivolous splendor with which fools are captivated, makes Europe
verge with celerity towards its ruin. The happiness of mankind
requires that we should endeavour to stop this torrent of pernicious
maxims. The employment of the clergy is to tell us that we must be
good and wise, without concerning themselves about the success of
their discourses; but a good citizen, who is really anxious to promote
virtue, should not only tell us to be good, but endeavour to make the
path agreeable which will lead us to happiness.
N. Pray, my good friend, take breath for a moment. I am no enemy to
useful designs; and I have been so attentive to your reasoning, that I
believe it will be in my power to continue your argument. You are
clearly of opinion, that to give to works of imagination the only
utility of which they are capable, they must have an effect
diametrically opposite to that which their authors generally propose;
they must combat every human institution, reduce all things to a state
of nature, make mankind in love with a life of peace and simplicity,
destroy their prejudices and opinions, inspire them with a taste for
true pleasure, keep them distant from each other, and instead of
exciting people to crowd into large cities, persuade them to spread
themselves all over the kingdom, that every part may be equally
enlivened. I also comprehend, that it is not your intention to create
a world of Arcadian shepherds, of illustrious peasants labouring on
their own acres and philosophising on the works of nature, nor any
other romantic beings which exist only in books; but to convince
mankind that in rural life there are many pleasures which they know
not how to enjoy; that these pleasures are neither so insipid nor so
gross as they imagine; that they are susceptible of taste and
delicacy; that a sensible man, who should retire with his family into
the country, and become his own farmer, might enjoy more rational
felicity, than in the midst of the amusements of a great city; that a
good housewife may be a most agreeable woman, that she may be as
graceful and as charming as any town coquet of them all; in short,
that the most tender sentiments of the heart will more effectually
animate society, than the artificial language of polite circles, where
the ill-natured laugh of satyr is the pitiful substitute of that real
mirth which no longer exists. Have I not hit the mark?
R. ’Tis the very thing; to which I will add but one reflection. We are
told that romances disturb the brain: I believe it true. In
continually displaying to the reader the ideal charms of a situation
very different from his own, he becomes dissatisfied, and makes an
imaginary exchange for that which he is taught to admire. Desiring to
be that which he is not, he soon believes himself actually
metamorphosed, and so becomes a fool. If, on the contrary, romances
were only to exhibit the pictures of real objects, of virtues and
pleasures within our reach, they would then make us wiser and better.
Books which are designed to be read in solitude, should be written in
the language of retirement: if they are meant to instruct, they should
make us in love with our situation; they should combat and destroy the
maxims of the great world, by shewing them to be false and despicable,
as they really are. Thus, Sir, a romance, if it be well written, or at
least if it be useful, must be hissed, damned, and despised by the
polite world, as being a mean, extravagant and ridiculous performance;
and thus what is folly in the eyes of the world is real wisdom.
N. Your conclusion is self-evident. It is impossible better to
anticipate your fall, nor to be better prepared to fall with dignity.
There remains but one difficulty. People in the country, you know,
take their cue from us. A book calculated for them must first pass the
censure of the town: if we think fit to damn it, its circulation is
entirely stopt. What do you say to that?
R. The answer is quite simple. You speak of _wits_ who reside in the
country; whilst I would be understood to mean real country folks. You
gentlemen who shine in the capital, have certain prepossessions of
which you must be cured: you imagine that you govern the taste of all
France, when in fact three fourths of the kingdom do not know that you
exist. The books which are damned at Paris often make the fortune of
country booksellers.
N. But why will you enrich them at the expense of ours?
R. Banter me as you please, I shall persist. Those who aspire to fame
must calculate their works for the meridian of Paris; but those who
write with a view to do good, must write for the country. How many
worthy people are there who pass their lives in cultivating a few
paternal acres, far distant from the metropolis, and who think
themselves exiled by the partiality of fortune? During the long winter
evenings, deprived of society, they pass the time in reading such
books of amusement as happen to fall into their hands. In their rustic
simplicity they do not pride themselves on their wit or learning; they
read for entertainment rather than instruction; books of morality and
philosophy are entirely unknown to them. As to your romances, they are
so far from being adapted to their situation, that they serve only to
render it insupportable. Their retreat is represented to be a desert,
so that whilst they afford a few hours amusement, they prepare for
them whole months of regret and discontent. Why may I not suppose
that, by some fortunate accident, this book, like many others of still
less merit, will fall into the hands of those inhabitants of the
fields, and that the pleasing picture of a life exactly resembling
theirs will render it more tolerable? I have great pleasure in the
idea of a married couple reading this novel together, imbibing fresh
courage to support their common labours, and perhaps new designs to
render them useful. How can they possibly contemplate the
representation of a happy family without attempting to imitate the
pleasing model? How can they be affected with the charms of conjugal
union, even where love is wanting, without increasing and confirming
their own attachment? In quitting their book, they will neither be
discontented with their situation, nor disgusted at their labour: on
the contrary, every object around them will assume a more delightful
aspect, their duties will seem ennobled, their taste for the pleasures
of nature will revive; her genuine sensations will be rekindled in
their hearts, and perceiving happiness within their reach, they will
learn to taste it as they ought: they will perform the same functions,
but with another soul; and what they did before as peasants only, they
will now transact as real patriarchs.
N. So far, you sail before the wind. Husbands, wives, matrons----but
with regard to young girls; d’ye say nothing of those?
R. No. A modest girl will never read books of love. If she should
complain of having been injured by the perusal of these volumes, she
is unjust: she has lost no virtue; for she had none to lose.
N. Prodigious! attend to this, all ye amorous writers; for thus ye are
all justified.
R. Provided they are justified by their own hearts and the object of
their writings.
N. And is that the case with you?
R. I am too proud to answer to that question; but Eloisa had a certain
rule by which she formed her judgment of books: [2] if you like it,
use it in judging of this. Authors have endeavoured to make the
reading of romances serviceable to youth. There never was a more idle
project. It is just setting fire to the house in order to employ the
engines. Having conceived this ridiculous idea, instead of directing
the moral of their writings towards its proper object, it is
constantly addressed to young girls, [3] without considering that
these have no share in the irregularities complained of. In general,
though their hearts may be corrupted, their conduct is blameless. They
obey their mothers in expectation of the time when it will be in their
power to imitate them. If the wives do their duty, be assured the
girls will not be wanting in theirs.
N. Observation is against you in this point. The whole sex seem to
require a time for libertinism, either in one state or the other. It is
a bad leaven, which must ferment soon or late. Among a civilized people
the girls are easy, and the wives difficult, of access; but where
mankind are less polite, it is just the reverse: the first consider
the crime only, the latter the scandal. The principal question is, how
to be left secured from the temptation: as to the crime it is of no
consideration.
R. If we were to judge by its consequences, one would be apt to be of
another opinion. But let us be just to the women: the cause of their
irregularities are less owing to themselves, than to our bad
institutions. The extreme inequality in the different members of the
same family must necessarily stifle the sentiments of nature. The
vices and misfortunes of children are owing chiefly to the father’s
unnatural despotism. A young wife, unsuitably espoused, and a victim
to the avarice or vanity of her parents, glories in effacing the
scandal of her former virtue by her present irregularities. If you
would remedy this evil, proceed to its source. Public manners can only
be reformed by beginning with private vices, which naturally arise
from parents. But our reformers never proceed in this manner. Your
cowardly authors preach only to the oppressed; and their morality can
have no effect, because they have not the art to address the most
powerful.
N. You, Sir, however run no risk of being accused of servility; but
may you not possibly be too sincere? In striking at the root of this
evil, may you not be the cause of more----
R. Evil? to whom? In times of epidemical contagion, when all are
infected from their infancy, would it be prudent to hinder the
distribution of salutary medicines under a pretence that they might do
harm to people in health? You and I, Sir, differ so widely on this
point, that if it were reasonable to expect that these letters can
meet with any success, I am persuaded they will do more good than a
better book.
N. Certainly your females are excellent preachers. I am pleased to see
you reconciled with the ladies; for I was really concerned when you
imposed silence on the sex. [4]
R. You are too severe; I must hold my tongue: I am neither so wise nor
so foolish as to be always in the right. Let us leave this bone for
the critics.
N. With all my heart, lest they should want one. But suppose you had
nothing to fear from any other quarter, how will you excuse to a
certain severe censor of the stage, those warm descriptions, and
impassioned sentiments, which are so frequent in those letters? Shew
me a scene in any of our theatrical pieces equal to that in the wood
at Clarens, or that of the dressing room. Read the letter on
theatrical amusements; read the whole collection. In short, be
confident, or renounce your former opinions. What would you have one
think?
R. I would have the critics be confident with themselves, and not
judge till they have thoroughly examined. Let me intreat you to read
once more with attention the parts you have mentioned; read again the
preface to _Narcisse_, and you will there find an answer to the
accusation of inconsistency. Those forward gentlemen who pretend to
discover that fault in the _Devin du Village_, will undoubtedly think
it much more glaring in this work. They will only act in character; but
you----
N. I recollect two passages. [5] You do not much esteem your
cotemporaries.
R. Sir, I am also their cotemporary! O why was I not born in an age in
which I ought to have burnt this collection!
N. Extravagant as usual! however, to a certain degree, your maxims are
just. For instance; if your Eloisa had been chaste from the beginning,
she would have afforded us less instruction; for to whom would she
have served as a model? In the most corrupt ages mankind are fond of
the most perfect lessons of morality: theory supplies the place of
practice, and at the small expense of a little leisure reading, they
satisfy the remnant of their taste for virtue.
R. Sublime authors, relax a little your perfect models, if you expect
that we should endeavour to imitate them. To what purpose do you vaunt
unspotted purity? rather shew us that which may be recovered, and
perhaps there are some who will attend to your instructions.
N. Your young hero has already made those reflections; but no matter,
you would be thought no less culpable in having shewn us what _is
done_, in order to shew what _ought to be done_. Besides, to inspire
the girls with love, and to make wives reserved, is overturning the
order of things, and recalling those trifling morals which are now
totally proscribed by philosophy. Say what you will, it is very
indecent, nay scandalous for a girl to be in love: nothing but a
husband can authorise a lover. It was certainly very impolitic to be
indulgent to the unmarried ladies, who are not allowed to read you,
and severe upon the married ones, by whom you are to be judged.
Believe me, if you were fearful of success, you may be quite easy: you
have taken sufficient care to avoid an affront of that nature. Be it
as it may, I shall not betray your confidence. I hope your imprudence
will not carry you too far. If you think you have written a useful
book, publish it; but by all means conceal your name.
R. Conceal my name! Will an honest man speak to the public from behind
a curtain? Will he dare to print what he does not dare to own? I am
the editor of this book, and I shall certainly fix my name in the
title page.
N. Your name in the title-page!
R. Yes, Sir, in the title-page.
V. You are surely in jest.
R. I am positively in earnest.
N. What your real name? _Jean Jacques Rousseau_, at full length?
R. _Jean Jacques Rousseau_ at full length.
N. You surely don’t think. What will the world say of you?
R. What they please. I don’t print my name with a design to pass for
the author, but to be answerable for the book. If it contains any
thing bad, let it be imputed to me; if good, I desire no praise. If
the work in general deserves censure, there is so much more reason for
prefixing my name. I have no ambition to pass for better than I am.
N. Are you content with that answer?
R. Yes, in an age when it is impossible for any one to be good.
N. Have you forgot _les belles ames?_
R. By nature _belles_, but corrupted by your institutions.
N. And so we shall behold, in the title-page of a book of love-
epistles, by _J.J. Rousseau, Citizen of Geneva!_
R. No, not _Citizen of Geneva_. I shall not profane the name of my
country. I never prefix it, but to those writings by which I think it
will not be dishonoured.
N. Your own name is no dishonourable one, and you have some reputation
to lose. This mean and weak performance will do you no service. I wish
it was in my power to dissuade you; but if you are determined to
proceed, I approve of your doing it boldly and with a good grace. At
least this will be in character. But a propos; do you intend to prefix
your motto?
R. My bookseller asked me the same question, and I thought it so
humorous that I promised to give him the credit of it. No, Sir, I
shall not prefix my motto to this book; nevertheless, I am now less
inclined to relinquish it than ever. Remember that I thought of
publishing those letters at the very time when I wrote against the
theatres, and that a desire of excusing one of my writings, has not
made me disguise truth in the other. I have accused myself before
hand, perhaps, with more severity than any other person will accuse
me. He who prefers truth to fame, may hope to prefer it to life
itself. You say that we ought to be confident: I doubt whether that be
possible to man, but it is not impossible to act with invariable
truth. This I will endeavour to do.
N. Why then, when I ask whether you are the author of these letters,
do you evade the question?
R. I will not lie, even in that case.
N. But you refuse to speak the truth.
R. It is doing honour to truth to keep it secret. You would have less
difficulty with one who made no scruple of a lie. Besides, you know
men of taste are never mistaken in the pen of an author. How can you
ask a question which it is your business to resolve?
N. I have no doubt with regard to some of the letters; they are
certainly yours: but in others you are quite invisible, and I much
doubt the possibility of disguise in this case. Nature, who does not
fear being known, frequently changes her appearance; but art is often
discovered, by attempting to be too natural. These epistles abound
with faults, which the most arrant scribbler would have avoided.
Declamation, repetitions, contradictions, &c. In short, it is
impossible that a man, who can write better, could ever resolve to
write so ill. What man in his senses would have made that foolish Lord
B---- advance such a shocking proposal to Eloisa? Or what author would
not have corrected the ridiculous behaviour of his young hero, who
though positively resolved to die, takes good care to apprize all the
world of his intention, and finds himself at last in perfect health?
Would not any writer have known that he ought to support his
characters with accuracy, and vary his stile accordingly, and he would
then infallibly have excelled even nature herself?
I have observed that in a very intimate society, both stile and
characters are extremely similar, and that when two souls are closely
united, their thoughts, words, and actions will be nearly the same.
This Eloisa, as she is represented, ought to be an absolute
enchantress; all who approach her, ought immediately to resemble her;
all her friends should speak one language; but these effects are much
easier felt than imagined: and even if it were possible to express
them, it would be imprudent to attempt it. An author must be governed
by the conceptions of the multitude, and therefore all refinement is
improper. This is the touch-stone of truth, and in this it is that a
judicious eye will discover real nature.
R. Well, and so you conclude----
N. I do not conclude at all. I am in doubt, and this doubt has
tormented me inexpressibly, during the whole time I spent in reading
these letters. If it be all a fiction, it is a bad performance; but
say that these two women have really existed, and I will read their
epistles once a year to the end of my life.
R. Strange! what signifies it whether they ever existed or not? They
are no where to be found: they are no more.
N. No more? So they actually did exist.
R. The conclusion is conditional: if they ever did exist, they are now
no more.
N. Between you and I, these little subtilties are more conclusive than
perplexing.
R. They are such as you force me to use, that I may neither betray
myself nor tell an untruth.
N. In short, you may do as you think proper; your Title is sufficient
to betray you.
R. It discovers nothing relative to the matter in question; for who
can tell whether I did not find this title in the manuscript? Who
knows whether I have not the same doubts which you have? Whether all
this mystery be not a pretext to conceal my own ignorance?
N. But however you are acquainted with the scene of action. You have
been at Vevey, in the _Pays de Vaud_?
R. Often; and I declare that I never heard either of Baron D'Etange,
or his Daughter. The name of Wolmar is entirely unknown in that
country. I have been at Clarens, but never saw any house like that
which is described in these letters. I passed through it in my return
from Italy, in the very year when the sad catastrophe happened, and I
found no body in tears for the death of Eloisa Wolmar. In short, as
much as I can recollect of the country, there are, in these letters,
several transpositions of places, and topographical errors, proceeding
either from ignorance in the author, or from a design to mislead the
reader. This is all you will learn from me on this point, and you may
be assured that no one else shall draw any thing more from me.
N. All the world will be as curious as I am. If you print this work,
tell the public what you have told me. Do more, write this
conversation as a Preface: it contains all the information necessary
for the reader.
R. You are in the right. It will do better than any thing I could say
of my own accord. Though these kind of apologies seldom succeed.
N. True, where the author spares himself. But I have taken care to
remove that objection here. Only I would advise you to transpose the
parts. Pretend that I wanted to persuade you to publish, and that you
objected. This will be more modest, and will have a better effect.
R. Would that be consistent with the character for which you praised
me a while ago?
N. It would not. I spoke with a design to try you. Leave things as
they are.
Advertisement
_The following Dialogue was originally intended as a Preface to_
Eloisa;_ but its form and length permitting me to prefix to that Work
only a few extracts from it, I now publish it entire, in hopes that it
will be found to contain some useful hints concerning Romances in
general. Besides, I thought it proper to wait till the Book had taken
its chance, before I discussed its inconveniences and advantages,
being unwilling either to injure the Bookseller, or supplicate the
indulgence of the Public._
The following Account of this Work is taken from the _Journal des
Sçavans_ for June 1761, Printed at Paris.
This work is a strange, but memorable monument of the eloquence of the
passions, the charms of virtue, and the force of imagination.
Unfeeling spirits may, as long as they please, remark and exaggerate
the faults of which the author does not scruple to accuse himself in
his two most singular prefaces; they may arraign him for frequent want
of taste, call his stile unequal and incorrect, his sentiments too
refined, and his paradoxes inexplicable; they may complain that his
notes are ludicrous and misplaced, as they frequently break in upon a
tender sentiment, a pathetic situation, and that in general they are
nothing more than an anticipated parody on the objections, whether
just or groundless, which the author seems to expect from certain
critics; they may even attempt to undermine the foundation of the
work, and accuse the author of cold prolixity in his description of
the peace and happiness of Clarens, after the violent agitation of
those grand movements by which it is preceded; they may be shocked
with the useless and abortive passion of Clara for St. Preux, the
negotiation begun concerning their marriage, the impenetrable,
obscure, and consequently uninteresting amours of Lord B---- in Italy;
they may think the author extravagant in the general choice of his
events; but whatever may be the present and future judgment of the
public,
_Ut cumque ferent ea facta minores,
Vincet Amor._
What heart can be unaffected with the dangers, the misfortunes, the
weakness, and the virtues of Eloisa? Who can possibly be insensible to
the ardor of her lover, the vigilant, active, and impatient friendship
of Clara, the noble and encouraging protection of Lord B----, the
unshaken wisdom of Wolmar, and all these characters moved by the most
extraordinary springs? Who can resist those torrents of pathetic
language which penetrate the inmost soul, and so tyrannically command
our tears; those master-strokes of simplicity which open the recesses
of the human heart, and excite the pleasure of weeping sensibility?
How can we help admiring his talent of giving life to every object, of
transporting the reader in the middle of the scene, and engaging him
as a party in every action, by the happy choice of incidents, and if I
may be allowed the expression, by the use of words the most identical
to the things intended to be described? Can there be a reader who is
not enamoured of the soul of Eloisa? Can there be a reader who does
not feel the loss of her as if she were his own, and who does not join
in the general mourning at Clarens, and the despair of Clara on the
death of her friend?
A common author would have satisfied himself with giving us, once for
all, a beautiful picture of his heroine, in which he would have shewn
us, in one general point of view, the accomplishment of every duty,
and the expansion of every sentiment, by loading our imagination with
all the particular applications of this virtuous principle to every
single event. Mr. Rousseau, on the contrary, in one continued adion,
always before our eyes, displays his Eloisa fulfilling without study,
and without the least confusion, all the duties of a wife, a friend, a
daughter, a mother, and mistress of a family; so that we behold her
constantly employed in these several situations, without confounding
the rights of any of them; without favouring one at the expense of the
other. He does not relate her actions, but makes her perform them in
our sight, and by that means renders those things real, which in
recital would appear hyperbolical, romantic, and incredible.
In the great number of different pictures which the author has here
collected, whether he paints the respectable simplicity of Valesian
manners, the brilliant corruption of great cities, the restricted
impatience of expecting love, the wildness of despair, or the pathetic
regret of a generous passion after an extraordinary sacrifice;
whether, in the interesting scene of Meillerie, he displays all the
eloquence of genius, and every tender emotion of the heart; whether
excited by the plausibility of logic he collects his whole strength
to destroy the sophisms of false honour; whether Virtue herself
thunders with her respectable and sublime voice against the crime of
suicide justified by eloquence; we always find his manner properly
adapted both to the subject and to the speaker, which renders the
illusion compleat.
Almost every trial which the soul can experience is represented either
in the principal or accessory situations, or in the reflections. In
short, the human soul is here penetrated and displayed in every point
of view; so that every sensible heart may be certain of beholding
itself in this mirror.
The nature and form of this work will not allow of a regular extract.
It consists entirely of a gradual unfolding of ideas and sensations
which admit of no analysis, and which can be pursued only in the work
itself. The author in the catastrophe imitates the happy artifice of
the artist who painted the sacrifice of Iphigenia. Eloisa dies; they
weep round her ashes. The author paints this universal grief; he
paints the silent but sincere affliction of her husband, the affecting
stupor of the father, the extravagant sorrow of her friend: and now
the despair of her lover remains to be described; but that was
inexpressible: the author wisely draws a veil before him, and leaves
the rest to our imagination.
The picture of Eloisa dying can be compared only to the scene of
Alcestes expiring, in Euripides.
Upon the whole, it were needless to say how much this work deserves to
be read, since the eagerness of the Public hath already sufficiently
prevented us. We cannot better express our approbation of a
performance in which even vice itself breathes an air of virtue, than
in the words of Eloisa, who in speaking of Lord B---- says, was there
ever a man without faults who possessed great virtues? And in like
manner we ask, whether there was ever a work without blemish which
might boast of such penetrating and sublime beauties?
Eloisa
Volume I
Letter I. To Eloisa.
I must fly from you, madam, in truth I must. I am to blame for
continuing with you so long, or rather, I ought never to have beheld
you. But, situated as I am, what can I do? How shall I determine? You
have promised me your friendship; consider my perplexity, and give me
your advice.
You are sensible that I became one of your family in consequence of an
invitation from your mother. Believing me possessed of some little
knowledge, she thought that I might be of service in the education of
her beloved daughter, in a situation where proper masters were not to
be obtained. Proud to be instrumental in adding a few embellishments
to one of nature’s most beautiful compositions, I dared to engage in
the perilous task, unmindful of the danger, or, at least,
unapprehensive of the consequence. I will not tell you that I begin to
suffer for my presumption. I hope I shall never so far forget myself
as to say any thing which you ought not to hear, or fail in that
respect which is due to your virtue, rather than to your birth or
personal charms. If I must suffer, I have the consolation, at least,
that I suffer alone. I can enjoy no happiness at the expense of yours.
And yet I see you and converse with you every day of my life, and am
but too sensible that you innocently aggravate a misfortune which you
cannot pity, and of which you ought to be ignorant. It is true, I know
what prudence would dictate, in a case like this, where there is no
hope; and I should certainly follow her advice if I could reconcile it
with my notions of probity. How can I with decency quit a family into
which I was so kindly invited, where I have received so many
obligations, and where, by the tenderest of mothers, I am thought of
some utility to a daughter whom she loves more than all the world? How
can I resolve to deprive this affectionate parent of the pleasure she
proposes to herself in, one day, surprizing her husband with your
progress in the knowledge of things of which he must naturally suppose
you ignorant? Shall I impolitely quit the house without taking leave
of her? Shall I declare to her the cause of my retreat, and would not
she even have reason to be offended with this confession from a man
whose inferior birth and fortune must for ever remain insuperable bars
to his happiness?
There seems but one method to extricate me from this embarrassment:
the hand which involved me in it must also relieve me. As you are the
cause of my offence, you must inflict my punishment: out of
compassion, at least, deign to banish me from your presence. Shew my
letter to your parents; let your doors be shut against me; spurn me
from you in what manner you please; from you I can bear any thing; but
of my own accord I have no power to fly from you.
Spurn me from you! fly your presence! why? Why should it be a crime to
be sensible of merit, and to love that which we cannot fail to honour?
No, charming Eloisa; your beauty might have dazzled my eyes, but it
never would have misled my heart, had it not been animated with
something yet more powerful. It is that captivating union between a
lively sensibility and invariable sweetness of disposition; it is that
tender feeling for the distresses of your fellow creatures; it is that
amazing justness of sentiment, and that exquisite taste which derive
their excellence from the purity of your soul; they are, in short,
your mental charms much more than those of your person, which I adore.
I confess it may be possible to imagine beauties still more
transcendently perfect; but more amiable, and more deserving the heart
of a wise and virtuous man,----no, no, Eloisa, it is impossible.
I am sometimes inclined to flatter myself that, as in the parity of
our years, and similitude of taste, there is also a secret sympathy in
our affections. We are both so young that our nature can hitherto have
received no false bias from any thing adventitious, and all our
inclinations seem to coincide. Before we have imbibed the uniform
prejudices of the world, our general perceptions seem uniform; and why
dare I not suppose the same concord in our hearts, which in our
judgment is so strikingly apparent? Sometimes it happens that our eyes
meet; involuntary sighs betray our feelings, tears steal from----O!
my Eloisa! if this unison of soul should be a divine impulse----if
heaven should have destined us----all the power on earth----Ah
pardon me! I am bewildered: I have mistaken a vain wish for hope: the
ardour of my desires gave to their imaginary object a solidity which
did not exist. I foresee with horror the torments which my heart is
preparing for itself. I do not seek to flatter my misfortune; if it
were in my power I would avoid it. You may judge of the purity of my
sentiments by the favour I ask. Destroy, if possible, the source of
the poison that both supports and kills me. I am determined to effect
my cure or my death, and I therefore implore your rigorous injunction,
as a lover would supplicate your compassion.
Yes, I promise, I swear, on my part, to do every thing within my power
to recover my reason, or to bury my growing anxiety in the inmost
recesses of my soul. But, for mercy’s sake, turn from me those lovely
eyes that pierce me to the heart; suffer me no longer to gaze upon
that face, that air, those arms, those hands, that engaging manner;
disappoint the imprudent avidity of my looks; no longer let me hear
that enchanting voice, which cannot be heard without emotion; be,
alas! in every respect, another woman, that my soul may return to its
former tranquillity.
Shall I tell you, without apology? When we are engaged in the puerile
amusements of these long evenings, you cruelly permit me, in the
presence of the whole family, to increase a flame that is but too
violent already. You are not more reserved to me than to any of the
rest. Even yesterday you almost suffered me, as a forfeit, to take a
kiss: you made but a faint resistance. Happily, I did not persist. I
perceived by my increasing palpitation, that I was rushing upon my
ruin, and therefore stopped in time. If I had dared to indulge my
inclination, that kiss would have proved my last sigh, and I should
have died the happiest of mortals.
For heaven’s sake, let us quit those plays, since they may possibly be
attended with such fatal consequences; even the most simple of them
all is not without its danger. I tremble as often as our hands meet,
and I know not how it happens, but they meet continually. I start the
instant I feel the touch of your finger; as the play advances I am
seized with a fever, or rather delirium; my senses gradually forsake
me, and, in their absence, what can I say, what can I do, where hide
myself, or how be answerable for my conduct?
The hours of instruction are not less dangerous. Your mother, or your
cousin, no sooner leave the room than I observe a change in your
behaviour. You at once assume an air so serious, so cold, that my
respect, and the fear of offending, destroys my presence of mind, and
deprives me of my judgment: with difficulty and trembling, I babble
over a lesson, which even your excellent talents are unable to pursue.
This affected change in your behaviour is hurtful to us both: you
confound me and deprive yourself of instruction, whilst I am entirely
at a loss to account for this sudden alteration in a person naturally
so even-tempered and reasonable. Tell me, pray tell me, why you are so
sprightly in public, and so reserved when by ourselves? I imagined it
ought to be just the contrary, and that one should be more or less
upon their guard, in proportion to the number of spectators. But
instead of this, when with me alone, you are ceremonious, and familiar
when we join in mixed company. If you deign to be more equal, probably
my torment will be less.
If that compassion which is natural to elevated minds, can move you in
behalf of an unfortunate youth, whom you have honoured with some share
in your esteem; you have it in your power, by a small change in your
conduct, to render his situation less irksome, and to enable him, with
more tranquility, to support his silence and his sufferings: but if
you find yourself not touched with his situation, and are determined
to exert your power to ruin him, he will acquiesce without murmuring:
he would rather, much rather, perish by your order, than incur your
displeasure by his indiscretion. Now, though you are become mistress
of my future destiny, I cannot reproach myself with having indulged
the least presumptive hope. If you have been so kind as to read my
letter, you have complied with all I should have dared to request,
even though I had no refusal to fear.
Letter II. To Eloisa.
How strangely was I deceived in my first letter! instead of
alleviating my pain, I have increased my distress by incurring your
displeasure: and, alas! that, I find, is the least supportable of all
misfortunes. Your silence, your cold, and reserved behaviour, but too
plainly indicate my doom. You have indeed granted one part of my
petition, but it was to punish me with the greater severity.
_E poi ch’ amor di me vi fece accorta
Fur i biondi capelli allor velati,
E l’amorosi sguardo in se raccolto._
You have withdrawn that innocent familiarity in public of which I
foolishly complained; and in private you are become still more severe:
you are so ingeniously cruel, that your complaisance is as intolerable
as your refusal.
Were it possible for you to conceive how much your indifference
affects me, you would certainly think my punishment too rigorous. What
would I not give to recall that unfortunate letter, and that I had
born my former sufferings without complaint! So fearful am I of adding
to my offence, that I should never have ventured to write a second
letter, if I did not flatter myself with the hopes of expiating the
crime I committed in the first. Will you deem it any satisfaction if I
confess that I mistook my own intention? or shall I protest that I
never was in love with you?----O! no; I can never be guilty of such a
horrid perjury! The heart which is impressed with your fair image must
not be polluted with a lye. If I am doomed to be unhappy----be it so.
I cannot stoop to any thing mean or deceitful to extenuate my fault.
My pen refuses to disavow the transgression of which my heart is but
too justly accused.
Methinks I already feel the weight of your indignation, and await its
final consequence as a favour which I have some right to expect; for
the passion which consumes me deserves to be punished, but not
despised. For heaven’s sake, do not leave me to myself; condescend, at
least, to determine my fate; deign to let me know your pleasure. I
will obey implicitly whatever you think proper to command. Do you
impose eternal silence? I will be silent as the grave. Do you banish
me your presence? I swear that I will never see you more. Will my
death appease you? that would be, of all, the least difficult. There
are no terms which I am not ready to subscribe, unless they should
enjoin me not to love you; yet even in that I would obey you if it
were possible.
A hundred times a day I am tempted to throw myself at your feet, bathe
them with my tears, and to implore your pardon, or receive my death:
but a sudden terror damps my resolution; my trembling knees want power
to bend; my words expire upon my lips, and my soul finds no support
against the dread of offending you.
Was ever mortal in so terrible a situation! My heart is but too
sensible of its offence, yet cannot cease to offend: my crime and my
remorse conspire in its agitation, and, ignorant of my destiny, I am
cruelly suspended between the hope of your compassion and the fear of
punishment.
But, no! I do not hope; I have no right to hope: I ask no indulgence,
but that you will hasten my sentence. Let your just revenge be
satisfied. Do you think me sufficiently wretched to be thus reduced to
solicit vengeance on my own head? Punish me, it is your duty; but if
you retain the least degree of compassion for me, do not, I beseech
you, drive me to despair with those cold looks, and that air of
reserve and discontent. When once a criminal is condemned to die, all
resentment should cease.
Letter III. To Eloisa.
Do not be impatient, madam; this is the last importunity you will
receive from me. Little did I apprehend, in the dawn of my passion,
what a train of ills I was preparing for myself! I then foresaw none
greater than that a hopeless passion, which reason, in time, might
overcome; but I soon experienced one much more intolerable in the pain
which I felt at your displeasure, and now the discovery of your
uneasiness is infinitely more afflicting than all the rest. O Eloisa!
I perceive it with bitterness of soul, my complaints affect your peace
of mind. You continue invincibly silent; but my heart is too attentive
not to penetrate into the secret agitations of your mind. Your eyes
appear gloomy, thoughtful, and fixed upon the ground; sometimes they
wander and fall undesignedly upon me; your bloom fades; an unusual
paleness overspreads your cheeks; your gaiety forsakes you; you seem
oppressed with grief and the unalterable sweetness of your disposition
alone enables you to preserve the shadow of your good humour.
Whether it be sensibility, whether it be disdain, whether it be
compassion for my sufferings, I see you are deeply affected. I fear to
augment your distress, and I am more unhappy on this account, than
flattered with the hope it might possibly occasion; for, if I know
myself, your felicity is infinitely dearer to me than my own.
I now begin to be sensible that I judged very erroneously of the
feelings of my heart, and, too late, I perceive, that what I at first
took for a fleeting phrenzy, is but too inseparably interwoven with my
future destiny. It is your late melancholy that has made the
increasing progress of my malady apparent. The lustre of your eyes,
the delicate glow of your complexion, your excellent understanding,
and all the enchantment of your former vivacity, could not have
affected me half so much as your present manifest dejection. Be
assured, divine maid, if it were possible for you to feel the
intolerable flame, which your last eight pensive days of languor and
discontent have kindled in my soul, you yourself would shudder at the
misery you have caused. But there is now no remedy: my despair
whispers, that nothing but the cold tomb will extinguish the raging
fire within my breast.
Be it so: he that cannot command felicity may at least deserve it. You
may possibly be obliged to honour with your esteem the man whom you
did not deign to answer. I am young, and may, perchance, one day,
merit the regard of which I am now unworthy. In the mean time, it is
necessary that I should restore to you that repose which I have lost
for ever, and of which you are, by my presence, in spite of myself,
deprived. It is but just that I alone should suffer, since I alone am
guilty. Adieu, too, too charming Eloisa! Resume your tranquillity, and
be again happy. Tomorrow I am gone for ever. But be assured, that my
violent, spotless passion for you, will end only with my life; that my
heart, full of so divine an object, will never debase itself by
admitting a second impression; that it will divide all its future
homage between you and virtue, and that no other flame shall ever
profane the altar where Eloisa was adored.
Billet I. From Eloisa.
Be not too positive in your opinion that your absence is become
necessary. A virtuous heart will overcome its folly, or be silent, and
so might, perhaps, in time----But you----you may stay.
Answer.
I was a long time silent; your cold indifference forced me to speak at
last. Virtue may possibly get the better of folly, but who can bear to
be despised by one they love? I must be gone.
Billet II. From Eloisa.
No, Sir; after what you have seemed to feel; after what you have dared
to tell me; a man, such as you feign yourself, will not fly; he will
do more.
Answer.
I have feigned nothing except the _moderate_ passion of a heart filled
with despair. To-morrow you shall be satisfied; and notwithstanding
all you can say, the effort will be less painful than to fly from you.
Billet III. From Eloisa.
Foolish youth! if my life be dear to thee, do not dare to attempt thy
own. I am beset, and can neither speak nor write to you till to-
morrow. Wait.
Letter IV. From Eloisa.
Must I then, at last, confess, the fatal, the ill-disguised, secret!
How often have I sworn that it should never burst from my heart but
with my life! Thy danger wrests it from me. It is gone, and my honour
is lost for ever. Alas, I have but too religiously performed my vow;
can there be a death more cruel than to survive one’s honour?
What shall I say, how shall I break the painful silence? or rather,
have I not said all, and am I not already too well understood? Alas!
thou hast seen too much not to divine the rest; Imperceptibly deluded
into the snare of the seducer, I see, without being able to avoid it,
the horrid precipice before me. Artful man! It is not thy passion, but
mine, that excites thy presumption. Thou observest the distraction of
my soul; thou availest thyself of it to accomplish my ruin, and now
that thou hast rendered me despicable, my greatest misfortune is, that
I am forced to behold thee also in a despicable light. Ungrateful
wretch! In return for my esteem, thou hast ruined me. Had I supposed
thy heart capable of exulting, believe me, thou hadst never enjoyed
this triumph.
Well thou knowest, and it will increase thy remorse, that there was
not in my soul one vicious inclination. My virtue and innocence were
inexpressibly dear to me, and I pleased myself with the hopes of
cherishing them in a life of industrious simplicity. But to what
purpose my endeavour, since heaven rejects my offering? The very first
day we met, I imbibed the poison which now infects my senses and my
reason; I felt it instantly, and thy eyes, thy sentiments, thy
discourse, thy guilty pen, daily increase its malignity.
I have neglected nothing to stop the progress of this fatal passion.
Sensible of my own weakness, how gladly would I have evaded the
attack; but the eagerness of thy pursuit hath baffled my precaution. A
thousand times I have resolved to cast myself at the feet of those who
gave me being; a thousand times I have determined to open to them my
guilty heart: but they can form no judgment of its condition; they
would apply but common remedies to a desperate disease; my mother is
weak and without authority; I know the inflexible severity of my
father, and I should bring down ruin and dishonour upon myself, my
family, and thee. My friend is absent, my brother is no more.
I have not a protector in the world to save me from the persecution of
my enemy. In vain I implore the assistance of heaven; heaven is deaf
to the prayers of irresolution. Every thing conspires to increase my
anxiety; every circumstance combines to abandon me to myself, or
rather cruelly to deliver me up to thee; all nature seems thy
accomplice; my efforts are vain, I adore thee in spite of myself. And
shall that heart which, in its full vigour, was unable to resist,
shall it only half surrender? Shall a heart which knows no
dissimulation attempt to conceal the poor remains of its weakness? No,
the first step was the most difficult, and the only one which I ought
never to have taken. Shall I now pretend to stop at the rest? No, that
first false step plunged me into the abyss, and my degree of misery is
entirely in thy power.
Such is my horrid situation, that I am forced to turn to the author of
my misfortunes, and implore his protection against himself. I might, I
know I might, have deferred this confession of my despair; I might,
for some time longer, have disguised my shameful weakness, and by
yielding gradually, have imposed upon myself. Vain dissimulation!
which could only have flattered my pride, but could not save my
virtue: away, away! I see but too plainly whither my first error
tends, and shall not endeavour to prepare for, but to escape,
perdition.
Well then, if thou art not the very lowest of mankind, if the least
spark of virtue lives within thy soul, if it retains any vestige of
those sentiments of honour which seemed to penetrate thy heart, thou
canst not possibly be so vile as to take any unjust advantage of a
confession forced from me by a fatal distraction of my senses. No, I
know thee well; thou wilt support my weakness, thou wilt become my
safeguard, thou wilt defend my person against my own heart. Thy virtue
is the last refuge of my innocence; my honour dares confide in thine,
for thou canst not preserve one without the other. Ah! let thy
generous soul preserve them both, and, at leas, for thy own sake, be
merciful.
Good God! am I thus sufficiently humbled? I write to thee on my knees;
I bathe my paper with my tears; I pay to thee my timorous homage: and
yet thou art not to believe me ignorant that it was in my power to
have reversed the scene; and that, with a little art, which would have
rendered me despicable in my own eyes, I might have been obeyed and
worshipped. Take the frivolous empire, I relinquish it to my friend,
but leave me, ah! leave me my innocence. I had rather live thy slave
and preserve my virtue, than purchase thy disobedience at the price of
my honour. Shouldst thou deign to hear me, what gratitude mayest thou
not claim from her who will owe to thee the recovery of her reason?
How charming must be the tender union of two souls unacquainted with
guilt! Thy vanquished passions will prove the source of happiness, and
thy pleasures will be worthy of heaven itself.
I hope, nay I am confident, that the man to whom I have given my whole
heart will not belie my opinion of his generosity; but I flatter
myself also, if he is mean enough to take the least unseemly advantage
of my weakness, that contempt and indignation will restore my senses,
and that I am not yet sunk so low as to fear a lover for whom I should
have reason to blush. Thou shalt be virtuous, or be despised; I will
be respected, or be myself again; it is the only hope I have left,
preferable to the hope of death.
Letter V. To Eloisa.
Celestial powers! I possessed a soul capable of affliction, O inspire
me with one that can bear felicity! Divine love! spirit of my
existence, O support me! for I sink down opprest with extasy. How
inexpressible are the charms of virtue! How invincible the power of a
beloved object! fortune, pleasure, transport, how poignant your
impression! O how shall I withstand the rapid torrent of bliss which
overflows my heart! and how dispel the apprehensions of a timorous
maid? Eloisa----no! my Eloisa on her knees! My Eloisa weep!----Shall
she, to whom the universe should bend, supplicate the man who adores
her, to be careful of her honour, and to preserve his own? Were it
possible for me to be out of humour with you, I should be a little
angry at your fears; they are disgraceful to us both. Learn, thou
chaste and heavenly beauty, to know better the nature of thy empire.
If I adore thy charming person, is it not for the purity of that soul
by which it is animated, and which bears such ineffable marks of its
divine origin? You tremble with apprehension: good God! what hath she
to fear, who stamps with reverence and honour every sentiment she
inspires? Is there a man upon earth who could be vile enough to offer
the least insult to such virtue?
Permit, O permit me, to enjoy the unexpected happiness of being
beloved----beloved by such----Ye princes of the world, I now look down
upon your grandeur. Let me read a thousand and a thousand times, that
enchanting epistle, where thy tender sentiments are painted in such
strong and glowing colours; where I observe with transport,
notwithstanding the violent agitation of thy soul, that even the most
lively passions of a noble heart never lose sight of virtue. What
monster, after having read that affecting letter, could take advantage
of your generous confession, and attempt a crime which must infallibly
make him wretched and despicable even to himself. No, my dearest
Eloisa, there can be nothing to fear from a friend, a lover, who must
ever be incapable of deceiving you. Though I should entirely have lost
my reason, though the discomposure of my senses should hourly
increase, your person will always appear to me, not only the most
beautiful, but the most sacred deposit with which mortal was ever
instructed. My passion, like its object, is unalterably pure. The
horrid idea of incest does not shock me more than the thought of
polluting your heavenly charms with a sacrilegious touch: you are not
more inviolably safe with your own parent than with your lover. If
ever that happy lover should in your presence forget himself but for a
moment----O ’tis impossible. When I am no longer in love with virtue,
my love for my Eloisa must expire: on my first offence, withdraw your
affection and cast me off for ever.
By the purity of our mutual tenderness, therefore, I conjure you,
banish all your suspicion. Why should your fear exceed the passions of
your lover! To what greater felicity can I aspire, when that with
which I am blest, is already more than I am well able to support? We
are both young, and in love unexperienced, it is true: but is that
honour which conducts us, a deceitful guide? can that experience be
needful which is acquired only from vice? I am strangely deceived, if
the principles of rectitude are not rooted in the bottom of my heart.
In truth, my Eloisa, I am no vile seducer, as, in your despair, you
were pleased to call me; but am artless and of great sensibility,
easily discovering my feelings, but feeling nothing at which I ought
to blush. To say all in one word, my love for Eloisa is not greater
than my abhorrence of the crime. I am even doubtful, whether the love
which you inspire be not in its nature incompatible with vice; whether
a corrupt heart could possibly feel its influence. As for me, the more
I love you, the more exalted are my sentiments. Can there be any
degree of virtue, however unattainable for its own sake, to which I
would not aspire to become more worthy of my Eloisa?
Letter VI. Eloisa To Clara.
Is my dear cousin resolved to spend her whole life in bewailing her
poor Chaillot, and will she forget the living because of the dead? I
sympathize in your grief, and think it just, but shall it therefore be
eternal? Since the death of your mother, she was assiduously careful
of your education; she was your friend rather than your governess. She
loved you with great tenderness, and me for your sake; her
instructions were all intended to enrich our hearts with principles of
honour and virtue. All this I know, my dear, and acknowledge it with
gratitude; but confess with me also, that in some respects she acted
very imprudently; that she often indiscreetly told us things with
which we had no concern; that she entertained us eternally with maxims
of gallantry, her own juvenile adventures, the management of amours;
and that to avoid the snares of men, though she might tell us not to
give ear to their protestations, yet she certainly instructed us in
many things with which there was no necessity for young girls to be
made acquainted. Reflect therefore upon her death as a misfortune, not
without some consolation. To girls of our age, her lessons grew
dangerous, and who knows but heaven may have taken her from us the
very moment in which her removal became necessary to our future
happiness. Remember the salutary advice you gave me when I was
deprived of the best of brothers. Was Chaillot dearer to you? Is your
loss greater than mine?
Return, my dear, she has no longer any occasion for you. Alas! whilst
you are wasting your time in superfluous affliction, may not your
absence be productive of greater evils? Why are you not afraid, who
know the beatings of my heart, to abandon your friend to misfortunes
which your presence might prevent. O Clara! strange things have
happened since your departure. You will tremble to hear the danger to
which I have been exposed by my imprudence. Thank heaven, I hope I
have now nothing to fear: but unhappily I am as it were at the mercy
of another. You alone can restore me to myself: haste therefore to my
assistance. So long as your attendance was of service to poor
Chaillot, I was silent; I should even have been the first to exhort
you to such an act of benevolence. Now that she is no more, her family
are become the objects of your charity: of this obligation we could
better acquit ourselves, if we were together, and your gratitude might
be discharged without neglecting your friend.
Since my father took his leave of us we have resumed our former manner
of living. My mother leaves me less frequently alone; not that she has
any suspicion. Her visits employ more time than would be proper for me
to spare from my little studies, and in her absence Bab fills her
place but negligently. Now though I do not think my good mother
sufficiently watchful, I cannot resolve to tell her so. I would
willingly provide for my own safety, without losing her esteem, and
you alone are capable of managing this matter. Return then, my dear
Clara, prithee return. I regret every lesson at which you are not
present, and am fearful of becoming too learned. Our preceptor is not
only a man of great merit, but of exemplary virtue, and therefore more
dangerous. I am too well satisfied with him to be so with myself. For
girls of our age, it is always safer to be two than one, be the man
ever so virtuous.
Letter VII. Answer.
I understand, and tremble for you: not that I think your danger so
great as your imagination would suggest. Your fears make me less
apprehensive for the present; but I am terrified with the thought of
what may hereafter happen: should you be unable to conquer your
passion, what will become of you! Alas, poor Chaillot, how often has
she foretold, that your first sigh would mark your fortune. Ah!
Eloisa, so young, and thy destiny already accomplished? Much I fear we
shall find the want of that sensible woman whom, in your opinion, we
have lost for our advantage. Sure I am, it would be advantageous for
us to fall into still safer hands; but she has made us too knowing to
be governed by another, yet not sufficiently so to govern ourselves:
she only was able to shield us from the danger to which, by her
indiscretion, we are exposed. She was extremely communicative, and,
considering our age, we ourselves seem to have thought pretty deeply.
The ardent and tender friendship which hath united us, almost from our
cradles, expanded our hearts, and ripened them into sensibility
perhaps a little premature. We are not ignorant of the passions, as to
their symptoms and effects; the art of suppressing them seems to be
all we want. Heaven grant that our young philosopher may know this art
better than we.
By _we_ you know who I mean: for my part, Chaillot used always to say,
that my giddiness would be my security in the place of reason, that I
should never have sense enough to be in love, and that I was too
constantly foolish to be guilty of a great folly. My dear Eloisa, be
careful of yourself! the better she thought of your understanding, the
more she was apprehensive of your heart. Nevertheless, let not your
courage sink. Your prudence and your honour, I am certain, will exert
their utmost, and I assure you, on my part, that friendship shall do
every thing in its power. If we are too knowing for our years, yet our
manners have been hitherto spotless and irreproachable. Believe me, my
dear, there are many girls, who though they may have more simplicity,
have less virtue than ourselves: we know what virtue means, and are
virtuous by choice; and that seems to me the most secure.
And yet, from what you have told me, I shall not enjoy a moment’s
repose till we meet; for if you are really afraid, your danger is not
entirely chimerical. It is true, the means of preservation are very
obvious. One word to your mother, and the thing is done: but I
understand you; the expedient is too conclusive: you would willingly
be assured of not being vanquished, without losing the honour of
having sustained the combat. Alas! my poor cousin----if there was the
least glimmering----Baron D'Etange consent to give his daughter, his
only child, to the son of an inconsiderable tradesman, without
fortune! Dost thou presume to hope he will?----or what dost thou
hope? what would’st thou have? poor Eloisa!----Fear nothing however
on my account. Your friend will keep your secret. Many people might
think it more honest to reveal it, perhaps they are right. For my
part, who am no great casuist, I have no notion of that honesty, which
is incompatible with confidence, faith, and friendship. I imagine that
every relation, every age, have their peculiar maxims, duties, and
virtues; but what might be prudence in another, in me would be
perfidy; and that to confound these things, would more probably make
us wicked than wise and happy. If your love be weak, we will overcome
it; but if it be extreme, violent measures may produce a tragical
catastrophe, and friendship will attempt nothing for which it cannot
be answerable. After all, I flatter myself that I shall have little
reason to complain of your conduct when I have you once under my eye.
You shall see what it is to have a duenna of eighteen!
You know, my dear girl, that I am not absent upon pleasure; and really
the country is not so agreeable in the spring as you imagine: one
suffers at this time both heat and cold; for the trees afford us no
shade, and in the house it is too cold to live without fire. My father
too, in the midst of his building, begins to perceive that the gazette
comes later hither than to town; so that we all wish to return, and I
hope to embrace thee in a few days. But what causes my inquietude is,
that a few days make I know not what number of hours, many of which
are destined to the philosopher: to the philosopher, cousin! you
understand me. Think, O think, that the clock strikes those hours
entirely for him!
Do not blush, my dear girl, nor drop thy eyes, nor look grave; thy
features will not suffer it. Thou knowest I never, in my life, could
weep without laughing, and yet I have not less sensibility than other
people: I do not feel our separation less severely, nor am less
afflicted with the loss of poor Chaillot. Her family I am resolved
never to abandon, and I sincerely thank my kind friend for her promise
to assist me: but to let slip an opportunity of doing good, were to be
no more thyself. I confess the good creature was rather too talkative,
free enough on certain occasions, a little indiscreet with young
girls, and that she was fond of old stories and times past. So that I
do not so much regret the qualities of her mind, though among some bad
ones, many of them were excellent: the loss which I chiefly deplore is
the goodness of her heart, and that mixture of maternal and sisterly
affection, which made her inexpressibly dear to me. My mother I scarce
knew; I am indeed loved by my father, as much as is possible for him
to love; your amiable brother is no more; and I very seldom see my
own. Thus am I left desolate, like an orphan. You are my only
consolation. Yes, my Eloisa lives, and I will weep no more!
P. S. For fear of accident, I shall direct this letter to our
preceptor.
Letter VIII. [6] To Eloisa.
O, my fair Eloisa, what a strange capricious deity is Love! My present
felicity seems far to exceed my most sanguine expectations, and yet I
am discontented. You love me, you confess your passion, and yet I
sigh. My presumptuous heart dares to wish still farther, though all my
wishes are gratified. I am punished with its wild imaginations; they
render me unhappy in the very bosom of felicity. Do not, however,
believe that I have forgotten the laws you have imposed, or lost the
power of obedience: no, but I am displeased to find the observance of
those laws irksome to me alone; that you, who not long ago, was all
imbecility, are now become so great a heroine; and that you are so
excessively careful to prevent every proof of my integrity.
How you are changed, and _you_ alone, within these two months! Where
is now your languor, your disgust, your dejected look? The graces have
again resumed their post; your charms are all returned; the new-blown
rose is not more fresh and blooming; you have recovered your vivacity
and wit; you banter, even with me, as formerly; but what hurts me more
than all this, is that you swear eternal fidelity with as much gaiety
and good humour as if it were something droll, or indifferent.
O, my fair inconstant! is this characteristic of an ungovernable
passion? If you were, in any degree, at war with your inclinations,
would not the constraint throw a damp upon your enjoyments? O how
infinitely more amiable you were, when less beautiful! How do I regret
that pathetic paleness, that precious assurance of a lover’s
happiness, and hate the indiscretion of that health which you have
recovered at the expense of my repose! Yes, I could be much better
satisfied with your indisposition, than with that air of content,
those sparkling eyes, that blooming complexion, which conspire to
insult me. Have you already forgot the time when you were glad to sue
for mercy? Eloisa, Eloisa! the violent tempest hath been very suddenly
allayed.
But what vexes me most, is that, after having committed yourself
entirely to my honour, you should seem apprehensive and mistrustful
where there is no danger. Is it thus I am rewarded for my discretion?
Does my inviolable respect deserve to be thus affronted? Your father’s
absence is so far from giving you more liberty, that it is now almost
impossible to catch you alone. Your _constant_ cousin never leaves you
a moment. I find we are insensibly returning to our former
circumspection, with this difference only that what was then irksome
to you is now become matter of amusement.
What recompense can I expect for the purity of my adoration, if not
your esteem? And to what purpose have I abstained even from the least
indulgence, if it produces no gratitude? In short, I am weary of
suffering ineffectually, and of living in a state of continued self-
denial, without being allowed the merit of it. I cannot bear to be
despised whilst you are growing every day more beautiful. Why am I to
gaze eternally at those delicious fruits which my lips dare not touch?
Must I relinquish all hope, without the satisfaction of a voluntary
sacrifice? No, since you depend no longer upon my honour, it stands
released from its vain engagement; your own precautions are
sufficient. You are ungrateful, and I am too scrupulous; but for the
future I am resolved not to reject the happiness which fortune, in
spite of you, may throw in my way. Be it as it will, I find that I
have taken upon me a charge that is above my capacity. Eloisa, you are
once more your own guardian. I must resign the deposit which I cannot
preserve without being tempted to a breach of faith, and which you
yourself are able to secure with less difficulty than you were pleased
to imagine.
I speak seriously; depend upon your own strength, else banish me, or
in other words, deprive me of existence. The promise I made, was rash
and inconsiderate; and I am amazed how I have been able to keep it so
long. I confess it ought to remain for ever inviolable; but of that I
now perceive the impossibility. He who wantonly exposes his virtue to
such severe trials, deserves to fall. Believe me, fairest among women!
by him who desired life only on your account, you will always be
honoured and respected; but reason may forsake me, and my intoxicated
senses may hint the perpetration of a crime, which, in my cooler
hours, I should abhor. I am however happy in the reflection that I
have not hitherto abused your confidence. Two whole months have I
triumphed over myself; but I am intitled to the reward due to as many
ages of torment.
Letter IX. From Eloisa.
I comprehend you: the pleasures of vice, and the reward of virtue,
would just constitute the felicity you wish to enjoy. Are these your
morals? Truly, my good friend, your generosity had a short duration.
Is it possible that it could be entirely the effect of art? There is
something droll, however, in complaining of my health. Was it that you
hoped to see it entirely destroyed by my ridiculous passion, and
expected to have me at your feet, imploring your pity to save my life?
or did you treat me with respect whilst I continued frightful, with an
intention to retract your promise as soon as I should, in any degree,
become an object of desire? I see nothing so vastly meritorious in
such a sacrifice.
With equal justice, you are pleased to reproach me for the care I have
lately taken to prevent those painful combats with yourself, when in
reality you ought to deem it an obligation. You then retract your
engagement, on account of its being too burthensome a duty; so that in
the same breath, you complain of having too much trouble, and of not
having enough. Recollect yourself a little, and endeavour to be more
uniform, that your pretended sufferings may have a less frivolous
appearance: or perhaps it would be more advisable to put off that
dissimulation which is inconsistent with your character. Say what you
will, your heart is much better satisfied with mine than you would
have me think. Ungrateful man! you are but too well acquainted with
its feelings. Even your own letter contradicts you by the gaiety of
its stile; you would not have so much wit if you had less tranquility.
But, enough of vain reproach to you: let me now reproach myself; it
will probably be with more reason.
The content and serenity with which I have been blest of late, is
inconsistent with my former declaration, and I confess you have cause
to be surprized at the contrast. You were then a witness to my
despair, and you now behold in me too much tranquility; hence you
pronounce me inconstant and capricious. Be not, my good friend, too
severe in your judgment. This heart of mine cannot be known in one
day. Have patience, and, in time, you may probably discover it to be
not unworthy your regard.
Unless you were sensible how much I was shocked when I first detected
my heart in its passion for you, it is impossible to form any idea of
what I suffered. The maxims I imbibed in my education were so
extremely severe, that love, however pure, seemed highly criminal. I
was taught to believe, that a young girl of sensibility was ruined the
moment she suffered a tender expression to pass her lips: my
disordered imagination confounded the crime with the confession of my
love, and I had conceived so terrible an idea of the first step, that
I saw little or no interval between that and the last. An extreme
diffidence of myself increased the alarm; the struggles of modesty
appeared to be those of virtue; and the uneasiness of silence seemed
the importunity of desire. The moment I had spoke I concluded myself
lost beyond redemption; and yet I must have spoken, or have parted
with you for ever. Thus, unable to disguise my sentiments, I endeavoured
to excite your generosity, and depending rather upon you than on
myself, I chose to engage your honour in my defence, as I could have
little reliance on a resource of which I believed myself already
deprived.
I soon discovered my error: I had scarce opened my mind when I found
myself much easier; the instant I received your answer I became
perfectly calm; and two months experience has informed me that my too
tender heart hath need of love, but that my senses can rest satisfied
without a lover. Now judge, you who are a lover of virtue, what joy I
must have felt at this discovery. Emerged from the profound ignominy
into which my fears had plunged me, I now taste the delicious pleasure
of a guiltless passion: it constitutes all my happiness; it hath
influenced my temper and my health, I can conceive no paradise on
earth equal to the union of love and innocence.
I feared you no longer; and when I endeavoured to avoid being alone
with you, it was rather for your sake than my own. Your eyes, your
sighs betrayed more transport than prudence; but though _you_ had
forgotten the bounds you yourself prescribed, _I_ should not.
Alas, my friend, I wish I could communicate to you that tranquility of
soul which I now enjoy! Would it were in my power to teach you to be
contented and happy! What fear, what shame can imbitter our felicity?
In the bosom of love we might talk of virtue without a blush.
_E v’ è il piacer con l’ onestade accanto._
And yet a strange foreboding whispers to my heart, that these are the
only days of happiness allotted us by heaven. Our future prospect
presents nothing to my view, but absence, anxiety, dangers and
difficulties. The least change in our present situation must
necessarily be for the worse. Were we even united for ever, I am not
certain whether our happiness would not be destroyed by its excess;
the moment of possession is a dangerous crisis.
I conjure thee, my kind, my only friend, endeavour to calm the
turbulence of those vain desires which are always followed by regret,
repentance and sorrow. Let us peaceably enjoy our present felicity.
You have a pleasure in giving me instruction, and you know, but too
well, with what delight I listen to be instructed. Let your lessons be
yet more frequent, that we may be as little asunder as decency will
allow. Our absent moments shall be employed in writing to each other,
and thus none of the precious time will pass in vain, which one day
possibly we might give the world to recall. Would to heaven, that our
present happiness might end only with our lives! To improve one’s
understanding, to adorn one’s mind, to indulge one’s heart: can there
possibly be any addition to our felicity?
Letter X. To Eloisa.
How entirely was my Eloisa in the right when she said that I did not
yet know her sufficiently! I constantly flatter myself that I have
discovered every excellence of her soul, when new beauties daily meet
my observation. What woman, but yourself, could ever unite virtue and
tenderness so as to add new charms to both? In spite of myself I am
forced to admire and approve that prudence which deprives me of all
comfort, and there is something so excessively engaging in the manner
of imposing your prohibitions, that I almost receive them with
delight.
I am every day more positive, that there is no happiness equal to that
of being beloved by Eloisa; and so entirely am I of this opinion that
I would not prefer even the person of Eloisa to the possession of her
heart. But why this bitter alternative? Can things be incompatible
which are united in nature? Our time, you say, is precious; let us
enjoy our good fortune without troubling its pure stream with our
impatience. Be it so: but shall we, because we are moderately happy,
reject supreme felicity? Is not all that time lost which might have
been better employed? If it were possible to live a thousand years in
one quarter of an hour, what purpose would it answer to tell over the
tedious number of days when they were past?
Your opinion of our present situation is very just; I am convinced I
ought to be happy, and yet I am much the reverse. The dictates of
wisdom may continue to flow from your lips, but the voice of nature is
stronger than yours: and how can we avoid listening to her, when she
speaks the language of our own hearts? Of all sublunary things, I know
of nothing, except yourself, which deserves a moment’s attention.
Without you, nature would have no allurements: her empire is in your
charms, and there she is irresistible.
Your heart, divine Eloisa, feels none of this. You are content to
ravish our senses, and are not at war with your own. It should seem
that your soul is too sublime for human passions, and that you have
not only the beauty but the purity of angels: a purity which murmuring
I revere, and to which I would gladly aspire. But, no: I am condemned
to creep upon the earth, and to behold Eloisa a constellation in the
heavens. O may you continue to be happy though I am wretched; enjoy
your virtues; and perdition catch the vile mortal who shall ever
attempt to tarnish one of them! Yes, my Eloisa, be happy, and I will
endeavour to forget my own misery, in the recollection of your bliss.
If I know my heart, my love is as spotless as its adorable object. The
passions which your charms have inflamed, are extinguished by the
purity of your soul; I dare not disturb its serenity. Whenever I am
tempted to take the least liberty, I find myself restrained rather by
the dread of interrupting your peace of mind, than by the fear of
offending. In my pursuit of happiness, I have considered only in what
degree it might affect my Eloisa; and finding it incompatible with
hers, I can be wretched without repining.
With what inexplicable, jarring, sentiments you have inspired me! I am
at once submissive and daring, mild and impetuous. Your looks inflame
my heart with love, and when I hear your voice I am captivated with
the charms of innocence. If ever I presume to indulge a wishful idea,
it is in your absence. Your image in my mind is the only object of my
passionate adoration.
And yet I languish and consume away; my blood is all on fire, and
every attempt to damp the flame serves but to increase its fervour.
Still I have cause to think myself very happy; and so I do. Surely I
have little reason to complain, when I would not change my situation
with the greatest monarch on earth. But yet some sad fiend torments me
whose pursuits it is impossible to elude. Methinks I would not die,
and yet I am daily expiring; for you only I wish to live, and you
alone are the cause of my death.
Letter XI. From Eloisa.
My attachment to my dear friend grows every day stronger; your absence
becomes insupportable, and I have no relief but in my pen. Thus my
love keeps pace with yours; for I judge of your passion by your real
fear of offending: your former fears were only feigned, with an intent
to advance your cause. It is an easy matter to distinguish the
dictates of an afflicted heart from the phrenzy of a heated
imagination, and I see a thousand times more affection in your present
constraint than in your former delirium. I know also that your
situation, confined as it is, is not entirely bereft of pleasure. A
sincere lover must be very happy in making frequent sacrifices to a
grateful mistress, when he is assured that not one of them will be
forgotten, but that she will treasure the remembrance in her heart.
But who knows whether, presuming on my sensibility, this may not be a
deeper, and therefore a more dangerous plot than the former? O, no!
the supposition was unjust; you certainly cannot mean to deceive me.
And yet prudence tells me to be more suspicious of compassion than
even of love; for I find myself more affected by your respect than by
all your transport: so that, as you are grown more honest, you are
become in proportion more formidable.
In the overflowing of my heart I will tell you a truth, of which your
own feelings cannot fail to convince you: it is, that in spite of
fortune, parents, and of ourselves, our fates are united for ever, and
we can be only happy or miserable together. Our souls, if I may use
the expression, touch in all points, and we feel an entire coherence:
correct me if I speak unphilosophically. Our destiny may part us, but
cannot disunite us. Henceforward our pains and pleasures must be
mutual; and, like the magnets, of which I have heard you speak, that
have the same motion though in different places, we should have the
same sensations at the two extremities of the world.
Banish, therefore, the vain hope, if you ever entertained it, of
exclusive happiness to be purchased at the expense of mine. Do not
flatter yourself with the idle prospect of felicity founded upon
Eloisa’s dishonour, or imagine that you could behold my ignominy and
my tears, without horror. Believe me, my dear friend, I know your
heart better than yourself. A passion so tender and so true, cannot
possibly excite an impure wish; but we are so attached, that if we
were on the brink of perdition it would be impossible for us to fall
singly; of my ruin yours is the inevitable consequence.
I should be glad to convince you how necessary it is for us both that
I should be entrusted with the care of our destiny. Can you doubt that
you are as dear to me as myself, or that I can enjoy any happiness
exclusive of yours? No, my dear friend, our interest is exactly the
same, but I have rather more at stake, and have therefore more reason
to be watchful. I own I am youngest; but did you never observe that if
reason be generally weaker and sooner apt to decay in our sex, it also
comes more early to maturity than in yours? as in vegetation the most
feeble plants arrive at their perfection and dissolution in the least
time. We find ourselves, from our first conception of things,
instructed with so valuable a treasure, that our dread of consequences
soon unfolds our judgment, and an early sense of our danger excites
our vigilance.
In short, the more I reflect upon our situation, the more I am
convinced that love and reason join in my request: suffer yourself
then to be lead by the gentle deity; for though he is blind, he is not
without a guide.
I am not quite certain that this language of my heart will be
perfectly intelligible to yours, or that my letter will be read with
the same emotion with which it was written: nor am I convinced that
particular objects will ever appear to us in the same light; but
certain I am, that the advice of either which tends least towards
separate happiness, is that which we ought to follow.
Letter XII. To Eloisa.
O my Eloisa, how pathetic is the language of nature! How plainly do I
perceive in your last letter, the serenity of innocence and the
solicitude of love! Your sentiments are exprest without art or
trouble, and convey a more delicious sensation to the mind, than all
the refined periods of studied elocution. Your reasons are
incontrovertible, but urged with such an air of simplicity, that they
seem less cogent at first than they really are; and your manner of
expressing the sublimest sentiments is so natural and easy, that
without reflection one is apt to mistake them for common opinions.
Yes, my Eloisa, the care of our destiny shall be entirely yours: not
because it is your right, but as your duty, and as a piece of justice
I expect from your reason, for the injury you have done to mine. From
this moment to the end of my life, I resign myself to your will;
dispose of me as of one who hath no interest of his own, and whose
existence hath no connection but with you. Doubt not that I will fly
from my resolution, be the terms you impose ever so rigorous; for
though I myself should profit nothing by my obedience, if it adds but
one jot to your felicity, I am sufficiently rewarded. Therefore I
relinquish to you without reserve, the entire care of our common
happiness; secure but your own and I will be satisfied. As for me, who
can neither forget you a single moment, nor think of you without
forbidden emotion, I will now give my whole attention to the
employment you were pleased to assign me.
It is now just a year since we began our studies, and hitherto they
have been directed partly by chance, rather with a design to consult
your taste than to improve it. Besides, our hearts were too much
fluttered to leave us the perfect use of our senses. Our eyes wandered
from the book, and our lips pronounced words, without any ideas. I
remember, your arch cousin, whose mind was unengaged, used frequently
to reproach us with want of conception; she seemed delighted to leave
us behind, and soon grew more knowing than her preceptor. Now though
we have sometimes smiled at her pretensions, she is really the only
one of the three who retains any part of our reading.
But to retrieve, in some degree, the time we have lost, (Ah! Eloisa,
was ever time more happily spent?) I have formed a kind of plan, which
may possibly, by the advantage of method, in some measure, compensate
our neglect. I send it you inclosed; we will read it together; at
present I shall only make a few general observations on the subject.
If, my charming friend, we were inclined to parade with our learning,
and to study for the world rather than for ourselves, my system would
be a bad one; for it tends only to extract a little from a vast
multiplicity of things, and from a large library to select a small
number of books.
Science, in general, may be considered as a coin of great value, but
of use to the possessor, only in as much as it is communicated to
others; it is valuable but as a commodity in traffic. Take from the
learned the pleasure of being heard, and their love of knowledge would
vanish. They do not study to obtain wisdom, but the reputation of it:
philosophy would have no charms if the philosopher had no admirers.
For our parts, who have no design but to improve our minds, it will be
most advisable, to read little and think much; or, which is better,
frequently to talk over the subjects on which we have been reading. I
am of opinion, when once the understanding is a little developed by
reflection, it is better to reason for ourselves than to depend upon
books for the discovery of truth; for by that means it will make a
much stronger impression; whilst on the contrary, by taking things for
granted, we view objects by halves and in a borrowed light. We are
born rich, says Montaigne, and yet our whole education consists in
borrowing. We are taught to accumulate continually, and, like true
misers, we chuse rather to use the wealth of other men, than break
into our own store.
I confess there are many people whom the method I propose would not
suit, who ought to _read much_ and _think little_, because every
borrowed reflection is better than any thing they could have produced.
But I recommend the contrary to you, who improve upon every book you
read. Let us therefore mutually communicate our ideas; I will relate
the opinions of others, then you shall tell me yours upon the same
subject, and thus shall I frequently gather more instruction from our
lecture than yourself.
The more we contract our circle, the more necessary it is to be
circumspect in the choice of our authors. The grand error of young
students, as I told you before, is a too implicit dependence upon
books, and too much diffidence in their own capacity; without
reflecting that they are much less liable to be misled by their own
reason, than by the sophistry of systematical writers. If we would but
consult our own feelings, we should easily distinguish _virtue_ and
_beauty_: we do not want to be taught either of these; but examples of
extreme virtue, and superlative beauty are less common, and these are
therefore more difficult to be understood. Our vanity leads us to
mistake our own peculiar imbecility for that of nature, and to think
those qualities chimerical which we do not perceive within ourselves;
idleness and vice rest upon pretended impossibility, and men of little
genius conclude that things which are uncommon have no existence.
These errors we must endeavour to eradicate, and by using ourselves to
contemplate grand objects, destroy the notion of their impossibility:
thus, by degrees, our emulation is roused by example, our taste
refines, and every thing indifferent becomes intolerable.
But let us not have recourse to books for principles which may be
found within ourselves. What have we to do with the idle disputes of
philosophers, concerning virtue and happiness? Let us rather employ
that time in being virtuous and happy, which others waste in fruitless
enquiries after the means: let us rather imitate great examples, than
busy ourselves with systems and opinions.
I always believed, that virtue was in reality active beauty; or at
least that they were intimately connected, and sprung from the same
source in nature. From this idea it follows, that wisdom and taste are
to be improved by the same means, and that a mind truly sensible of
the charms of virtue, must receive an equal impression from every
other kind of beauty. Yet accurate and refined perceptions are to be
acquired only by habit; and hence it is, that we see a painter, in
viewing a fine prospect or a good picture, in raptures at certain
objects, which a common observer would not even have seen. How many
real impressions do we perceive, which we cannot account for? How many
_Je-ne-sais-quois_ frequently occur, which taste only can determine?
Taste is, in some degree, the microscope of judgment; it brings small
objects to our view, and its operations begin where those of judgment
end. How then shall we proceed in its cultivation? By exercising our
sight as well as feeling, and by judging of the beautiful from
inspection, as we judge of virtue from sensation. I am persuaded there
may be some hearts upon which the first sight, even of Eloisa, would
make no impression.
For this reason, my lovely scholar, I limit your studies to books of
taste and manners. For this reason, changing my precepts into
examples, I shall give you no other definitions of virtue than the
pictures of virtuous men; nor other rules for writing well, than books
which are well written.
Be not surprized that I have thus contracted the circle of your
studies; it will certainly render them more useful: I am convinced, by
daily experience, that all instruction which tends not to improve the
mind, is not worth your attention. We will diminish the languages,
except the Italian, which you understand and admire. We will discard
our elements of algebra and geometry. We would even quit our
philosophy were it not for the utility of its terms. We will, for
ever, renounce modern history, except that of our own country, and
that only on account of our liberty, and the ancient simplicity of our
manners: for let nobody persuade you that the history of one’s own
country is the most interesting; it is false. The history of some
countries will not even bear reading. The most interesting history is,
that which furnishes the most examples, manners, and characters; in a
word, the most instruction. We are told that we possess all these in
as great a degree as the ancients; but turn to their histories and you
will be convinced that this is also a mistake.
There are people whose faces are so unmeaning, that the best painter
cannot catch their likeness, and there are governments so
uncharacteristic as to want no historian; but able historians will
never be wanting where there is matter deserving the pen of a good
writer. In short, they tell us that men are alike in all ages, that
their virtues and vices are the same, and that we admire the ancients
only because they are ancients. This is also false: in former times
great effects were produced by trifling causes, but in our days it is
just the reverse. The ancients were cotemporary with their historians,
and yet we have learnt to admire them: should posterity ever admire
our modern historians, they certainly will not have grounded their
opinion upon ours.
Out of regard to our _constant_ companion, I consent to a few volumes
of belles lettres, which I should not have recommended to you. Except
Petrarch, Tasso, Metastasio, and the best French theatrical authors, I
leave you none of those amorous poets, which are the common amusement
of your sex. The most inspired of them all cannot teach us to love?
Ah, Eloisa, we are better instructed by our own hearts! The phrases
borrowed from books are cold and insipid to us who speak the language
of our souls. It is a kind of reading which cramps the imagination,
enervates the mind, and dims its original brightness. On the contrary,
real love influences all our sentiments, and animates them with new
vigour.
Letter XIII. From Eloisa.
I told you we were happy, and nothing proves it more than the
uneasiness we feel upon the least change in our situation: if it were
not true, why should two days separation give us so much pain? I say
_us_, for I know my friend shares my impatience; he feels my
uneasiness, and is unhappy upon his own account; but to tell me this
were now superfluous.
We have been in the country since last night only; the hour is not yet
come in which I should see you if I were in town; and yet this
distance makes me already find your absence almost insupportable. If
you had not prohibited geometry, I should say, that my inquietude
increases in a compound ratio of the intervals of time and space; so
sensible am I that the pain of absence is increased by distance. I
have brought with me your letter, and your plan of study, for my
meditation; I have read the first already twice over, and own I was a
good deal affected with the conclusion. I perceive, my dear friend,
that your passion deserves the name of real love, because you still
preserve your sense of honour, and are capable of sacrificing every
thing to virtue. To delude a woman in the disguise of her preceptor is
surely, of all the wiles of seduction, the most unpardonable; and he
must have very little resource in himself, who would attempt to move
his mistress by the assistance of romance. If you had availed yourself
of philosophy to forward your designs, or if you had endeavoured to
establish maxims favourable to your interest, those very methods of
deceit would soon have undeceived me; but you have more honesty, and
are therefore more dangerous. From the first moment I perceived in my
heart the least spark of love, and the desire of a lasting attachment,
I petitioned heaven to unite me to a man whose soul was amiable rather
than his person; for well I knew that the charms of the mind were
least liable to disgust, and that probity and honour adorn every
sentiment of the heart. I chose with propriety, and therefore, like
Solomon, I have obtained, not only what I asked for, but also what I
did not ask. I look upon this as a good omen, and I do not despair but
I shall, one day, have it in my power to make my dear friend as happy
as he deserves. We have indeed many obstacles to surmount, and the
expedients are slow, doubtful and difficult. I dare not flatter myself
too much; be assured, however, that nothing shall be forgotten which
the united efforts of love and patience can accomplish. Mean while,
continue to humour my mother, and prepare yourself for the return of
my father, who at last retires, after thirty years services. You must
learn to endure the haughtiness of a hasty old gentleman, jealous of
his honour, who will love you without flattering, and esteem you
without many professions.
I broke off here to take a ramble in the neighbouring woods. You, my
amiable friend, you were my companion, or rather I carried thee in my
heart. I sought those paths which I imagined we should have trod, and
marked the shades which seemed worthy to receive us. The delightful
solitude of the groves seemed to heighten our sensibility, and the
woods themselves appeared to receive additional beauty from the
presence of two such faithful lovers.
Amidst the natural bowers of this charming place, there is one still
more beautiful than the rest, with which I am most delighted, and
where, for that reason, I intend to surprize you. It must not be said
that I want generosity to reward your constant respect. I would
convince you, in spite of vulgar opinions, that voluntary favours are
more valuable than those obtained by importunity. But lest the
strength of your imagination should lead you too far, I must inform
you, that we will not visit these pleasant bowers without my _constant
companion_.
Now I have mentioned my cousin, I am determined, if it does not
displease you, that you shall accompany her hither on Monday next. You
must not fail to be with her at ten o’clock. My mother’s chaise will
be there about that time; you shall spend the whole day with us, and
we will return all together the next day after dinner.
I had wrote so far when I bethought myself, that I have not the same
opportunity here, for the conveyance of my letter, as in town. I once
had an inclination to send you one of your books by Gustin the
gardener’s son, and to inclose my letter in the cover. But, as there
is a possibility that you may not be aware of this contrivance, it
would be unpardonably imprudent to risk our all on so precarious a
bottom. I must therefore be contented to signify the intended
rendezvous on Monday by a billet, and I will myself give you this
letter. Besides, I was a little apprehensive lest you might comment
too freely on the mystery of the bower.
Letter XIV. To Eloisa.
Ah! Eloisa, Eloisa! what have you done? You meant to requite me, and
you are the cause of my ruin. I am intoxicated, or rather, I am mad.
My brains are turned, all my senses are disordered by this fatal kiss.
You designed to alleviate my pain; but you have cruelly increased my
torment. The poison I have imbibed from your lips will destroy me, my
blood boils within my veins; I shall die, and your pity will but
hasten my death.
O immortal remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting
moment! Never, never to be effaced so long as Eloisa lives within my
soul; till my heart is deprived of all sensation thou wilt continue
to be the happiness and torment of my life!
Alas! I possessed an apparent tranquility; resigned myself entirely to
your supreme will, and never murmured at the fate you condescended to
overrule. I had conquered the impetuous sallies of my imagination; I
disguised my looks, and put a lock upon my heart; I but half expressed
my desires, and was as content as possible. Thus your billet found me,
and I flew to your cousin; we arrived at Clarens, my heart beat quick
at the sight of my beloved Eloisa; her sweet voice caused a strange
emotion; I became almost transported, and it was lucky for me that
your cousin was present to engage your mother’s attention. We rambled
in the garden, dined comfortably, you found an opportunity,
unperceived, to give me your charming letter, which I durst not open
before this formidable witness; the sun began to decline, and we
hastened to the woods for the benefit of shade. Alas! I was quite
happy, and I did not even conceive a state of greater bliss.
As we approached the bower, I perceived, not without a secret emotion,
your significant winks, your mutual smiles, and the increasing glow in
thy charming cheeks. Soon as we entered, I was surprized to see your
cousin approach me, and with an affected air of humility, ask me for a
kiss. Without comprehending the mystery, I complied with her request;
and, charming as she is, I never could have had a more convincing
proof of the insipidity of those sensations which proceed not from the
heart. But what became of me a moment after, when I felt----My hands
shook----A gentle tremor----Thy balmy lips----My Eloisa’s lips----
touch, pressed to mine, and myself within her arms? Quicker than
lightening a sudden fire darted through my soul. I seemed all over
sensible of the ravishing condescension, and my heart sunk down
oppressed with insupportable delight; when all at once, I perceived
your colour change, your eyes close; you leant upon your cousin, and
fainted away. Fear extinguished all my joy, and my happiness vanished
like a shadow.
I scarce know any thing that has past since that fatal moment. The
impression it has made on my heart will never be effaced. A
favour?----it is an extreme torment----No, keep thy kisses, I cannot
bear them----They are too penetrating, too painful----they distract
me. I am no more myself, and you appear to me no more the same object.
You seem not as formerly chiding and severe; but methinks I see and
feel thee lovely and tender as at that happy instant when I pressed
thee to my bosom. O Eloisa! whatever may be the consequence of my
ungovernable passion, use me as severely as you please, I cannot
exist in my present condition, and I perceive I must at last expire
at your feet----or in your arms.
Letter XV. From Eloisa.
It is necessary, my dear friend, that we should part for some time: I
ask it as the first proof of that obedience you have so often
promised. If I am urgent in my request, you may be assured I have good
reason for it: indeed I have, and you are too well convinced that I
must to be able to take this resolution; for your part, you will be
satisfied, since it is my desire.
You have long talked of taking a journey into Valais. I wish you would
determine to go before the approach of winter. Autumn, in this
country, still wears a mild and serene aspect; but you see the tops of
the mountains are already white, and six weeks later you should not
have my consent to take such a rough journey. Resolve therefore to set
out to-morrow: you will write to me by the direction which I shall
send, and you will give me yours when you arrive at Sion.
You would never acquaint me with the situation of your affairs; but
you are not in your own country; your fortune I know is small, and I
am persuaded you must diminish it here, where you stay only upon my
account. I look upon myself therefore as your purse-bearer, and send
you a small matter in the little box, which you must not open before
the bearer. I will not anticipate difficulties, and I have too great
an esteem for you to believe you capable of making any on this
occasion.
I beg you will not return without my permission, and also that you
will take no leave of us. You may write to my mother or me, merely to
inform us, that some unforeseen business requires your presence, that
you are obliged to depart immediately; and you may, if you please,
send me some directions concerning my studies, until you return. You
must be careful to avoid the least appearance of mystery. Adieu, my
dear friend, and forget not that you take with you the heart and soul
of Eloisa.
Letter XVI. Answer.
Every line of your terrible letter made me shudder. But I will obey
you; I have promised, and it is my duty: yes, you shall be obeyed. But
you cannot conceive, no, barbarous Eloisa, you will never comprehend
how this cruel sacrifice affects my heart. There wanted not the trial
in the bower to increase my sensibility. It was a merciless refinement
of inhumanity, and I now defy you to make me more miserable.
I return your box unopened. To add ignominy to cruelty is too much;
you are indeed the mistress of my fate, but not of my honour, I will
myself preserve this sacred deposit; alas! it is the only treasure I
have left! and I will never part with it so long as I live.
Letter XVII. Reply.
Your letter excites my compassion; it is the only senseless thing you
have ever written.
I affront your honour! I would rather sacrifice my life. Do you
believe it possible that I should mean to injure your honour? Ingrate!
Too well thou knowest that for thy sake I had almost sacrificed my
own. But tell me what is this honour which I have offended? Ask thy
groveling heart, thy indelicate soul. How despicable art thou if thou
hast no honour but that which is unknown to Eloisa! Shall those whose
hearts are one, scruple to share their possessions? Shall he who calls
himself mine refuse my gifts? Since when is it become dishonourable to
receive from those we love? But the man is despised whose wants exceed
his fortune. Despised! by whom? By those abject souls who place their
honour in their wealth, and estimate their virtue by their weight of
gold. But is this the honour of a good man? Is virtue less honourable
because it is poor?
Undoubtedly there are presents which a man of honour ought not to
accept; but I must tell you, those are equally dishonourable to the
person by whom they are offered; and that what may be given with
honour, it cannot be dishonourable to receive: now my heart is so far
from reproaching me with what I did, that it glories in the motive.
Nothing can be more despicable than a man whose love and assiduities
are bought, except the woman by whom they are purchased. But where two
hearts are united, it is so reasonable and just that their fortunes
should be in common, that if I have reserved more than my share, I
think myself indebted to you for the overplus. If the favours of love
are rejected, how shall our hearts express their gratitude?
But, lest you should imagine that in my design to supply your wants I
was inattentive to my own, I will give you an indisputable proof of
the contrary. Know then, that the purse which I now return contains
double the sum it held before, and that I could have redoubled it if I
had pleased. My father gives me a certain allowance, moderate indeed,
but which my mother’s kindness renders it unnecessary for me to touch.
As to my lace and embroidery, they are the produce of my own industry.
It is true, I was not always so rich; but, I know not how, my
attention to a certain fatal passion has of late made me neglect a
thousand little expensive superfluities; which is another reason why I
should dispose of it in this manner: it is but just that you should be
humbled as a punishment for the evil you have caused, and that love
should expiate the crimes he occasions.
But to the point. You say your honour will not suffer you to accept my
gift. If this be true, I have nothing more to say, and am entirely of
opinion that you cannot be too positive in this respect. If therefore
you can prove this to be the case, I desire it may be done clearly,
incontestably, and without evasion; for you know I hate all appearance
of sophistry. You may then return the purse; I will receive it without
complaining, and you shall hear no more of this affair.
You will be pleased, however, to remember, that I neither like false
honour, nor people who are affectedly punctilious. If you return the
box without a justification, or if your justification be not
satisfactory, we must meet no more. Think of this. Adieu.
Letter XVIII. To Eloisa.
I received your present, I departed without taking leave, and am now a
considerable distance from you. Am I sufficiently obedient? Is your
tyranny satisfied?
I can give you no account of my journey; for I remember nothing more
than that I was three days in travelling twenty leagues. Every step I
took seemed to tear my soul from my body, and thus to anticipate the
pain of death. I intended to have given you a description of the
country through which I passed. Vain project! I beheld nothing but
you, and can describe nothing but Eloisa. The repeated emotions of my
heart threw me into a continued distraction; I imagined myself to be
where I was not; I had hardly sense enough left to ask or follow my
road, and I am arrived at Sion without ever leaving Vevey.
Thus I have discovered the secret of eluding your cruelty, and of
seeing you without disobeying your command. No, Eloisa, with all your
rigour, it is not in your power to separate me from you entirely. I
have dragged into exile but the most inconsiderable part of myself; my
soul must remain with you for ever: with impunity, it explores your
beauty, dwells in rapture upon every charm; and I am happier in
despite of you than I ever was by your permission.
Unfortunately, I have here some people to visit and some necessary
business to transact. I am least wretched in solitude, where I can
employ all my thoughts upon Eloisa, and transport myself to her in
imagination. Every employment which calls off my attention, is become
insupportable. I will hurry over my affairs, that I may be soon at
liberty to wander through the solitary wilds of this delightful
country. Since I must not live with you, I will shun all society with
mankind.
Letter XIX. To Eloisa.
I am now detained here only by your order. Those five days have been
more than sufficient to finish my own concerns, if things may be so
called in which the heart has no interest: so that now you have no
pretence to prolong my exile, unless with design to torment me.
I begin to be very uneasy about the fate of my first letter. It was
written and sent by the post immediately upon my arrival, and the
direction was exactly copied from that which you transmitted me: I
sent you mine with equal care; so that if you had answered me
punctually, I must have received your letter before now. Yet this
letter does not appear, and there is no possible fatality which I have
not supposed to be the cause of its delay. O Eloisa, how many
unforeseen accidents may have happened in the space of one week, to
dissolve the most perfect union that ever existed! I shudder to think
that there are a thousand means to make me miserable, and only one by
which I can possibly be happy. Eloisa, is it that I am forgotten! God
forbid! that were to be miserable indeed. I am prepared for any other
misfortune; but all the powers of my soul sicken at the bare idea of
that.
O no! it cannot be: I am convinced my fears are groundless, and yet my
apprehensions continue. The bitterness of my misfortunes increases
daily; and as if real evils were not sufficient to depress my soul, my
fears supply me with imaginary ones to add weight to the others. At
first my grief was much more tolerable. The trouble of a sudden
departure, and the journey itself were some sort of dissipation! but
this peaceful solitude assembles all my woes. Like a wounded soldier,
I felt but little pain till after I had retired from the field.
How often have I laughed at a lover, in romance, bemoaning the absence
of his mistress! Little did I imagine that your absence would ever be
so intolerable to me! I am now sensible how improper it is for a mind
at rest to judge of other men’s passions; and how foolish, to ridicule
the sensations we have never felt. I must confess, however, I have
great consolation in reflecting that I suffer by your command. The
sufferings which you are pleased to ordain, are much less painful than
if they were inflicted by the hand of fortune; if they give you any
satisfaction, I should be sorry not to have suffered; they are the
pledges of their reward; I know you too well to believe you would
exercise barbarity for its own sake.
If your design be to put me to the proof, I will murmur no more. It is
but just that you should know whether I am constant, endued with
patience, docility, and, in short, worthy of the bliss you design me.
Gods! if this be your idea, I shall complain that I have not suffered
half enough. Ah, Eloisa! for heaven’s sake, support the flattering
expectation in my heart, and invent, if you can, some torment better
proportioned to the reward.
Letter XX. From Eloisa.
I received both your letters at once, and I perceive, by your anxiety
in the second, concerning the fate of the other, that when imagination
takes the lead of reason, the latter is not always in haste to follow,
but suffers her, sometimes, to proceed alone. Did you suppose, when
you reached Sion, that the post waited only for your letter, that it
would be delivered to me the instant of his arrival here, and that my
answer would be favoured with equal dispatch? No, no, my good friend,
things do not always go on so swimmingly. Your two epistles came both
together; because the post happened not to set out till after he had
received the second. It requires some time to distribute the letters;
my agent has not always an immediate opportunity of meeting me alone,
and the post from hence does not return the day after his arrival: so
that, all things calculated, it must be at least a week before we can
receive an answer one from the other. This I have explained to you
with design, once for all, to satisfy your impatience. Whilst you are
exclaiming against fortune and my negligence, you see that I have been
busied in obtaining the information necessary to insure our
correspondence, and prevent your anxiety. Which of us hath been best
employed, I leave to your own decision.
Let us, my dear friend, talk no more of pain; rather partake the joy I
feel at the return of my kind father, after a tedious absence of eight
months. He arrived on Thursday evening, since which happy moment I
have thought of nobody else. [7] O thou, whom, next to the Author of
my being, I love more than all the world! why must thy letters, thy
complainings affect my soul, and interrupt the first transports of a
reunited happy family?
You expect to monopolize my whole attention. But tell me, could you
love a girl, whose passion for her lover could extinguish all
affection for her parents? Would you, because you are uneasy, have me
insensible to the endearments of a kind father? No, my worthy friend,
you must not imbitter my innocent joy by your unjust reproaches. You,
who have so much sensibility, can surely conceive the sacred pleasures
of being prest to the throbbing heart of a tender parent. Do you think
that in those delightful moments it is possible to divide one’s
affection?
_Sol che son figlia io mi rammento adesso._
Yet you are not to imagine I can forget you. Do we ever forget what we
really love? No, the more lively impressions of a moment have no power
to efface the other. I was not unaffected with your departure hence,
and shall not be displeased to see you return. But----be patient like
me, because you must, without asking any other reason. Be assured that
I will recall you as soon as it is in my power; and remember, that
those who complain loudest of absence, do not always suffer most.
Letter XXI. To Eloisa.
How was I tormented in receiving the letter which I so impatiently
expected! I waited at the post-house. The mail was scarce opened
before I gave in my name, and begun to importune the man. He told me
there was a letter for me; my heart leaped; I asked for it with great
impatience, and at last received it. O Eloisa! how I rejoiced to
behold the well-known hand! A thousand times would I have kissed the
precious characters, but I wanted resolution to press the letter to my
lips, or to open it before so many witnesses. Immediately I retired,
my knees trembled; I scarce knew my way; I broke the seal the moment I
had past the first turning; I run over, or rather devoured, the dear
lines, till I came to that part which so movingly speaks your
tenderness and affection for your venerable father; I wept; I was
observed; I then retired to a place of greater privacy, and there
mingled my joyful tears with yours. With transport I embraced your
happy father, though I hardly remember him. The voice of nature
reminded me of my own, and I shed fresh tears to his memory.
O incomparable Eloisa! what can you possibly learn of me? It is from
you only can be learnt every thing that is great and good, and
especially that divine union of nature, love, and virtue, which never
existed but in you. Every virtuous affection is distinguished in your
heart by a sensibility so peculiar to yourself, that, for the better
regulation of my own, as my actions are already submitted to your
will, I perceive, my sentiments also must be determined by yours.
Yet what a difference there is between your situation and mine! I do
not mean as to rank or fortune; sincere affection, and dignity of
soul, want none of these. But you are surrounded by a number of kind
friends who adore you; a tender mother, and a father who loves you as
his only hope; a friend and cousin who seem to breathe only for your
sake: you are the ornament and oracle of an entire family, the boast
and admiration of a whole town; these, all these divide your
sensibility, and what remains for love is but a small part in
comparison of that which is ravished from you by duty, nature and
friendship. But I, alas! Eloisa, a wanderer without a family, and
almost without country, have no one but you upon earth, and am
possessed of nothing, save my love. Be not, therefore, surprized,
though your heart may have more sensibility, that mine should know
better how to love; and that you, who excel me in every thing else,
must yield to me in this respect.
You need not, however, be apprehensive lest I should indiscreetly
trouble you with my complaints. No, I will not interrupt your joy,
because it adds to your felicity, and is in its nature laudable.
Imagination shall represent the pathetic scene; and, since I have no
happiness of my own, I will endeavour to enjoy yours.
Whatever may be your reasons for prolonging my absence, I believe them
just; but though I knew them to be otherwise, what would that avail?
Have I not promised implicit obedience? Can I suffer more in being
silent, than in parting from you? But remember, Eloisa, your soul now
directs two separate bodies, and that the one she animates by choice
will continue the most faithful.
_--------Nodo piu forte:
Fabricato da noi, non dalla forte._
No, Eloisa, you shall hear no repining. Till you are pleased to recall
me from exile, I will try to deceive the tedious hours in exploring
the mountains of Valais, whilst they are yet practicable. I am of
opinion that this unfrequented country deserves the attention of
speculative curiosity, and that it wants nothing to excite admiration,
but a skilful spectator. Perhaps my excursion may give rise to a few
observations, that may not be entirely undeserving your perusal. To
amuse a fine lady one should describe a witty and polite nation; but,
I know, my Eloisa will have more pleasure in a picture where
simplicity of manners and rural happiness are the principal objects.
Letter XXII. From Eloisa.
At last, the ice is broken: you have been mentioned. Notwithstanding
your poor opinion of my learning, it was sufficient to surprize my
father; nor was he less pleased with my progress in music and
drawing: Indeed, to the great astonishment of my mother, who was
prejudiced by your scandal, [8] he was satisfied with my improvement
in every thing, except heraldry, which he thinks I have neglected. But
all this could not be acquired without a master: I told him mine,
enumerating at the same time all the sciences he proposed to teach me,
except one. He remembers to have seen you several times on his last
journey, and does not appear to retain any impression to your
disadvantage.
He then enquired about your fortune; he was told, it was not great:
Your birth? he was answered, _honest_. This word _honest_ sounds very
equivocal in the ears of nobility; it excited some suspicions, which
were confirmed in the explanation. As soon as he was informed that
your birth was not noble, he asked, what you had been paid per month.
My mother replied, that you had not only refused to accept a stipend,
but that you had even rejected every present she had offered. This
pride of yours served but to inflame his own: who indeed could bear
the thought of being obliged to a poor _plebeian_? Therefore it was
determined, that a stipend should be offered, and that, in case you
refused it, notwithstanding your merit, you should be dismissed. Such,
my friend, is the result of a conversation held concerning my most
honoured master, during which his very humble scholar was not entirely
at ease. I thought I could not be in too great a hurry to give you
this information, that you might have sufficient time to consider it
maturely. When you have come to a resolution, do not fail to let me
know it; for it is a matter entirely within your own province, and
beyond my jurisdiction.
I am not much pleased with your intended excursion to the mountains:
not that I think it will prove an unentertaining dissipation, or that
your narrative will not give me pleasure; but I am fearful lest you
may not be able to support the fatigue. Besides, the season is already
too far advanced. The hills will soon be covered with snow, and you
may possibly suffer as much from cold as fatigue. If you should fall
sick in that distant country, I should be inconsolable. Come
therefore, my dear friend, come nearer to your Eloisa: it is not yet
time to return to Vevey; but I would have you less rudely situated,
and so as to facilitate our correspondence. I leave the choice of
place to yourself; only take care that it be kept secret from the
people here, and be discreet without being mysterious. I know you will
be prudent for your own sake, but doubly so for mine.
Adieu. I am forced to break off. You know I am obliged to be very
cautious. But this is not all: my father has brought with him a
venerable stranger, his old friend, who once saved his life in a
battle. Judge then of the reception he deserves! To-morrow he leaves
us, and we are impatient to procure him every sort of entertainment
that will best express our gratitude to such a benefactor. I am
called, and must finish. Once more, adieu.
Letter XXIII. To Eloisa.
I have employed scarce eight days in surveying a country that would
require some years. But, besides that I was driven off by the snow, I
chose to be before the post, who brings me, I hope, a letter from
Eloisa. In the mean time I begin this, and shall afterwards, if it be
necessary, write another in answer to that which I shall receive.
I do not intend to give you an account of my journey in this letter;
you shall see my remarks when we meet; they would take up too much of
our precious correspondence. For the present, it will be sufficient to
acquaint you with the situation of my heart: it is but just to render
you an account of that which is entirely yours.
I set out, dejected with my own sufferings, but consoled with your
joy; which held me suspended in a state of languor that is not
disagreeable to true sensibility. Under the conduct of a very honest
guide, I crawled up the towering hills through many a rugged
unfrequented path. Often would I muse, and then, at once, some
unexpected object caught my attention. One moment I beheld stupendous
rocks hanging ruinous over my head; the next, I was enveloped in a
drizling cloud, which arose from a vast cascade that dashing
thundered against the rocks below my feet; on one side, a perpetual
torrent opened to my view a yawning abyss, which my eyes could hardly
fathom with safety; sometimes I was lost in the obscurity of a hanging
wood, and then was agreeably astonished with the sudden opening of a
flowery plain. A surprising mixture of wild, and cultivated, nature,
points out the hand of man, where one would imagine man had never
penetrated. Here you behold a horrid cavern, and there a human
habitation; vineyards where one would expect nothing but brambles;
delicious fruit among barren rocks, and corn fields in the midst of
cliffs and precipices.
But it is not labour only that renders this strange country so
wonderfully contrasted; for here nature seems to have a singular
pleasure in acing contradictory to herself, so different does she
appear in the same place, in different aspects. Towards the east, the
flowers of spring; to the south; the fruits of autumn; and northwards
the ice of winter. She unites all the seasons in the same instant,
every climate in the same place, different soils on the same land, and
with a harmony elsewhere unknown, joins the produces of the plains to
those of the highest Alps. Add to these, the illusions of vision, the
tops of the mountains variously the illumined, the harmonious mixture
of light and shade, and their different effects in the morning and the
evening as I travelled; you may then form some idea of the scenes
which engaged my attention, and which seemed to change, as I past, as
on an enchanted theatre; for the prospect of mountains being almost
perpendicular to the horizon, strikes the eye at the same instant, and
more powerfully, than that of a plane, where the objects are seen
obliquely and half concealed behind each other.
To this pleasing variety of scenes I attributed the serenity of my
mind during my first day’s journey. I wondered to find that inanimate
beings should over-rule our most violent passions, and despised the
impotence of philosophy for having less power over the soul than a
succession of lifeless objects. But finding that my tranquility
continued during the night, and even increased with the following day,
I began to believe it followed from some other source, which I had not
yet discovered. That day I reached the lower mountains, and passing
over their rugged tops, at last ascended the highest summit I could
possibly attain. Having walked a while in the clouds, I came to a
place of greater serenity, whence one may peacefully observe the
thunder and the form gathering below: ah! too flattering picture of
human wisdom, of which the original never existed, except in those
sublime regions whence the emblem is taken.
Here it was that I plainly discovered; in the purity of the air, the
true cause of that returning tranquility of soul, to which I had been
so long a stranger. This impression is general, though not universally
observed. Upon the tops of mountains, the air being subtle and pure,
we respire with greater freedom, our bodies are more active, our minds
more serene, our pleasures less ardent, and our passions much more
moderate. Our meditations acquire a degree of sublimity from the
grandeur of the objects around us. It seems as if, being lifted above
all human society, we had left every low, terrestrial, sentiment
behind; and that as we approach the aethereal regions, the soul
imbibes something of their eternal purity. One is grave without being
melancholy, peaceful, but not indolent, pensive yet contented: our
desires lose their painful violence, and leave only a gentle emotion
in our hearts. Thus the passions which in the lower world are man’s
greatest torment, in happier climates contribute to his felicity. I
doubt much whether any violent agitation, or vapours of the mind,
could hold out against such a situation, and I am surprized that a
bath of the reviving and wholesome air of the mountains is not
frequently prescribed both by physic and morality.
_Quì non palazzi, non teatro o loggia,
Ma’n lor vece un’ abete, un faggio, un pino
Trà l’erba verde e’l bel monte vicino
Levan di terra al Ciel nostr’ intelletto._
Imagine to yourself all these united impressions; the amazing variety,
magnitude and beauty of a thousand stupendous objects; the pleasure of
gazing at an entire new scene, strange birds, unknown plants, another
nature, and a new world. To these even the subtilty of the air is
advantageous; it enlivens their natural colours, renders every object
more distinct, and brings it nearer to the eye. In short, there is a
kind of supernatural beauty in these mountainous prospects which
charms both the senses and the mind into a forgetfulness of one’s self
and of every thing in the world.
I could have spent the whole time in contemplating these magnificent
landskips, if I had not found still greater pleasure in my
conversation with the inhabitants. In my observations you will find a
slight sketch of their manners, their simplicity, their equality of
soul, and of that peacefulness of mind, which renders them happy by an
exemption from pain, rather than by the enjoyment of pleasure. But
what I was unable to describe, and which is almost impossible to be
conceived, is their disinterested humanity, and hospitable zeal to
oblige every stranger whom chance or curiosity brings to visit them.
This I myself continually experienced, I who was entirely unknown, and
who was conducted from place to place only by a common guide. When, in
the evening, I arrived in any hamlet at the foot of a mountain, each
of the inhabitants was so eager to have me lodge at his house, that I
was always embarrassed which to accept; and he who obtained the
preference seemed so well pleased that, at first, I supposed his joy
to arise from a lucrative prospect. But I was amazed, after having
used the house like an inn, to find my host not only refuse to accept
the least gratuity, but offended that it was offered. I found it
universally the same. So that it was true hospitality, which, from its
unusual ardour, I had mistaken for avarice. So perfectly disinterested
are this people, that during eight days, it was not in my power to
leave one dollar among them. In short, how is it possible to spend
money in a country where the landlord will not be paid for his
provisions, nor the servant for his trouble, and where there are no
beggars to be found? Nevertheless, money is by no means abundant in
the upper Valais, and for that very reason the inhabitants are not in
want; for the necessaries of life are plentiful, yet nothing is sent
out of the country; they are not luxurious at home, nor is the peasant
less laborious. If ever they have more money they will grow poor? and
of this they are so sensible that they tread upon mines of gold which
they are determined never to open.
I was at first greatly surprized at the difference between the customs
and manners of these people and those of the lower Valais; for in the
road through that part of the country to Italy, travellers pay dearly
enough for their passage. An inhabitant of the place explained the
mystery. The strangers, says he, which pass through the lower Valais
are chiefly merchants, or people that travel in pursuit of gain; it is
but just that they should leave us a part of their profit; and that we
should treat them as they treat others; but here our travellers meet
with a different reception, because we are assured their journey must
have a disinterested motive: they visit us out of friendship, and
therefore we receive them as our friends. But indeed our hospitality
is not very expensive; we have but few visitors. No wonder, I replied,
that mankind should avoid a people, who live only to enjoy life, and
not to acquire wealth and excite envy. Happy, deservedly happy,
mortals! I am pleased to think that one must certainly resemble you in
some degree, in order to approve your manners and taste your
simplicity.
What I found particularly agreeable whilst I continued among them was
the natural ease and freedom of their behaviour. They went about their
business in the house, as if I had not been there; and it was in my
power to act as if I were the sole inhabitant. They are entirely
unacquainted with the impertinent vanity of _doing the honours of the
house_, as if to remind the stranger of his dependence. When I said
nothing, they concluded I was satisfied to live in their manner; but
the least hint was sufficient to make them comply with mine, without
any repugnance or astonishment. The only compliment which they made
me, when they heard that I was a Swiss, was that they looked upon me
as a brother, and I ought therefore to think myself at home. After
this, they took but little notice of me, not supposing that I could
doubt the sincerity of their offers, or refuse to accept them whenever
they could useful. The same simplicity subsists among themselves: when
the children are once arrived at maturity, all distinction between
them and their parents seems to have ceased; their domestics are
seated at the same table with their master; the same liberty reigns in
the cottage as in the republic, and each family is an epitome of the
state.
They never deprived me of my liberty, except when at table: indeed it
was always in my power to avoid the repast; but, being once seated, I
was obliged to sit late, and drink much. What a Swiss, and not drink!
so they would exclaim. For my own part, I confess, I am no enemy to
good wine, and that I have no dislike to a chearful glass; but I
dislike compulsion. I have observed that deceitful men are generally
sober, and that peculiar reserve at table frequently indicates a
duplicity of soul. A guileless heart is not afraid of the unguarded
eloquence and affectionate folly which commonly precede drunkenness;
but we ought always to avoid the excess. Yet even that was sometimes
impossible among these hearty Valaisians, their wine being strong, and
water absolutely excluded. Who could act the philosopher here, or be
offended with such honest people? In short, I drank to shew my
gratitude, and since they refused to take my money, I made them a
compliment of my reason.
They have another custom, not less embarrassing, which is practised
even in the houses of the magistrates themselves; I mean that of their
wives and daughters standing behind one’s chair, and waiting at table
like so many servants. This would be insupportable to the gallantry of
a Frenchman, especially as the women of this country are in general so
extremely handsome that one can hardly bear to be attended by the
maid. You may certainly believe them beautiful, since they appeared so
to me; for my eyes have been accustomed to Eloisa, and are therefore
extremely difficult to please.
As for me, who pay more regard to the manners of the people with whom
I reside, than to any rules of politeness, I received their services
in silence, and with a degree of gravity equal to that of Don Quixote
when he was with the Duchess. I could not however help smiling now
and then at the contrast between the rough old grey-beards at the
table, and the charming complexions of the fair attendant nymphs, in
whom a single word would excite a blush, which rendered their beauty
more glowing and conspicuous. Not that I could admire the enormous
compass of their necks, which resemble, in their dazzling whiteness
only, that perfect model which always formed in my imagination (for
though veiled, I have sometimes stolen a glance) that celebrated
marble which is supposed to excel in delicate proportion the most
perfect work of nature.
Be not surprized to find me so knowing in mysteries which you so
carefully conceal: it happens in spite of all your caution; one sense
instructs another. Notwithstanding the most jealous vigilance, there
will always remain some friendly interstice or other, through which
the sight performs the office of the touch. The curious, busy eye
insinuates itself with impunity under the flowers of a nosegay,
wanders beneath the spreading gauze, and conveys that elastic
resistance to the hand which it dares not experience.
_Parte appar deble mamme acerbe e crude,
Parte altrui ne ricopre invida vesta;
Invida, ma s’ agli occhi il varco chiude,
L’amoroso pensier gia non arresta._
I am also not quite satisfied with the dress of the Valaisian ladies:
their gowns are raised so very high behind, that they all appear round
shouldered; yet this, together with their little black coifs, and
other peculiarities of their dress, has a singular effect, and wants
neither simplicity nor elegance. I shall bring you one of their
compleat suits, which I dare say will fit you; it was made to the
finest shape in the whole country.
But whilst I traversed with delight these regions which are so little
known, and so deserving of admiration, where was my Eloisa? Was she
banished my memory? Forget my Eloisa! Forget my own soul! Is it
possible for me to be one moment of my life alone, who exist only
through her? O no! our souls are inseparable, and, by instinct, change
their situation together according to the prevailing state of mine.
When I am in sorrow, she takes refuge with yours, and seeks
consolation in the place where you are; as was the case the day I left
you. When I am happy, being incapable of enjoyment alone, they both
attend upon me, and our pleasure becomes mutual: thus it was during my
whole excursion. I did not take one step without you, nor admire a
single prospect without eagerly pointing its beauties to Eloisa. The
same tree spread its shadow over us both, and we constantly reclined
against the same flowery bank. Sometimes as we sat I gazed with you at
the wonderful scene before us, and sometimes, on my knees I gazed with
rapture on an object more worthy the contemplation of human
sensibility. If I came to a difficult pass, I saw you skip over it
with the activity of the bounding doe. When a torrent happened to
cross our path, I presumed to press you in my arms, walked slowly
through the water, and was always sorry when I reached the opposite
bank. Every thing in that peaceful solitude brought you to my
imagination; the pleasing awfulness of nature, the invariable serenity
of the air, the grateful simplicity of the people, their constant and
natural prudence, the unaffected modesty and innocence of the sex, and
every object that gave pleasure to the eye or to the heart, seemed
inseparably connected with the idea of Eloisa.
O divine maid! I often tenderly exclaimed, that we might spend our
days in there unfrequented mountains, unenvied and unknown! Why can I
not here collect my whole soul into thee alone, and become, in turn,
the universe to Eloisa! Thy charms would then receive the homage they
deserve; then would our hearts taste without interruption the
delicious fruit of the soft passion with which they are filled: the
years of our long elysium would pass away untold, and when the frigid
hand of age should have calmed our first transports, the constant
habit of thinking and acting from the same principle would beget a
lasting friendship no less tender than our love, whose vacant place
should be filled by the kindred sentiments which grew and were
nourished with it in our youth. Like this happy people, we would
practice every duty of humanity, we would unite in acts of
benevolence, and at last die with the satisfaction of not having lived
in vain.
Hark----it is the post. I will close my letter, and fly to receive
another from Eloisa. How my heart beats? Why was I roused from my
reverie? I was happy at least in idea. Heaven only knows what I am to
be in reality.
Letter XXIV. To Eloisa.
I sit down to give you an immediate answer to that article of your
letter concerning the stipend; thank God, it requires no reflection.
My sentiments, my Eloisa, on this subject, are these.
In what is called honour, there is a material distinction between that
which is founded on the opinion of the world, and that which is
derived from self esteem. The first is nothing but the loud voice of
foolish prejudice, which has no more stability than the wind; but the
basis of the latter is fixed in the eternal truth of morality. The
honour of the world may be of advantage with regard to fortune but as
it cannot reach the soul, it has no influence on real happiness. True
honour, on the contrary, is the very essence of felicity; for it is
that alone inspires the permanent interior satisfaction which
constitutes the happiness of a rational being. Let us, my Eloisa,
apply these principles to your question, and it will be soon resolved.
To become an instructor of philosophy, and like the fool in the fable,
receive money for teaching wisdom, will appear rather low in the eyes
of the world, and, I own, has something in it ridiculous enough. Yet,
as no man can subsist merely of himself, and as there can be nothing
wrong in eating the fruit of one’s labour, we will regard this opinion
of mankind as a piece of foolish prejudice, to which it would be
madness to sacrifice our happiness. I know you will not esteem me the
less on this account, nor shall I deserve more pity for living upon
the talents I have cultivated.
But, my Eloisa, there are other things to be considered. Let us leave
the multitude and look a little into ourselves. What shall I in
reality be to your father, in receiving from him a salary for
instructing his daughter? Am I not from that moment a mercenary, a
hireling, a servant? and do I not tacitly pledge my faith for his
security, like the meanest of his domestics? Now what has a father to
lose of greater value than his only daughter, even though she were not
an Eloisa? and what should the man do who had thus pledged his faith
and sold his service? Ought he to stifle the flame within his breast?
Ah! Eloisa, that you know to be impossible: or should he rather
indulge this passion, and wound, in the most sensible part, the man
who has an undoubted right to his fidelity? In this case I behold a
perfidious teacher, trampling under foot every sacred bond of society,
[9] a seducer, a domestic traitor, whom the law hath justly condemned
to die. I hope Eloisa understands me. I do not fear death, but the
ignominy of deserving it, and my own contempt.
When the letters of your name’s sake and Abelard fell into your hands,
you remember my opinion of the conduct of that priest. I always pitied
Eloisa; she had a heart made for love: but Abelard seemed to deserve
his fate, as he was a stranger both to love and virtue. Ought I then
to follow his example? What wretch dares preach that virtue which he
will not practise? Whosoever suffers himself to be thus blinded by his
passions, will soon find himself punished in a loathing for those very
sensations to which he sacrificed his honour. There can be no pleasure
in any enjoyment which the heart cannot approve, and which tends to
sink in our estimation the object of our love. Abstract the idea of
perfection, and our enthusiasm vanishes: take away our esteem, and
love is at an end. How is it possible for a woman to honour a man who
dishonours himself? and how can he adore the person who was weak
enough to abandon herself to a vile seducer? Mutual contempt therefore
is the consequence; their very passions will grow burthensome, and
they will have lost their honour without finding happiness.
But how different, my Eloisa, is it with two lovers of the same age,
influenced by the same passion, united by the same bonds, under no
particular engagements, and both in possession of their original
liberty. The most severe laws can inflict no other punishment, than
the natural consequences of their passion: their sole obligation is to
love eternally; and if there be in the world some unhappy climate
where men’s authority dares to break such sacred bonds, they are
surely punished by the crimes that must inevitably ensue.
These, my ever prudent and virtuous Eloisa, are many reasons; they are
indeed but a frigid commentary on those which you urged with so much
spirit and energy in one of your letters; but they are sufficient to
shew you how entirely I am of your opinion. You remember that I did
not persist in refusing your offer, and that notwithstanding the first
scruples of prejudice, being convinced that it was not inconsistent
with my honour, I consented to open the box. But in the present case,
my duty, my reason, my love, all speak too plainly to be
misunderstood. If I must chose between my honour and Eloisa, my heart
is prepared to resign her. Oh I love her too well to purchase her at
the price of my honour!
Letter XXV. From Eloisa.
You will easily believe, my dear friend, how extremely I was
entertained with the agreeable account of your late tour. The elegance
of the detail itself, would have engaged my esteem, even though its
author had been wholly a stranger; but its coming from you, was a
circumstance of additional recommendation. I could, however, find in
my heart to chide you for a certain part of it, which you will easily
guess, though I could scarce refrain from laughing at the ridiculous
finesse you made use of to shelter yourself under Tasso. Have you
never really perceived the wide difference that should be made between
a narration intended for the view of the public, and that little
sketch of particulars which is solely to be referred to the inspection
of your mistress. Or is love, with all its fears, doubts, jealousies,
and scruples, to have no more regard paid to it than the mere
decencies of good breeding are entitled to? Could you be at a moment’s
loss to conceive that the dry preciseness of an author must be
displeasing, where the passionate sentiments of inspiring tenderness
were expected? And could you deliberately resolve to disappoint my
expectations? But I fear I have already said too much on a subject
which perhaps had better been entirely passed over. Besides, the
contents of your last letter have so closely engaged my thoughts, that
I have had no leisure to attend to the particulars of the
former. Leaving then, my dear friend, the Valais to some future
opportunity, let us now fix our attention on what more immediately
concerns ourselves; we shall find sufficient matter of employment.
I very clearly foresaw what your sentiments would be, and indeed the
time we have known each other, had been spent to little purpose, if
now our conjectures were vague or uncertain. If virtue ever should
forsake us, be assured, it will not, cannot be in those instances,
which require resolution and resignation. [10] When the assault is
violent, the first step to be taken is, resistance; and we shall ever
triumph, I hope, so long as we are forewarned of our danger. A taste
of careless security is the most to be dreaded, and we may be taken by
sap, e’er we perceive that the citadel is attacked. The most fatal
circumstance of all, is the continuance of misfortunes; their very
duration makes them dangerous to a mind that might bear up against the
sharpest trials and most vigorous sudden onsets; it may be worn out by
the tedious pressure of inferior sufferings, and give way to the
length of those afflictions which have quite exhausted its
forbearance. This struggle, my dear friend, falls to our lot. We are
not called upon to signalize ourselves by deeds of heroism, or
renowned exploits; but we are bound to the more painful task of
supporting an indefatigable resistance, and enduring misfortunes
without the least relaxation.
I foresaw but too well the melancholy event. Our happiness is passed
away like a morning cloud, and our trials are beginning without the
least prospect of any alteration for the better. Every circumstance is
to me an aggravation of my distress, and what at other times would
have passed unheeded and unobserved, now serves but too plainly to
increase my dismay: my body sympathises with my mind in distressed
situation, the one is as languid and spiritless as the other is
alarmed and apprehensive. Involuntary tears are ever stealing down my
cheeks, without my being sensible of any immediate cause of sorrow. I
do not indeed foresee any very distressful events, but I perceive,
alas, too well, my fondest hopes blasted, my most sanguine
expectations continually disappointed, and what good purpose can it
serve to water the leaves, when the plant is decayed and withered at
the root.
I feel myself unable to support your absence; I feel, my dear friend,
that I can never live without you, and this is a fresh subject to me
of continual apprehensions. How often do I traverse the scenes which
were once the witness of our happy interviews; but, alas! you are no
where to be found. I constantly expect you at your usual time; but
time comes and goes without your return. Every object of my senses
presents a new monument, and every object, alas! reminds me that I
have lost you. Whatever your sufferings may be in other respects, you
are exempted however from this aggravation. Your heart alone is
sufficient to remind you of my unhappy absence. Oh, if you did but
know what endless pangs these fruitless expectations, there impatient
longings perpetually occasion, how they imbitter and increase the
torments I already feel, you would, without hesitation, prefer your
condition to mine.
If indeed I might give vent to my sad tale, and trust the tender
recital of my numberless woes to the kind bosom of a faithful friend,
I should in some sort be eased of my misfortunes. But even this relief
is denied me, except when I find an opportunity to pour a few tender
sighs into the compassionate bosom of my cousin: but in general I am
constrained to speak a language quite foreign to my heart, and to
assume an air of thoughtless gaiety, when I am ready to sink into the
grave.
_Sentirsi, Oh Dei, morir,
E non poter mai dir,
Morir mi Sento!_
A farther circumstance of distress, if any thing more distressful can
yet be added, is that my disorder is continually increasing. I have of
late thought so gloomily, that I seldom now think otherwise; and the
more anxiety I feel at the remembrance of our past pleasures, the more
eagerly do I indulge myself in the painful recollection. Tell me, my
dear, dear friend, if you can tell me by experience, how nearly allied
love is to this tender sorrow, and if disquiet and uneasiness itself
be not the cement of the warmest affections?
I have a thousand other things to say, but first I would fain know,
precisely where you are. Besides, this train of thinking has awakened
my passion, and indeed rendered me unfit for writing any more. Adieu,
my dear, and though I am obliged to lay down my pen, be assured, I can
never think of parting with you.
Billet.
As this comes to your hands by a waterman, an entire stranger to me, I
shall only say at present, that I have taken up my quarters at
_Meillerie_, on the opposite shore. I shall now have an opportunity of
seeing at least the dear place, which I dare not approach.
Letter XXVI. To Eloisa.
What a wonderful alteration has a short space of time produced in my
affairs! The thoughts of meeting, delightful as they were, are now too
much allayed with disquieting apprehensions. What should have been the
object of my hopes is now, alas! become the subject of my fears, and
the very spirit of discernment, which on most occasions is so useful,
now serves but to dismay, to disquiet and torment me. Ah, Eloisa! too
much sensibility, too much tenderness, proves the bitterest curse
instead of the most fruitful blessing: vexation and disappointment are
its certain consequences. The temperature of the air, the change of
the seasons, the brilliancy of the sun, or thickness of the fogs, are
so many moving springs to the unhappy possessor, and he becomes the
wanton sport of their arbitration: his thoughts, his satisfaction, his
happiness, depend on the blowing of the winds, and the different
points of east or west can throw him off his bias, or enliven his
expectations: swayed as he is by prejudices, and distracted by
passions, the sentiments of his heart find continual opposition from
the axioms of his head. Should he perchance square his conduct to the
undeniable rule of right, and set up truth for his standard, instead
of profit and convenience, he is sure to fall a martyr to the maxims
of his integrity; the world will join in the cry, and hunt him down as
a common enemy. But supposing this not the case, honesty and
uprightness, though exempted from persecution, are neither the
channels of honour, nor the road to riches; poverty and want are their
inseparable attendants; and man, by adhering to the one, necessarily
attaches himself to the inheritance of the other; and by this means he
becomes his own tormentor. He will search for supreme happiness,
without taking into the account the infirmities of his nature. Thus
his affections and his reason will be engaged in a perpetual warfare,
and unbounded ideas and desires must pave the way for endless
disappointments.
This situation, dismal as it is, is nevertheless the true one, in
which the hard fate of my worldly affairs, counteracted by the
ingenuous and liberal turn of my thoughts, have involved me, and which
is aggravated and increased by your father’s contempt and your own
milder sentiments, which are at once both the delight and disquiet of
my life. Had it not been for thee, thou fatal beauty, I could never
have experienced the insupportable contrast between the greatness of
my soul, and the low estate of my fortune. I should have lived
quietly, and died contented in a situation that would have been even
below notice. But to see you without being able to possess you; to
adore you, without raising myself from my obscurity; to live in the
same place, and yet be separated from each other, is a struggle, my
dearest Eloisa, to which I am utterly unequal. I can neither renounce
you, nor get the better of my cruel destiny; I can neither subdue my
desires, nor better my fortune.
But, as if this situation itself were not sufficiently tormenting, the
horrors of it are increased by the gloomy succession of ideas ever
present to my imagination. Perhaps too, this is heightened by the
nature of the place I live in; it is dark, it is dreadful; but then it
suits the habit of my soul; and a more pleasant prospect of nature
would reflect little comfort on the dreary view within me. A ridge of
barren rocks surrounds the coast, and my dwelling is still made more
dismal, by the uncomfortable face of winter. And yet, Eloisa, I am
sensible enough that if I were once forced to abandon you, I should
stand in need of no other abode, no other season.
While my mind is distracted with such continual agitations, my body
too is moving as it were in sympathy with those emotions. I run to and
fro and get upon the rocks, explore my whole district, and find every
thing as horrible without, as I experience it within. There is no
longer any verdure to be seen, the grass is yellow and withered, the
trees are stripped of their soilage, and the north-eastern blast heaps
snow and ice around me. In short, the whole face of nature appears as
decayed to my outward senses, as I myself from within am dead to hope
and joy.
Amidst this rocky coast, I have found out a solitary cleft from whence
I have a distinct view of the dear place you inhabit. You may easily
imagine how I have feasted on this discovery, and refreshed my sight
with so delightful a prospect. I spent a whole day in endeavouring to
discern the very house, but the distance, alas, is too great for my
efforts; and imagination was forced to supply what my wearied sight
was unable to discover. I immediately ran to the curate’s, and
borrowed his telescope, which presented to my view, or at least to my
thoughts, the exact spot I desired. My whole time has been taken up
ever since in contemplating those walls, that inclose the only source
of my comfort, the only object of my wishes: notwithstanding the
inclement severity of the season, I continue thus employed from day
break until evening. A fire made of leaves and a few dry sticks
defends me in some measure from the intenseness of the cold. This
place, wild and uncultivated as it is, is so suited to my taste, that
I am now writing to you in it, on a summit which the ice has separated
from the rock.
Here, my dearest Eloisa, your unhappy lover is enjoying the last
pleasure that perhaps he may ever relish on this side the grave. Here,
in spite of every obstacle, he can penetrate into your very chamber.
He is even dazzled with your beauty, and the tenderness of your looks
reanimates his drooping soul; nay he can wish for those raptures which
he experienced with you in the grove. Alas! it is all a dream, the
idle phantom of a projecting mind. Pleasing as it is, it vanishes like
a vision, and I am soon forced to awake from so agreeable a delirium;
and yet, even then, I have full employment for my thoughts. I admire
and revere the purity of your sentiments, the innocence of your life;
I trace out in my mind the method of your daily conduct, by comparing
it with what I formerly well knew in happier days, and under more
endearing circumstances; I find you ever attentive to engagements,
which heighten your character: need I add that such a view most
movingly affects me. In the morning I say to myself, she is just now
awaking from calm and gentle slumbers, as fresh as the early dew, and
as composed as the most spotless innocence, and is dedicating to her
Creator a day, which she determines shall not be lost to virtue. She
is now going to her mother, and her tender heart is feeling the soft
ties of filial duty; she is either relieving her parents from the
burthen of domestic cares, soothing their aged sorrows, pitying their
infirmities, or excusing those indirections in others, which she knows
not how to allow in herself. At another time, she is employing herself
in works of genius or of use, storing her mind with valuable
knowledge, or reconciling the elegancies of life to its more sober
occupations. Sometimes I see a neat and studied simplicity set off
those charms which need no such recommendations, and at others, she is
consulting her holy pastor, on the circumstances of indigent merit.
Here she is aiding, comforting, relieving the orphan or the widow;
there she is the entertainment of the whole circle of her friends, by
her prudent and sensible conversation. Now she is tempering the gaiety
of youth, with wisdom and discretion: and some few moments (forgive me
the presumption) you bestow on my hapless love. I see you melted into
tears at the perusal of my letters, and can perceive, it is thy
devoted lover is the subject of the lines you are penning, and of the
passionate discourse between you and your cousin. O Eloisa, Eloisa!
shall we never be united? Shall we never live together? can we, can we
part for ever? No, be that thought quite banished from my soul. I
start into the phrenzy at the very idea, and my distempered mind
hurries me from rock to rock. Involuntary sighs and groans betray my
inward disorder; I roar out like a lioness robbed of her young. I can
do every thing but lose you; there is nothing, nothing, I would not
attempt for you, at the risk of my life.
I had wrote thus far, and was waiting an opportunity to convey it,
when your last came to my hands from Sion. The melancholy air it
breathes, has lulled my griefs to rest. Now, now am I convinced of
what you observed long ago, concerning that wonderful sympathy between
lovers. Your sorrow is of the calmer, mine of the more passionate
kind, yet though the affection of the mind be the same, it takes its
colour in each from the different channels through which it runs; and
indeed it is but natural, that the greatest misfortunes should produce
the most disquieting anxieties; but why do I talk of misfortunes? They
would be absolutely insupportable. No, be assured, my Eloisa, that the
irresistible decree of heaven has designed us for each other. This is
the first great law we are to obey, and it is the great business of
life, to calm, sooth, and sweeten it while we are here. I see, and
lament it too, that your designs are too vague and inconclusive for
execution. You seem willing to conquer insurmountable difficulties,
while at the same time you are neglecting the only feasible methods:
an enthusiastic idea of honour has supplanted your reason, and your
virtue is become little better than an empty delirium.
If indeed it were possible for you to remain always as young and
beautiful as you are at present, my only wish, my only prayer to
heaven would be, to know of your continual happiness, to see you once
every year, only once, and then spend the rest of my time in viewing
your mansion from afar, and in adoring you among the rocks. But
behold, alas, the inconceivable swiftness of that fate which is never
at rest. It is constantly pursuing, time flies hastily, the
opportunity is irretrievable, and your beauty, even your beauty is
circumscribed by very narrow limits of existence: it must some time or
other decay and wither away like a flower, that fades before it was
gathered. In the mean time, I am consuming my health, youth, strength,
in continual sorrow, and waste away my years in complaining. Think, oh
think, Eloisa, that we have already lost some time; think too that it
will never return, and that the case will be the same with the years
that are to come, if we suffer them to pass by neglected and
unimproved. O fond, mistaken fair! you are laying plans for a futurity
at which you may never arrive, and neglecting the present moments,
which can never be retrieved. You are so anxious, and intent on that
uncertain hereafter, that you forget that in the mean while, our
hearts melt away like snow before the sun. Awake, awake, my dearest
Eloisa, from so fatal a delusion! Leave all your concerted schemes,
the wanton sallies of a fruitful fancy, and determine to be happy.
Come, my only hope, my only joy! to thy fond expecting lover’s arms:
come and re-unite the hitherto divided portions of our existence.
Come, and before heaven, let us solemnly swear to live and die for
each other. You have no need, I am sure, of any encouragement, any
exhortations, to bear up against the fear of want. Though poor,
provided we are happy, what a treasure will be in our possession! but
let us not so insult either the dignity or the humanity of the
species, as to suppose that this vast world cannot furnish an Asylum
for two unfortunate lovers. But we need not despair while I have
health and strength; the bread earned by the sweat of my brow will be
more relishing to you, than the most costly banquet that luxury could
prepare. And indeed can any repast, provided and seasoned by love, be
insipid? Oh my angel, if our happiness were sure to last us but one
day, could you cruelly resolve, to quit this life, without tasting it?
One word more, and I have done. You know, Eloisa, the use which was
formerly made of the rock of Leucatia; it was the last sad refuge of
disappointed lovers. The place I am now in, and my own distressed
situation, bear but too close a resemblance. The rock is craggy, the
water deep, and I am in despair.
Letter XXVII. From Clara.
I have been lately so distracted with care and grief, that it is with
much difficulty I have been able to summon sufficient strength for
writing. Your misfortunes and mine are now at their utmost crisis. In
short, the lovely Eloisa is very dangerously ill, and ere this can
reach you, may perhaps be no more. The mortification she underwent in
parting with you, first brought on her disorder, which was
considerably increased by some very interesting discourse she has
since had with her father. This has been still heightened by
circumstances of additional aggravation, and as if all this were too
little, your last letter came in aid, and compleatd, alas, what was
already scarce supportable. The perusal of it affected her so
sensibly, that after a whole night of violent agitations and cruel
struggles, she was seized with a high fever which has increased to
such a degree, that she is now delirious. Even in this situation she
is perpetually calling for you, and speaks of you with such emotions
as plainly point out, that you alone are the object of her more sober
thoughts. Her father is kept out of the way as much as possible, which
is no inconsiderable proof that my aunt suspects the truth. She has
even asked me, with some anxiety, when you intended to return? so
entirely does her concern for her daughter outweigh every other
consideration! I dare say she would not be sorry to see you here.
Come then, I intreat you, as soon as you possibly can. I have hired a
man and boat to transmit this to you; he will wait your orders, and
you may come with him. Indeed if you ever expect to see our devoted
Eloisa alive, you must not lose an instant.
Letter XXVIII. From Eloisa to Clara.
Alas, my dear Clara, how is the life you have restored me imbittered
by your absence. What satisfaction can there be in my recovery, when I
am still preyed upon by a more violent disorder? Cruel Clara! to leave
me, when I stand most in need of your assistance. You are to be absent
eight days, and perhaps by that time my fate will be determined, and
it will be out of your power to see me any more. Oh if you did but
know his horrid proposals, and the manner of his stating them! to
elope----to follow him----to be carried off----What a wretch! But
of whom do I complain, my heart, my own base heart has said a thousand
times more than ever he has mentioned. Good God, if he knew all! Oh it
would hasten my ruin----I should be hurried to destruction, be forced
to go with him----I shudder at the very thought.
But has my father then sold me? Yes, he has considered his daughter as
his merchandize, and consigned her with as little remorse, as he would
a bale of goods. He purchases his own ease and quiet, at the dear
price of all my future comfort, nay of my life itself----for I see
but too well, I can never survive it. Barbarous, unnatural,
unrelenting father! Does he deserve?----But why do I talk of
deserving? he is the best of fathers, and the only crime I can alledge
against him, is his desire of marrying me to his friend. But my
mother, my dear mother, what has she done? Alas, too much; she has
loved me too much, and that very love has been my ruin.
What shall I do, Clara? What will become of me? Hans is not yet come.
I am at a loss how to convey this letter to you. Before you receive
it, before you return----perhaps a vagabond, abandoned, ruined and
forlorn. It is over, it is over: the time is come. A day----an hour
----perhaps a moment----but who can resist their fate?----Oh
wherever I live, wherever I die, whether in honour or dishonour, in
plenty or poverty, in pleasure or in despair, remember, I beseech you,
your dear, dear friend. But misfortunes too frequently produce changes
in our affections. If ever I forget you, mine must be altered indeed!
Letter XXIX. From Eloisa to Clara.
Stay, stay, where you are! I intreat, I conjure you, never never think
of returning, at least, not to me. I ought never to see you more; for
now, alas, I can never behold you as I ought. Where wert thou my
tender friend, my only safeguard, my guardian angel? When thou
withdrewest, ruin instantly ensued. Was that fatal absence of yours so
indispensable, so necessary, and couldest thou leave thy friend in the
most critical time of danger? What an inexhaustible fund of remorse
hast thou laid up for thyself by so blameable a neglect! It will be as
bitter, as lasting, as my unhappy sorrows. Thy loss is indeed as
irretrievable as my own, and it were equally difficult to gain another
friend as worthy of yourself, as alas! it is impossible to recover my
innocence.
Ah! what have I said? I can neither speak nor yet be silent; and to
what purpose were my silence, when my very sorrows would cry out
against me? And does not all created nature upbraid me with my guilt?
Does not every object before me remind me of my shame? I will, I must
pour my whole soul into thine, or my poor heart will burst. Canst thou
hear all this, my secure and careless friend, without applying some
reproaches at the least to thyself? Even thy faith and truth, the
blind confidence of thy friendship, but above all thy pernicious
indulgencies, have been the unhappy instruments of my destruction.
What evil genius could inspire you to invite him to return; him, alas!
who is now the cruel author of my disgrace? And am I indebted to his
care for a life, which he has since made insupportable by his cruelty?
Inhuman as he is, let him fly from me for ever, and deny himself the
savage pleasure, of being an eye witness of my sorrows. But why do I
rave thus? He is not to be blamed, I alone am guilty. I alone am the
author of my own misfortunes, and should therefore be the only object
of anger and resentment. But vice, new as it is to me, has already
infected my very soul; and the first dismal effect of it is displayed
in reviling the innocent.
No, no, he was ever incapable of being false to his vows. His virtuous
soul disdains the low artifice of imposing upon credulity, or of
injuring her he loves. Doubtless, he is much more experienced in the
tender passions than I ever was, since he found no difficulty to
overcome himself, and I alas fell a victim to my unruly desires. How
often have I been a witness of his struggles and his victory, and when
the violence of his transports seemed to get the better of his reason,
he would stop on a sudden, as if awed and checked by virtue, when he
might have led on to certain triumph. I indulged myself too much in
beholding so dangerous an object. I was afflicted at his sighs, moved
with his intreaties, and melted with his tears; I shared his anxieties
when I thought I was only pitying them. I have seen him so affected,
that he seemed ready to faint at my feet. Love alone might perhaps
have been my security; but compassion, O my Clara! has fatally undone
me.
Thus my unhappy passion assumed the form of humanity, the more easily
to deprive me of the assistance of my virtue. That very day he had
been particularly importunate and pressed me to elope with him. This
proposal, connected as it was with the misery and distress of the best
of parents, shocked my very soul; nor could I think with any patience,
of thus imbittering their comforts. The impossibility of ever
fulfilling our plighted troth, the necessity there was of concealing
this impossibility from him, the regret which I felt at deceiving so
tender and passionate a lover, after having flattered his
expectations; all these were dreadful circumstances which lessened my
resolution, increased my weakness, blinded and subdued my reason. I
was then either to kill my parents, discard my lover, or ruin myself:
without knowing what I did, I resolved on the latter; and forgetting
every thing else, thought only of my love. Thus one unguarded minute
has betrayed me to endless misery. I am fallen into the abyss of
infamy from whence there is no return, and if I am to live, it is only
to be wretched.
However, while I am here, sorrow shall be my only comfort. You, my
dearest friend, are my only resource; oh do not, do not leave me! and
since I am lost to the sweets of love, oh never take from me the
delicacy of friendship. I have lost all pretensions, but my situation
makes it requisite, my distresses now demand it. If you cannot esteem,
you may at least pity so wretched a creature. Come then, my dear
Clara, and open thy whole heart, that I may pour in my complaints,
receive thy friend’s tears, and shield, oh shield me from myself!
Convince me, by the kind continuance of your soothing friendship, that
I am not so entirely forsaken.
Letter XXX. The Answer.
Oh my dear, dear friend, what have you done! you who were the praise
of every parent, and the envy of every child! What a mortal blow has
virtue itself received through your means, who were the very pattern
of discretion! But what can I say to you in so dreadful a situation?
Can I think of aggravating your sorrows, and wounding a heart already
opprest with grief; or can I give you a comfort, which, alas! I want?
Shall I reflect your image in all the dismal colours of your present
distress, or shall I have recourse to artifice, and remind you, not of
what you are, but of what you ought to be? Do thou, most holy and
unspotted friendship, steal thy soft veil over all my awakened senses,
and mercifully remove the sight of those disasters, thou wert unable
to prevent!
You know I have long feared the misfortune you are bewailing. How
often have I foretold it, and alas, how often been disregarded? Do you
blame me then for having trusted you too much to your own heart? Oh
doubt not but I would have betrayed you, if even that could have been
made the means of your preservation; but I knew better than yourself
your own tender sensations. I perceived but too plainly that death or
ruin were the melancholy alternatives; and even when your
apprehensions made you banish your lover, the only matter then in
question, was whether you should despair, or he be recalled. You will
easily believe how dreadfully I was alarmed, when I found you
determined as it were against living, and just on the verge of death.
Charge not then your lover, nor accuse yourself of a crime of which I
alone am guilty, since I foresaw the fatal effects, and yet did not
prevent them.
I left you indeed against my inclination, but I was cruelly forced to
it. Oh could I have foreseen the near approach of your destruction, I
would have put every thing to the hazard sooner than have complied.
Though certain as to the event, I was mistaken as to the time of it. I
thought your weakness and your distemper a sufficient security during
so short an absence, and forgot indeed the sad dilemma you was so soon
to experience. I never considered that the weakness of your body left
your mind more defenceless in itself, and therefore more liable to be
betrayed. Mistaken as I was, I can scarce be angry with myself, since
this very error is the means of saving your life. I am not, Eloisa, of
that hardy temper which can reconcile me to thy loss as thou wert to
mine. Had I indeed lost you, my despair would have been endless; and,
unfeeling as it may seem, I had rather you should live in sorrow, I
had almost said in disgrace, than not live at all.
But my dear, my tender friend, why do you cruelly persist in your
disquietude? Wherefore should your repentance exceed your very crime,
and your contempt fall on the object which least of all deserves it,
yourself? Shall the weakness of one unguarded moment be attended with
so black a train of baleful consequences? And are not the very dangers
you have been struggling with, a self-evident demonstration of the
greatness of your virtue? You lose yourself so entirely in the thought
of your defeat, that you have no leisure to consider the triumphs by
which it was preceded. If your trials have been sharper, your
conquests more numerous, and your resistance more frequent, than those
who have escaped, have not you then, I would ask, done more for virtue
than they? If you can find no circumstances to justify, dwell on those
at least, which extenuate and excuse you. I myself am a tolerable
proficient in the art of love, and though my own temper secures me
against its violent emotions, if ere I could have felt such a passion
as yours was, my struggles would have been much fainter, my surrender
more easy, and more dishonourable. Freed as I have been from the
temptation, it reflects no honour on my virtue. You are the chaster of
the two, though perhaps the more unfortunate.
You may perchance be offended that I am so unreserved; but unhappily
your situation makes it necessary. I wish from my soul, what I have
said were not applicable to you; for I detest pernicious maxims, more
than bad actions. [11] If the deed were not already done, and I could
have been so base to write, and you to read and hear these axioms, we
both of us must be numbered in the wretched class of the abandoned.
But as matters stand at present, my duty as your friend requires this
at my hands, and you must give me the hearing, or you are lost, lost
for ever. For you still possess a thousand rare endowments which a
proper esteem of yourself can alone cultivate and preserve. Your real
worth will ever exceed your own opinion of it.
Forbear then giving way to a self disesteem more dangerous and
destructive than any weakness of which you could be guilty. Does true
love debase the soul? No: nor can any crime, which is the result of
that love, ever rob you of that enthusiastic ardour for truth and
honour, which so raised you above yourself? Are there not spots
visible in the sun? How many amiable virtues do you still retain,
notwithstanding one error, one relaxation in your conduct? Will it
make you less gentle, less sincere, less modest, less benevolent? Or
will you be less worthy of all our admiration, of all our praise? Will
honour, humanity, friendship, and tender love, be less respected by
you, or will you cease to revere even that virtue with which you are
no longer adorned. No, my dear, my charming Eloisa, thy faithful Clara
bewails and yet adores thee; she is convinced that you can never fail
admiring what you may be unable to practise. Believe me, you have much
yet to lose, before you can sink to a level with the generality of
females.
After all, whatever have been your failings, you yourself are still
remaining. I want no other comfort, I dread no other loss than you.
Your first letter shocked me extremely, and would have thrown me into
despair, had I not been kindly relieved, at the same time, by the
arrival of your last. What! and could you leave your friend, could you
think of going without me? You never mention this, your greatest
crime. It is this you should blush at, this too you should repent of.
But the ungrateful Eloisa neglects all friendship, and thinks only of
her love.
I am extremely impatient till I see you, and am continually repining
at the slow progress of time. We are to stay at Lausanne six days
longer; I shall then fly to my only friend, and will then either
comfort or sympathize, wipe away, or share her sorrows. I flatter
myself I shall be able to make you listen, rather to the soothing
tenderness of friendship, than the harsh language of reflection. My
dear cousin, we must bewail our misfortunes, and pour out our hearts
to each other in silence; and, if possibly by dint of future exemplary
virtue, bury in oblivion the memory of a failing which can never be
blotted out by our tears.
Letter XXXI. To Eloisa.
What an amazing mystery is the conduct and sentiments of the charming
Eloisa! Tell me I beseech you, by what surprizing art you alone can
unite such inconsistent counteracting emotions? Intoxicated as I am
with love and delight, my soul is overwhelmed with grief and with
despair. Amidst the most exquisite pleasures, I feel the most
excruciating anxieties; nay the very enjoyment of those pleasures is
made the subject of self accusation, and the aggravation of my
distress. Heavens! what a torment to be able to indulge no one
sensation but in a perpetual struggle of jarring passions; to be ever
allaying the soothing tenderness of love, with the bitter pangs of
rigorous reflection! A state of certain misery were a thousand times
preferable to such doubtful disquietudes. To what purpose is it, alas,
that I myself have been happy, when your misfortunes can torment me
much more sensibly than my own? In vain do you attempt to disguise
your own sad feelings, when your eyes will betray what your heart
labours to conceal; and can those expressive eyes hide any thing from
love’s all penetrating sight? Notwithstanding your assumed gaiety, I
see, I see the cankering anxiety; and your melancholy, veiled, as you
may think, by a smile, affects me the more sensibly.
Surely you need no longer disguise any thing from me! While I was in
your mother’s room yesterday, she was accidentally called out, and
left me alone. In the mean time, I heard sighs that pierced my very
soul. Could I, think you, be at a loss to guess the fatal cause? I
went up to the place from which they seemed to proceed, and on going
into your chamber, perceived the goddess of my heart, sitting on the
floor, her head reclining on a couch, and almost drowned in tears. Oh!
had my blood thus trickled down, I should have felt less pain. Oh how
my soul melted at the sight! Remorse stung me to the quick. What had
been my supremest bliss, became my excruciating punishment. I felt
only then for you, and would have freely purchased with my life, your
former tranquility. I would fain have thrown myself at your feet,
kissed off your falling tears, and burying them at the bottom of my
heart, have died or wiped them away for ever; but your mother’s return
made me hasten back to my post, and obliged me to carry away your
griefs, and that remorse which can never end but in my death.
Oh how am I sunk and mortified by your grief! How you must despise me
if our union is the cause of your own self-contempt, and if what has
been the utmost of my bliss, proves the destruction of your peace! Be
more just to yourself, my dearest Eloisa, and less prejudiced against
the sacred ties which your own heart approved. Have you not acted in
strict conformity to the purest laws of nature? Have you not
voluntarily entered into the most solemn engagements? Tell me then,
what you have done, that all laws divine, as well as human, will not
sufficiently justify? Is there any thing wanting to confirm the sacred
tie, but the mere formal ceremony of a public declaration? Be wholly
mine, and you are no longer to blame. O my dear, my lovely wife, my
tender and chaste companion, thou soother of all my cares, and object
of all my wishes, oh think it not a crime to have listened to your
love; but rather think it will be one to disobey it for the future. To
marry any other man, is the only imputation you can fix on your
unimpeached honour. Would you be innocent, be ever mine. The tie that
unites us is legal, is sacred. The disregarding this tie should be the
principal object of your concern. Love from henceforward can be the
only guardian of your virtue.
But were the foundation of your sorrows ever so just, ever so
necessary, why am I robbed of my property in them? Why should not my
eyes too overflow and share your grief? You should have no one pang
that I ought not to feel, no one anxiety that ought not to share. My
heart then, my jealous heart, but too justly reproaches you for every
single tear you pour not into my bosom. Tell me, thou cold dissembling
fair, is not every secret of this kind an injury to my passion? Do you
so soon forget the promise you so lately made! Oh if you loved as I
do, my happiness would comfort you as much as your concern affects me,
and you would feel my pleasures as I share your anxieties.
But alas! you consider me as a poor wretch whose reason is lost amidst
the transports of delight. You are frightened at the violence of my
joy, and compassionate the extravagance of my delirium, without
considering that the utmost strength of human nature is not proof
against endless pleasures? How, think you, can a poor weak mortal
support the ineffable delights of infinite happiness? How do you
imagine he can bear such ecstatic raptures without being lost to every
other consideration. Do not you know that reason is limited, and that
no understanding can command itself at all times, and upon all
occasions? Pity then, I beseech you, the distraction you occasion, and
forgive the errors you, yourself have thrown me into. I own freely to
you I am no longer master of myself. My soul is absorbed totally in
yours. However it may affect me in other respects, it fits me at least
for the reception of your griefs, and the participation of your
sorrows. Oh my dearest Eloisa! no longer conceal any thing from your
other self.
Letter XXXII. Answer.
There was a time, my dear friend, when the stile of our letters was as
easy to be understood as the subject of them was agreeable and
delightful; animated as they were with the warmth of a generous
passion, they stood in need of no art to elevate, no colourings of a
luxuriant fancy to heighten them. Native simplicity was their best,
their only character. That time, alas, is now no more, it is gone
beyond the hope of a return; and the first melancholy proof that our
hearts are less interested, is, that our correspondence is become less
intelligible.
You have been an eye-witness of my concern, and fondly therefore
imagine you can discover its true source. You endeavour to relieve me
by the mere force of elocution, and while you are thinking to delude
me, are yourself the dupe of your own artifice. The sacrifice I have
made to my passion is a great one indeed; yet great as it is, it
provokes neither my sorrow nor my repentance. But I have deprived this
passion of its most engaging circumstances; ah there’s the cause! that
virtue which enchanted every thing around it, is itself vanished like
a dream. Those inexpressible transports which at once gave both vigour
to our affections, and purity to our desires, are now no more. We have
made pleasure our sole pursuit, and neglected happiness has bid adieu
to us for ever. Call but to mind those Halcyon days, when the fervency
of our passion bore a proportion to its innocence, when the violence
of our affections gave us weapons against itself; then, the purity of
our intentions could reconcile us to restraint, while with comfort we
reflected, that even these restraints served to heighten our desires.
Compare those charming times with our present situation. Violent
emotions, disquieting fears, endless suspicions, perpetual alarms, are
the melancholy substitutes of our former gay companions. Where is that
zeal for prudence and discretion which inspired every thought,
directed every action, and sweetened and refined the delicacy of our
love? Is the passion itself altered, or rather are not we most
miserably changed? Our enjoyments were formerly both temperate and
lasting; they are now degenerated into transports, resembling rather
the fury of madness than the caresses of love. A pure and holy flame
once lived in our hearts, but now we are sunk into mere common lovers,
through a blind gratification of sensual indulgencies. We can now
think ourselves sufficiently happy, if jealousy can give a poignancy
to those pleasures, which even the very brutes can taste without it.
This, my dear friend, is the subject which nearly concerns us both,
and which indeed pains me more on your account than my own. I say
nothing of the distress which is more immediately mine. Your
disposition, tender as it is, can sufficiently feel it: consider the
shame of my present situation, and if you still love me, give a sigh
to my lost honour. My crime is unatonable, my tears then I should hope
will be as lasting as my dishonour. Do not you then, who are the cause
of this sorrow, seek to deprive me of this also. My only hope is
founded in its continuance. Hard as my lot is, it would be still more
deplorable if I could ever be comforted. The being reconciled to
disgrace is the last, worst state of the abandoned.
I am but too well acquainted with all the circumstances of my
condition, and yet amidst all my horror, all my grief, I have one
comfort left: it is the only one, but it is solid, it is pleasing.
You, my dear friend, are its constant object; and since I dare no
longer consider myself, I take the greater satisfaction in thinking of
you. The great share of self esteem which you, alas, have taken from
me, is now transferred entirely to yourself; and what should have been
your crime, is with me your apology, and endearment. Love, even that
fatal love which has proved my destruction, is become the material
circumstance in your favour. You are exalted while I am abased; nay,
my very abasement is the cause of your exaltation. Be henceforward
then my only hope. Your business is to justify my crime by your
conduct. Excuse it at least by your virtuous demeanor. May your
deserts prove a covering to my disgrace, and let the number of your
virtues make the loss of mine less sensible to my view. Since I am no
longer any thing, be thou my whole existence. The only honour I have
left is solely centered in thee; and while thou in any degree art
respected, I can never be wholly despised or rejected.
However sorry I may be for the quick recovery of my health, yet my
artifice will no longer stand me in any stead. My countenance will
soon give the lie to my pretences, and I shall no longer be able to
impose on my parents a feigned indisposition. Be quick then in taking
the steps we have agreed on; before I am forced to resume my usual
business in my family. I perceive but too plainly, that my mother is
suspicious, and continually watches us. My father, indeed, seems to
know nothing of the matter. His pride has been hitherto our security.
Perhaps he thinks it impossible, that a mere common tutor can be in
love with his daughter. But after all, you know his temper. If you do
not prevent him, he will you; do not then through a fond desire of
gaining your usual access, banish yourself entirely from the
possibility of a return. Take my advice and speak to my mother in
time. Pretend a multiplicity of engagements, in order to prevent your
teaching me any longer; and let us give up the satisfaction of such
frequent interviews that we may make sure, at least, of meeting
sometimes. Consider, if you are once shut out, it is for ever; but if
you can resolve to deny yourself for a time, you may then come when
you please, and in time and by management may repeat your visits
often, without any fear of suspicion. I will tell you this evening
some other schemes I have in view for our more frequent meeting, and
you will then be convinced that that _constant_ cousin, whom we used
so grievously to detest, will now be very useful to two lovers, whom
in truth she ought never to have left alone.
Letter XXXIII. From Eloisa.
Ah! my dear friend, what a miserable asylum for lovers is a crowded
assembly! What inconceivable torment, to see each other under the
restraints of what is called good breeding! Surely absence were a
thousand times more supportable! Is calmness and composure compatible
with such emotions? Can the lover be self-consistent, or with what
attention can he consider such a number of objects, when one alone
possesses his whole soul? When the heart is fired, can the body be at
rest? You cannot conceive the anxiety I felt, when I heard you were
coming. Your name seemed a reproach to me, and I could not help
imagining that the whole company’s attention was fixed upon me alone.
I was immediately lost, and blushed so exceedingly, that my cousin,
who observed me, was obliged to cover me with her fan, and pretend to
whisper me in the ear. This very artifice, simple as it was, increased
my apprehensions, and I trembled for fear they should perceive it. In
short, every the most minute circumstance was a fresh subject for
alarm; never did I so fully experience the truth of that well known
axiom, that a guilty conscience needs no accuser.
Clara pretended to observe that you was equally embarrassed, uncertain
what to do, not daring either to advance or retire, to take notice of
me or not, and looking all around the room to give you a pretence, as
she said, to look, at last, on me. As I recovered from my confusion by
degrees, I perceived your distress, till, by Mrs. Belon’s coming up to
you, you was relieved.
I perceive, my dear friend, that this manner of living, which is
imbittered with so much constraint, and sweetened with so little
pleasure, is not suited to us. Our passion is too noble to bear
perpetual chains. These public assemblies are only fit for those who
are strangers to love, or who can with ease dispense with ceremony. My
anxieties are too disquieting, and your indiscretions too dangerous; I
cannot always have a Mrs. Belon to make a convenient diversion. Let us
return, let us return to that calm state of life from whence I have so
inadvertently drawn you. It was that situation which gave rise and
vigour to our passion; perhaps too it may be weakened by this
dissipated manner of living. The truest passions are formed and
nourished in retirement. In the busy circle of the world there is no
time for receiving impressions, and even, when received, they are
considerably weakened by the variety of avocations which continually
occur. Retirement too best suits my melancholy, which like my love can
be supported only by thy dear image. I had rather see you tender and
passionate in my heart, than under constraint and dissipation in an
assembly. There may perhaps come a time, when I shall be forced to a
much closer retreat. O that that time were already come! Common
prudence, as well as my own inclinations, require that I should inure
myself betimes to habits which necessity may demand. Oh, if the crime
itself could produce the cause of its atonement! The pleasing hope of
being one day----but I shall inadvertently say more than I am willing
on the design I have in view. Forgive me this one secret, my dear
friend; my heart shall never conceal any thing that would give you
pleasure: yet you must, for a time, be ignorant of this. All I can say
of it at present is, that love, which was the occasion of our
misfortunes, ought to furnish us with relief. You may reason and
comment upon this hint as much as you please; but I positively forbid
all questions.
Letter XXXIV. The Answer.
_No, non vedrete mai
Cambiar gl’ affeti mici,
Bei lumi onde imparai
A sospirar d’amor._
How greatly am I indebted to dear Mrs. Belon for the pleasure she
procured me! Forgive me, my dearest Eloisa, when I tell you, that I
even dared to take some pleasure in your distress, and that your very
anxiety afforded me most exquisite delight. Oh, what raptures did I
feel at those stolen glances, that downcast modesty, that care with
which you avoided meeting my eyes! What then, think you, was the
employment of your too, too happy lover? Was he indeed converting with
Mrs. Belon? Did you really think so, my lovely Eloisa? Oh, no,
enchanting fair! he was much more worthily employed. With what an
amazing sympathy did my heart share each emotion of thine! With what a
greedy impatience did I explore the beautiful symmetry of thy person!
Thy love, thy charms, entirely filled my whole soul, which was hardly
able to contain the ravishing idea. The only allay to all this
pleasure was, that I feasted at your expense, and felt the tender
sensations which you, alas, was absolutely unable to participate. Can
I tell one word that Mrs. Belon said to me? Could I have told it at
the very time she was speaking? Do I know what answers I made? or did
she understand me at all? But indeed how could she comprehend the
discourse of one who spoke without thinking, and answered without
conceiving the question.
_Com’ buom, che par ch’ ascolti, e nulla intende._
I appeal to the event for a confirmation. She has since told all the
world, and perhaps you among the rest, that I have not common sense;
but what is still worse, not a single grain of wit, and that I am as
dull and foolish as my books. But no matter how she thinks, or what
she says of me. Is not Eloisa the sole mistress of my fate, and does
not she alone determine my future rank and estimation? Let the rest of
the world say of me what they think proper; myself, my understanding,
and my accomplishments, all absolutely depend on the value you are
pleased to fix on them.
Be assured, neither Mrs. Belon, nor any superior beauty, could ever
delude my attention from Eloisa. If after all this, you still doubt my
sincerity, and can injure my love and your own charms so much as still
to suspect me, pray tell me, how I became acquainted with every minute
particular of your conduct? Did not I see you shine among the inferior
beauties, like the sun among the stars, that were eclipsed by your
radiance? Did not I see the young fellows hovering about your chair,
and buzzing in your ear? Did not I perceive you singled out from the
rest of your sex to be the only object of universal admiration? Did
not I perceive their studied assiduities, their continual compliments,
and your cold and modest indifference, infinitely more affecting than
the most haughty demeanor you could possibly have assumed? Yes, my
Eloisa, I saw the effect produced by the sight of your snowy delicate
arm, when you pulled off your glove; I saw too that the young stranger
who picked it up seemed tempted to kiss the charming hand that
received it. And did not I see a still bolder swain, whose steady
stare obliged you to add another pin to your tucker? All this may
perhaps convince you I was not so absent as you imagine; not that I
was the least jealous; for I know your heart was not cast in such a
mold as to be susceptible of every passion: nor will you, I hope,
think otherwise of mine.
Let us then return to that calm, blest retirement, which I quitted
with such regret. My heart finds no satisfaction in the tumultuous
hurry of the world. Its empty tinsel pleasures dispose it only to
lament the want of more substantial joys the more feelingly, and make
it prefer its own real sufferings to the melancholy train of continual
disappointments. Surely, Eloisa, we may attain much more solid
satisfaction, in any situation, than under our present restraint. And
yet you seem to forget it. To be so near each other for a whole
fortnight without meeting! Oh, it is an age of time to an enamoured
enraptured heart! Absence itself would be infinitely more supportable.
Tell me to what end you can make use of a discretion, which occasions
more misfortunes than it is able to prevent? Of what importance can it
be to prolong a life, in which every succeeding moment brings fresh
punishment? Were it not better, yes surely a thousand times, to meet
once more at all events, and then submit to our fate with resignation.
I own freely, my dear friend, I would fain know the utmost of the
secret you conceal. There never was a discovery that could interest me
so deeply: but all my endeavours are in vain. I can however be as
silent as you would wish, and repress my forward curiosity. But may I
not hope soon to be satisfied? Perhaps you are still in the castle-
building system. Oh thou dear object of my affections! surely now it
is high time to improve all our schemes into reality.
P. S. I had almost forgot to tell you that M. Roguin made me the offer
of a company in the regiment he is raising for the king of Sardinia. I
was highly pleased at this brave man’s signal mark of his esteem, and
thanking him for his kindness, told him, the shortness of my sight,
and great love of a studious and sedentary life, unfitted me for so
active an employment. My love can claim no great share in this
sacrifice. Every one in my opinion owes his life to his country, which
therefore he should not risk in the service of those princes to whom
he is no ways indebted; much less is he at liberty to let himself out
for hire, and turn the noblest profession in the world into that of a
vile mercenary. These maxims I claim by inheritance from my father;
and happy enough should I be, could I imitate him as well in his
steady adherence to his duty, and love to his country. He never would
enter into the service of any foreign prince, but in the year 1712,
acquired great reputation in fighting for his country: he served in
many engagements, in one of which he was wounded, and at the battle of
Wilmerghen was so fortunate as, in the fight of general Sacconex, to
take a standard from the enemy.
Letter XXXV. From Eloisa.
I could never think, my dear friend, that what I hinted of Mrs. Belon
in jest could have excited so long or so serious an explanation. An
over eagerness in one’s own defence is sometimes productive of the
very reverse of its intention, and fixes a lasting suspicion instead
of removing or lightening the accusation. The most trifling incidents,
when attended to minutely, immediately grow up into events of
importance. Our situation indeed secures us from making this case our
own; for our hearts are too busy to listen to mere punctilios; though
all disputes between lovers on points of little moment, have too often
a much deeper foundation than they imagine.
I am rather glad however of the opportunity which this accident has
given me, of saying somewhat to you on the subject of jealousy; a
subject which, alas, but too nearly concerns me. I see, my dear
friend, by the similitude of our tempers and near alliance of our
dispositions, that love alone will be the great business of our lives:
and surely when such impressions as we feel have been once made, love
must either extinguish or absorb every other passion. The least
relaxation in our passion must inevitably produce a most dangerous
lethargy: a total apathy, an indifference to every enjoyment, and a
disrelish of every present comfort would very soon take place if our
affections were once cooled, and indeed life itself would then become
a burthen. With respect to myself, you cannot but perceive, that the
present transports of my passion could alone veil over the horror of
my disastrous situation, and the sad alternative proposed to my
choice, is the extravagance of love, or a death of despair. Judge then
if after this I am able to determine a point on which the happiness or
misery of my future life so absolutely depends.
If I may be allowed to know any thing of my own temper and
disposition, though I am oftentimes distracted with violent emotions,
it is but seldom that their influence can hurry me into action. My
sorrows must have preyed on my heart for a long time before I could
ever be prevailed on to discover the source of them to their author;
and being firmly persuaded that there can be no offence without
intention, I would much rather submit to a thousand real subjects of
complaint than ever come to an explanation. A disposition of this kind
will neither easily give way to suspicion, nor be anxiously concerned
at the jealousy of others. Oh, shield me, gracious heaven, from the
tormenting pangs of causeless jealousy! I am fully assured that your
heart was made for mine and for no other; but self-deceit is of all
others the most easy imposition: a transient liking is often mistaken
for a real passion, as it is difficult to distinguish the effects of
sudden fancy from the result of a sincere and settled affection. If
you yourself can doubt your own constancy without any reason, how
could you blame me were I capable of mistrusting you? But that way
leads to misery. So cruel a doubt as that would imbitter the remainder
of my life. I should sigh in secret without complaining, and die an
inconsolable martyr to my passion.
But let me intreat you to prevent a misfortune, the idea of which
shocks my very soul. Swear to me, my dear, dear friend! but not by
love, for lover’s oaths are never made but with intention to be
broken; but swear by the sacred name of honour, which you highly
revere, that I shall ever be the confident of your inmost thoughts,
the repository of all your secrets, the witness of all your emotions,
and if perchance, (which gracious heaven avert!) if any change should
take place in your affections, swear moreover that you will instantly
inform me of so interesting a revolution. Think not to excuse yourself
by alleging, that such a change is impossible. I believe, I hope, nay,
I am well assured of your sincerity; oblige me, however, and prevent
all false alarms; take from me the possibility of doubting, and secure
my present peace. To hear my fate from you, how hard soever it might
be, were much better than through ignorance of the truth to be
perpetually exposed to the tortures of imaginary evils. Some comfort,
some alleviation of my sorrows would arise from your remorse; though
my affections must cease, you would necessarily become the partner of
my griefs: and even my own anxiety, when poured into your breast,
would seem less distracting.
’Tis on this account, my dear friend, that I congratulate myself more
especially on the fond choice of my heart; that honour strengthens and
confirms the bond which affection first begun; and that my security
depends not on the violence of passion, but the more sober and settled
dictates of principle: ’tis this which cements, at the same time that
it ensures, the affections; ’tis this virtue that must reconcile us to
our woes. Had it been my sad misfortune to have fixed my affections on
a lover void of principle, even supposing those affections should
continue unchangeable, yet what security should I have of the
continuance of his lover? By what methods could I silence those
perpetual misgivings that would be ever rising in my mind, and in what
manner could I be assured that I was not imposed on, either by his
artifice or my own credulity? But thou, my dear, my honourable friend,
who hast no dark designs to cover, no secret frauds to practise, thou
wilt, I am well assured, preserve the constancy thou hast vowed. You
will never be shamed out of your duty, through the false bashfulness
of owning an infidelity, and when you can no longer love your Eloisa,
you will frankly tell her----yes, you will say, my Eloisa I do not----
I cannot; indeed I cannot, finish the sentence.
What do you think of my proposal? I am sure it is the only one I can
think of to pluck up jealousy by the root. There is a certain
delicacy, a tender confidence which persuades me to rely so entirely
on your sincerity, as to make me incapable of believing any accusation
which came not from your own lips. These are the good effects I expect
from your promise; for though I should easily believe, that you are as
fickle as the rest of your sex, yet I can never be persuaded, that you
are equally false and deceitful, and however I might doubt of the
constancy of your affections, I can never bring myself to suspect your
honour. What a pleasure do I feel in taking precautions in this
matter, which I hope will always be useless, and to prevent the very
possibility of a change, which I am persuaded will never happen! Oh
how delightful is it to talk of jealousy to so faithful a lover! If I
thought you capable of inconstancy I should not talk thus. My poor
heart would not be so discreet in the time of so much danger, and the
least real distrust would deprive me of the prudence necessary for my
security.
This subject, _honoured master_, may be more fully discussed this
evening; for your two _humble scholars_ are to have the honour of
supping with you at my uncle’s. Your learned commentaries on the
Gazette have raised you so highly in his esteem, that no great
artifice was wanting to persuade him to invite you. The daughter has
put her harpsicord in tune, the father has been poring over Lamberti,
and I shall perhaps repeat the lesson I first learnt in Clarens grove.
You who are a master of every science must adapt your knowledge and
instructions to our several capacities. Mr. Orbe (who is invited you
may be sure) has had notice given him to prepare a dissertation on the
nature of the king of Naples’s future homage; this will give us three
an opportunity of going into my cousin’s apartment. There, vassal, on
thy knees, before thy sovereign mistress, thy hands clasped in hers,
and in the presence of her chancellor, thou shalt vow truth and
loyalty on every occasion; I do not say eternal love, because that is
a thing which no one can absolutely promise; but truth, sincerity, and
frankness are in every one’s disposal; to these therefore thou shalt
swear. You need not vow eternal fealty; but you must and shall vow to
commit no act of felonious intention, and at least to declare open war
before you shake off the yoke. This done, you shall seal it with an
embrace and be owned and acknowledged for a true and loyal knight.
Adieu, my dear friend; the expectations I have formed of this evening
have given me all these spirits. I shall be doubly blessed to see you
a partaker of my joy.
Letter XXXVI. From Eloisa.
Kiss this welcome letter, and leap for joy at the news I am going to
tell you: but be assured that though my emotions should prove less
violent, I am not a whit less rejoiced. My father being obliged to go
to Bern on account of a law suit, and from thence to Soleure for his
pension, proposes to take my mother along with him, to which she is
the more willing to consent, as she hopes to receive benefit from the
journey and change of air. They were so obliging as to offer to take
me along with them. I did not think proper to say all I thought on the
occasion; but their not being able to find convenient room for me made
them change their intentions with respect to my going, and they are
now all endeavouring to comfort me for the disappointment. I was
obliged to assume a very melancholy air, as if almost inconsolable;
and, ridiculous as it is, I have dissembled so long, that I am
sometimes apt to fancy I feel a real sorrow.
I am not however to be absolutely my own mistress while my parents are
absent, but to live at my uncle’s; so that during the whole time I
shall be always with my _constant_ cousin. My mother choses to leave
her own woman behind; Bab, therefore, will be considered as a kind of
governess to me. But we need not be very apprehensive of those whom we
have no need either to bribe or to trust, but who may be easily got
rid of whenever they grow troublesome, by means of any trifling
allurement.
You will readily conceive, I dare say, what opportunities we shall
have of meeting during their absence; but our discretion must furnish
those restraints, which our situation has taken off for a while, and
we must then voluntarily submit to that reserve, to which at present
we are obliged by sad necessity. You must, when I am at my cousin’s,
come no oftener than you did before, for fear of giving her offence,
and I hope there will be no need of reminding you of the assiduous
respect and civility, which her sex and the sacred laws of hospitality
require; and that you yourself will sufficiently consider what is due
to the friendship that gives an asylum to your love. I know your eager
disposition; but I am convinced, at the same time, that there are
bounds which can restrain it. Had you never governed your violence by
the known laws of honour, you had not been troubled at present with
any admonitions, at least with none from me.
But why that downcast look, that louring air? why repine at the
restraints which duty prescribes? Be it thy Eloisa’s care to sooth and
soften them. Had you ever cause to repent of having listened to my
advice? Near the flowery banks of the head of the river _Vevey_ there
stands a solitary hut, which serves sometimes as a shelter to
sportsmen, and surely may also shelter lovers. Hard by the mansion
house which belongs to Mr. Orbe are several thatched dairy houses
sufficiently remote, which may serve to cover love and pleasure, ever
the truest friends to rustic simplicity. The prudent milkmaids will
keep the secret; for they have often need of secrecy. The streams
which water the adjoining meadows are bordered with flowering shrubs,
and charming shady groves, while at some little distance the thickness
of the neighbouring wood seems to promise a more gloomy and secluded
retreat.
_Al bel seggio riposto, ombroso e fosco,
Ne mai pastori appressan, ne bifolci._
In this delightful place, no vestiges are seen of human toil, no
appearance of studied and laborious art; every object around presents
only a view of the tender care of nature, our common mother. Here
then, my dear friend, we shall be only under nature’s directions, and
know no other laws but hers. At Mr. Orbe’s invitation, Clara has
already persuaded her father to take the diversion of hunting for two
or three days in this part of the world, and to carry the two
inseparables with him. These inseparables have others likewise closely
connected with them, as you know but too well. The one assuming the
character of master of the house, will consequently do the honours,
while the other with less parade will do the honours of a dairy-house,
and this rural hut dedicated to love, will be to them the temple of
Gnidus. To succeed the more effectually in this charming project,
there will be wanting a little previous contrivance, which may be
easily settled between us, and the very consideration of which will
form a part of those pleasures they are intended to produce. Adieu, my
dear life! I leave off abruptly for fear of being surprized. The heart
of thy devoted Eloisa anticipates, alas, too eagerly the pleasures of
the dairy-house.
P. S. Upon second thoughts, I begin to be of opinion that we may meet
every day without any great danger; at my cousin’s every other day,
and in the field on every intermediate one.
Letter XXXVII. From Eloisa.
They left me this very morning; my tender father and still fonder
mother, took leave of me but just now, overwhelming their beloved
daughter (too unworthy, alas, of all their affection) with repeated
caresses. For my own part, indeed, I did not feel much reluctance at
this separation! I embraced them with an outward appearance of
concern, while my ungrateful and unnatural heart was leaping within me
for joy. Where, alas, is now that happy time, when I led an innocent
life under their continual observation, when my only joy was their
approbation, my only concern their absence or neglect? Behold now the
melancholy reverse! Guilty and fearful as I now am, the very thought
of them gives me pain, and the recollection of myself makes me blush
with confusion. All my virtuous ideas now vanish away like a dream,
and leave in their stead empty disquietudes and barren remorse, which,
bitter as they are, are nevertheless insufficient to lead me to
repentance. These cruel reflections have brought on all that sorrow,
which the taking leave of my parents was unable to effect. And yet
immediately on their departure, I felt an agony of grief. While Bab
was setting the things to rights, I went into my mother’s room as it
were mechanically, without knowing what I did, and seeing some of her
cloaths lying scattered about, I took them up one by one, kissed them
and bathed them with my tears. This vent to my anxiety afforded me
present ease, and it was some comfort to me to reflect, that I was
still awake to nature’s soft emotions, and that her gentle fires were
not entirely extinguished in my soul. In vain, cruel tyrant! dost thou
seek to subject this weak and tender heart, to thy absolute dominion:
notwithstanding all thy fond illusions, it still retains the
sentiments of duty, still cherishes and reveres parental rights, much
more sacred than thy own.
Forgive me, my dear friend, these involuntary emotions, nor imagine
that I carry these reflections farther than I ought. Love’s soft
moments are not to be expected amidst the tortures of anxiety. I
cannot conceal my sufferings from you, and yet I would not overwhelm
you with them; nay, you must know them, though not to share, yet to
soften them. But into whose bosom dare I pour them, if not into,
thine? Are not you my faithful friend, my prudent counselor, my tender
comfort? Have not you been fostering in my soul the love of virtue,
when, alas! that virtue itself was no longer within me? How often
should I have sunk under the pressure of my afflictions had not thy
pitying hand relieved me from my sorrows, and wiped away my tears? It
is your tender care alone supports me. I dare not abuse myself while
you continue to esteem me, and I flatter myself, that if I were indeed
contemptible, none of you would or could so honour me with your
regard. I am flying to the arms of my dear cousin, or rather to the
heart of a tender sister, there to repose the load of grief with which
I am oppressed. Come thither this evening, and contribute to restore
to me that peace and serenity, of which I have long been deprived.
Letter XXXVIII. To Eloisa.
No, Eloisa, it is impossible! I can never bear to see you every day,
if I am always to be charmed in the manner I was last night. My
affection must ever bear proportion to the discovery of your beauties,
and you are an inexhaustible source of endless wonder and delight,
beyond my utmost hopes, beyond my most sanguine expectations! What a
delicious evening to me was the last! What amazing raptures did I
feel! O enchanting sorrow! How infinitely doth the pleasing languor of
a heart softened by concern, surpass the boisterous pleasures, the
foolish gaiety, and the extravagant joy with which a boundless passion
inspires the ungovernable lover! O peaceful bliss! never, never shall
thy pleasing idea be torn from my memory! Heavens, what an enchanting
sight! it was extasy itself, to see two such perfect beauties embrace
each other so affectionately; your face reclined upon her breast,
mixing your tender tears together, and bedewing that charming bosom,
just as heaven refreshes a bed of new blown flowers. I grew jealous of
such a friendship, and thought there was some thing more interesting
in it than even in love itself. I was grieved at the impossibility of
consoling you, without disturbing you at the same time by the violence
of my emotion. No, nothing, nothing upon earth is capable of exciting
so pleasing a sensation as your mutual caresses. Even the sight of two
lovers would have been less delightful.
Oh how could I have admired, nay, adored your dear cousin, if the
divine Eloisa herself had not taken up all my thoughts! You throw, my
dearest angel, an irresistible charm on every thing that surrounds
you. Your gown, your gloves, fan, work, nay every thing that was the
object of my outward senses, enchanted my very soul; and you yourself
compleatd the enchantment. Forbear, forbear, my dear, dear Eloisa, nor
deprive me of all sensation, by making my enjoyment too exquisite. My
transports approach so nearly to phrenzy, that I begin to be
apprehensive I shall lose my reason. Let me, at least, be sensible of
my felicity; let me at least have a rational idea of those raptures,
which are more sublime, and more penetrating, than my glowing
imagination could paint. How can you think yourself disgraced? This
very thought is a sure proof that your senses likewise are affected.
Oh, you are too perfect for frail mortality! I should believe you to
be of a more exalted purer species, if the violence of my passion did
not clearly evince, that we are of a kindred frame. No human being
conceives your excellence; you are unknown even to yourself; my heart
alone knows and can estimate its Eloisa. Were you only an idol of
worship, could you have been enraptured with the dull homage of
admiring mortals? Were you only an angel, how much you would lose of
your real value!
Tell me, if you can, how such a passion as mine is capable of
increasing? I am ignorant of the means, yet am but too sensible of the
fact. You are indeed ever present with me, yet there are some days in
which thy beautiful image is peculiarly before me, and haunts me as it
were with such amazing assiduity that neither time nor place can
deprive me of the delightful object. I even believe you left it with
me in the dairy-house, at the conclusion of your last letter. Since
you mentioned that rural spot, I have been continually rambling in the
fields, and am always insensibly led towards the same place. Every
time I behold it, it appears still more enchanting.
_Non vide il mondo si leggiadri rami,
Ne mosse’l vento mai si verdi frondi._
I find the country more delightful, the verdure fresher and livelier,
the air more temperate and serene than ever I did before; even the
feathered songsters of the sky seem to tune their tender throats with
more harmony and pleasure; the murmuring rills invite to love-
inspiring dalliance, while the blossoms of the vine regale me from
afar with the choicest perfumes. Some secret charm enlivens every
object, or raises my sensations to a more exquisite degree. I am
tempted to imagine that even the earth adorns herself to make a
nuptial bed for your happy lover, worthy of the passion which he
feels, and the goddess he adores. O, my Eloisa, my dearer better half!
let us immediately add to these beauties of the spring, the presence
of two faithful lovers. Let us carry the true sentiments of pleasures
to places which comparatively afford but an empty idea of it. Let us
animate all nature which is absolutely dead without the genial warmth
of love. Am I yet to stay three days, three whole days? Oh what an age
to a fond expecting lover! Intoxicated with my passion, I wait that
happy moment with the most melancholy impatience. Oh how happy should
we be, if heaven would annihilate those tedious intervals which retard
the blissful moment!
Letter XXXIX. From Eloisa.
There is not a single emotion of your heart, which I do not share with
the tenderest concern. But talk no more of pleasures, whilst others,
who have deserved much better than either of us, are suffering under
the pressure of the severest afflictions. Read the inclosed, and then
be composed if you can. I indeed, who am well acquainted with the good
girl who wrote it, was not able to proceed without shedding tears of
sorrow and compassion. The recollection it gave me of my blameable
negligence, touched my very soul, and, to my bitter confusion, I
perceive but too plainly, that a forgetfulness of the principal points
of my duty, has extended itself to all those of inferior
consideration. I had promised this poor child to take care of her; I
recommended her to my mother, and kept her in some degree under my
continual inspection: but, alas! when I became unable to protect
myself, I abandoned her too, and exposed her to worse misfortunes than
even I myself have fallen into. I shudder to think that had I not been
roused from my carelessness, in two days time my ward would have been
ruined; her own indigence, and the snares of others, would have
ruined, for ever ruined, a modest and discreet girl, who may hereafter
possibly prove an excellent parent. O, my dear friend! can there be
such vile creatures upon earth, who would extort from the depth of
misery what the heart alone should give? That any one can submit to
receive the tender embraces of love from the arms of famine itself!
Can you be unmoved at my Fanny’s filial piety, at the integrity of her
sentiments, and the simplicity of her innocence? But are you not
affected with the uncommon tenderness of the lover, who will sell even
himself to assist his poor mistress? Would not you think yourself too
happy to be the instrument of uniting a couple so well formed for each
other? If we, alas, (whose situation so much resembles theirs) do not
compassionate lovers who are united by nature, but divided by
misfortunes, where else can they seek relief with a probability of
success? For my own part, I have determined to make some amends for my
neglect, by contributing my utmost endeavours to unite these two young
people. Heaven will, I hope, assist the generous undertaking, and my
success may prove a good omen to us. I desire, nay, conjure you, by
all that is good and dear to you, to set out for Neufchatel the very
moment you receive this, or to-morrow morning at farthest. You will
then go to Mr. Merveilleux, and try to obtain the young man’s release;
spare neither money nor intreaties. Take Fanny’s letter along with
you. No breast, that is not absolutely void of all sentiments of
humanity, can read it without emotion. In short, whatever money it may
cost, whatever pleasure of her own it may defer, be sure not to return
without an entire free discharge for Claudius Anet; if you do, you may
be assured, I shall never enjoy a single moment’s satisfaction during
the remainder of my life.
I am aware that your heart will be raising many objections to the
proposal I have made; but can you think, that I have not foreseen all
those objections? Yet, notwithstanding them all, I repeat my request;
for virtue must either be an empty name, or it requires of us some
mortifying self-denials. Our appointment, my friend, my dear, dear
friend, though lost for the present, may be made again and again. A
few hours of the most agreeable intercourse vanish like a flash of
lightening; but when the happiness of an honest couple is in your
power, think, only think, what you are preparing for hereafter, if you
neglect the opportunity; on the use then of the present time, depends
an eternity of contentment or remorse. Forgive such frequent
repetitions, they are the overflowings of my zeal. I have said, more
than was necessary to any honest man, and an hundred times too much to
my dear friend. I well know how you abominate that cruel turn of mind
which hardens us to the calamities of others. You yourself have told
me a thousand times, that he is a wretch indeed who scruples giving up
one day of pleasure to the duties of humanity.
Letter XL. From Fanny Regnard to Eloisa.
Honoured Madam,
Forgive this interruption, from a poor girl in despair, who being
ignorant what to do, has taken the liberty of addressing herself to
your benevolence; for you, Madam, are never weary of comforting the
afflicted, and I am so unfortunate, alas, that I have tired all but
God Almighty, and you, with my complaints. I am very sorry I was
obliged to leave the mistress you had been so kind to put me
apprentice to, but on my mother’s death, (which happened this winter)
I was obliged to return home to my poor father, who is confined to his
bed by the palsy.
I have never forgotten the advice you gave my mother, to try to settle
me with some honest man, who might be of use to the family. Claud
Anet (formerly in your father’s service) is a very sober discreet
person, master of a good trade, and has taken a liking to me. Having
been already so much indebted to your bounty, I did not dare to apply
to you for any farther assistance, so that he has been our only
support during the whole winter. He was to have married me this
spring, and indeed had set his heart on it; but I have been so teased
for three years rent due last Easter, that not knowing where to get so
much money, the young man listed at once in M. Marveilleux’s company,
and brought me all the money he had received for enlisting. M.
Merveilleux stays at Neufchatel about a week longer, and Claud Anet is
to set out in three or four days with the rest of the recruits. So
that we have neither time nor money to marry, and he is going to leave
me without any help. If, through your interest or the Baron’s, five or
six weeks longer might be given us, we would endeavour in that time
either to get married, or repay the young man his money. But I am sure
he can never be prevailed on to take the money again.
I received this morning some great offers from a very rich gentleman,
but thank God, I have refused them. He told me, he would come again
to-morrow to know my mind; but I desired him not to give himself so
much trouble, and that he knew it already. By God’s assistance, he
shall have the same answer to-morrow. I might indeed apply to the
parish; but one is so despised after that, that my misfortunes are
better than such a relief, and Claud Anet has too much pride to think
of me after this. Forgive the liberty I have taken; you are the only
person I could think of, and I feel so distressed, that I can write no
more about it.
I am,
Your humble servant to command.
Fanny Regnard.
Letter XLI. The Answer.
I have been wanting in point of memory, and you Fanny have been
deficient in your confidence in me; in short, we have both of us been
to blame, but I am the most inexcusable. However, I shall now
endeavour to repair the injury which my neglect may have occasioned.
Bab, the bearer of this, has orders to satisfy your more immediate
wants, and will be with you again to-morrow, for fear the gentleman
should return. My cousin and I propose calling on you in the evening;
for I know you cannot leave your poor father alone, and indeed I shall
be glad of this opportunity, to inspect your economy a little.
You need not be uneasy on Claud Anet’s account; my father is from
home, but we shall do all we can towards his immediate release. Be
assured, that I will neither forget you, nor your generous lover.
Adieu, my dear, and may God ever bless you. I think you much in the
right for not having recourse to public charity. Such steps as those,
are never to be taken, while the hearts and purses of benevolent
individuals are open, and accessible.
Letter XLII. To Eloisa.
I have received your letter, and shall set out this instant. This is
all the answer I shall make. O Eloisa! how could you cruelly suppose
me possessed of such a selfish unfeeling heart? But you command, and
shall be obeyed. I would rather die a thousand times, than forfeit
your esteem.
Letter XLIII. To Eloisa.
I arrived at Neufchatel yesterday morning, and on enquiry was told,
that M. Merveilleux was just gone into the country. I followed him
immediately, but as he was out a hunting all day, I was obliged to
wait till the evening, before I could speak with him. I told him the
cause of my journey, and desired he would set a price on Claud Anet’s
discharge; to which he raised a number of objections. I then
concluded, that the most effectual method of answering them, would be
to increase my offers, which I did in proportion as his difficulties
multiplied. But finding, after some time, that I was not likely to
succeed, I took my leave, having previously desired the liberty to
wait on him the next morning; determined in my own mind not to stir
out of the house a second time, till I had obtained my request, by
dint of larger offers, frequent importunity, or in short by whatever
means I could think most effectual. I arose early next morning to put
this resolution in practice, and was just going to mount my horse,
when I received a note from M. Merveilleux with the young man’s
discharge, in due form and order. The contents of the note were these.
“Inclosed, Sir, is the discharge, you request. I denied it to your
pecuniary offers, but have granted it in consideration of your
charitable design, and desire you would not think that I am to be
bribed into a good action.”
You will easily conceive by your own satisfaction, what joy I must
have felt. But why is it not as compleat as it ought to be? I cannot
possibly avoid going to thank, and indeed to reimburse M. Merveilleux,
and if this visit, necessary as it is, should retard my return a whole
day, as I am apprehensive it will, is he not generous at my expense?
But no matter: I have done my duty to Eloisa, and am satisfied. Oh
what a happiness it is thus to reconcile benevolence to love! to unite
in the same action the charms of conscious virtue, with the soft
sensations of the tendered affection. I own freely, Eloisa, that I
began my journey, full of sorrow and impatience; I even dared to
reproach you with feeling too much the calamities of others, while you
remained insensible to my sufferings, as if I alone of all created
beings had been unworthy your compassion. I thought it quite barbarous
in you, after having disappointed me of my sweetest hopes, thus
unnecessarily and wantonly as it were to deprive me of a happiness
which you had voluntarily promised. All these secret repinings are now
happily changed into a fund of contentment, and solid satisfaction, to
which I have hitherto lived a stranger. I have already enjoyed the
recompense you bade me expect; you spake from experience. Oh! what an
amazing kind of empire is yours, which can convert even disappointment
into pleasure, and cause the same satisfaction in obeying you, as
could result from the greatest self-gratification! Oh my dearest,
kindest Eloisa, you are indeed an angel; if any thing could be wanting
to confirm the truth of this, your unbounded empire over my soul would
be a sufficient confirmation. Doubtless it partakes much more of the
divine nature, than of the human; and who can resist the power of
heaven? And to what purpose should I cease to love you, since you must
ever remain the object of my adoration?
P. S. According to my calculation we shall have five or six days to
ourselves before your mother returns. Will it be impossible for you
during this interval to undertake a pilgrimage to the dairy-house?
Letter XLIV. From Eloisa.
Repine not, my dear friend, at this unexpected return. It is really
more advantageous to us than you can possibly imagine, and indeed,
supposing our contrivances could have effected what our regard to
appearance has induced us to give up, we should have succeeded no
better. Judge what would have been the consequence, had we followed
our inclinations. I should have gone into the country but the very
evening before my mother’s return, should have been sent for them
thence, before I could have possibly given you any notice, and must
consequently have left you in the most dreadful anxiety; we should
have parted just on the eve of our imaginary bliss, and the
disappointment would have been cruelly aggravated by the near approach
of our felicity. Besides, notwithstanding the utmost precautions we
could have taken, it would have been known that we were both in the
country; perhaps too, they might have heard that we were together, it
would have been suspected at least, and that were enough. An imprudent
avidity of the present moment, would have deprived us of every future
resource, and the remorse for having neglected such an act of
benevolence, would have imbittered the remainder of our lives.
Compare then, I beseech you, our present situation with that I have
been describing. First, your absence has been productive of several
good effects. My Argus will not fail to tell my mother, that you have
been but seldom at my cousin’s. She is acquainted with the motives of
your journey; this may probably prove a means of raising you in her
esteem, and how think you, can they conceive it possible that two
young people who have an affection for each other should agree to
separate, at the very time they are left most at liberty? What an
artifice have we employed to destroy suspicions which are but too well
founded! The only stratagem in my opinion consistent with honour, is
the carrying our discretion to such an incredible height, that, what
is in reality the utmost effort of self-denial, may be mistaken for a
token of indifference. How delightful, my dear friend, must a passion
thus concealed be to those who enjoy it! Add to this the pleasing
consciousness of having united two despairing lovers, and contributed
to the happiness of so deserving a couple. You have seen my Fanny;
tell me, is not she a charming girl? Does not she really deserve every
thing you have done for her? Is not she too beautiful and too
unfortunate to remain long unmarried, without some disaster? And do
you think that Claud Anet, whose natural good disposition has
miraculously preserved him during three years service, could have
resolution to continue three years more without becoming as
perfidious, and as wretched as all those of that profession? Instead
of that, they love, and will be united, they are poor, and will be
relieved; they are honest, and will be enabled to continue so; for my
father has promised them a competent provision. What a number of
advantages then has your kindness procured to them, and to ourselves;
not to mention the additional obligations you have conferred on me?
Such, my friend, are the certain effects of sacrifices to virtue;
which, though they are difficult to perform, are always grateful in
remembrance. No one ever repented of having performed a good action.
I suppose, you will say, with the _constant_, that all this is mere
_preaching_, and indeed it is but too true that I no more practise
what I preach than those who are preachers by profession. However, if
my discourses are not so elegant, I have the satisfaction to find that
mine are not so entirely thrown away as theirs. I do not deny it, my
dear friend, that I would willingly add as many virtues to your
character, as a fatal indulgence to love has taken away from mine; and
Eloisa herself having forfeited my regard, I would gladly esteem her
in you. Perfect affection is all that is required on your part, and
the consequence will flow easy and natural. With what pleasure ought
you to reflect, that you are continually increasing those obligations,
which love itself engages to pay!
My cousin has been made privy to the conversation you had with her
father, about M. Orbe, and seems to think herself as much indebted to
you, as if we had never been obliged to her in our lives. Gracious
heaven, how every particular incident contributes to my happiness! How
dearly am I beloved, and how I am charmed with their affection!
Father, mother, friend and lover, all conspire in their tender concern
for my happiness, and notwithstanding my eager endeavours to requite
them, I am always either prevented or outdone. It should seem, as if
all the tenderest feelings in nature verged towards my heart, whilst
I, alas, have but one sensation to enjoy them.
I forgot to mention a visit you are to receive to-morrow morning. ’Tis
from L. B---- lately come from Geneva, where he has resided about
eight months; he told me he had seen you at Sion, in his return from
Italy. He found you very melancholy, but speaks of you in general
in the manner you yourself would wish, and in which I have long
thought. He commended you so a propos to my father yesterday, that
he has prejudiced me already very much in his favour: and indeed his
conversation is sensible, lively and spirited. In reciting heroic
actions, he raises his voice, and his eyes sparkle as men usually do
who are capable of performing the deeds they relate. He speaks also
emphatically in matters of taste, especially of the Italian music which
he extols to the very skies. He often reminded me of my poor brother.
But his lordship seems not to have sacrificed much to the graces; his
discourse in general is rather nervous than elegant, and even his
understanding seems to want a little polishing.
Letter XLV. To Eloisa.
I was reading your last letter, the second time, only, when Lord B----
came in. But as I have so many other things to say, how can I think of
his lordship? When two people are entirely delighted and satisfied
with each other, what need is there of a third person? However since
you seem to desire it, I will tell you what I know of him. Having
passed the Semplon, he came to Sion, to wait for a chaise which was to
come from Geneva to Brigue; and as want of employment often makes men
seek society, we soon became acquainted, and as intimate, as the
reserve of an Englishman, and my natural love of retirement, would
permit. Yet we soon perceived, that we were adapted to each other;
there is a certain union of souls which is easily discernable. At the
end of eight days, we were full as familiar, as we ever were
afterwards, and as two Frenchmen would have been in the same number of
hours. He entertained me with an account of his travels; and knowing
he was an Englishman, I immediately concluded he would have talked of
nothing but pictures or buildings. But I was soon pleased to find,
that his attention to the politer arts had not made him neglect the
study of men and manners: yet whatever he said on those subjects of
refinement was judicious, and in taste, but with modesty and
diffidence. As far as I could perceive, his opinions seemed rather
founded on reflection, than science, and that he judged from effects,
rather than rules, which confirmed me in my idea of his excellent
understanding. He spake to me of the Italian music with as much
enthusiasm as he did to you, and indeed gave me a specimen of it; his
valet plays extremely well on the violin, and he himself tolerably on
the violencello. He picked out what he called some very affecting
pieces, but whether it was by being unused to it, or that music,
which is so soothing in melancholy, loses all its soft charms when
our grief is extreme, I must own I was not much delighted; the melody
was agreeable, but wild, and without the least expression.
Lord B---- was very anxious to know my situation. I accordingly told
him, as much as was necessary for him to know. He made an offer of
taking me with him into England, and proposed several advantages,
which were no inducements to me in a country where Eloisa was not. He
had formerly told me that he intended to pass the winter at Geneva,
the summer at Lausanne and that he would come to Vevey before he
returned into Italy.
Lord B---- is of a lively hasty temper, but virtuous and steady. He
piques himself on being a philosopher, and upon those principles which
we have frequently discussed. But I really believe his own disposition
leads him naturally to that which he imagines the effect of method and
study, and that the varnish of stoicism, which he glosses over all his
actions, only covers the inclination of his heart.
I do not know what want of polish you have found in his manner; it is
really not very engaging, and yet I cannot say there is any thing
disgusting in it. Though his address is not so easy and open as his
disposition, and he seems to despise the trifling punctilios of
ceremony, yet his behaviour in the main is very agreeable: though he
has not that reserved and cautious politeness, which confines itself
alone to mere outward form, and which our young officers learn in
France, yet he is less solicitous about distinguishing men and their
respective situations at first sight, than he is assiduous in paying a
proper degree of respect to every one in general. Shall I tell you the
plain truth? Want of elegance is a failing which women never overlook,
and I fear that in this instance, Eloisa has been a woman for once in
her life.
Since I am now upon a system of plain dealing, give me leave to assure
you, my pretty preacher, that it is to no purpose that you endeavour
to invalidate my pretensions, and that sermons are but poor food for a
famished lover. Think, think of all the compensations you have
promised, and which indeed are my due; but though every thing you have
said is exceeding just and true, one visit to the dairy-house would
have been a thousand times more agreeable.
Letter XLVI. From Eloisa.
What, my friend, still the dairy-house? Surely this dairy house sits
heavy on your heart. Well, cost what it will, I find you must be
humoured. But is it possible you can be so attached to a place you
never saw, that no other will satisfy you? Do you think that Love, who
raised Armida’s palace in the midst of a desert, cannot give us a
dairy-house in the town? Fanny is going to be married, and my father,
who has no objection to a little parade and mirth, is resolved it
shall be a public wedding. You may be sure there will be no want of
noise and tumult, which may not prove unfavourable to a private
conversation. You understand me. Do not you think it will be charming
to find the pleasures we have denied ourselves in the effect of our
benevolence?
Your zeal to apologize for Lord B---- was unnecessary, as I was never
inclined to think ill of him. Indeed how should I judge of a man, with
whom I spent only one afternoon? or how can you have been sufficiently
acquainted with him in the space of a few days? I spoke only from
conjecture; nor do I suppose that you can argue on any better
foundation: his proposals to you are of that vague kind of which
strangers are frequently lavish, from their being easily eluded, and
because they give them an air of consequence. But your character of
his Lordship is another proof of your natural vivacity, and of that
ease with which you are prejudiced for or against people at first
sight. Nevertheless, we will think of his proposals more at leisure.
If love should favour my project, perhaps something better may offer.
O, my dear friend, patience is exceeding bitter; but its fruits are
most delicious!
To return to our Englishman, I told you he appeared to have a truly
great and intrepid soul; but that he was rather sensible than
agreeable. You seem almost of the same opinion, and then, with that
air of masculine superiority, always visible in our humble admirers,
you reproach me with being a woman once in my life; as if a woman
ought ever to belie her sex.
Have you forgot our dispute, when we were reading your _Republic of
Plato_, about the moral distinction between the sexes? I have still
the same difficulty to suppose there can be but one common model of
perfection for two beings so essentially different. Attack and
defence, the impudence of the men, and female modesty, are by no means
effects of the same cause as the philosophers have imagined; but
natural institutions which may be easily accounted for, and from which
may be deduced every other moral distinction. Besides, the designs of
nature being different in each, their inclinations, their perceptions
ought necessarily to be directed according to their different views:
to till the ground, and to nourish children, require very opposite
tastes and constitutions. A higher stature, stronger voice and
features, seem indeed to be no indispensable marks of distinction; but
this external difference evidently indicates the intention of the
Creator in the modification of the mind. The soul of a perfect woman
and a perfect man ought to be no more alike than their faces. All our
vain imitations of your sex are absurd; they expose us to the ridicule
of sensible men, and discourage the tender passions we were made to
inspire. In short, unless we are near six foot high, have a bass
voice, and a beard upon our chins, we have no business to pretend to
be men.
What novices are you lovers in the art of reproaching! You accuse me
of a fault which I have not committed, or of which, however, you are
as frequently guilty as myself; and you attribute it to a defeat of
which I am proud. But in return for your plain dealing, suffer me to
give you my plain and sincere opinion of your sincerity. Why then, it
appears to be a refinement of flattery, calculated, under the disguise
of an apparent freedom of expression, to justify to yourself the
enthusiastic praises which, upon every occasion, you are so liberally
pleased to bestow on me. You are so blinded by my imaginary
perfections, that you can discover no real ones to excuse your
prepossessions in my favour.
Believe me, my friend, you are not qualified to tell me my faults. Do
you think the eyes of love, piercing as they are, can discover
imperfect? No, ’tis a power which belongs only to honest friendship,
and in that your pupil Clara is much your superior. Yes, my dear
friend, you shall praise me, admire me, and think me charming and
beautiful and spotless. Thy praises please without deceiving me I know
it to be the language of error and not of deceit; that you deceive
yourself, but have no design to deceive me. O how delightful are the
illusions of love! and surely all its flattery is truth; for the heart
speaks, though the judgment is silent. The lover who praises in us
that which we do not possess, represents our qualities truly as they
appear to him; he speaks a falsity without being guilty of a lie; he
is a flatterer without meanness, and one may esteem without believing
him.
I have heard, not without some little palpitation, a proposal to
invite two philosophers to-morrow to supper. One is my Lord B----, and
the other a certain sage whose gravity hath sometimes been a little
discomposed at the feet of a young disciple. Do you know the man? If
you do, pray desire that he will to-morrow preserve the philosophic
decorum a little better than usual. I shall take care to order the
young damsel to cast her eyes downward, and to appear in his as little
engaging as possible.
Letter XLVII. To Eloisa.
Malicious girl! Is this the circumspection you promised? Is it thus
you spare my heart, and draw a veil over your charms? How often did
you break your engagement! First, as to your dress; for you were in an
undress, though you well know that you are never more bewitching.
Secondly, that modest air and sweetness in your manner so calculated
for the gradual display of all your graces. Your conversation more
refined, more studied, more witty than usual, which made every one so
uncommonly attentive, that they seemed impatiently to anticipate every
sentence you spoke. That delightful air you sung below your usual
pitch, which rendered your voice more enchantingly soft, and which
made your song, though French, please even Lord B----. Your down-cast
eyes, and your timid glances which pierced me to the soul. In a word,
that inexpressible enchantment which seemed spread over your whole
person to turn the brains of the company, even without the least
apparent design. For my part, I know not how to manage; but if this is
the method you take to be _as little engaging as possible_, I assure
you, however, it is being infinitely too much so for people to retain
their senses in your company.
I doubt much whether the poor English philosopher has not perceived a
little of the same influence. After we had conducted your cousin home,
seeing us all in high spirits, he proposed that we should retire to
his lodgings and have a little music, and a bowl of punch. While his
servants were assembling, he never ceased talking of you; but with so
much warmth, that, I confess, I should not hear his praise from your
lips with as much pleasure as you did from mine. Upon the whole, I am
not fond of hearing any body speak of you, except your cousin. Every
word seems to deprive me of a part of my secret, or my pleasure, and
whatever they say appears so suspicious, or is so infinitely short of
what I feel, that I would hear no discourse upon the subject but my
own.
It is not that, like you, I am at all inclined to jealousy: no, I am
better acquainted with the soul of my Eloisa; and I have certain
sureties that exclude even the possibility of your inconstancy. After
your protestations, I have nothing more to say concerning your other
pretenders; but this Lord, Eloisa----equality of rank----your
father’s prepossession----In short, you know my life is depending. For
heaven’s sake, deign to give me a line or two upon this subject: one
single word from Eloisa, and I shall be satisfied for ever.
I passed the night in attending to, and playing, Italian music; for
there were some duets, and I was forced to take a part. I dare not yet
tell you what effect it had on me; but I fear, I fear, the impression
of last night’s supper influenced the harmony, and that I mistook the
effect of your enchantment for the power of music. Why should not the
same cause which made it disagreeable at Sion, gave it a contrary
effect in a contrary situation? Are not you the source of every
affection of my soul, and am I proof against the power of your magic?
If it had really been the music which produced the enchantment, every
one present must have been affected in the same manner; but whilst I
was all rapture and extasy, Mr. Orbe sat snoring in an armed chair,
and when I awoke him with my exclamations, all the praise he bestowed
was to ask, whether your cousin understood Italian.
All this will be better explained to-morrow; for we are to have
another concert this evening. His Lordship is determined to have it
compleat, and has sent to Lausanne for a second violin, who, he says,
is a tolerable hand. On my part, I shall carry some French _scenes_
and cantatas.
When I first returned to my room I sunk into my chair, quite exhausted
and overcome; for want of practice I am but a poor rake: but I no
sooner took my pen to write to you, than I found myself gradually
recover. Yet I must endeavour to sleep a few hours. Come with me; my
sweet friend, and do not leave me whilst I slumber but whether thy
image brings me pain or pleasure, whether it reminds me, or not, of
Fanny’s wedding, it cannot deprive me of that delightful moment, when
I shall awake and recollect my felicity.
Letter XLVIII. To Eloisa.
Ah! my Eloisa, how have I been entertained! What melting sounds! what
music! delightful source of sensibility and pleasure! Lose not a
moment; collect your operas, your cantatas, in a word all your French
music; then make a very hot fire, and cast the wretched, stuff into
the flames: be sure you stir it well, that, cold as it is, it may once
at least send forth a little warmth. Make this sacrifice to the God of
taste, to expiate our mutual crime in having profaned your voice with
such doleful psalmody, and so long mistaking a noise that stunned our
ears for the pathetic language of the heart. How entirely your worthy
brother was in the right; and in what unaccountable ignorance have I
lived, concerning the productions of that charming art! It gave me but
little pleasure, and therefore I thought it naturally impotent.
music, I said, is a vain sound, that only flatters the ear, and makes
little or no impression upon the mind. The effect of harmonic sounds
is entirely mechanical or physical; and what have these to do with
sentiment? Why should I expect to be moved with musical chords more
than with a proper agreement of colours? But I never perceived, in the
accents of melody applied to those of language, the secret but
powerful unison between music and the passions. I had no idea that
the same sensations which modulate the voice of an orator, gives the
singer a still greater power over our hearts, and that the energic
expression of his own feelings is the sympathetic cause of all our
emotion.
This lesson I was taught by his lordship’s Italian singer, who, for a
musician, talks pretty sensibly of his own art. Harmony, says he, is
nothing more than a remote accessory in imitative music; for,
properly speaking, there is not in harmony the least principle of
imitation. Indeed, it assures the intonations, confirms their
propriety, and renders the modulation more distinct; it adds force to
the expression and grace to the air. But from melody alone proceeds
that invincible power of pathetic accents over the soul. Let there be
performed the most judicious succession of chords, without the
addition of melody, and you would be tired in less than a quarter of
an hour; whilst on the contrary, a single voice, without the
assistance of harmony, will continue to please a considerable time. An
air, be it ever so simple, if there be any thing of the true pathos in
the composition, becomes immediately interesting; but, on the
contrary, melody without expression will have no effect, and harmony
alone can never touch the heart.
In this, continued he, consists the error of the French with regard to
the power of music. As they can have no peculiar melody in a language
void of musical accent, nor in their uniform and unnatural poetry,
they have no idea of any other effect than that of harmony and a loud
voice, which instead of softening the tones, renders them more
intolerably noisy; nay they are even so unfortunate in their
pretensions, that they suffer the very harmony they expect to escape
them; for in order to render it more compleat, they sacrifice all
choice, they no longer distinguish the powers and effects of
particular tones, their compositions are overcharged, they have spoilt
their ears, and are become insensible to every thing but noise: so
that, in their opinion, the finest voice is that which roars the
loudest. Having no original stile or taste of their own, they have
always followed us heavily and at a great distance, and since their,
or rather our Lulli, who imitated the operas which were then quite
common in Italy, we have beheld them, thirty or forty years behind us,
copying, mutilating and spoiling our ancient compositions, just as
other nations do by their fashions. Whenever they boast of their
_chansons_, they pronounce their own condemnation; for if they could
express the passions, they would not set wit to music: but because
their music is entirely incapable of any expression, it is better
adapted to _chansons_ than operas, and ours is more fit for the latter
because it is extremely pathetic.
He then repeated a few Italian scenes without singing, made me
sensible of the harmony between the music and the words in the
recitative, between the sentiment and the music in the airs, and in
general the energy which was added to the expression by the exact
measure and the proper choice of chords. In short, after joining to my
knowledge of the Italian, the most perfect idea in my power of the
oratorial and pathetic emphasis, namely the art of speaking to the ear
and to the heart in an inarticulate language, I sat down and gave my
whole attention to this enchanting music, and, by the emotions I felt,
soon perceived that there is a power in the art infinitely beyond what
I imagined. It is impossible to describe the voluptuous sensation
which imperceptibly stole upon me. It was not an unmeaning succession
of sounds, as in our musical recitals. Every phrase imprest my brain
with some new image, or conveyed a fresh sensation to my heart. The
pleasure did not stop at the ear; it penetrated my soul. The
performance, without any extraordinary effort, seemed to flow with
charming facility; and the performers appeared to be all animated by
one soul. The singer, who was quite master of his voice, expressed,
with ease, all that the music and the words required. Upon the whole,
I was extremely happy to find myself relieved from those heavy
cadences, those terrible efforts of the voice, that continual combat
between the air and the measure which in our music so seldom agree,
and which is not less fatiguing to the audience than the musician.
But when, after a succession of agreeable airs, they struck into those
grand pieces of expression, which, as they paint, excite the more
violent passions, I every moment lost the idea of music, song,
imitation; and imagined I heard the real voice of grief, rage,
despair. Sometimes methought I saw a weeping disconsolate mother, a
lover betrayed, a furious tyrant, and the sympathy was frequently so
powerful that I could hardly keep my seat. I was thus affected,
because I now fully conceived the ideas of the composer, and therefore
his judicious combination of sounds acted upon me with all its force.
No, Eloisa, it is impossible to feel those impressions by halves; they
are excessive or not at all; one is either entirely insensible or
raised to an immoderate degree of enthusiasm: either it is an
unintelligible noise, or an impetuosity of sensation that hurries you
along, and which the soul cannot possibly resist.
Yet I had one cause of regret throughout the whole: it was, that any
other than my Eloisa should form sounds that were capable of giving me
pleasure, and to hear the most tender expressions of love from the
mouth of a wretched eunuch. O my lovely Eloisa! can there be any kind
of sensibility that belongs not to us? Who is there that can feel and
express better than we, all that can possibly be exprest or felt by a
soul melting into tenderness and love? Where are those who in softer
and more pathetic accents could pronounce the _Cor mio_, the _Idolo
amato_? Ah! what energy would our hearts add to the expression, if
together we should ever sing one of those charming duets which draw
such delicious tears from one’s eyes! I conjure you to taste this
Italian music as soon as possible, either at home or with your cousin.
Lord B---- will order his people to attend when and where you shall
think proper. With your exquisite sensibility, and more knowledge than
I had of the Italian declamation, one single essay will raise you to a
degree of enthusiasm at least equal to mine. Let me also persuade you
to take a few lessons of this virtuoso: I have begun with him this
morning. His manner of instruction is simple, clear, and consists more
in example than precept. I already perceive that the principal
requisite is to feel and mark the _time_, to observe the proper
emphasis, and instead of swelling every note, to sustain an equality
of tone; in short to refine the voice from all that French bellowing,
that it may become more just, expressive and flexible. Yours, which is
naturally so soft and sweet will be easily reformed, and your
sensibility will soon instruct you in that vivacity and expression,
which is the soul of Italian music.
_E ’l cantar che nell’ animo si sente._
Leave then, for ever leave, that tedious and lamentable French sing-
song, which bears more resemblance to the cries of the cholic than the
transports of the passion; and learn to breathe those divine sounds
inspired by sensation, which only are worthy of your voice, worthy of
your heart, and which never fail to charm and fire the soul.
Letter XLIX. From Eloisa.
You know, my dear friend, that I write to you by stealth, and in
continual apprehension of a surprize. Therefore, as it is impossible
for me to write long letters, I must confine myself to those parts of
yours which more especially require answering, or to supply what was
left unsaid in our conversations, which, alas, are no less clandestine
than our interchange of letters: at least I shall observe this method
to day; your mentioning Lord B---- will make me neglect the rest.
And so you are afraid to lose me, yet you talk to me of singing!
surely this were sufficient cause for a quarrel between two people who
were less acquainted. No, no, you are not jealous it is evident: nor
indeed will I be so; for I have dived into your heart, and perceive
that which another might mistake for indifference, to be absolute
confidence. O what a charming security is that which springs from the
sensibility of a perfect union! Hence it is, I know, that from your
own heart you derive your good opinion of mine; and hence it is you
are so entirely justified, that I should doubt your affection, if
you were more alarmed.
I neither know nor care whether Lord B---- has any other regard for me
than all men have for girls of my age. But of what consequence are his
sentiments of the matter? Mine and my father’s are the only proper
subjects of enquiry and these are both the same as they were with
regard to the two pretended pretenders, of whom you say you will say
nothing. If his exclusion and theirs will add to your repose, rest
satisfied. How much soever we might think ourselves honoured in the
addresses of a man of his Lordship’s rank, never, with her own or her
father’s consent, would Eloisa D’Etange become Lady B----. Of this you may
be very certain: not that you are hence to conclude that he was ever
thought of in that light. I am positive you are the first person who
supposed that he has the least inclination for me. But be that as it
will, I know my father’s sentiments as well as if he had already
declared them. Surely this is sufficient to calm your fears; at least
it is as much as it concerns you to know. The rest is matter of mere
curiosity, and you know I have resolved that it shall not be
satisfied. You may reproach me as you please with reserve, and pretend
that our concerns and our interest are the same. If I had always been
reserved, it would now have been less important. Had it not been for
my indiscretion in repeating to you some of my fathers words, you
would never have retired to Meillerie, you would never have written
the letter which was the cause of my ruin, I should still have
possessed my innocence, and might yet have aspired to happiness. Judge
then, by my sufferings for one indiscretion, how I ought to dread the
commission of another! You are too violent to have any prudence. You
could with less difficulty conquer your passions than disguise them.
The least suspicion would set you mad, and the most trivial
circumstance would confirm all your suspicions. Our secrets would be
legible in your face, and your impetuous zeal would frustrate all my
hopes. Leave therefore to me the cares of love, and do you preserve
its pleasures only. You surely have no reason to complain with this
division: acquiesce, and be convinced that all you can possibly
contribute to the advancement of our felicity, is, not to interrupt
it.
But, alas! what avail my precautions now? Is it for me to be cautious
how I step, who am already fallen headlong down the precipice, or to
prevent the evils with which I am already oppressed? Ah wretched girl!
is it for thee to talk of felicity? Was ever happiness compatible with
shame and remorse? Cruel, cruel fate! neither to be able to bear nor
to repent of my crime; to be beset by a thousand terrors, deluded by a
thousand hopes, and not even to enjoy the horrible tranquility of
despair. The question is not now of virtue and resolution, but of
fortune and prudence. My present business is not to extinguish a flame
which ought never to expire, but to render it innocent, or to die
guilty. Consider my situation, my friend, and then see whether you
dare depend upon my zeal.
Letter L. From Eloisa.
I refused to explain to you, before we parted yesterday, the cause of
that uneasiness you remarked in me, because you were not in a
condition to bear reproof. In spite, however, of my aversion to
explanations, I think I ought to do it now, to acquit myself of the
promise I then made you.
I know not whether you may remember your last night’s unaccountable
discourse and strange behaviour; for my part, I shall remember them
too long for your honour or my repose; indeed they have hurt me too
much to be easily forgotten. Similar expressions have sometimes
reached my ears from the street; but I never thought they could come
from the lips of any worthy man. Of this however I am certain, there
are no such in the lover’s dictionary, and nothing was farther from my
thoughts than that they should ever pass between you and me. Good
heaven! what kind of love must yours be, thus to season its delights!
It is true, you were flushed with wine, and I perceive how much one
must over-look in a country where such excess is permitted. It is for
this reason I speak to you on the subject; for you may be assured
that, had you treated me in the same manner when perfectly sober, it
should have been the last opportunity you should ever have had.
But what alarms me most on your account is, that the conduct of men in
liquor is often no other than the image of what passes in their hearts
at other times. Shall I believe that, in a condition which disguises
nothing, you discovered yourself to be what you really are? What will
become of me if you think this morning as you did last night? Sooner
than be liable to such insults, I had rather extinguish so gross a
passion, and lose for ever a lover who, knowing so little how to
respect his mistress, deserves so little of her esteem.
Is it possible that you who should delight in virtuous sentiments,
should have fallen into that cruel error, and have adopted the notion,
that a lover once made happy need no longer pay any regard to decorum,
and that those have no title to respect whose cruelty is no longer to
be feared. Alas, had you always thought thus, your power would have
been less dreadful, and I should have been less unhappy. But mistake
not, my friend; nothing is so pernicious to true lovers as the
prejudices of the world; so many talk of love and so few know what it
is, that most people mistake its pure and gentle laws for the vile
maxims of an abject commerce, which, soon satiated, has recourse to
the monsters of imagination, and, in order to support itself, sinks
into depravity.
Possibly I may be mistaken; but it seems to me that true love is the
chastest of all human connections; and that the sacred flame of love
should purify our natural inclinations, by concentring them in one
object. It is love that secures us from temptation, and makes the
whole sex indifferent, except the beloved individual.
To a woman indifferent to love, every man is the same, and all are
men; but to her whose heart is truly susceptible of that refined
passion, there is no other man in the world but her lover. What do I
say? Is a lover no more than a man? He is a being far superior! There
exists not a man in the creation with her who truly loves: her lover
is more, and all others are less; they live for each other, and are
the only beings of their species. They have no desires; they love. The
heart is not led by, but leads, the senses, and throws over their
errors the veil of delight. There is nothing obscene but in lewdness
and its gross language. Real love, always modest, seizes not
impudently its favours, but steals them with timidity. Secrecy,
silence, and a timorous bashfulness heighten and conceal its delicious
transports; its flame purifies all its caresses, while decency and
chastity attend even its most sensual pleasures. It is love alone that
knows how to gratify the desires without trespassing on modesty. Tell
me, you who once knew what true pleasures were, how can a cynic
impudence be consistent with their enjoyment? Will it not deprive that
enjoyment of all its sweetness? Will it not deface that image of
perfection that represents the beloved object? Believe me, my friend,
lewdness and love can never dwell together; they are incompatible. On
the heart depends the true happiness of those who love; and where love
is absent, nothing can supply its place.
But, supposing you were so unhappy as to be pleased with such immodest
discourse, how could you prevail on yourself to make sure of it so
indifferently, and address her who was so dear to you, in a manner in
which a virtuous man certainly ought to be ignorant? Since when is it
become delightful to afflict the object one loves? and how barbarous
is that pleasure which delights in tormenting others? I have not
forgotten that I have forfeited the right I had to be respected: but
if I should ever forget it, is it you that ought to remind of it? Does
it belong to the author of my crime to aggravate my punishment? Ought
he not rather to administer comfort? All the world may have reason to
despise me, but you have none. It is to you I owe the mortifying
situation to which I am reduced; and surely the tears I have shed for
my weakness call upon you to alleviate my sorrow, I am neither nice
nor prudish. Alas, I am but too far from it; I have not been even
discreet. You know too well, ungrateful as you are, that my
susceptible heart can refuse nothing to love. But, whatever I may
yield to love, I will make no concessions to any thing else; and you
have instructed me too well in its language to be able to substitute
one so different in its room. No terms of abuse, not even blows could
have insulted me more than such demonstrations of kindness. Either
renounce Eloisa, or continue to merit her esteem. I have already told
you I know no love without modesty; and, how much soever it may cost
me to give up yours, it will cost me still more to keep it at so dear
a price.
I have yet much to say on this subject; but I must here close my
letter, and defer it to another opportunity. In the mean time, pray
observe one effect of your mistaken maxims regarding the immoderate
use of wine. I am very sensible your heart is not to blame; but you
have deeply wounded mine; and, without knowing what you did, afflicted
a mind too easily alarmed, and to which nothing is indifferent that
comes from you.
Letter LI.
There is not a line in your letter that does not chill the blood in my
veins; and I can hardly be persuaded, after twenty times reading, that
it is addressed to me. Who I? Can I have offended Eloisa? Can I have
profaned her beauties? Can the idol of my soul, to whom every moment
of my life I offer up my adorations, can she have been the object of
my insults? No, I would have pierced this heart a thousand times
before it should have formed so barbarous a design. Alas! you know but
little of this heart that flies to prostrate itself at your feet; a
heart anxious to contrive for thee a new species of homage, unknown to
human beings. Ah! my Eloisa, you know that heart but little, if you
accuse it of wanting towards you the ordinary respect which even a
common lover entertains for his mistress. Is it possible I can have
been impudent and brutal? I, who detest the language of immodesty, and
never in my life entered into places where it is held! But that I
should repeat such discourse to you; that I should aggravate your just
indignation! Had I been the most abandoned of men, had I spent my
youth in riot and debauchery, had even a taste for sensual and
shameful pleasures found a place in the heart where you reside, tell
me, Eloisa, my angel, tell me, how was it possible I could have
betrayed before you that impudence, which no one can have but in the
presence of those who are themselves abandoned enough to approve it.
Ah, no! it is impossible. One look of yours had sealed my lips and
corrected my heart. Love would have veiled my impetuous desires
beneath the charms of your modesty; while in the sweet union of our
souls their own delirium only would have led the senses astray. I
appeal to your own testimony, if ever in the utmost extravagance of an
unbounded passion, I ceased to revere its charming object. If I
received the reward of my love, did I ever take an advantage of my
happiness, to do violence to your bashfulness? If the trembling hand
of an ardent but timid lover hath sometimes presumed too far, did he
ever with brutal temerity profane your charms? If ever an indiscreet
transport drew aside their veil, though but for a moment, was not that
of modesty as soon substituted in its place? Unalterable as the
chastity of your mind, the flame that glows in mine can never change.
Is not the affecting and tender union of our souls sufficient to
constitute our happiness? Does not in this alone consist all the
happiness of our lives? Have we a wish to know, or taste of any other?
And canst thou conceive that this enchantment can be broken? How was
it possible for me to forget in a moment all regard to chastity, to
our love, my honour, and that invincible reverence and respect which
you must always inspire even in those by whom you are not adored? No;
I cannot believe it. It was not I that offended you? I have not the
least remembrance of it; and, were I but one instant culpable, can it
be that my remorse should ever leave me? No, Eloisa, some demon,
envious of happiness, too great for a mortal, has taken upon him my
form to destroy my felicity.
Nevertheless, I abjure, I detest a crime which I must have committed,
since you are my accuser, but in which my will had no part. How do I
begin to abhor that fatal intemperance, which once seemed to me
favourable to the effusions of the heart, and which has so cruelly
deceived mine! I have bound myself, therefore, by a solemn and
irrevocable vow, to renounce wine from this day, as a mortal poison.
Never shall that fatal liquor again touch my lips, bereave me of my
senses, or involve me in guilt to which my heart is a stranger. If I
ever break this solemn vow, may the powers of love inflict on me the
punishment I deserve! May the image of Eloisa that instant forsake my
heart, and abandon it for ever to indifference and despair!
But, think not I mean to expiate my crime by so slight a
mortification. There is a precaution and not a punishment. It is from
you I expect that which I deserve; nay, I beg it of you to console my
affliction. Let offended love avenge itself and be appeased to punish
without hating me, and I will suffer without murmuring. Be just and
severe; it is necessary, and I must submit; but if you would not
deprive me of life, you must not deprive me of your heart.
Letter LII. From Eloisa.
What! my friend renounce his bottle for his mistress! This is indeed a
sacrifice! I defy any one to find me a man in the four cantons more
deeply in love than your-self. Not but there may be found some young
frenchified petit-maîtres among us that drink water through
affectation; but you are the first Swiss that ever love made a water-
drinker, and ought to stand as an example for ever in the lover’s
chronicle of your country. I have even been informed of your abstinent
behaviour, and have been much edified to hear that, being to sup last
night with M. de Vueillerans, you saw six bottles go round after
supper without touching a drop; and that you spared your water as
little as your companions did their wine. This state of self-denial
and penitence, however, must have lasted already three days, and in
three days you must have abstained from wine at least for six meals.
Now to the abstinence for six meals, observed through fidelity, may be
added six others, through fear, six through shame, six through habit,
and six more through obstinacy. How many motives might be found to
prolong this mortifying abstinence, of which love alone will have all
the credit? But can love condescend to pride itself in merit, to which
it hath no just pretensions?
This idle raillery may possibly be as disagreeable to you, as your
stuff the other night was to me: it is time, therefore, to stop its
career. You are naturally of a serious turn, and I have perceived ere
now that a tedious scene of trifling hath heated you as much as a long
walk usually does a fat man; but I take nearly the same vengeance of
you as Henry the fourth took of the duke of Maine: your sovereign also
will imitate the clemency of that best of kings. In like manner, I am
afraid lest, by virtue of your contrition and excuses, you should in
the end make a merit of a fault so fully repaired; I will therefore
forget it immediately, lest by deferring my forgiveness too long it
should become rather an act of ingratitude than generosity.
With regard to your resolution of renouncing your bottle for ever; it
has not so much weight with me as perhaps you may imagine; strong
passions think nothing of these trifling sacrifices, and love will not
be satisfied with gallantry. There is besides more of address
sometimes than resolution, in making for the present moment an
advantage of an uncertain futurity, and in reaping before hand the
credit of an eternal abstinence, which may be renounced at pleasure.
But, my good friend, is the abuse of every thing that is agreeable to
the senses inseparable from the enjoyment of it? Is drunkenness
necessarily attached to the taste of wine? and is philosophy so cruel
or so useless, as to offer no other expedient to prevent the
immoderate use of agreeable things than that of giving them up
entirely?
If you keep true to your engagement, you deprive yourself of an
innocent pleasure, and endanger your health in changing your manner of
living: on the other hand, if you break it, you commit a double
offence against love; and even your honour will stand impeached. I
will make use therefore on this occasion of my privilege; and do not
only release you from the observance of a vow, which is null and void,
as being made without my consent; but do absolutely forbid you to
observe it beyond the term I am going to prescribe. On Tuesday next my
Lord B---- is to give us a concert. At the collation I will send you a
cup about half full of a pure and wholesome nectar; which it is my
will and pleasure that you drink off in my presence, after having
made, in a few drops, an expiatory libation to the graces. My penitent
is permitted afterwards to return to the sober use of wine, tempered
with the chrystal of the fountain; or as your honest Plutarch has it,
moderating the ardors of Bacchus by a communication with the nymphs.
But to our concert on Tuesday; that blunderer Regianino has got it
into his head that I am already able to sing an Italian air, and even
a duo with him. He is desirous that I should try it with you; in
order to shew his two scholars together; but there are certain tender
passages in it dangerous to sing before a mother, when the heart is of
the party: it would be better therefore to defer this trial of our
skill to the first concert we have at our cousin’s. I attribute the
facility with which I have acquired a taste for the Italian music to
that which my brother gave me for their poetry; and for which I have
been so well prepared by you, that I perceive easily the cadence of
the verse: and, if may believe Regianino, have already a tolerable
notion of the true _accent_. I now begin every lesson by reading some
passages of Tasso, or some scene of Metastasio; after this, he makes
me repeat and accompany the recitative, so that I seem to continue
reading or speaking all the while; which I am pretty certain could
never be the case in the French music. After this I practise, in
regular time, the expression of true and equal tones; an exercise
which the noise I had been accustomed to, rendered difficult enough.
At length we pass on to the air, wherein he demonstrates that the
justness and flexibility of the voice, the pathetic expression, the
force and beauty of every part, are naturally affected by the
sweetness of the melody and precision of the measure; insomuch that
what appeared at first the most difficult to learn need hardly be
taught me. The nature of the music is so well adapted to the sound of
the language, and of so refined a modulation, that one need only hear
the bass and know how to speak, to decypher the melody. In the Italian
music all the passions have distinct and strong expressions: directly
contrary to the drawling, disagreeable tones of the French, it is
always sweet and easy, while at the same time lively and affecting;
its smallest efforts produce the greatest effects. In short, I find
that this music elevates the soul without tearing the lungs, which is
just the music I want. On Tuesday then, my dear friend, my preceptor,
my penitent, my apostle, alas! what are you not to me? Ah! why should
there be only one title wanting!
P. S. Do you know there is some talk of such another agreeable party
on the water, as we made two years ago, in company with poor Chaillot?
How modest was then my subtle preceptor! How he trembled when he
handed me out of the boat? Ah! the hypocrite! He is greatly changed.
Letter LIII. From Eloisa.
Thus every thing conspires to disconcert our schemes, every thing
disappoints our hopes, every thing betrays a passion which heaven
ought to sanctify! And are we always to be the sport of fortune, the
unhappy victims of delusive expectation? Shall we still pant in
pursuit of pleasure without ever attaining it? Those nuptials, which
we so impatiently expected, were first to have been celebrated at
Clarens; but the bad weather opposed it, and the ceremony was
performed in town: however we had still some hopes of a private
interview; but we were so closely beset by officious importunity, that
it was impossible for us both to escape at the same instant. At last a
favourable opportunity offers, but we are again disappointed by the
cruelest of mothers, and that which ought to have been the moment of
our felicity went near to have proved our destruction. Nevertheless, I
am so far from being abashed by these numberless obstacles, that they
serve but to inflame my resolution. I know not by what new powers I am
animated, but I feel an intrepidity of soul to which I have been
hitherto ignorant; and if you are inspired with the same spirit this
evening, this very evening I will perform my promises, and discharge
at once all the obligations of love.
Weigh this affair maturely, and consider well at what rate you
estimate your life; for the expedient I am going to propose may
probably lead us to the grave. If thou art afraid, read no farther;
but if thy heart shrinks no more at the point of a sword than formerly
at the precipice of Meillerie, mine shares the danger and hesitates no
longer. Be attentive.
Bab, who generally lies in my chamber, has been ill there three days,
and though I offered to attend her, she is removed in spite of me; but
as she is now somewhat better, possibly to-morrow she may return. The
stairs, which lead to my mother’s apartment and mine, are at some
distance from the room where they sup, and, at that hour, the rest of
the house, except the kitchen, is entirely uninhabited. The darkness
of the night will then favour your progress through the streets
without the least risk of being observed, and you are not unacquainted
with the house.
I believe I have said enough to be understood. Come this afternoon to
Fanny’s; I will there explain the rest, and give the necessary
instructions: but if that should be impossible, you will find them in
writing, in the old place, to which I consign this letter. The subject
is too important to be trusted with any person living.
O! I see the violent palpitation of thy heart! How I feel thy
transports! No, no, my charming friend, we will not quit this short
existence without having, for a moment, tasted happiness. Yet remember
that the fatal moment is environed with the horrors of death! That the
way to bliss is extremely hazardous, its duration full of perils, and
your retreat beyond measure dangerous; that if we are discovered, we
are inevitably lost, and that to prevent it fortune must be uncommonly
indulgent. Let us not deceive ourselves: I know my father too well to
doubt that he would not instantly pierce your heart, or that even I
should not be the first victim to his revenge; for certainly he would
shew me no mercy, nor indeed can you imagine that I would lead you
into dangers to which I myself were not exposed.
Remember also that you are not to have the least dependence on your
courage; it will not bear a thought: I even charge you very expressly,
to come entirely unarmed; so that your intrepidity will avail you
nothing. If we are surprized; I am resolved to throw myself into thy
arms, to grasp thee to my heart, and thus to receive the mortal blow,
that they may part us no more; so shall my exit be the happiest moment
of my life.
Yet I hope a milder fate awaits us; it surely is our due, and fortune
must at last grow weary of her injustice. Come then, soul of my heart,
life of my life, come and be re-united to thyself. Come, under the
auspices of love, and receive the reward of thy obedience and thy
sacrifices. O come and confess, even in the bosom of pleasure, that
from the union of hearts, proceed its greatest delights.
Letter LIV. To Eloisa.
Am I then arrived?----how my heart flutters, in entering this asylum
of love! Yes, Eloisa, I am now in your closet: I am in the sanctuary
of my soul’s adored. The torch of love lighted my steps, and I passed
through the house unperceived----Delightful mansion! happy place!
once the scene of tenderness and infant love suppressed! These
conscious walls have seen my growing, my successful passion, and will
now a second time behold it crowned with bliss: witness of my eternal
constancy, be witness also of my happiness, and conceal for ever the
transports of the most faithful and most fortunate of men.
How charming is this place of concealment! Every thing around me
serves to inflame the ardour of my passion. O Eloisa, this delightful
spot is full of thee, and my desires are kindled by every footstep of
thine. Every sense is at once intoxicated with imaginary bliss. An
almost imperceptible sweetness, more exquisite than the scent of the
rose, and more volatile than that of the Iris, exhales from every
part. I fancy I hear the delightful sound of your voice. Every part of
your scattered dress presents to my glowing imagination the charms it
has concealed. That light head dress, which is adorned by those bright
locks it affects to hide, that simple elegant dishabille, which
displays so well the taste of the wearer; those pretty slippers that
fit so easily on your little feet; these stays, which encircle and
embrace your slender----Heavens, what a charming shape! how the top
of the stomacher is waved in two gentle curves? luxurious sight! the
whalebone has yielded to their impression----delicious impression!
let me devour it with kisses! O Gods! how shall I be able to bear? Ah!
methinks I feel already a tender heart beat softly under my happy
hand; Eloisa, my charming Eloisa, I see, I feel thee at every pore. We
now breathe the same air. How thy delay inflames and torments me! My
impatience is insupportable. O, come, Eloisa, fly to my arms, or I am
undone! How fortunate it was to find pen, ink and paper! By expressing
what I feel, I moderate my extasy, and give a turn to my transports
by attempting to describe them.
Ha! I hear a noise----Should it be her inhuman father? I do not
think myself a coward----but death would terrify me just now. My
despair would be equal to the ardour which consumes me. Grant me, good
heaven! but one more hour to live, and I resign the remainder of my
life to thy utmost rigour. What impatience! what fears! what cruel
palpitation! Ah! the door opens! It is she, it is Eloisa! I see her
enter the chamber and lock the door. My heart, my feeble heart, sinks
under its agitation. Let me recover myself, and gather strength to
support the bliss that overwhelms me!
Letter LV. To Eloisa.
O let us die, my sweet friend! let us die, thou best beloved of my
heart! How shall we hereafter support an insipid life, whose pleasures
we have already exhausted? Tell me, if you can, what I experienced
last night? give me an idea of a whole life spent in the same manner,
or let me quit an existence which has nothing left that can equal the
pleasures I have tasted.
I had tasted bliss, and formed a conception of happiness. But, alas! I
had only dreamt of true pleasure, and conceived only the happiness of
a child! My senses deceived my unrefined heart; I sought supreme
delight in their gratification; and I find that the end of sensual
pleasures is but the beginning of mine. O thou choice master piece of
nature’s works! divine Eloisa! to the ecstatic possession of whom all
the transports of the most ardent passion hardly suffice! Yet it is
not those transports I regret the most. Ah! no: deny me, if it must be
so, those intoxicating favours, for the enjoyment of which I would
nevertheless die a thousand deaths, but restore me all the bliss which
does not depend on them, and it will abundantly exceed them. Restore
me that intimate connection of souls, which you first taught me to
know, and have so well instructed me to taste. Restore to me that
delightful languor, accomplished by the mutual effusions of the heart.
Restore to me that enchanting slumber that lulled me in your breast!
Restore to me the yet more delicious moments when I awake, those
interrupted sighs, those melting tears, those kisses slowly, sweetly
impressed in voluptuous languishment; let me hear those soft, those
tender complaints, amidst whose gentle murmurs you pressed so close
those hearts which were made for each other.
Tell me, Eloisa, you, who ought from your own sensibility to judge so
well of mine, do you think I ever tasted real love before? My
feelings, are greatly changed, since yesterday; they seem to have
taken a less impetuous turn; but more agreeable, more tender, and more
delightful. Do you remember that whole hour we spent, in calmly
talking over the circumstances of our love, and of the fearful
consequences of what might happen hereafter, by which the present
moment was made the more interesting? That short hour in which a
slight apprehension of future sorrow rendered our conversation the
more affecting? I was tranquil, and yet was near my Eloisa. I adored
her, but my desires were calm. I did not even think of any other
felicity than to perceive your face close to mine, to feel your breath
on my cheek, and your arm about my neck. What a pleasing tranquillity
prevailed over all my senses! How refined, how lasting, how constant
the delight! The mind possessed all the pleasure of enjoyment, not
momentary, but durable. What a difference is there between the
impetuous sallies of appetite, and a situation so calm and delightful!
It is the first time I have experienced it in your presence; and judge
of the extraordinary change it has effected. That hour I shall ever
think the happiest of my life, as it is the only one which I
could wish should have been prolonged to eternity. Tell me then,
Eloisa, did I not love you before, or have I ceased to love you since?
If I cease to love you! What a doubt is that? Do I cease to exist or
does my life not depend more on the heart of Eloisa than my own?
I feel, I feel you are a thousand times more dear to me than ever; and
I find myself enabled, from the slumber of my desires, to love you
more tenderly than before. My sentiments, it is true, are less
passionate, but they are more affectionate, and are of different
kinds: without loosing any thing of their force, they are multiplied;
the mildness of friendship moderates the extravagance of love; and I
can hardly conceive any kind of attachment which does not unite me to
you. O my charming mistress! my wife! my sister! my friend! By what
name shall I express what I feel, after having exhausted all those
which are dear to the heart of man?
Let me now confess a suspicion which, to my shame and mortification, I
have entertained; it is that you are more capable of love than myself.
Yes, my Eloisa, it is on you that my life, my being depends: I revere
you with all the faculties of my soul; but yours contains more of
love. I see, I feel, that love hath penetrated deeper into your heart
than mine. It is that which animates your charms, which prevails in
your discourse, which gives to your eyes that penetrating sweetness,
to your voice such moving accents: it is that which your presence
alone imperceptibly communicates to the hearts of others, the tender
emotions of your own. Alas! How far am I from such an independent
state of love! I seek the enjoyment, and you the love, of the beloved
object: I am transported, and you enamoured; not all my transports are
equal to your languishing softness; and it is in such sensations as
yours, only that supreme felicity consists. It is but since yesterday
that I have known such refined pleasure. You have left me something of
that inconceivable charm peculiar to yourself; and I am persuaded that
your sweet breath hath inspired me with a new soul. Haste then, I
conjure you, to compleat the work you have begun. Take from me all
that remains of mine, and give me a soul entirely yours. No, angelic
beauty, celestial mind, no sentiments but such as yours can do honour
to your charms. You alone are worthy to inspire a perfect passion; you
alone are capable of feeling it. Ah! give me _your_ heart, my Eloisa,
that I may love you as you deserve?
Letter LVI. From Clara to Eloisa.
I have a piece of information for my dear cousin, in which she will
find herself a little interested. Last night there happened an affair
between your friend and Lord B---- which may possibly become serious.
Thus it was, as I had it from Mr. Orbe, who was present, and who gave
me the following account this morning.
Having supped with his Lordship, and entertained themselves for a
couple of hours with their music, they sat down to chat and drink
punch. Your friend drank only one single glass mixt with water. The
other two were not quite so sober; for though Mr. Orbe declares he was
not touched, I intend to give him my opinion of that matter some other
time. You naturally became the subject of their conversation; for you
know this Englishman can talk of no body else. Your friend, who did
not much relish his Lordship’s discourse, seemed so little obliged to
him for his confidence, that at last, my Lord, slushed with liquor,
and piqued at the coldness of his manner, dared to tell him, in
complaining of your indifference, that it was not so general as might
be imagined, and that those who were silent had less reason to
complain. You know your friend’s impetuosity: he instantly took fire,
repeated the words with great warmth and insult, which drew upon him
the _lie_, and, they both flew to their swords. Lord B----, who was
half seas over, in running gave his ancle a sudden twist which obliged
him to stagger to a chair. His leg began immediately to swell, and
this more effectually appeased their wrath than all Mr. Orbe’s
interposition. But as he continued attentive to what past, he observed
your friend, in going out, approach his Lordship, and heard him
whisper: _As soon as you are able to walk, you will let me know it, or
shall take care to inform myself----You need not give yourself that
trouble,_ said the other with a contemptuous smile, _you shall know it
time enough----We shall see,_ returned your friend, and left the
room. Mr. Orbe when he delivers this letter, will tell you more
particularly. It is your prudence that must suggest the means of
stifling this unlucky affair. In the mean time, the bearer waits your
commands, and you may depend on his secrecy.
Pardon me, my dear, my friendship forces me to speak: I am terribly
apprehensive on your account. Your attachment can never continue long
concealed in this small town; it is indeed a miraculous piece of good
fortune, considering it is now two years since it begun, that you are
not already the public talk of the place. But it will very soon
happen, if you are not extremely cautious. I am convinced your
character would long since have suffered, if you had been less
generally beloved; but the people are so universally prejudiced in
your favour, that no one dares to speak ill of you for fear of being
discredited and despised. Nevertheless every thing must have an end;
and must I fear that your mystery draws near its period; I have great
reason to apprehend that Lord B----’s suspicions proceed from some
disagreeable tales he has heard. Let me intreat you to think seriously
of this affair. The watch-man has been heard to say, that, some time
ago, he saw your friend come out of your house at five o’clock in the
morning. Fortunately he himself had early intelligence of this report
and found means to silence the fellow; but what signifies such
silence? It will serve only to confirm the reports that will be
privately whispered to all the world. Besides, your mother’s
suspicions are daily increasing. You remember her frequent hints. She
has several times spoke to me in such bitter terms, that if she did
not dread the violence of your father’s temper, I am certain she would
already have opened her mind to him; but she is conscious that the
blame would fall chiefly on herself.
It is impossible I should repeat it too often; think of your safety
before it be too late. Prevent those growing suspicions, which nothing
but his absence can dispel: and indeed, to be sincere with you, under
what pretext can he be supposed to continue here? Possibly in a few
weeks more his removal may be to no purpose. If the least circumstance
should reach your father’s ear, you will have cause to tremble at the
indignation of an old officer, so tenacious of the honour of his
family, and at the petulance of a violent youth. But we must first
endeavour to terminate the affair with Lord B----, for it were in vain
to attempt to persuade your friend to decamp, till that is in some
shape accomplished.
Letter LVII. From Eloisa.
I have been informed, my friend, of what has passed between you and my
Lord B----; and from a perfect knowledge of the fact, I have a mind to
discuss the affair, and give you my opinion of the conduct you ought
to observe on this occasion, agreeable to the sentiments you profess,
and of which I suppose you do not make only an idle parade.
I do not concern myself whether you are skilled in fencing, nor
whether you think yourself capable of contending with a man who is
famous all over Europe for his superior dexterity in that art, having
fought five or six times in his life, and always killed, wounded, or
disarmed his man. I know that in such a case as yours, people consult
not their skill, but their courage; and that the fashionable method to
be revenged of a man who has insulted you, is to let him run you
through the body. But let us pace over this _wise_ maxim; you will
tell me that your honour and mine are dearer to you than life. This,
therefore, is the principle on which we must reason.
To begin with what immediately concerns yourself. Can you ever make it
appear in what respect you were personally offended by a conversation
that related solely to me? We shall see presently whether you ought on
such an occasion to take my cause upon yourself: in the mean time, you
cannot but allow that the quarrel was quite foreign to your own honour
in particular, unless you are to take the suspicion of being beloved
by me as an affront. I must own you have been insulted; but then it
was after having begun the quarrel yourself by an atrocious affront;
and, as I have had frequent opportunities, from the many military
people in our family, of hearing these horrible questions debated, I
am not to learn that one outrage committed in return to another does
not annul the first, and that he who receives the first insult is the
only person offended. It is the same in this case, as in a rencounter,
where the aggressor is only in fault: he who wounds and kills another
in his own defence, is not considered as being guilty of murder.
To come now to myself; we will agree that I was insulted by the
conversation of my Lord B----, although he said no more of me than he
might justify. Do you know what you are about in defending my cause
with so much warmth and indiscretion? You aggravate his insults; you
prove he was in the right; you sacrifice my honour to the false
punctilios of yours, and defame your mistress to gain at most the
reputation of a good swords-man. Pray tell me what affinity there is
between your manner of justifying me and my real justification? Do you
think that to engage in my behalf with so much heat is any great proof
that there are no connections between us? And that it is sufficient to
shew your courage to convince the world you are not my lover? Be
assured, my Lord B----’s insinuations are less injurious to me than
your conduct. It is you alone who take upon yourself, by this bustle
to publish and confirm them. He may, perhaps, turn aside the point of
your sword in conflict; but never will my reputation, nor perhaps my
being, survive the mortal blow you meditate.
These reasons are too solid to admit of a reply; but I foresee you
will oppose custom to reason; you will tell me there is a fatality in
some things which hurries us away in spite of ourselves; that we can,
in no case whatever, bear the lie; and that, when an affair is gone a
certain length, it is impossible to avoid fighting or infamy. We will
examine into the validity of this argument.
Do not you remember a distinction you once made, on an important
occasion, between real and apparent honour? Under which of these
classes shall we rank that in question? For my part, I cannot see
that it will even admit of a doubt. What comparison is there between
the glory of cutting another’s throat, and the testimony of a good
conscience? And of what importance is the idle opinion of the world,
set in competition with true honour, whose foundation is rooted in the
heart? Can we be deprived of virtues we really possess by false
aspersions of calumny? Does the insult of a drunken man prove such
insults deserved? Or does the honour of the virtuous and prudent lie
at the mercy of the first brute he meets? Will you tell me that
fighting a duel shews a man to have courage, and that this is
sufficient to efface the dishonour, and prevent the reproach, due to
all other vices? I would ask you, what kind of honour can dictate such
a decision? Or what arguments justify it? On such principles a knave
need only fight, to cease to be a knave; the assertions of a liar
become true when they are maintained at the point of the sword; and,
if you were even accused of killing a man, you have only to kill a
second, to prove the accusation false. Thus virtue, vice, honour,
infamy, truth, and falsehood, all derive their existence from the
event of a duel: a gallery of small arms is the only court of justice;
there is no other law than violence, no other argument than murder:
all the reparation due to the insulted, is to kill them, and every
offence is equally washed away by the blood of the offender or the
offended. If wolves themselves could reason, would they entertain
maxims more inhuman than these? Judge yourself, from the situation you
are in, whether I exaggerate their absurdity? What is it you resent?
That the lie has been given you on an occasion wherein you actually
asserted a falsehood. Do you think to destroy the truth, by killing
him you would punish for having told it? Do you consider that, in
risking the success of a duel, you call heaven to witness the truth of
a lie, and impiously bid the supreme disposer of events to support the
cause of injustice, and give the triumph to falsehood? Does not such
absurdity shock you? Does not such impiety make you shudder? Good God!
what a wretched sense of honour is that, which is less afraid of vice
than reproach; and will not permit that another should give us the
lie, which our own hearts had given us before?
Do you, who would have every one profit by their reading, make use of
yours: see if you can find one instance of a challenge being given,
when the world abounded with heroes? Did the most valiant men of
antiquity ever think of revenging private injuries by personal combat?
Did Caesar send a challenge to Cato, or Pompey to Caesar, for their
many reciprocal affronts? Or was the greatest warrior of Greece
disgraced, because he put up the threats of being cudgelled? Manners,
I know, change with the times; but are they all equally commendable?
Or is it unreasonable to enquire whether those of any times are
agreeable to the dictates of true honour? This is not of a fickle or
changeable nature: true honour does not depend on time, place or
prejudice; it can neither be annihilated nor generated anew; but has
its constant source in the heart of the virtuous man, and in the
unalterable rules of his conduct. If the most enlightened, the most
brave, the most virtuous people upon earth had no duels, I will
venture to declare it not an institution of honour, but a horrid and
savage custom worthy its barbarous origin. It remains for you to
determine whether, when his own life or that of another is in
question, a man of real honour is to be governed by the mode of the
times, or if it be not a greater instance of his courage to despise
than follow it. What do you think he would do in places where a
contrary custom prevails? At Messina or Naples he would not challenge
his man, but wait for him at the corner of a street, and stab him in
the back. This is called bravery in those countries, where honour
consists in killing your enemy, and not in being killed by him
yourself. Beware then of confounding the sacred name of honour with
that barbarous prejudice, which subjects every virtue to the decision
of the sword, and is only adapted to make men daring villains! Will it
be said this custom may be made use of as a supplement to the rules of
probity? Wherever probity prevails, is not such a supplement useless?
And what shall be said to the man who exposes his life, in order to be
exempted from being virtuous? Do you not see that the crimes, which
shame and a sense of honour have not prevented, are screened and
multiplied by a false shame and the fear of reproach? It is this fear
which makes men hypocrites and liars: it is this which makes them
embrue their hands in the blood of their friends, for an indiscreet
word, which should have been forgotten, for a merited reproach too
severe to be borne. It is this which transforms the abused and fearful
maid into an infernal fury: It is this which arms the hand of the
mother against the tender fruit of----I shudder at the horrible
idea, and give thanks at least to that being who searcheth the heart,
that he hath banished far from mine a sense of that horrid honour,
which inspires nothing but wickedness, and makes humanity tremble.
Look into yourself, therefore, and consider whether it be permitted
you to make a deliberate attempt on the life of a man, and expose
yours to satisfy a barbarous and fatal notion, which has no foundation
in reason or nature. Consider whether the sad reflection of the blood
spilt on such occasions can cease to cry out for vengeance on him who
has spilt it. Do you know any crime equal to wilful murder? If
humanity also be the basis of every virtue, what must be thought of
the man, whose blood-thirsty and depraved disposition prompts him to
seek the life of his fellow-creature? Do you remember what you have
yourself said to me, against entering into foreign service? Have you
forgot that a good citizen owes his life to his country, and has not a
right to dispose of it, without the permission of its laws, and much
less in direct opposition to them? O my friend, if you have a sincere
regard for virtue, learn to pursue it in its own way, and not in the
ways of the world. I will own some slight inconvenience may arise from
it; but is the word virtue no more to you than an empty sound? and
will you practise it only when it costs you no trouble? I will ask,
however, in what will such inconvenience consist? In the whispers of a
set of idle or wicked people, who seek only to amuse themselves with
the misfortunes of others, and to have always some new tale to
propagate. A pretty motive, truly, to engage men to cut each other’s
throats! If the philosopher and man of sense regulate their behaviour,
on the most important occasions of life, by the idle talk of the
multitude, to what purpose is all their parade of study, if they are
at last no better than the vulgar? Dare you not sacrifice your
resentment to duty, to esteem, to friendship, for fear it should be
said you are afraid of death? Weigh well these circumstances, my good
friend, and I am convinced you will find more cowardice in the fear of
that reproach than in the fear of death. The braggard, the coward,
would, at all hazards, pass for brave men.
_Ma verace valor, ben che negletto,
E’ di se stesso a fe freggio assai chiaro._
He, who affects to meet death without fear, is a liar. All men fear to
die; it is a law with all sensible Beings, without which every species
of mortals would soon be destroyed. This fear is the simple emotion of
nature, and that not in itself indifferent, but just and conformable
to the order of things. All that renders it shameful, or blameable,
is, that it may sometimes prevent us from well doing, and the proper
discharge of our duty. If cowardice were to no obstacle to virtue, it
would never be vicious. Whoever is more attached to life than his
duty, I own, cannot be truly virtuous; but can you, who pique yourself
on your judgment, explain to me what sort of merit there is in braving
death in order to be guilty of a crime?
What though it be true, that a man is despised who refuses to fight;
which contempt is most to be feared, that of others for doing well, or
that of ourselves for having acted ill? Believe me, he, who has a
proper esteem for himself, is little sensible to the unjust reproach
cast on him by others, and is only afraid of deserving it. Probity and
virtue depend not on the opinion of the world, but on the nature of
things; and though all mankind should approve of the action you are
about, it would not be less shameful in itself. But it is a false
notion, that to refrain from it, though a virtuous motive, would be
bringing yourself into contempt. The virtuous man, whose whole life is
irreproachable, and who never betrayed any marks of cowardice, will
refuse to stain his hands with blood, and will be only the more
respected for such refusal. Always ready to serve his country, to
protect the weak, to discharge his duty on the most dangerous
occasions, and to defend in every just and reasonable cause whatever
is dear to him, at the hazard of his life, he displays throughout the
whole of his conduct that unshaken fortitude, which is inseparable
from true courage. Animated by the testimony of a good conscience, he
appears undaunted; and neither flies from, nor seeks, his enemy. It is
easily observed that he fears less to die than to act basely; that he
dreads the crime, but not the danger. If at any time the mean
prejudices of the world raise a clamour against him, the conduct of
his whole life is his testimony, and every action is approved by a
behaviour so uniformly irreproachable.
But do you know what makes this moderation so painful to the
generality of men? It is the difficulty of supporting it with
propriety. It is the necessity they lie under of never impeaching it
by an unworthy action: for if the fear of doing ill does not restrain
men in one case, why should it in another, where that restraint may be
attributed to a more natural motive? Hence, it is plain, it does not
proceed from virtue, but cowardice; and it is with justice that such
scruples are laughed at, as appear only in cases of danger. Have you
not observed that persons, captious and ready to affront others, are,
for the most part, bad men, who, for fear of having the contempt in
which they are universally held publicly exposed, endeavour to screen,
by some _honourable_ quarrels, the infamy of their lives? Is it for
you to imitate such wretches as these? Let us set aside men of a
military profession, who fell their blood for pay, and who, unwilling
to be degraded from their rank, calculate from their interest what
they owe to their honour, and know to a shilling the value of their
lives. Let us, my friend, leave these gentlemen to their fighting.
Nothing is less honourable than that honour about which they make such
a noise; and which is nothing more than an absurd custom, a false
imitation of virtue, which prides itself in the greatest crimes. Your
honour is not in the power of another: it depends on yourself, and not
on the opinion of the world; its defence is neither in the sword nor
the buckler, but in a life of integrity and virtue; a proof of greater
courage than to brave death in a duel.----
On these principles you may reconcile the encomiums I have always
bestowed on true valour, with the contempt I have as constantly
expressed for the base pretenders to magnanimity. I admire men of
spirit, and hate cowards; I would break with a pusillanimous lover,
who should betray the want of a proper resolution in cases of danger,
and think with all the rest of my sex, that the ardours of true
courage heighten those of love. But, I would have such courage exerted
only on lawful occasions, and not an idle parade made of it when it is
unnecessary, as if there was some fear of not having it ready when it
should be called for. There are cowards who will make one effort to
exert their courage, that they may have a pretence to avoid danger the
rest of their lives. True courage is more constant and less impetuous;
it is always what it ought to be, and wants neither the spur nor the
rein; the man of real magnanimity carries it always about him; in
fighting he exerts it against his enemy; in company against
back-biting and falsehood, and on a sick bed against the attacks of
pain and the horrors of death. That fortitude of mind which inspires
true courage is always exerted; it places virtue out of the reach of
events, and does not consist in braving danger, but in not fearing it.
Such, my friend, is the merit of that courage I have often commended,
and which I would admire in you. All other pretences to bravery are
wild, extravagant, and brutal; it is even cowardice to submit to them;
and I despise as much the man who runs himself into needless danger,
as him who turns his back on what he ought to encounter.
If I am not much mistaken, I have now made it clear, that, in this
your quarrel with Lord B----, your own honour is not at all concerned;
that you are going to compromise mine by drawing your sword to avenge
it; that such conduct is neither just, reasonable, nor lawful; that it
by no means agrees with the sentiments you profess, but belongs only
to bad men, who make use of their courage as a supplement to virtues
they do not possess, or to officers that fight not for honour but
interest; that there is more true courage in despising than adopting
it, that the inconveniences to which you expose yourself by rejecting
it are inseparable from the practice of our duty, and are more
apparent than real; in fine, that men who are the most ready to recur
to the sword, are always those of the most suspicious characters. From
all which I conclude, that you cannot either give or accept a
challenge on this occasion, without giving up at once the cause of
reason, virtue, honour, and Eloisa. Canvas my arguments as you please,
heap sophism on sophism, as you will, it will be always found that a
man of true courage is not a coward, and that a man of virtue cannot
be without honour. And I think I have demonstrated as clearly that a
man of true courage despises, and a man of virtue abhors, duelling.
I thought proper, my friend, in so serious and important an affair, to
speak to you only in the plain language of reason, and to represent
things simply as they are. If I would have described them as they
appear to me, and engaged the passions and humanity in the cause, I
should have addressed you in a different stile. You know that my
father had the misfortune, in his youth, to kill his antagonist in a
duel: that antagonist was his friend; they fought with regret, but
were obliged to it by that absurd notion of a point of honour. That
fatal blow which deprived the one of life, robbed the other of his
piece of mind for ever. From that time has the most cruel remorse
incessantly preyed on his heart; he is often heard to sigh and weep in
private: his imagination still represents to him the fatal steel pushed
by his cruel hand into the breast of the man he loved; his slumbers
are disturbed by the appearances of his pale and bleeding friend: he
looks with terror on the mortal wound; he endeavours to stop the blood
that flows from it; he is seized with horror, and cries out, will this
corpse never cease pursuing me? It is five years since he lost the
only support of his name, and hope of his family; since when, he has
reproached himself with his death, as a just judgment from heaven,
which avenged on him the loss of that unhappy father, whom he deprived
of an only son.
I must confess that all this, added to my natural aversion to cruelty,
fills me with such horror at duels, that I regard them as instances of
the lowest degree of brutality into which mankind can possibly
descend. I look upon those, who go chearfully to a duel, in no other
light than as wild beasts going to tear each other to pieces; and, if
there remains the least sentiment of humanity within them, I think the
murdered less to be pitied than the murderer. Observe those men who
are accustomed to this horrid practice; they only brave remorse by
stifling the voice of nature; they grow by degrees cruel and
insensible; they sport with the lives of others, and their punishment
for having turned a deaf ear to humanity, is to lose at length every
sense of it. How shocking must be such a situation? Is it possible you
can desire to be like them? No, you were never made for such a state
of detestable brutality: be careful of the first step that leads to
it; your mind is yet undepraved and innocent: begin not to debase it,
at the hazard of your life, by an attempt that has no virtue, a crime
that has no temptation, and a point of honour founded only on
absurdity.
I have said nothing to you of your Eloisa; she will be a gainer, no
doubt, by leaving your heart to speak for her. One word, only one
word, and I leave her to you. You have sometimes honoured me with the
endearing name of wife; perhaps I ought at this time to bear that of
mother. Will you leave me a widow before we are legally united?
P. S. I make use of an authority in this letter, which no prudent man
ever resisted. If you refuse to submit to it, I have nothing farther
to say to you: but think of it well before hand. Take a week’s time
for reflection, and to meditate on this important subject. It is not
for any particular reason I demand this delay, but for my own
pleasure. Remember, I make use only on this occasion of a right; which
you yourself have given me over you, and which extends at least to
what I now require.
Letter LVIII. From Eloisa to Lord B----.
I have no intention in writing to your Lordship, to accuse or complain
of you; since you are pleased to affront me, I must certainly be the
offender, though I may be ignorant of my offence. Would any gentleman
seek to dishonour a reputable family without a cause? Surely no:
therefore satisfy your revenge, if you believe it just. This letter
will furnish you with an easy method of ruining an unhappy girl, who
can never forgive herself for having offended you, and who commits to
your discretion that honour which you intend to blast. Yes, my Lord,
your imputations were just: I have a lover, whom I sincerely love; my
heart, my person, are entirely his, and death only can dissolve our
union. This lover is the very man whom you honour with your
friendship, and he deserves it, because he loves you and is virtuous.
Nevertheless, he must perish by your hand. Offended honour, I know,
can be appeased only by a human sacrifice. I know that his own courage
will prove his destruction. I am convinced, that in a combat in which
you have so little to fear, his intrepid heart will impatiently rush
upon the point of your sword. I have endeavoured to restrain his
inconsiderate ardour, by the power of reason; but alas! even whilst I
was writing, I was conscious of the inutility of my arguments: What
opinion soever I may have of his virtue, I do not believe it so
sublime as to detach him from a false point of honour. You may safely
anticipate the pleasure you will have in piercing the heart of your
friend: but be assured, barbarous man, that you shall never enjoy that
of being witness to my tears and my despair. No, I swear by that
sacred flame which fills my whole heart, that I will not survive, one
single day, the man for whom alone I breathe! Yes, Sir, you will reap
the glory of having, in one instant, sent to the grave two unhappy
lovers, whose offence was not intentional, and by whom you were
honoured and esteemed.
I have heard, my Lord, that you have a great soul and a feeling heart:
if these will allow you the peaceful enjoyment of your revenge, heaven
grant, when I am no more, that they may inspire you with some
compassion for my poor, disconsolate parents, whose grief for their
only child will endure for ever.
Letter LIX. From Mr. Orbe to Eloisa.
I snatch the first moment, my dear cousin, in obedience to your
commands, to render an account of my proceedings. I am this instant
returned from my visit to Lord B---- who is not yet able to walk
without a support. I gave him your letter, which he opened with
impatience. He shewed some emotion whilst he was reading; he paused;
read it a second time, and the agitation of his mind was then more
apparent. When he had done, these were his words: _You know, Sir, that
affairs of honour have their fixt rules which cannot be dispensed
with. You were a witness to what passed in this. It must be regularly
determined. Chuse two of your friends, and give yourself the trouble
to return with them hither to-morrow morning, and you shall then know
my resolution._ I urged the impropriety of making others acquainted
with an affair which had happened among ourselves. To which he hastily
replied: _I know what ought to be done, and shall act properly. Bring
your two friends, or I have nothing to say to you._ I then took my
leave and have ever since racked my brain ineffectually to penetrate
into his design. Be it as it will, I shall see you this evening, and
to-morrow shall act as you may advise. If you think it proper that I
should wait on his lordship with my attendants, I will take care to
chuse such as may be depended on, at all events.
Letter LX. To Eloisa.
Lay aside your fears, my gentle Eloisa; and from the following recital
of what has happened, know and partake of the sentiments of your
friend.
I was so full of indignation when I received your letter, that I could
hardly read it with the attention it deserved. I should have made fine
work in attempting to refuse it: I was then too rash and
inconsiderate. You may be in the right, said I to myself, but I will
never be persuaded to put up an affront injurious to my Eloisa.----
Though I were to lose you, and even die in a wrong cause, I will never
suffer any one to shew you less respect than is your due; but, whilst
I have life, you shall be revered by all that approach you, even as my
own heart reveres you. I did not hesitate, however, on the week’s
delay you required: the accident which had happened to Lord B----, and
my vow of obedience concurred, in rendering it necessary. In the mean
time, being resolved agreeable to your commands to employ that
interval in meditating on the subject of your letter, I read it over
again and again, and am reflecting on it continually; not with a view,
however, to change my design, but to justify it.
I had it in my hand this morning, perusing again, with some uneasiness
of mind, those too sensible and judicious arguments that made against
me, when somebody knocked at the door of my chamber. It was opened,
and immediately entered Lord B----, without his sword, leaning on his
cane; he was followed by three gentlemen, one of whom I observed to be
Mr. Orbe. Surprized at a visit so unexpected, I waited silently for
the consequence; when my Lord requested of me a moment’s audience and
begged leave to say, and do, as he pleased without interruption. You
must, says he, give me your express permission: the presence of these
gentlemen, who are your friends, will excuse you from any supposed
indiscretion. I promised without hesitation not to interrupt him;
when, to my great astonishment, his Lordship immediately fell upon his
knee. Surprized at seeing him in such an attitude, I would have raised
him up; but, after putting me in mind of my promise, he proceeded in
the following words. “I am come, Sir, to make an open retraction of
the abuse, which, when in liquor, I uttered in your company. The
injustice of such behaviour renders it more injurious to me than to
you; and therefore I ought publicly to disavow it. I submit to
whatever punishment you please to inflict on me, and shall not think
my honour re-established till my fault is repaired. Then, grant me the
pardon I ask, on what conditions you think fit, and restore me your
friendship.” My Lord, returned I, I have the truest sense of your
generosity and greatness of mind, and take a pleasure in
distinguishing between the discourse which your heart dictates, and
that which may escape you when you are not yourself: let that in
question be for ever forgotten, I immediately raised him, and, falling
into my arms, he cordially embraced me. Then, turning about to the
company, “Gentlemen, said he, I thank you for your complaisance. Men
of honour, like you,” added he, with a bold air and resolute tone of
voice, “know that he who thus repairs the injury he has done, will not
submit to an injury from any man. You may publish what you have seen.”
He then invited all of us to sup with him this evening, and the
gentlemen left us. We were no sooner alone, than his lordship embraced
me again, in a more tender and friendly manner; then, taking me by the
hand, and seating himself down by me, happy man! said he, may you long
enjoy the felicity you deserve! The heart of Eloisa is yours, may you
be both.----What do you mean, my Lord? said I, interrupting him; have
you lost your senses? No, returned he, smiling, but I was very near
losing them, and it had perhaps been all over with me, if she who took
them away, had not restored them. He then gave me a letter that I was
surprized to see written by a hand, which never before wrote to any
man but myself. What emotions did I feel in its perusal. I traced the
passion of an incomparable woman who would make a sacrifice of herself
to save her lover; and I discovered Eloisa. But when I came to the
passage, wherein she protests she would never survive the most
fortunate of men, how did I not shudder at the dangers I had escaped!
I could not help complaining that I was loved too well, and my fears
convinced me you are mortal. Ah! restore me that courage of which you
have deprived me! I had enough to set death at defiance, when it
threatened only myself, but I shrunk when my better half was in
danger.
While I was indulging myself in these cruel reflections, I paid little
attention to his lordship’s discourse; till I heard the name of
Eloisa. His conversation gave me pleasure as it did not excite my
jealousy. He seemed extremely to regret his having disturbed our
mutual passion and your repose; he respects you indeed beyond any
other woman in the world; and, being ashamed to excuse himself to you,
begged me to receive his apology in your name, and to prevail on you
to accept it. “I consider you, says he, as her representative, and
cannot humble myself too much to one she loves; being incapable,
without having compromised the affair, to address myself personally to
her, or even mention her name to you.” He frankly confessed to me he
had entertained for you those sentiments, which every one must do who
looks too intensely on Eloisa; but that his was rather a tender
admiration than love; that he had formed neither hope nor pretension:
but had given up all thoughts of either, on hearing of our
connections; and that the injurious discourse which escaped him was
the effect of liquor, and not of jealousy. He talked of love like a
philosopher, who thinks his mind superior to the passions; but, for my
part, I am mistaken if he has not already felt a passion, which will
prevent any other from taking deep root in his breast. He mistakes a
weakness of heart for the effect of reason; but I know that to love
Eloisa, and be willing to renounce her, is not among the virtues of
human nature.
He desired me to give him the history of our amour, and an account of
the causes which prevented our happiness. I thought that, after the
explicitness of your letter, a partial confidence might be dangerous
and unreasonable. I made it therefore compleat, and he listened to me
with an attention that convinced me of his sincerity. More than once I
saw the tears come into his eyes, while his heart seemed most tenderly
affected: above all, I observed the powerful impressions which the
triumphs of virtue made on his mind; and I please myself in having
raised up for Claud Anet a new protector, no less zealous than your
father. When I had done, there are neither incidents nor adventures,
said he, in what you have related; and yet the catastrophe of a
Romance could not equally affect me; so well is a want of variety
atoned for by sentiments; and of striking actions supplied by
instances of a virtuous behaviour. Yours are such extraordinary minds
that they are not to be guided by common rules: your happiness is not
to be attained in the same manner, nor is it of the same species with
that of others. They seek power and pre-eminence; you require only
tenderness and tranquillity. There is blended with your affections a
virtuous emulation, that elevates both; and you would be less
deserving of each other if you were not mutually in love. But love, he
presumed to say, will one day lose its power (forgive him, Eloisa,
that blasphemous expression, spoken in the ignorance of his heart) the
power of love, said he, will one day be lost, while that of virtue
will remain. Oh my Eloisa! may our virtues but subsist as long as our
love! Heaven will require no more.
In fine, I found that the philosophical inflexibility of his nation
had no influence over the natural humanity of this honest Englishman;
but that his heart was really interested in our difficulties. If
wealth and credit can be useful to us, I believe we have some reason
to depend on his service. But alas! how shall credit or riches operate
to make us happy?
This interview, in which we did not count the hours, lasted till
dinner time; I ordered a pullet for dinner, after which we continued
our discourse. Among other topics, we fell upon the step his lordship
had taken, with regard to myself in the morning; on which I could not
help expressing my surprize at a procedure so solemn and uncommon.
But, repeating the reasons he had already given me, he added, that to
give a partial satisfaction was unworthy a man of courage: that he
ought to make a compleat one or none at all; lest he should only
debase himself without making any reparation; and lest a concession
made involuntarily, and with an ill grace, should be attributed to
fear. Besides, continued he, my reputation is established; I can do
you justice without incurring the suspicion of cowardice; but you, who
are young and just beginning the world, ought to clear yourself so
well of the first affair you are engaged in as to tempt no one to
involve you in a second. The world is full of those artful cowards,
who are upon the catch, as one may say, to taste their man; that is,
to find out some greater coward than themselves to shew their valour
upon. I would save a man of honour, like you, the trouble of
chastising such scoundrels; I had rather, if they want a lesson, that
they should take it of me than you: for one quarrel, more or less, on
the hands of a man, who has already had many, signifies nothing;
whereas it is a kind of disgrace to have had but one, and the lover of
Eloisa should be exempt from it.
This is, in abstract, my long conversation with Lord B----; of which I
thought proper to give you an account, that you might prescribe the
manner in which I ought to behave to him.
As you ought now to be composed, chase from your mind, I conjure you,
those dreadful apprehensions which have found a place there for some
days past. Think of the care you should take in the uncertainty of
your present condition. O should you soon give me life in a third
being! Should a charming pledge----Too flattering hope! Dost thou
come again to deceive me? I wish! I fear! I am lost in perplexity! Oh!
Thou dearest charmer of my heart, let us live but to love, and let
heaven dispose of us, as it may?
P. S. I forgot to tell you that my Lord offered me your letter, and
that I made no difficulty of taking it; thinking it improper that it
should remain in the hands of a third person. I will return it you the
first time I see you: for, as to myself, I have no occasion for it; it
is deeply engraven in my heart.
Letter LXI. From Eloisa.
Bring my Lord B---- hither to-morrow, that I may throw myself at his
feet, as he has done at yours. What greatness of mind! What
generosity! Oh how little, do we seem, compared to him! Preserve so
inestimable a friend as you would the apple of your eye. Perhaps he
would be less valuable, were he of a more even temper; was there ever
a man without some vices who had great virtues?
A thousand distresses of various kinds had sunk my spirits to the
lowest ebb; but your letter has rekindled my extinguished hopes. In
dissipating my fears, it has rendered my anxiety the more supportable.
I feel now I have strength enough to bear up under it. You live, you
love me; neither your own nor the blood of your friend has been spilt,
and your honour is secured; I am not then compleatly miserable.
Fail not to meet me to-morrow. I never had so much reason for seeing
you, nor so little hope of having that pleasure long. Farewell, my
dear friend, instead of saying let us live but to love, you should
have said alas! let us love that we may live.
Letter LXII. From Clara.
Must I be always, my dear cousin, under the necessity of performing
the most disagreeable offices of friendship? Must I always, in the
bitterness of my own heart, be giving affliction to yours, by cruel
intelligence? Our sentiments, alas! are the same, and you are sensible
I can give no new uneasiness to you which I have not first experienced
myself. O that I could but conceal your misfortune without increasing
it! or that a friendship like ours were not as binding as love! How
readily might I throw off that chagrin I am now obliged to
communicate. Last night, when the concert was over, and your mother
and you were gone home, in company with your friend and Mr. Orbe, our
two fathers and my Lord B---- were left to talk politics together; the
disagreeableness of the subject, of which indeed I am quite surfeited,
soon made me retire to my own chamber. In about half an hour, I heard
the name of your friend repeated with some vehemence; on which I found
the conversation had changed its subject, and therefore listened to it
with some attention; when I gathered, by what followed, that his
lordship had ventured to propose a match between you and your friend,
whom he frankly called his, and on whom, as such, he offered to make a
suitable settlement. Your father rejected the proposal with disdain,
and upon that the conversation began to grow warm. “I must tell you
sir, said my lord, that, notwithstanding your prejudices, he is of all
men the most worthy of her, and perhaps the most likely to make her
happy. He has received from nature every gift that is independent of
the world; and has embellished them by all those talents, which
depended on himself. He is young, tall, well-made, and ingenious: he
has the advantages of education, sense, manners, and courage; he has a
fine genius and a sound mind; what then does he require to make him
worthy of your daughter? Is it a fortune? He shall have one. A third
part of my own will make him the richest man of this country; nay, I
will give him, if it be necessary, the half. Does he want a title?
Ridiculous prerogative, in a country where nobility is more
troublesome than useful! But, doubt it not, he is noble: not that his
nobility is made out in writing upon an old parchment, but it is
engraven in indelible characters on his heart. In a word if you prefer
the dictates of reason and sense to groundless prejudices, and if you
love your daughter better than empty titles, you will give her to
him.”
On this your father expressed himself in a violent passion: he treated
the proposal as absurd and ridiculous. How! my lord! said he, is it
possible a man of honour, as you are, can entertain such a thought,
that the last surviving branch of an illustrious family should go to
lose and degrade its name, in that of nobody knows who; a fellow
without home, and reduced to subsist upon charity. Hold, sir,
interrupted my lord, you are speaking of my friend; consider that I
must take upon myself every injury done him in my company, and that
such language as is injurious to a man of honour, is more so to him
who makes use of it. Such _fellows_ are more respectable than all the
country squires in Europe; and I defy you to point out a more
honourable way to fortune, than by excepting the debts of esteem, and
the gifts of friendship. If my friend does not trace his descent, as
you do, from a long and doubtful succession of ancestors, he will lay
the foundation, and be the honour of his own house, as the first of
your ancestors did that of yours. Can you think yourself dishonoured
by your alliance to the head of your family, without falling under the
contempt you have for him? How many great families would sink again
into oblivion, if we respected only those which descended from truly
respectable originals? Judge of the past by the present; for two or
three honest citizens ennobled by virtuous means, a thousand knaves
find every day the way to aggrandize themselves and families. But to
what end serves that nobility, of which their descendants are so
proud, unless it be to prove the injustice and infamy of their
ancestors? [12] There are, I must confess, a great number of bad men
among the common people; but the odds are always twenty to one against
a gentleman, that he is descended from a rascal. Let us, if you will,
set aside descent, and compare only merit and utility. You have borne
arms in the service and pay of a foreign prince; his father fought
without pay in the service of his country. If you have well served,
you have been well paid; and, whatever honour you may have acquired by
arms, a hundred plebeians may have acquired still more.
In what consists the honour then, continued my lord, of that nobility
of which you are so tenacious? How does it affect the glory of one’s
country or the good of mankind? A mortal enemy to liberty and the
laws, what did it ever produce in most of those countries where it has
flourished, but the rod of tyranny and the oppression of the people?
Will you presume to boast, in a republic, of a rank that is
destructive to virtue and humanity? Of a rank that makes its boast of
slavery, and wherein men blush to be men? Read the annals of your own
country; what have any of the nobility merited of her? Were any of her
deliverers nobles? The _Fursts_, the _Tills_, the _Stauffachers_, were
they gentlemen? What then is that absurd honour, about which you make
so much noise?
Think, my dear, what I suffered to hear this respectable man thus
injure, by an ill-concerted application, the cause of that friend whom
he endeavoured to serve. Your father, being irritated by so many
galling, though general invectives, strove to retort them by personal
ones. He told his lordship plainly, that never any man of his
condition talked in the manner he had done. Trouble not yourself to
plead another’s cause, added he roughly, honourable as you are, I
doubt much if you could make your own good, on the subject in
question. You demand my daughter for your pretended friend, without
knowing whether you are yourself an equal match for her; and I know
enough of the English nobility to entertain, from your discourse, a
very indifferent opinion of yours.
To this his lordship answered; whatever you may think of me, sir, I
should be very sorry to be able to give no other proof of my merit
than the name of a man who died five hundred years ago. If you know
the nobility of England, you know that it is the least prejudiced,
best informed, most sensible, and bravest of all Europe; after which
it is needless to ask whether it be the most ancient; for, when we
talk of what is, we never mind what was. We are not, it is true, the
slaves, but the friends of a prince; not the oppressors of a people,
but their leaders. The guardians of liberty, the pillars of our
country, and the support of the throne, we maintain an equilibrium
between the people and the king. Our first regards are due to the
nation, our second to him that governs: we consult not his will, but
his just prerogative. Supreme judges in the house of peers, and
sometimes legislators, we render equal justice to the king and people,
and suffer no one to say _God and my sword, but only God and my
right._
Such, sir, continued he, is that respectable nobility with which you
are unacquainted; as ancient as any other, but more proud of its merit
than of its ancestors. I am one, not the lowest in rank of that
illustrious order, and believe, whatever be your pretensions, that I
am your equal in every respect. I have a sister unmarried; she is
young, amiable, rich and in no wise inferior to Eloisa, except in
those qualities which with you pass for nothing. Now, sir, if after
being enamoured with your daughter, it were possible for any one to
change the object of his affections and admire another, I should think
it an honour to accept the man for my brother, though he had nothing,
whom I propose to you for a son with half my estate.
I knew matters would be only aggravated by your father’s reply; and,
though I was struck with admiration at my Lord B----’s generosity,
I saw plainly that he would totally ruin the negotiation he had
undertaken. I went in, therefore, to prevent things from going farther.
My entrance broke up the conversation, and immediately after they
coldly took leave of each other, and parted. As to my father, he
behaved very well in the dispute. At first he seconded the proposal;
but, finding that yours would hear nothing of it, he took the side of
his brother-in-law, and, by taking proper opportunities to moderate
the contest, prevented them from going beyond those bounds they would
certainly have trespassed, had they been alone. After their departure,
he related to me what had happened; and, as I foresaw where his
discourse would end, I readily told him, that things being in such a
situation, it would be improper the person in question should see you
so often here; and that it would be better for him not to come hither
at all, if such an intimation would not be putting a kind of affront on
Mr. Orbe, his friend; but that I should desire him to bring Lord B----
less frequently for the future. This, my dear, was the best I could do
to prevent our door being entirely shut against him.
But this is not all. The crisis in which you stand at present obliges
me to return to my former advice. The affair between my Lord B----
and your friend has made all the noise in town, which was natural to
expect. For, though Mr. Orbe has kept the original cause of their
quarrel a secret, the circumstances are too public, to suffer it to lie
concealed. Every one has suspicions, makes conjectures, and some go
so far as to name Eloisa. The report of the watch was not so totally
suppressed but it is remembered; and you are not ignorant that, in
the eye of the world, a bare suspicion of the truth is looked upon as
evidence. All that I can say for your consolation is, that in general
your choice is approved, and every body thinks with pleasure on the
union of so charming a couple. This confirms me in the opinion that
your friend has behaved himself well in this country, and is not less
beloved than yourself. But what is the public voice to your inflexible
father? All this talk has already reached, or will come to his ear; and
I tremble to think of the effect it may produce, if you do not speedily
take some measures to prevent his anger. You must expect from him an
explanation terrible to yourself, and perhaps still worse for your
friend. Not that I think, at his age, he will condescend to challenge a
young man he thinks unworthy his sword: but the influence he has in the
town will furnish him, if he has a mind to it, with a thousand means to
stir up a party against him; and it is to be feared that his passion
will be too ready to excite him to do it.
On my knees, therefore, I conjure you, my dear friend, to think on the
dangers that surround you, and the terrible risk you run; which
increases every moment. You have been extremely fortunate to escape
hitherto, in the midst of such hazards; but, while it is yet time, I
beg of you to let the veil of prudence be thrown over the secret of
your amours; and not to push your fortune farther; lest it should
involve in your misfortunes the man who has been the cause of them.
Believe me, my dear, the future is uncertain, a thousand accidents may
happen unexpectedly, in your favour; but, for the present, I have said
and repeat it more earnestly, send away your friend, or you are
undone.
Letter LXIII. From Eloisa to Clara.
All that you foresaw, my dear, is come to pass. Last night, about an
hour after we got home, my father entered my mother’s apartment, his
eyes sparkling and his countenance inflamed with anger; in a word, so
irritated as I never saw him before. I found immediately that he had
either just left a quarrel, or was seeking occasion to begin one; and
my guilty conscience made me tremble for the consequence.
He began by exclaiming violently, but in general terms, against such
mothers as indiscreetly invite to their houses young fellows without
family or fortune, whose acquaintance only brings shame and scandal on
those who cultivate it. Finding this not sufficient to draw an answer
from an intimidated woman, he brought up particularly, as an example,
what had passed in our own house, since she had introduced a pretended
wit, an empty chatterer, more fit to debauch the mind of a modest
young woman than to instruct her in any thing that is good.
My mother, who now saw she should get little by holding her tongue,
took him up at the word debauch, and asked what he had ever seen in
the conduct, or knew of the character of the person he spoke of, to
authorize such base suspicions. I did not conceive, she added, that
genius and merit were to be excluded from society. To whom, pray,
would you have your house open, if fine talents and good behaviour
have no pretensions to admittance? To our equals, Madam, he replied in
a fury; to such as might repair the honour of a daughter if they
should injure it. No, sir, said she, but rather to people of virtue
who cannot injure it. Know, Madam, that the presumption of soliciting
an alliance with my family, without a title to that honour, is highly
injurious. So far from thinking it injurious, returned my mother, I
think it, on the contrary, the highest mark of esteem: but, I know not
that the person you exclaim against has made any such pretensions. He
has done it, Madam, and will do worse, if I do not take proper care to
prevent him; but, for the future, I shall take upon myself the charge
you have executed so ill.
On this began a dangerous altercation between them; by which I found
they were both ignorant of those reports, which you say have been
spread about the town. During this time your unworthy cousin could,
nevertheless, have wished herself buried a hundred feet in the earth.
Think of the best and most abused of mothers lavishing encomiums on
her guilty daughter, and praising her for all those virtues she has
lost, in the most respectful, or rather to me the most mortifying
terms. Think of an angry father, profuse of injurious expressions; and
yet in the height of his indignation, not letting one escape him in
the least reflecting on the prudence of her, who, torn by remorse and
humbled with shame, could hardly support his presence.
O the inconceivable torture of a bleeding heart, reproaching itself
with unsuspected crimes! How depressing and insupportable is the
burthen of unmerited praise, and of an esteem of which the heart is
conscious it is unworthy! I was indeed so terribly oppressed, that, in
order to free myself from so cruel a situation, I was just going, if
the impetuosity of his temper would have given me time, to confess
all. But he was so enraged as to repeat over and over a hundred times
the same things, and to change the subject every moment. He took
notice of my looks, cast down, and affrighted, in consequence of my
remorse; and if he did not construe them into those of my guilt he did
into looks of my love; but, to shame me the more, he abused the object
of it in terms so odious and contemptible that, in spite of all my
endeavours, I could not let him proceed without interruption. I know
not whence my dear, I had so much courage, or how I came so far to
trespass the bounds of modesty and duty: but, if I ventured to break
for a moment that respectful silence they dictate, I suffered for it,
as you will see, very severely. For Heaven’s sake, my dear father,
said I, be pacified: never could your daughter be in danger from a man
deserving such abuse. I had scarce spoken, when, as if he had felt
himself reproved by what I said, or that his passion wanted only a
pretext for extremities, he flew upon your poor friend, and for the
first time in my life I received from him a box on the ear: nor was
this all but, giving himself up entirely to his passion, he proceeded
to beat me without mercy, notwithstanding my mother threw herself in
between us, to screen me from his blows, and, received many of those
which were intended for me. At length, in running back to avoid them,
my foot slipt, and I fell down with my face against the foot of a
table.
Here ended the triumph of passion, and begun that of nature. My fall,
the sight of my blood, my tears, and those of my mother greatly
affected him. He raised me up with an air of affliction and
solicitude; and, having placed me in a chair, they both eagerly
enquired where I was hurt. I had received only a slight bruise on my
forehead, and bled only at the nose. I saw nevertheless, by the
alteration in the air and voice of my father, that he was displeased
at what he had done. He was not, however, immediately reconciled to
me; paternal authority did not permit so abrupt a change; but he
apologized with many tender excuses to my mother; and I saw plainly,
by the looks he cast on me, to whom half of his apologies were
indirectly addressed. Surely, my dear, these is no confusion so
affecting as that of a tender father, who thinks himself to blame in
his treatment of a child.
Supper being ready, it was ordered to be put back that I might have
time to compose myself; and my father, unwilling the servants should
see any thing of my disorder, went himself for a glass of water; while
my mother was bathing the contusion on my forehead. Ah, my dear how I
pitied her! already in a very ill and languishing state of health, how
gladly would she have been excused from being witness to such a scene!
How little less did she stand in need of assistance than I!
At supper my father did not speak to me, but I could see his silence
was the effect of shame, and not of disdain: he pretended to find
every thing extremely good, in order to bid my mother help me to it;
and, what touched me the most sensibly was, that he took all occasions
to call me his daughter, and not Eloisa, as is customary with him.
After supper the evening was so cold that my mother ordered a fire in
her chamber; she placing herself on one fire and my father on the
other. I went to take a chair, to sit down in the middle; when, laying
hold of my gown and drawing me gently to him, he placed me on his
knee, without speaking a word. This was done so immediately, and by a
sort of involuntarily impulse, that he seemed to be almost sorry for
it a moment afterwards. But I was on his knee, and he could not well
push me from him again, and, what added to his apparent condescension,
he was obliged to support me with his arms in that attitude. All this
passion in a kind of reluctant silence; but I perceived him, every now
and then, ready to give me an involuntary embrace, which however he
resisted, at the same time endeavouring to stifle a sigh, which came
from the bottom of his heart. A certain false shame prevented his
paternal arms from clasping me with that tenderness he too, plainly
felt; a certain gravity, he was ashamed to depart from, a confusion he
durst not overcome, occasioned between a father and his daughter the
same charming embarrassment, as love and modesty cause between lovers;
in the mean while a most affectionate mother, transported with
pleasure, secretly enjoyed the delightful sight. I saw, I felt it all,
and could no longer support a scene of such melting tenderness. I
pretended to slip down; and, to save myself, threw my arm round my
father’s neck, laying my face close to his venerable cheek, which I
pressed with repeated kisses and bathed with my tears. At the same
time, by those which flowed plentifully from his eyes, I could
perceive him greatly relieved; while my mother, embraced us both and
partook of our transports. How sweet; how peaceful is innocence! which
alone was wanting to make this the most delightful moment of my life.
This morning, lassitude and the pain I felt from my fall having kept
me in bed later than usual, my father came into my chamber before I
was up; when, asking kindly after my health, he sat down by the side
of my bed; and, taking one of my hands into his, he condescended so
far as to kiss it several times, calling me at the same time his dear
daughter, and expressing his sorrow for his resentment. I told him I
should think myself but too happy to suffer as much every day to have
the pleasure he then gave me in return; and that the severest
treatment I could receive from him would be fully recompensed, by the
smallest instance of his kindness.
Then putting on a more serious air, he resumed the subject of
yesterday, and signified his pleasure in civil but positive terms. You
know, says he, the husband I designed for you: I intimated to you my
intentions concerning him on my arrival, and shall never change them,
on that head. As to the man whom Lord B---- spoke of, though I shall
not dispute the merit every body allows him, I know not whether he has
of himself conceived the ridiculous hopes of being allied to me, or if
it has been instilled into him by others; but, be assured, that, had I
even no other person in view, and he was in possession of all the
guineas in England, I would never accept him for my son-in-law. I
forbid you, therefore, either to see or speak to him as long as you
live, and that as well for the sake of his honour as your own. I never
indeed felt any great regard for him: but I now mortally hate him for
the outrages he has been the occasion of my committing, and shall
never forgive him the violence I have been guilty of.
Having said this, he rose and left me, without waiting for my answer,
and with the same air of severity, which he had just reproached
himself for assuming before. Ah, my dear cousin, what an infernal
monster is prejudice, that depraves the best hearts, and puts the
voice of nature every moment to silence!
Thus ended the explanation you predicted, and of which I could not
comprehend the reason till your letter informed me. I cannot well tell
what revolution it has occasioned in my mind; but I find myself ever
since greatly altered. I seem to look back with more regret to that
happy time, when I lived content and tranquil with my family friends
around me; and that the sense of my error increases with that of the
blessings of which it has deprived me. Tell me, my severe monitor,
tell me if you dare be so cruel, are the joyful hours of love all gone
and fled? And will they never more return? Do you perceive, alas, how
gloomy and horrible is that sad apprehension? And yet my father’s
commands are positive; the danger of my lover is certain. Think, my
dear Clara, on the result of such opposite emotions, destroying the
effects of each other in my heart. A kind of stupidity has taken
possession of me, which makes me almost insensible, and leaves me
neither the use of my passions nor my reason. The present moment, you
tell me, is critical; I know, I feel it is: and yet I was never more
incapable to conduct myself than now. I have sat down more than twenty
times to write to my lover: but I am ready to sink at every line. I
have no resource, my dear friend, but in you. Let me prevail on you
then to think, to speak, to act, for me. I put myself into your hands:
whatever step you think proper to take, I hereby confirm before hand
every thing you do; I commit to your friendship that sad authority
over a lover which I have bought so dear. Divide me for ever from
myself. Kill me, if I must die; but do not force me to plunge the
dagger in my own breast. O my good angel! my protectress! what an
employment do I engage you in! Can you have the courage to go through
it? Can you find means to soften its severity? It is not my heart
alone you will rend to pieces. You know, Clara, yes, you know, how
sincerely I am beloved; that I have not even the consolation of being
the most to be pitied. Let my heart, I beseech you, speak from your
lips, and let yours sympathize with the tender compassion of love.
Comfort the poor unfortunate youth, tell him, ah, tell him, again and
again----do you not think so, my dear friend? Do you not think that,
in spite of prepossessions and prejudice, in spite of all obstacles
and crosses, Heaven has made us for each other? Yes, tell him so, I am
sure of it, we are destined to be happy. It is impossible for me to
lose sight of that prospect: it is impossible for me to give up that
delightful hope. Tell him, therefore, not to be too much afflicted;
not to give way to despair. You need not trouble yourself to exact a
promise of eternal love and fidelity; and still less to make him a
needless promise of mine. Is not the assurance of both firmly rooted
in our hearts? Do we not feel that we are indivisible, and that we
have but one mind between us? Tell him only to hope, and that though
fortune persecutes us, he may place his confidence in love; which I am
certain, my cousin, will in some way or other compensate for the evils
it makes us suffer; as I am that, however heaven may dispose of us, we
shall not live long from each other.
P.S. After I had written the above, I went into my mother’s apartment,
but found myself so ill that I was obliged to return, and lie down on
the bed. I even perceived----alas, I am afraid----indeed, my dear, I
am afraid, the fall I had last night will be of a much worse
consequence than I imagined. If so, all is over with me; all my hopes
are vanished at once.
Letter LXIV. Clara to Mr. Orbe.
My father has this morning related to me the conversation he had
yesterday with you. I perceive with pleasure that your expectations of
what you are pleased to call your happiness, are not without
foundation: you know I hope that it will prove mine too. Esteem and
friendship are already in your possession, and all of that more tender
sentiment of which my heart is capable is also yours. Yet be not
deceived: as woman, I am a kind of monster; by whatsoever strange whim
of nature it happens I know not, but this I know, that my friendship
is more powerful than my love. When I tell you that my Eloisa is
dearer to me than yourself, you only laugh at, me; and yet nothing can
be more certain. Eloisa is so sensible of this, that she is more
jealous for you than you are for yourself, and whilst you are
contented, she is upbraiding me, that I do not love you sufficiently.
I am even so strongly interested in every thing which concerns her,
that her lover and you hold nearly the same place in my heart, though
in a different manner. What I feel for him is friendship only; but it
is violent: for you, I think, I perceive something of a certain
passion called love; but then it is tranquil. Now, though this might
appear sufficiently equivocal to disturb the repose of a jealous mind,
I do not believe it will cause much uneasiness in you.
How far, alas, are those two poor souls from that tranquillity which
we dare presume to enjoy! and how ill does this contentment become us,
whilst our friends are in despair! It is decreed, they must part, and
perhaps this may be the very instant of their eternal separation. Who
knows but their mutual dejection, with which we reproached them at the
concert, might be a foreboding that it was the last time they would
ever meet? To this hour your friend is ignorant of his destiny. In the
security of his heart he still enjoys the felicity of which he is
already deprived. In the very instant of despair he tastes, in idea,
the shadow of happiness, and like one who is on the brink of sudden
death, the poor wretch dreams of existence unapprehensive of his fate.
O heavens! it is from me he is to receive the sad sentence. O
friendship divine! the idol of my soul! arm me, I beseech thee, with
thy sacred cruelty. Inspire me with barbarous resolution, and enable
me to perform this sad duty with becoming magnanimity!
I depend on your assistance, and I should expect it even if you loved
me less; for I know your tender heart: it will have no need of the
zeal of love when humanity pleads. You will engage our friend to come
to me to-morrow morning; but be sure not to mention a syllable of the
affair. To day I must not be interrupted. I shall pass the afternoon
with Eloisa. Endeavour to find Lord B----, and bring him with you
about eight o’clock this evening, that we may come to some
determination concerning the departure of this unhappy man, and
endeavour to prevent his despair.
I have great confidence in his resolution added to our precautions,
and I have still greater dependence on his passion for Eloisa: her
will, the danger of her life and honour, are motives which he cannot
resist. Be it as it will, you may be assured that I shall not dream of
marriage till Eloisa has recovered her peace of mind. I will not stain
the matrimonial knot with the tears of my friend, so that if you
really love me, your interest will second your generosity, and it
becomes your own affair rather than that of another.
Letter LXV. Clara to Eloisa.
All is over; and in spite of her indiscretion my Eloisa is in safety.
Her secrets are buried in silence. She is still loved and cherished in
the midst of her friends and relations, possessing every one’s esteem,
and a reputation without blemish. Consider, my friend, and tremble for
the dangers which, through motives of love or shame, through fear of
doing too little or too much, you have run. Learn hence, too fond or
too fearful girl, never more to attempt to reconcile sentiments so
incompatible; and thank heaven that, through a happiness peculiar to
yourself, you have escaped the evils that threatened you.
I would spare your sorrowing heart the particulars of your lover’s
cruel and necessary departure. But you desired to know them; I
promised you should, and will keep my word with that sincerity which
ever subsisted between us. Read on then, my dear and unhappy friend;
read on, but exert your courage and maintain your resolution.
The plan I had concerted, and of which I advised you yesterday, was
punctually followed in every particular. On my return home, I found
here Mr. Orbe and my Lord B----; with whom I immediately begun, by
declaring to the latter how much we were both affected by his heroic
generosity. I then gave them urgent reasons for the immediate
departure of your friend, and told them the difficulties I foresaw in
bringing it about. His Lordship was perfectly sensible that it was
necessary, and expressed much sorrow for the effects of his imprudent
zeal. They both agreed it was proper to hasten the separation
determined, and to lay hold of the first moment of consent, to prevent
any new irresolution: and to snatch him from the danger of delay. I
would have engaged Mr. Orbe to make the necessary preparations,
unknown to your friend; but his Lordship, regarding this affair as his
own, insisted on taking charge of it. He accordingly promised me that
his chaise would be ready at eleven o’clock this morning, adding that
he would carry him off under some other pretext, and accompany him as
far as it might be necessary; opening the matter to him at leisure.
This expedient however did not appear to me sufficiently open and
sincere, nor would I consent to expose him, at a distance, to the
first effects of a despair, which might more easily escape the eyes of
Lord B---- than mine. For the same reason I did not close with his
Lordship’s proposal of speaking himself to him, and prevailing on him
to depart. I foresaw, that negotiation would be a delicate affair, and
I was unwilling to trust any body with it but myself; knowing much
better how to manage his sensibility, and also that there is always a
harshness in the arguments of the men which a woman best knows how to
soften. I conceived nevertheless that my Lord might be of use in
preparing the way for an eclairissement; being sensible of the effects
which the discourse of a man of sense might have over a virtuous mind;
and what force the persuasions of a friend might give to the arguments
of the philosopher.
I engaged Lord B----, therefore, to pass the evening with him, and,
without saying any thing directly of his situation, to endeavour to
dispose his mind insensibly to a stoical resolution. You, my Lord, who
are so well acquainted with Epictetus, says I, have now an opportunity
of making some real use of him. Distinguish carefully between real and
apparent good, between that which depends on ourselves and what is
dependent on others. Demonstrate to him that, whatever threatens us
from without, the cause of evil is within us; and that the wise man,
being always on his guard, has his happiness ever in his own power. I
understood by his Lordship’s answer that this stroke of irony, which
could not offend him, served to excite his zeal, and that he counted
much on sending his friend the next day well prepared. This indeed was
the most I expected; for in reality, I place no great dependence, any
more than yourself, on all that verbose philosophy. And yet I am
persuaded a virtuous man must always feel some kind of shame, in
changing at night the opinions he embraced in the morning, and in
denying in his heart the next day what his reason dictated for truth
the preceding night.
Mr. Orbe was desirous of being of their party, and passing the evening
with them; but to this I objected; as his presence might only disturb
or lay a restraint on the conversation. The interest I have in him,
does not prevent me from seeing he is not a match for the other two.
The masculine turn of thinking in men of strong minds gives a peculiar
idiom to their discourse, and makes them converse in a language to
which Mr. Orbe is a stranger. In taking leave of them, I bethought me
of the effects of his Lordship’s drinking punch; and, fearing he might
when in liquor anticipate my design, I laughingly hinted as much to
him: to which he answered, I might be assured he would indulge himself
in such habits only when it could be of no ill effect; but that he was
no slave to custom; that the interview intended concerned Eloisa’s
honour, the fortune and perhaps the life of a man, and that man his
friend. I shall drink my punch, continued he, as usual, lest it should
give our conversation an air of reserve and preparation; but that
punch shall be mere lemonade; and, as he drinks none, he will not
perceive it. Don’t you think it, my dear, a great mortification to
have contracted habits that make such precautions as these necessary?
I passed the night in great agitation of mind, not altogether on your
account. The innocent pleasures of our early youth, the agreeableness
of our long intimacy, and the closer connections that have subsisted
between us for a year past, on account of the difficulty he met with
in seeing you; all this filled me with the most disagreeable
apprehensions of your separation. I perceived I was going to lose,
with the half of you, a part of my own existence. Awake and restless I
lay counting the clock, and when the morning dawned, I shuddered to
think it was the dawn of that day which might fix the destiny of my
friend. I spent the early part of the morning in meditating on my
intended discourse, and in reflecting on the impressions it might
make. At length the hour drew nigh, and my expected visitor entered.
He appeared much troubled, and hastily asked me after you; for he had
heard, the day after your severe treatment from your father, that you
was ill, which was yesterday confirmed by my Lord B----, and that you
had kept your bed ever since. To avoid entering into particulars on
this subject, I told him I had left you better last night, and that he
would know more by the return of Hans whom I had sent to you. My
precaution was to no purpose, he went on asking me a hundred
questions, to which, as they only tended to lead me from my purpose, I
made short answers, and took upon me to interrogate him in my turn.
I begun by endeavouring to found his disposition of mind, and found
him grave, methodical, and reasonable. Thank heaven, said I to myself,
my philosopher is well prepared. Nothing remained therefore but to put
him to the trial. It is an usual custom to open bad news by degrees;
but the knowledge I had of the furious imagination of your friend,
which at half a word’s speaking carries him often into the most
passionate extremes, determined me to take a contrary method; as I
thought it better to overwhelm him at once, and administer comfort to
him afterwards, than needlessly to multiply his griefs and give him a
thousand pains instead of one. Assuming, therefore, a more serious
tone, and looking at him very attentively; have you ever experienced,
my friend, said I, what the fortitude of a great mind is capable of?
Do you think it possible for a man to renounce the object he truly
loves? I had scarce spoke before he started up like a madman; and,
clasping his hands together, struck them against his forehead, crying
out, I understand you, Eloisa is dead! my Eloisa is dead! repeated he
in a tone of despair and horror that made me tremble. I see through
your vain circumspection, your useless cautions, that only render my
tortures more lingering and cruel. Frightened as I was by so sudden a
transport, I soon entered into the cause; the news he had heard of
your illness, the lecture which Lord B---- had read him, our appointed
meeting this morning, my evading his questions and those I put to him,
were all so many collateral circumstances combining to give him a
false alarm. I saw plainly also what use I might have made of his
mistake, by leaving him in it a few minutes, but I could not be cruel
enough to do it. The thoughts of the death of the person one loves is
so shocking, that any other whatever is comparatively agreeable; I
hastened accordingly to make the advantage of it. Perhaps, said I, you
will never see her again, yet she is alive and still loves you. If
Eloisa were dead, what could Clara have to say? Be thankful to heaven
that, unfortunate as you are, you do not feel all those evils which
might have overwhelmed you. He was so surprized, so struck, so
bewildered that, having made him sit down, again, I had leisure to
acquaint him with what it was necessary for him to know. At the same
time I represented the generous behaviour of Lord B---- in the most
amiable light, in order to divert his grief by exciting, in his honest
mind, the gentler emotions of gratitude. You see, continued I, the
present state of affairs. Eloisa is on the brink of destruction, just
ready to see herself exposed to public disgrace, by the resentment of
her family, by the violence of an enraged father, and by her own
despair. The danger increases every moment, and, whether in her own or
in the hand of a father, the poignard is every instant of her life
within an inch of her heart. There remains but one way to prevent
these misfortunes, and that depends entirely on you. The fate of
Eloisa is in your hands. See if you have the fortitude to save her
from ruin, by leaving her, since she is no longer permitted to see
you, or whether you had rather stay to be the author and witness of
her dishonour? After having done every thing for you, she puts your
heart to the trial to see what you can do for her. It is astonishing
that she bears up under her distresses. You are anxious for her life;
know then that her life, her honour, her all depends on you.
He heard me without interruption; and no sooner perfectly comprehended
me, than that wild gesture, that furious look, that frightful air,
which he had put on just before, immediately disappeared. A gloomy
veil of sorrow and consternation spread itself over his features,
while his mournful eyes and bewildered countenance betrayed the
sadness of his heart. In this situation he could hardly open his lips
to make me an answer. Must I then go? said he in a peculiar tone; it
is well, I will go. Have I not lived long enough? No, returned I, not
so, you should still live for her who loves you. Have you forgot that
her life is dependant on yours? Why then should our lives be
separated? cried he; there was a time. It is not yet too late.----
I affected not to understand the last words, and was endeavouring to
comfort him with some hopes, which I could see his heart rejected,
when Hans returned with the good news of your health. In the joy he
felt at this, he cried out, My Eloisa lives,----let her live, and if
possible be happy. I will never disturb her repose, I will only bid
her adieu----and, if it must be so, will leave her for ever.
You surely know, said I, that you are not permitted to see her. You
have already bidden farewell, and are parted. Consider, therefore, you
will be more at ease when you are at a greater distance, and will have
at least the consolation to think you have secured, by your departure,
the peace and reputation of her you love. Fly then this hour, this
moment; nor let so great a sacrifice be made too slow. Haste, lest
even your delay should cause the ruin of her to whose security you
have devoted yourself. What! said he in a kind of fury, shall I depart
without seeing her? Not see her again! We will both perish if it must
be so. I know she will not think much to die with me. But I will see
her, whatever may be the consequence; I will lay both my heart and
life at her feet before I am thus torn from myself.----It was not
difficult for me to shew the absurdity and cruelty of such a project.
But the exclamation of, _Shall I see her no more!_ repeated in the
most doleful accents, seemed to demand of me some consolation. Why,
said I to him, do you make your misfortunes worse than they really
are? Why do you give up hopes which Eloisa herself entertains? Can you
believe she would think of thus parting with you, if she conceived you
were not to meet again? No, my friend, you ought to know the heart of
Eloisa better. You ought to know how much she prefers her love to her
life. I fear, alas! too much I fear (this I confess I have added) she
will soon prefer it to every thing. Believe me, Eloisa lives in hopes,
since she consents to live: believe me the cautions which her prudence
dictates, regard yourself more than you are aware of; and that she is
more careful of herself on your account than her own. I then took out
your last letter; and, shewing him what were the hopes of a fond
deluded girl, animated his, by the gentle warmth of her tender
expressions. These few lines seemed to distil a salutary balsam into
his envenomed heart. His looks softened, the tears rose into his eyes,
and I had the satisfaction of seeing a sorrowful tenderness succeed by
degrees to his former despair; but your last words, so moving, so
heart-felt, _we shall not live long asunder_, made him burst into a
flood of tears. No, Eloisa, my dear Eloisa! said he, raising his voice
and kissing the letter, no, we shall not live long asunder. Heaven
will either join our hands in this world, or unite our hearts in those
eternal mansions where there is no more separation. He was now in the
temper of mind, I wished to have him; his former, sullen sorrow gave
me much uneasiness. I should not have permitted him to depart in that
disposition; but, as soon as I saw him weep and heard your endearing
name come from his lips with so much tenderness, I was no longer in
apprehensions for his life; for nothing is less tender than despair.
The soft emotions of his heart now dictated an objection which I did
not foresee. He spoke to me of the condition in which you lately
suspected yourself to be; protesting he would rather die a thousand
deaths than abandon you to those perils that threatened you. I took
care to say nothing about the accident of your fall; telling him only
that your expectations had been disappointed, and that there were no
hopes of that kind. To which he answered with a deep sigh, there will
remain then no living monument of my happiness; it is gone, and----
Here his heart seemed too full for expression.
After this, it remained only for me to execute the latter part of your
commission; and for which I did not think, after the intimacy in which
you lived, that any preparation or apology was necessary. I mildly
reproached him, therefore, for the little care he had taken of his
affairs; telling him that you feared it would be long before he would
be more careful, and that in the mean time you commanded him to take
care of himself for your sake, and to that end to accept of that small
present which I had to make him from you. He seemed neither offended
at the offer, nor to make a merit of the acceptance; telling me only
that you well knew nothing could come from you that he should not
receive with transport; but that your precaution was superfluous: a
little house, which he had sold at Grandson, the remains of his small
patrimony, having furnished him with more money than he ever had at
any one time in his life. Besides, added he, I possess some talents
from which I can always draw a subsistence. I shall be happy to find,
in the exercise of them, some diversion from my misfortunes; and,
since I have seen the use to which Eloisa puts her superfluities, I
regard it as a treasure sacred to the widow and the orphan, whom
humanity will never permit me to neglect. I reminded him of his former
journey to the Valois, your letter, and the preciseness of your
orders. The same reasons, said I, now subsist----The same! interrupted
he, in an angry tone. The penalty of my refusal then, was never to see
her more; if she will permit me now to stay, I will use it on those
conditions. If I obey, why does she punish me? If I do not, what can
she do worse than banish me?----The same reasons! repeated he, with
some impatience. Our union then was just commenced; it is now at an
end; and I part from her perhaps for ever; there is no longer any
connection between us, we are going to be torn asunder. He pronounced
these last words with such an oppression of heart that I trembled with
the apprehensions of his relapsing into that disposition of mind, out
of which I had taken so much pains to extricate him. I affected
therefore an air of gaiety, and told him with a smile, that he was a
child, and that I would be his tutor, as he stood greatly in need of
one. I will take charge of this, said I; and, that we may dispose of
it properly in the business we shall engage in together, I insist upon
knowing particularly the state of your affairs. I endeavoured thus to
direct his melancholy ideas by that of a familiar correspondence to be
kept up in his absence; and he, whose simplicity only sought to lay
hold of every twig, as one may say, that grew near to you, came easily
into my design. We accordingly settled the address of our letters;
and, as the talking about these regulations was agreeable to him, I
prolonged our discourse on this subject till Mr. Orbe arrived; who, on
his entrance, made a signal to me that every thing was ready. Your
friend, who easily understood what was meant, then desired leave to
write to you; but I would not permit him. I saw that an excess of
tenderness might overcome him, and that after he had got half way
through his letter, we might find it impossible to prevail on him to
depart. Delays, said I, are dangerous; make haste to go; and, when you
are arrived at the end of your first stage, you may write more at your
ease. In saying this, I made a sign to Mr. Orbe, advanced towards him
with a heavy heart, and took leave. How he left me I know not, my
tears preventing my sight; my head began also to turn round, and it
was high time my part was ended.
A moment afterwards, however, I heard them go hastily down stairs; on
which I went to the stair-head to look after them. There I saw your
friend, in all his extravagance, throw himself on his knees, in the
middle of the stairs, and kiss the steps; while Mr. Orbe had much to
do to raise him from the cold stones, which he pressed with his lips,
and to which he clung with his hands, sighing most bitterly. For my
part, I retired, that I might not expose myself to the servants.
Soon after Mr. Orbe returned, and, with tears in his eyes, told me it
was all over, and that they were set out. It seems the chaise was
ready at his door, where Lord B---- was waiting for our friend, whom
when his Lordship saw he ran to meet him, and with the most cordial
expressions of friendship, placed him in the chaise, which drove off
with them, like lightning.
Letter LXVI. To Eloisa.
How often have I taken up, and flung down, my pen! I hesitate in the
first period; I know not how, I know not where, to begin. And yet it
is to Eloisa I would write. To what a situation am I reduced? That
time is, alas! no more, when a thousand pleasing ideas crowded on my
mind, and flowed inexhaustibly from my pen. Those delightful moments
of mutual confidence, and sweet effusion of souls, are gone and fled.
We live no longer for each other. We are no more the same persons, and
I no longer know to whom I am writing. Will you deign to receive, to
read, my letters? Will you think them sufficiently cautious and
reserved? Shall I preserve the stile of our former intimacy? May I
venture to speak of a passion extinguished or despised? and am I not
to make as defiant approaches to Eloisa, as on the first day I
presumed to write? Good heavens! how different are the tedious hours
of my present wretchedness from those happy, those delightful days I
have passed! I but begin to exist, and am sunk into nothing. The hopes
of life that warmed my heart are fled, and the gloomy prospect of
death is all before me. Three revolving years have circumscribed the
happiness of my days. Would to God I had ended them, ere I had known
the misery of thus surviving myself! Oh that I had obeyed the
foreboding dictates of my heart, when once those rapid moments of
delight were passed, and life presented nothing to my view for which I
could wish to live! Better, doubtless, had it been that I had breathed
no longer, or that those three years of life and love I enjoyed could
be extracted from the number of my days. Happier is it never to taste
of felicity than to have it snatched from our enjoyment. Had I been
exempted from that fatal interval of happiness; had I escaped the
first enchanting look, that animated me to a new life, I might still
have preserved my reason, have still been fit to discharge the common
offices of life, and have displayed perhaps some virtues in the
duration of an insipid existence. One moment of delusion hath changed
the scene. I have ventured to contemplate with rapture an object I
should not have dared to look on. This presumption has produced its
necessary effect, and led me insensibly to ruin; I am become a
frantic, delirious wretch, a servile dispirited being, that drags
along his chain in ignominy and despair.
How idle are the dreams of a distracted mind! How flattering, how
deceitful the wishes of the wandering heart, that disclaims them as
soon as suggested! To what end do we seek, against real evils,
imaginary remedies, that are no sooner thought of than rejected? Who,
that hath seen and felt the power of love, can think it possible there
should be a happiness which I would purchase at the price of the
supreme felicity of my first transports. No, it is impossible----Let
heaven deny me all other blessings; let me be wretched, but I will
indulge myself in the remembrance of pleasures past. Better is it to
enjoy the recollection of my past happiness, though imbittered with
present sorrow, than to be for ever happy without Eloisa. Come then,
dear image of my love, thou idol of my soul! come, and take possession
of a heart that beats only for thee; live in exile, alleviate my
sorrows, rekindle my extinguished hopes, and prevent me from falling
into despair. This unfortunate breast shall ever be thy inviolable
sanctuary, whence neither the powers of heaven nor earth shall ever
expel thee. If I am lost to happiness, I am not to love, which renders
me worthy of it; a love irresistible as the charms that gave it birth.
Raised on the immoveable foundations of merit and virtue, it can never
cease to exist in a mind that is immortal: it needs no future hope for
its support, the remembrance of what is past will sustain it for ever.
But how is it with my Eloisa? With her, who was once so sensible of
love? Can that sacred flame be extinguished in her pure and
susceptible breast? Can she have lost her taste for those celestial
raptures, which she alone could feel or inspire?----She drives me
from her presence without pity, banishes me with shame, gives me up to
despair, and sees not, through the error which misleads her, that, in
making me miserable, she robs herself of happiness. Believe me, my
Eloisa, you will in vain seek another heart akin to yours. A thousand
will doubtless adore you, but mine only is capable of returning your
love.
Tell me, tell me, sincerely, thou deceived or deceiving girl! What is
become of those projects we formed together in secret? Where are fled
those vain hopes, with which you so often flattered my credulous
simplicity? What say you now to that sacred union my heart panted
after, the secret cause of so many ardent sighs, and with which your
lips and your pen have so often indulged my hopes? I presumed alas! on
your promises, to aspire to the sacred name of husband, and thought
myself already the most fortunate of men. Say, cruel Eloisa, did you
not flatter me thus only to render my disappointment the more
mortifying, my affliction the more severe? Have I incurred this
misfortune by my own crimes? Have I been wanting in obedience, in
tractability, in discretion? Have you ever seen me so weak and absurd
in my desires, as to deserve to be thus rejected? or have I ever
preferred their gratification to your absolute commands? I have done,
I have studied, every thing to please you, and yet you renounce me.
You undertook to make me happy, and you make me miserable. Ungrateful
woman! account with me for the trust I deposited in your hands;
account with me for my heart, after having reduced it by a supreme
felicity that raised me to an equality with angels. I envied not their
lot; I was the happiest of beings; though now alas! I am the most
miserable! A single moment has deprived me of every thing, and I am
fallen instantaneously from the pinnacle of happiness to the lowest
gulph of misery. I touch even yet the felicity that escapes me. I have
still hold of, it, and lose it for ever----Ah, could I but believe!
----if the remains of false hope did not flatter----Why, why, ye
rocks of Meillerie, whose precipices my wandering eye so often
measured, why did you not assist my despair! I had then less
regretted life, ere enjoyment had taught me its value.
Letter LXVII. Lord B---- to Mrs. Orbe.
Being arrived at Besançon, I take the first opportunity to write you
the particulars of our journey; which, if not passed very agreeably,
has at least been attended with no ill accident. Your friend is as
well in health as can be expected for a man so sick at heart. He even
endeavours to affect outwardly a kind of tranquillity, to which his
heart is a stranger; and, being ashamed of his weakness, lays himself
under a good deal of restraint before me. This only served, however,
to betray the secret agitations of his mind; and though I seemed to be
deceived by his behaviour, it was only to leave him to his own
thoughts, with the view of opposing one part of his faculties to
repress the effects of the other.
He was much dejected during the first day’s journey, which I made a
short one, as I saw the expedition of our travelling increased his
uneasiness. A profound silence was observed on both sides; on my part,
the rather, as I am sensible that ill-timed condolence only imbitters
violent affliction. Coldness and indifference easily find words, but
silent sorrow is in those cases the language of true friendship. I
began yesterday to perceive the first sparks of the fury which
naturally succeeded. At dinner time we had been scarce a quarter of an
hour out of the chaise, before he turned to me, with an air of
impatience, and asked me with an ill-natured smile, why we rested a
moment so near Eloisa? In the evening he affected to be very
talkative, but without saying a word of her, asking the same questions
over and over again. He wanted one moment to know if we had reached
the French territories, and the next if we should soon arrive at
Vevey. The first thing he did at every stage was to sit down to write
a letter, which he rumpled up, or tore to pieces, the moment
afterwards. I picked up two or three of these blotted fragments, by
which you may judge of the situation of his mind. I believe, however,
he has by this time written a compleat letter.----The extravagance
which these first symptoms of passion threaten is easily foreseen; but
I cannot pretend to guess what will be its effect, or how long may be
its continuance; these depend on a combination of circumstances, as
the character of the man, the degree and nature of his passion, and of
a thousand things which no human sagacity can determine. For my part,
I can answer for the transports of his rage, but not for the
sullenness of his despair; for, do as we will, every man has always
his life in his own power. I flatter myself, however, that he will pay
a due regard to his life and my assiduities; though I depend less on
the effects of my zeal, which nevertheless shall be exerted to the
utmost, than on the nature of his passion, and the character of his
mistress. The mind cannot long employ itself in contemplating a
beloved object, without contracting a disposition similar to what it
admires. The extreme sweetness of Eloisa’s temper must therefore have
softened the harshness of that passion it inspired; and I doubt not
but love, in a man of such lively passions, is always more alive and
violent than it would be in others. I have some dependence also upon
his heart: it was formed to struggle, and to conquer. A love like his
is not so much a weakness, as strength badly exerted. A violent and
unhappy passion may smother for a time, perhaps for ever, some of his
faculties; but it is itself a proof of their excellence, and of the
use that may be made of them to cultivate his understanding. The
sublimest wisdom is attained by the same vigour of mind which gives
rise to the violent passions; and philosophy must be attained by as
fervent a zeal as that which we feel for a mistress.
Be assured, lovely Clara, I interest myself no less than you in the
fate of this unfortunate couple; not out of a sentiment of compassion,
which might perhaps be only a weakness, but out of a due regard to
justice and the fitness of things, which require that every one should
be disposed of in a manner the most advantageous to himself and to
society. Their amiable minds were doubtless formed by the hands of
nature for each other. In a peaceful and happy union, at liberty to
exert their talents and display their virtues, they might have
enlightened the world with the splendor of their examples. Why should
an absurd prejudice then cross the eternal directions of nature, and
subvert the harmony of thinking Beings? Why should the vanity of a
cruel father thus _hide their light under a bushel_, and wound those
tender and benevolent hearts which were formed to sooth the pangs of
others? Are not the ties of marriage the most free, as well as the
most sacred of all engagements? Yes, every law to lay a constraint on
them is unjust. Every father, who presumes to form, or break them, is
a tyrant. This chaste and holy tie of nature is neither subjected to
sovereign power nor paternal authority but to the authority only of
that common parent who hath the power over our hearts, and, by
commanding their union, can at the same time make them love each
other.
To what end are natural conveniences sacrificed to those of opinion? A
disagreement in rank and fortune loses itself in marriage, nor doth
any equality therein tend to make the marriage state happy; but a
disagreement in person and disposition ever remains, and is that which
makes it necessarily miserable. [13] A child, that has no rule of
conduct but her fond passion, will frequently make a bad choice; but
the father, who has no other rule for his than the opinion of the
world, will make a worse. A daughter may want knowledge and experience
to form a proper judgment of the discretion and conduct of men; a good
father ought doubtless in that care to advise her. He has a right, it
is even his duty, to say “My child, this is a man of probity, or that
man is a knave, this is a man of sense, or that is a fool.” Thus far
ought the father to judge, the rest belongs of right to the daughter.
The tyrants, who exclaim that such maxims tend to disturb the good
order of society, are those who, themselves, disturb it most.
Let men rank according to their merit; and let those hearts be united
that are objects of each other’s choice. This is what the good order
of society requires; those who would confine it to birth or riches are
the real disturbers of that order; and ought to be rendered odious to
the public, or punished, as enemies to society.
Justice requires that such abuses should be redressed: it is the duty
of every man to set himself in opposition to violence, and to
strengthen the bonds of society. You may be assured therefore, that,
if it be possible for me to effect the union of these two lovers, in
spite of an obstinate father, I shall put in execution the intention
of heaven, without troubling myself about the approbation of men.
You, amiable Madam, are happy in having a father, who doth not presume
to judge better than yourself of the means of your own happiness. It
is not, however, from his greater sagacity, perhaps, nor from his
superior tenderness, that he leaves you thus mistress of your own
choice: but what signifies the cause if the effect be the same? Or
whether, in the liberty he allows you his indolence supplies the place
of his reason? Far from abusing that liberty, the choice you have
made, at twenty years of age, must meet with the approbation of the
most discreet parent. Your heart, taken up by a friendship without
example, had little room for love. You have yet substituted in its
place every thing that can supply the want of passion; and, though
less a lover than a friend, if you should not happen to prove the
fondest wife, you will be certainly the most virtuous; that union,
which prudence dictated, will increase with age and end but with life.
The impulse of the heart is more blind, but it is more irresistible;
and the way to ruin is to lay one’s self under the cruel necessity of
opposing it. Happy are those whom love unites as prudence dictates,
who have no obstacles to surmount, nor difficulties to encounter! Such
would be our friends, were it not for the unreasonable prejudice of an
obstinate father. And such, notwithstanding, may they be yet, if one
of them be well advised. By yours and Eloisa’s example, we may be
equally convinced that it belongs only to the parties themselves to
judge how far they will be reciprocally agreeable. If love be not
predominant, prudence only directs the choice, as in your case; if
passion prevail, nature has already determined it, as in Eloisa’s. So
sacred also is the law of nature, that no human being is permitted to
transgress it, or can transgress it with impunity; nor can any
consideration of rank or fortune abrogate it, without involving
mankind in guilt and misfortune.
Though the winter be pretty far advanced and I am obliged to go to
Rome, I shall not leave our friend till I have brought him to such a
consistency of temper that I may safely trust him with himself. I
shall be tender of him, as well on his own account, as because you
have entrusted him to my care. If I cannot make him happy, I will
endeavour at least to make him prudent; and to prevail on him to bear
the evils of humanity like a man. I purpose to spend a fortnight with
him here; in which time I hope to hear from you and Eloisa; and that
you will both assist me in binding up the wounds of a broken heart, as
yet unaffected by the voice of reason, unless it speak in the language
of the passions.
Inclosed is a letter for your friend. I beg you will not trust it to a
messenger, but give it her with your own hands.
Fragments, Annexed to the Preceding Letter.
Why was I not permitted to see you before my departure? You were
afraid our parting would be fatal! Tender Eloisa! Be comforted----I am
well----I am at ease----I live----I think of you----I think of the time
when I was dear to you----My heart is a little oppressed----The chaise
has made me giddy----My spirits are quite sunk----I cannot write much
to-day; tomorrow, perhaps, I shall be able to----or I shall have no
more occasion----
Whither do these horses hurry me so fast? Where is this man, who calls
himself my friend, going to carry me? Is it from Eloisa? Is it by her
order that I am dispatched so precipitately away? Mistaken Eloisa!----
How rapidly does the chaise move! Whence come I? Where am I going?
Why all this expedition? Are ye afraid, ye persecutors, that I should
not fly fast enough to ruin? O friendship! O love! is this your
contrivance? Are these your favours?----
Have you consulted your heart in driving me from you so suddenly? Are
you capable, tell me Eloisa, are you capable of renouncing me for
ever? No, that tender heart still loves me, I know it does----In spite
of fortune, in spite of itself, it will love me for ever.----I see
it, you have permitted yourself to be persuaded [14]----What lasting
repentance are you preparing for yourself!----Alas! it will be too
late----how! forget me! I did not know your heart!----Oh consider
yourself, consider me, consider----hear me: it is yet time enough----
’twas cruel to banish me: I fly from you swifter than the wind.----
Say but the word, but one word, and I return quicker than lightening.
Say but one word, and we will be united for ever. We ought to be----
We will be----Alas! I complain to the winds----I am going again----I
am going to live and die far from Eloisa----Live I did I say? It is
impossible.----
Letter LXVIII. Lord B---- to Eloisa.
Your cousin will give you information concerning your friend. I
imagine, also, he has written to you himself, by the post. First
satisfy your impatience on that head, that you may afterwards peruse
this letter with composure; for, I give you previous notice, the
subject of it demands your attention. I know mankind; I have lived a
long time in a few years, and have acquired experience at my own cost;
the progress of the passions having been my road to philosophy. But of
all the extraordinary things that have come within the compass of my
observation, I never saw any thing equal to you and your lover. It is
not that either the one or the other has any peculiar characteristic,
whereby you might at first be known and distinguished, and through the
want of which yours might well enough be mistaken, by a superficial
observer, for minds of a common and ordinary cast. You are eminently
distinguished, however, by this very difficulty of distinguishing you,
and in that the features of a common model, some one of which is
wanting in every individual, are all equally perfect in you. Thus
every printed copy that comes from the press has its peculiar defects,
which distinguish it from the rest of its kind; and if there should
happen to come one quite perfect, however beautiful it might appear at
first sight, it must be accurately examined to know its perfection.
The first time I saw your lover, I was struck as with something new;
my good opinion of him increasing daily in proportion as I found
cause. With regard to yourself, it was quite otherwise; and the
sentiments you inspired were such as I mistook for those of love. The
impression you made on me, however, did not arise so much from a
difference of sex, as from a characteristical perfection of which the
heart cannot be insensible, though love were out of the question. I
can see what you would be, though without your friend; but I cannot
pretend to say what he would prove without you. Many men may resemble
him, but there is but one Eloisa in the world. After doing you an
injury, which I shall never forgive myself, your letter soon convinced
me of the nature of my sentiments concerning you. I found I was not
jealous, and consequently not in love. I saw that you were too amiable
for me; that you deserved the first fruits of the heart, and that mine
was unworthy of you.
From that moment, I took an interest in your mutual happiness, which
will never abate; and, imagining it in my power to remove every
obstacle to your bliss, I made an indiscreet application to your
father; the bad success of which is one motive to animate my zeal in
your favour. Indulge me so far as to hear me, and perhaps I may yet
repair the mischief I have occasioned. Examine your heart, Eloisa, and
see if it be possible for you to extinguish the flame with which it
burns. There was a time, perhaps, when you could have stopt its
progress; but, if Eloisa fell from a state of innocence, how will she
resist after her fall? How will she be able to withstand the power of
love triumphing over her weakness, and armed with the dangerous
weapons of her past pleasures. Let not your heart impose on itself;
but renounce the fallacious presumption that seduces you: you are
undone, if you are still to combat with love: you will be debased and
vanquished, while a sense of your debasement will by degrees stifle
all your virtues. Love has insinuated itself too far into your mind,
for you ever to drive it thence. It has eaten its way, has penetrated
into its inmost recesses, like a corrosive menstruum, whose
impressions you will never be able to efface, without destroying at
the same time all that virtuous sensibility you received from the
hands of nature: root out love from your mind, and you will have
nothing left in it truly estimable. Incapable of changing the
condition of your heart, what then remains for you to do? Nothing sure
but to render your union legitimate. To this end, I will propose to
you the only method that now offers. Make use of it, while it is yet
time, and add to innocence and virtue, the exercise of that good sense
with which heaven has endowed you.
I have a pretty considerable estate in Yorkshire, which has been long
in our family, and was the seat of my ancestors. The mansion-house is
old, but in good condition and convenient; the country about is
solitary, but pleasant, and variegated. The river Ouse, which runs
through the park, presents at once a charming prospect to the view,
and affords a commodious transport for all kinds of necessaries. The
income of the estate is sufficient for the reputable maintenance of
the master, and might be doubled in its value, if under his immediate
inspection. Hateful prepossession and blind prejudices harbour not in
that delightful country; the peaceful inhabitant of which preserves
the ancient manners, whose simplicity presents to you a picture of the
Valois, such as it is described by the affecting touches of your
lover’s pen. This estate, Eloisa, is yours, if you will deign to
accept it, and reside there with your friend. There may you see
accomplished all those tender wishes with which he concludes the
letter I have just hinted at.
Come, amiable and faithful pair! The choicest pattern of true lovers!
come, and take possession of a spot, destined for the asylum of love
and innocence. Come, and, in the face of God and man, confirm the
gentle ties by which you are united. Come, and let your example do
honour to a country where your virtues will be revered, and where the
people, bred up in innocence and simplicity, will be proud to imitate
them. May you enjoy in that peaceful retirement, and with the same
sentiments that united you, the happiness of souls truly refined! May
your chaste embraces be crowned with offspring resembling yourselves!
may you see your days lengthened to an honourable old age, and
peacefully end them in the arms of your children and may our
posterity, in relating the story of your union, affectingly repeat,
_Here was the asylum of innocence, this was the refuge of the two
lovers._
Your destiny, Eloisa, is in your own power. Weigh maturely the
proposal I make to you, and examine only the main point; for, as to
the rest, I shall take upon myself to settle every thing with your
friend, and make firm and irrevocable the engagement into which I am
willing to enter. I shall take charge also for the security of your
departure, and the care of your person, till your arrival. There you
may be immediately married without difficulty: for with us a girl that
is marriageable has no need of any one’s consent to dispose of herself
as she pleases. Our laws contradict not those of nature; and although
there sometimes result from their agreement some slight
inconveniencies, they are nothing compared to those it prevents. I
have left at Vevey my Valet-de-chambre, a man of probity and courage,
as well as discreet, and of approved fidelity. You may easily concert
matters with him, either by word of mouth, or by letter, with the
assistance of Regianino, without the latter’s knowing any thing of the
affair. When every thing is ready, we will set out to meet you, and
you shall not quit your father’s house but under the conduct and
protection of your husband.
I now leave you to think of my proposal: but give me leave to say
again, beware of the consequences of prejudice, and those false
scruples, which too often, under the pretext of honour, conduct us to
vice. I foresee what will happen to you if you reject my offers. The
tyranny of an obstinate father will plunge you into an abyss, you will
not be aware of till after your fall. Your gentleness of disposition
degenerates sometimes into timidity: you will fall a sacrifice to the
chimerical distinction of rank; [15] you will be forced into an
engagement which your heart will abhor. The world may approve your
conduct, but your heart will daily give the lie to public opinion; you
will be honoured and yet contemptible in your own opinion. How much
better is it to pass your life in obscurity and virtue?
P. S. Being in doubt concerning your resolution, I write to you,
unknown to your friend; lest a refusal on your part should ruin at
once the expectations I have formed of the good effects my care and
advice may have upon his mind.
Letter LXIX. Eloisa to Clara.
Oh, my dear! in what trouble did you leave me last night! and what a
night did I pass in reflecting on the contents of that fatal letter!
No, never did so powerful a temptation assail my heart; never did I
experience the like agitation of mind; nor was ever more at a loss to
compose it. Hitherto reason has darted some ray of light to direct my
steps; on every embarrassing occasion I have been able to discern the
most virtuous part, and immediately to embrace it. But now, debased
and overcome, my resolution does nothing but fluctuate between
contending passions: my weak heart has now no other choice than its
foibles; and so deplorable is my blindness that, if I even chose for
the best, my choice is not directed by virtue, and therefore I feel no
less remorse than if I had done ill. You know who my father designs
for my husband: you know, also, to whom the indissoluble bond of love
has united me: would I be virtuous, filial obedience and plighted vows
impose on me contradictory obligations. Shall I follow the
inclinations of my heart?----Shall I pay a greater regard to a lover
than to a parent? In listening to the voice of either love or nature,
I cannot avoid driving the one or the other to despair. In sacrificing
myself to my duty, I must either way be guilty of a crime, and which
ever party I take, I must die criminal, and unhappy.
Ah, my dear friend! you, who have been my constant and only resource,
who have saved me so often from death and despair, O, think of my
present horrible state of mind; for never were your kind offices of
consolation more necessary. You know I have listened to your advice,
that I have followed your counsel: you have seen how far, at the
expense of my happiness, I have paid a deference to the voice of
friendship. Take pity on me, then, in the trouble you have brought
upon me. As you have begun, continue to assist me; sustain my drooping
spirits, and think for her who can no longer think for herself, but
through you. You can read this heart that loves you, you know it
better than I; learn then my difficulties, and chuse in my stead,
since I have no longer the power to will, nor the reason to chuse for
myself.
Read over the letter of that generous Englishman; read it, my dear,
again, and again. Are you not affected by the charming picture he has
drawn of that happiness which love, peace, and virtue have yet in
store for your friend? How ravishing that union of souls! What
inexpressible delight it affords, even in the midst of remorse.
Heavens! how would my heart rejoice in conjugal felicity? And is
innocence and happiness yet in my power? May I hope to expire with
love and joy, in the embraces of a beloved husband amidst the dear
pledges of his tenderness! Shall I hesitate then a moment, and not fly
to repair my faults in the arms of him who seduced me to commit them?
Why do I delay to become a virtuous and chaste mother of an endearing
family?----Oh that my parents could but see me thus raised out of my
degeneracy! That they might but see how well I would acquit myself, in
my turn, of those sacred duties they have discharged towards me!----
And yours! ungrateful, unnatural daughter, (might they not say) who
shall discharge yours to them, when you are so ready to forget them?
Is it, by plunging a dagger into the heart of your own mother, that
you prepare to become a mother yourself? Can she, who dishonours her
own family, teach her children to respect theirs? Go, unworthy object
of the blind fondness of your doting parents! Abandon them to their
grief for having ever given you birth; load their old age with infamy,
and bring their grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.----Go, and
enjoy, if thou canst, a happiness purchased at such a price.
Good God! what horrors surround me! shall I fly by stealth from my
native country, dishonour my family, abandon at once father, mother,
friends, relations, and even you, my dear Clara; you my gentle friend,
so well beloved of my heart; you, who from our earliest infancy have
hardly ever been absent from me a day; shall I leave you, lose you,
never see you more?----Ah! no. May never----How wretched, how
cruelly afflicted is your unhappy friend! She sees before her variety
of evils; and nothing remains to yield her consolation. But my mind
wanders----so many conflicts surpass my strength and perplex my
reason: I lose at once my fortitude and understanding. I have no hope
but in you alone. Advise me; chuse for me; or leave me to perish in
perplexity and despair.
Letter LXX. Answer to the Preceding.
There is too just cause, my dear Eloisa, for your perplexity: I
foresaw, but could not prevent it: I feel, but cannot remove it: nay,
what is still worse in your unhappy situation, there is no one that
can extricate you but yourself. Were prudence only required,
friendship might possibly relieve your agitated mind; were it only
necessary to chuse the good from the evil, mistaken passion might be
over-ruled by disinterested advice. But in your case, whatever side
you take, nature both authorizes and condemns you; reason, at the same
time, commends and blames you; duty is silent or contradicts itself;
the consequences are equally to be dreaded on one part or the other:
in the mean while you can neither safely chuse nor remain
undetermined; you have only evils to take your choice of, and your
heart is the only proper judge which of them it can best support. I
own, the importance of the deliberation frightens, and extremely
afflicts me. Whatever destiny you prefer, it will be still unworthy of
you; and, as I can neither point out your duty, nor conduct you in the
road to happiness, I have not the courage to decide for you. This is
the first refusal you ever met with from your friend; and I feel, by
the pain it costs me, that it will be the last: but I should betray
your confidence should I take upon me to direct you in an affair,
about which prudence itself is silent; and in which your best and only
guide is your own inclination.
Blame me not wrongfully, Eloisa, nor condemn me too soon. I know there
are friends so circumspect that, not to expose themselves to
consequences, they refuse to give their advice on difficult occasions,
and by that reserve increase but the danger of those they should
serve. Think me not one of those; you will see presently if this
heart, sincerely yours, is capable of such timid precautions: permit
me therefore, instead of advising you in your affairs, to mention a
little of my own.
Have you never observed, my dear, how much every one who knows you is
attached to your person?----That a father or mother should be fond of
an only daughter, is not at all surprizing; that an amorous youth
should be inflamed by a lovely object is also as little extraordinary;
but that, at an age of sedateness and maturity, a man of so cold a
disposition as Mr. Wolmar should be so taken with you at first sight;
that a whole family should be unanimous to idolize you; that you
should be as much the darling of a man so little affectionate as my
father, and perhaps more so than any of his own children; that
friends, acquaintance, domestics, neighbours, that the inhabitants of
a whole town, should unanimously join in admiring and respecting you;
this, my dear, is a concurrence of circumstances more extraordinary;
and which could not have happened, did you not possess something
peculiarly engaging. Do you know, Eloisa, what this something is? It
is neither your beauty, your wit, your affability, nor any thing that
is understood by the talent of pleasing: but it is that tenderness of
heart, that sweetness of disposition, that has no equal; it is the
talent of loving others, my dear, that makes you so universally
beloved. Every other charm may be withstood, but benevolence is
irresistible; and there is no method so sure to obtain the love of
others as that of having an affection for them. There are a thousand
women more beautiful; many are as agreeable; but you alone possess,
with all that is agreeable, that seducing charm, which not only
pleases, but affects, and ravishes every heart. It is easily perceived
that yours requests only to be accepted, and the delightful sympathy
it pants after flies to reward it in turn.
You see, for instance, with surprize, the incredible affection Lord
B---- has for your friend; you see his zeal for your happiness; you
receive with admiration his generous offers; you attribute them to his
virtue only. My dear cousin, you are mistaken. God forbid I should
extenuate his Lordship’s beneficence, or undervalue his greatness of
soul. But, believe me, his zeal, disinterested as it is, would be less
fervent if under the same circumstances he had to do with different
people. It is the irresistible ascendant you and your friend have over
him that, without his perceiving it, determines his resolution, and
makes him do that out of affection, which he imagines proceeds only
from motives of generosity. This is what always will be effected by
minds of a certain temper. They transform, in a manner, every other
into their own likeness; having a sphere of activity wherein nothing
can resist their power. It is impossible to know without imitating
them, while from their own sublime elevation they attract all that are
about them. It is for this reason, my dear, that neither you nor your
friend will perhaps ever know mankind; for you will rather see them
such as you model them, than such as they are in themselves. You will
lead the way for all those among whom you live; others will either
imitate or leave you; and perhaps you will meet with nothing in the
world similar to what you have hitherto seen.
Let us come now to myself; to me whom the tie of consanguinity, a
similarity of age, and, above all, a perfect conformity of taste, and
humour, with a very opposite temperament, have united to you from your
infancy.
_Congiunti eran gl’ alberghi,
Ma più congiunti i cori:
Conforme era l’ etate,
Ma l’ pensier più conforme._
What think you has been the effect of that captivating influence,
which is felt by every one that approaches you, on her who has been
intimate with you from her childhood? Can you think there subsists
between us, but an ordinary connection? Do not my eyes communicate
their sparkling joy in meeting yours? Do you not perceive in my heart
the pleasure of partaking your pains, and lamenting with you? Can I
forget that, in the first transports of a growing passion, my
friendship was never disagreeable; and that the complaints of your
lover could never prevail on you to send me from you, or prevent me
from being a witness to your weakness? This, my Eloisa, was a critical
juncture. I am sensible how great a sacrifice you made to modesty, in
making me acquainted with an error I happily escaped. Never should I
have been your confident had I been but half your friend: no, our
souls felt themselves too intimately united for any thing ever to part
them.
What is it that makes the friendships of women, I mean of those who
are capable of love, so lukewarm and short lived? It is the interests
of love; it is the empire of beauty; it is the jealousy of conquest.
Now, if anything of that kind could have divided us, we should have
been already divided. But, were my heart less insensible to love, were
I even ignorant that your affections are so deeply rooted as to end
but with life; your lover is my friend, my brother; whoever knew the
ties of a sincere friendship broken by those of love? As for Mr.
Orbe, he may be long enough proud of your good opinion, before it will
give me the least uneasiness; nor have I any stronger inclination to
keep him by violence, than you have to take him from me. Would to
heaven I could cure you of your passion at the expense of his! Though
I keep him with pleasure, I should with greater pleasure resign him.
With regard to my person, I may make what pretensions I please to
beauty; you will not set yourself in competition with me; for I am
sure it will never enter into your head to desire to know which of us
is the handsomest. I must confess, I have not been altogether so
indifferent on this head; but know how to give place to your
superiority, without the least mortification. Methinks I am rather
proud than jealous of it; for as the charms of your features are such
as would not become mine, I think myself handsome in your beauty,
amiable in your graces, and adorned with your talents; thus I pride
myself in your perfections, and admire myself the most in you. I shall
never chuse, however, to give pain on my own account being
sufficiently handsome in myself, for any use I have for beauty. Any
thing more is needless; and it requires not much humility to yield the
superiority to you.
You are doubtless impatient to know, to what purpose is all this
preamble. It is to this. I cannot give you the advice you request, I
have given you my reasons for it, but, notwithstanding this, the
choice you shall make for yourself will at the same time be that of
your friend; for, whatever be your fortune, I am resolved to accompany
you and partake of it. If you go, I follow you. If you say, so do I. I
have formed a determined and unalterable resolution. It is my duty,
nor shall any thing prevent me. My fatal indulgence to your passion
has been your ruin: your destiny ought therefore to be mine; and, as
we have been inseparable from our cradles, we ought to be so to the
grave.----I foresee you will think this an absurd project; it is,
however, at bottom, a more discreet one, perhaps, than you may
imagine: I have not the same motives for doubt and irresolution as you
have. In the first place, as to my family; if I leave an easy father,
I leave an indifferent one, who permits his children to do just as
they please, more through neglect than indulgence: for you know he
interests himself much more in the affairs of Europe than in his own,
and that his daughter is much less the object of his concern than the
Pragmatic Sanction. I am besides not like you, an only child, and
shall be hardly missed from among those that remain.
It is true, I leave a treaty of marriage just on the point of being
brought to a conclusion. _Manco-male,_ my dear, it is the affair of
Mr. Orbe, if he loves me, to console himself for the disappointment.
For my part, although I esteem his character, I am not without
affection for his person, and regret in his loss a very honest man, he
is nothing to me in comparison to Eloisa. Tell me, is the soul of any
sex? I really cannot perceive in mine. I may have my fancies, but very
little of love. A husband might be useful to me; but he would never be
any thing to me but a husband; and that a girl who is not ugly, may
find every where. But take care, my dear cousin, although I do not
hesitate, I do not say that you ought not; nor would I insinuate that
you should resolve to do what I am resolved to imitate. There is a
wide difference between you and me; and your duty is much severer than
mine. You know that an unparalleled affection for you possesses my
heart, and almost stifles every other sentiment. From my infancy I
have been attached to you by an habitual and irresistible impulse; so
that I perfectly love no one else; and if I have some few ties of
nature and gratitude to break through, I shall be encouraged to do it
by your example. I shall say to myself, I have but imitated Eloisa,
and shall think myself justified.
Billet. Eloisa to Clara.
I understand you, my dear Clara, and thank you. For once, at least, I
will do my duty; and shall not be totally unworthy of your friendship.
Letter LXXI. Eloisa to Lord B----.
Your lordship’s last letter has affected me in the highest degree with
admiration and gratitude; nor will my friend, who is honoured with
your protection, be less so, when he knows the obligations you would
have conferred on us. The unhappy, alas! only know the value of
benevolent minds. We had before but too many reasons to acknowledge
that of yours, whose heroic virtue will never be forgotten, tho’ after
this it cannot again surprize us.
How fortunate should I think myself to live under the auspices of so
generous a friend, and to reap from your benevolence that happiness
which fortune has denied me. But I see, my Lord, I see, with despair,
your good designs will be frustrated; my cruel destiny will counteract
your friendship; and the delightful prospect of the blessings you
offer to my acceptance, serves only to render their loss more
sensible. You offer a secure and agreeable retreat to two persecuted
lovers; you would render their passion legitimate, their union sacred;
and I know that, under your protection, I could easily elude the
pursuits of my irritated relations. This would compleat our love, but
would it insure our felicity? Ah! no: if you would have Eloisa
contented and happy, give her an asylum yet more secure, an asylum
from shame and repentance. You anticipate our wants; and by an
unparalleled generosity, deprive yourself of your own fortune to
bestow it on us. More wealthy, more honoured by your benevolence than
my own patrimony, I may recover every thing I have lost, and you will
condescend to supply the place of a father. Ah, my Lord, shall I be
worthy of another father when I abandon him whom nature gave me?
This is the source of the reproaches my wounded conscience makes me,
and of those secret pangs that rend my heart.
I do not inquire whether I have a right to dispose of myself contrary
to the will of those who gave me birth; but whether I can do it
without involving them in a mortal affliction; whether I can abandon
them without bringing them to despair; whether alas! I have a right to
take away their life who gave me mine? How long has the virtuous mind
taken upon itself thus to balance the rights of consanguinity and laws
of nature? Since when has the feeling heart presumed thus nicely to
distinguish the bounds of filial gratitude? Is it not a crime to
proceed in questioning our duty to its very utmost limits? Will any
one so scrupulously enquire into its extent, unless they are tempted
to go beyond it? Shall I cruelly abandon those by whom I live and
breathe, those who so tenderly preserve the life and being they gave
me; those who have no hope, no pleasure, but in me? A father near
sixty years of age! A mother weak and languishing? I their only child!
Shall I leave them without help in the solitude and troubles of old
age; at a time when I should exercise towards them that tender
solicitude they have lavished on me? Shall I involve their latter days
in shame and sorrow? Will not my troubled conscience incessantly
upbraid me, and represent my despairing parents breathing out their
last in curses on the ungrateful daughter that forsook and dishonoured
them? No, my Lord, virtue, whose paths I have forsaken, may in turn
abandon me, and no longer actuate my heart, but this horrible idea
will supply its dictates; will follow, will torment me, every hour of
my life, and make me miserable, in the midst of happiness. In a word,
if I am doomed to be unhappy the rest of my days, I will run the
risque of every other remorse; but this is too horrible for me to
support. I confess, I cannot invalidate your arguments. I have but too
great an inclination to think them just: but my Lord, you are
unmarried, don’t you think a man ought to be a father himself to
advise the children of others? As to me, I am determined what to do:
my parents will make me unhappy, I know they will: but it will be less
hard for me to support my own misery than the thought of having been
the cause of theirs; for which reason I will never forsake my father’s
house. Be gone then, ye sweet and flattering illusions! Ideas of so
desirable a felicity! Go, vanish like a dream; for such I will ever
think ye. And you, too generous friend, lay aside your agreeable
designs, and let their remembrance only remain in the bottom of a
heart, too grateful ever to forget them. If our misfortunes, however,
are not too great to discourage your noble mind; if your generosity is
not totally exhausted, there is yet a way to exercise it with
reputation, and he whom you honour under the name of friend may under
your care be deserving of it. Judge not of him by the situation in
which you now see him; his extravagance is not the effect of
pusillanimity, but of an ambitious and susceptible disposition, making
head against adversity. There is often more insensibility than
fortitude in apparent moderation: common men know nothing of violent
sorrow, nor do great passions ever break out in weak minds. He
possesses all that energy of sentiment which is the characteristic of
a noble soul; and which is alas! the cause of my present despair. Your
Lordship may indeed believe me, had he been only a _common_ person,
Eloisa, had not been undone.
No, my Lord, that secret prepossession in his favour, which was
followed by your manifest esteem, did not deceive you. He is worthy of
all you did for him before you were acquainted with his merit; and you
will do more for him, if possible, as you know him better. Yes, be
your Lordship his comforter, his patron, his friend, his father; it is
both for your own sake and his I conjure you to this; he will justify
your confidence, he will honour your benefactions, he will practise
your precepts, he will imitate your virtues, and will learn your
wisdom. Ah! my Lord! if he should become, in your hands, what he is
capable of being, you will have reason to be proud of your charge.----
Letter LXXII. From Eloisa.
And do you too, my dear friend! my only hope! do you come to wound
afresh my heart, oppressed already with a load of sorrow! I was
prepared to bear the shocks of adversity; long has my foreboding heart
announced their coming; and I should have supported them with
patience: but you, for whom I suffer! insupportable! I am struck with
horror to see my sorrows aggravated by one who ought to alleviate
them. What tender consolations did not I promise myself to receive
from you? But all are vanished with your fortitude! How often have I
not flattered myself that your magnanimity would strengthen my
weakness; that your deserts would efface my error; and your elevated
virtues raise up my debased mind! How many times have I not dried up
my tears, saying to myself, I suffer for him, it is true, but he is
worthy; I am culpable, but he is virtuous; I have a thousand troubles,
but his constancy supports me; in his love I find a recompense for all
my cares. Vain imagination! on the first trial thou hast deceived me!
Where is now that sublime passion which could elevate your sentiments,
and display your virtues? What is become of these high-boasted maxims?
Your imitation of great examples? Where is that philosopher whom
adversity could not shake, yet falls before the first accident that
parts him from his mistress? How shall I hereafter excuse my ill
conduct to myself, when in him that reduced me, I see a man without
courage, effeminate, one whose weak mind sinks under the first reverse
of fortune, and absurdly renounces his reason the moment he has
occasion to make use of it? Good God! that in my present state of
humiliation I should be reduced to blush for my choice, as much as for
my weakness.
Reflect a little----think how far you forget yourself; can your
wandering and impatient mind stoop so low as to be guilty of cruelty?
Do you presume to reproach me? Do you complain of me?----complain of
Eloisa? Barbarous man!----How comes it that remorse did not hold your
hand? Why did not the most endearing proofs of the tenderest passion
that ever existed, deprive you of the power to insult me? How
despicable must be your heart, if it can doubt of the fidelity of
mine!----But no, you do not, you cannot doubt it, I defy your utmost
impatience to do this; nay even at this instant, while I express my
abhorrence of your injustice, you must see, too plainly, the cause of
the first emotion of anger I ever felt in my life.
Was it you that asked me whether I had not ruined myself by my
inconsiderate confidence, and if my designs had not succeeded? How
would you not blush for such cruel insinuations, if you knew the fond
hopes that reduced me, if you knew the projects I had formed for our
mutual happiness, and how they are now vanished with all my comforts.
I dare flatter myself still, you will one day know better, and your
remorse amply revenge your reproaches. You know my father’s
prohibition; you are not ignorant of the public talk; I foresaw the
consequences, I had them represented to you by my cousin: you were as
sensible of them as we, and for our mutual preservation it was
necessary to submit to a separation.
I therefore drove you away, as you injuriously term it. But for whose
sake was I induced to this? Have you no delicacy? Ungrateful man! It
was for the sake of an heart insensible of its own worth, and that
would rather die a thousand deaths than see me rendered infamous. Tell
me, what would become of you if I were given up to shame? Do you think
you could support my dishonour? Come, cruel as you are, if you think
so; come, and receive the sacrifice of my reputation with the same
fortitude as I will offer it up. Come back, nor fear to be disclaimed
by her to whom you were always dear. I am ready to declare, in the
face of heaven and earth, the engagements of our mutual passion; I am
ready boldly to declare you my lover, and to expire in your arms with
affection and shame. I had rather the whole world should know my
tenderness than that you should one moment doubt it: the shafts of
ignominy wound not so deep as your reproaches.
I conjure you, let us for ever put an end to these reciprocal
complaints; they are to me intolerable. Good heavens! how can those
who love each other, delight in quarreling; and lose, in tormenting
each other, those moments in which they stand in need of mutual
consolation? No, my friend, what end does it serve to effect a
disagreement, which does not subsist? Let us complain of fortune, but
not of love. Never did it form a more perfect, a more lasting, union;
our souls are too intimately blended ever to be separated; nor can we
live a-part from each other, but as two parts of one being. How is it
then, that you only feel your own griefs? Why do you not sympathize
with those of your friend? Why do you not perceive in your breast the
heart-felt sighs of hers? Alas! they are more affecting than your
impassioned ravings! If you partook of my sufferings, you would even
more severely feel them than your own.
You say your situation is deplorable! Think of Eloisa’s, and lament
only for her. Consider, in our common misfortune, the different state
of your sex and mine, and judge which is most deplorable. Affected by
violent passions, to pretend to be insensible; a prey to a thousand
griefs, to be obliged to appear chearful and content; to have a serene
countenance with an agitated mind; to speak always contrary to one’s
thoughts; to disguise all we feel; to be deceitful through obligation,
and to speak untruth through modesty; such is the habitual situation
of every young woman of my age. Thus we pass the prime of our youth
under the tyranny of decorum, which is at length aggravated by that of
our parents, in forcing us into an unsuitable marriage. In vain,
however, would men lay a restraint on the inclinations; the heart
gives law to itself; it eludes the shackles of slavery, and bestows
itself at its own pleasure.
Clogged with a yoke of iron, which heaven does not impose on us, they
unite the body without the soul; the person and the inclinations are
separately engaged, and an unhappy victim is forced into guilt, by
obliging her to enter into a sacred engagement, which she wants, in
one respect or other, an essential power to fulfill. Are there not
some young women more discreet? Alas! I know there are. There are
those that have never loved? Peace be with them! They have withstood
that fatal passion! I would also have resisted it. They are more
virtuous! Do they love virtue better than I? Had it not been for you,
for you alone, I had ever loved it. Is it then true that I love virtue
no longer?----Is it you that have ruined me, and is it I who must
console you? But what will become of me? The consolation of friendship
is weak where that of love is wanting! Who then can give me comfort in
my affliction? With what a dreadful situation am I threatened? I who,
for having committed a crime, see myself ready to be plunged into a
new scene of guilt, by entering into an abhorred, and perhaps
inevitable, marriage! Where shall I find tears sufficient to mourn my
guilt and lament my lover, if I yield? On the other hand, how shall I
find resolution, in my present depression of mind, to resist?
Methinks, I see already the fury of an incensed father! I feel myself
already moved by the cries of nature, I feel my heart-strings torn by
the pangs of love. Deprived of thee, I am without resource, without
support, without hope; the past is disgraceful, the present
afflicting, and the future terrible. I thought I had done every thing
for our happiness, but we are only made more miserable, by preparing
the way for a more cruel separation. Our fleeting pleasure is past,
while the remorse it occasioned remains, and the shame which
overwhelms me is without alleviation.
It belongs to me, to me alone, to be weak and miserable. Let me then
weep and suffer; my tears are as inexhaustible as my fault is
irreparable, while time, that sovereign cure for almost every thing,
brings to me only new motives for tears: but you, who have no violence
to fear, who are unmortified by shame, whom nothing constrains to
disguise your sentiments; you, who have only just tasted misfortune
and possess at least your former virtues unblemished; how dare you
demean yourself so far as to sigh and sob like a woman, or betray your
impatience like a madman? Have not I merited contempt enough on your
account, without your increasing it, by making yourself contemptible;
without overwhelming me at once with my own infamy and yours? Recall
then your resolution; learn to bear your misfortunes, and be like a
man: be yet, if I dare to say so, the lover of Eloisa. If I am no
longer worthy to animate your courage, remember at least, what I once
was. Deserve then, what for your sake, I have ceased to be; and though
you have dishonoured me once, do not dishonour me again. No, my best
friend, it is not you that I discover in that effeminate letter, which
I would forget for ever, and which I look upon already as disowned by
you. I hope, debased and confused as I am, I dare hope, the
remembrance of me does not inspire sentiments so base; but that I am
more respected by a heart it was in my power to inflame, and that I
shall not have additional cause to reproach myself in your weakness.
Happy in your misfortune, you have met with the most valuable
recompense that was ever known to a susceptible mind. Heaven, in your
adversity, has given you a friend; and has made it doubtful whether
what it has bestowed is not a greater blessing than that which it has
deprived you of. Love and respect that too generous man; who, at the
expense of his own ease, condescends to interest himself in your peace
and preservation. How would you be affected, if you knew every thing
he would have done for you! But what signifies exciting your gratitude
to aggravate your affliction? You have no need to be informed how much
he loves you, to know his worth; and you cannot respect him as he
deserves without loving him as you ought.
Letter LXXIII. From Clara.
Your passion prevails over your delicacy, and you know better how to
suffer than to make a merit of your sufferings. You would otherwise
never have written in a strain of reproach to Eloisa, in her present
situation. Because you are uneasy, truly, you must aggravate her
uneasiness, which is greater than yours. I have told you a thousand
times that I never saw so grumbling a lover as you; always ready to
dispute about nothing; love is to you a state of warfare: or, if
sometimes you are a little tractable, it is only that you may have an
opportunity to complain of having been so. How disagreeable must be
such lovers, and how happy do I think myself in never having had any
but such as I could dismiss when I pleased, without a tear being shed
on either side!
You must change your tone, believe me, if you would have Eloisa
survive her present distress: it is too much for her to support her
own grief and your displeasure. Learn for once to sooth her too
susceptible heart: you owe her the most tender consolation; and ought
to be afraid lest you should aggravate your misfortune, by lamenting
it. At least, if you must complain, vent your complaints against me;
who am the only cause of your separation. Yes, my friend, you guessed
right: I suggested to her the part her honour and security required
her to take; or rather I obliged her to take it, by exaggerating her
danger: I prevailed also on you to depart, and we all have but done
our duty. I did more, however, than this. I prevented her from
accepting the offers of Lord B----; I have prevented your being happy;
but the happiness of Eloisa is dearer to me than yours; I knew she
could not be happy after leaving her parents to shame and despair; and
I can hardly comprehend, with regard to yourself, what kind of
happiness you can taste at the expense of hers. Be that what it will,
such has been my conduct and offence; and since you delight in
quarrelling with those you love, you see the occasion you have to
begin with me alone: if in this you do not cease to be ungrateful, you
will at least cease to be unjust. For my part, in whatever manner you
behave to me, I shall always behave the same towards you: so long as
Eloisa loves you, you will be dear to me, and more I cannot say. I am
not sorry that I never opposed or favoured your passion. The
disinterested friendship which always actuated me in that affair,
justifies me equally in what I have done for and against you; and if
at any time I interested myself in your passion, more perhaps than
became me, my heart sufficiently excused me. I shall never blush for
the services I was able to do my friend, nor shall reproach myself
because they were useless. I have not forgot what you formerly taught
me, of the fortitude of the wise man under misfortunes; and fancy I
could remind you of several maxims to that purpose: but I have
learned, by the example of Eloisa, that a girl of my age is, to a
philosopher, a bad preceptor, and a dangerous pupil.
Volume II
Letter LXXIV. From Lord B---- To Eloisa.
Now, charming Eloisa, we gain our point: a lucky mistake of our friend
hath brought him to reason. The shame of finding himself a moment in
the wrong has dissipated his phrenzy, and rendered him so tractable
that we may manage him for the future as we please. It is with
pleasure I see the fault with which he reproaches himself, attended
rather with contrition than anger; and I know how highly he esteems
me, from that humility and confusion he seems to feel when I am
present; but without affection or constraint. His sensibility of the
injury he has done me disarms my resentment. When the offender thus
acknowledges his crime, he reaps more honour by such a reparation of
his fault, than the offended in bestowing him a pardon. I have taken
the advantage of this change, and the effect it has produced, to enter
into some necessary measures with him before my departure, which I now
cannot defer much longer. As I purpose to return the approaching
summer, we have agreed that he shall go to wait for me at Paris, from
whence we shall proceed together to England.
London is the most extensive theatre in the world for the display of
great talents. [16] Those of our friend are in many respects of the
first rank; and I despair not of seeing him, with some little
assistance, soon strike out something in his way to fortune, worthy of
his merit. I will be more explicit as to my intentions when I see you;
in the mean time, you will readily conceive the importance of his
success may encourage him to surmount many difficulties, and that
there are various modes of distinction which may compensate for
inferiority of birth, even in the opinion of your father. This appears
to me the only expedient that remains to be tried, in order to effect
your mutual happiness, since prejudice and fortune have deprived you
of all others.
I have written for Regianino to come post hither, and to remain with
me during the eight or ten days I shall yet stay with our friend. He
is too deeply afflicted to admit of much conversation: music will
serve to fill up the vacant hours of silence, indulge his reveries,
and sooth his grief by degrees into a peaceful melancholy. I wait only
to see him in such a temper of mind to leave him to himself; and
before that, I dare not trust him. As for Regianino, I will leave him
with you as I pass by, and shall not take him from you again till I
return from Italy; by which time, I imagine, from the progress you
have both already made, his assistance will be unnecessary. Just at
present he is certainly useless to Eloisa, and I deprive her of
nothing by detaining him here for a few days.
Letter LXXV. To Clara.
Ah, why do I live to open my eyes on my own unworthiness! O that I had
for ever closed them, rather than thus to look on the disgrace into
which I am fallen; rather than to find myself the most abject, after
having been the most fortunate of men! generous and amiable friend, to
whose care I have been so often obliged, still let me pour my
complaints into your compassionate heart; still let me implore your
assistance, sensible and ashamed as I am of my own demerits: abandoned
by myself, it is to you I fly for consolation. Heavens! how can it be
that a man so contemptible should ever be beloved by her; or that a
passion for so divine an object should not have refined my soul: let
her now blush at her choice, she whose name I am no longer worthy to
repeat. Let her sigh to see her image profan’d by dwelling in a heart
so abject and mean. What hatred and disdain doth she not owe a wretch,
that, inspired by love, could be yet servile and base! you shall know,
my charming [17] cousin, the cause of my disgrace: you shall know my
crime and penitence. Be you my judge, and let me perish by your
sentence; or be my advocate, and let the adorable object on whom
depended the past, conduct my future fortune.
I will say nothing of the effect which so unexpected a separation had
on me: I will say nothing of the excess of my grief, or the
extravagance of my despair; you will judge of them too well from the
unaccountable behaviour into which they betrayed me. The more sensible
I grew of the misery of my situation, the less I conceived it possible
for me voluntarily to give up Eloisa; and the bitterness of this
reflection, joined to the amazing generosity of Lord B----, awaked
suspicions, on which I shall never reflect without horror, and which I
can never forget without ingratitude to the friend whose generosity
could forgive them.
Revolving in my phrenzy the several circumstances attending my
departure, I imagined I discovered it to be a premeditated scheme,
which I rashly attributed to the most virtuous of mortals. That
dreadful suspicion no sooner suggested itself than every circumstance
appeared to confirm it. My lord’s conversation with the Baron
D’Etange, and his peremptory manner, which I took to be affected, the
quarrel which ensued. Eloisa’s being forbid to see me, and their
resolution to send me away, the diligence and secrecy of the
preparations made for my departure, his lordship’s discourse with me
the preceding evening; in short, the rapidity with which I was rather
forced than conducted hither: all these circumstances seemed to prove
that my lord had formed a scheme to separate me from Eloisa; and
lastly, his intended return assured me that I had discovered his
designs. I resolved, however, to get more particular information
before I broke with him; and with this design set myself to examine
the matter with attention. But every thing conspired to increase my
ridiculous suspicions; all his generous and humane actions in my
favour, were converted by my jealousy into so many instances of his
perfidy. I knew that he wrote to Eloisa from Besançon, without
communicating to me the contents of his letter, or giving me the least
hint. I thought myself therefore sufficiently assured of the truth of
what I suspected, and waited only for his receiving answer to his
letter, which, I hoped, might be disagreeable, to come to the
explanation I meditated.
Last night we returned home pretty late, and I knew he had received a
packet from Switzerland, of which however he took no notice when we
retired. I let him have time to open it, and heard him from my
apartment reading in a low voice; I listened attentively and overheard
him thus exclaim to himself, in broken sentences, Alas, Eloisa! I
strove to render you happy----honoured your virtues,----but I
grieve at your delusion.----At these and other similar exclamations,
which I distinctly heard, I was no longer master of myself; I snatched
up my sword, and taking it under my arm, forced open the door, and
rushed like a madman into his chamber; but I will not soil my paper,
nor offend your delicacy with the injurious expressions my rage
dictated, to urge him to fight me on the spot.
Here, my dear cousin, I must confess to have seen the most
extraordinary instance of the influence of true wisdom, even over the
most susceptible mind, when we listen to her dictates. At first he
could not comprehend whence arose my disorder, and took it for a real
delirium. But the perfidy of which I accused him, the secret designs
with which I reproached him, Eloisa’s letter which he held in his
hand, and which I incessantly mentioned, at length discovered the
cause of my anger. He smiled, and said to me coldly, you are certainly
out of your senses; do you think me so void of discretion as to fight
with a madman? open your eyes, inconsiderate man, he said, with a
milder tone, is it me that you accuse of betraying you? Something, I
know not what, in his voice and manner of speaking, struck me
immediately with a sense of his innocence and my own folly. His
reproof sunk into my heart, and I had no sooner met his looks than my
suspicions vanished, and I began to think with horror on the
extravagance I had committed. He perceived immediately this change of
sentiment, and taking me by the hand, ’tis well, says he, but if you
had not recollected yourself before my justification, I would never
have seen you more. As it is, and you have recovered your reason, read
that letter, and know for once your friends. I would now have been
excused from reading it, but the ascendant, which so many advantages
had given him over me, made him insist on it with an air of authority;
and, though my suspicions were vanished, I secretly wished to see it.
Think what a situation I was in, on reading a letter that informed me
of the unparalleled obligations I was under, to a man I had so
unworthily treated. I threw myself immediately at his feet, struck
with admiration, affliction and shame: I embraced his knees with the
utmost humiliation and concern, but could not utter a word. He
received my penitence in the same manner as he did the outrage I had
committed; and exacted no other recompense for the pardon he granted,
than my promise that I would never more oppose his designs to serve
me. Yes, he shall act for the future as he pleases: his sublime
generosity is more than human, and it is as impossible to refuse his
favours as it is to withstand the benevolence of the deity.
He gave afterwards two letters out of the packet, addressed to me, and
which he would not deliver before he had read his own, that he might
be made acquainted with the resolution of your cousin. In perusing
them I found what a mistress and friend heaven had bestowed on me: I
saw how it had connected me with the most perfect patterns of
generosity and virtue, to render my remorse the more keen, and
meanness contemptible. Say, who is that matchless fair, whose beauty
is her least perfection; who, like the divinity, makes herself equally
adored for the dispensation of good and evil. It is Eloisa; she has
undone me; yet cruel as she is, I love and admire her but the more.
The more unhappy she makes me, the more perfect she appears; and every
pain she gives, is a new instance of her perfection. The sacrifice she
has made to _nature_ both afflicts and charms me; it enhances even the
value of that which she made to _love_. No, my Eloisa can make no
refusal that is not of equal value to what she bestows. And you, my
charming, my truly deserving cousin, the only perfect model of
friendship your sex can boast, an instance which minds, not formed
like yours, will never believe real: tell not me of philosophy, I
despise its vain parade of idle terms; I despise that phantom of
wisdom which teaches us to brave the passions at a distance, but
flies, and leaves us a prey to them the moment they approach. Abandon
me not, Clara, to a distracted mind; withdraw not your wonted kindness
from a wretch, who, though he deserves it no longer, desires it more
ardently, and stands more in need of it, than ever. Assist me to
recover my former self, and let your gentle counsel supply the
dictates of reason to my afflicted heart.
I will yet hope I am not fallen into irretrievable disgrace. I feel
that pure and sacred flame I once cherished, rekindle within me. The
sublime examples before me shall not be given in vain. The virtues
which I love and admire I will imitate. Yes, divine Eloisa! I will yet
do honour to thy choice; and, you, my friends, whose esteem I am
determined to regain, my awakened soul shall gather new strength and
life from yours. Chaste love and sacred friendship shall restore that
constancy of mind, of which a cowardly despair had deprived me; the
pure sensations of my heart shall supply the place of wisdom: you
shall make me every thing I ought to be, and I will compel you to
forget my fall, in consideration of my endeavours to rise. I know not,
neither do I desire to know, the future lot which providence assigns
me; be it what it will, I will render myself worthy of that which I
have already enjoyed. The image of Eloisa, never to be erazed from my
mind, shall be my shield, and render my soul invulnerable. I have
lived long enough for my own happiness, I will now live to her
honour. Oh, that I could but live so supremely virtuous, that the
admiring world should say, how could he do less who was loved by
Eloisa?
P. S. From ties abhorred _and perhaps inevitable!_ what is the meaning
of those words? they are in Eloisa’s letter. Clara, I am attentive to
every, the minutest circumstance; I am resigned to fortune: but those
words,----whatever may happen, I will never leave this place till I
have an explanation of those words.
Letter LXXVI. From Eloisa.
Can it be that my soul has not excluded all delight, and that a sense
of joy yet penetrates my heart? alas! I conceived it insensible to any
thing but sorrow: I thought I should do nothing but suffer, when you
left me, and that absence had no consolations; your letter to my
cousin has undeceived me; I have read and bath’d it with tears of
compassion. It has shed a sweet refreshing dew o’er a drooping heart,
dried up with vexation and sorrow. The peaceful serenity it has caused
in my soul convinces me of the ascendant you hold, whether present or
absent, over the affections of Eloisa. Oh! my friend, how much it
delights me to see you recover that strength of mind which becomes the
resolution of a man. I esteem you for it the more, and despise myself
the less, in that the dignity of a chaste affection is not totally
debased between us, and that our hearts are not both at once
corrupted. I will say more, as we can at present speak freely of our
affairs. That which most aggravated my despair, was to see that yours
deprived us of the only resource which was left us, the exertion of
your abilities, to improve them. You now know the worth of the
friendship with which heaven has blessed you, in that of my Lord
B----, whose generosity merits the services of your whole life, nor
can you ever sufficiently atone for the offence you have committed.
I hope you will need no other warning to make you guard for the
future against your impetuous passions. It is under the protection
of this honourable friend that you are going to enter on the stage
of the world; it is under the sanction of his credit, under the
guidance of his experience, that you go to revenge the cause of
injured merit, on the cruelty of fortune.
Do that for his sake which you did not for your own. Endeavour at
least to respect his goodness, by not rendering it useless to
yourself. Behold a pleasing prospect still before you: contemplate the
success you have reason to hope for in entering the lists where every
thing conspires to ensure the victory. Heaven has been lavish to you
of its bounties; your natural genius, cultivated by taste, has endowed
you with every necessary and agreeable qualification; at least, at
four-and-twenty you possess all the charms of youth, matured by the
reflections of age.
_Frutto simile in su’l gioveriel fiore._
Study has not impaired your vivacity, nor injured your person; insipid
gallantry has not contracted your genius, nor formality your
understanding: but love inspiring those sublime sentiments which are
its genuine offspring, has given you that elevation of mind and
justness of conception from which it is inseparable. [18] I have seen
thy mind expanded by its gentle warmth, display its brilliant
faculties, as a flower that unfolds itself to the rays of the sun; you
possess at once every talent that leads to fortune, and should set you
above it: you need only aspire to be considerable, to become so; and I
hope that object for whose take you should covet distinction, will
excite in you a greater zeal for those marks of the world’s esteem,
than of themselves they may deserve.
You are going, my friend, far from me----my best beloved is going to
fly from his Eloisa.----It must be so,----it is necessary that we
should part at present, if we ever mean to be happy; on the success of
your undertakings also depends our last hope of such an event----Oh,
may the anticipation of it animate and comfort you throughout our
cruel, perhaps long separation! may it inspire you with that zeal,
which surmounts every obstacle. The world and its affairs will indeed
continually engage your attention, and relieve you from the pangs of
absence. But I, alas! remain alone, abandoned to my own thoughts, or
subject to the persecution of others, that will oblige me incessantly
to lament thy absence. Happy, however, shall I be, in some measure, if
groundless alarms do not aggravate my real afflictions, and if the
evils I actually suffer be not augmented by those to which you may be
exposed----I shudder at the thoughts of the various dangers to which
your life and your innocence will be liable. I place in you all the
confidence a man can expect; but, since it is our lot to live asunder,
O, my friend, I could wish you were something more than man. Will you
not stand in need of frequent advice to regulate your conduct in a
world, to which you are so much a stranger? It does not belong to me,
young and unexperienced, and even less qualified by reflection and
study than yourself, to advise you here. That difficult task I leave
to Lord B----. I will content myself to recommend to you two things,
as these depend more on sentiment than experience; and, tho’ I know
but little of the world, I flatter myself I am not to be instructed in
the knowledge of your heart: _Be virtuous, and remember Eloisa._
I will not make use of any of those subtle arguments you have taught
me to despise; and which, though they fill so many volumes, never yet
made one man virtuous. Peace to those gloomy reasoners! to what
ravishing delights their hearts are strangers! leave, my friend, those
idle moralists, and consult your own breast. It is there you will
always find a spark of that sacred fire, which hath so often inflamed
us with love for the sublimest virtue. It is there you will trace the
lasting image of true beauty, the contemplation of which inspires us
with a sacred enthusiasm; an image which the passions may continually
defile, but never can efface. [19] Remember those tears of pleasure,
those palpitations of heart, those transports which raised us above
ourselves at the recital of heroic examples, which have done honour to
human nature. Would you know which is most truly desirable, riches or
virtue? reflect on that which the heart prefers in its unprejudiced
moments: think on that which interests us most in the perusal of
history. Did you never covet the riches of Croesus, the honours of
Caesar, nor the pleasures of Heliogabalus? If they were happy, why did
you not wish to be placed in the same situation? But they were not,
you were sensible they were not, happy; you were sensible they were
vile and contemptible; and that bad men, however fortunate, are not
objects of envy.
What characters did you then contemplate with the greatest pleasure?
what examples did you most admire? which did you desire most to
imitate? inexpressible are the charms of ever-blooming virtue: it was
the condemn’d Athenian, drinking hemlock; it was Brutus, dying for his
country: it was Regulus, in the midst of tortures: it was Cato,
plunging his dagger in his breast. These were the unfortunate heroes,
whose virtues excited your envy, while your own sensations bore
witness of that real felicity they enjoyed, under their apparent
misfortunes. Think not this sentiment peculiar to yourself; it is the
sentiment of all mankind, and that frequently in spite of themselves.
That divine image of virtue, imprinted universally on the mind,
displays irresistible charms even to the least virtuous. No sooner
doth passion permit us to contemplate its beauty, but we wish to
resemble it; and, if the most wicked of mankind could but change his
being, he would chuse to be virtuous.
Excuse this rhapsody, my dear friend, you know it is originally
derived from you, and it is due to the passion that inspired it. I do
not take upon me to instruct you, by repeating your own maxims, but
endeavour to enforce their application to yourself. Now is the time to
put in practice your own precepts, and to shew how well you can act
what you so well know to teach. Though it is not expected you should
be put to the trials of a Cato, or a Regulus, yet every man ought to
cherish a love for his country, resolution and integrity, and to keep
his promise inviolable, even at the expense of his life. Private
virtues are often the more sublime as they less aspire to public
approbation, but have their end in the testimony of a good conscience,
which gives the virtuous a more solid satisfaction, than the loudest
applauses of the multitude. Hence you may see true greatness is
confirmed to no one station of life, and that no man can be happy who
is not the object of his own esteem; for, if the height of self-
enjoyment consists in the contemplation of the truly beautiful, how
can the vicious man admire the beauty of virtue in others, and not be
forced to despise himself. I am not apprehensive of your being
corrupted by sensual pleasures; a heart so refined as yours will be in
little danger from the gross seductions of appetite. But there are
others more dangerous and sentimental. I dread the effects of the
maxims and lessons of the world; I dread the force of vicious
examples, so constantly present, and so generally extensive: I dread
those subtle sophisms by which vice is excused and defended: I dread,
in short, lest your heart should impose upon itself, and render you
less difficult about the means of acquiring importance than you would
be, if our union were not to be the consequence. I only caution you,
my friend, against the danger; your own discretion must do the rest: a
foresight of accidental evils, however, is no small step towards their
prevention. I will add but one reflection more, which, in my opinion,
disproves the false arguments of vice, exposes the mistaken conceits
of folly, and ought alone to direct a wise man to pursue his sovereign
good. This is, that the source of true happiness is not confined to
the desired object, nor to the heart which possesses it, but consists
in a certain relation between the one and the other: that every object
of our desires will not produce the happiness sought in its
possession, nor is the heart at all times in a disposition to receive
it. If the utmost refinement of intellectual pleasure is not
sufficient alone to constitute our felicity, surely all the voluptuous
pleasures on earth cannot make the depraved man happy. There is on
both sides a necessary preparative, a certain combination of causes,
from which results that delightful sensation so earnestly sought after
by every sensible being, and for ever unexperienced by the pretended
philosopher, who coldly nips his pleasures in the bud, for want of
knowing how to conduct them to lasting felicity. What helps it, then,
to obtain one advantage at the expense of another? to gain _without_
what we lose from _within_; to procure the means of happiness, and
lose the art of employing them. Is it not better also, if we can but
enjoy one of these advantages, to sacrifice what the power of fortune
may restore, to that which once lost can never be recovered? none
should know better than I, who have imbittered all the sweets of my
life, by thinking to increase them. Let the vicious and profligate
then, who display their good fortune but keep their hearts a secret,
let them advance what they will; be assured that if there be one
instance of happiness upon earth it must be found in the breast of the
virtuous. Heaven hath bestowed on you an happy inclination for what is
virtuous and good: listen then only to your own desires, follow only
your own inclinations, and think above all on the growth of our infant
affections. So long as the remembrance of those delightful moments of
innocence shall remain, it will be impossible that you should cease to
love that which rendered them so endearing; it will be impossible the
charms of moral excellence should ever be effaced from your mind, or
that you should wish to obtain Eloisa by means unworthy of yourself.
Can anyone enjoy a pleasure for which he has lost the taste? no, to be
able to possess that which one loves, it is necessary the heart that
loved it should be still the same.
I come now to my second point: you see I have not forgot my logic; it
is possible, my friend, without love to have the sublime sentiments of
a great mind; but a love like ours supplies its flame, which being
once extinguished, the soul becomes languid; and a heart once
exhausted is good for nothing. Tell me, what should we be if we ceased
to love? is it not better to lose our existence than our sensibility?
or could you resolve to endure the life of an ordinary being, after
having tasted every delight that can ravish the heart of man? you are
going to visit populous cities, where your age and figure, rather than
your merit, will lay a thousand snares for your fidelity. Insinuating
coquetry will affect the language of tenderness, and please without
deceiving you. You will not seek love, but enjoyment; you will taste
it without love, and not know it for the same pleasure. I know not
whether you will find in another the heart of Eloisa; but of this I am
certain, you will never experience with another those ecstasies you
have tasted with her. The vacancy of your exhausted mind will forebode
the destiny I predict. Sadness and care will overwhelm you in the
midst of frivolous amusements. The remembrance of our first transports
will pursue you in spite of yourself; my image, an hundred times more
beautiful than I ever was, will overtake you. In a moment the veil of
disgust will be thrown over all your delights, and a thousand bitter
reflections rush into your mind. My best beloved, my amiable friend,
Oh, should you ever forget me----Alas! I can but die; but you, you,
shall live base and unhappy, and my death will be but too severely
revenged.
Forget not then that Eloisa, who lived for you, and whose heart can
never be another’s. I can say nothing more regarding that dependence
in which Providence hath placed me: but, after having recommended
fidelity to you, it is but just to give you the only pledge of mine
that is in my power. I have consulted, not my duty, my distracted mind
knows that no longer, but I have examined my heart, the last guide of
those who can follow no other; and behold the result of its
examination: I am determined never to be your wife without the consent
of my father, but I will never marry another without your consent; of
this I give you my word, which, whatever happens, I will keep sacred,
nor is there a power on earth can make me break my promise. Be not,
therefore, disquieted at what may befall me in your absence. Go, my
dear friend, pursue, under the auspices of the most tender love, a
destiny worthy to crown your merit: mine is in your hands, as much as
it is in my power to commit it, and never shall it be altered but with
your consent.
Letter LXXVII. To Eloisa.
_O qual fiamma di gloria d’onore,
Scorrer sento per tutte le sene,
Alma grande parlando conto!_
O Eloisa, let me breathe a moment,----you make me shudder, my blood
boils, my heart pants; your letter glows with that sacred love of
virtue that fires your breast, and communicates its celestial flame to
the inmost recesses of mine. But why so many exhortations, where you
should have laid on me your commands? do you think I can so far forget
myself as to want arguments to excite me to act justly? at least, can
I want to have them urged by you, whose injunctions alone I should fly
to obey. Can you be ignorant that I ever will be what you please to
have me? and that I could even act unjustly before I could disobey
you? yes, I could set another capitol in flames if you enjoined me,
for nothing can be so dear to me as you are. But, do you know, my
incomparable Eloisa, why you are thus dear? it is because you can
desire nothing but what is virtuous, and that my admiration of your
virtues exceeds even the love inspired by your charms. I go,
encouraged by the engagement into which you have entered, the latter
part of which, however, you might have omitted; for to promise not to
be another’s without my consent, is it not to promise to be none but
mine? for my own part, I speak more freely, and pledge with you the
faith of a man of honour, ever to remain sacred and inviolable: I am
ignorant to what destiny fortune will lead me in the career I am
going, for your satisfaction, to enter upon; but never shall the ties
of love or marriage unite me to any other than Eloisa D’Etange. I
live, I exist, but for her, and shall either die married to her, or
not married at all. Adieu! I am pressed for time, and am going to
depart this instant.
Letter LXXVIII. To Eloisa.
I arrived last night at Paris, and he, who once could not live two
streets length removed from you, is now at the distance of more than
an hundred leagues. Pity, Eloisa, pity your unhappy friend: had the
blood gushing from my veins, dy’d with its streams, my long, long
route, my spirits could not have failed me more; I could not have
found myself more languid than at present. O that I knew as well when
we shall meet again, as I know the distance that divides us! the
progress of time should then compensate for the length of space. I
would count every day, every hour of my life, my steps, towards
Eloisa. But that dismal career is hid in the gloom of futurity; its
bounds are concealed from my feeble sight. How painful, how terrible
is suspense! my restless heart is ever seeking, but finds you not. The
sun rises, but gives me no hopes of seeing you; it sets without
granting me that blessing. My days are void of pleasure, and pass away
as one long continued night. In vain I endeavour to rekindle my
extinguished hopes, they offer me nothing but uncertainty and
groundless consolations. Alas, my gentle friend! what evils have I not
to expect if they are to be a counterpoise to my past happiness!
But, I conjure you, let not my complaints alarm you; they are only the
cursory effects of solitude, and the disagreeable reflections of my
journey. Fear not the return of my former weakness; my heart is in
your hands, Eloisa, and while you are its support it cannot debase
itself. One of the comfortable fruits of your last letter is, that
since I find myself sustained by a double share of spirits; and though
love should annihilate what is properly mine, I should still be a
gainer; the resolution with which you have inspired me being able to
support me better than I could otherwise have supported myself. I am
convinced it is not good for man to be alone. Human minds must be
united to exert their greatest strength, and the united force of
friendly souls, like that of the collateral bars of an artificial
magnet, is incomparably greater than the sum of their separate forces.
This is thy triumph, celestial friendship! but what is even friendship
itself, compared to that perfect union of souls, which connects the
most perfect, the most harmonious amity, with ties an hundred times
more sacred? where are the men whose ideas, gross as their appetites,
represent the passion of love only as a fever in the blood, the effect
of brutal instinct? let them come to me, let them observe, let them
feel, what passes in my breast; let them view an unhappy lover
separated from his beloved object, doubtful whether ever he shall see
her more, and hopeless of retrieving his lost happiness; animated,
however, by the never dying flame, which, kindled by your beauties,
has been nourished by your mental charms, they will see him ready to
brave the rigours of adversity; to be deprived even of your lovely
self, and to cherish all those virtues that you have inspired, and
which embellish that adorable image that shall never be erazed from my
soul. O, my Eloisa, what should I be without you? informed indeed by
dispassionate reason, a cold admirer of virtue, I might have respected
it in any one. I shall now do more, I shall now be enabled to put it
zealously in practice, and, penetrated by your example, shall excite
those who have known us to exclaim:----“what happy creatures should
we be, if all the women in the world were Eloisa’s, and all the men
had hearts susceptible of their charms!”
As I was meditating during my journey, on your last letter, I formed a
resolution of collecting together all those you have written to me; as
I no longer can attend to your delightful counsel from your own mouth.
For, though there is not one which I have not learnt by heart, I love
to read them continually, and to contemplate the characters of that
lovely hand, which alone can make me happy: but the paper wears out by
degrees, and therefore, before they fall quite in pieces, I design to
copy each letter in a book, which I have already prepared for that
purpose. It is pretty large, but I provide for the time to come, and
even hope to live long enough to fill more than one volume. I set
apart my evenings for the delightful employment, and proceed but
slowly, in order to prolong so agreeable a task. This inestimable
volume I will never part with; it shall be the manual of my devotions,
my companion through the world which I am going to enter; it shall be
my antidote against the pernicious maxims of society; it shall comfort
me under my afflictions; it shall prevent or amend my errors; it shall
afford me instruction in my youth, and yield me edification in age:
the first love-letters, Eloisa, that perhaps ever were put to such an
use! With respect to your last epistle, which I have before me,
excellent as it appears to me, I find however one thing you should
have omitted. You may think it strange; but it is much more so, that
this very article should particularly regard yourself, and that I
blame you even for writing it at all. Why do you talk to me of
fidelity and constancy? you once were better acquainted both with my
passion and your own power. Ah, Eloisa, do you entertain such
changeable sentiments? what, though I had promised you nothing, should
I the sooner cease to be yours? Oh, no, it was at the first glance you
directed to me, at the first word you spoke, at the first motion of my
heart, that a flame was kindled in my soul which can never be
extinguished. Had I never seen you since that first moment, it had
been enough, it had been afterwards too late to have ever forgotten
you. And is it possible for me to forget you now? now, that,
intoxicated with my past felicity, the very remembrance of it makes me
still happy? now, that the soul, which once animated me, is fled, and
I live only by that which Eloisa hath inspired? now, that I despise
myself for expressing so coldly what I so sensibly feel? should all
the beauties in the universe display their charms to seduce me, is
there one amongst them could eclipse thine? let them all combine to
captivate my heart; let them pierce, let them wound it, let them break
to pieces, this faithful mirror of my Eloisa, her unsullied image will
not cease to be reflected from its smallest fragments, for nothing is
able to drive it thence. No, not omnipotence itself can go thus far;
it may annihilate my soul, but it cannot leave its existence and make
it cease to love Eloisa.
Lord B---- has undertaken to give you an account of my affairs, and
what he has projected in my favour: but I am afraid he will not
strictly fulfil his promise with respect to his present plan. For you
are to know that he has abused the right his beneficence has given him
over me, in extending it beyond the bounds of generosity. The pension
he has settled on me, and which he has made independent, has put me in
a condition to make an appearance here much above my rank, and perhaps
even that which I shall have occasion to make in London. While I am
here, as I have nothing to do, I live just as I please, and shall have
no temptation to throw away the savings of my income in idle expenses.
You, Eloisa, have taught me that our principal, at least our most
pressing wants, are those of a benevolent mind; and, as long as one
individual is deprived of the necessaries of life, what virtuous man
will riot in its superfluities?
Letter LXXIX. To Eloisa. [20]
I enter with a secret horror on this vast desert, the world; whose
confused prospect appears to me only as a frightful scene of solitude
and silence. In vain my soul endeavours to shake off the universal
restraint it lies under. It was the saying of a celebrated ancient,
that he was never less alone than when he was by himself: for my part,
I am never alone but when I mix with the crowd, and am neither with
you nor with any body else. My heart would speak, but it feels there
is none to hear: it is ready to answer, but no one speaks any thing
that regards it. I understand not the language of the country, and no
body here understands mine. Yet I own that I am greatly caressed, and
that all the obliging offices of friendship and civility are readily
offered to me: this is the very thing of which I complain. The
officious zeal of thousands is ever on the wing to oblige me, but I
know not how to entertain immediately a friendship for men I have
never seen before. The honest feelings of humanity, the plain and
affecting openness of a frank heart, are expressed in a different
manner from those false appearances of politeness, and that external
flattery, which the customs of the world require. I am not a little
afraid that he, who treats me at first sight, as if I was a friend of
twenty years standing, if at the end of twenty years I should want his
assistance, will treat me as a stranger; and, when I see men, lost in
dissipation, pretend to take so tender a part in the concerns of every
one, I readily presume they are interested for no body but themselves.
There is, however, some truth in all this profession: the French are
naturally good-natured, open, hospitable, and generous. But they have
a thousand modes of expression, which are not to be too strictly
understood. A thousand apparent offers of kindness which they make
only to be refused; they are no more than the snares of politeness
laid for rustic simplicity. I never before heard such profusion of
promises: _you may depend on my serving you, command my credit, my
purse, my house, my equipage._----But, if all this were sincere, and
literally taken, there would not be a people upon earth less attached
to property. The community of possessions would be in a manner already
established; the rich always making offers, and the poor accepting
them, both would naturally soon come upon a level, and not the
citizens of Sparta itself could ever have been more upon an equality
than would be the people of Paris. On the contrary, there is not a
place, perhaps, in the world, where the fortunes of men are so
unequal, where are displayed at once the most sumptuous opulence and
the most deplorable poverty. This is surely sufficient to prove the
insignificance of that apparent commiseration, which every one here
affects to have for the wants and sufferings of others, and that
tenderness of heart, which in a moment contracts eternal friendship.
But if, instead of attending to professions so justly to be suspected,
and assurances so liable to deceive, I desire information, and would
see knowledge; here is its most agreeable source. One is immediately
charmed with the good sense which is to be met with in company of the
French, not only among the learned, but with men of all ranks, and
even among the women: the turn of conversation is always easy and
natural, it is neither dull nor frivolous, but learned without
pedantry, gay without noise, polite without affectation, gallant
without being fulsome, and jocose without immodesty. Their discourse
is neither made up of dissertations nor epigrams; they reason without
argumentation, and are witty without punning: they artfully unite
reason and vivacity, maxims and rhapsodies; and mix the most pointed
satire and refined flattery with strictness of morals. They talk about
every thing, because every one has something to say; they examine
nothing to the bottom, for fear of being tedious, but propose matters
in a cursory manner, and treat them with rapidity: every one gives his
opinion, and supports it in few words; no one attacks with virulence
that of another, nor obstinately defends his own; they discuss the
point only for the sake of improvement, and stop before it comes to a
dispute: every one improves, every one amuses himself, and they part
all satisfied with each other; even the philosopher himself carrying
away something worthy his private meditation.
But, after all, what kind of knowledge do you think is to be gained
from such agreeable conversation? to form a just judgment of life and
manners; to make a right use of society; to know, at least, the people
with whom we converse; there is nothing, Eloisa, of all this: all they
teach is to plead artfully the cause of falsehood, to confound, by
their philosophy, all the principles of virtue; to throw a false
colour, by the help of sophistry, on the passions and prejudices of
mankind; and to give a certain turn to error, agreeable to the
fashionable mode of thinking. It is not necessary to know the
characters of men, but their interests, to guess their sentiments on
any occasion. When a man talks on any subject, he rather expresses the
opinions of his garb or his fraternity, than his own, and will charge
them as often as he changes his situation and circumstances.
Dress him up, for instance, by turns, in the robe of a judge, a peer,
and a divine, and you shall hear him successively stand up, with the
same zeal, for the rights of the people, the despotism of the prince,
and the authority of the inquisition. There is one kind of reason for
the lawyer, another for the officer of the revenue, and a third for
the soldier. Each of them can demonstrate the other two to be knaves;
a conclusion not very difficult to be drawn by all three. [21] Thus
men do not speak their own sentiments but those they would instill
into others, and the zeal which they affect is only the mask of
interest. You may imagine, however, that such persons as are
unconnected and independent, have at least a personal character and an
opinion of their own. Not at all: they are only different machines,
which never think for themselves, but are set a going by springs.
You need only inform yourself of their company, their clubs, their
friends, the women they visit, the authors they are acquainted with;
and you may immediately tell what will be their opinion of the next
book that is published, the next play that is acted, the works of this
or that writer they know nothing of, or this or that system of which
they have not one idea. As ordinary clocks, also, are wound up to go
but four and twenty hours, so are these people under the necessity of
going every evening into company, to know what they are to think the
next day.
Hence it is, that there is but a small number of both sexes, who think
for all the rest, and for whom all the rest talk and act. As every one
considers his own particular interest, and none of them that of the
public, and as the interests of individuals are always opposed, there
is amongst them a perpetual clashing of parties and cabals, a
continual ebb and flow of prepossessions and contrary opinions; amidst
which the most violent tempers, agitated only by the rest, seldom
understand a word of the matter in dispute. Every club has its rules,
its opinions, its principles, which are no where else admitted. An
honest man at one house is a knave at the next door. The good, the
bad, the beautiful, the ugly, truth, and even virtue itself, have all
only a limited and local existence. Whoever chuses a general
acquaintance, therefore, and goes into different societies, should be
more pliable than Alcibiades; he should change his principles with his
company, new-model his sentiments in a manner at every step, and lay
down his maxims by the rod. He ought at every visit to leave his
conscience, if he has one, at the door, and take up with that
belonging to the house as a new servant, on his entrance, puts on its
livery, which he leaves behind him when turned out, and if he chuses
it, again takes up his own, which serves him till he gets a new suit
with a new place. But what is still more extraordinary, is, that every
one here is perpetually contradicting himself, without being concerned
at all about it. They have one set of principles for conversation, and
another for their actions; nor is any body scandalized at their
inconsistency, it being generally agreed they should be very
different. It is not required of an author, particularly of a moral
writer, that he should maintain in conversation what he advances in
his works; nor that he should put in practice what he inculcates. His
writings, conversation, and conduct, are three things essentially
different, which he is not at all obliged to reconcile to each other.
In a word, every thing is absurd, and yet nothing offends, because
absurdity is the fashion. Nay, there is attached to this incongruity
of principles and manners, a fashionable air of which they are proud,
and which is frequently affected. In fact, although every one
zealously preaches up the maxims of his profession, he piques himself
on the carriage and manners of another. The attorney, for instance,
assumes the martial air of a soldier, and a petty clerk of the
customs, the supercilious deportment of a lord; the bishop affects the
gallantry of a fine gentleman; the courtier the precision of a
philosopher; and the statesman the repartee and raillery of a wit.
Even the plain mechanic, who knows not how to put on the airs of any
other profession, dresses himself up in a suit of black on Sundays, in
order to pass for a practitioner in the law. The military gentlemen
alone, despising every other profession, preserve, without
affectation, the manners of their own, which, to say the truth, are
insufferable. Not that M. de Muralt was in the wrong, when he gave the
preference to the conversation of a soldier; but, what might be true
in his time, is no longer so now. The progress of literature has since
improved conversation in general; and, as the gentlemen of the army
despised such improvement in theirs, that which used to be the best,
is at length become the worst. [22]
Hence it is, that the persons we talk to are not those with whom we
converse; their sentiments do not come from the heart; their knowledge
is not the acquisition of their own genius; their conversation does
not discover their thoughts; and one perceives nothing of them but
their figure. Thus, a man in company here, is nearly in the same
situation as if he were spectator of a moving picture, where he
himself is the only figure capable of self-motion.
Such are the notions I have formed of great societies, by that which I
have seen at Paris. They may, nevertheless, be rather adapted to my
own particular situation than to the true state of things; and will
doubtless improve as I become more acquainted with the manners of the
world. Besides this, I have hitherto kept no other company than that
into which I have been introduced by the friends of Lord B----, and am
sensible it is necessary to descend to persons of different ranks, to
know the peculiar manners of a country; those of the opulent being
almost every where the same. I shall endeavour to inform myself better
hereafter; in the mean time, I leave you to judge whether I had not
sufficient reason to call this crowded scene a desert, and to be
terrified by a solitude, where I find only an empty appearance of
sentiments and of sincerity, that falsifies itself in the instant of
expression; and where I perceive only the mere apparitions of men,
phantoms that strike the eye for a moment, but are insensible to the
touch? Hitherto I have seen a great number of masks; when shall I
behold the faces of mankind?
Letter LXXX. From Eloisa.
Yes, my friend, we shall continue to be united, notwithstanding our
separation; we shall be happy in spite of fortune. It is the union of
minds which constitutes their true felicity; the mutual attraction of
hearts does not follow the _ratio_ of their distance, and ours would
be in contact, were they distant as the poles asunder. I am sensible
with you that true lovers have a thousand expedients to sooth the
pains of absence, and to fly to each other’s arms in a moment. Hence
have they more frequent interviews even in absence, than when they see
each other every day; for, no sooner is either alone, than they are
both together. If you, my friend, can taste that pleasure every
evening, I feast on it a hundred times a day. I am more alone, and am
surrounded by objects I cannot look on without calling you to mind,
without finding you ever near me.
_Qui canto dolcemente e qui s’assise
Qiu si revolve, e qui ritenne il passo
Qui co ’begli occhi me trafise il core
Qui disse una parola, e qui sorrise._
But is it so with you? can you thus alleviate the pains of absence?
can you experience the sweets of a peaceful and tender passion, that
speaks to the heart without inflaming the senses? Are your griefs at
present more prudent than were formerly your desires? the violence of
your first letter still makes me tremble. I dread those deceitful
transports, by so much the more dangerous as the imagination which
excites them, is the less subject to controul; and, I fear, lest even
your excess of love should prove injurious to the object of it. Alas!
you know not, your sensations are too indelicate to perceive how
offensive to love is an irrational homage. You do not consider that
your life is mine, nor that self-preservation leads us frequently to
destruction. Sensual man! will you never learn to love? call to mind
those peaceful, those tender sensations you once felt, and so
affectingly described. If such be the highest pleasures which even
happy lovers can taste, they are the only ones wherein those who pine
in absence are permitted to indulge themselves; and those who once
have felt them, though but for a moment, should never regret the loss
of any other. I remember the reflections we made in reading your
Plutarch, on the sensuality and depravity of taste, which debase our
nature. Were such wretched pleasures attended only with the
circumstance of their not being mutual, it were enough, we said, to
render them insipid and contemptible. Let us apply the same conclusion
to the sallies of an extravagant imagination, to which it is no less
applicable. What can the wretch enjoy whose pleasures are confined to
himself alone? his pleasures are lifeless, but thine, O love! are
animated and generous delights. It is the union of souls: we receive
more pleasure from that which we excite, than from our own enjoyment.
But, pray, tell me, my friend, in what language, or rather, in what
jargon, is the description you give me in your last letter? did you
not make use of it as an occasional display of your wit? if you intend
to repeat it in your letters to me, it will be necessary to send me a
dictionary. What is it you mean by the opinions of a garb? by a
conscience that is to be put off and on, like a livery? by laying down
maxims by the rod? how would you have a poor, simple Swiss comprehend
those sublime tropes and figures? have you not already borrowed some
of the tinsel understanding of the people you describe? take care, my
good friend, how you proceed. Do you not think the metaphors of the
chevalier Marini, which you have so often laughed at, bear some
resemblance to your own? if a garment may be said to think, in a
letter, why not that fire may sweat in a sonnet? [23]
To observe in the space of three weeks all the different company that
is kept in a great city; to pass judgment on their conversation; to
distinguish precisely the false from the true, the real from the
affected; the difference between their thoughts and words: this is the
very thing for which the French are frequently censured by people of
other countries; but this nation especially deserves to be studied
more at leisure. I as little approve also of persons speaking ill of a
country where they reside and are well received: they had better, in
my judgment, submit to be deceived by appearances, than to moralize at
the expense of their hosts. In short, I always suspect the candour of
those observers, who set up for wits. I am always apprehensive lest
they should insensibly sacrifice the real state of things to the arts
of description, and affect a brilliancy of stile at the expense of
truth.
You know, my friend, the saying of Muralt, that wit is the epidemical
madness of the French: I am mistaken if I do not discover some marks
of your being yourself infected with this phrenzy. There is this
difference, however, that while it is agreeable enough in the French,
the Swiss are of all people in the world those it becomes the least.
There is something very quaint and far-fetched in many passages of
your letter. I do not speak of the lively turn or animated
expressions, which are dictated by any peculiar strength of
sentiments, but of that affected prettiness of stile, which being
unnatural in itself, can be natural to no people whatever, but betrays
the absurd pretensions of the person who uses it. Pretensions, with
those we love, good God! ought not all our pretensions to be confined
to the object beloved? It may be permitted to enliven an indifferent
conversation with such rhetorical flourishes, and they may pass off as
fine strokes of wit; but this is not the language adapted to the
intercourse of lovers; the florid jargon of gallantry comes less from
the heart than the most rude and simple of all dialects. I appeal to
yourself: did wit ever find an opportunity to intrude into our private
parties? if those fond, those endearing conversations had a charm to
dispel and keep wit at a distance, how ill-suited are its
embellishments to the letters of absence, always clouded in some
measure with sorrow; and in which the heart expresses itself with
peculiar tenderness? but, though every passion truly great should be
serious, excess of joy sooner calling forth our tears than our smiles,
I would not have love be always sad; its chearfulness should,
nevertheless, be simple and unaffected, without art, without
embellishment, and undissembled as the passion itself. In a word, I
would have love appear in its native graces, and not in the false
ornaments of wit.
My _constant companion_, in whose apartment I write this letter,
pretends, that in the beginning of it I had just that pleasantry of
disposition which love inspires; but I know not what is become of it.
In proportion as I proceed, a languor invades my heart, and hardly
leaves me spirits to write the reproaches she would have me make you.
For you are to know the above hypercriticisms are rather hers than my
own. It was she that dictated in particular the first article,
laughing like an idiot, and insisting on my not altering a single
syllable. She says, it is to teach you to respect Marini, whom she
patronizes and you have the presumption to ridicule.
But can you guess the cause of our good humour? it is her approaching
marriage. The contract was signed last night, and the day is fixed for
Monday sevennight. If ever love was a chearful passion, it is surely
so with her: surely no girl was ever so droll upon the like occasion.
The good Mr. Orbe, whose head is also a little turned, was highly
delighted with the comical manner in which he was received. Less
difficult to be pleased than you were, he takes great pleasure in
adding to the pleasantry of courtship, and looks upon the art of
diverting his mistress as a master-piece in making love. For her part,
we may talk to her as we please of decorum, tell her as much as we
will of the grave and serious turn she ought to assume on the point of
matrimony, and of doing honour to the virgin state she is going to
quit; she laughs at all we can say, as ridiculous grimace, and tells
Mr. Orbe to his face, that on the wedding day she shall be in the best
humour in the world; and that one cannot go too chearfully to be
married. But the little dissembler does not tell all; I surprized her
this morning wiping her eyes, which were red with crying, and I would
lay a wager, the tears of the night equal the smiles of the day. She
is going to bind herself in new chains, that will relax the gentle
ties of friendship: she is entering on a manner of life very different
to that which she most affected. Hitherto always pleased and tranquil,
she is going to run those hazards which are inseparable from the best
marriage; and, whatever face she may assume, I see that, as a clear
and smooth water begins to be troubled at the approach of a storm, so
her chaste and timid heart feels an alarm at her approaching change of
condition.
May they be happy, my dear friend! they love, and will be united in
marriage: they will reap the transports of mutual enjoyment without
obstacles, without fear, without remorse! Adieu, my heart is full----I
can write no more.
P.S. We have seen Lord B----, but he was in such haste to proceed on
his journey, that he staid with us but a moment. Impressed with a due
sense of the obligations we owe him, I would have made him my
acknowledgments and yours; but, I know not how, I was ashamed. It is
surely a kind of insult offered to his unparallel’d generosity to
thank such a man for any thing!
Letter LXXXI. To Eloisa.
What children does the impetuosity of our passions make of us! how
readily does an extravagant affection nourish itself on chimeras; and
how easily are our too violent desires prevented by the most frivolous
objects! I received your letter with as much rapture as your presence
could have inspir’d: in the excess of my transport, a piece of folded
paper supplying in my mind the place of Eloisa. One of the greatest
evils of absence, and the only one which reason cannot alleviate, is
the inquietude we are under concerning the actual state of the person
we love. Her health, her life, her repose, her affections, nothing
escapes the apprehensions of him who has every thing to lose. Nor are
we more certain of the present condition than of the future; and every
possible accident is realiz’d in the mind of the timid lover. I
breathe, and am alive again. You are in health, and still love me; or
rather ten days ago you loved me, and was well; but who can assure me
it is so at this instant? How cruel! how tormenting is absence! how
fatally capricious is that situation in which we can enjoy only the
past moment and the present not yet arrived.
Had you said nothing about your _constant companion_, I should have
detected her little malice in the censures passed on my observations,
and her old grudge in the apology for Marini; but, if it be permitted
me in turn to apologize for myself, I will not make her wait for a
reply.
In the first place then, my dear cousin, for it is to her I should
address my answer, as to the stile of my remarks, I have adopted that
of the subject: I endeavoured to give you at once both an idea and an
example of the mode of conversation in fashion; and thus, following an
ancient precept, I wrote to you in the same manner they talk in some
companies to each other. Besides, it is not the use of rhetorical
figures, but the choice of them, which I blame in Marini. If a man has
the least warmth of imagination, he must necessarily use metaphors and
figurative expressions to make himself understood. Even your own
letters are full of them, without your knowing it; and I will maintain
it, that none but a geometrician or a blockhead can talk without
metaphor. In effect, the same sentiment may admit of an hundred
different degrees of energy; and how are we to determine the precise
degree in which to enforce it, but by the turn of expression? I must
confess I could not help smiling myself at the absurdity of some
phrases I used. I thank you for the trouble you took to pick them out.
But, let them stand where they are, you will find them clear and
peculiarly emphatical. Let us suppose that your two sprightly
sparkling eyes, whose language is now expressive, were separated one
from the other, and from the set of features to which they give such
lustre; what think you, cousin, they would say, even with all their
vivacity and fire? Believe me, they would lose all power of
expression; they would be mute even to Mr. Orbe.
Is not the first thing that presents itself to observation in a
strange country, the general cast and turn of conversation? And is not
this the first observation I have made in Paris? I have written to you
only what is said, and not what is done in this city. If I remarked a
contrast between the discourse, the sentiments, and the actions of the
people, it is because the contrast is too striking to escape the most
superficial observer. When I see the same persons change their maxims
according to the company they frequent, Molinists in one and
Jansenists in another, court sycophants with the minister, and
factious grumblers with an anticourtier: when I see a man in lace and
embroidery rail at luxury, an officer of the revenue against imposts,
or a prelate against gluttony; when I hear a court-lady talk of
modesty, a noble lord of honesty, an author of candour, or an abbé of
religion, and see nobody surprized at these absurdities, is it not
natural enough to conclude that people here are as little anxious to
hear truth as to speak it? And that, so far from endeavouring to
persuade others into their own opinion, they care not whether they are
believed or not?
But, let this suffice, in the way of pleasantry, for an answer to our
cousin. I will lay aside an affectation to which we are all three
strangers, and I hope you will find in me for the future as little of
the satirist as the wit. And now, Eloisa, let me reply to you; for I
am at no loss to distinguish between critical raillery and serious
reproaches.
I cannot conceive how both you and your cousin could so egregiously
mistake the object of my description. It was not the French in
particular, on whom I intended to animadvert. For, if the characters
of nations can be determined only by their difference, how can I, who
have as yet no acquaintance with any other, pretend to draw the
character of this? I should not besides have been so indiscreet as to
fix on the metropolis for the place of observation. I am not ignorant
that capital cities differ less from each other, than the national
characters of the people, which are there in a great measure lost and
confounded, as well from the influence of courts, all which bear a
great resemblance to each other, as from the common consequence of
living in a close and numerous society; which is also every where
nearly the same, and prevails over the original and peculiar character
of the country.
Were I to study the national characteristics of a people, I would
repair to some of the more distant provinces, where the inhabitants
still pursue their natural inclinations. I would proceed slowly and
carefully through several of those provinces, and those at greatest
distance from each other: from the difference I might observe between
them, I would then trace the peculiar genius of each province; from
what was theirs in common and not customary to other countries, I
would trace the genius of the nation in general; and what appeared
common to all nations, I should regard as characteristics of mankind
in general. But I have neither formed so extensive a project; nor, if
I had, am I possessed of the necessary experience to put it in
execution. My design is to improve myself in the knowledge of mankind
universally, and my method is to consider man in his several
relations. I have hitherto been acquainted only with small societies
scattered up and down, in a manner alone, and without connections. At
present I am in the midst of others, which are surrounded by
multitudes on the same spot, from which I shall begin to judge of the
genuine effects of society; for, if men are constantly made better by
their association, the more numerous and closely connected they are,
still better they ought to be; and their manners should be more simple
and less corrupted at Paris than in the Valais; but if experience
prove the contrary, we must draw the opposite conclusion.
This method, I confess may in time lead to the knowledge of the
national characters of people; but by a route so tedious and indirect,
that I may perhaps never be qualified to determine that of any one
nation upon earth. I must begin to make my observations on the first
country in which I reside, proceeding in the others I pass through to
mark the difference between them and the first: comparing France to
every other, as we describe an olive-tree by a willow, or a palm-tree
by a fir, and must defer the forming my judgment of the first people
observed, till I have finished my observations on all the rest.
Please to distinguish then, my charming monitor, between philosophical
observation and national satire. It is not the Parisians that I study,
but the inhabitants of a great city; and I know not whether the
remarks I have made be not as applicable to those of Rome and London,
as of Paris. Moral principles do not depend on the customs of a
people; so in spite of their reigning prejudices I can perceive what
is wrong in itself but I know not whether I can justly attribute it to
the Frenchman, or the _man_; whether it be the effect of habit, or of
nature. Vice is in every place offensive to an impartial eye, and it
is no more blameable to reprove it in whatever country it is found,
than to correct the failings of humanity, because we live among men.
Am not I at present an inhabitant of Paris? perhaps, I may have
already unconsciously contributed my share, to the disorders I have
remarked: perhaps too long a stay may corrupt even my inclinations,
and at the end of a year I may be no more than a Parisian myself; if,
in order to be deserving of Eloisa, I do not cherish the spirit of
liberty and the manners of a free citizen. Let me proceed therefore,
without restraint, in describing objects I should blush to resemble,
and in animating my zeal for virtue by displaying the disgustful
pictures of falsehood and vice.
Were my employment and fortune in my own power, I might without doubt
make choice of other subjects for my letters. You were not displeased
with those I wrote you from Meillerie, and the Valais: but, my dear
friend, it is necessary for me, in order to support the noise and
hurry of the world, in which I am obliged to live, to console myself
in writing to you; and the thoughts of drawing up my narratives for
your perusal, should excite me to look out for proper subjects.
Discouragement would otherwise overtake me at every step, and I must
entirely relinquish my observations on mankind, if you refuse to hear
me. Consider that, to live in a manner so little conformable to my
taste, I make an effort not unworthy of its cause: and to enable you
to judge of what I must undergo to obtain you, permit me to speak
sometimes of the maxims I am forced to learn, and the obstacles I am
obliged to encounter.
In spite of my slow pace, and unavoidable avocations, my collection
was finish’d when your letter happily arrived to prolong my task of
copying: but, I admire, in seeing it so short, how you contrive to say
so much in so few words. I will maintain it, there can be no reading
so delightful as that of your letters, even to those to whom you are a
stranger, if their hearts do but sympathise with ours. But how can you
be a stranger to any one who reads your letters? is it possible that a
manner so engaging, that sentiments so tender, can belong to any other
than Eloisa? your enchanting looks accompany every sentence; your
charming voice pronounces every word. It is impossible for any other
to love, to think, to speak, to act, to write like Eloisa. Be not
surprized then if your letters, which so strikingly convey your form
and feature, should sometimes have the same effect as your presence on
a lover, who so devoutly idolizes your person. I lose my senses in
their perusal; my head grows giddy, a devouring flame consumes me; my
blood boils, and I become frantic with passion. I fancy I see, I feel,
I press you to my heart, adorable object! bewitching beauty! source of
rapture and delight! image of those angelic forms, which are the
fabled companions of the bless’d! come to my arms----she is here----
I clasp her in my embrace----ah! no, she is vanish’d; and I grasp but
a shadow.----Indeed, my dear friend, you are too charming; you have
been too indulgent to the weakness of a heart, that can never forget
your charms, nor your tenderness. Your beauty even triumphs in its
absence, it pursues me wherever I go, it makes me dread to be alone,
and it is my greatest misery that I dare not give myself to the
contemplation of so ravishing an object.
Our friends then, I find, will be united in spite of all obstacles; or
rather they are so while I am now writing. Amiable and deserving pair!
may heaven bestow on them all the blessings their prudent and peaceful
affections, innocence of manners, and goodness of heart, deserve! may
it bless them with that happiness it is so sparing of to those who
were formed by nature to taste its delights! happy indeed will they
be, if heaven should grant to them what it has taken from us! and
yet, Eloisa, we may draw some consolation even from our misfortunes.
Do you not perceive that our severest troubles are not without their
peculiar satisfactions; and that altho’ our friends may taste
pleasures of which we are deprived, we enjoy others of which they are
ignorant? yes, my gentle friend, in spite of absence, losses, fears;
in spite even of despair itself, the powerful exertion of two hearts,
longing for each other, is always attended with a secret pleasure
unknown to those at ease. This is one of the miracles of love, that
teacheth us how to extract pleasure from pain; and would make us look
upon a state of indifference as the greatest of all misfortunes. Tho’
we lament our own situation, then, let us not envy that of others. On
the whole, perhaps, there is none preferable to our own: as the deity
derives his happiness from himself, the hearts that glow with a
celestial passion, find in themselves the source of refined enjoyment,
independent of fortune.
Letter LXXXII. To Eloisa.
At length, Eloisa, behold me swim with the stream. My collection being
finish’d, I begin to frequent the public diversions, and to sup in
company; I spend the whole day abroad, and am attentive to every
striking object: but, perceiving nothing that resembles you, I
recollect myself in the midst of noise and confusion, and converse in
secret with my love. It is not however, that this busy and tumultuous
life has not in it something agreeable, or that such a vast variety of
objects do not present a considerable fund of gratification to the
curiosity of a stranger: but, to taste the entertainment they afford,
the heart should be vacant, and the understanding idle. Both love and
reason seem to unite in raising my disgust against such amusement.
Every thing here being confined to appearances, which are every
instant changing, I have neither the time to be moved with, nor to
examine, any thing.
Hence I begin to see the difficulties of studying the world, and I
know not what situation is most likely to make me a proficient in this
science. The speculatist lives at too great a distance, and the man of
business too near the object, to view it critically: the one sees too
much to be able to reflect on any part, and the other too little to
judge of the whole piece. Every object that strikes the philosopher he
examines apart, and not being able to discern its connections and
relations with others, that lie beyond the field of his observation,
he never sees them placed in their proper point of view, and knows
neither their real causes nor effects. The man of business sees all,
and has leisure to think on nothing. The instability of objects
permits him barely to perceive their existence, and not to examine
their qualities: they pass in succession before him with such
rapidity, that they efface the impression of each other, and load his
memory only with a chaos of confused ideas. It is also as impossible
to make observations, and meditate on them alternately: as the scene
requires a constant and unremitted attention, which reflection would
interrupt. A man who should divide his time by intervals between
solitude and society, always perplexed in retirement and to seek in
the world, would be able to do nothing in either. There is but one
way: and that is to divide the whole period of life into two parts;
applying the one to observation, and the other to reflection. But this
is next to impossible; for reason is not a piece of furniture that can
be thrown aside, and put to use again at pleasure: the man who should
live ten years without reflection, will never again be capable of
reflection as long as he lives.
I find it is a folly to think to study mankind in the quality of a
simple spectator. He, who pretends only to make observations, will be
able to observe nothing: for, being useless to the men of business,
and troublesome to those of pleasure, he will find no where
admittance. We can have the opportunity of seeing others act, in
proportion only as we act with them; in the school of the world, as
well as in that of love, we must begin by praising whatever we desire
to learn.
What method then can I take? I that am a stranger, and can follow no
employment in this country, and whom the difference of religion alone
excludes from aspiring to office? I am reduced to be humble, in order
to instruct myself; and, as I can never be useful, must endeavour to
make myself agreeable. To this end, I aim as much as possible to be
polite without flattery, complaisant without meanness, and to put so
good a face on what is tolerable in society that I may be admitted
into it, without being under the necessity of adopting its vices.
Every man that would see the world, and has nothing to do in it, ought
at least to adopt its manners to a certain degree. For what pretension
can he have to be admitted into the society of people to whom he can
be of no service, and to whom he has not the address to make himself
agreeable? But, if he has found out this art, it is all that is
required of him, particularly if he be a stranger. Such a one has no
occasion to take part in their cabals, their intrigues, or their
quarrels: if he behaves obligingly to every one; if he neither
excludes, nor prefers women of a certain character; if he keeps the
secrets of the company into which he is admitted; if he turns not into
ridicule at one house, what he sees in another; if he avoids making
confidents; entering into broils; and, in particular, if he maintains
a certain personal dignity; he may see the world, without molestation,
preserve the purity of his manners, his probity, and even his
frankness itself, if it arises from a spirit of liberty, and not from
that of party. This is what I have endeavoured to do, agreeable to the
advice of some people of sense, whom I have chosen for my advisers,
among the acquaintance Lord B----’s interest has procured me. In
consequence of this, I begin now to be admitted into companies, less
numerous and more select. Hitherto I have been chiefly invited to
regular dinners, where the only woman at table is the mistress of the
family; where open house is kept for all the idle people about Paris,
with whom they have the slightest acquaintance; and where every one
pays for his dinner in wit, or flattery, as he can best afford: the
conversation being in general noisy and confused, and very much
resembling that of a public ordinary.
I am at present initiated into the more secret mysteries of visiting:
being intreated to private suppers, where the door is shut against all
strolling and chance guests, and every one is upon an agreeable
footing, if not with each other, at least with the provider of the
entertainment. Here it is that the women are less reserved, and their
real characters more easily discovered. The conversation is in these
parties carried on with more decorum, and is more refined and
satirical: instead of talking of the public news, plays, promotions,
births, deaths, and marriages, which were the topics of the morning,
they here take a review of the several anecdotes of Paris, divulge the
secret articles of the scandalous chronicle, turn the good and bad
alike into ridicule, and, in artfully describing the characters of
others, undesignedly display their own. It is in these companies that
the little circumspection which remains has invented a peculiar kind
of language, under which they affect to render their satire more
obscure, while it only makes it more severe. It is here, in a word,
that they carefully sharpen the poignard, under pretence of making it
less hurtful; but, in fact, only to make it wound the deeper. To
judge, however, of this conversation according to our notions of
things, we should be in the wrong to call it satirical; for it
consists more of raillery than censure, and turns less upon the
vicious than the ridiculous. Satire in general is not common in large
cities, where that which is downright wicked is too simple to be worth
talking about. What can they condemn where virtue is in no esteem? and
what should they revile where nothing is held to be villainous? At
Paris, more particularly, where every thing is seen in an agreeable
light, the representation of things that ought to raise our
indignation is well received, if it be but wrapt up in a song or an
epigram. The fine ladies of this country do not like to be displeased;
and are therefore displeased at nothing: they love to laugh, but woe
be to him who happens to be the butt of their ridicule; the fears this
caustic leaves are never to be effaced; they not only defame good
manners and virtue, but exaggerate even vice itself. We now return to
our company.
What strikes me most in these select meetings, is to see that half a
dozen people, expressly chosen to entertain one another agreeably, and
between whom there generally subsist very intimate connections, cannot
converse an hour together without introducing the affairs of half the
people in Paris; just as if their hearts had nothing to say to each
other, or that there was no person in company of merit enough to
engage their attention. You know, Eloisa, how far otherwise it was
with us, when we supped together at your cousin’s, or your own
apartment; how we could find means, in spite of constraint and
secrecy, to turn the discourse on subjects that related to ourselves;
how at every moving reflection, at every subtle allusion, a look more
swift than lightening, a sigh rather imagined than perceived, conveyed
the pleasing sensation from one heart to the other.
If the discourse here turn by accident on any of the company, it is
commonly carried on in a jargon known only to the persons concerned,
and which one had need of a vocabulary to understand. Thus by talking
as it were in cypher, they are enabled to banter each other with
insipid raillery, in which the greatest blockhead does not always
shine the least. In the mean time, perhaps, a third part of the
company, incapable of taking the jest, are either reduced to a
disagreeable silence, or to laugh at what they do not understand. Of
this kind, Eloisa, is all the tenderness and affection I have observed
in the intimacies of this country: those of a more private nature,
with only a second person, I have not, nor ever shall have
experienced.
In the midst of all this, however, if a man of any weight and
consequence should enter on a grave discourse, or begin to discuss a
serious question, a general attention would be immediately fixed on
this new object: men and women, old and young, every one would be
ready to enter into its examination; and it is astonishing how much
good sense and precision would, as it were, through emulation, sally
out of their extravagant heads. [24] A point of morality could not be
better determined in a society of philosophers, than in that of a fine
lady at Paris: their conclusions would even be less precise and
severe: for the philosopher, who thinks himself obliged to act as he
speaks, will be less rigid in his principles; but, where morality is
nothing more than a topic of discourse, the severity of it is of no
consequence: and no one is displeased at an opportunity of checking
philosophical pride, by placing virtue out of its reach.
Besides this, influenced by a knowledge of the world and of their own
hearts, all agree in thinking human nature as depraved as possible:
hence their philosophy is always of the gloomy cast; they are ever
indulging their own vanity by depreciating the virtues of humanity;
always accounting for good actions from vicious motives, and
attributing to mankind in general the depravity of their own minds.
And yet, notwithstanding their adopting this abject doctrine, one of
the favourite topics of these societies is _sentiment_; a word by
which we are not to understand the sensation of a heart susceptible of
love or friendship: this would be thought vulgar and disgusting. No,
sentiment consists in great and general maxims, heightened by the
most sublime subtilties of metaphysics. I can safely say that in my
life, I have never heard so much talk of sentiment, nor ever
comprehended so little what was meant by it; so inconceivable are
these French refinements! our simple hearts, Eloisa, never were
governed by any of these fine maxims; and I am afraid it is with
sentiment in the polite world, as it is with Homer among the pedants,
who discover in him a thousand imaginary beauties, for want of taste
to point out his real ones. So much sentiment is here laid out in wit,
and evaporated in conversation, that none is left to influence their
actions. Happily politeness supplies its place, and people act from
custom nearly as they would from sensibility: at least so long as it
costs them only a few compliments, and such trifling restraints, as
they willingly lay themselves under in order to be respected; but, if
any considerable sacrifice of their ease or interest is required,
adieu to sentiment: politeness does not proceed so far; so far as it
goes, however, you can hardly believe how nicely every article of
behaviour is weighed, measured, and estimated. What is not regulated
by sentiment, is subjected to custom, by which indeed every thing here
is governed. These people are all professed copyists; and, tho’ they
abound in originals, nobody knows any thing of them, or presumes to be
so himself. _To do like other people_, is a maxim of the greatest
weight in this country: _and this is the mode----that is not the
mode_, are decisions from which there is no appeal.
This apparent regularity gives to the common, and even the most
serious transactions of life, the most comical air in the world. They
have settled even the very moment when it is proper to send cards to
their acquaintance; when to visit with a card, that is, to visit
without visiting at all; when to do it in person; when it is proper to
be at home; when to be denied; what advances it is proper to make, or
reject on every occasion; what degree of sorrow should be affected at
the death of such, or such a one; [25] how long to mourn in the
country; when they may come to console themselves in town; the very
day, and even the minute, when the afflicted is permitted to give a
ball, or go to the play. Every body in the same circumstances does the
same thing: they keep time, and their motions are made all together,
like the evolutions of a regiment in battalia; so that you would think
them so many puppets, nailed to the same board, or danced by the same
wire.
Now, as it is morally impossible that all these people, tho’ they act
in the same manner, should be at once equally affected, it is plain,
their peculiar characters are not to be known by their actions; it is
plain their discourse is only a formal jargon, which assists us less
to form a judgment of the French manners in general, than the peculiar
mode of conversing in Paris. In like manner, we learn only here their
terms of conversation, but nothing by which we can judge of their
estimation in the conduct of life. I say the same of most of their
writings; and even of their theatrical representations. The stage,
since the time of Moliere, being a place where they rather repeat
agreeable dialogues, than give a representation of life and manners.
There are here three theatres; on two of which they only introduce
imaginary characters; such as Harlequin, Pantaloon, and Scaramouch, on
the one; and, on the other, gods, devils, and conjurers. On the third,
they represent those immortal dramas, which give us so much pleasure
in reading, and other new pieces, which are from time to time written
for the stage; many of which are tragical, but not affecting. And,
tho’ the sentiments contained in them are sometimes natural, and well
enough adapted to the human heart, they give us not the least light
into the peculiar manners of the people to whom they afford
entertainment.
The institution of tragedy was originally founded on religion, whose
sanction was sufficient to establish its authority. Besides this, the
tragic scene always presented to the Greeks an instructive and
agreeable representation, either in the misfortunes of the Persians
their enemies, or in the vices and follies of the kings from which
they themselves were delivered. Should they represent in like manner
at Berne, at Zurich, or at the Hague, the ancient tyranny of the house
of Austria, the love of liberty and their country would make such a
representation peculiarly interesting to the spectators: but I would
be glad to know of what use are the tragedies of Corneille at Paris;
and what interest its citizens can take in the fate of a Pompey or
Sertorius. The Greek tragedies turned upon real events, or such as
were supposed to be real, being founded on historical tradition. But
what business has a refined heroic passion in the breasts of the
great? the conflicts of love and virtue cause them, no doubt, many an
unhappy day and sleepless night! the heart is doubtless vastly
concerned in the marriage of kings! judge then of the probability and
use of so many performances all turning on such imaginary subjects.
As to comedy, it should certainly be a lively representation of the
manners of the people for whom it is written; that it may serve them
as a mirror to shew them their vices and follies. Terence and Plautus
mistook their subjects; but their predecessors, Aristophanes and
Menander, displayed Athenian manners before an Athenian audience; and
since these, Moliere, and Moliere only, has represented still more
ingenuously in France the manners of the French in the last age.
The objects of the picture are since changed; but they have never
since had so faithful, so masterly a painter. At present, they only
copy on the theatre the manner of conversing in about an hundred
families in Paris; and this is their representation of French manners:
so that there are in this great city five or six hundred thousand
persons, whose various characters are never introduced on the stage.
Moliere described the shopkeeper and artisan, as well as the Marquis;
Socrates introduces the discourses of coachmen, carpenters,
shoemakers, and masons. But our present writers, quite of another
stamp, think it beneath them to know what passes in a trader’s
counting house or the shop of a mechanic: their dramas must consist of
persons of the first quality; for by the grandeur of their characters,
they aim at a degree of eminence they never could attain by the
assistance of genius. Nay, the audience itself is become so very
delicate, that the chief of the spectators are as jealous of place and
precedence in going to a play as in making a visit, never
condescending to be present at the representation of characters of
inferior condition.
Indeed, the people of fashion here are considered by themselves as the
only inhabitants of the earth; all the rest of mankind are nobody. All
the world keep a coach, a Swiss and a _Maitre d’Hotel_: all the world,
therefore, consist of a very small number of people. Those who walk
afoot are nobody; they are your common people, human creatures, the
vulgar, folks in short of another world: so that a coach is not so
necessary to carry one about, as to give one a title to existence. And
hence there is a handful of impertinent people, who look upon
themselves as the only beings of any consequence in the universe:
though, were it not for the mischief they occasion, they themselves
would not deserve to be numbered with the rest of mankind. It is
nevertheless solely for these people that theatrical entertainments
are made. They are represented by fictitious characters in the middle
of the theatre, and shew themselves in real ones on each side; they
are at once persons of the drama on the stage, and comedians in the
boxes. It is thus that the sphere of the world and genius is
contracted, while the present dramatic writers absurdly affect to
introduce only characters of imaginary importance. No man is worthy of
being brought upon the stage that does not wear a laced coat. A
stranger would hence be apt to think France peopled only by counts and
marquises, altho’, in fact, the more miserable and beggarly its
inhabitants grow, the more splendid and brilliant is their
representation on the theatre; and hence it is, that the ridiculous
behaviour of persons of rank, in being exposed on the stage, rather
gains ground than diminishes, and that the common people, who are ever
aping the rich, go less to the theatre to laugh at their follies than
to study them, and to become by imitation greater fools than the
originals.
The French are indebted even to Moliere in a great measure for this
evil; he corrected the courtiers by spoiling the citizens, and his
ridiculous marquises were the first model of those still more
contemptible petit-maitres, which succeeded them in the city.
There is in general much discourse and but very little action on the
French stage: the reason of which is, perhaps, that the French talk
much more than they do, or at least, that they pay a much greater
regard to what is said than to what is done. I remember the answer of
a spectator, who, in coming out from the representation of one of the
pieces of Dionysius the tyrant, was asked, what he had seen? _I have
seen nothing,_ said he, _but I have heard a deal of talk._ The same
might be said of the French plays. Racine and Corneille, with all
their genius, are no more than talkers, and their successor is the
first of all the French poets, who, in imitation of the English, has
sometimes ventured to bring scenes of action on the stage. In common,
their plays consist only of witty, or florid dialogues well disposed;
where it is obvious the chief design of the speakers is to display
their talents of wit and elocution. In the mean time, almost every
sentiment is delivered in the stile of a general maxim. However
transported they may be with passion, they always preserve their
respect to the public, of whom they think more constantly than of
themselves: the pieces of Racine and Moliere excepted, [26] egotism is
excluded as scrupulously from the French drama as from the writings of
messieurs de Port-Royal; and the passions of the human heart never
speak, but with all the modesty of Christian humility, in the third
person. There is besides a certain affected dignity in theatrical
discourse and action, which never permits the passions to be expressed
in their natural language, or suffers the writer to divest himself of
the poet and attend to the scene of action, but binds him constantly
down to the theatre and the audience. Hence the most critical
situations, the most interesting circumstances of the piece, never
make him forget the nicest arrangement, of phrase or elegancies of
attitude. Should even despair plunge a dagger in the heart of his
hero, not contented that, like Polixenes, he should observe a decency
in falling, he would not let him fall at all: for the sake of decency,
he is supported bolt upright after he is dead; and continues as erect
after he has expired as before.
The reason of all this is, that a Frenchman requires on the stage
neither nature nor deception, but only wit and sentiment: he requires
only to be diverted, and cares not whether what he sees be a true or
false representation of nature. No body goes here to the theatre for
the pleasure of seeing the play, but for the sake of seeing, and being
seen, by the company, and to catch a subject for conversation after
the play is over. The actor with them is always the actor, never the
character he represents. He who gives himself those important airs of
an universal sovereign is not the emperor Augustus, it is only Baron.
The relict of Pompey is no other than Adrienne, Alzira is mademoiselle
Gaussin, and that formidable savage is no other than the civil
Grandval. The comedians, on the other hand, give themselves no trouble
to keep up an illusion which no body expects. They place the venerable
heroes of antiquity between six rows of young, spruce Parisians: they
have their Roman dresses made up in the French fashion: the weeping
Cornelia is seen bathed in tears, with her rouge laid on two fingers
thick: Cato has his hair dressed and powdered, and Brutus struts along
in a Roman hoop-petticoat; yet no body is shocked at all this
absurdity, nor doth it hinder the success of the piece; for, as the
actors only are seen in the characters, so what respects the author is
the only thing considered in the play; and, though propriety should be
entirely neglected, it is easily excused, for every one knows that
Corneille was no tailor, nor Crebillon a peruke-maker.
Thus, in whatever light we view this people, all is verbosity and
jargon, talk without design, and words without meaning. In the
theatre, as in the world, be as attentive as ye will to what is said,
you will learn nothing of what is done; when a man has spoken, it
would be thought impertinent to enquire after his conduct: he has
spoken, that’s sufficient, and he must stand or fall by what he has
said. The respectable man here is not he that does good actions, but
he that says good things; and a single sentence sometimes
inadvertently uttered shall cast an odium on a man’s character, that
forty years of integrity will not be able to eraze. In a word,
although the conduct of men does not always resemble their discourse,
yet I see they are characterized by their discourse without any regard
to their actions: I have remarked also, that in a great city, society
appears more free, agreeable, and even more safe, than among people
less knowing and less civilized: but I will not pretend to say the
latter are therefore less humane, temperate, or just. On the contrary,
among the former, where every thing is governed by appearances, the
heart is perhaps more hid by external shew, and lies deeper concealed
under agreeable deceptions. It does not belong, however, to me, who am
a stranger, without business, pleasures or connections, to decide
here. I begin, nevertheless, to perceive in myself that intoxication
into which such a busy tumultuous life plunges every one who leads it;
and am affected with a dizziness like that of a man, before whose eyes
a multitude of successive objects pass with rapidity. Not one of
these, which thus strike me, affects my heart; but all together they
so disturb and suspend its affections, that I sometimes forget not
only myself, but even my Eloisa. Every day, on leaving my apartment, I
leave my _observations_ locked up behind me, and proceed to make
others on the frivolous objects which present themselves. Insensibly
I begin to think and reason in the manner of other people; and, if
ever I strive to get the better of their prejudices, and look upon
things as they are, I am immediately borne down by a torrent of words,
which carry with them a shew of reason. The people here will prove to
a demonstration, that none but superficial, half-witted reasoners
regard the reality of things; that the true philosopher considers only
their appearances; that prejudice and prepossession should pass for
principle, decorum for law, and that the most profound wisdom consists
in living like fools.
Thus constrained to pervert the order of the moral affections, to set
a value on chimeras, and put nature and reason to silence, I see with
regret, how sullied and defaced is that divine image, which I cherish
in my breast, once the sole object of my desires, and the only guide
of my conduct: I am borne by one caprice to another, while my
inclinations are continually enslaved by the general opinion, and I am
never certain one day what I shall approve the next.
Abashed and confounded to find my humanity so far debased; to see
myself fallen so low from that innate greatness of mind, to which our
passion had reciprocally elevated us, I return home at night, with a
heart swelling, yet vacant as a ball puffed up with air; sickened with
disgust, and sunk in sorrow. But with what joy do I recollect myself,
when alone! with what transports do I feel the sensations of love
again take possession of my heart, and restore me to the dignity of a
man! O love! how refined are thy sensations! how do I applaud myself
when I see the image of virtue preserve its lustre still in my breast;
when I contemplate thine, my Eloisa! still there, unsullied, sitting
on a throne of glory, and dissipating in a moment my gloomy delusions.
I feel my depressed soul revive; I seem to recover my existence, to
live anew, and to regain, with my love, those sublime sentiments that
render the passion worthy of its object.
Letter LXXXIII. From Eloisa.
I am just returned, my dear friend, from the enjoyment of one of the
most delightful sights I shall ever behold. The most prudent, the most
amiable girl in the world is at length become the most deserving, the
best of women. The worthy man, to whom she has given her hand, lives
only to revere, to cherish, to make her happy; and I feel that
inexpressible pleasure of being a witness to the happiness of my
friend, and of sharing it with her: nor will you, I am convinced,
partake of it less than my self; you, for whom she had always the
tenderest esteem, who were dear to her almost from her infancy, and
have received from her obligations which should render her yet more
dear to you. Yes, we will sympathize with all her sensations; if to
her they give pleasure they shall afford us consolation; for, so great
is the value of that friendship which unites us, that the happiness of
either of the three is sufficient to moderate the afflictions of the
other two. Let us not, however, too highly felicitate ourselves; our
incomparable friend is going in some measure to forsake us. She is
now entered on a new scene of life, is bound by new engagements, and
become subject to new obligations. Her heart, which once was only
ours, will now find room for other affections, to which friendship
must give place. We ought therefore, my friend, to be more scrupulous
hereafter in the services we impose on her zeal; we ought not only to
consult the sincerity of her attachment, and the need we have of her
service, but what may with propriety be required in her present
situation; what may be agreeable or displeasing to her husband. We
have no business to enquire what virtue demands in such a case, the
laws of friendship are sufficient. He, who, for his own sake, could
expose his friend, deserves not to have one. When ours was unmarried,
she was at liberty; she had no body to call her to account for her
conduct, and the uprightness of her intentions was sufficient to
justify her to herself. She considered us as man and wife, destined
for each other; and, her chaste yet susceptible heart, uniting a due
regard for herself to the most tender compassion for her culpable
friend, she concealed my fault without abetting it: but at present,
circumstances are changed; and she is justly accountable to the man,
to whom she has not only plighted her vows, but resigned her liberty.
She is now entrusted not only with her own honour, but with that of
her husband; and it is not enough that she is virtuous, her virtue
must be respected, and her conduct approved: She must not only
_deserve_ the esteem of her husband, but she must _obtain_ it: if he
blames her, she is to blame: and tho’ she be innocent, she is in the
wrong the moment she is suspected; for to study appearances, is an
indispensable part of her duty.
I cannot determine precisely how far I am right in my judgment; I
leave that to you: but there is a monitor within that tells me it is
not right, my cousin should continue to be my confident; nor that she
should be the first to tell me so. I may be frequently mistaken in my
arguments, but I am convinced I am always right in the sensations on
which they are founded; and this makes me confide more in those
sensations than on the deductions of my reason.
From this consideration, I have already formed a pretence to get back
your letters, which, for fear of a surprise I had put into her hands.
She returned them with an oppression of heart, which that of mine made
me easily perceive; and which convinced me I had acted as I ought. We
entered into no explanation, but our looks were sufficiently
expressive; she embraced me, and burst into tears: the tender
sensibility of friendship hath little occasion for the assistance of
language.
With respect to the future address of your letters, I thought
immediately of my little Anet, as the safest; but if this young woman
be inferior in rank to my cousin, is that a reason we should less
regard her virtue? have I not reason, on the contrary, to fear my
example may be more dangerous to one of less elevated sentiments; that
what was only an effort of the sublimest friendship in one, may be the
first step to corruption in the other; and that, in abusing her
gratitude, I may make virtue itself subservient to the promotion of
vice? is it not enough, alas! for me to be culpable, without seducing
accomplices, and aggravating my own crime, by involving others in my
guilt? of this, therefore, no more: I have hit on another expedient,
less safe indeed, but less exceptionable, as it lays nobody open to
censure, nor requires a confident. It is for you to write to me under
a fictitious name; as for example, that of Mr. Bosquet, and to send
your letters under cover addressed to Regianino, whom I shall take
care to instruct. Thus Regianino himself may know nothing of our
correspondence, or at most can only form suspicions, which he dares
not confirm; for Lord B----, on whose favour he depends, has answered
for his fidelity. In the mean time, while our correspondence is
maintained by this means, I will try if it be possible to resume the
method we made use of in your voyage to the Valois, or some other that
may be durable and safe.
There is something in the turn and stile of your letters, that would
convince me, were I even unacquainted with the state of your heart,
that the life you lead at Paris is in no wise agreeable to your
inclinations. The letters of Muralt, of which they so loudly complain
in France, are even less satirical and severe than yours. Like a child
that is angry with its tutors, you revenge the disagreeable necessity
you are under of studying the world, upon your first teachers.
What I am surprized at the most, however, is, that the very
circumstance, which usually prejudices foreigners in favour of the
French, should give you disgust. I mean their polite reception of
strangers, and their general turn of conversation; tho’ by your own
confession, you have met with great civility. I have not forgot your
distinction between Paris in particular, and great cities in general;
but I see plainly, that, without knowing precisely what belongs to
either, you censure without considering whether it be truth or
slander. But, however, this be, the French are my favourites, and you
don’t at all oblige me in reviling them. It is to the many excellent
writings France has produced, that I am indebted for most of those
lessons, by which we have together profited. If Switzerland is emerged
from its ancient barbarity, to whom is it obliged? the two greatest
and most virtuous men in modern story, Catinat and Fenelon, were both
Frenchmen. Henry the fourth, the good king, whose character I admire,
was a Frenchman. If France be not the country of liberty, it is
properly that of men; a superior advantage in the eyes of a
philosopher to that of licentious freedom. Hospitable, protectors of
the stranger, the French overlook real insult, and a man would be
pelted in London for saying half so much against the English, as the
French will bear at Paris. My father, who hath spent the greatest part
of his life in France, never speaks but with rapture of this agreeable
people. If he has spilt his blood in the service of its king, he has
not been forgotten in his retirement, but is still honoured by royal
beneficence. Hence, I think myself in some degree interested in the
glory of a nation, to which that of my father is indebted. If the
people of all nations, my friend, have their good and ill qualities,
you ought surely to pay the same regard to that impartiality which
praises, as to that which blames them.
To be more particular with you, I will ask you why you throw away in
idle visits the time you are to spend at Paris? Is not Paris a
theatre, wherein great talents may be displayed, as well as London?
and do strangers find more difficulties in their way to reputation in
the former, than they do in the latter? believe me, all the English
are not like Lord B----, nor do all the French resemble those fine
talkers that give you so much disgust. Try, put them to the proof,
tho’ it be only to acquire a more intimate acquaintance with their
manners; and judge of people, that you own speak so well, by their
deeds. My cousin’s father says, you know the constitution of the
empire, and the interests of princes. My Lord B---- acknowledges also,
that you are well versed in the principles of politics, and the
various systems of government: and I have got it into my head that of
all countries in the world you will succeed best in that where merit
is most esteemed, and that you want only to be known, to be honourably
employed. As to your religion’s being an obstacle, why should yours be
more so than another’s? is not good sense a security against
fanaticism and persecution? does bigotry prevail more in France, than
in Germany? and is there any thing that should hinder your succeeding
at Paris, as Mr. St. Saphorin has done at Vienna? if you consider the
end, the more speedy your attempts the sooner may you promise yourself
success. If you balance the means, it is certainly more reputable for
a man to advance himself by his own abilities, than to be obliged for
preferment to his friends. But, if you purpose a longer voyage----
ah! that _sea!_----I should like England better if it lay on this side
Paris.----But, a-propos, now I talk of Paris, may I venture to take
notice of another piece of affection, I have remarked in your letters?
how comes it that you, who spoke to me so freely of the women of this
country, say nothing about the Parisian ladies? can those celebrated
and polite females be less worth your description, than the simple and
unpolished inhabitants of the mountains? or are you apprehensive of
giving me uneasiness by a picture of the most charming and seductive
creatures in the universe? If this be the case, my friend, undeceive
your-self, and rest assured, that the worst thing you can do for my
repose is to say nothing about them and that, however, you might
praise them, your silence in that respect is more suspicious than
would be your highest encomiums. I shall be glad also to have some
little account of the opera at Paris, of which we hear such wonders;
[27] for, after all, the music may be bad, and yet the representation
have its beauties; but if not, it will at least, afford a subject for
your criticism, which will offend no body.
I know not whether it be worth while to tell you, that my cousin’s
wedding produced me two suitors; they met here a few days ago; one of
them from Yverdon, hunting all the way from castle to castle, and the
other from Germany, in the stage-coach from Berne. The first is a kind
of smart, that speaks loud and peremptory enough to make his repartees
pass for wit, among those who attend only to his manner. The other is
a great bashful simpleton, whose timidity, however, is not of that
amiable kind which arises from the fear of displeasing; but is owing
to the embarrassment of a blockhead, that knows not what to say, and
the awkwardness of a libertine who is at a loss how to behave himself
in the company of modest women. As I well know the intentions of my
father in regard to these two gentlemen, I took, with pleasure, the
freedom he gave me, of treating them agreeable to my own humour,
which, I believe, is such as will soon get the better of that which
brought them hither. I hate them for their presumption, in pretending
to a heart which is yours, without the least merit to dispute it with
you; yet if they had ever so much, I should hate them the more; but
where could they acquire it? they or any other man in the universe?
no, my dear friend, rest satisfied, it is impossible. Nay, were it
possible that another should be possessed of equal merit, or even that
another _you_ should attack my heart, I should never listen to any but
the first. Be not uneasy, therefore, at these two animals, which I
have with regret condescended to mention. What pleasure should I have
in being able to give them both such equal portions of disgust, as
that they should resolve to depart both together as they came.
M. de Crouzas has lately given us a refutation of the ethic epistles
of Mr. Pope, which I have read, but it did not please me. I will not
take upon me to say which of these two authors is in the right, but I
am conscious that M. de Crouza’s book will never excite the reader to
do any one virtuous action, while our zeal for every thing great and
good is awakened by that of Pope. For my own part, I have no other
rule by which to judge of what I read, than that of consulting the
dispositions in which I rise up from my book, nor can I well conceive
what sort of merit any piece has to boast, the reading of which leaves
no benevolent impression behind it, nor stimulates the reader to any
thing that is good. [28]
Adieu, my dear friend, I would not finish my letter so soon, but am
called away. I leave you with regret, for I am at present in a
chearful disposition, and I love you should partake of my happiness.
The cause which now inspires it is, that my dear mother is much better
within these few days; she has indeed found herself so well as to be
present at the wedding, and to give away her niece, or rather her
other daughter. Poor Clara wept for joy to see her; and I----but you
may judge of my sensations, who, deserving her so little, hourly
tremble at the thoughts of losing her. In fact, she did the honours of
the table, and acquitted herself on the occasion with as good a grace
as if she had been in perfect health. Nay, it seemed to me that some
remains of languor in her disposition rendered her elegant
complacencies still more affecting. Never did this incomparable parent
appear so good, so charming, so worthy to be revered!----Do you know
that she asked Mr. Orbe concerning you several times? Although she
never speaks of you to me, I am not ignorant of her esteem for you;
and that if ever she were consulted, your happiness and mine would be
her first concern. Ah! my friend, if your heart can be truly grateful,
you owe many, many obligations!
Letter LXXIV. To Eloisa.
There, my Eloisa, scold me, quarrel with me, beat me; I will endure
every thing, but I will not cease to acquaint you with my thoughts.
Who should be the depositary of those sentiments you have enlightened,
and with whom should my heart hold converse, if you refuse to hear me?
I give you an account of the observations I have made, and of my own
opinions, not so much for your approbation, as correction; and the
more liable I am to fall into error, the more punctual I should be in
my applications to your judgment. If I censure the manners of the
people in this great city, I do not seek to be justified for taking
this liberty, because I write to you in confidence; for I never say
any thing of a third person, which I would not aver to his face; and
all I write to you concerning the Parisians, is no more than a
repetition of what I daily advance in conversation with themselves:
however, they are not displeased with me, and they even join with me
in many particulars. They complain of our _Muralt_; I am persuaded,
they see, and are convinced, how much he hated them, even in his
panegyricks; but, I am much mistaken, if, in my criticism they do not
perceive the contrary. The esteem and gratitude their generosity
inspires, but increases my freedom; it may be serviceable to some of
them, and, if I may judge from their manner of receiving truth from my
lips, they do not think me below their regard. When this is the case,
my Eloisa, true censure is more laudable than even true praise; for
that only serves to corrupt the heart of those on whom it is bestowed,
and there are none so eager to obtain it as the most worthless; on the
contrary, censure may be useful, and can only be endured by the most
deserving. I sincerely own, I honour the French as the only people in
the world who really love their fellow creatures, and who are
naturally benevolent; but, for this very reason, I am less inclined to
grant them that general admiration they seem to expect, even for the
faults they acknowledge. If the French had no virtues, I should not
mention them; if they had no vices they would not be men: they have
too many excellent qualities for indiscriminate praise.
As to the attempts you mention, they are impracticable, because I
should be obliged to use means which are not only inconvenient, but
which you have also interdicted. Republican austerity is not in vogue
here; they need more flexible virtues, which are more easily adapted
to the interest of their friends or patrons. They respect merit, I
confess, but the talents that acquire reputation are very different
from those which lead to fortune; and, if I am so unfortunate as to
possess the latter only, will Eloisa consent to become the wife of an
adventurer? In England it is quite the contrary, and though their
manners are perhaps less refined than in France, yet they rise to
fortune by more honourable steps, because the people having more share
in the government, public esteem is of more consequence. You are not
ignorant of what Lord B---- proposed to do for me, and of my intention
to justify his zeal. I can have no objection to any spot on the globe
except its distance from you. O Eloisa! if it is difficult to procure
your hand, it is still more difficult to deserve so great a blessing,
and yet, methinks, ’tis a noble task.
The good account you give of your mother’s health, relieved me from
the greatest anxiety. I perceived your distress, even before my
departure, and therefore I durst not express my fears; but I thought
her so changed, that I was apprehensive she would fall into some
dangerous illness, Be careful of her, because she is dear to me,
be cause my heart reveres her, because all my hopes are centered in
her goodness, and because she is the mother of my Eloisa.
As for the two suitors, I own, I do not like to hear of them, even in
jest; but the manner in which you mention them expels my fears, and I
will no longer hate these unfortunate pretenders, since you imagine
they are hated by you: yet I admire your simplicity in believing
yourself capable of hatred. Don’t you perceive that what you take for
hatred, is nothing more than the impatience of insulted love? thus
anxious mourns the amorous turtle when its beloved mate is in danger
of being caught. No, Eloisa, no, incomparable maid! when you are
capable of hatred, I may cease to love you.
P. S. Beset by two importunate rivals! how I pity you! for your own
sake, hasten their dismission.
Letter LXXXV. From Eloisa.
I have delivered into Mr. Orbe’s hands a packet which he has engaged
to forward to M. Sylvester, from whom you will receive it; but I
caution you, my dear friend, not to open it, till you retire into your
own chamber, and are quite alone. You will find in this packet a small
trinket for your particular use.
’Tis a kind of charm which lovers gladly wear. The manner of using it
is very whimsical. It must be contemplated for a quarter of an hour
every morning, or until it softens the spectator into a certain degree
of tenderness. It is then applied to the eyes, the mouth, and next to
the heart: and it is generally esteemed the best preservative against
the noxious air of a country infected with gallantry. They even
attribute an electrical quality, to these talismans, which is very
singular, but which acts only upon faithful lovers. They say it
communicates the impression of kisses from one to the other, though at
the distance of a hundred leagues. I do not pretend to warrant the
success of this charm from experience; only, this I know, it is your
own fault if you do not put it to the proof.
Calm your fears with regard to my two gallants, or pretenders, call
them which you please. They are gone: let them depart in peace; I
shall no longer hate them, since they are out of my sight.
Letter LXXXVI. To Eloisa.
And so, my Eloisa, you insist on a description of these Parisian
ladies? vain girl! but it is a homage due to your charms.
Notwithstanding all your affected jealousy, your modesty, and your
love, I have discovered more vanity than fear disguised under this
curiosity. Be it as it will, I shall be just; I may safely speak the
truth; but I should undertake the taste with better spirits if I had
more to praise. Why are they not a hundred times more lovely! would
they had sufficient charms, to reflect new excellence upon yours by
the comparison!
You complain of my silence: good heaven! what could I have written?
when you have read this letter, you will perceive why I take pleasure
in speaking of your neighbours, the Valesian ladies, and why I have
hitherto neglected to mention those of this country: the first
continually remind me of you, my Eloisa, but the others----read, and
you will know. Few people think of the French ladies as I do, if
indeed, I am not quite singular in my opinion. Equity obliges me
therefore to give you this hint, that you may suppose I delineate
them, perhaps, not as they are in reality, but as they appear to me.
Nevertheless, if I am not just in my description, I know you will
censure me; and then will your injustice be greater than mine, because
the fault is entirely your own.
Let us begin with their exterior qualities; the greatest number of
observers proceed no farther should I follow their example, the women
in this country would have great cause to be dissatisfied: they have
an _exterior_ character as well as an _exterior_ face, and as neither
one or the other is much to their advantage, it would be unjust to
form our opinions of them from either. Their figure, for the most
part, is only tolerable, and in the general rather indifferent than
perfect; yet there are exceptions. They are slender rather than well-
made, and therefore they gladly embrace the fashions which disguise
them most; but, I find that in other countries, the women are foolish
enough to imitate there fashions, tho’ contrived merely to hide
defects which they have not.
Their air is easy and natural, their manner free and unaffected,
because they hate all restraint; but they have a certain
_disinvoltura_, [29] which, though it is not entirely destitute of
grace, they frequently carry, even to a degree of absurdity. Their
complexion is moderately fair, and they are commonly pale, which does
not in the least add to their beauty. With regard to their necks, they
are in the opposite extreme to the Valesians. Conscious of this
defect, they endeavour to supply it by art; nor are they less
scrupulous in borrowing an artificial whiteness. Though I have never
seen these objects but at a distance, they expose so much of
themselves, that they leave the spectators very little room for
conjecture. In this case, these ladies seem not to understand their
own interest; for if the face is but moderately handsome, the
imagination heightens every concealed charm, and according to the
gascon philosopher, there is no appetite so strong as that which was
never satisfied, especially in this sense.
Their features are not very regular, but they have something in their
countenance which supplies the place of beauty, and which is sometimes
much more agreeable. Their eyes are quick and sparkling, yet they are
neither penetrating nor sweet: they strive to animate them by the help
of rouge, but the expression they acquire by this means, has more of
anger in it than love; nature has given them sprightliness only, and
though they sometimes seem to solicit tenderness, they never promise a
return. [30]
They have acquired so great a reputation for their judgment in dress,
that they are patterns to all Europe. Indeed, it is impossible to
adapt such absurd fashions with more taste. They are, of all women,
the least under subjection to their own modes. Fashion governs in the
provinces, but the Parisians govern fashion, and every one of them is
skilled in suiting it to her own advantage: the first are ignorant and
servile plagiarists, who copy even orthographical errors; the latter
are like authors, who imitate with judgment, and have abilities to
correct the mistakes of their original.
Their apparel is more uncommon than magnificent, more elegant than
rich. The rapid succession of their fashions renders them old and
obsolete even from one year to another; that neatness which induces
them to change their dress so frequently, preserves them from much
ridiculous magnificence; they do not however spend less money on that
account, but their expenses are, by this means, better conducted. They
differ greatly in this particular from the Italians; instead of superb
trimmings and embroidery, their cloaths are always plain and new. Both
sexes observe the same moderation and delicacy, which is extremely
pleasing: for my part I like to see a coat neither laced nor foiled.
There is no nation in the world, except our own, where the people,
especially the women, wear less gold and silver. The same kind of
stuffs are wore by people of all ranks, so that it would be difficult
to distinguish a duchess from a citizen, if the first had not some
marks of distinction which the other dares not imitate. But this seems
to have its inconveniences, for whatever is the fashion at court, is
immediately followed in the city, and you never see in Paris, as in
other countries, a beau or belle of the last age. Nevertheless, it is
not here as in most other places, where the people of the highest
rank, being also the richest, the women of fashion distinguish
themselves by a degree of luxury which cannot be equalled. Had the
ladies of the court of France attempted this kind of distinction, they
would very soon have been eclipsed by the wives of the citizens.
What then do you think was their resource? why they took a much more
effectual method, and which required more abilities. They knew that
the minds of the people were deeply impressed with a sense of
bashfulness and modesty. This suggested to them fashions not to be
easily imitated. They perceived that the people could not endure the
thoughts of _rouge_, and that they obstinately persisted in calling it
by the vulgar name of paint, and therefore they daubed their cheeks,
not with paint, but with _rouge_; for change but the name, and ’tis no
longer the same thing. They also perceived that a bare neck was
scandalous in the eyes of the public; and, for that reason, they chose
to enlarge the scene. They saw----many things, which, my Eloisa,
young as she is, will never see. In their manners they are governed
exactly by the same principle. That charming diffidence which
distinguishes and adorns the sex, they despise as ignoble and vile;
they animate their actions and discourse with a noble assurance, and,
I am confident, they would look any modest man out of countenance.
Thus they cease to be women, to avoid being confounded with the
vulgar; they prefer their rank to their sex, and imitate women of
pleasure that they themselves may be above imitation.
I know not how far they may have carried _their_ imitation, but I am
certain they have not succeeded in their design to prevent it in
others. As to _rouge_, and the fashion of displaying those charms,
which they ought to conceal, they have made all the progress that was
possible. The ladies of the city had much rather renounce their
natural complexion, and the charms they might borrow from the amoroso
_pensier_ [31] of their lovers, than preserve the appearance of what
they are; and if this example has not prevailed among the lower sort
of people, ’tis only because they are afraid of being insulted by the
populace; and thus are an infinite number of women kept within the
bounds of decency, by the fear of offending the delicacy of the mob.
Their masculine air, and dragon-like deportment is less striking
because so universal; it is conspicuous only to strangers. From one
end of this metropolis to the other there is scarce a woman whose
appearance is not sufficiently bold to disconcert any man who has
never been accustomed to the like in his own country; from this
astonishment proceeds that awkward confusion which they attribute to
all strangers, and which increases the moment she opens her lips. They
have not the sweet voice of our country-women; their accent is hoarse,
sharp, interrogative, imperious, jibing, and louder than that of a
man. If, in the tone of their voice, they retain any thing feminine,
it is entirely lost in the impertinence of their manner. They seem to
enjoy the bashful confusion of every foreigner; but it would probably
give them less pleasure, if they were acquainted with its true cause.
Whether it be, that I, in particular, am prejudiced in favour of
beauty, or whether the power of beauty may not universally influence
the judgment, I know not; but the handsomest women appear to me,
rather the most decent in their dress, and in general, behave with the
greatest modesty. They lose nothing by this reserve; conscious of
their advantages, they know they have no need of borrowed allurements
to attract our admiration. It may be also, that impudence is more
intolerably disgusting when joined with ugliness; for certainly, I
should much sooner be tempted to affront an impertinent ugly woman,
than to embrace her; whereas, by modesty, she might excite, even a
tender compassion, which is often a harbinger of love. But, though it
is generally remarked, that the prettiest women are the best behaved,
yet they are often so extremely affected, and are always so evidently
taken up with themselves, that, in this country, there is little
danger of being exposed to that temptation which M. de Muralt
sometimes experienced amongst the English ladies, of telling a woman
she was handsome, only for the pleasure of persuading her to think so.
Neither the natural gaiety of the French, nor their love of
singularity, is the cause of this freedom of conversation and
behaviour for which these ladies are so remarkable; but it is rather
to be deduced from their manners, by which they are authorized to
spend all their time in the company of men; and hence it is, that the
behaviour of each sex seems to be copied from the other.
Our Swiss ladies, on the contrary, are fond of little female
assemblies, in which they are extremely social and happy; [32] for,
though they probably may not dislike the company of men, yet it is
certain their presence is some constraint upon them.
In Paris it is quite the reverse; the women are never easy nor
satisfied without the men. In most companies, the lady of the house is
seen alone amidst a circle of gentlemen, and this is so generally the
case, that one cannot help wondering how such an unequal proportion of
men can be every where assembled. But Paris is full of _avanturiers_,
priests and abbés, who spend their whole lives in running from house
to house. Thus the women learn to think, act and speak from the men,
whilst these, in return, imbibe a certain degree of effeminacy; and
this seems the only consequence of their trifling gallantry: however,
they enjoy a fulsome adoration, in which their devotees do not think
it worth while to preserve even the appearance of sincerity. No
matter: in the midst of her circle, she is the sole object of
attention, and that’s sufficient. But, if a second female enters the
room, familiarity instantly gives place to ceremony, the high airs of
quality are assumed, the adoration becomes divided, and each continues
to be a secret constraint upon the other till the company breaks up.
The Parisian ladies are fond of public diversions: that is, they are
fond of shewing themselves in public; but the great difficulty, every
time they go, is to find a female companion, for decorum will not
allow one lady alone to appear in the boxes, even though attended by
her husband, or by any other man. It is amazing, in this very social
country, how difficult it is to form these parties; out of ten that
are proposed, nine generally miscarry: they are projected by the
desire of being seen, and are broken by the disagreeable necessity for
a sister petticoat. I should imagine it an easy matter for the ladies
to abolish this ridiculous custom. What reason can there be why a
woman should not be seen alone in public? perhaps, there being no
reason for it, is the very cause of its continuance. However, upon the
whole, it may be prudent to preserve decency where the abolition would
be attended with no great satisfaction. What great matter would there
be in the privilege of appearing alone at the opera? is it not much
better to reserve this exclusive privilege for the private reception
of one’s friends in one’s own house?
Nothing can be more certain than that this custom of being alone
amidst such a number of men, is productive of many secret connections:
indeed the world is pretty well convinced of it, since experience has
proved the absurdity of that maxim, which told us, that by multiplying
temptations we should destroy them; so that they do not defend this
fashion for its decency, but that it is most agreeable; which, by the
by, I do not believe. How can any love exist, where modesty is held in
derision? and what pleasure can there be in a life which is at once
deprived both of love and decency? but as the want of entertainment is
the greatest evil which these slaves to dissipation have to fear, the
ladies are solicitous for amusement rather than love; gallantry and
attendance is all they require, and provided their danglers are
assiduous, they are very indifferent about the violence or sincerity
of their passion. The words _love_ and _lover_ are entirely banished
even from the most private intercourse of the sexes, and are sunk into
oblivion with the _darts_ and _flames_ of ancient romance.
One would imagine that the whole order of natural sensations was here
reversed. A girl is to have no feelings, passions, or attachments;
that privilege is reserved for the married women, and excludes no
paramour except their husbands. The mother had better have twenty
lovers, than her daughter one. Adultery is considered as no crime, and
conveys no indecency in the idea: their romances, which are
universally read for instruction, are full of it, and there appears
nothing shocking in its consequences, provided the lovers do not
render themselves contemptible by their fidelity. O Eloisa! there are
many women in this city, who have defiled their marriage-bed a hundred
times, yet would presume, with the voice of impurity, to slander an
union like ours, that is yet unsullied with infidelity.
It should seem that in Paris, marriage is a different institution from
what it is in other parts of the world: they call it a sacrament, and
yet it has not half the power of a common contract. It appears to be
nothing more than a private agreement between two persons to live
together, to bear the same name, and acknowledge the same children;
but who, in other respects, have no authority one over the other. If
at Paris a man should pretend to be offended with the ill conduct of
his wife, he would be as generally despised, as if, in our country, he
was to take no notice of her scandalous behaviour. Nor are the ladies
on their parts less indulgent to their husbands; for I have not yet
heard of an instance of their being punished for having imitated the
infidelity of their wives. In short, what other effect can be expected
from an union in which their hearts were never consulted? those who
marry fortune or title, seem to be under no personal obligation.
Love, even love, has lost its privilege, and is no less degenerated
than marriage. As man and wife may be looked upon as a bachelor and a
maid, who live together for the sake of enjoying more liberty; so are
lovers a kind of people, who, with great indifference, meet for
amusement, through custom, or out of vanity. The heart is entirely
unconcerned in these attachments, in which nothing more than certain
external conveniences are ever consulted: it is, in short, to know
each other, to dine together, now and then to exchange a few words,
or, if possible, even less than this. An affair of gallantry lasts but
a little longer than a visit, and consists chiefly in a few genteel
conversations, and three or four pretty letters, filled with
descriptions, maxims, philosophy, and wit. As to experimental
philosophy, it does not require so much mystery; they have wisely
discovered the folly of letting slip any opportunity of gratification:
whether it happens to be the lover or any other man, a man is a man,
and why should a lady be more scrupulous of being guilty of an
infidelity to her lover than to her husband? after a certain age they
may all be considered as the same kind of puppets, made up by the same
fashion monger, and consequently the first that comes to hand is
always the best.
Knowing nothing of these matters from experience, I can relate only
what I have heard; and indeed, the representation is so very
extraordinary, that I have but an imperfect idea of what I have been
told. That which I chiefly comprehend is, that the gallant is
generally regarded as one of the family; that if the lady happens to
be dissatisfied with him, he is dismissed, or if he meets with a
service more to his inclination or advantage, he takes his leave, and
she engages a fresh one. There are, I have been told, some ladies so
capricious as even to take up with their own husbands for a while,
considering them, at least, as a kind of male creature; but this whim
seldom lasts long: as soon as it is past, the good man is entirely
discarded, or, if he should happen to be obstinate, why then she takes
another and keeps them both.
But I could not help objecting to the person who gave me this strange
account, how it was possible, after this, to live among these
discarded lovers. Live among them, says he, why, they are entire
strangers to her ever after; and if they should, by chance, take it
into their heads to renew their amours, they would have to begin anew,
and would hardly be able to recollect their former acquaintance. I
understand you, I replied, but I have great difficulty in reconciling
these extravagancies. I cannot conceive how it is possible, after such
a tender union, to see each other without emotion; how the heart can
avoid palpitation, even at the name of a person once beloved; why they
do not tremble when they meet. You make me laugh, says he, with your
tremblings: and so you would have our ladies continually fainting
away.
Suppress a part of this caricature representation; place my Eloisa in
opposition to the rest, and remember the sincerity of my heart: I have
nothing more to add.
However, I must confess, that many of these disagreeable impressions
are effaced by custom. Though the dark side of their character may
first catch our attention, it is no reason why we should be blind to
their amiable qualities. The charms of their understanding and good
humour are no small addition to their personal accomplishments. Our
first repugnance overcome frequently generates a contrary sentiment.
It is not just to view the picture only in its worst point of sight.
The first inconveniency of great cities is, that mankind are generally
disguised, and that in society they appear different from what they
really are. This is particularly true in Paris with regard to the
ladies, who derive from the observation of others, the only existence
about which they are solicitous. When you meet a lady in public,
instead of seeing a Parisian, as you imagine, you behold only a
phantom of the fashion: her stature, dimension, gait, shape, neck,
colour, air, look, language, every thing is assumed; so that, if you
were to see her in her natural state, you would not know her to be the
same creature. But this universal mask is greatly to her disadvantage;
for nature’s substitutes are always inferior to herself: besides, it
is almost impossible to conceal her entirely; in spite of us, she will
now and then discover herself, and in seizing her with dexterity
consists the true art of observation. This is indeed no difficult
matter in conversing with the women of this country, for, if you take
them off their grand theatre of representation, and consider them
attentively, you will see them as they really are, and it is then
possible that your aversion may be changed into esteem and friendship.
I had an opportunity of verifying this remark last week, on a party of
pleasure, to which, along with some other strangers, I was, abruptly
enough, invited by a company of ladies, probably with a design to
laugh at us without constraint or interruption. The first day the
project succeeded to their wish: they immediately began to dart their
wit and pleasantry in showers, but as their arrows were not retorted,
their quivers were soon empty. They then behaved with great decency,
and finding themselves unable to bring us to _their_ stile, they were
obliged to conform to ours. Whether they were pleased with it or not I
am ignorant; however, the change was very agreeable to me, for I soon
found that I stood a better chance to profit by the conversation of
these females, than from the generality of men. Their wit now appeared
so great an ornament to their natural good sense, that I changed my
opinion of the sex, and could not help lamenting, that so many amiable
women should want reason, only because it is their humour to reject
it. I perceived also that their natural graces began insensibly to
efface the artificial airs of the city: for, without design, our
manner is generally influenced by the nature of our discourse: it is
impossible to introduce much coquettish grimace in a rational
conversation. They appeared much more handsome after they grew
indifferent about it, and I perceived, that if they would please, they
need only throw off their affectation. Hence, I am apt to conclude,
that Paris, the pretended seat of taste, is of all places in the
world, that in which there is the least; since all their methods of
pleasing are destructive of real beauty.
Thus we continued together four or five days, satisfied with each
other, and with ourselves. Instead of satirising Paris and its
innumerable follies, we forgot both the city and its inhabitants. Our
whole care was to promote the happiness of our little society. We
wanted no ill-natured wit or sarcasm to excite our mirth, but our
laughter, like your cousin’s, was the effect of good humour.
I had yet another reason to be confirmed in my good opinion of these
females. Frequently in the very midst of our enjoyment, a person would
come in abruptly and whisper the lady of the house. She left the room,
shut herself up in her closet, and continued writing a considerable
time. It was natural to suppose, that her heart was engaged in this
correspondence; and of this one of the company gave a hint, which,
however, was not very graciously received; a proof at least, that
though she might possibly have no lovers, she was not without friends.
But, judge of my surprize, when I was informed that these supposed
Parisian suitors were no other than the unhappy peasants of the
parish, who came in their tribulation to implore the protection of
their lady; one being unjustly taxed, another enrolled in the militia,
regardless of his age and family, a third groaning under a lawsuit
with a powerful neighbour, a fourth ruined by a form of hail, was
going to be dragged to prison. In short, each had some petition to
make, each was patiently heard, and the time we supposed to be spent
in an amorous correspondence, was employed in writing letters in
favour of these unhappy sufferers. It is impossible to conceive how I
was astonished to find with what delight, and with how little
ostentation this young, this gay woman, performed these charitable
offices of humanity. Oh, says I to myself, if she were even Eloisa,
she could not act otherwise! From that moment I continued to regard
her with respect, and all her faults vanished.
My enquiries had no sooner taken this turn, than I began to discover a
thousand advantageous particulars in the very women who before
appeared so insupportable. Indeed all strangers are agreed, that,
provided you exclude the fashionable topic, there is no country in the
world whose women have more knowledge, talk more sensibly, with more
judgment, and are more capable of giving advice. If from the Spanish,
Italian, or German ladies, we should take the jargon of gallantry and
wit, what would there remain of their conversation? and you, my
Eloisa, are not ignorant how it is in general with our country-women.
But if, with a French woman, humour to reject it. I perceived also
that their natural graces began insensibly to efface the artificial
airs of the city: for, without design, our manner is generally
influenced by the nature of our discourse: it is impossible to
introduce much coquettish grimace in a rational conversation. They
appeared much more handsome after they grew indifferent about it, and
I perceived, that if they would please, they need only throw off their
affectation. Hence, I am apt to conclude, that Paris, the pretended
seat of taste, is of all places in the world, that in which there is
the least; since all their methods of pleasing are destructive of real
beauty.
Thus we continued together four or five days, satisfied with each
other, and with ourselves. Instead of satirising Paris and its
innumerable follies, we forgot both the city and its inhabitants. Our
whole care was to promote the happiness of our little society. We
wanted no ill-natured wit or sarcasm to excite our mirth, but our
laughter, like your cousin’s, was the effect of good humour.
I had yet another reason to be confirmed in my good opinion of these
females. Frequently in the very midst of our enjoyment, a person would
come in abruptly and whisper the lady of the house. She left the room,
shut herself up in her closet, and continued writing a considerable
time. It was natural to suppose, that her heart was engaged in this
correspondence; and of this one of the company gave a hint, which,
however, was not very graciously received; a proof at least, that
though she might possibly have no lovers, she was not without friends.
But, judge of my surprize, when I was informed that these supposed
Parisian suitors were no other than the unhappy peasants of the
parish, who came in their tribulation to implore the protection of
their lady; one being unjustly taxed, another enrolled in the militia,
regardless of his age and family, a third groaning under a lawsuit
with a powerful neighbour, a fourth ruined by a storm of hail, was
going to be dragged to prison. In short, each had some petition to
make, each was patiently heard, and the time we supposed to be spent
in an amorous correspondence, was employed in writing letters in
favour of these unhappy sufferers. It is impossible to conceive how I
was astonished to find with what delight, and with how little
ostentation, this young, this gay woman, performed these charitable
offices of humanity. Oh, says I to myself, if she were even Eloisa,
she could not act otherwise! From that moment I continued to regard
her with respect, and all her faults vanished.
My enquiries had no sooner taken this turn, than I began to discover a
thousand advantageous particulars in the very women who before
appeared so insupportable. Indeed all strangers are agreed, that,
provided you exclude the fashionable topic, there is no country in the
world whose women have more knowledge, talk more sensibly, with more
judgment, and are more capable of giving advice. If from the Spanish,
Italian, or German ladies, we should take the jargon of gallantry and
wit, what would there remain of their conversation? and you, my
Eloisa, are not ignorant how it is in general with our country-women.
But if, with a French woman, a man has resolution to sacrifice his
pretensions to gallantry, and to draw her out of that favourite
fortress, she will then make a virtue of necessity, and arming herself
with reason, will fight manfully in the open field. With regard to
their goodness of heart. I will not instance their zeal to serve their
friends; for, as with the rest of mankind, that may partly proceed
from self-love. But, though they generally love no body but
themselves, long habit will frequently produce in them the effects of
a sincere friendship. Those who have constancy enough to support an
attachment of ten years, commonly continue it to the end of their
lives, and they will then love their old friends with more tenderness,
at least with more fidelity than their new lovers.
One common accusation against the women of France is, that they do
every thing, and consequently more evil than good; but it may be
observed in their justification, that in doing evil they are
stimulated by the men, and in doing good are actuated by their own
principles. This does not in any ways contradict what I said before,
that the heart has no concern in the commerce between the two sexes;
for the gallantry of the French has given to the women an universal
power, which stands in no need of tenderness to support it. Every
thing depends upon the ladies; all things are done by them or for
them; Olympus and Parnassus, glory and fortune, are equally subject to
their laws. Neither books nor authors have any other value or esteem
than that which the ladies are pleased to allow them. There is no
appeal from their decree in matters of the nicest judgment or most
trivial taste. Poetry, criticism, history, philosophy, are all
calculated for the ladies, and even the bible itself has lately been
metamorphosed into a polite romance. In public affairs, their
influence arises from their natural ascendency over their husbands,
not because they are their husbands, but because they are men, and it
would be monstrous for a man to refuse any thing to a lady, even
though she were his wife.
Yet this authority implies neither attachment nor esteem, but merely
politeness and compliance with custom; for it is as essential to
French gallantry to despise the women as to oblige them; and this
contempt is taken as a proof, that a man has seen enough of the world
to know the sex. Whoever treats them with respect is deemed a novice,
a knight-errant, one who has known woman only in romances. They judge
so equitably of themselves, that to honour them is to forfeit their
esteem; so that the principal requisite in a man of gallantry is
superlative impertinence.
Let the ladies of this country pretend what they will, they are, in
spite of themselves, extremely good-natured. All men who are burthened
with a multiplicity of affairs, are difficult of access, and without
commiseration; and in Paris, the center of business of one of the most
considerable nations in Europe, the men of consequence are
particularly obdurate: those, therefore, who have any thing to ask,
naturally apply to the ladies, whose ears are never shut against the
unhappy; they console and serve them. In the midst of all their
frivolous dissipation, they do not scruple to steal a few moments from
their pleasure, and devote them to acts of benevolence; and though
there may be some women mean enough to make an infamous traffic of
their services, there are hundreds, on the contrary, who are daily
employed in charitably assisting the distressed. However, it must be
confessed, that they are sometimes so indiscreet, as to ruin an
unfortunate man they happen not to know, in order to serve their own
friend. But how is it possible to know every body in so extensive a
country? or how can more be expected from good-nature destitute of
real virtue, whose sublimest effort is not so much to do good, as to
avoid evil? After all, it must be allowed that their inclinations are
not naturally bad; that they do a great deal of good; that they do it
from their hearts; that they alone preserve the remains of humanity,
which are still to be found in Paris; and that without them, we should
see the men avaricious and insatiable, like wolves devouring each
other.
I should have remained ignorant of all this, if I had not consulted
their comedies and romances, whose authors are, perhaps, too apt to
stumble upon those foibles from which they themselves are not exempt,
rather than the virtues they happen not to possess; who, instead of
encouraging their readers by praising their real virtues, amuse
themselves with painting imaginary characters too perfect for
imitation.
Romances are perhaps the last vehicle of instruction that can be
administered to a corrupt people. It were to be wished that none were
suffered to prepare this medicine but men of honest principles and
true sensibility; authors, whose writings should be a picture of their
own hearts; who, instead of fixing virtue in the heavens, beyond the
reach of our nature, would, by smoothing the way, insensibly tempt us
out of the gulph of vice.
But to return to the Parisian ladies; concerning whom, I do not by any
means agree in the common opinion. They are universally allowed to
have the most enchanting address, the most seducing manner, to be the
most refined coquets, to possess the most sublime gallantry, and the
art of pleasing to a most superlative degree. For my part, I think
their address shocking, their coquettish airs disgusting, and their
manner extremely immodest. I should imagine that the heart would
shrink back at all their advances, and I can never be persuaded, that
they can for a single moment, talk of love, without shewing themselves
incapable of either feeling or inspiring that tender passion.
On the other hand, we find them represented frivolous, artful, false,
thoughtless, inconstant, talking well, but without reflection or
sentiment, and evaporating all their merit in idle chit-chat. But to
me, all this appears to be as external as their hoops or _rouge_. They
are a kind of fashionable vices, which are supposed necessary at
Paris, but which are not incompatible with sense, reason, humanity and
good-nature. These ladies are, in many cases, more discreet, and less
given to tattling than those of any other country. They are better
instructed, and the things they are taught have a stronger effect
upon their judgment. In short, if I dislike them for having disfigured
the proper characteristics of their sex, I esteem them for those
virtues in which they resemble us; and, my opinion is, that they are
better calculated to be men of merit, than amiable women.
One word more and I have done. If Eloisa had never been, if my heart
had been capable of any other attachment than that for which it was
created, I should never have taken a wife or mistress in Paris; but I
should gladly have chosen a friend, and such a treasure might possibly
have consoled me for the want of the others. [33]
Letter LXXXVII. To Eloisa.
Since the receipt of your letter, I have been daily with Mr.
Silvester, to see after the packet you mentioned: but my impatience
has been seven times disappointed. At length, however, on the eighth
time of going, I received it; and it was no sooner put into my hands,
than, without staying to pay the postage, even without asking what it
came to, or speaking a word to any body, I ran with it out of doors;
and, as if I had been out of my senses passed by the door of my
lodgings, though it stood open before me, and traversed a number of
streets that I knew nothing of, till in about half an hour I found
myself at the farther end of Paris. I was then obliged to take a
hackney coach in order to get the more speedily home, which is the
first time I have made use of those conveniences in a morning; indeed
it is with regret I use them even in an afternoon, to pay some distant
visits; for my legs are good, and I should be sorry that any
improvement in my circumstances should make me neglect the use of
them.
When I was seated in the coach, I was a good deal perplexed with my
packet; as you had laid your injunctions on me to open it no where but
at home. Besides, I was unwilling to be subject to any interruption in
opening the packet, and indulging myself in that exquisite
satisfaction, I find in every thing that comes from you. I held it
therefore with an impatience and curiosity which I could scarce
contain: endeavouring to discover its contents through the covers, by
pressing it every way with my hands; from the continual motions of
which you would have thought the packet contained fire, and burned the
ends of my fingers. Not but that from its size, weight, and the
contents of your former letter, I had some suspicion; but then, how
could I conceive you to have found either the opportunity or the
artist? but what I then could not conceive, is one of the miracles of
almighty love: the more it surpasses my conception, the more it
enchants my heart, and one of the greatest pleasures it gives me
arises from my ignorance in the manner in which you could effect it.
Arrived at length at my lodgings, I flew to my chamber, locked the
door, threw myself, out of breath, into a chair, and with a trembling
hand broke open the seal. ’Twas then, Eloisa, I felt the first effect
of this powerful talisman. The palpitations of my heart increased at
every paper I unfolded; till coming to the last, I was forced to stop
and take breath a moment, before I could open it. It is open----my
suggestions are true,----it is so,----it is the portrait of Eloisa.
----O , my love! your divine image is before me; I gaze with rapture
on your charms! my lips, my heart, pay them the first homage, my
knees bend;----Again, my eyes are ravished with thy heavenly
beauties. How immediate, how powerful, is their magical effect! no
Eloisa, it requires not, as you pretend, a quarter of an hour to make
itself perceived; a minute, an instant suffices, to draw from my
breast a thousand ardent sighs, and to recall, with thy image, the
remembrance of my past happiness. Ah! why is the rapture of having
such a treasure in possession allayed with so much bitterness? how
lively is the representation it gives me of days that are no more!
I gaze on the portrait, I think I see Eloisa, and enjoy in
imagination those delightful moments, whose remembrance imbitters
my present hours; and which heaven in its anger bestowed on me only
to take them away. Alas! the next instant undeceives me; the pangs
of absence throb with increased violence, after the agreeable
delusion is vanished, and I am in the fate of those miserable
wretches, whose tortures are remitted only to render them the more
cruel. Heavens! what flames have not my eager eyes darted on this
unexpected object! how has the sight of it roused in me those
impetuous emotions, which used to be effected by your presence! O,
my Eloisa, were it possible for this talisman to affect your senses
with the phrenzy and illusion of mine----But why is it not possible?
why may not those impressions, which the mind darts forth with such
rapidity, reach as far as Eloisa? Ah, my charming friend! wherever
you are, or however you are employed, at the time I am now writing,
at the time your portrait receives the same homage I pay to the idol
of my soul, do you not perceive your charming face bedewed with
tears? do you not sympathize with me in love and sorrow? do you not
feel the ardour of a lover’s kisses on your lips, your cheeks, your
breast? do you not glow all over with the flame imparted from my
burning lips?----Ha! what’s that?----some body knocks----I will hide
my treasure----an impertinent breaks in upon me,----accursed be the
cruel intruder, for interrupting me in transports so delightful, may
he never be capable of love,----or may he be doomed to pine in
absence, like me.
Letter LXXXVIII. To Mrs. Orbe.
It is to you, dear cousin, I am to give an account of the French
opera; for, although you have not mentioned it in your own letters,
and Eloisa has kept your secret in hers, I am not at a loss to whom to
attribute that piece of curiosity. I have been once at the opera to
satisfy myself, and twice to oblige you, but am in hopes, however,
this letter will be my excuse for going no more. If you command me,
indeed, I can bear it again; I can suffer, I can sleep there, for your
service; but to remain awake and attentive is absolutely impossible.
But, before I tell you what I think of this famous theatre, I will
give you an account of what they say of it here; the opinion of the
connoisseurs may perhaps rectify mine, where I happen to be mistaken.
The French opera passes at Paris for the most pompous, the most
delightful, the most wonderful entertainment that was ever effected by
the united efforts of the human genius. It is said to be the most
superb monument of the magnificence of Louis the fourteenth. In fact,
every one is not so much at liberty, as you imagine, to give his
opinion on so grave a subject. Every thing may be made a point of
dispute here, except music and the opera; but with respect to these,
it may be dangerous not to dissemble one’s thoughts, as the French
music is supported by an inquisition no less arbitrary than severe.
Indeed the first lesson which strangers are taught, is, that
foreigners universally allow that nothing in the whole world is so
fine as the opera at Paris. The truth is, discreet people are silent
upon this topic, because they dare not laugh, except in private.
It must be allowed, however, that they represent at the opera, at a
vast expense, not only all the wonderful things in nature, but many
others still more wonderful, and which nature never produced. For my
part, I cannot help thinking Mr. Pope meant this theatre, where he
said, one might see there, mixed in one scene of confusion, gods,
devils, monsters, kings, shepherds, fairies, madness, joy, a wild-
fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball.
This assemblage, so magnificent and well conducted, is regarded by the
spectators as if all the things and characters exhibited were real. On
seeing the representation of a heathen temple, they are seized with a
profound reverence; and, if the goddess be at all pretty, half the men
in the pit are immediately pagans.
Here the audience is not so nice as at the French comedy. Those very
spectators, who could not there consider the player as the character
he represented, cannot, at the opera consider him any otherwise. It
seems as if they were shocked at a national deception, and could give
into nothing but what was grossly absurd; or perhaps they can more
easily conceive players to be gods than heroes. Jupiter being of
another nature, people may think of him as they please; but Cato was a
man, and how few men are there, who, to judge from themselves, have
any reason to think such a man as Cato ever existed.
This opera is not composed, therefore, as in other places, of a
company of mercenaries, hired to furnish out an entertainment for the
public. It is true, they are paid by the public, and it is their
business to attend the opera: but the nature of it is quite changed by
its becoming a royal academy of music, a sort of sovereign tribunal
that judges without appeal in its own cause, and is not very
remarkable for justice and integrity. Thus you see, how much in some
countries the essence of things depends on mere words, and how a
respectable title may do honour to that which least deserves it.
The members of this illustrious academy are not degraded by their
profession: in revenge, however, they are excommunicated, which is
directly contrary to the custom of all other countries: but, perhaps,
having had their choice, they had rather live honourably and be
damned, than go, as plebeians, vulgarly to heaven. I have seen a
modern chevalier, on the French theatre, as proud of the profession of
a player, as the unfortunate Laberius was formerly mortified at it,
although the latter was forced into it by the commands of Caesar, and
recited only his own works. [34] But then our degraded ancient could
not afterwards take his place in the circus among the Roman knights;
whilst the modern one found his every day at the French comedy, among
the first nobility in the kingdom. And I will venture to say, never
did they talk at Rome with so much respect, of the majesty of the
Roman people, as they do at Paris, of the majesty of the opera.
This is what I have gathered chiefly from conversation about this
splendid entertainment; I will now relate to you what I have seen of
it myself.
Imagine to yourself the inside of a large box, about fifteen feet
wide, and long in proportion: this box is the stage; on each side are
placed screens, at different distances, on which the objects of the
scene are coarsely painted. Beyond there is a great curtain, bedaubed
in the same manner; which extends from one side to the other, and is
generally cut through, to represent caves in the earth, and openings
in the heavens, as the perspective requires. So that, if any person,
in walking behind the scenes, should happen to brush against the
curtain, he might cause an earthquake so violent as to shake----our
sides with laughing. The skies are represented by a parcel of bluish
rags, hung up with lines and poles, like wet linen at the washer-
woman’s. The sun, for he is represented here sometimes, is a large
candle in a lanthorn. The chariots of the gods and goddesses are made
of four bits of wood, nailed together in the form of a square, and
hung up by a strong cord, like a swing: across the middle is fastened
a board, on which the deity sits a straddle; and in the front of it
hangs a piece of coarse canvas, bedaubed with paint, to represent the
clouds that attend on this magnificent car. The bottom of this
machine is illuminated by two or three stinking, unsnuffed candles,
which, as often as the celestial personage bustles about and shakes
his swing, smoke him deliciously, with incense worthy such a divinity.
As these chariots are the most considerable machines of the opera, you
may judge by them of the rest. A troubled sea is made of long rollers
covered with canvas or blue paper, laid parallel and turned by the
dirty understrappers of the theatre. Their thunder is a heavy cart,
which rumbles over the floor’d ceiling, and is not the least affecting
instrument of their agreeable music. The flashes of lightning are made
by throwing powdered rosin into the flame of a link; and the falling
thunderbolt is a cracker at the end of a squib.
The stage is provided with little square trap doors; which, opening on
occasion, give notice that the infernal demons are coming out of the
cellar. And when they are to be carried up into the air, they
substitute dexterously in their room little devils of brown canvas
stuffed with straw, or sometimes real chimney-sweepers, that are drawn
up by ropes, and ride triumphant through the air till they
majestically enter the clouds, and are lost among the dirty rags I
mentioned. But what is really tragical is, that when the tackle is not
well managed, or the ropes happen to break, down come infernal spirits
and immortal gods together, and break their limbs and sometimes their
necks. To all this I shall add their monsters; which certainly make
some scenes very pathetic, such as their dragons, lizards, tortoises,
crocodiles, and great toads, all which stalk or crawl about the stage
with a threatening air, and put one in mind of the temptation of St.
Anthony: every one of these figures being animated by a looby of a
Savoyard, that has not sense enough to play the brute.
Thus you see, cousin, in what consists, in a great degree, the
splendid furniture of the opera; at least, thus much I could observe
from the pit, with the help of my glass; for you must not imagine
these expedients are much hid, or produce any great illusion: I only
tell you here what I saw, and what every other unprejudiced spectator
might have seen as well as myself. I was told, nevertheless, that a
prodigious quantity of machinery is employed to effect all these
motions, and was several times offered a sight of it; but I was never
curious to see in what manner extraordinary efforts were made to be
productive of insignificant effects.
The number of people engaged in the service of the opera is
inconceivable. The orchestra and chorus together consist of near an
hundred persons: there is a multitude of dancers, every part being
doubly and triply supplied, [35] that is to say, there is always one or
two inferior actors ready to take the place of the principal, and who
are paid for doing nothing, till the principal is pleased to do
nothing in his turn, and which is seldom long before it happens. After
a few representations, the chief actors, who are personages of great
consequence, honour the public no more with their presence in that
piece, but give up their parts to their substitutes, or to the
substitutes of those substitutes. They receive always the same money
at the door, but the spectator does not always meet with the same
entertainment. Every one takes a ticket, as he does in the lottery,
without knowing what will be his prize; but, be what it will, no body
dares complain; for you are to know, that the honourable members of
this academy owe the public no manner of respect, it is the public
which owes it to them.
I will say nothing to you of their music, because you are acquainted
with it. But you can have no idea of the frightful cries and hideous
bellowings, with which the theatre resounds during the representation.
The actresses, throwing themselves into convulsions as it were, rend
their lungs with squeaking: in the mean time, with their fists
clenched against their stomach their heads thrown back, their faces
red, their veins swelled, and their breasts heaving, one knows not
which is most disagreeably affected, the eye or the ear. Their actions
make those suffer as much who see them, as their singing does those
who hear them; and yet what is inconceivable is, that these howlings
are almost the only thing the audience applaud. By the clapping of
their hands, one would imagine them a parcel of deaf people, delighted
to be able to hear the voice now and then strained to the highest
pitch, and that they strove to encourage the actors to repeat their
efforts. For my part, I am persuaded that they applaud the squeaking
of an actress at the opera, for the same reason as they do the tricks
of a tumbler or posture-master at the fair: it is displeasing and
painful to see them; one is in pain while they last, but we are so
glad to see all pass off without any accident, that we willingly give
them applause.
Think how well this manner of singing is adapted to express all that
Quinault has written the most soft and tender. Imagine the muses,
loves and graces, imagine Venus herself expressing her sentiments in
this delicate manner, and judge of the effects. As to their devils,
let us leave their music to something infernal enough to suit it. As
also that of their magicians, conjurers and witches; all which,
however meets with the greatest applause at the French opera.
To these ravishing sounds, as harmonious as sweet, we may very
deservedly join those of the orchestra. Conceive to yourself a
continual clashing of jarring instruments, attended with the drawling
and perpetual groans of the base, a noise the most doleful and
insupportable that I ever heard in my life, and which I could never
bear a quarter of an hour together without being seized with a violent
head-ach. All this forms a species of psalmody, which has commonly
neither time nor tune. But when, by accident they hit on an air a
little lively, the feet of the audience are immediately in motion, and
the whole house thunders with their clattering. The pit in particular,
with much pains and a great noise, always imitate a certain performer
in the orchestra. [36] Delighted to perceive for a moment that cadence
which they so seldom feel, they strain their ears, voice, hands, feet,
and in short, their whole body to keep that time, which is every
moment ready to escape them. Instead of this the Italians and Germans,
who are more easily affected with the measures of their music, pursue
them without any effort, and have never any occasion to beat time. At
least, Regianino has often told me, that, at the opera in Italy, where
the music is so affecting and lively, you will never see, or hear, in
the orchestra or among the spectators, the least motion of either
hands or feet. But in this country, every thing serves to prove the
dullness of their musical organs; their voices are harsh and
unpleasing, their tones affected and drawling, and their transitions
hard and dissonant: there is no cadence nor melody in their songs;
their martial instruments, the fifes of the infantry, the trumpets of
their cavalry, their horns, their hautboys, the ballad-singers in the
streets, and the fiddlers in their public-houses, all have something
so horribly grating as to shock the most indelicate ear. [37] All
talents are not bestowed on the same men, and the French in general
are of all the people in Europe those of the least aptitude for music.
Lord B---- pretends that the English have as little, but the
difference is, that they know it, and care nothing about the matter,
whereas the French give up a thousand just pretensions, and will
submit to be censured in any other point whatever, sooner than admit
they are not the first musicians in the world. There are even people
at Paris who look upon the cultivation of music as the concern of the
state, perhaps because the improvement of Timotheus’s lyre was so at
Sparta. However this be, the opera here may, for aught I know, be a
good political institution, in that it pleases persons of taste no
better. But to return to my description.
The _ballets_, which are the most brilliant parts of the opera,
considered of themselves, afford a pleasing entertainment, as they are
magnificent and truly theatrical; but, as they enter into the
composition of the piece, it is in that light we must consider them.
You remember the operas of Quinault; you know in what manner the
diversions are there introduced; it is much the same or rather worse
with his successors. In every act, the action of the piece is stopt
short, just at the most interesting period, by an interlude which is
represented before the actors, who are seated on the stage while the
audience in the pit are kept standing. From these interruptions it
frequently happens, that the characters of the piece are quite
forgotten, and always that the spectators are kept looking at actors
that are looking at something else. The fashion of these interludes is
very simple. If the prince is in a good humour, it partakes of the
gaiety of his disposition, and is a dance; if he is displeased, it is
contrived in order to bring him to temper again, and it is also a
dance. I know not whether it be the fashion at court to make a ball
for the entertainment of the king, when he is out of humour; but this
I know, with respect to our opera kings, that one cannot sufficiently
admire their stoical firmness and philosophy, in sitting so tranquil
to see comic dances and attend to songs, while the fate of their
kingdoms, crowns and lives, is sometimes determined behind the scenes.
But they have besides many other occasions for the introduction of
dances; the most solemn actions of human life are here performed in a
dance. The parsons dance, the soldiers dance, the gods dance, the
devils dance, the mourners dance at their funerals, and in short all
their characters dance upon all occasions.
Dancing is thus the fourth of the fine arts employed in the
constitution of the lyric drama: the other three are arts of
imitation; but what is imitated in dancing? nothing.----It is
therefore foreign to the purpose, for what business is there for
minuets or rigadoons in a tragedy? nay, I will venture to say, dancing
would be equally absurd in such compositions, though something was
imitated by it: for of all the dramatic unities the most indispensable
is that of language or expression; and an opera made up partly of
singing, partly of dancing, is even more ridiculous than that in which
they sing half French half Italian.
Not content to introduce dancing as an essential part of the
composition, they even attempt to make it the principal, having
operas, which they call ballets, and which so badly answer their
title, that dancing is no less out of character in them than in all
the rest. Most of these ballets consist of as many different subjects
as acts; which subjects are connected together by certain meta-
physical relations, of which the spectator would never form the least
suspicion or conjecture, if the author did not take care to advise him
of it in the prologue. The seasons, ages, senses, elements, are the
subjects of a dance; but I should be glad to know what propriety there
is in all this, or what ideas can by this means be conveyed to the
mind of the spectator? some of them again are purely allegorical, as
the _carnival_, the _folly_, and are the most intolerable of all,
because with a good deal of wit and finesse, they contain neither
sentiment, description, plot, business, nor any thing that can either
interest the audience, set off the music to advantage, flatter the
passions, or heighten the illusion. In these pretended ballets the
action of the piece is performed in singing, the dancers continually
finding occasion to break in upon the singers, tho’ without meaning or
design.
The result of all this, however, is, that these ballets, being less
interesting than their tragedies, their interruptions are little
remarked. Were the piece itself more affecting, the spectator would be
more offended; but the one defect serves to hide the other, and, in
order to prevent the spectators being tired with the dancing, the
authors artfully contrive it so that they may be more heartily tired
with the piece itself.
This would lead me insensibly to make some queries into the true
composition of the lyric drama, but there would be too prolix to be
compressed in this letter; I have therefore written a little
dissertation on that subject, which you will find inclosed, and may
communicate to Regianino. I shall only add, with respect to the French
opera, that the greatest fault I observed in it is a false taste for
magnificence; whence they attempt to represent the marvellous, which,
being only the object of imagination, is introduced with as much
propriety in an epic poem, as it is ridiculously attempted on the
stage. I should hardly have believed, had not I seen it, that there
could be found artists weak enough to attempt an imitation of the
chariot of the sun, or spectators so childish as to go to see it.
Bruyere could not conceive how so fine a sight as the opera could be
tiresome. For my part, who am no Bruyere, I can conceive it very well,
and will maintain, that to every man who has a true taste for the fine
arts, the French music, their dancing, and the marvellous of their
scenery put together, compose the most tiresome representation in the
world. After all, perhaps the French do not deserve a more perfect
entertainment, especially with respect to the performance not because
they want ability to judge of what is good, but because the bad
pleases them better. For, as they had rather censure than applaud, the
pleasure of criticizing compensates for every defect, and they had
rather laugh after they get home, than be pleased with the piece
during the representation.
Letter LXXXIX. From Eloisa.
Yes, I see it well: Eloisa is still happy in your love, the same fire
that once sparkled in your eyes, glows throughout your last letter,
and kindles all the ardour of mine. Yes, my friend, in vain doth
fortune separate us; let our hearts press forward to each other, let
us preserve by such a communication, their natural warmth against the
chilling coldness of absence and despair; and let every thing that
tends to loosen the ties of our affections, serve only to draw them
closer and bind them fast.
You will smile at my simplicity, when I tell you, that since the
receipt of your letter, I have experienced something of those charming
effects therein mentioned, and that the jest of the talisman, although
purely my own invention, is turned upon myself and become serious. I
am seized a hundred times a day, when alone, with a fit of trembling,
as if you were before me. I imagine you are gazing on my portrait, and
am foolish enough to feel, in conceit, the warmth of those embraces,
the impression of those kisses you bestow on it. Sweet illusion!
charming effects of fancy; the last resources of the unhappy. Oh, if
it be possible, be ye to us a pleasing reality! ye are yet something
to those who are deprived of real happiness.
As to the manner in which I obtained the portrait, it was indeed the
contrivance of love; but, believe me, if mine could work miracles, it
would not have made choice of this. I will let you into the secret. We
had here some time ago a miniature painter, on his return from Italy:
he brought letters from Lord B----, who perhaps had some view in
sending him. Mr. Orbe embraced this opportunity to have a portrait of
my cousin; I was desirous of one also. In return, she and my mother
would each have one of me, of which the painter at my request took
secretly a second copy. Without troubling myself about the original, I
chose of the three that which I thought the most perfect likeness,
with a design to send it to you. I made but little scruple, I own, of
this piece of deceit; for, as to the likeness of the portrait, a
little more or less can make no great difference with my mother and
cousin but the homage you might pay to any other resemblance than
mine, would be a kind of infidelity, by so much the more dangerous, as
my picture might be handsomer than me; and I would not, on any
account, that you should nourish a passion for charms I do not
possess. With respect to the drapery, I could have liked to have been
not so negligently dressed; but I was not heard, and my father himself
insisted on the portrait’s being finished as it is. Except the head-
dress, however, nothing of the habit was taken from mine, the painter
having dressed the picture as he thought proper, and ornamented my
person with the works of his own imagination.
Letter XC. To Eloisa.
I must talk to you still, my dear Eloisa, of your portrait; no longer,
however, in that rapturous strain which the first sight of it
inspired; and with which you yourself were so much affected; but, on
the contrary, with the regret of a man deceived by false hopes, and
whom nothing can recompense for what he has lost. Your portrait, like
yourself, is both graceful and beautiful; it is also a tolerable
likeness, and is painted by the hand of a master; but to be satisfied
with it I ought never to have known you.
The first fault I find in it is, that it resembles you, and yet is not
yourself; that it has your likeness, and is insensible. In vain the
painter thought to copy your features; where is that sweetness of
sentiment that enlivens them, and without which, regular and beautiful
as they are, they are nothing? your heart, Eloisa, no painting can
imitate. This defect, I own, should be attributed to the imperfection
of the art; but it is the fault of the artist not to have been exact
in every thing that depended on himself. He has, for instance, brought
the hair too forward on the temples, which gives the forehead a less
agreeable and delicate air. He has also forgotten two or three little
veins, seen through the transparent skin in winding branches of
purple, resembling those on the Iris we once stood admiring in the
gardens of _Clarens_. The colouring of the cheeks is also too near the
eyes, and is not softened into that glowing blush of the rose toward
the lower part of the face, which distinguishes the lovely original.
One would take it for an artificial _rouge_, plastered on like the
carmine of the French ladies. Nor is this defect a small one, as it
makes the eyes appear less soft, and its looks more bold.
But pray what has he done with those dimples, wherein the little
cupids lurk at the corners of your mouth; and which in my fortunate
days I used to stifle with kisses? he has not given half their beauty
to these charming lips. He has not given the mouth that agreeable
serious turn, which changing in an instant into a smile, ravishes the
heart with inconceivable enchantment, inspires it with an
instantaneous rapture which no words can express. It is true, your
portrait cannot pass from the serious to a smile. This is, alas! the
very thing of which I complain. To paint all your charms you should be
drawn every instant of your life.
But to pass over the injustice the painter has done you, in
overlooking your beauties, he has done you more, in having omitted
your defects. He has left out that almost imperceptible mole under
your right eye, as well as that on the right side of your neck. He has
not----heavens! was the man a statue? he has forgot the little scar
under your lip; he has made your hair and eyebrows of the same colour:
which they are not. Your eye-brows are more upon the chestnut, and
your hair rather of the ash-colour.
_Bionda testa occhi azurri e bruno ciglio._
He has made the lower part of the face exactly oval; not observing the
small hollow between your cheeks and chin, which makes their out-lines
less regular and more agreeable. These are the most palpable defects,
but he has omitted several others, for which I owe him no goodwill:
for I am not only in love with your beauties, but with Eloisa herself,
just as she is. If you would not be obliged for any charm to the
pencil, I would not have you lose by it the smallest defect; my heart
can never be affected by charms that are not your own.
As to the drapery, I shall take the more notice of it, as, whether in
a dishabille or otherwise, I have always seen you dressed with more
taste than you are in the portrait: the head-dress is too large; you
will say it is composed only of flowers. That’s true; but there are
too many. Don’t you remember the ball, at which you were dressed like
a country girl, and your cousin told me I danced like a philosopher?
You had then no other head-dress than your long tresses, turned up and
fastened at top with a golden bodkin, in the manner of the villagers
of Berne. No, the sun glittering in all its radiance displays not half
that lustre, with which you then engaged the eyes and hearts of the
beholders; and there is no one who saw you that day, that can ever
forget you during his whole life. It is thus, my Eloisa, your head
ought to have been dressed. It is your charming hair that should adorn
your face, and not those spreading roses. Tell my cousin, for I
discover her choice and direction, that the flowers with which she has
thus covered and profaned your tresses, are in no better taste than
those she gathers in _Adonis_. One might overlook them did they serve
as an ornament to beauty, but I cannot permit them to hide it.
With respect to the bust, it is singular that a lover should be more
nice in this particular than a father; but, to say the truth, I think
you are too carelessly dressed. The portrait of Eloisa should be
modest as herself. These hidden charms should be sacred to love. You
say the painter drew them from his imagination. I believe it; indeed,
I believe it. Had he caught the least glimpse of thine, his eyes would
have gazed on them for ever, but his hand would not have attempted to
paint them: why was it necessary the rash artist should form them in
imagination? this was not only an offence against decency, but I will
maintain it also to be want of taste. Yes, your countenance is too
modest to support the disorder of your breast; it is plain that one of
these objects ought to hinder the other from being seen: it is the
privilege of love alone to see both together, and when its glowing
hand uncovers the charms that modesty conceals, the sweet confusion of
your eyes shews that you forget not that you expose them.
Such are the criticisms that a continual attention has occasioned me
to make on your portrait: in consequence of which I have formed a
design to alter it, agreeable to my own taste. I have communicated my
intentions to an able master, and from what he has already done, I
hope to see you soon more like yourself. For fear of spoiling the
picture, however, we try our alterations first on a copy, which I have
made him take; and make them in the original only when we are quite
sure of their effect. Although I design but indifferently, my artist
cannot help admiring the subtilty of my observations, but he does not
know that love, who dictates them, is a greater master than he. I seem
to him also sometimes very whimsical: he tells me I am the first lover
that ever chose to hide objects which others think cannot be too much
exposed; and when I answer him, it is in order to have a full view of
you, that I dress you up with so much care, he stares at me, as if he
thought me a fool. Ah! my Eloisa, how much more affecting would be
your portrait, if I could but find out the means to display it in your
mind, as well as your face; to paint at once your modesty and your
charms! what would not the latter gain by such an amendment! at
present those only are seen which the painter imagined, and the
ravished spectator thinks them such as they are. I know not what
secret enchantment is about your person, but every thing that touches
you seems to partake of its virtue: one need only perceive the corner
of your garment to revere the wearer of it. One perceives in your
dress how the veil of the graces affords a covering to the model of
beauty; and the taste of your modest apparel displays to the mind all
those charms it conceals.
Letter XCI. To Eloisa.
Oh, Eloisa! you whom once I could call mine, though now I profane your
virtuous name! my pen drops from my trembling hand, I blot the paper
with my tears, I can hardly trace the first words of a letter, which
ought never to be written; alas! I can neither speak nor be silent.
Come, thou dear and respectable image of my love, come, purify and
strengthen a heart depressed with shame and torn to pieces by remorse.
Support my resolution that fails me, and give my contrition the power
to avow the involuntary crime into which the absence of Eloisa has
plunged me.
Oh! Eloisa, how contemptible will you think me! and yet you cannot
hold me in greater contempt than I do myself. Abject as I may seem in
your eyes, I am yet a hundred times more so in my own; for, in
reflecting on my own demerits, what mortifies me most is to see, to
feel you still in my heart, in a place henceforward so little worthy
of your image and to think that the remembrance of the truest
pleasures of love could not prevent me from falling into a snare that
had no lure, from being led into a crime that had presented no
temptation.
Such is the excess of my confusion, that I am afraid, even in
recurring to your clemency, lest the perusal of the lines in which I
confess my guilt should offend you. Let your purity and chastity
forgive me a recital which should have been spared your modesty, were
it not the means to expiate, in some degree, my infidelity. I know I
am unworthy of your goodness; I am a mean, despicable wretch, but I
will not be an hypocrite or deceive you, for I had rather you should
deprive me of your love, and even life itself, than to impose on
Eloisa for a moment. Lest I should be tempted, therefore, to seek
excuses to palliate my crime, which will only render me the more
criminal, I will confine myself to an exact relation of what has
happened to me; a relation that shall be as sincere as my repentance,
which is all I shall say in my defence.
I had commenced acquaintance with some officers in the guards, and
other young people among my countrymen, in whom I found a good innate
disposition, which I was sorry to see spoiled by the imitation of I
know not what false airs, which nature never designed for them. They
laughed at me in their turn, for preserving in Paris the simplicity of
our ancient Helvetian manners; and, construing my maxims and behaviour
into an indirect censure of theirs, resolved to make me a convert to
their own practices at all hazards. After several attempts which did
not succeed, they made another too well concerted to fail of success.
Yesterday morning they came to me, with a proposal to go with the lady
of a certain colonel they mentioned, who, from the report, they were
pleased to say, of my good sense, had a mind to be acquainted with me.
Fool enough to give into this idle story, I represented to them the
propriety of first making her a visit; but they laughed at my
punctilios, telling me the frankness of a Swiss did not at all agree
with such formality, and that so much ceremony would only serve to
give her a bad opinion of me. At nine o’clock then in the evening, we
waited on the lady. She came out to receive us on the stair-case,
through an excess of civility which I had never seen practised before.
Having entered the apartment, I observed a servant lighting up pieces
of old wax candles over the chimney, and over all an air of
preparation which did not at all please me. The mistress of the house
appeared handsome, tho’ a little past her prime: there were also
several other women with her much about the same age and figure; their
dress, which was rich enough, had more of finery in it than taste; but
I have already observed to you that this is not a sure sign by which
to judge of the condition of the women of this country.----The first
compliments were made as usual, custom teaching one to cut them short,
or to turn them into pleasantry, before they grew tiresome. Something
unusual however appeared as soon as our discourse became general and
serious. I thought the ladies seemed to wear an air of restraint as if
it were not familiar to them, and now, for the first time since I have
been at Paris, I saw women at a loss to support a rational
conversation. To find an easy topic, they brought up at length their
family affairs, and as I knew none of them, I had little share in the
conversation. Never before did I hear so much talk of the colonel, and
the colonel; which not a little surprized me, in a country where it is
the custom to distinguish people rather by their names than by their
profession, and in which almost every man of rank in the army has
besides some other title of distinction.
This affectation of dignity soon gave way to a behaviour more natural
to them: they began to talk low, and, running insensibly into an air
of indecent familiarity, they laughed and whispered every time they
looked at me; while the lady of the house asked me the situation of my
heart, with a certain boldness of manner, not at all adapted to make a
conquest of it. The table was spread, and that freedom which seems to
make no distinction of persons, but generally puts every one without
design in the proper place, fully convinced me what sort of company I
was in. But it was too late to recede: putting my confidence therefore
in my aversion, I determined to apply that evening to observation, and
to employ in the study of that order of women, the only opportunity I
might ever have. Little, however, was the fruit of my attention: I
found them so insensible to their present situation, so void of
apprehensions for the future, and, excepting the tricks of their
profession, so stupid in all respects, that the contempt into which
they sunk in my opinion, soon effaced the pity I first entertained for
them. In speaking even of pleasure itself, I saw they were incapable
of feeling it. They appeared rapacious after every thing that could
gratify their avarice; and, excepting what regarded their interest, I
heard not a word drop from their lips that came from the heart. I was
astonished to think how men, not abandoned like themselves, could
support so disgustful a society. It were, in my opinion, the most
cruel punishment that could be inflicted, to oblige them to keep such
company.
We sat a long while at supper, and the company at length began to grow
noisy. For want of love, the wine went briskly round to inflame the
guests: the discourse was not tender but immodest, and the women
strove by the disorder of their dress to excite those passions which
should have caused that disorder. All this had a very different effect
upon me, and their endeavours to reduce me only heightened my disgust.
Sweet modesty! said I to myself, it is thine to inspire the sublimest
raptures love can bestow! how impotent are female charms when thou
hast left them! if the sex did but know thy power, what pains would
they not take to preserve thee inviolate; if not for the sake of
virtue, at least for their interest! but modesty is not to be assumed.
There is not a more ridiculous artifice in the world than that of the
prude who affects it. What a difference, thought I, is there between
the impudence of these creatures, with their licentious expressions,
and those timid and tender looks, those conversations so full of
modesty, so delicate, so sentimental, which----but I dare not finish
the sentence; I blush at the comparison.----I reproach myself, as if
it were criminal, with the delightful remembrance of her who pursues
me wherever I go. But how shall I now dare to think of her?----alas!
it is impossible to eraze your image from my heart: let me then strive
to conceal it there.
The noise, the discourse I heard, together with the objects that
presented themselves to my view, insensibly inflamed me; my two
neighbours plied me incessantly with wine. I found my head confused,
and, though I drank all the while a good deal of water in my wine, I
now took more water, and at length determined to drink water only. It
was then I perceived the pretended water set before me was white wine,
and that I had drank it from the first. I made no complaints, as they
would only have subjected me to raillery, but gave over drinking
entirely. But it was too late, the mischief was already done, and the
intoxicating effects of what I had already drank soon deprived me of
the little sense that remained. I was surprized, in recovering my
senses, to find myself in a retired closet, locked in the embraces of
one of those creatures I had supped with, and in the same instant had
the mortification to find myself as criminal as I could possibly be.
I have finished this horrible relation. Would to heaven it might never
more offend your eyes, nor torture my memory. O Eloisa! it is from you
I expect my doom; I demand, I deserve, your severity. Whatever be my
punishment it will be less cruel than the remembrance of my crime.
Letter XCII. The Answer.
You may be easy as to the fear of having offended me. Your letter
rather excited my grief than my anger. It is not me, it is your-self
you have offended, by a debauch in which the heart had no share. I am
at this, however, but the more afflicted; for I had much rather you
should affront Eloisa than debase yourself; and the injury you have
done to yourself is that only which I cannot forgive.----To regard
only the fault of which you accuse yourself, you are not so culpable
as you imagine: I can reproach you on that account only with
imprudence. But what I blame you for, is of a greater moment, and
proceeds from a failing, that has taken deeper root than you imagine,
and which it is the part of a friend to lay before you.
Your primary error lies in having at first taken a wrong path, in
which, the farther you advance the more you will go astray; and I
tremble to see that, unless you tread back the steps you have taken,
you are inevitably lost. You have suffered yourself to be led
insensibly into the very snares I dreaded. The more gross and palpable
allurements of vice I knew could not seduce you, but the bad company
you keep, hath begun by deluding your reason, to corrupt your morals,
and hath already made the first essay of its maxims on your behaviour.
You have told me nothing, it is true, in particular, of the
acquaintance you have made in Paris; but it is easy to judge of your
companions by your letters, and of those who point out the objects, by
your manner of describing them. I have not concealed from you how
little satisfied I have been with your remarks; you have nevertheless
continued them in the same stile, which has only increased my
displeasure. In fact, one would rather take your observations for the
sarcasms of some petit-maitre, than for the animadversions of a
philosopher; and it is hardly possible to believe them written by the
same hand that wrote your former letters. Do you think to study
mankind by the confined behaviour of a few societies of finical prudes
and other idlers? do none of your remarks penetrate beyond the
exterior and changeable varnish which ought hardly to have engaged
your attention? was it worthwhile to collect with so much care those
peculiarities of manners and decorum, which ten years hence will no
longer exist; while the unalterable springs of the human heart, the
constant and secret workings of the passions have escaped your
researches? let us turn to your letter concerning women: in what have
you instructed me to know them? you have given indeed a description of
their dress, which all the world might be as well acquainted with; and
have made some malicious observations on the address and behaviour of
some, as also of the irregularities of a few others, which you have
unjustly attributed to them all, as if no person of virtuous
sentiments was to be found in Paris, and every woman flaunted about
there in her chariot, and sat in the front boxes. Have you told me any
thing that can throw real light upon their true character, taste or
maxims? and is it not strange, that in describing the women of a
country, a man of sense should omit what regards their domestic
concerns and education of their children? [38] the only circumstance
in that letter characteristic of its author, is the apparent
satisfaction with which you commend the goodness of their natural
disposition, which, I must confess, doth honour to yours. And yet,
what have you done more in that than barely justice to the sex in
general? for in what country are not gentleness of manners and
compassion for the distressed, the amiable qualities of the women?
What a difference had there been in the picture, if you had described
what you had seen, rather than what you had heard; or, at least, if
you had only consulted people of sense and solidity on the occasion?
was it for you, who have taken so much pains to cultivate your genius,
to throw away your time deliberately in the company of a parcel of
inconsiderate young fellows, who take pleasure in the society of
persons of virtue and understanding, not to imitate, but only to
seduce and corrupt them. You lay a stress on the equality of age, with
which you should have nothing to do, and forgot that of sense and
knowledge, which is more peculiarly essential. In spite of your
violent passions, you are certainly the most pliable man in the world;
and, notwithstanding the ripeness of your judgment, permit yourself to
be conducted so implicitly by those you converse with, that you cannot
keep company with young people of your own age without condescending
to become a mere infant in their hands. Thus you mistake in your
choice of proper companions, and demean yourself in not fixing upon
such as have more understanding than yourself.
I do not reproach you with having been inadvertently taken into a
dishonest house; but with having been conducted thither by a party of
young officers, who ought never to have known you; or at least, whom
you should never have permitted to direct your amusements. With
respect to your project of making them converts to your own
principles, I discover in it more zeal than prudence; if you are of
too serious a turn to be their companion, you are too young to be
their tutor, and you ought not to think of reforming others till there
is nothing left to reform in yourself.
The next fault, which is of more moment and less pardonable, is to
have passed voluntarily the evening in a place so unworthy of you, and
not to have left the house the moment you knew what it was. Your
excuses on this head are mean and pitiful. You say _it was too late to
recede_, as if any decorum was necessary to be observed in such a
place, or as if decorum ought ever to take place of virtue, and that
it were ever too late to abstain from doing evil. As to the security
you found in your aversion to the manners of such a company, I will
say nothing of it; the event has shewn you how well it was founded.
Speak more freely to one who so well knows how to read your heart;
say, you were ashamed to leave your companions. You were afraid they
would laugh at you, a momentary hiss struck you with fear, and you had
rather expose yourself to the bitterness of remorse than the tartness
of raillery. Do you know what a maxim you followed on this occasion?
that which first vitiates every innocent mind, drowns the voice of
conscience in public clamour, and represses the resolution of doing
well by the fear of censure. Such a mind may overcome temptations, and
yet yield to the force of bad examples, may blush at being really
modest and become impudent through bashfulness, a false bashfulness
that is more destructive to a virtuous mind than bad inclinations.
Look well then to the security of yours; for, whatever you may
pretend, the fear of ridicule which you affect to despise, prevails
over you, in spite of yourself. You would sooner face a hundred
dangers than one raillery, and never was seen so much timidity united
to so intrepid a mind.
Not to make a parade of precepts which you know better than I, I shall
content myself with proposing a method more easy and sure perhaps
than all the arguments of philosophy. This is on such occasions to
make in thought a slight transposition of circumstances, to anticipate
a few minutes of time. If, at that unfortunate supper, you had but
fortified yourself against a moment’s raillery, by the idea of the
state of mind you should be in as soon as you got into the street; had
you represented to yourself that inward contentment you should feel at
having escaped the snares laid for you, the consciousness of having
avoided the danger, the pleasure it would give you to write me an
account of it, that which I should myself receive in reading it: had
you, I say, called these circumstances to mind, is it to be supposed
they would not have over-balanced the mortification of being laughed
at for a moment; a mortification you would never have dreaded, could
you but have foreseen the consequences? but what is this
mortification, which gives consequence to the raillery of people for
whom one has no esteem? this reflection would infallibly have saved
you, in return for a moment’s imaginary disgrace, much real and more
durable shame, remorse and danger; it would have saved (for why should
I dissemble?) your friend, your Eloisa, many tears.
You determined, you tell me, to apply that evening to your
observations. What an employment! what observations! I blush for your
excuses. Will you not also, when an opportunity offers, have the same
curiosity to make observations on robbers in their dens? and to see
the methods they take to seize their prey, and strip the unhappy
passengers that fall into their hands? are you ignorant that there
are objects too detestable for a man of probity to look on, and that
the indignation of virtue cannot support the sight of vice?
The philosopher remarks indeed the public licentiousness which he
cannot prevent; he sees it, and his countenance betrays the concern it
gives him: but as to that of individuals, he either opposes it or
turns away his eyes from the sight, lest he should give it a sanction
by his presence. May I not ask besides what necessity there was to be
eye-witness of such scenes, in order to judge of what passed, or the
conversation that was held there? for my part, I can judge more easily
of the whole, from the intention and design of such a society, than
from the little you tell me of it, and the idea of those pleasures
that are to be found there, gives me a sufficient insight into the
characters of such as go to seek them.
I know not if your commodious scheme of philosophy has already adopted
the maxims, which, it is said, are established in large towns, for the
toleration of such places: but I hope, at least, you are not one of
those who debase themselves so much as to put them in practice, under
the pretext of I know not what chimerical necessity, that is known
only to men of debauched lives; as if the two sexes were in this
respect of a different constitution; and, that during absence or
celibacy, a virtuous man is under a necessity of indulging himself in
liberties which are denied to a modest woman. But if this error does
not lead you to prostitutes, I am afraid it will continue to lead your
imagination astray. Alas! if you are determined to be despicable, be
so at least without pretext; and add not the vice of lying to that of
drunkenness. All those pretended necessities have no foundation in
nature, but in the voluntary depravation of the senses. Even the fond
illusions of love are refined by a chaste mind, and pollute it only
when the heart is first depraved. On the contrary, chastity is its own
support; the desires constantly repressed accustom themselves to
remain at rest, and temptations are only multiplied by the habit of
yielding to them. Friendship has made me twice overcome the reluctance
I had to write on such a subject, and this shall be the last time: for
on what plea can I hope to obtain that influence over you, which you
have refused to virtue, to love, and to reason?
But I return to that important point, with which I began this letter;
at one and twenty years of age you sent me, from the Valais, grave and
judicious descriptions of men and things: at twenty-five you write me,
from Paris, a pack of trifling letters, wherein good sense is
sacrificed to a certain quaintness and pleasantry, very incompatible
with your character. I know not how you have managed; but since you
have resided among people of refined talents, yours appear to be
diminished: you profited among clowns, and have lost by the wits. This
is not, however, the fault of the place you are in, but of the
acquaintance you have made: for nothing requires greater judgment than
to make a proper choice in a mixture of the excellent and execrable.
If you would study the world, keep company with men of sense, who have
known it by long experience and observations made at leisure; not with
giddy-headed boys, who see only the superficies of things, and laugh
at what they themselves make ridiculous. Paris is full of sensible
men, accustomed to reflection, and to whom every day presents a
fertile field for observation. You will never make me believe that
such grave and studious persons run about, as you do, from house to
house, and from club to club, to divert the women and young fellows,
and turn all philosophy into chit chat. They have too much dignity
thus to debase their characters, prostitute their talents, and give a
sanction by their example, to modes which they ought to correct. But,
if even most of them should, there are certainly many who do not, and
it is those you ought to have chosen for companions.
Is it not extraordinary, that you should fall into the very same error
in your behaviour, which you blame in the writings of the comic poets:
from which you say one would imagine Paris was peopled only by persons
of distinction. These are your constant theme, while those of your own
rank escape your notice; as if the ridiculous prejudices of nobility
had not cost you sufficiently dear, to make you hate them for ever; or
that you thought you degraded yourself in keeping company with honest
citizens and tradesmen, the most respectable order of men, perhaps in
the whole country. It is in vain you endeavour to excuse yourself, in
that yours are the acquaintance of Lord B----: with the assistance of
these, you might easily have made others of an inferior rank. So many
people are desirous to rise, that it is always easy to descend; and by
your own confession the only way, to come at the true manners of a
nation is to study the private life of the most numerous order among
them; for to confine your observations to those who only personate
assumed characters, is only to observe the actions of a company of
comedians.
I would have your curiosity exerted still farther. How comes it that,
in so opulent a city, the poor people are so miserable; while such
extreme distress is hardly ever experienced among us, where, on the
other hand, we have no examples of immense wealth? This question is,
in my opinion, well worth your asking; but it is not the people you
converse with that are to resolve it. It is in the splendid apartments
of the rich that the novice goes to learn the manners of the world;
but the man of sense and experience betakes himself to the cottages of
the poor. These are the places for the detection of those iniquitous
practices, that in polite circles are varnished over and hid beneath a
specious shew of words. It is here that the rich and powerful, by
coming to the knowledge of the basest arts of oppression, feel for the
unhappy what in public they only affect. If I may believe our old
officers, you will learn many things in the garrets of a fifth floor,
which are buried in profound silence at the _hotels_, in the suburbs
of St. Germain: you will find that many fine talkers would be struck
dumb, if all those they have made unhappy were present to contradict
their boasted pretensions to humanity.
I know the sight of misery that excites only fruitless pity is
disagreeable; and that even the rich turn away their eyes from the
unhappy objects to whom they refuse relief: but money is not the only
thing the unfortunate stand in need of; and they are but indolent in
well-doing who can exert themselves only with their purse in their
hands. Consolation, advice, concern, friends, protection, there are
all so many resources which compassion points out to those who are not
rich, for relief of the indigent. The oppressed often stand in need
only of a tongue, to make known their complaints. They often want no
more than a word they cannot speak, a reason they are ashamed to give,
entrance at the door of a great man which they cannot obtain. The
intrepid countenance of disinterested virtue may remove infinite
obstacles, and the eloquence of a man of probity make even a tyrant
tremble in the midst of his guards.
If you would then act as a man, learn to descend again. Humanity, like
a pure salutary stream, flows always downwards to its level;
fertilising the humble vales, while it leaves dry those barren rocks,
whose threatening heads cast a frightful shade, or tumbling headlong
down involve the plain in ruins.
Thus, my friend, may you make use of the past, by drawing thence
instructions for your future conduct; and learn how goodness of heart
may be of advantage to the understanding: whoever lives among people
in office, cannot be too cautious of the corruptible maxims they
inculcate; and it is only the constant exercise of their benevolence
that can secure the best hearts from the contagion of ambition. Try
this new kind of study: it is more worthy of you, than those you have
hitherto adopted; and; believe me, as the genius is impoverished in
proportion as the mind is corrupted, you will soon find, on the
contrary, how much the practice of virtue elevates and improves it:
you will experience how much the interest you take in the misfortunes
of others will assist you in tracing their source, and will thereby
learn to escape the vices that produce them.
I ought to take all the freedom with you that friendship authorises in
the critical situation in which you at present appear: lest a second
step towards debauchery should plunge you beyond recovery, and that,
before you have time to recollect yourself. I cannot conceal from you,
my friend, how much your ready and sincere confession has affected me;
as I am sensible how much shame and confusion it must have cost you,
and from thence how heavy this piece of ill-conduct must sit upon your
heart; an involuntary crime, however, is easily forgiven and forgot.
But, for the future, remember well that maxim, from which I shall
never recede: he who is a second time deceived on these occasions,
cannot be said to have been deceived the first.
Adieu, my friend, be careful, I conjure you, of your health; and be
assured I shall not retain the least remembrance of a fault I have
once forgiven.
P. S. I have seen, in the hands of Mr. Orbe, the copies of several of
your letters to Lord B----, which oblige me to retract part of the
censure I have passed on the matter and manner of your observations.
These letters, I must confess, treat of important subjects, and appear
to be full of serious and judicious reflections. But hence it is
evident, that you either treat my cousin and me disdainfully, or that
you set little value on our esteem, in sending us such trivial
relations as might justly forfeit it, while you transmit so much
better to your friend. It is, in my opinion, doing little honour to
your instructions to think your scholars unworthy to admire your
talents: for you ought to affect at least, were it only through
vanity, to think us capable of it.
I own political matters are not proper subjects for women: and my
uncle has tired us with them so heartily, that I can easily conceive
you were afraid of doing so too. To speak freely, also, these are not
the topics I prefer: their utility is too foreign to affect me, and
their arguments too subtle to make any lasting impression. Bound to
respect the government, under which it is my fate to have been born, I
give myself no trouble to enquire whether there are any better. To
what end should I be instructed in the knowledge of governments, who
have so little power to establish them? and why should I afflict
myself with the consideration of evils too great for me to remedy,
when I am surrounded with others that are in my power to redress? but,
for my love to you, the interest I should not take in the subject, I
should take in the writer. I collect, with a pleasing admiration, all
the fruits of your genius; and, proud of merit so deserving of my
heart, I beseech of love only so much wit as to make me relish yours.
Refuse me not then the pleasure of knowing and admiring your works of
merit. Will you mortify me so much as to give me reason to think that,
if heaven should ever unite us, you will not judge your companion
worthy to know and adopt your sentiments?
Letter XCIII. From Eloisa.
We are undone! all is discovered! your letters are gone! they were
there last night, and could have been taken away but to day. ’Tis my
mother: it can be no body else. If my father should see them, my life
is in danger. But why should he not see them, if I must renounce----
Heavens! my mother sends for me, whither shall I fly? how shall I
support her presence? O that I could hide myself in the centre of the
earth! I tremble every limb, and am unable to move one step----the
shame, the mortification, the killing reproaches----I have deserved
it, I will support it all. But oh! the grief, the tears of a weeping
mother----O, my heart, how piercing!----she waits for me; I can stay
no longer----she will know----I must tell her all----Regianino
will be dismissed. Write no more till you hear further----who knows
if ever----yet I might----what? deceive her?----deceive my
mother!----alas! if our safety lies in supporting a falsehood,
farewell, we are indeed undone!
Letter XCIV. From Mrs. Orbe.
O how you afflict all those who love you! what tears have already been
shed on your account, in an unfortunate family, whose tranquillity has
been disturbed by you alone! Fear to add to these tears by covering us
with mourning: tremble lest the death of an afflicted parent should be
the last effect of the poison you have poured into the heart of her
child, and that your extravagant passion will at length fill you with
eternal remorse. My friendship made me support your folly, while it
was capable of being nourished by the shadow of hope; but how can it
allow a vain constancy condemned by honour and reason, and which
producing nothing but pain and misfortune can only deserve the name of
obstinacy?
You know in what manner the secret of your passion, so long concealed
from the suspicions of my aunt, has been discovered by your letters.
How sensibly must such a stroke be felt by a tender and virtuous
mother, less irritated against you, than against herself! she blames
her blind negligence, she deplores her fatal delusion, her deepest
affliction arises from her having had too high an esteem for her
daughter, and her grief has filled Eloisa with a hundred times more
sorrow than all her reproaches.
My poor cousin’s distress is not to be conceived. No idea can be
formed of it without seeing her. Her heart seems stifled with grief,
and the violence of the sensations by which it is oppressed, gives her
an air of stupidity more terrifying than the most piercing cries. She
continues night and day by her mother’s bed, with a mournful look, her
eyes fixed on the floor, and profoundly silent; yet serving her with
greater attention and vivacity than ever; then instantly relapsing
into a state of dejection, she appears to be no longer the same
person. It is very evident, that the mother’s illness supports the
spirits of her daughter; and if an ardent desire to serve her did not
give her strength, the extinguished lustre of her eyes, her paleness,
her extreme grief, make me apprehensive she would stand in great need
of the assistance she bestows. My aunt likewise perceives it, and I
see from the earnestness with which she recommends Eloisa’s health to
my care, how her poor heart is agitated, and how much reason we have
to hate you for disturbing such a pleasing union.
This anxiety is still increased by the care of hiding from a
passionate father, a dangerous secret, which the mother, who trembles
for the life of her daughter, would conceal. She has resolved to
observe in his presence their former familiarity; but if maternal
tenderness with pleasure takes advantage of this pretext, a daughter
filled with confusion, dares not yield her heart to caresses which she
believes feigned, and which are the more painful, in proportion as
they would be engaging, could she presume to think them real. At the
fond caresses of her father she looks towards her mother with an air
so tender, and so humble, that she seems to say: Ah! why am I not
still worthy of your tenderness!
In my frequent conversations with the baroness D’Etange I could easily
find by the mildness of her reprimands, and by the tone in which she
spoke of you, that Eloisa has endeavoured, to the utmost of her power,
to calm her too just indignation, and that she has spared no pains to
justify us both at her own expense. Even your letters, besides a
violent passion, contain a kind of excuse which has not escaped her:
she reproaches you less for abusing her confidence, than she does her
own weakness for putting it in your power. She has such an esteem for
you, as to believe that no other man in your place would have made a
better resistance; and that your faults even spring from virtue. She
now, she says, perceives the vanity of that boasted probity which does
not secure a person in love, who is in other respect a worthy man,
from the guilt of corrupting a virtuous girl, and without scruple
dishonouring a whole family, to indulge a momentary madness. But to
what purpose do we recur to what is past? our present business is to
conceal, under an everlasting veil, this odious mystery; to efface, if
possible, the least vestige of it, and to second the goodness of
heaven, which has left no visible proof of your folly. The secret is
confined to six safe persons. The repose of all you have loved, the
life of a mother reduced to despair, the honour of a respectable
family, your own virtue, all these still depend on you, all these
point out your duty: you may repair the evil you have done, you may
render yourself worthy of Eloisa, and justify her fault by renouncing
your pretensions. If I am not deceived in my opinion of your heart,
nothing but the greatness of such a sacrifice can be equal to the love
that renders it necessary. Relying on the sublimity of your
sentiments, I have promised, in your name, every thing you ought to
perform: dare to undeceive me, if I have presumed too much on your
merit, or be now what you ought to be. It is necessary to sacrifice
either your mistress or your love, and to shew yourself the most
abject, or the most virtuous of mankind.
This unfortunate mother resolved to write to you: she even began the
painful task. Oh! what stabs would her bitter complaints have given
you! how would her affecting reproaches have wounded your heart! and
her humble intreaties have filled you with shame! I have torn in
pieces this distressful letter, which you would never have been able
to support. I could not endure the preposterous sight of a mother
humbling herself before the seducer of her child: you are worthy, at
least, that we should not use means that would rend a heart of
adamant, and drive to the extremes of despair, a man of uncommon
sensibility.
Were this the first effort love had demanded from you, I might doubt
of the success, and hesitate as to the degree of esteem you deserve:
but the sacrifice you have made to the honour of Eloisa, by quitting
this country, is a pledge of that you are going to make to her repose,
by putting a stop to a useless correspondence. The first efforts of
virtue are always the most painful; and you will lose the advantage of
that which has cost you so dear, by obstinately maintaining a vain
correspondence, attended with such danger to her you love, without the
least advantage to either of you; and which can only serve to prolong
the torments of both. No longer doubt it; it is become absolutely
necessary that this Eloisa, who was so dear to you, should be
forgotten by the man she loved so well: in vain you dissemble your
misfortunes, she was lost to you at the moment you left her. Or rather
heaven disposed of her, before she gave herself to you; for her father
had promised her to another before his return, and you too well know
that the promise of that inexorable man is irrevocable. In what
manner soever you regulate your conduct your desires are opposed by an
inevitable fate, and you can never possess her. The only choice you
have left, is either to plunge her into an abyss of misfortunes and
reproach, or to honour what you have adored, and restore to her,
instead of the happiness she has lost, at least, the prudence, peace,
and safety, of which she has been deprived by your fatal connections.
How would you be afflicted, how would you be stung with remorse, could
you contemplate the real state of this unhappy friend, and the
abasement to which she is reduced by remorse and shame? how is her
lustre tarnished, how languid all her gracefulness? how are all her
noble and engaging sentiments unhappily absorbed in this one passion?
her friendship itself is cooled; scarcely does she partake of the
pleasure I feel when we meet, her sick heart is only sensible of love
and grief. Alas! what is become of that fondness and sensibility, of
that delicacy of taste, of that tender interest in the pains and
pleasures of others? she is still, I confess mild, generous,
compassionate; the amiable habit of doing well cannot be effaced, but
’tis only a blind habit, a taste without reflection. Her actions are
the same, but they are not performed with the same zeal; those sublime
sentiments are weakened, that divine flame is extinguished, this angel
is now no more than woman. Oh, what a noble mind have you seduced from
the path of virtue!
Letter XCV. To The Baroness D’Etange.
Overwhelmed with endless sorrow, I throw myself at your feet, madam,
not to shew a repentance that is out of my power; but to expiate an
involuntary crime, by renouncing all that could render life a
blessing. As no human passion ever equalled that inspired by your
celestial daughter, never was there a sacrifice equal to that I am
going to make to the most respectable of mothers; but Eloisa has too
well taught me how to sacrifice happiness to duty; she has too
courageously set me the example, for me, at least, in one instance,
not to imitate her. Were my blood capable of removing your distress, I
would shed it in silence, and complain of being able to give you only
so feeble a proof of my affection; but to break the most sweet, the
most pure, the most sacred bond that ever united two hearts, is alas!
an effort which the whole universe could not oblige me to make, and
which you alone could obtain.
Yes, I promise to live far from her, as long as you require it; I will
abstain from seeing and writing to her; this I swear by your precious
life, so necessary to the preservation of hers. I submit, not without
horror, but without murmuring, to whatever you condescend to enjoin
her and me. I will even add, that her happiness is capable of
alleviating my misery, and that I shall die contented, if you give her
a husband worthy of her. Oh, let him be found! and let him dare to
tell me that his passion for Elois is greater than mine! In vain, may
he have every thing that I want; if he has not my heart, he has
nothing for Eloisa; but I have only this honest and tender heart.
Alas! I have nothing more. Love, which levels all, exalts not the
person, it elevates only the sentiments. Oh, had I dared to listen to
mine for you, how often, in speaking to you, madam, would my lips have
pronounced the tender name of mother?
Deign to confide in oaths, which shall not be vain, and in a man who
is not a deceiver. If I ever dishonour your esteem, I must first
dishonour myself. My unexperienced heart knew not the danger, till it
was too late to fly: I had not then learned of your daughter the cruel
art she has since taught me, of conquering love with its own weapons.
Banish your fears, I conjure you. Is there a person in the world to
whom her repose, her felicity, her honour, is dearer than it is to me?
no, my word and my heart are securities for the engagement into which
I now enter, both in my own name, and in that of my lovely friend.
Assure yourself that no indiscreet word shall ever pass my lips, and
that I will breathe my last sigh without divulging the cause of my
death. Calm therefore that affliction which consumes you, and which
adds infinitely to my sufferings; dry up the tears that pierce my very
soul; try to recover your health; restore to the most affectionate
daughter the world ever produced, the happiness she has renounced for
you; be happy; live, that she may value life; for regardless of our
misfortunes, to be the mother of Eloisa, is still sufficient cause for
happiness.
Letter XCVI. To Mrs. Orbe,
_With the preceding Letter inclosed._
There, cruel friend! is my answer. When you read it, if you know my
heart, you will burst into tears, unless yours has lost its
sensibility; but no longer overwhelm me with that merciless esteem,
which I so dearly purchase, and which serves but to increase my
torture.
Has your barbarous hand then dared to break the gentle union formed
under your eye, even almost from infancy, and which your friendship
seemed to share with so much pleasure? I am now as wretched as you
would have me, and as there is a possibility of being. Do you conceive
all the evil you have done? are you sensible that you have torn me
from my soul? that what I have lost is beyond redemption, and that it
is better to die an hundred times, than not to live for each other?
why do you urge the happiness of Eloisa? can she be happy without
contentment? why do you mention the danger of her mother? ah! what is
the life of a mother, of mine, of yours, of hers itself, what is the
existence of the whole world, to the delightful sensation by which we
were united? O senseless and savage virtue! I obey thy unmeaning
voice, I abhor thee, while I sacrifice all to thy dictates. What avail
thy vain consolations against the distressful agonies of the soul? go,
thou sullen idol of the unhappy, thou only knowest to augment their
misery, by depriving them of the resources which fortune offers: yet I
obey; yes, cruel friend, I obey; I will become, if possible, as
insensible and savage as yourself. I will forget every thing upon
earth that was dear to me. I will no longer hear or pronounce Eloisa’s
name, or yours. I will no more recall their insupportable remembrance.
An inflexible vexation and rage shall preserve me from such
misfortunes. A steady obstinacy shall supply the place of courage: I
have paid too dearly for my sensibility; it were better to renounce
humanity itself.
Letter XCVII. From Mrs. Orbe.
Your letter is indeed extremely pathetic, but there is so much love
and virtue in your conduct, that it effaces the bitterness of your
complaints: you are so generous, that I have not the courage to
quarrel with you; for whatever extravagancies we may commit, if we are
still capable of sacrificing all that is dear to us, we deserve praise
rather than reproach; therefore, notwithstanding your abuse, you never
was so dear to me, as since you have made me so fully sensible of your
worth.
Return thanks to that virtue you believe you hate, and which does more
for you than even your love. There is not one of us, not even my aunt,
whom you have not gained by a sacrifice, the value of which she well
knows. She could not read your letter without melting into tears: she
had even the weakness to shew it to her daughter; but poor Eloisa’s
endeavours while she read it, to stifle her sighs and tears, quite
overcame her, and she fainted away.
This tender mother, whom your letters had already greatly affected,
begins to perceive from every circumstance, that your hearts are of a
superior mould, and that they are distinguished by a natural sympathy,
which neither time nor human efforts will ever be able to efface. She
who stands in such need of consolation would herself freely console
her daughter, if prudence did not restrain her; and I see her too
ready to become her confident, to fear that she can be angry with me.
Yesterday I heard her say, even before Eloisa, perhaps a little
indiscreetly, “ah! if it only depended on me!”----and tho’ she said no
more, I perceived by a kiss which Eloisa impressed on her hand, that
she too well understood her meaning. I am even certain that she was
several times inclined to speak to her inflexible husband, but whether
the danger of exposing her daughter to the fury of an enraged father,
or whether it was fear for herself, her timidity has hitherto kept her
silent: and her illness increases so fast, that I am afraid she will
never be able to execute her half-formed resolution.
However, notwithstanding the faults of which you are the cause, that
integrity of heart, visible in your mutual affection, has given her
such an opinion of you, that she confides in the promise you have both
made, of discontinuing your correspondence, and has not taken any
precaution to have her daughter more closely watched: indeed, if
Eloisa makes an ill return to her confidence, she will no longer be
worthy of her affection. You would both deserve the severest
treatment, if you were capable of deceiving the best of mothers, and
of abusing her esteem.
I shall not endeavour to revive in your mind the hopes which I myself
do not entertain; but I would shew you, that the most honest, is also
the wisest part, and that if you have any resource left, it is in the
sacrifice which reason and honour require. Mother, relations, and
friends are now all for you, except the father, who will by this
method be gained over, if any thing can do it. Whatever imprecations
you may utter in the moment of despair, you have a hundred times
proved to us, that there is no path more sure of leading to happiness
than that of virtue. Therefore resume your courage, and be a man! be
yourself. If I am well acquainted with your heart, the most cruel
manner of losing Eloisa, would be by rendering yourself unworthy of
her.
Letter XCVIII. From Eloisa.
She is no more! my eyes have seen hers closed for ever; my lips have
received her last sigh; my name was the last word she pronounced; her
last look was fixed on me. No, ’twas not life she seemed to quit; too
little had I known how to render that valuable! From me alone she was
torn. She saw me without a guide, and void of hope, overwhelmed by my
misfortunes and my crime: to her, death was nothing; she grieved only
to leave her daughter in such a state of misery. She had but too much
reason. What had she to regret on earth? what could there be here
below, in her eye, worth the immortal prize of patience and virtue,
reserved for her in a better world? what had she to do on earth, but
to lament my shame? Oh! most incomparable woman! thou now dwellest in
the abode of glory and felicity! thou livest; whilst I, given up to
repentance and despair, deprived for ever of thy care, of thy counsel,
of thy sweet caresses, am dead to happiness, to peace, to innocence!
Nothing do I feel but thy loss; nothing do I see but my reproach: my
life is only pain and grief. Oh my dear, my tender mother alas, I am
more dead than thou art!
Good God! to whom do I shed these tears, and vent these sighs? the
cruel man who caused them, I make my confident! with him who has
rendered my life unhappy, I dare to deplore my misfortunes! yes, yes,
barbarous as you are, share the torments you have made me suffer. You,
for whom I have plunged the poignard into a mother’s bosom, tremble at
the misfortunes you have occasioned, and shudder with me at the horrid
act you have committed. To what eyes dare I presume to appear, as
despicable as I really am? before whom shall I degrade myself to the
bent of my remorse? to whom, but to the accomplice of my crime, can I
sufficiently make it known? it is my insupportable punishment, to have
no accuser but my own heart, and to see attributed to the goodness of
my disposition the impure tears that flow from a bitter repentance. I
saw, I trembling saw the poisonous sorrow put a period to the life of
my unhappy mother. In vain did her pity for me prevent her confessing
it; in vain she affected to attribute the progress of her illness to
the cause by which it was produced; in vain was my cousin induced to
talk in the same strain. Nothing could deceive a heart torn with
regret; and to my lasting torment, I shall carry to my tomb the
frightful idea of having shortened her life, to whom I am indebted for
my own.
O thou, whom heaven in its anger raised up to render me guilty and
unhappy, for the last time receive into thy bosom the tears thou hast
occasioned! I come not, as formerly, to share with thee the grief that
ought to be mutual. These are the sighs of a last adieu, which escape
from me in spite of myself. It is done: the empire of love is subdued
in a soul condemned wholly to despair. I will consecrate the rest of
my days to lamentation for the best of mothers. To her I will
sacrifice that passion which was the cause of her death: happy shall I
be, if the painful conquest be sufficient to expiate my guilt! Oh, if
her immortal mind penetrates into the bottom of my heart, she will
know that the sacrifice I make, is not entirely unworthy of her! Share
with me then an effort which you have rendered necessary. If you have
any remaining respect for the memory of an union, once so dear and
fatal, by that I conjure you to fly from me for ever; no more to write
to me; no more to exasperate my remorse; but suffer me to forget, if
possible, our former connection. May my eyes never behold you more! may
I never more hear your name pronounced! may the remembrance of you
never more agitate my mind! I dare still intreat, in the name of that
love which ought never to have existed, that to so many causes of
grief, you add not that of seeing my last request despised. Adieu then
for the last time, dear and only----Ah, fool that I am, adieu for ever!
Letter XCIX. To Mrs. Orbe.
At last the veil is rent; the long illusion is vanished; all my
flattering hopes are extinguished; nothing is left to feed the eternal
flame, but a bitter, yet pleasing remembrance, which supports my life,
and nourishes my torments with the vain recollection of a happiness
that is now no more.
Is it then true, that I have tasted supreme felicity? am I the same
being whose happiness was once so perfect? could any one be
susceptible of such torments, who was not doomed to eternal misery?
Can he who has enjoyed the blessings I have lost, be deprived of
felicity, and still exist? and can such contrary sensations affect the
same mind? O ye glorious and happy days, surely ye were immortal! ye
were too celestial ever to perish! your whole duration was one
continued extasy, by which ye were converged like eternity into a
single point. I knew neither of past nor future, and I tasted at once
the delights of a thousand ages. Alas! ye are vanished like a shadow!
that eternity of happiness was but an instant of my life. Time now
resumes his tardy pace, and slowly measures the sad remains of my
existence.
To render my distress still more insupportable, my increasing
affliction is cruelly aggravated by the loss of all that was dear to
me. It is possible, madam, that you have still some regard for me: but
you are busied by other cares, and employed in other duties. These my
complaints, to which you once listened with concern, are now
indiscreet. Eloisa! Eloisa herself discourages and abandons me. Gloomy
remorse has banished love for ever. All is changed with respect to me;
except the steadfastness of my own heart, which serves but to render
my fate still more dreadful.
But, to what purpose is it to say what I am, and what I ought to be?
Eloisa suffers! is it a time to think of myself? her sorrow adds
bitterness to mine. Yes, I had rather she would cease to love me, and
that she were happy----cease to love me!----can she----hope it?----
never, never! She has indeed forbid me to see or write to her. Alas!
she removes the comforter, but never can the torment! should the loss
of a tender mother deprive her of a still more tender friend? does she
think to alleviate her griefs, by multiplying her misfortune? O love!
can nature be revenged only at thy expense?
No, no; in vain she pretends to forget me. Can her tender heart ever
be separated from mine? do I not retain it in spite of herself? are
sensations like those we have experienced, to be forgotten; and can
they be remembered; without feeling them still? Triumphant love was
the bane of her felicity; and having conquered her passion, she will
only be the more deserving of pity. Her days will pass in sorrow,
tormented at once by vain regret, and vain desires, without being ever
able to fulfil the obligations either of love or virtue.
Do not however imagine, that in complaining of her errors, I cease to
respect them. After so many sacrifices, it is too late for me to begin
to disobey. Since she commands, it is sufficient; she shall hear of me
no more. Is my fate now sufficiently dreadful? renounce my Eloisa!
yes, but that’s not the chief cause of my despair; it is for her I
feel the keenest pangs; and her misfortunes render me more miserable
than my own. You, whom she loves more than all the world, and who next
to me, are best acquainted with her worth; you, my amiable friend, are
the only blessing she has left: a blessing so valuable as to render
the loss of all the rest supportable. Be you her recompense for the
comforts of which she is deprived, and for those also which she
rejects: let a sacred friendship supply at once the tenderness of a
parent, and a lover, by administering every consolation that may
contribute to her happiness. O let her be happy, if she can, how great
soever the purchase! may she soon recover the peace of mind of which
I, alas, have robbed her! I shall then be less sensible of the torment
to which I am doomed. Since in my own eyes I am nothing; since it is
my fate to pass my life in dying for her; let her regard me as already
dead; I am satisfied, if this idea will add to her tranquillity.
Heaven grant, that by your kindness she may be restored to her former
excellence, and her former happiness.
Unhappy daughter! alas, thy mother is no more! this is a loss that
cannot be repaired, and for which so long as she reproaches herself,
she can never be consoled. Her troubled conscience requires of her
this dear and tender mother; and thus the most dreadful remorse is
added to her affliction. O Eloisa! oughtest thou to feel these
terrible sensations? thou who wert a witness of the sickness and of
the last moments of that unfortunate parent! I intreat, I conjure you
to tell me, what I ought to believe? If I am guilty, tear my heart in
pieces: if our crimes were the cause of her death, we are two monsters
unworthy of existence, and it were a double crime to think of so fatal
an union: O, it were even a crime to live! But, no; I cannot believe
that so pure a flame could produce such black effects. Surely the
sentiments of love are too noble. Can heaven be unjust? and could she,
who sacrificed her happiness to the author of her life, ever deserve
to be the cause of her death?
Letter C. The Answer.
How can I cease to love you, when my esteem for you is daily
increasing? how can I stifle my affection, whilst you are growing
every day more worthy of my regard? No, my dear, my excellent friend;
what we were to each other in early life, we shall continue to be for
ever; and if our mutual attachment no longer increases, it is because
it cannot be increased. All the difference is, that I then loved you
as my brother, and that now I love you as my son; for tho’ we are both
younger than you, and were even your scholars, I now in some measure
consider you as ours. In teaching us to think, you have learnt of us
sensibility; and whatever your English philosopher may say, this
education is more valuable than the other; if it is reason that
constitutes the man, it is sensibility that conducts him.
Would you know why I have changed my conduct towards you? it is not,
believe me, because my heart is not still the same; but because your
situation is changed. I favoured your passion, while there remained a
single ray of hope; but since, by obstinately continuing to aspire to
Eloisa, you can only make her unhappy, to flatter your expectations
would be to injure you, I had even rather increase your discontent,
and thus render you less deserving of my compassion. When the
happiness of both becomes impossible, all that is left for a hopeless
lover, is to sacrifice his own to that of his beloved.
This, my generous friend, you have performed in the most painful
sacrifice that ever was made; but, by renouncing Eloisa, you will
purchase her repose, tho’ at the expense of your own.
I dare scarce repeat to you the ideas that occur to me on this
subject; but they are fraught with consolation, and that emboldens me.
In the first place, I believe, that true love, as well as virtue, has
this advantage, that it is rewarded by every sacrifice we make to it,
and that we in some measure enjoy the privations we impose on
ourselves, in the very idea of what they cost us, and of the motives
by which we were induced. You will be sensible that your love for
Eloisa was in proportion to her merit; and that will increase your
happiness. The exquisite self-love, which knows how to reap advantage
from painful virtue, will mingle its charm with that of love. You will
say to yourself, I know how to love, with a pleasure more durable and
more delicate than even possession itself would have afforded. The
latter wears out the passion by constant enjoyment; but the other
sails for ever; and you will still enjoy it even when you cease to
love.
Besides, if what Eloisa and you have so often told me be true, that
love is the most delightful sensation that can enter into the human
heart, every thing that prolongs and fixes it, even at the expense of
a thousand vexations, is still a blessing. If love is a desire, that
is increased by obstacles, as you still say, it ought never to be
satisfied; it is better to preserve it at any rate, than that it
should be extinguished in pleasure. Your passion, I confess, has stood
the proof of possession, of time, of absence, and of dangers of every
kind; it has conquered every obstacle, except the most powerful of
all, that of having nothing more to conquer, and of feeding only on
itself. The world has never seen the passion stand this proof; what
right have you then to hope, that yours would have stood the test?
Time which might have joined to the disgust of a long possession, the
progress of age, and the decline of beauty, seems by your separation
fixed and motionless in your favour; you will be always to each other
in the bloom of your years; you will incessantly see her, as she was
when you beheld her at parting, and your hearts, united even to the
grave, will prolong, by a charming illusion, your youth and your love.
Had you never been happy, you might have been tormented by
insurmountable inquietudes; your heart might have panted after a
felicity of which it was not unworthy; your warm imagination would
have incessantly required that which you have not obtained. But love
has no delights which you have not tasted, and to write like you, you
have exhausted in one year the pleasures of a whole life. Remember the
passionate letter you wrote after a rash interview. I read it with an
emotion I had never before experienced; it had no traces of the
permanent state of a truly tender heart, but was filled with the last
delirium of a mind inflamed with passion, and intoxicated with
pleasure. You yourself may judge that such transports are not to be
twice experienced in this life, and that death ought immediately to
succeed. This, my friend, was the summit of all, and whatever love or
fortune might have done for you, your passion and your felicity must
have declined. That instant was also the beginning of your disgrace,
and Eloisa was taken from you, at the moment when she could inspire no
new sensations, as if fate intended to secure your passion from being
exhausted, and to leave in the remembrance of your past pleasures, a
pleasure more sweet than all those you could now have enjoyed.
Comfort yourself then with the loss of a blessing that would certainly
have escaped you, and would besides have deprived you of that you now
possess. Happiness and love would have vanished at once; you have at
least preserved that passion, and we are not without pleasure, while
we continue to love. The idea of extinguished love is more terrifying
to a tender heart, than that of an unhappy flame; and to feel a
disgust for what we possess, is an hundred times worse than regretting
what is lost.
If the reproaches made you, by my afflicted cousin, on the death of
her mother, were well founded, the cruel remembrance would, I confess,
poison that of your love, which ought for ever to be destroyed by so
fatal an idea; but give no credit to her grief; it deceives her; or
rather the cause to which she would ascribe her sorrow, is only a
pretence to justify its excess. Her tender mind is always in fear that
her affliction is not sufficiently severe, and she feels a kind of
pleasure in adding bitterness to her distress; but she certainly
imposes on herself, she cannot be sincere.
Do you think she could support the dreadful remorse she would feel, if
she really believed she had shortened her mother’s life? no, no, my
friend, she would not then weep, she would have sunk with her into the
grave. The baronet D’Etange’s disease is well known; it was a dropsy
of the pericardium, which was incurable, and her life was despaired
of, even before she had discovered your correspondence. I own it
afflicted her much, but she had great consolation. How comfortable was
it to that tender mother to see, while she lamented the fault of her
daughter, by how many virtues it was counter-balanced, and to be
forced to admire the dignity of her soul, while she lamented the
weakness of nature? how pleasing to perceive with what affection she
loved her? such indefatigable zeal! such continual solicitude! such
grief at having offended her! what regret, what tears, what affecting
caresses, what unwearied sensibility! In the eyes of the daughter were
visible all the mother’s sufferings; it was she who served her in the
day, and watched her by night; it was from her hand that she received
every assistance: you would have thought her some other Eloisa, for
her natural delicacy disappeared, she was strong and robust, the most
painful services caused no fatigue, and the intrepidity of her soul
seemed to have created her a new body. She did every thing, yet
appeared to be unemployed; she was every where, and yet rarely left
her; she was perpetually on her knees by the bed, with her lips
pressed to her mother’s hand, bewailing her illness and her own
misfortunes, and confounding these two sensations, in order to
increase her affliction. I never saw any person enter my aunt’s
chamber, during the last days, without being moved even to tears, at
this most affecting spectacle, to behold two hearts more closely
uniting, at the very moment when they were to be torn asunder. It was
visible that their only cause of anguish was their separation, and
that to live or die would have been indifferent to either, could they
have remained, or departed together.
So far from adopting Eloisa’s gloomy ideas, assure yourself that every
thing that could be hoped for from human assistance and consolation,
have on her part concurred to retard the progress of her mother’s
disease, and that her tenderness and care have undoubtedly preserved
her longer with us, than she would otherwise have continued. My aunt
herself has told me a hundred times that her last days were the
sweetest of her life, and that the happiness of her daughter was the
only thing wanting to compleat her own.
If grief must be supposed in any degree to have hastened her
dissolution, it certainly sprang from another source. It is to her
husband it ought to be ascribed. Being naturally inconstant, he
lavished the fire of his youth on a thousand objects infinitely less
pleasing, than his virtuous wife; and when age brought him back to
her, he treated her with that inflexible severity with which faithless
husbands are accustomed to aggravate their faults. My poor cousin has
felt the effects of it. An high opinion of his nobility, and that
roughness of disposition which nothing can ever soften, have produced
your misfortunes and hers. Her mother, who had always a regard for
you, and who discovered Eloisa’s love when it was too violent to be
extinguished, had long secretly bemoaned the misfortune of not being
able to conquer either the inclinations of her daughter, or the
obstinacy of her husband, and of being the first cause of an evil
which she could not remedy. When your letters unexpectedly fell into
her hands, and she found how far you had misused her confidence, she
was afraid of losing all by endeavouring to save all, and to hazard
the life of her child in attempting to restore her honour. She several
times sounded her husband without success. She often resolved to
venture an entire confidence in him, and to shew him the full extent
of his duty; but she was always restrained by her timidity. She
hesitated while it was in her power, and when she would have told him,
she was no longer able to speak; her strength failed her, she carried
the fatal secret with her to the grave, and I who know this austerity,
without having the least idea how far it may be tempered by natural
affection, am satisfied, since Eloisa’s life is in no danger.
All this she knows; but you will ask, what I think of her apparent
remorse? in answer to which I must tell you, that Love is more
ingenuous than she. Overcome with grief for the loss of her mother,
she would willingly forget you, and yet in spite of herself, Love
disturbs her conscience in order to bring you to her memory. He
chuses that her tears should be connected with the object of her
passion, but she not daring to employ her thoughts directly on you, he
deceives her into it under the mask of repentance: thus he imposes on
her with so much art, that he is willing to increase her woes rather
than banish you from her thoughts. Your heart may perhaps be ignorant
of such subterfuges, but they are not the less natural; for though
your passion may be equal in degree, its nature in each of you is very
different. Yours is warm and violent, hers soft and tender; your
sensations are breathed forth with vehemence, but hers retort upon
herself, and pierce and poison her very inmost soul. Love animates and
supports your heart, whilst hers is oppressed and dejected with its
weight, all its springs are relaxed, her strength is gone, her courage
is extinguished, and her virtue has lost its power. Her heroic
faculties are not however annihilated but suspended: a momentary
crisis may restore them to their full vigour, or totally destroy their
existence. One step farther in this gloomy path and she is lost; but
if her incomparable soul should recover itself, she will be greater,
more heroic, more virtuous than ever, and there will be no danger of a
relapse. Learn then, in this perilous situation, to revere the object
of your love. Any thing that should come from you, though it were
against yourself, would at this time prove mortal. If you are
determined to persist, your triumph will be certain, but you will
never possess the same Eloisa.
Letter CI. From Lord B----.
I had some pretentions to your friendship, you were become serviceable
to me, and I was prepared to meet you. But what are my pretensions, my
necessities, or my eagerness to you? you have forgot me, you do not
even deign to write to me. I am not ignorant of your solitude, nor of
your secret design; you are weary of existence. Die then, weak youth:
yes die, thou daring yet cowardly mortal; but, in thy last moments,
remember that thou hast stung the soul of thy sincere friend with the
recollection having served an ungrateful man.
Letter CII. The Answer.
Yes, my kind friend, you may come. I was determined to taste no more
pleasure upon earth, but we will meet once more. You are wrong; it is
as impossible that you should meet with ingratitude as that I should
ever be ungrateful.
Billet. From Eloisa.
It is time to renounce the errors of youth, and to abandon an illusive
hope. I can never be yours. Restore to me that liberty of which my
father chuses to dispose; or compleat my misery by a refusal which
will ruin me for ever, without producing any advantage to yourself.
_Eloisa Etange._
Letter CIII. From the Baron D’Etange.
_In which the preceding billet was inclosed._
If there remains in the mind of a seducer the least sentiment of
honour or humanity, answer the billet of an unhappy girl, whose heart
you have corrupted, and who would no longer exist, if I could suppose
her to have carried the forgetfulness of herself any farther. I should
not indeed be much surprized if the same philosophy which taught her
to catch at the first man she saw, should also instruct her to
disobey her father. Think of this matter. I always chuse to proceed
with lenity and decency, when those methods are likely to succeed; but
because I act thus with you, you are not to suppose me ignorant in
what manner a gentleman should take revenge of those beneath him.
Letter CIV. The Answer.
Let me intreat you, Sir, to spare those vain menaces, and that unjust
reproach, which can neither terrify nor humble me. Between two persons
of the same age there can be no seducer but love, and you can have no
right to vilify a man whom your daughter honoured with her esteem.
What concessions do you expect, and from what authority are they
imposed? is it to the author of all my misfortunes that I must
sacrifice my remaining glimpse of hope? I will respect the father of
Eloisa; but let him deign to be mine if he expects obedience. No, Sir,
what opinion soever you may entertain of your proceedings, they will
not oblige me, for your sake, to relinquish such valuable and just
pretensions. As you are the sole cause of my misery, I owe you nothing
but hatred; your pretensions are without foundation. But Eloisa
commands: her I shall never disobey; therefore you have my consent.
Another may possess her, but I shall be more worthy.
If your daughter had deigned to consult me concerning the limits of
your authority, doubt not but I would have taught her to disregard
your unjust pretensions. How despotic soever may be the empire you
assume, my rights are infinitely more sacred. The chain by which we
are united marks the extent of paternal dominion, even in the
estimation of human laws, and whilst you appeal to the law of nature,
you yourself are trampling upon its institutions.
Do not alledge that delicate phantom honour, which you seem so
determined to vindicate; for here again you are the sole offender.
Respect Eloisa’s choice, and your honour is secure; for I honour you
in my heart, regardless of your insults. Notwithstanding all your
gothic maxims, one honest man was never dishonoured by his alliance
with another. If my presumption offends you, attempt my life; against
you I shall never defend it. As to the rest, I am little anxious to
know in what consists the honour of a gentleman; but with regard to
that of an honest man, I own, it concerns me, and therefore I shall
defend and preserve it pure and spotless to the end of my life.
Go, inhuman father, and meditate the destruction of your only child,
whilst she, full of duty and affection, stands ready to yield her
happiness a victim to prejudice and opinion: but be assured your own
remorse will one day severely revenge my injuries, and you will then
perceive, when it is too late, that your blind and unnatural hatred
was no more fatal to me than to yourself. That I shall be wretched, is
most certain; but if ever the just feelings of nature should emerge
from the bottom of your heart, how infinitely greater will be your
unhappiness in having sacrificed the only daughter of your bosom to a
mere phantom: a daughter who has no equal in beauty, merit or virtue,
and on whom indulgent heaven has bestowed every blessing, except a
kind father.
Billet.
_Inclosed in the foregoing._
I restore to Eloisa Etange the power to dispose of herself, and to
give her hand without consulting her heart.
_S. G._
Letter CV. From Eloisa.
I designed to give you a description of the scene which produced the
billet you have received; but my father took his measures so
skilfully, that it ended only the instant before the post went out.
His letter as certainly saved the mail as this will be too late; so
that your resolution will be taken, and your answer dispatched before
it can possibly reach you: therefore all detail would now be useless.
I have done my duty; you will do yours: but fate will overwhelm us,
and we are betrayed by honour. We are divided for ever! and to
increase my horror, I am going to be forced into the----O heavens! it
was once in my power to live in thine. Just God!----we must tremble
and be silent.
The pen falls from my hand. I have been of late much indisposed. This
morning’s affair has hurt me not a little----Oh, my head, my poor
heart! I feel, I feel, I shall faint----Will heaven have no mercy on
my sufferings?----I am no longer able to support myself----I will
retire to my bed, and console myself, in the hope of rising no more.
Adieu, my only love! adieu, for the last time, my dear, my tender
friend. Ah! I live no longer for thee! have I not then already ceased
to live?
Letter CVI. From Eloisa to Mrs. Orbe.
Can it be true, my dear, my cruel friend, that you have called me back
to life and sorrow? I saw the happy instant when I was going to be
again united to the tenderest of mothers; but thy inhuman kindness has
condemned me to bemoan her yet longer: when my desire to follow her
had almost snatched me from this earth, my unwillingness to leave thee
behind held me fast. If I am at all reconciled to life, it is from the
comfort of not having entirely escaped the hand of death. Thank
heaven! that beauty is no more for which my heart has paid so dearly.
The distemper from which I have risen has happily deprived me of it.
This circumstance I hope will abate the gross ardour of a man so
indelicate as to dare to marry me without my consent. When the only
thing which he admired no longer exists, surely he will be little
anxious about the rest. Without breach of promise to my father,
without injuring that friend whose life is in his power, I shall be
able to repulse this importunate wretch: my lips will be silent, but
my looks will speak for me. His disgust will defend me against his
tyranny, and he will find me too disagreeable to dare to make me
unhappy.
Ah, my dear cousin! you know a constant tender heart that would not be
so repulsed. His passion was not confined to outward form or charms of
person; it was me that he loved, and not my face; we were united in
every part of our being, and so long as Eloisa had remained, her
beauty might have fled, but love would for ever have continued. And
yet he could consent----ungrateful youth!----yet it was but just,
since I could ask it. Who would wish to retain by promise those who
could withdraw their heart? and did I attempt to withdraw mine?----
have I done it?----O heavens! why must every thing conspire to remind
me of times that are no more, and to increase a flame which ought to
be extinguished? In vain, Eloisa, are thy endeavours to tear the dear
image from thy heart: ’tis too firmly attached; thy heart itself would
first be torn in pieces, and all thy endeavours serve but to engrave
it the deeper.
May I venture to tell you a vision of my delirium during my fever,
which has continued to torment me ever since my recovery? Yes, learn
and pity the distraction of your unhappy friend, that you may thank
heaven for preserving your heart from the horrid passion by which it
is occasioned. During the most violent moment of my phrenzy, when my
fever was at the height, I thought I beheld the unhappy youth kneeling
by my bed-side: not such as when he charmed my senses during the short
period of my felicity; but pale, wild, and lost in despair. He took my
hand, not disgusted with its appearance, and fearless of the sad
infection, eagerly kissed and bathed it with his tears. I felt at the
sight of him that pleasing emotion which his unexpected appearance
used formerly to occasion. I endeavoured to dart towards him, but was
restrained. You tore him from me, and what affected me most was his
sighs and groans, which seemed to increase as he went farther from me.
It is impossible to describe the effect of this strange dream. My
fever was long and violent; I continued many days insensible; I have
seen him often in my phrenzy; but none of my dreams have left half the
impression on my memory which this last did: it is impossible to drive
it from my imagination. Methinks I see him every moment in that
attitude. His air, his dress, his manner, his sorrowful and tender
look, are continually before my eyes. His lips seem still to press my
hand; I feel it wet with his tears. His plaintive voice melts my
heart; now I behold him dragged far from me, whilst I endeavour in
vain to hold him fast. In short, the whole imaginary scene appears in
my mind more real than reality itself.
I deliberated long before I could resolve to tell you this. Shame kept
me silent when we were together; but the idea grows every day
stronger, and torments me to such a degree, that I can no longer
conceal my folly. Would that I were entirely a fool! why should I wish
to preserve that reason which serves only to make me wretched?
But to return to my dream. Rally me, my dear friend, if you will, for
my simplicity; but surely there is something mysterious in this
vision, which distinguishes it from common phrenzy. Can it be a
presage of his death? or is he already dead? and was it thus that
heaven deigned, for once to be my guide, and invite me to follow him
whom I was ordained to love? Alas! a summons to the grave would be the
greatest blessing I could receive.
To what purpose do I recall these vain maxims of philosophy which
amuse only those who have no feelings? they impose on me no longer,
and I cannot help despising them. I believe that spirits are
invisible; but is it impossible that, between two lovers so closely
united, there should be an immediate communication, independent of the
body and the senses? may not their mutual impressions be transmitted
through the brain?----Poor Eloisa, what extravagant ideas! how
credulous are we rendered by our passions! and how difficult it is for
a heart severely affected to relinquish its errors, even after
conviction!
Letter CVII. The Answer.
Ah, thou most unfortunate and tender girl! art thou then destined to
be unhappy? I try in vain to keep thee from sorrow, but thou dost seem
to court affliction; thy evil genius is more powerful than all my
endeavours. Do not however add chimerical apprehensions to so many
real causes of inquietude: and since my caution has been more
prejudicial than serviceable to you, let me free you from a mistake
which aggravates your misery; perhaps the melancholy truth will be
less tormenting. Know then that your dream, was not a dream; that it
was not the phantom of your friend which you beheld, but his real
person; and that the affecting scene, which is ever present to your
imagination, did actually pass in your room, on the day after your
disorder was at the crisis.
On the preceding day, I left you very late; and Mr. Orbe, who would
take me from you that night, was ready to depart; when on a sudden we
perceived that unhappy wretch, whose condition is truly deplorable,
enter hastily, and throw himself at our feet. He took post horses
immediately on the receipt of your last letter. By travelling day and
night, he performed the journey in three days, and never stopped till
the last stage; where he waited in order to enter the town under
favour of the night. I am ashamed to confess, that I was less eager
than Mr. Orbe to embrace him: without knowing the intent of his
journey, I foresaw the consequence. The bitter recollection of former
times, your danger and his, his manifest discomposure of mind, all
contributed to check so agreeable a surprize; and I was too powerfully
affected to salute him with eagerness. I nevertheless embraced him
with a heart-felt emotion in which he sympathized, and which
reciprocally displayed itself in a kind of mute grief, more eloquent
than tears and lamentations. The first words he uttered were----“How
does she? O, how is my Eloisa? am I to live or die?” I concluded from
thence, that he was informed of your illness, and upon the
supposition that he was likewise acquainted with the nature of it, I
spoke without any other precaution than that of extenuating the
danger. When he understood that it was the small-pox, he made dreadful
lamentation, and was taken suddenly ill. Fatigue and the want of
sleep, together with perturbation of mind, had so entirely overcome
him, that it was some time before we could bring him to himself. He
had scarce strength to speak; we persuaded him to take rest.
Nature being quite spent, he slept twelve hours successively, but with
so much agitation that such a sleep must rather impair than recruit
his strength. The next day gave birth to new perplexity: he was
absolutely determined to see you. I represented to him the danger
there was that his presence might occasion some fatal revolution in
your distemper. He proposed to wait till there was no risque; but his
stay itself was a terrible risque, of which I endeavoured to make him
sensible. He rudely interrupted me. “Cease, said he, with a tone of
indignation, your cruel eloquence: it is too much, to exert it for my
ruin. Do not hope to drive me from hence as you did when I was forced
into exile. I would travel a hundred times from the farthest extremity
of the world for one glance of my Eloisa: but I swear, added he with
vehemence, by the author of my being, that I will not stir till I have
seen her. We will try for once, whether I shall move you with
compassion, or you make me guilty of perjury.”
His resolution was fixed. Mr. Orbe was of opinion that we should
contrive some means to gratify him, that we might send him away before
his return was discovered: for he was only known to one person in the
house, of whose secrecy I was assured; and we called him by a feigned
name before the family. [39] I promised him that he should see you the
next night, upon condition that he staid but a minute, that he did not
utter a syllable, and that he departed the next morning before break
of day. To these conditions, I exacted his solemn promise; then I was
easy, I left my husband with him, and returned to you.
I found you much better, the irruption was quite compleat; and the
physician raised my courage, by giving me hope. I laid my plan
beforehand with Bab, and the increase of your fever, though a little
abated, leaving you still somewhat light-headed, I took that
opportunity to dismiss every body, and send my husband word to
introduce his guest, concluding that before the paroxysm of your
disorder was over, you would be less likely to recollect him. We had
all the difficulty in the world to get rid of your disconsolate
father, who was determined to sit up with you every night. At length
I told him with some warmth, that he would spare nobody the trouble
of watching, for that I was determined likewise to sit up with you,
and that he might be assured, though he was your father, his
tenderness for you was not more diligent than mine. He departed with
reluctance, and we remained by ourselves Mr. Orbe came about eleven,
and told me that he had left your friend in the street. I went in
search of him: I took him by the hand: he trembled like a leaf. As he
went through the anti-chamber, his strength failed him: he drew his
breath with difficulty, and was forced to sit down.
At length, having singled out some objects by the faint glimmering of
a distant light----yes, said he, with a deep sigh, I recollect these
apartments. Once in my life I traversed them----about the same hour
----with the same mysterious caution----I trembled as I do now----My
heart fluttered with the same emotion----O! rash creature that I was
----though but a poor mortal, I nevertheless dared to taste.----What
am I now going to behold in that same spot, where every thing
diffused a delight with which my soul was intoxicated? what am I
going to view, in that same object which inspired and shared my
transports?----the retinue of melancholy, the image of death,
afflicted virtue, and expiring beauty!
Dear cousin; I will spare thy tender heart the dismal detail of such
an affecting scene. He saw you, and was mute. He had promised to be
silent;----but such a silence! he fell upon his knees; he sobbed, and
kissed the curtains of your bed; he lifted up his hands and eyes; he
fetched deep and silent groans; he could scarce stifle his grief and
lamentations. Without seeing him, you accidentally put one of your
hands out of bed; he seized it with extravagant eagerness; the ardent
kisses he impressed on your sick hand, awaked you sooner than all the
noise and murmur which buzzed about you. I perceived that you
recollected him, and in spite of all his resistance and complaints, I
forced him from your chamber directly, hoping to elude the impression
of such a fleeting apparition, under the pretence of its being the
effect of your delirium. But finding that you took no notice of it, I
concluded that you had forgot it. I forbad Bab to mention it, and I am
persuaded she has kept her word. A needless caution which love has
disconcerted, and which has only served to aggravate the pain of a
recollection which it is too late to efface.
He departed as he had promised, and I made him swear not to stop in
the neighbourhood. But, my dear girl, this is not all; I must acquaint
you with another circumstance, of which likewise you cannot long
remain ignorant. Lord B---- passed by two days afterwards; he hastened
to overtake him; he joined him at Dijon, and found him ill. The
unlucky wretch had caught the small-pox. He kept it secret from me
that he had never had the distemper, and I introduced him without
precaution. As he could not cure your disorder, he was determined to
partake of it. When I recollect the eagerness with which he kissed
your hand, I make no doubt but he underwent inoculation purposely. It
is impossible to have been worse prepared to receive it; but it was
the inoculation of love, and it proved fortunate. The author of life
preserved the most tender lover that ever existed; he is recovered,
and according to my lord’s last letter, they are by this time actually
set out for Paris.
You see, my too lovely cousin, that you ought to banish those
melancholy terrors, which alarm you without reason. You have long
since renounced the person of your friend, and you find that his life
is safe. Think of nothing therefore, but how to preserve your own, and
how to make the promised sacrifice to paternal affection with becoming
grace. Cease to be the sport of vain hope, and to feed yourself with
chimeras. You are in great haste to be proud of your deformity; let me
advise you to be more humble; believe me you have yet too much reason
to be so. You have undergone a cruel infection, but it has spared your
face. What you take for seams, is nothing but a redness which will
quickly disappear. I was worse affected than you, yet nevertheless you
see I am tolerable. My angel, you will still be beautiful in spite of
yourself; and do you think that the enamoured Wolmar, who, in three
years absence, could not conquer a passion conceived in eight days, is
likely to be cured of it, when he has an opportunity of seeing you
every hour? Oh! if your only resource is the hope of being
disagreeable, how desperate is your condition!
Letter CVIII. From Eloisa.
It is too much. It is too much. O my friend! the victory is yours. I
am not proof against such powerful love; my resolution is exhausted.
My conscience affords me the consolatory testimony, that I have
exerted my utmost efforts. Heaven, I hope, will not call me to account
for more than it has bestowed upon me. This sorrowful heart which cost
you so dear, and which you have more than purchased, is yours without
reserve; it was attached to you the first moment my eyes beheld you;
and it will remain yours to my dying breath. You have too much
deserved it, ever to be in danger of losing it; and I am weary of
being the slave of a chimerical virtue, at the expense of justice.
Yes, thou most tender and generous lover, thy Eloisa will be ever
thine, will love thee ever: I must, I will, I ought. To you I resign
the empire which love has given you; a dominion of which nothing shall
ever deprive thee more. The deceitful voice which murmurs at the
bottom of my soul, whispers in vain: it shall no longer betray me.
What are the vain duties it prescribes, in opposition to a passion
which heaven itself inspire? is not the obligation which binds me to
you, the most solemn of all? is it not to you alone that I have given
an absolute promise? was not the first vow of my heart never to forget
you; and is not your insoluble attachment a fresh tie to secure my
constancy? ah! in the transports of love with which I once more
surrender my heart to thee, my only regret is, that I have struggled
against sentiments so agreeable and so natural. Nature, O gentle
nature, resume thy rights! I abjure the savage virtues which conspire
to thy destruction. Can the inclinations which you have inspired, be
more seductive, than a specious reason which has so often misled me?
O my dear friend, have some regard for the tenderness of my
inclinations; you are too much indebted to them, to abhor them; but
allow of a participation which nature and affection demands; let not
the rights of blood and friendship be totally extinguished by those of
love. Do not imagine that to follow you, I will ever quit my father’s
house. Do not hope that I will refuse to comply with the obligations
imposed on me by parental authority. The cruel loss of one of the
authors of my being, has taught me to be cautious how I afflict the
other. No, she whom he expects to be his only comfort hereafter, will
not increase the affliction of his soul, already oppressed with
disquietude: I will not destroy all that gave me life. No, no, I am
sensible of my crime, but cannot abhor it. Duty, honour, virtue, all
these considerations have lost their influence, but yet I am not a
monster; I am frail, but not unnatural. I am determined, I will not
grieve any of the object of my affection. Let a father, tenacious of
his word, and jealous of a vain prerogative, dispose of my hand
according to his promise, but let love alone dispose of my heart; let
my tears incessantly trickle down the bosom of my tenderest friend.
Let me be lost and wretched, but, if possible, let every one dear to
me, be happy and contented. On you three my existence depends, and may
your felicity make me forget my misery and despair.
Letter CIX. The Answer.
We revive my Eloisa; all the real sentiments of our souls resume their
wonted course. Nature has preserved our existence, and love has
restored us to life. Did you suppose, could you be rash enough to
imagine you could withdraw your affections from me? I am better
acquainted with your heart than yourself: that heart which heaven
destined to be mine! I find them united by one common thread, which
death alone can divide. Is it in our power to separate them, or ought
we even to attempt it? are they joined together by ties which man hath
formed, and which man can dissolve? No, no, my Eloisa! if cruel
destiny bars our claim to tender conjugal titles, yet nothing can
deprive us of the character of faithful lovers; that shall be the
comfort of our melancholy days, and we will carry it with us to the
grave.
Thus we recover life only to renew our sufferings, and the
consciousness of our existence is nothing more than a sense of
affliction. Unfortunate beings! how we are altered? how have we ceased
to be what we were formerly? where is that enchantment of supreme
felicity? where are those exquisite raptures which enlivened our
passion? nothing is left of us but our love; love alone remains, and
all its charms are eclipsed. O, thou dear and too dutiful girl, thou
fond fair one without resolution! all our misfortunes are derived from
thy errors. Alas! a heart of less purity would not have so fatally
misled thee! yes, the honour of thy heart has been our ruin, the
upright sentiments which fill thy breast, have banished discretion.
You would endeavour to reconcile filial tenderness with unconquerable
love; by attempting to gratify all your inclinations, you confound
instead of conciliating them, and your very virtue renders you guilty.
O Eloisa, how incredible is your power! by what strange magic do you
fascinate my reason! even while you endeavour to make me blush at our
passion, you have the art of appearing amiable in your very failings.
You force me to admire you, even while I partake of your remorse----
your remorse!----does it become you to feel remorse?----you, whom I
loved----you, whom I shall never cease to adore----can guilt ever
approach thy spotless heart?----O cruel Eloisa! if you mean to
restore the heart which belongs to me alone, return it to me such as
it was, when you first bestowed it.
What do you tell me?----will you venture to intimate----you, fall
into the arms of another?----shall another possess you?----will you
be no longer mine?----or, to compleat my horror, will you not be
solely mine?----I----shall I suffer such dreadful punishment----
shall I see you survive yourself?----no I had rather lose you
entirely, than share you with another.----Why has not heaven armed
me with courage equal to the rage which distracts me?----sooner than
_thy_ hand should debase itself by a fatal union which love abhors,
and honour condemns, I would interpose my own, and plunge a poignard
in thy breast. I would drain thy chaste heart of blood which
infidelity never tainted: with that spotless blood I would mix my
own, which burns in my veins with inextinguishable ardour; I would
fall in thy arms; I would yield my last breath on thy lips----I would
receive thine----How! Eloisa expiring! those lovely eyes closed by
the horrors of death!----that breast, the throne of love, mangled by
my hand, and pouring forth copious streams of blood and life!----No,
live and suffer, endure the punishment of my cowardice. No, I wish
thou wert no more, but my passion is not so violent as to stab thee.
O, that you did but know the state of my heart, which is ready to
burst with anguish! Never did it burn with so pure a flame. Never were
your innocence and virtue so dear to me. I am a lover, I know how to
prize an amiable object, I am sensible that I do: but I am no more
than man, and it is not within the compass of human power to renounce
supreme felicity. One night, one single night, has made a thorough
change in my soul. Preserve me, if thou canst, from that dangerous
recollection, and I am virtuous still. But that fatal night is sunk to
the bottom of my soul, and the remembrance of it will darken all the
rest of my days. O Eloisa, thou most adorable object! if we must be
wretched for ever, yet let us enjoy one hour of transport, and then
resign ourselves to eternal lamentations.
Listen to the man who loves you. Why should we alone affect to be
wiser than the rest of mankind, and pursue, with puerile simplicity,
those chimerical virtues, which all the world talks of, and no one
practises. What! shall we pretend to be greater moralists than the
crowd of philosophers which people London and Paris, who all laugh at
conjugal fidelity, and treat adultery as a jest? instances of this
nature are far from being scandalous; we are not at liberty even to
censure them, and people of spirit would laugh at a man who should
stifle the affections of his heart out of respect to matrimony. In
fact, say they, an injury which only consists in opinion, is no injury
while it remains secret. What injury does a husband receive from an
infidelity to which he is a stranger? by how many obliging
condescensions, does a woman compensate for her failings? [40] what
endearments she employs to prevent, and to remove his suspicions?
deprived of an imaginary good, he actually enjoys more real felicity,
and this supposed crime which makes such a noise, is but an additional
tie, which secures the peace of society.
O God forbid, thou dear partner of my soul, that I should wish to
preserve thy affections by such shameful maxims. I abhor them, though
I am not able to confute them, and my conscience is a better advocate
than my reason. Not that I pride myself upon a spirit which I detest,
or that I am fond of a virtue bought so dear: but I think it less
criminal to reproach myself with my failings, than to attempt to
vindicate them, and I consider an endeavour to stifle remorse, as the
strongest degree of guilt.
I know not what I write. I find my mind in a horrid state, much worse
than it was, even before I received your letter. The hope you tender
me, is gloomy and melancholy; it totally extinguishes that pure light,
which has so often been our guide; your charms are blasted, and yet
appear more affecting; I perceive that you are affectionate and
unhappy: my heart is overwhelmed with the tears which flow from your
eyes, and I vent bitter reproaches on myself for having presumed to
taste a happiness, which I can no longer enjoy, but at the hazard of
your peace.
Nevertheless I perceive that a secret ardour fires my soul, and
revives that courage which my remorse has subdued. Ah, lovely Eloisa,
do you know how many losses a love like mine can compensate for? do
you know how far a lover, who only breathes for you, can make your
life agreeable? are you sensible that it is for you alone I wish to
live, to move, to think? no, thou delicious source of my existence, I
will have no soul but thine, I will no longer be any thing but a part
of thy lovely self, and you will meet with such a kind reception in
the inmost recesses of my heart, that you will never perceive any
decay in your charms. Well, we shall be guilty, yet we will not be
wicked; we shall be guilty, yet we will be in love with virtue: so far
from attempting to palliate our failings, we will deplore them; we
will lament together; if possible, we will work our redemption, by
being good and benevolent. Eloisa! O Eloisa! what will you do? what
can you do? you can never disengage yourself from my heart: is it not
espoused to thine?
I have long since bid adieu to those vain prospects of fortune which
so palpably deluded me. I now solely confine my attention to the
duties I owe Lord B----; he will force me with him to England; he
imagines I can be of service to him there. Well, I will attend him.
But I will steal away once every year; I will come in secret to visit
you. If I cannot speak to you, at least I shall have the pleasure of
gazing on you; I may at least kiss your footsteps; one glance from
your eyes will support me ten months. When I am forced to return, and
retire from her I love, it will be some consolation to me, to count
the steps which will bring me back again. These frequent journeys will
be some amusement to your unhappy lover; when he sets out to visit
you, he will anticipate the pleasure of beholding you; the remembrance
of the transports he has felt, will enchant his imagination during his
absence; in spite of his cruel destiny, his melancholy time will not
be utterly lost; every year will be marked with some tincture of
pleasure, and the short-lived moments he passes near you, will be
multiplied during his whole life.
Letter CX. From Mrs. Orbe.
Your mistress is no more; but I have recovered my friend, and you too
have gained one, whose affection will more than recompense your loss.
Eloisa is married, and her merit is sufficient to make the gentleman
happy, who has blended his interest with hers. After so many
indiscretions, thank heaven which has preserved you both, her from
ignominy, and you from the regret of having dishonoured her. Reverence
her change of condition; do not write to her, she desires you will
not. Wait till she writes to you, which she will shortly do. Now is
the time to convince me that you merit that esteem I ever entertained
for you, and that your heart is susceptible of a pure and
disinterested friendship.
Letter CXI. From Eloisa.
I have been so long accustomed to make you the confident of all the
secrets of my soul, that it is not in my power to discontinue so
agreeable a correspondence. In the most important occurrences of life
I long to disclose my heart to you. Open yours, my beloved friend, to
receive what I communicate; treasure up in your mind the long
discourse of friendship, which, though it sometimes renders the
speaker too diffusive, always makes the friendly hearer patient.
Attached to the fortune of a husband, or rather to the will of a
parent, by an indissoluble tie, I enter upon a new state of life,
which death alone can terminate: let us for a moment cast our eyes on
that which I have quitted; the recollection of former times cannot be
painful to us. Perhaps it will afford some lessons, which will teach
me how to make a proper use of the time to come: perhaps it will open
some lights which may serve to explain those particulars of my
conduct, which always appeared mysterious in your eyes. At least, by
reflecting in what relation we lately stood to each other, our hearts
will become more sensible of the reciprocal duties, from which death
alone can release us.
It is now near six years since I first saw you. You was young,
genteel, and agreeable. I had seen others more comely, and more
engaging; but no one ever excited the least emotion within me, and my
heart surrendered itself to you [41] on the first interview. I
imagin’d that I saw, in your countenance, the traces of a soul which
seemed the counterpart of mine. I thought that my senses only served
as organs to more refined sentiments; and I loved in you, not so much
what I saw, as what I imagined, I felt within myself. It is not two
months since, that I still flattered myself I was not mistaken: blind
Love, said I, was in the right; we were made for each other, if human
events do not interrupt the affinity of nature; and if we are allowed
to enjoy felicity in this life, we shall certainly be happy together.
These sentiments were reciprocal; I should have been deceived, had I
entertained them alone. The love I felt, could not arise but from a
mutual conformity and harmony of souls. We never love, unless we are
beloved; at least our passion is short-lived. Those affections which
meet with no return, and which are supposed to make so many wretched,
are only founded on sensuality; if ever they penetrate the heart, it
is by means of some false resemblance, and the mistake is quickly
discovered. Sensual love cannot subsist without fruition, and dies
with it: the sublimer passion cannot be satisfied without engaging the
heart, and is as permanent as the analogy which gave it birth. [42]
Such was ours from the beginning; and such, I hope, it will ever be to
the end of our days. I perceived, I felt that I was beloved, and that
I merited your affection. My lips were silent, my looks were
constrained; but my heart explained itself: we quickly experienced I
know not what, which renders silence eloquent, which gives utterance
to the downcast eye, which occasions a kind of forward bashfulness
which discovers the tumult of desire through the veil of timidity, and
conveys ideas which it dares not express.
I perceived the situation of my heart, and gave myself over for lost,
the first word you spoke. I found what pain your reserve cost you. I
approved of the distance you observed, and admired you the more; I
endeavoured to recompense you for such a necessary and painful
silence, without prejudice to my innocence; I offered violence to my
natural disposition; I imitated my cousin; I became, like her, arch
and lively, to avoid too serious explanations, and to indulge a
thousand tender caresses, under cover of that affected sprightliness.
I took such pains to make your situation agreeable, that the
apprehensions of a change increased your reserve. This scheme turned
to my disadvantage: we generally suffer for assuming a borrowed
character. Fool that I was! I accelerated my ruin, instead of
preventing it; I employed poison as a palliative, and what should have
induced you to preserve silence, was the occasion which tempted you to
explain yourself. In vain did I attempt, by an affected indifference,
to keep you at a distance in our private interviews; that very
constraint betrayed me: you wrote. Instead of committing your first
letter to the fire, or delivering it to my mother, I ventured to open
it. That was my original crime, and all the rest was a necessary
consequence of that first fault. I endeavoured to avoid answering
those fatal letters, which I could not forbear reading. This violent
struggle affected my health. I saw the abyss in which I was going to
plunge. I looked upon myself with horror, and could not resolve to
endure your absence. I fell into a kind of despair; I had rather that
you had ceased to live, than not to live to me: I even went so far as
to wish, and to desire your death. Heaven knew my heart; these efforts
may make amends for some failings.
Finding you disposed to implicit obedience, I was determined to speak.
Chaillot had given me some instructions, which made me too sensible of
the danger of avowing my passion. But love, which extorted the
confession, taught me to elude its consequence. You was my last
resort; I had such an entire confidence in you, that I furnished you
with arms against my weakness; such was my opinion of your integrity,
that I trusted you would preserve me from myself, and I did you no
more than justice. When I found the respect you paid to so valuable a
trust, I perceived that my passion had not blinded me in my opinion of
those virtues with which I supposed you endowed. I resigned myself
with greater security, as I imagined that we should both of us be
contented with a sentimental affection. As I discovered nothing at the
bottom of my heart but sentiments of honour, I tasted without reserve
the charms of such a delightful intimacy. Alas! I did not perceive
that my disorder grew inveterate from inattention, and that habit was
still more dangerous than love. Being sensibly affected by your
reserve, I thought I might relax mine without any risk; in the
innocence of my desires, I hoped to lead you to the heights of virtue,
by the tender caresses of friendship. But the grove at Clarens soon
convinced me that I trusted myself too far, and that we ought not to
grant the least indulgence to the senses, where prudence forbids us to
gratify them to the full. One moment, one single moment, fired me with
a desire which nothing could extinguish; and if my will yet resisted,
my heart was from that time corrupted.
You partook of my distraction; your letter made me tremble. The danger
was double: to preserve me from you and from myself, it was necessary
to banish you. This was the last effort of expiring virtue; but by
your flight, you made your conquest sure, and when I saw you no more,
the languor your absence occasioned, deprived me of the little
strength I had left to resist you.
When my father quitted the service, he brought M. Wolmar home with
him. His life which he owed to him, and an intimacy of twenty years,
rendered this friend so dear, that he could never part from him. M.
Wolmar was advanced in years, and tho’ of high birth, he had met with
no woman who had fixed his affections. My father mentioned me to him,
as to a man whom he wished to call his son: he was desirous to see me,
and it was with this intent that they came together. It was my fate to
be agreeable to him, who was never susceptible of any impression
before. They entered into secret engagements, and M. Wolmar, who had
some affairs to settle in one of the northern courts, where his family
and fortune were, desired time, and took leave upon their mutual
engagement. After his departure, my father acquainted my mother and
me, that he designed him for my husband; and commanded me, with a tone
which cut off all reply from my timidity, to prepare myself to receive
his hand. My mother, who too plainly perceived the inclinations of my
heart, and who had a natural liking for you, made several attempts to
shake my father’s resolution; she durst not absolutely propose you,
but she spoke of you in such terms as she hoped might make my father
esteem you, and wish to be acquainted with you; but your rank in life
made him insensible to all your accomplishments; and though he
allowed, that high birth could not supply them, yet he maintained that
birth alone could make them of any value.
The impossibility of being happy, fanned the flame which it ought to
have extinguished. A flattering delusion had supported me under all my
troubles; when that was gone, I had no strength to oppose them. While
I had the least hope of being yours, I might have triumphed over my
inclinations; it would have cost me less to have spent my whole life
in resistance, than to renounce you for ever; and the very idea of an
everlasting opposition, deprived me of fortitude to subdue my passion.
Grief and love preyed upon my heart; I fell into a state of dejection,
which you might perceive in my letters: yours, which you wrote to me
from Meillerie, compleatd my affliction; to the measure of my own
troubles, was added the sense of your despair. Alas! the weakest mind
is always destined to bear the troubles of both. The scheme you
ventured to propose to me, put the finishing stroke to my perplexity.
Misery seemed to be the infallible lot of my days, the inevitable
choice which remained for me to make, was to add to it either my
parents or your infelicity. I could not endure the horrible
alternative; the power of nature has its bounds; such agitations
overpowered my strength. I wished to be delivered from life. Heaven
seemed to take pity of me; but cruel death spared me for my
destruction. I saw you, I recovered, and was undone.
If my failings did not contribute to my felicity, I was not
disappointed: I never considered them as the means to procure
happiness. I perceived that my heart was formed for virtue, without
which I could never be happy; I fell through weakness, not from error;
I had not even blindness to plead in excuse for my frailty, I was
bereaved of every hope; it was impossible for me to be otherwise than
unfortunate. Innocence and love were equally requisite to my peace: as
I could not preserve them both, and was witness to your distraction, I
consulted your interest alone in the choice I made, and to save you, I
ruined myself.
But it is not so easy, as many imagine to forsake virtue. She
continues for some time, to torment those who abandon her, and her
charms, which are the delight of refined souls, constitute the chief
punishment of the wicked, who are condemned to be in love with her
when they can no longer enjoy her. Guilty, yet not depraved, I could
not escape the remorse which pursued me; honour was dear to me, even
after it was gone; though my shame was secret, it was not less
grievous; and though the whole world had been witness to it, I could
not have been more sensibly affected. I comforted myself under my
affliction, like one who having a wound, dreads a mortification; and
who, by the sense of pain, is encouraged not to despair of a cure.
Nevertheless, my shameful state was insupportable. By endeavouring to
stifle the reproach of guilt, without renouncing the crime, I
experienced what every honest mind feels when it goes astray, and is
fond of its mistake. A new delusion lent its aid to assuage the
bitterness of repentance; I flattered myself, that my frailty would
afford me the means of repairing my indiscretion, and I ventured to
form a design of forcing my father to unite our hands. I depended on
the first pledge of our love to close this delightful union. I prayed
to heaven for offspring as the pledge of my return to virtue, and of
our mutual happiness: I wished for it with as much earnestness as
another, in my place, would have dreaded it. The tenderness of love,
by its soft illusion, allayed the murmurs of my conscience; the
effects I hoped to derive from my frailty inspired me with
consolation, and this pleasing expectation was all the hope and
comfort of my life.
Whenever I should discover evident symptoms of my pregnancy, I was
determined to make a public declaration of my condition to Mr. Perret,
[43] in the presence of the whole family. I am timorous, it is true; I
was sensible how dear such a declaration would cost me, but honour
itself inspired me with courage, and I chose rather to bear at once
the confusion I deserved, than to nourish everlasting infamy at the
bottom of my soul. I knew that my father would either doom me to
death, or give me to my lover; this alternative had nothing in it
terrible to my apprehension, and whatever might be the event, I
concluded that this step would put an end to all my sufferings.
This, my dear friend, was the mystery which I concealed from you, and
which you endeavoured to penetrate with such solicitous curiosity. A
thousand reasons conspired to make me use this reserve with a man of
your impetuosity, not to mention that it would have been imprudent to
have furnished you with a new pretence for pressing your indiscreet
and importunate application. It was above all things requisite to
remove you during such a perilous situation, and I was very sensible
that you would never have consented to leave me in such an extremity,
had you known my danger.
Alas! I was once more deceived by such a flattering expectation.
Heaven refused to favour designs which were conceived in wickedness. I
did not deserve the honour of being a mother; my scheme was abortive,
and I was even deprived of an opportunity of expiating my frailty, at
the expense of my reputation. Disappointed in my hope, the indiscreet
assignation which exposed your life to danger, was a rashness which my
fond love coloured with this gentle palliation: I imputed the ill
success of my wishes to myself, and my heart, misled by its desires,
flattered itself that its eagerness to gratify them arose entirely
from my anxiety to render them lawful hereafter.
At one time I thought my wishes accomplished: that mistake was the
source of my most bitter affliction, and after nature had granted the
petition of love, the stroke of destiny came with aggravated cruelty.
You know the accident which destroyed my last hopes, together with the
fruit of my love. That misfortune happened during our separation, as
if heaven at that time intended to oppress me with all the evils I
merited, and to separate me at once from every connection which might
contribute to our union.
Your departure put an end to my delusion and to my pleasures; I
discovered, but too late the chimeras which had imposed upon me. I
perceived that I had fallen into a state truly despicable, and I felt
myself compleatly wretched; which was the inevitable consequence of
love without innocence, and hopeless desires which I could never
extinguish. Tortured by a thousand fruitless griefs, I stifled
reflections which were as painful as unprofitable; I no longer looked
upon myself as worthy of consideration, and I devoted my life to
solitude for you: I had no honour, but yours; no hope, but in your
happiness, and the sentiments which you communicated were alone
capable of affecting me.
Love did not make me blind to your faults, but it made those faults
dear to me; and its delusion was so powerful, that, had you been more
perfect, I should have loved you less. I was no stranger to your
heart, to your impetuosity. I was sensible, that with more courage
than I, you had less patience, and that the afflictions which
oppressed my soul, would drive yours to despair. It was for this
reason that I always carefully kept my father’s promise a secret from
you, and at our parting, taking advantage of Lord B----’s zeal for
your interest, and with a view to make you more attentive to your own
welfare, I flattered you with a hope which I myself did not entertain.
Yet more; apprized of the danger which threatened us, I took the only
precaution for our mutual security, and by a solemn engagement having
made you, as much as possible, master of my will, I hoped to inspire
you with confidence, and myself with fortitude, by mean of a promise
which I never durst violate, and which might ensure your peace of
mind. I own it was a needless obligation, and yet I should never have
infringed it. Virtue is so essential to our souls, that when we have
once abandoned that which is real, we presently fashion another after
the same model, and we keep the more strongly attached to this
substitute, because, perhaps, it is of our own election.
I need not tell you what perturbation I felt after your departure. The
worst of my apprehensions was the dread of being forsaken. The place
of your residence made me tremble. Your manner of living increased my
terror. I imagined that I already saw you debased into a man of
intrigue. An ignominy of this nature touched me more sensibly than all
my afflictions; I had rather have seen you wretched than contemptible;
after so many troubles to which I had been inured, your dishonour was
the only one I could not support.
My apprehensions, which the stile of your letters confirmed, were
quickly removed; and that by such means as would have made any other
compleatly uneasy. I allude to the disorderly course of life into
which you was seduced, and of which your ready and frank confession
was, of all the proofs of your sincerity, that which affected me most
sensibly. I knew you too well to be ignorant what such a confession
must have cost you, even if I had been no longer dear to you. I
perceived that love alone had triumphed over shame, and extorted it
from you. I concluded that a heart so sincere, was incapable of
disguised infidelity; I discovered less guilt in your failing, than
merit in the confession; and calling to mind your former engagements,
I was entirely cured of jealousy.
My worthy friend, my cure did not increase my felicity; for one
torment less, a thousand others rose up incessantly, and I was never
more sensible of the folly of seeking that repose in an unsettled
mind, which nothing but prudence can bestow. I had for a long time
secretly lamented the best of mothers, who insensibly wasted away with
a fatal decay. Bab, whom the unhappy consequence of my misconduct
obliged me to make my confident, betrayed me, and discovered our
mutual love, and my frailty, to my mother. I had just received your
letters from my cousin, when they were seized. The proofs were too
convincing; grief deprived her of the little strength her illness had
left her. I thought I should have expired at her feet with remorse. So
far from consigning me to the death I merited, she concealed my shame,
and was contented to bemoan my fall. Even you, who had so ungratefully
abused her kindness, was not odious to her. I was witness to the
effect which your letter produced on her tender and affectionate mind.
Alas! she wished for your happiness and mine. She attempted more than
once----but why should I recall a hope which is now for ever
extinguished? heaven decreed it otherwise. She closed her melancholy
days with the afflicting consideration of being unable to move a rigid
husband, and of leaving a daughter behind her so little worthy of such
a parent.
Oppressed with such a crude loss, my soul had no other strength than
what it received from that impression; the voice of nature uttered
groans which stifled the murmurs of love. I regarded the author of my
troubles with a kind of horror. I endeavoured to stifle the detestable
passion which had brought them upon me, and to renounce you for ever.
This, no doubt, was what I ought to have done; had I not sufficient
cause of lamentation the remainder of my days, without being in
continual quest of new subjects of affliction? every thing seemed to
favour my resolution. If melancholy softens the mind, deep affliction
hardens it. The remembrance of my dying mother effaced your image; we
were distant from each other; hope had entirely abandoned me; my
incomparable friend was never more great or more deserving wholly to
engross my heart. Her virtue, her discretion, her friendship, her
tender caresses, seemed to have purified it; I thought I had forgotten
you, and imagined myself cured. But it was too late; what I took for
the indifference of extinguished love, was nothing but the heaviness
of despair.
As a sick man who falls into a weak state when free from pain, is
suddenly revived by more acute sensations, so I quickly perceived all
my troubles renewed when my father acquainted me with Mr. Wolmar’s
approaching return. Invincible love then gave me incredible
strength. For the first time I ventured to oppose my father to his
face. I frankly protested that I could never like Mr. Wolmar; that I
was determined to die single; that he was master of my life, but not
of my affections, and that nothing could ever make me alter my
resolution. I need not describe the rage he was in, nor the treatment
I was obliged to endure. I was immoveable; my timidity once
vanquished, carried me to the other extreme, and if my tone was less
imperious than my father’s, it was nevertheless equally resolute.
He found that I was determined, and that he should make no impression
on me by dint of authority. For a minute I thought myself freed from
his persecution. But what became of me, when on a sudden I saw the
most rigid father softened into tears, and prostrate at my feet?
without suffering me to rise, he embraced my knees, and fixing his
streaming eyes on mine, he addressed himself to me in a plaintive
voice, which still murmurs within me. O my child! have some respect
for the grey hairs of your unhappy father; do not send me with sorrow
to the grave, after her who bore thee. Ah! will you be the death of
all your family?
Imagine my grief and astonishment. That attitude, that tone, that
gesture, those words, that horrible idea, overpowered me to that
degree, that I dropped half dead into his arms, and it was not till
after repeated sobs, which for some time stifled utterance, that I was
able to answer him in a faint and faltering voice. O my father! I was
armed against your menaces, but I am not proof against your tears. You
will be the death of your daughter.
We were both of us in such violent agitation that it was a long while
before we could recover. In the mean time, recollecting his last
words, I concluded that he was better informed of the particulars of
my conduct than I had imagined, and being resolved to turn those
circumstances of information against him, I was preparing, at the
hazard of my life, to make a confession which I had too long deferred,
when he hastily interrupted me, and as if he had foreseen and dreaded
what I was going to declare, he spoke to me in the following terms.
“I know you have encouraged inclinations unworthy a girl of your
birth. It is time to sacrifice to duty and honour a shameful passion
which you shall never gratify but at the expense of my life. Attend to
what your father’s honour, and your own require of you, and then
determine for yourself.”
“Mr. Wolmar is of noble extraction, one who is distinguished by all
the accomplishments requisite to maintain his dignity; one who enjoys
the public esteem, and who deserves it. I am indebted to him for my
life; and you are no stranger to the engagement I have concluded with
him. You are farther to understand that on his return home to settle
his concerns, he found himself involved by an unfortunate turn of
affairs: he had lost the greatest part of his estate, and it was by
singular good luck that he himself escaped from exile to Siberia: he
is coming back with the melancholy wreck of his fortune, upon the
strength or his friend’s word, which never yet was forfeited. Tell me
now, in what manner I shall receive him on his, return? shall I say to
him? Sir, I promised you my daughter while you were in affluent
circumstances, but now your fortune is ruined I must retract my word,
for my daughter will never be yours. If I do not express my refusal in
these words, it will be interpreted in this manner. To alledge your
pre-engagement, will be considered as a pretence, or it will be
imputed as an additional disgrace to me, and we shall pass, you for an
abandoned girl, and I for a dishonest man, who has sacrificed his word
and honour to forbid interest, and has added ingratitude to
infidelity. My dear child, I have lived too long, now to close an
unblemished life with infamy, and sixty years spent with honour are
not to be prostituted in a quarter of an hour.”
“You perceive therefore, continued he, how unreasonable is every
objection which you can offer. Judge whether the giddy passion of
youth, whether attachments which modesty disavows, are to be put in
competition with the duty of a child, and the honour by which a parent
stands bound. If the dispute was, which of us two should fall a victim
to the happiness of the other, my tenderness would challenge the right
of making that sacrifice to affection; but honour, my child, calls
upon me, and that always determines the resolution of him whose blood
you inherit.”
I was not without a pertinent answer to these remonstrances; but my
father’s prejudices confirmed him in his principles, so different from
mine, that reasons which appeared to me unanswerable, would not have
had the least weight with him. Besides, not knowing whence he had
gathered the intelligence he seemed to have gained with respect to my
conduct, or how far his information extended; apprehending likewise by
his eagerness to interrupt me, that he had formed his resolution with
regard to the matter I was going to communicate, and above all, being
restrained by a sense of shame which I could never subdue, I rather
chose to avail myself of an excuse, which I thought would have greater
weight, as it squared more with my father’s peculiarity of thinking. I
therefore made a frank declaration of the engagement I had made with
you; I protested that I would never be false to my word, and that
whatever was the consequence, I would never marry without your
consent.
In truth, I was delighted to find that my scruples did not offend him;
he reproached me severely for entering into such an engagement, but he
made no objection to its validity. So exalted are ideas which a
gentleman of honour naturally entertains with regard to the faith of
engagements, and so sacred a thing does he esteem a promise! instead
of attempting therefore to dispute the force of my obligation to you,
he made me write a note, which he inclosed in a letter and sent away
directly. [44] With what agitation did I expect your answer! how often
did I wish that you might shew less delicacy than you ought! but I
knew you too well, however, to doubt your compliance, and was sensible
that the more painful you felt the sacrifice required of you, the
readier you would be to undergo it. Your answer came, it was kept a
secret from me during my illness; after my recovery, my fears were
confirmed, and I was cut off from all farther excuses. At least, my
father declared he would admit of no more, and the dreadful expression
he had made use of gave him such an ascendency over my will that he
made me swear never to say any thing to M. Wolmar which might make him
averse from marrying me; for, he added, that will appear to him like a
trick concerted between us, and at all events the marriage must be
concluded.
You know, my dear friend, that my constitution, which is strong enough
to endure fatigue and inclemency of weather, is not able to resist the
violence of passion, and that too exquisite a sensibility is the
source of all the evils which have afflicted my mind and body. Whether
continued grief had tainted my blood, or whether nature took that
opportunity to purify it from the fatal effects of fermentation,
however it was, I found myself violently disordered at the end of our
conversation. When I left my father’s room, I endeavoured to write a
line to you, but found myself so ill, that I was obliged to go to bed,
from whence I hoped never to rise. You are too well acquainted with
the rest. My imprudence led you to indiscretion. You came, I saw you,
and thought that I had only beheld you in one of those dreams, which,
during my delirium, so often presented your image before me. But when
I found that you had really been there, that I had actually seen you,
that being resolved to partake of my distemper which you could not
cure, you had purposely caught the infection; I could no longer resist
this last proof, and finding that the tenderness of your affection
survived even hope itself, my love which I had taken such pains to
smother, instantly broke through all restraint, and revived with more
ardour than ever. I perceived that I was doomed to love in spite of
myself; I was sensible that I must be guilty; that I could neither
resist my father nor my love, and that I could never reconcile the
rights of love and consanguinity, but at the expense of honour. Thus
all my noble sentiments were utterly extinguished; all my faculties
were altered; guilt was no longer horrible in my sight; I felt a
thorough change within me; at length, the unruly transports of a
passion, rendered impetuous by opposition, threw me into the most
dismal dejection with which human nature was ever oppressed; I even
dared to despair of virtue. Your letter, which was rather calculated
to awaken remorse than to stifle it, put the finishing stroke to my
distraction. My heart was so depraved, that my reason could not
withstand the arguments of your plausible philosophy. Horrible ideas
ventured to crowd into my mind, with which it had never been tainted
before. My will still opposed them, but my imagination grew familiar
with them, and if my soul did not harbour anticipated guilt, yet I was
no longer mistress of that noble resolution which alone is capable of
resisting temptation.
I am scarce able to proceed. Let me stop a while. Recall to your mind
those days of innocence and felicity, when the lively and tender
passion with which we were mutually animated, only served to refine
our sentiments, when that holy ardour contributed to render modesty
more lovely, and honour more amiable, when our very desires seemed
kindled only that we might have the glory of subduing them, and of
rendering ourselves more worthy of each other. Look over our first
letters; reflect on those moments so fleeting and so little enjoyed,
when love appeared to us arrayed in all the charms of virtue, and when
we were too fond of each other to enter into any connections which she
condemned.
What were we then, and what are we now? Two tender lovers spent a
whole year together in painful silence; they scarce ventured to
breathe a sigh, but their hearts understood each other; they thought
their sufferings great, but, had they known it, they were happy. Their
mutual silence was so intelligible, that at length they ventured to
converse; but, satisfied with the power of triumphing over their
inclinations, and with giving each other the glorious proofs of their
victory, they passed another year in a reserve scarce less severe;
they imparted their troubles to each other, and were happy. But these
violent struggles were too painful to be supported long; one moment’s
weakness led them astray; they forgot themselves in their transports;
but if they were no longer chaste, they were still constant; at least,
heaven and nature authorized the ties which united them; at least
virtue was still dear to them; they still loved and honoured her
charms; they were less corrupted than debased. Though they were less
worthy of felicity, they still continued happy.
What now are those affectionate lovers who glowed with so refined a
passion, and were so sensible of the worth of honour? who can be
acquainted with their condition, without sighing over them?----behold
them a prey to guilt. Even the idea of defiling the marriage bed does
not now strike them with horror----they meditate adultery!----how,
is it possible that they can be the same pair? Are not their souls
entirely altered? how could that lovely image which the wicked never
behold, be effaced in the minds where it once shone so bright? are not
they, who have once felt the charms of virtue, for ever after
disgusted with vice? how many ages have passed to produce this
astonishing alteration? what length of time could be capable of
destroying so delightful a remembrance, and of extinguishing the true
sense of happiness in those who had once enjoyed it? Ah! if the first
step of irregularity moves with slow and painful pace, how easy and
precipitate are those which follow! O, the illusion of passion! it is
that which fascinates reason, betrays prudence, and new models nature,
before we perceive the change. A single moment leads us astray; one
step draws us out of the right path. From that time an irresistible
propensity hurries us on to our ruin. From that time we fall into a
gulph, and arise frightened to find ourselves oppressed with crimes,
with a heart formed to virtue. My dear friend, let us drop the
curtain. Can it be necessary to see the dangerous precipice it
conceals from us, in order to avoid approaching it? I resume my
narrative.
M. Wolmar arrived, and made no objection to the alteration in my
features. My father pressed me. The mourning for my mother was just
over, and my grief was proof against time. I could form no pretence to
elude my promise; and was under a necessity of fulfilling it. I
thought the day which was to separate me for ever from you and from
myself, would have been the last of my life. I could have beheld the
preparations for my funeral, with less horror than those for my
marriage. The nearer the fatal moment drew, the less I found myself
able to root out my first affections from my soul; my efforts rather
served to inflame than to extinguish them. At length I gave over the
fruitless struggle. At the very time that I was prepared to swear
eternal constancy to another, my heart still vowed eternal love to
thee, and I was carried to the temple as a polluted victim, which
defiles the altar on which it is sacrificed.
When I came to the church, I felt, at my entrance, a kind of emotion
which I had never experienced before. An inconceivable terror seized
my mind in that solemn and august place which was full of the Being
worshipped there. A sudden horror made me shiver. Trembling and ready
to faint, it was with difficulty that I reached the altar. Far from
being composed, I found my disorder increase during the ceremony, and
every object I beheld struck me with terror. The gloomy light of the
temple, the profound silence of the spectators, their decent and
collected deportment, the train of all my relations, the awful look of
my venerable father, all contributed to give the ceremony an air of
solemnity which commanded my attention and reverence, and which made
me tremble at the very thought of perjury. I imagined that I beheld
the instrument of Providence, and that I heard the voice of heaven, in
the minister who pronounced the holy liturgy with uncommon solemnity.
The purity, the dignity, the sanctity of marriage, so forcibly
expressed in the words of scripture, the chaste, the sublime duties it
inculcates, and which are so important to the happiness, the order,
the peace, the being of human nature, so agreeable in themselves to be
observed; all conspired to make such an impression upon me, that I
felt a thorough revolution within ne. An invisible power seemed
suddenly to rectify the disorder of my affections, and to settle them
according to the laws of duty and nature. The eternal and omnipresent
Power, said I to myself, now reads the bottom of my soul; he compares
my secret will with my verbal declaration: heaven and earth are
witness to the solemn engagement I am going to contract; and they
shall be witness of my fidelity in observing the obligation. What
human duty can they regard, who dare to violate the first and most
sacred of all?
A casual glance on Mr. and Mrs. Orbe, whom I saw opposite to each
other, fixing their tender looks on me, affected me more powerfully
than all the other objects around me. O most amiable and virtuous
pair! though your love is less violent, are you therefore less closely
attached to each other? duty and honour are the bonds which unite you;
affectionate friends! faithful couple! you do not burn with that
devouring flame which consumes the soul, but you love each other with
a gentle and refined affection, which nourishes the mind, which
prudence authorizes, and reason directs; you therefore enjoy more
substantial felicity. Ah! that, in an union like yours, I could
recover the same innocence, and attain the same happiness! if I have
not like you deserved it, I will at least endeavour to make myself
worthy of it by your example.
These sentiments renewed my hopes, and revived my courage. I
considered the sacred tie I was preparing to form, as a new state
which would purify my soul, and restore me to a just sense of my duty.
When the minister asked me, whether I promised perfect obedience and
fidelity to him whom I received for my husband, I made the promise not
only with my lips but with my heart; and I will keep it inviolably
till my death.
When we returned one, I sighed for an hour’s solitude and
recollection. I obtained it, not without difficulty; and however eager
I was to make the best advantage of it, I nevertheless entered into
self-examination with reluctance, being afraid lest I should discover
that I had only been affected by some transitory impressions, and that
at the bottom I should find myself as unworthy a wife, as I had been
an indiscreet girl. The method of making the trial was sure, but
dangerous; I began it by turning my thoughts on you. My heart bore
witness that no tender recollection had profaned the solemn engagement
I had lately made. I could not conceive, without astonishment, how
your image could have forborne its obstinate intrusion, and have left
me so long at rest, amidst so many occasions which might have recalled
you to my mind; I should have mistrusted my insensibility and
forgetfulness, as treacherous dependencies, which were too unnatural
to be lasting. I found however that I was in no danger of delusion: I
was sensible that I still loved you as much, if not more than ever;
but I felt my affection for you without a blush. I found that I could
venture to think of you, without forgetting that I was the wife of
another. When a tacit self-confession reported how dear you was to me,
my heart was affected, but my conscience and my senses were composed;
and from that moment I perceived that my mind was changed in reality.
What a torrent of pure joy then rushed into my soul! what tranquil
sensations, so long effaced, then began to revive a heart which
ignominy had stained, and to diffuse an unusual serenity through my
whole frame! I felt as if I had been new born; and I fancied that I
was entering into another life. O gentle and balmy virtue! I am
regenerated for thee; thou alone canst make life dear to me; to thee
alone I consecrate my being. Oh I have too fatally experienced the
loss of thee, ever to abandon thee a second time.
In the rapture of so great, so sudden, so unexpected a change I
ventured to reflect on the state I was in the preceding day: I
trembled on thinking what a state of unworthy debasement I had been
reduced by forgetting what I owed to myself; and I shuddered at all
the dangers I had since my first step of deviation. What a happy
revolution of mind enabled me to discover the horror of the crime which
threw temptation before me; and how did the love of discretion revive
within me! by what uncommon accident, said I, could I hope to be more
faithful to love, than to honour, which I held in such high esteem?
what good fortune would prevent your inconstancy or my own, from
delivering me a prey to new attachments? how could I oppose to another
lover, that resistance which the first had conquered, and that shame
which had been accustomed to yield to inclination? should I pay more
regard to the rights of extinguished love, than I did to the claim of
virtue, while it maintained its full empire in my soul? what security
could I have to love no other but you, except that inward assistance
which deceives all lovers, who swear eternal constancy, and
inconsiderately perjure themselves upon every change of their
affections? thus one deviation from virtue would have led to another;
and vice, grown habitual, would no longer have appeared horrible in my
sight. Fallen from honour to infamy, without any hold to stop me; from
a seduced virgin I should have become an abandoned woman, the scandal
of my sex and the torment of my family. What has saved me from so
natural a consequence of my first transgression? what checked me after
my first guilty step? what has preserved my reputation, and the esteem
of my beloved friends? what has placed me under the protection of a
virtuous and discreet husband, whose character is amiable, whose
person is agreeable, and who is full of that respect and affection for
me, which I have so little deserved? what, in short, enables me to
aspire after the character of a virtuous wife, and gives me courage to
render myself worthy of that title? I see it, I feel it; it is the
friendly hand which has conducted me thro’ the paths of darkness, that
now removes the veil of error from my eyes; and, in my own despite,
restores me to myself. The gentle voice which incessantly murmured
within me, now raised its tone, and thundered in my ears, at the very
moment that I was near being lost for ever. The author of all truth
would not allow me to quit his presence with the conscious guilt of
detestable perjury; and preventing my crime by my remorse, he has
shewn me the frightful abyss into which I was ready to fall. Eternal
Providence! who dost make the insect crawl, and the heavens revolve,
thou art watchful over the least of all thy works! thou hast recalled
me to that virtue, which I was born to revere! deign therefore to
receive, from a heart purified by thy goodness, that homage which thou
alone hast rendered worthy thy acceptance.
That instant, being impressed with a lively sense of the danger I had
escaped, and of the state of honour and security in which I was
happily re-established, I prostrated myself on the ground, and lifting
my suppliant hands to heaven, I invoked that Being enthroned on high,
whole pleasure supports or destroys, by means of our own strength,
that free-will he has bestowed. I eagerly, said I, embrace the
professed good, of which Thou alone art the author. I will love the
husband to whom thou hast attached me. I will be faithful, because it
is the chief duty which unites private families and society in
general. I will be chaste, because it is the parent virtue which
nourishes all the rest. I will adhere to everything relative to the
order of nature which thou hast established, and to the dictates of
reason which I derive from thee. I recommend my heart to thy
protection, and my desires to thy guidance. Render all my actions
conformable to my steadfast will, which is ever thine, and never more
permit momentary error to triumph over the settled choice of my life.
Having finished this short prayer, the first I ever made with true
devotion, I found myself confirmed in virtuous resolutions; it seemed
so easy and so agreeable to follow these dictates, that I clearly
perceived where I must hereafter resort for that power to resist my
inclinations, which I could not derive from myself. From this new
discovery, I acquired fresh confidence, and lamented that fatal
blindness, which had so long disguised it from me. I had never been
devoid of religion, but perhaps I had better have been wholly so, than
to have professed one which was external and mechanical; and which
satisfied the conscience, without affecting the heart; one which was
confined to set forms; and taught me to believe in God at stated
hours, without thinking of him the remainder of my time. Scrupulously
attendant on public worship, I nevertheless drew no advantage from it
to assist me in the practice of my duty. Knowing that I was of good
family, I indulged my inclinations, I was fond of speculation, and put
my trust in reason. Not being able to reconcile the Spirit of the
Gospel with the manners of the world, nor faith with works, I steered
a middle course which satisfied the vanity of my wisdom; I had one set
of maxims for speculation, and another for practice; I forgot in one
place, the opinions I formed in another; I was devotee at church, and
a philosopher at home: Alas! was nothing any where; my prayers were
but words, my reasoning mere sophistry, and the only light I followed
was the false glimmering of an _ignis fatuus_ which guided me to
destruction.
I cannot describe to you how much this inward principle, which had
escaped me till now, made me despise those which had so shamefully
misled me. Tell me, I intreat you, what was the strongest reason in
their support, and on what foundation did they rest? A favourable
instinct directs me to good, some impetuous passion rises in
opposition: it takes root in the same instant, and what must I do to
destroy it? From a contemplation on the order of nature, I discover
the beauty of virtue; and from its general utility, I derive its
excellence. But what do these arguments avail, when they stand in
competition to my private interest; and which in the end is of most
consequence to me, to procure my own happiness at the expense of
others, or to promote the felicity of others at the expense of my own
happiness? if the dread of shame or punishment deter me from
committing evil for the sake of my own private good, I have nothing
more to do than to sin in secret; virtue then cannot upbraid me, and
if I am detected, I shall be punished, as at Sparta, not on account of
my crime, but because I had not ingenuity to conceal it. In short,
admitting the character and the love of virtue to be imprinted in my
heart by nature, it will serve me as a rule of conduct till its
impressions are dead; but how shall I be sure always to preserve this
inward effigies in its original purity, which has no model, among
sublunary beings, to which it can be referred? Is it not evident, that
irregular afflictions corrupt the judgement as well as the will, and
that conscience changes, and in every age, in every people, in every
individual, accommodates itself to inconstancy of opinion and
diversity of prejudice.
Adore the supreme Being, my worthy and prudent friend; with one puff
of breath you will be able to dissipate those chimeras of reason,
which have a visionary appearance, and which fly like so many others,
before immutable truth. Nothing exists but through him, who is self-
existent. It is he who directs the tendency of justice, fixes the
basis of virtue, and gives a recompense to a short life spent
according to his will; it is he who proclaims aloud to the guilty that
their secret crimes are detected, and gives assurance to the righteous
in obscurity, that their virtues are not without a witness; it is he,
it is his unalterable substance, that is the true model of those
perfections, of which we all bear the image within us. It is in vain
that our passions disfigure it; its traces which are allied to the
infinite Being, ever present themselves to our reason, and serve to
re-establish what error and imposture have perverted. These
distinctions seem to me extremely natural; common sense is sufficient
to point them out. Every thing which we cannot separate from the idea
of divine essence, is God; all the rest is the work of men. It is by
the contemplation of this divine model, that the soul becomes refined
and exalted, that it learns to despise low desires, and to triumph
over base inclinations. A heart impressed with these sublime truths,
is superior to the mean passions of human nature; the idea of infinite
grandeur subdues the pride of man; the delight of contemplation
abstracts him from gross desires; and if the immense Being, who is the
subject of his thoughts had no existence, it would nevertheless be of
use to exercise his mind in such meditations, in order to make him
more master of himself, more vigorous, more discreet, and more happy.
Do you require a particular instance of the vain subtleties framed by
that self sufficient reason, which so vainly relies on its own
strength? Let us coolly examine the arguments of those philosophers,
those worthy advocates of a crime, which never yet reduced any whose
minds were not previously corrupted. Might one not conclude that, by a
direct attack of the most holy and most solemn of all contracts, these
dangerous disputants were determined at one stroke to annihilate human
society in general, which is founded on the faith of engagements? But
let us consider, I beseech you, how they exculpate secret adultery? it
is because, say they, no mischief arises from it; not even to the
husband, who is ignorant of the wrong. But, can they be certain that
he will always remain ignorant of the injury offered him? is it
sufficient to authorise perjury and infidelity, that they do no wrong
to others? is the mischief which the guilty do to themselves, not
sufficient to create an abhorrence of guilt? is it no crime to be
false to our word, to destroy, as far as we are able, the obligation
of oaths, and the most inviolable contracts? is it no crime to take
pains to render ourselves false, treacherous, and perjured? is it no
crime to form attachments, which occasion you to desire the prejudice,
and to wish the death of another? even the death of one whom we ought
to love above others, and with whom we have sworn to live? is not that
state in itself an evil, which is productive of a thousand
consequential crimes? even good itself, if attended with so many
mischiefs, would, for that reason only, be an evil.
Shall one of the parties pretend to innocence, who may chance to be
disengaged, and have pledged his faith to no one? He is grossly
mistaken. It is not only the interest of husband and wife, but it is
the common benefit of mankind, that the purity of marriage be
preserved unsullied. Whenever two persons are joined together by that
solemn contract, all mankind enter into a tacit engagement to respect
the sacred tie, and to honour the conjugal union; and this appears to
be a powerful reason against clandestine marriages, which, as they
express no public sign of such an union, expose innocent maids to the
temptation of adulterous passion. The public are in some measure
guarantees of a control which passes in their presence; and we may
venture to say, that the honour of a modest woman is under the special
protection of all good and worthy people. Whoever therefore dares to
seduce her, sins; first because he has tempted her to sin, and that
every one is an accomplice in those crimes which he persuades others
to commit: in the next place, he sins directly himself, because he
violates the public and sacred faith of matrimony, without which no
order or regularity can subsist in society.
The crime, say they, is secret, consequently no injury can result from
it to any one. If these philosophers believe the existence of a God
and the immortality of the human soul, can they call that crime
secret, which has for its witness the Being principally offended, and
the only righteous judge? it is a strange kind of a secret, which is
hid from all eyes, except those from which it is our interest most to
conceal it! if they do not however admit of the omnipresence of the
Divinity, yet how can they dare to affirm that they do injury to no
one? how can they prove that it is a matter of indifference to a
parent to educate heirs who are strangers to his blood; to be
encumbered perhaps with more children than he would otherwise have
had, and to be obliged to distribute his fortune among those pledges
of his dishonour, without feeling for them any sensations of parental
tenderness, and natural affection. If we suppose these philosophers to
be materialists, we have then a stronger foundation for opposing their
tenets by the gentle dictates of nature, which plead in every breath
against the principles of a vain philosophy, which have never yet been
controverted by sound reasoning. In short, if the body alone produces
cogitation, and sentiment depends entirely on organization, will there
not be a more strict analogy between two beings of the same blood;
will they not have a more violent attachment to each other, will there
not be a resemblance between their souls as well as their features,
which is a most powerful motive to inspire mutual affection?
Is it doing no injury therefore, in your opinion, to destroy or
disturb this natural union by the mixture of adulterate blood, and to
pervert the principle of that mutual affection, which ought to cement
all the members of one family? who would not shudder with horror at
the thoughts of having one infant changed for another by a nurse? and
is it a less crime to make such a change before the infant is born?
If I consider my own sex in particular, what mischiefs do I discover
in this incontinency, which is supposed to do no injury! the
debasement of a guilty woman, who, after the loss of her honour, soon
forfeits all other virtues, is alone sufficient. What manifest
symptoms convey to a tender husband the intelligence of that injury
which they think to justify by secrecy! the loss of the wife’s
affection is sufficient proof. To what purpose will all her affected
endeavours serve, but to manifest her indifference the more? can we
impose upon the jealous eye of love by feigned caresses? and what
torture must he feel, who is attached to a beloved object, whose hand
embraces, while her heart rejects him! Admitting however that fortune
should favour a conduct which she has so often betrayed, and to say
nothing of the rashness of trusting our own affected innocence and
another’s peace to precautions which Providence often thinks proper to
disconcert----yet what deceit, what falsehood, what imposture, is
requisite to conceal a criminal commerce, to deceive a husband, to
corrupt servants, and to impose upon the public! what a disgrace to
the accomplices! what an example to children! what must become of
their education amidst so much solicitude how to gratify a guilty
passion with impunity! how is the peace of the family and the union of
the heads of it to be maintained? what! in all these circumstances
does the husband receive no injury? but who can make him recompense
for a heart which should have been devoted to him? who can restore him
the affections of a valuable woman? who can give him peace of mind,
and conjugal confidence! who can cure him of his well-grounded
suspicions? who can engage a father to trust the feelings of nature,
when he embraces his child?
With regard to the pretended connections which may be formed in
families by means of adultery and infidelity, it cannot be considered
as a serious argument, but rather as an absurd and brutal mockery,
which deserves no other answer than disdain and indignation. The
treasons, the quarrels, the battles, the murders with which this
irregularity has in all ages pestered the earth, are sufficient proofs
how far the peace and union of mankind is to be promoted by
attachments founded in guilt. If any social principle results from
this vile and despicable commerce, it may be compared to that which
unites a band of robbers, and which ought to be destroyed and
annulled, in order to ensure the safety of lawful communities.
I have endeavoured to suppress the indignation which these principles
excited in me, in order to discuss them with greater moderation. The
more extravagant and ridiculous I find them, the more I am interested
to refute them, in order to make myself ashamed of having listened to
them with too little reserve. You see how ill they can endure the test
of sound reason; but from whence can we derive the sacred dictates of
reason, if not from him who is the source of all? and what shall we
think of those who, in order to mislead mankind, pervert this heavenly
ray, which he gave them as an unerring guide to virtue? Let us abandon
this philosophy of words; let us distrust a fallacious virtue which
undermines all other virtues, and attempts to vindicate every vice, to
authorize the practice of every species of guilt. The surest method of
discovering our duty is diligently to examine what is right, and we
cannot long continue the examination, without recurring to the author
of all goodness. This is what I have done, since I have taken pains to
rectify my principals, and improve my reason: this is a task you will
perform better than I, when you are disposed to pursue the same
course. It is a comfort to me to reflect, that you have frequently
nourished my mind with elevated notions of religion, and you whose
heart disguised nothing from me, would not have talked to me in that
strain, had your sentiments differed from your declaration. I
recollect that conversations of this kind were ever delightful to us.
We never found the presence of the supreme Being troublesome: it
rather filled us with hope than terror: it never yet dismayed any but
guilty souls; we were pleased to think that he was witness to our
interviews, and we loved to exalt our minds to the contemplation of
the deity. If we were now and then abased by shame, we reflected, that
at least he was privy to our in most thoughts, and that idea renewed
our tranquillity.
If this confidence led us astray, nevertheless the principle on which
it was founded, is alone capable of reclaiming us to virtue. Is it not
unworthy of a man to be always at variance with himself, to have one
rule for his actions, another for his opinions, to think as if he was
abstracted from matter, to act as if he was devoid of soul, and never
to be capable of appropriating a single action of his life to his own
entire self? for my own part, I think the principles of the ancients
are sufficient to fortify us, when they are not confined to mere
speculation. Weakness is incident to human nature, and the merciful
Being who made man frail, will no doubt pardon his frailty; but guilt
is a quality which belongs only to the wicked, and will not remain
unpunished by the author of all justice. An infidel, who is otherwise
well inclined, praises those virtues he admires; he acts from taste,
not from choice. If all his desires happen to be regular, he indulges
them without reserve. He would gratify them in the same manner, if
they were irregular; for what should restrain him? But he who
acknowledges and worships the common father of mankind, perceives that
he is destined for nobler purposes. An ardent wish to fulfil the end
of his being, animates his zeal; he follows a more certain rule of
action than appetite; he knows how to do what is right at the expense
of his inclinations, and to sacrifice the desires of his heart to the
call of duty. Such, my dear friend, is the heroic sacrifice required
of us both. The love which attached us would have proved the delight
of our lives; it survived hope, it bid defiance to time and absence,
it endured every kind of proof. So sincere a passion ought not ever to
have decayed of itself; it was worthy to be sacrificed to virtue
alone.
I must observe farther. All circumstances are altered between us, and
your heart must accommodate itself to the change. The wife of Mr.
Wolmar is not your former Eloisa; your change of sentiment, with
regard to her, is unavoidable; and it depends upon your own choice to
make the alteration redound to your honour, according to the election
you make of vice or virtue. I recollect a passage in an author, whose
authority you will not controvert. Love, says he, is destitute of its
greatest charm, when it is abandoned by honour. To be sensible of its
true value, it must warm the heart, and exalt us by raising the object
of our desires. Take away the idea of perfection, and you deprive love
of all its enthusiasm; banish esteem, and love is no more. How can a
woman honour the man whom she ought to despise? how can he himself
honour her, who has not scrupled to abandon herself to a vile seducer?
thus they will soon entertain a mutual contempt for each other. Love,
that celestial principle, will be debased into a shameful commerce
between them. They will have lost their honour without attaining
felicity. [45] This, my dear friend, is our lesson, penned by your own
hand! Never were our hearts more agreeably attached, and never was
honour so dear to us as in those happy days when this letter was
written. Reflect then, how we should be misled at this time by a
guilty passion, nourished at the expense of the most agreeable
transports which can inspire the soul! The horror of vice which is so
natural to us both, would soon extend to the partner of our guilt; we
should entertain mutual hatred, for having loved each other
indiscreetly, and remorse would quickly extinguish affection. Is it
not better to refine a generous sentiment, in order to render it
permanent? is it not better at least to preserve what we may grant
with innocence? is not this preserving what is more delightful than
all other enjoyments? yes, my dear and worthy friend, to keep our love
inviolable, we must renounce each other. Let us forget all that has
passed, and continue the lover of my soul. This idea is so agreeable
that it compensates for every thing.
Thus have I drawn a faithful picture of my life, and given you a
genuine detail of every inward sentiment. Be assured that I love you
still. I am still attached to you with such a tender and lively
affection, that any other than myself would be alarmed: but I feel a
principle of a different kind within me, which secures me against any
apprehensions from my attachment. I perceive that the nature of my
affection is entirely altered, and in this respect, my past failings
are the grounds of my present security; I know that scrupulous decorum
and the parade of virtue might require more of me, and not be
satisfied unless I utterly forgot you. But I have a more certain rule
of conduct, and I will abide by it. I attend to the secret dictates of
conscience; I find nothing there which reproaches me, and it never
deceives those who consult it with sincerity. If this is not
sufficient to justify me before the world, it is enough to restore me
to composure of mind. How has this happy change been produced? I know
not how. All I know is, that I wished for it most ardently. God alone
has accomplished the rest. I am convinced that a mind once corrupted,
will ever remain so, and will never recover of itself, unless some
sudden revolution, some unexpected change of fortune and condition,
entirely alters its connections. When all its habits are destroyed,
and all its passions modified, by that thorough revolution, it
sometimes resumes its primitive characters, and becomes like a new
being recently formed by the hands of nature. Then the recollection of
its former unworthiness may serve as a preservative against relapse.
Yesterday we were base and abject; to-day we are vigorous and
magnanimous. By thus making a close compassion between the two
different states, we become more sensible of the value of that which
we have recovered, and more attentive to support it.
My marriage has made me experience something like the change I
endeavour to explain to you. This tie, which I dreaded so much, has
extricated me from a slavery much more dreadful; and my husband
becomes dearer to me, for having restored me to myself.
You and I were, however, too closely attached, for a change of this
kind to destroy the unison between us. If you lose an affectionate
mistress, you gain a faithful friend; and whatever we may have
imagined in our state of delusion, I cannot believe that the
alteration is to your prejudice. Let it, I conjure you, encourage you
to take the same resolution that I have formed, to become hereafter
more wise and virtuous, and to refine the lessons of philosophy, by
the precepts of Christian morality. I shall never be thoroughly happy,
unless you likewise enjoy happiness, and I am more convinced than
ever, that there is no real felicity without virtue. If you sincerely
love me, afford me the agreeable consolation to find that our hearts
correspond in their return to virtue, as they unhappily agreed in
their deviation from it.
I need not make any apology for the length of my epistle. Were you
less dear to me, I should have shortened it. Before I conclude, I have
one favour to request of you. M. Wolmar is a stranger to my past
conduct; but a frank sincerity is part of the duty I owe to him; I
should have made the confession a hundred times; you alone have
restrained me. Though I am acquainted with M. Wolmar’s discretion and
moderation, yet to mention your name, is always to bring you in
competition, and I would not do it without your consent. Can this
request be disagreeable to you, and when I flatter myself to obtain
your leave, do I depend too much on you or on myself? consider, I
beseech you, that this reserve is inconsistent with innocence, that it
grows every day more insupportable, and that I shall not enjoy a
moment’s rest till I receive your answer.
Letter CXII. To Eloisa.
And will you no longer be my Eloisa? ah! do not tell me so, thou most
worthy of all thy sex! Thou art more mine than ever. Thy merit claims
homage from the whole world. It was thee whom I adored, when I first
became susceptible of the impressions of beauty: and I shall never
cease to adore thee, even after death, if my soul still retains any
recollection of those truly celestial charms, which were my sole
delight when living. The courageous effort by which you have recovered
all your virtue, renders you more equal to your lovely self. No,
whatever torment the sensation and the confession give me, yet I must
declare that you never were my Eloisa more perfectly, than at this
moment in which you renounce me. Alas! I regain my Eloisa, by losing
her for ever. But I, whose heart shudders even at an attempt to
imitate your virtue, I, who am tormented with a criminal passion which
I can neither support nor subdue, am I the man whom I vainly imagined
myself to be? was I worthy of your esteem? what right had I to
importune you with my complaints and my despair? did it become me, to
presume so high for you? Ah! what was I, that I should dare to love
Eloisa?
Fool that I am! as tho’ I did not feel myself sufficiently humbled,
without taking pains to seek fresh circumstances of humiliation! why
should I increase my mortification by enumerating distinctions unknown
to love? It was that which exalted me; and which made me your equal.
Our hearts were blended, we shared our sentiments in common, and mine
partook of the elevation of yours. Behold me now sunk into my pristine
baseness! thou gentle hope, which didst so long feed my soul to
deceive me, art thou then extinguished without a prospect of return?
will she not be mine? must I lose her for ever? does she make another
happy?----O rage! O torments of hell!----O faithless! ought you
ever----pardon me, pardon me! dearest madam! have pity on my
distraction. O! you had too much reason when you told me, she is no
more----She is indeed no more than affectionate Eloisa, to whom I
could disclose every emotion of my heart. How could I complain when I
found myself unhappy? could she listen to my complaints? was I
unhappy?----what then am I now? No, I will not make you blush for
yourself or me. Hope is no more, we must renounce each other; we must
part. Virtue herself has pronounced the decree; and your hand has been
capable of transcribing it. Let us forget each other----Forget me, at
least. I am determined, I swear, that I will never speak to you of
myself again.
May I yet venture to talk of you, and to interest myself in what is
now the only object of my concern; I mean your happiness? In
describing to me the state of your mind, you say nothing of your
present situation. As a reward of the sacrifice I have made, of which
you ought to be sensible, at least deign to deliver me from this
insupportable doubt. Eloisa, are you happy? if you are, give me the
only comfort of which my despair is susceptible; if you are not, be
compassionate enough to tell me so; my misery then will be less
durable.
The more I reflect on the confession you propose to make, the less I
am inclined to consent to it, and the same motive which always
deprived me of resolution to deny your requests, renders me inexorable
in this particular. It is a subject of the last importance, and I
conjure you to weigh my reasons with attention. First, your excessive
delicacy seems to lead you into a mistake, and I do not see on what
foundation the most rigid virtue can exact such a confession from you.
No engagement whatever can have any retro-active effect. We cannot
bind ourselves with respect to time past, nor promise what is not in
our power to perform! how can you be obliged to give your husband an
account of the use you formerly made of your liberty, or how can you
be responsible to him for a fidelity which you never promised to him?
Do not deceive yourself, Eloisa; it is not to your husband, it is to
your friend, that you have violated your engagement. Before we were
separated by your father’s tyranny, heaven and nature had formed us
for each other. By entering into other connections, you have been
guilty of a crime, which love and honour can never forgive; and it is
I who have a right to reclaim the prize, which M. Wolmar has ravished
from my arms.
If, under any circumstances, duty can exact such a confession, it is
when the danger of a relapse obliges a prudent woman to take
precautions for her security. But your letter has given me more light
into your real sentiments than you imagine. In reading it, I felt in
my own heart, how much yours, upon a near approach, nay even in the
bosom of love, would have abhorred a criminal connection, the horror
of which was only diminished by its distance.
As duty and honour do not require such confidence, prudence and reason
forbid it; for it is running a needless risk of forfeiting every
thing that is dear in wedlock, the attachment of a husband, mutual
confidence, and the peace of the family. Have you thoroughly weighed
the consequences of such a step? are you sufficiently acquainted with
your husband, to be certain of the effect it will produce in his
disposition? do you know how many men there are, who, from such a
confession, would conceive an immoderate jealousy, and an invincible
contempt, and would probably be provoked, even to attempt your life?
in such a nice examination, we ought to attend to time, place, and the
difference of characters. In the country where I reside at present,
such a confidence would be attended with no danger; and they who make
so light of conjugal fidelity, are not people to be violently affected
by any frailty of conduct prior to the engagement. Not to mention
reasons which sometimes render those confessions indispensable, and
which cannot be applied to your case, I knew some women of tolerable
estimation, who, with very little risk, have made a merit of that kind
of sincerity, in order perhaps by that sacrifice, to obtain a
confidence which they might afterwards abuse at will. But in those
countries where the sanctity of marriage is more respected, in those
countries where that sacred tie forms a solid union, and where
husbands have a real attachment to their wives, they require a more
severe account of their conduct; they expect that their hearts should
never have felt any tender affections but for themselves; usurping a
right which they have not, they unreasonably expect their wives to
have been theirs, even before they belonged to them, and they are as
unwilling to excuse an abuse of liberty, as a real infidelity.
Believe me, virtuous Eloisa, and distrust this fruitless and
unnecessary zeal. Keep this dangerous secret, which nothing can oblige
you to reveal; the discovery of which might utterly ruin you, without
being of any advantage to your husband. If he is worthy of such a
confession, it will disturb his peace of mind; and you will have the
mortification of having afflicted him without reason; if he is
unworthy, why will you give him a pretence for using you ill? How do
you know whether your virtue, which has defended you from the assaults
of your heart, will likewise support you against the influence of
domestic troubles daily reviving? Do not voluntarily increase your
misfortunes, lest they become too powerful for your resistance, and
you should at length relapse by means of your scruples into a worse
condition, than that from which you have with so much difficulty
disengaged yourself. Prudence is the basis of every virtue; consult
that, I intreat you, in this most important crisis of your life; and
if the fatal secret oppresses you so violently, wait at least, before
you unbosom yourself, till time and a length of years, shall have made
you more perfectly acquainted with your husband: stay till his heart,
now affected by the power of your beauty, shall be susceptible of
those more lasting impressions, which the charms of your disposition
cannot fail to make, and till he is become habitually sensible of your
perfections. After all, if these reasons, powerful as they are, should
not convince you, yet do not refuse to listen to the voice which
utters them. O Eloisa, hearken to a man who is yet, in some degree,
susceptible of virtue, and who has a right to expect some concession
from you at least, in return for the sacrifice he has made to you to-
day.
I must conclude this letter. I find that I cannot forbear resuming a
strain, to which you must no longer give ear. Eloisa, I must part with
you! young as I am, am I already destined to renounce felicity? O
time, never to be recalled! time irrevocably past, source of ever-
lasting sorrows! pleasures, transports, delightful ecstasies,
delicious moments, celestial raptures! my love, my only love, the
honour and delight of my soul! Farewell for ever.
Letter CXIII. From Eloisa.
You ask me, whether I am happy? The question affects me, and by your
manner of asking it, you facilitate my answer; for so far from wishing
to banish you from my memory as you desire me, I confess that I should
not be happy was your affection for me to cease: yet at present I am
happy in most respects, and nothing but your felicity is wanting to
compleat mine. If, in my last, I avoided making any mention of Mr.
Wolmar, it was out of tenderness to you. I was too well acquainted
with your sensibility of temper, not to be under apprehensions of
irritating your pain; but your solicitude with regard to my felicity,
obliging me to mention him on whom it depends, I cannot speak of him
without doing justice to his worth, as becomes his wife, and a friend
to truth.
Mr. Wolmar is near fifty years of age; but by means of an uniform
regular course of life, and a serenity not ruffled by any violent
passions, he has preserved such a healthy constitution, and such a
florid complexion, that he scarce appears to be forty, and he bears no
symptoms of age, but prudence and experience. His countenance is noble
and engaging, his address open and unaffected, his manner rather
sincere than courteous, he speaks little and with great judgment, but
without any affectation of being concise and sententious. His
behaviour is the same to every one, he neither courts nor shuns any
individual, and he never gives any preference but what reason
justifies.
In spite of his natural indifference, his heart, seconding my father’s
inclinations, entertained a liking for me, and for the first time
formed a tender attachment. This moderate and lasting affection has
been governed by such strict rules of decorum, and observed such a
constant uniformity, that he was under no necessity of altering his
manners on changing his condition, and, without violating conjugal
decorum, his behaviour to me now is the time as it was before
marriage. I never saw him either gay or melancholy, but always
contented; he never talks to me of himself, and seldom of me; he is
not in continual search after me, but he does not seem displeased that
I should seek his company, and he seems to part from me unwillingly.
He is serious without disposing others to be grave; on the contrary,
his serenity of manners seems an invitation to me to be sprightly; and
as the pleasures I relish are the only pleasures of which he is
susceptible, an endeavour to amuse myself is among the duties I owe to
him. In one word, he wishes to see me happy; he has not told me so,
but his conduct declares it; and to wish the happiness of a wife,
is to make her really happy.
With all the attention with which I have been able to observe him, I
cannot discover any particular passion to which he is attached, except
his affection for me; it is however so even and temperate, that one
would conclude he had power to limit the degree of his passion, and
that he had determined not to love beyond the bounds of discretion. He
is in reality what Lord B---- is in his own imagination; in this
respect I find him greatly preferable to those passionate lovers, of
whom we are so fond; for the heart deceives us a thousand ways, and
acts from a suspicious principle; but reason always proposes a just
end; the rules of duty which it enjoins are sure, evident and
practicable; and whenever our reason is led astray we enter into idle
speculations, which were never intended to be objects of her
examination.
Mr. Wolmar’s chief delight is observation. He loves to judge of men’s
characters and actions. He generally forms his judgment with perfect
impartiality and profound penetration. If an enemy was to do him an
injury, he would discuss every motive and expedient with as much
composure, as if he was transacting any indifferent concern. I do not
know by what means he has heard of you, but he has often spoken of
you, with great esteem, to me; and I am sure he is incapable of
disguise. I have imagined sometimes that he took particular notice of
me during these conversations; but in all probability, the observation
I apprehended, was nothing but the secret reproach of an alarmed
conscience. However it be, in this respect I did my duty; neither fear
nor shame occasioned me to shew an unjust reserve; and I did you
justice before him, as I now do him justice before you.
I forgot to tell you concerning our income, and the management of it.
The wreck of Mr. Wolmar’s inheritance, with the addition from my
father, who has only reserved a pension for himself, makes up a
handsome and moderate fortune, which Mr. Wolmar uses with generosity
and discretion, by maintaining in his family, not an inconvenient and
vain display of luxury, [46] but plenty, with the real conveniences of
life; and by distributing necessaries among his indigent neighbours.
The economy he has established in his houshold, is the image of that
order which reigns in his own breast; and his little family seems to
be a model of that regularity, which is observable in the government
of the world. You neither discover that inflexible formality which is
rather inconvenient than useful, and which no one but he who exerts it
can endure; nor do you perceive that mistaken confusion, which, by
being encumbered with superfluities, renders every thing useless. The
master’s hand is seen throughout, without being felt, and he made his
first arrangement with so much discretion, that every thing now goes
on by itself; and regularity is preserved, without any abridgment of
liberty.
This, my worthy friend, is a succinct but faithful account of Mr.
Wolmar’s character, as far as I have been able to discover it since I
lived with him. Such as he appeared to me the first day, such he
seemed the last, without any alteration; which induces me to hope that
I know him thoroughly, and that I have no farther discoveries to make;
for I cannot conceive any change in his behaviour which will not be to
his disadvantage.
From this account, you may anticipate the answer to your question, and
you must think despicably of me not to suppose me happy, when I have
so much reason to be so. What led me into a mistake, and what perhaps
still misleads you, is the opinion, that love is necessary to make the
married state happy. My good friend, this is a vulgar error; honour,
virtue a certain conformity, not so much of age and condition as of
temper and inclination, are the requisites in the conjugal state:
nevertheless it must not be inferred from hence that this union does
not produce an affectionate attachment, which, though it does not
amount to love, is not less agreeable, and is much more permanent.
Love is attended with a continual inquietude of jealousy, or the dread
of separation, by no means suitable with a married life, which should
be a state of peace and tranquillity. The intent of matrimony is not
for man and wife to be always taken up with each other, but jointly to
discharge the duties of civil society, to govern their family with
prudence, and educate their children with discretion. Lovers attend to
nothing but each other, they are incessantly engaged with each other;
and all that they regard, is how to shew their mutual affection. But
this is not enough for a married pair, who have so many other objects
to engage their attention. There is no passion whatever which exposes
us to such delusion, as that of love. We take its violence for a
symptom of its duration; the heart over-burthened with such an
agreeable sensation, extends itself to futurity; and while the heat of
love continues, we flatter ourselves that it will never cool. But, on
the contrary, it is consumed by its own ardour; it glows in youth, it
grows faint with decaying beauty, it is utterly extinguished by the
frost of age; and since the beginning of the world, there never was an
instance of two lovers who sighed for each other, when they became
grey-headed. We may be assured that, sooner or later, adoration will
cease; then the idol which we worshipped being demolished, we
reciprocally see each other in a true light. We look with surprise,
for the object on which we doated; not being able to discover it more.
We are displeased with that which remains in its stead, and which our
imagination often disfigures, as much as it embellished it before;
there are few people, says Rochefoucauld, who are not ashamed of
having loved each other, when their affection is extinguished. How
much is it to be dreaded therefore, lest these two lively sensations
should be succeeded by an irksome state of mind, lest their decline
instead of stopping at indifference, should even reach absolute
disgust; lest, in short, being entirely satiated, they, who were too
passionately fond of each other as lovers, should come to hate each
other as husband and wife! My dear friend, you always appeared amiable
in my eyes, too fatally so for my innocence and repose, but I never
yet saw you but in the character of a lover, and how do I know in what
light you would have appeared, when your passion was no more? I must
confess, that when love expired, it would still have left you in
possession of virtue; but is that alone sufficient to make an union
happy, which the heart ought to cement? and how many virtuous men have
made intolerable husbands? In all these respects, you may say the same
of me.
As to Mr. Wolmar, no delusion is the foundation of our mutual liking;
we see each other in a true light; the sentiment which unites us is
not the blind transport of passionate desire; but a constant and
invariable attachment between two rational people, who being destined
to pass the remainder of their lives together, are content with their
lot, and endeavour to make themselves mutually agreeable. It seems as
if we could not have suited each other better, had we been formed on
purpose for our union. Had his heart been as tender as mine, it is
impossible but so much sensibility on each side must sometimes have
clashed, and occasioned disagreements. If I was as composed as he,
there would be too much indifference between us, and our union would
be less pleasing and agreeable. If he did not love me, we should be
uneasy together; if his love for me was too passionate, he would be
troublesome to me. We are each of us exactly made for the other; he
instructs me, I enliven him; the value of both is increased by our
union, and we seem destined to form but one soul between us; to which
he gives intelligence, and I direct the will. Even his advanced age
redounds to our common advantage; for with the passion which agitated
me, it is certain that had he been younger, I should have married him
with more unwillingness, and my extreme reluctance would probably have
prevented the happy revolution I have experienced.
My worthy friend, heaven directs the good intention of parents, and
rewards the docility of children. God forbid that I should wish to
insult your affliction. Nothing but a strong desire of giving you the
firmest assurance with respect to my present condition, could induce
me to add what I am going to mention. If, with the sentiments I
formerly entertained for you, with the knowledge I have since
acquired, I was once more my own mistress, and at liberty to chuse a
husband, I call that Being, who has vouchsafed to enlighten me, and
who reads the bottom of my heart, to witness my sincerity when I
declare that I should make choice, not of you, but Mr. Wolmar.
Perhaps it may be necessary, to compleat your cure, that I should
inform you of what farther remains in my mind. Mr. Wolmar is much
older than me. If, to punish my failings, heaven should deprive me of
a worthy husband, whom I so little deserved, it is my firm resolution
never to espouse another. If he has not had the good fortune to meet
with a chaste virgin, at least he will leave behind him a continent
widow. You know me too well, to imagine that, after I have made this
declaration, I shall ever recede from it.
What I have said to remove your doubts, may, in some measure, serve to
resolve your objections against the confession which I think it my
duty to make to my husband. He is too discreet to punish me for a
mortifying step which repentance alone may atone for, and I am not
more incapable of the artifice common to the women you speak of, than
he is of harbouring such a suspicion. With respect to the reason you
assign why such a confession is needless, it is certainly sophistical;
for, though we can be under no obligation to a husband, as such,
before marriage, yet that does not authorise one to pass upon him, for
what one really is not. I perceived this before I married him, and
tho’ the oath which my father extorted from me prevented me from
discharging my duty in this respect, I am not the less blameable,
since it is a crime to take an unjust oath, and a farther crime to
keep it. But I had another reason, which my heart dared not avow, and
which made my guilt greater still. Thank heaven, that reason subsists
no longer.
A consideration more just, and of greater weight with me, is the
danger of unnecessarily disturbing the peace of a worthy man, who
derives his happiness from the esteem he bears to his wife. It
certainly is not now in his power to break the tie which binds us
together, nor in mine to have been more worthy of his choice.
Therefore, by an indiscreet confidence, I run the risk of afflicting
him without any advantage, and without reaping any other benefit from
my sincerity, than that of discharging my mind of a cruel secret which
oppresses me heavily. I am sensible that I shall be more composed when
I have made the discovery; but perhaps he would be less happy, and to
prefer my own peace to his, would be a bad method of making reparation
for my faults.
What then shall I do in this dilemma? Till heaven shall better
instruct me in my duty, I will follow your friendly advice; I will be
silent; conceal my failings from my husband, and endeavour to repair
them by a conduct, which may hereafter secure me a pardon.
To begin this necessary reformation, you must consent, my dear friend,
that from this time, all correspondence between us shall cease. If Mr.
Wolmar had received my confession, he might have determined how far we
ought to gratify the sensations of friendship, and give innocent
proofs of our mutual attachment; but since I dare not consult him in
this particular, I have learned to my cost, how far habits the most
justifiable in appearance, are capable of leading us astray. It is
time to grow discreet. Notwithstanding I think my heart securely
fortified, yet I will no longer venture to be judge in my own cause,
nor now am I a wife, will I gave way to the same presumption which
betrayed me when I was a maid. This is the last letter you will ever
receive from me. I intreat you never to write to me again.
Nevertheless, as I shall always continue to interest myself with the
most tender concern for your welfare, and as my sentiment in this
respect is as pure as the light, I shall be glad to hear of you
occasionally, and to find you in possession of that happiness you
deserve. You may write to Mr. Orbe from time to time when you have any
thing interesting to communicate. I hope that the integrity of your
soul will be expressed in your letters. Besides, my cousin is too
virtuous and discreet, to shew me any part which is not fit for my
perusal, and would not fail to suppress the correspondence, if you
were capable of abusing it.
Farewell, my dear and worthy friend; if I thought that fortune could
make you happy, I should desire you to go in pursuit of her; but
perhaps you have reason to despise her, being master of such
accomplishments as will enable you to thrive without her assistance. I
would rather desire you to seek happiness, which is the fortune of the
wise; we have ever experienced that there is no felicity without
virtue but examine carefully whether the word virtue, taken in too
abstracted a sense, has not more pomp than solidity in it, and whether
it is not a term of parade, more calculated to dazzle others, than to
satisfy ourselves. I shudder when I reflect that they who secretly
meditated adultery, should dare to talk of virtue! do you know in what
sense we understood this respectable epithet, which we abused while we
were engaged in a criminal commerce? it was the impetuous passion with
which we were mutually inflamed, that disguised its transports under
this sacred enthusiasm, in order to render them more dear to us, and
to hold us longer in delusion. We were formed, I dare believe, to
practise and cherish real virtue, but we were misguided in our pursuit
it, and we pursued a vain phantom. It is time to recover from this
delusion; it is time to return from a deviation which has carried us
too far astray. My dear friend, your return to wisdom will not be so
difficult as you conceive. You have a guide within yourself, whose
directions you have disregarded, but never entirely rejected. Your
mind is sound, it is attached to what is right, and if just principles
sometimes forsake you, it is because you do not use your utmost
efforts to maintain them. Examine your conscience thoroughly, see
whether you will not discover some neglected principle, which might
have served to put your actions under better regulations, to have made
them more consistent with each other, and with one common object.
Believe me, it is not sufficient that virtue is the basis of your
conduct, unless that basis itself is fixed on a firm foundation. Call
to your mind those Indians, who imagine the world is supported by a
great elephant, that elephant by a tortoise, and when you ask them on
what the tortoise rests, they can answer you no farther.
I conjure you to regard the remonstrances of friendship, and to chuse
a more certain road to happiness than that which has so long misguided
us. I shall incessantly pray to heaven to grant us pure felicity, and
I shall never be satisfied till we both enjoy it. And, if our hearts,
spite of our endeavours, recall the errors of our youth, let the
reformation they produced at least warrant the recollection, that we
may say, with the ancient philosopher----Alas! we should have
perished, if we had not been undone.
Here ends the tedious sermon I have preached to you. I shall have
enough to do hereafter to preach to myself. Farewell, my amiable
friend, farewell for ever! so inflexible duty decrees: but be assured
that the heart of Eloisa can never forget what was so dear to her----
my God! what am I doing? the condition of the paper will tell you. Ah!
is it not excusable to dissolve in tenderness, when we take the last
farewell of a friend?
Letter CXIV. To Lord B----.
Yes, my Lord, I confess it; the weight of life is too heavy for my
soul. I have long endured it as a burthen; I have lost every thing
which could make it dear to me, and nothing remains but irksomeness
and vexation. I am told however, that I am not at liberty to dispose
of my life, without the permission of that Being from whom I received
it. I am sensible likewise, that you have a right over it by more
titles than one. Your care has twice preserved it, and your goodness
is its constant security. I will never dispose of it, till I am
certain that I may do it without a crime, and till I have not the
least hope of employing it for your service.
You told me that I should be of use to you; why did you deceive me?
Since we have been in _London_, so far from thinking of employing me
in your concerns, you have been kind enough to make me your only
concern. How superfluous is your obliging solicitude! My lord, you
know I abhor a crime, even worse than I detest life; I adore the
supreme Being.----I owe every thing to you. I have an affection for
you, you are the only person on earth to whom I am attached.
Friendship and duty may chain a wretch to this earth: sophistry and
vain pretences will never detain him. Enlighten my understanding,
speak to my heart; I am ready to hear you, but remember, that despair
is not to be imposed upon.
You would have me apply to the test of reason: I will; let us reason.
You desire me to deliberate in proportion to the importance of the
question in debate; I agree to it. Let us investigate truth with
temper and moderation. Let us discuss this general proposition with
the same indifference we would treat any other. Robeck wrote an
apology for suicide before he put an end to his life. I will not,
after his example, write a book on the subject, neither am I well
satisfied with that which he has penned, but I hope in this
discussion, at least to imitate his moderation.
I have for a long time meditated on this awful subject. You must be
sensible that I have; for you know my destiny, and yet I am alive. The
more I reflect, the more I am convinced that the question may be
reduced to this fundamental proposition. Every man has a right by
nature, to pursue what he thinks good, and avoid what he thinks evil,
in all respects which are not injurious to others. When our life
therefore becomes a misery to ourselves, and is of advantage to no
one, we are at liberty to put an end to our being. If there is any
such thing as a clear and self-evident principle, certainly this is
one, and if this is subverted, there is scarce an action in life,
which may not be made criminal.
Let us hear what the philosophers say on this subject. First, they
consider life as something which is not our own, because we hold it as
a gift; but because it has been given to us, it is for that reason our
own. Has not God given these sophists two arms? nevertheless when they
are under apprehensions of a mortification, they do not scruple to
amputate one, or both if there is occasion. By a parity of reasoning,
we may convince those who believe in the immortality of the soul; for
if I sacrifice my arm to the preservation of something more precious,
which is my body, I have the same right to sacrifice my body to the
preservation of something more valuable, which is the happiness of my
existence. If all the gifts which heaven has bestowed, are naturally
designed for our good, they are certainly too apt to change their
nature; and Providence has endowed us with reason, that we may discern
the difference. If this rule did not authorize us to chuse the one
and reject the other, to what use would it serve among mankind?
But they turn this weak objection into a thousand shapes. They
consider a man living upon earth, as a soldier placed on duty. God,
say they, has fixed you in this world, why do you quit your station
without his leave. But you, who argue thus, has he not stationed you
in the town where you was born, why therefore do you quit it without
his leave? is not misery, of itself, a sufficient permission? whatever
station Providence has assigned me, whether it be in a regiment, or on
the earth at large, he intended me to stay there while I found my
situation agreeable, and to leave it when it became intolerable. This
is the voice of nature, and the voice of God. I agree that we must
wait for an order; but when I die a natural death, God does not order
me to quit life, he takes it from me: it is by rendering life
insupportable, that he orders me to quit it. In the first case, I
resist with all my force; in the second, I have the merit of
obedience.
Can you conceive that there are some people so absurd as to arraign
suicide as a kind of rebellion against Providence, by an attempt to
fly from his laws? but we do not put an end to our being, in order to
withdraw ourselves from his commands, but to execute them. What! does
the power of God extend no farther than my body? is there a spot in
the universe, is there any being in the universe which is not subject
to his power, and will that power have less immediate influence over
me, when my being is refined and thereby becomes less compound, and of
nearer resemblance to the divine essence? no, his justice and goodness
are the foundation of my hopes, and if I thought that death would
withdraw me from his power I would give up my resolution to die.
This is one of the quibbles of the Phaedo, which, in other respects,
abounds with sublime truths. If your slave destroys himself says
_Socrates_ to _Cebes_, would you not punish him, for having unjustly
deprived you of your property: prithee, good Socrates, do we not
belong to God after we are dead? The case you put, is not applicable;
you ought to argue thus: if you incumber your slave with a habit which
confines him from discharging his duty properly, will you punish him
for quitting it in order to render you better service? the grand error
lies in making life of too much importance; as if our existence
depended upon it, and that death was a total annihilation. Our life is
of no consequence in the sight of God; it is of no importance in the
eyes of reason, neither ought to be of any in our sight, and when we
quit our body, we only lay aside an inconvenient habit. Is this
circumstance so painful, to be the occasion of so much disturbance? my
lord, these declaimers are not in earnest. Their arguments are absurd
and cruel, for they aggravate the supposed crime, as if it put a
period to existence, and they punish it, as if that existence was
eternal.
With respect to Plato’s Phaedo, which has furnished them with the only
specious argument that has ever been advanced, the question is
discussed there in a very light and desultory manner. Socrates being
condemned, by an unjust judgement, to lose his life in a few hours,
had no occasion to enter into an accurate inquiry whether he was at
liberty to dispose of it himself. Supposing him really to have been
the author of those discourses which Plato ascribes to him, yet
believe me, my lord, he would have meditated with more attention on
the subject, had he been in circumstances which required him to reduce
his speculations to practice;----and a strong proof that no objection
can be drawn from that immortal work against the right of disposing of
our own lives is, that Cato read it twice through the very night that
he destroyed himself.
The same sophisters make it a question whether life can ever be an
evil? but when we consider the multitude of errors, torments and vices
with which it abounds, one would rather be inclined to doubt whether
it can ever be a blessing. Guilt incessantly besieges the most
virtuous of mankind. Every moment he lives, he is in danger of falling
a prey to the wicked, or of being wicked himself. To struggle, and to
endure, is his lot in this world; that of the dishonest man is to do
evil, and to suffer. In every other particular they differ, and only
agree in sharing the miseries of life in common. If you required
authorities and facts, I could cite you the oracles of old, the
answers of the sages; and produce instances where acts of virtue have
been recompensed with death. But let us leave these considerations, my
lord; it is to you whom I address myself, and I ask you what is the
chief attention of a wise man in this life, but, if I may be allowed
the expression, to collect himself inwardly, and endeavour, even while
he lives, to be dead to every object of sense? The only way by which
wisdom directs us to avoid the miseries of human nature, is it not to
detach ourselves from all earthly objects, from every thing that is
gross in our composition, to retire within ourselves, and to raise our
thoughts to sublime contemplations? If therefore our misfortunes are
derived from our passions and our errors, with what eagerness should
we wish for a state which will deliver us both from the one and the
other? what is the fate of those sons of sensuality, who indiscreetly
multiply their torments by their pleasures? they in fact destroy their
existence, by extending their connections in this life; they increase
the weight of their crimes by their numerous attachments; they relish
no enjoyments but what are succeeded by a thousand bitter wants; the
more lively their sensibility, the more acute their sufferings; the
stronger they are attached to life, the more wretched they become.
But admitting it, in general, a benefit to mankind to crawl upon the
earth with gloomy sadness; I do not mean to intimate that the human
race ought with one common consent to destroy themselves, and make the
world one immense grave. But there are miserable beings, who are too
much exalted to be governed by vulgar opinion; to them, despair and
grievous torments are the passports of nature. It would be as
ridiculous to suppose that life can be a blessing to such men, as it
was absurd in the sophister Posidonius to deny that it was an evil, at
the same time that he endured all the torments of the gout. While life
is agreeable to us, we earnestly wish to prolong it, and nothing but a
sense of extreme misery can extinguish the desire of existence; for we
naturally conceive a violent dread of death, and this dread conceals
the miseries of human nature from our sight. We drag a painful and
melancholy life, for a long time before we can resolve to quit it; but
when once life becomes so insupportable as to overcome the horror of
death, then existence is evidently a great evil, and we cannot
disengage ourselves from it too soon. Therefore, though we cannot
exactly ascertain the point at which it ceases to be a blessing, yet
at least we are certain that it is an evil long before it appears to
be such, and with every sensible man the right of quitting life, is by
a great deal precedent to the temptation.
This is not all. After they have denied that life can be an evil, in
order to bar our right of making away with ourselves; they confess
immediately afterwards that it is an evil, by reproaching us with want
of courage to support it. According to them, it is cowardice to
withdraw ourselves from pain and trouble, and there are none but
dastards who destroy themselves. O Rome, thou victrix of the world,
what a race of cowards did thy empire produce! let Arria, Eponina,
Lucretia, be of the number; they were women. But Brutus, but Cassius,
and thou great and divine Cato, who didst share with the gods the
adoration of an astonished world, thou whose sacred and august
presence animated the Romans with holy zeal, and made tyrants tremble,
little did thy proud admirers imagine that paltry rhetoricians immured
in the dusty corner of a college, would ever attempt to prove that
thou wert a coward, for having preferred death to a shameful
existence.
O the dignity and energy of your modern writers! how sublime, how
intrepid you are with your pens? but tell me thou great and valiant
hero, who dost so courageously decline the battle, in order to endure
the pain of living somewhat longer; when a spark of fire lights upon
your hand, why do you withdraw it in such haste? how! are you such a
coward that you dare not bear the scorching of fire? nothing, you say,
can oblige you to endure the burning spark; and what obliges me to
endure life? was the creation of a man of more difficulty to
Providence, than that of a straw, and is not both one and the other
equally the work of his hands?
Without doubt, it is an evidence of great fortitude to bear with
firmness the misery which we cannot shun; none but a fool however,
will voluntarily endure evils which he can avoid without a crime, and
it is very often a great crime to suffer pain unnecessarily. He who
has not resolution to deliver himself from a miserable being by a
speedy death, is like one who would rather suffer a wound to mortify,
than trust to the surgeon’s knife for his cure. Come, thou worthy----
cut off this leg, which endangers my life. I will see it done without
shrinking, and will give that hero leave to call me coward, who
suffers his leg to mortify, because he does not dare to undergo the
same operation.
I acknowledge that there are duties owing to others, the nature of
which will not allow every man to dispose of his life; but in return,
how many are there which give him a right to dispose of it? let a
magistrate on whom the welfare of a nation depends, let a father of a
family who is bound to procure subsistence for his children, let a
debtor who might ruin his creditors, let these at all events discharge
their duty; admitting a thousand other civil and domestic relations to
oblige an honest and unfortunate man to support the misery of life, to
avoid the greater evil of doing injustice, is it therefore, under
circumstances totally different, incumbent on us to preserve a life
oppressed with a swarm of miseries, when it can be of no service but
to him who has not courage to die? “Kill me, my child, says the
decrepit savage to his son who carries him on his shoulders, and bends
under his weight; the enemy is at hand; go to battle with thy
brethren, go and preserve thy children, and do not suffer thy helpless
father to fall alive into the hands of those whose relations he has
mangled.” Though hunger, sickness and poverty, those domestic plagues,
more dreadful than savage enemies, may allow a wretched cripple to
confuse, in a sick bed, the provisions of a family which can scarce
subsist itself; yet he who has no connections, whom heaven has reduced
to the necessity of living alone, whose wretched existence can produce
no good, why should not he, at least, have the right of quitting a
station where his complaints are troublesome, and his sufferings of no
benefit.
Weigh these considerations, my lord; collect these arguments, and you
will find that they may be reduced to the most simple of nature’s
rights, of which no man of sense yet ever entertained a doubt. In
fact, why should we be allowed to cure ourselves of the gout, and not
to get rid of the misery of life? do not both evils proceed from the
same hand? to what purpose is it to say, that death is painful? are
drugs agreeable to be taken? no, nature revolts against both. Let them
prove therefore that it is more justifiable to cure a transient
disorder by the application of remedies, than to free ourselves from
an incurable evil by putting an end to life; and let them shew how it
can be less criminal to use the bark for a fever, than to take opium
for the stone. If we consider the object in view, it is in both cases
to free ourselves from painful sensations; if we regard the means,
both one and the other are equally natural; if we consider the
repugnance of our nature, it operates equally on both sides; if we
attend to the will of Providence, can we struggle against any evil, of
which he is not the author? can we deliver ourselves from any torment
which his hand has not inflicted? what are the bounds which limit his
power, and when is resistance lawful? are we then to make no
alteration in the condition of things, because every thing is in the
state he appointed? must we do nothing in this life, for fear of
infringing his laws, or is it in our power to break them if we would?
no, my lord, the occupation of man is more great and noble. God did
not give him life, that he should remain supinely in a state of
constant inactivity. But he gave him freedom to act, conscience to
will, and reason to chuse what is good. He has constituted him sole
judge of all his actions. He has engraved this precept in his heart,
do whatever you conceive to be for your own good, provided you thereby
do injury to no one. If my sensations tell me that death is eligible,
I resist his orders by an obstinate resolution to live, for by making
death desirable, he directs me to put an end to my being.
My lord, I appeal to your wisdom and candour; what more infallible
maxims can reason deduce from religion, with respect to suicide. If
Christians have adopted contrary tenets, they are neither drawn from
the principles of religion, nor from the only sure guide, the
scriptures, but borrowed from the pagan philosophers. Lactantius and
Augustine, the first who propagated this new doctrine, of which Jesus
Christ and his apostles take no notice, ground their arguments
entirely on the reasoning of Phaedo, which I have already
contraverted; so that the believers, who, in this respect, think they
are supported by the authority of the gospel, are in fact only
countenanced by the authority of Plato. In truth, where do we find
throughout the whole bible any law against suicide, or so much as a
bare disapprobation of it; and is it not very unaccountable, that
among the instances produced of persons who devoted themselves to
death, we do not find the least word of improbation against examples
of this kind? nay, what is more; the instance of Samson’s voluntary
death is authorized by a miracle, by which he revenges himself of his
enemies. Would this miracle have been displayed to justify a crime,
and would this man who lost his strength; by suffering himself to be
seduced by the allurements of a woman, have recovered it to commit an
authorized crime, as if God himself would practise deceit on men?
Thou shalt do no murder, says the decalogue? what are we to infer from
this? if this commandment is to be taken literally, we must not
destroy malefactors, nor our enemies: and Moses, who put so many
people to death, was a bad interpreter of his own precept. If there
are any exceptions, certainly the first must be in favour of suicide,
because it is exempt from any degree of violence and injustice; the
two only circumstances which can make homicide criminal; and because
nature, moreover, has in this respect, thrown sufficient obstacles in
the way.
But still, they tell us, we must patiently endure the evils which God
inflicts; and make a merit of our sufferings. This application however
of the maxims of Christianity is very ill calculated to satisfy our
judgment. Man is subject to a thousand troubles, his life is a
complication of evils, and he seems to have been born only to suffer.
Reason directs him to shun as many of these evils as he can avoid; and
religion, which is never in contradiction to reason, approves of his
endeavours. But how inconsiderable is the account of these evils, in
comparison with those he is obliged to endure against his will? It is
with respect to these, that a merciful God allows man to claim the
merit of resistance; he receives the tribute he has been pleased to
impose, as a voluntary homage, and he places our resignation in this
life to our profit in the next. True repentance is derived from
nature; if man endures patiently whatever he is obliged to suffer, he
does, in this respect, all that God requires of him; and if any one is
so inflated with pride, as to attempt more, he is a madman, who ought
to be confined, or an impostor, who ought to be punished. Let us
therefore, without scruple, fly from all the evils we can avoid; there
will still be too many left for us to endure. Let us, without remorse,
quit life itself when it becomes a torment to us, since it is in our
own power to do it; and that in so doing, we neither offend God nor
man. If we would offer a sacrifice to the supreme Being, is it nothing
to undergo death? let us devote to God that which he demands by the
voice of reason, and into his hands let us peaceably surrender our
souls.
Such are the liberal precepts which good sense dictates to every man,
and which religion authorises. [47] Let us apply these precepts to
ourselves. You have condescended to disclose your mind to me; I am
acquainted with your uneasiness; you do not endure less than myself;
your troubles, like mine, are incurable; and they are the more
remediless, as the laws of honour are more immutable than those of
fortune. You bear them, I must confess, with fortitude. Virtue
supports you; advance but one step farther, and she disengages you.
You intreat me to suffer; my lord! I dare importune you to put an end
to your sufferings; and I leave you to judge which of us is most dear
to the other.
Why should we delay doing that, which we must do at last? shall we
wait till old age and decrepit baseness attach us to life, after they
have robbed it of its charms, and till we are doomed to drag an infirm
and decrepit body with labour, ignominy, and pain. We are at an age
when the soul has vigour to disengage itself with ease from its
shackles, and when a man knows how to die as he ought; when farther
advanced in years, he suffers himself to be torn from life, which he
quits with groans. Let us take advantage of this time when the tedium
of life makes death desirable; and let us tremble for fear it should
come in all its horrors, at the moment when we could wish to avoid it.
I remember the time, when I prayed to heaven only for a single hour of
life, and when I should have died in despair, if it had not been
granted. Ah! what a pain it is to burst asunder the ties which attach
our hearts to this world, and how advisable it is to quit life the
moment the connection is broken! I am sensible, my lord, that we are
both worthy of a purer mansion; virtue points it out, and destiny
invites us to seek it. May the friendship which unites us, preserve
our union to the latest hour. O what a pleasure for two sincere
friends voluntarily to end their days in each other’s arms, to
intermingle their latest breath, and at the same instant to give up
the soul which they shared in common! What pain, what regret can
infect their last moments? what do they quit by taking leave of the
world? They go together; they quit nothing.
Letter CXV. Answer.
Thou art distracted, my friend, by a blind passion; be more discreet;
do not give council, while you stand in need of advice. I have known
greater evils than yours. I am armed with fortitude of mind; I am an
English man, and not afraid to die; for I know how to live and suffer,
as becomes a man. I have seen death near at hand, and have viewed it
with too much indifference to go in search of it.
It is true, I thought you might be of use to me; my affection stood in
need of yours: your endeavours might have been serviceable to me; your
understanding might have enlightened me in the most important concern
of my life; if I do not avail myself of it, who are you to impute it
to? where is it? what is become of it? what are you capable of? of
what use can you be in the condition you are in? what service can I
expect from you? a senseless grief renders you stupid and unconcerned.
Thou art no man; thou art nothing; and if I did not consider you might
be, in your present state I cannot conceive any being more abject.
There is need of no other proof than your letter itself. Formerly I
could discover in you good sense and truth. Your sentiments were just,
your reflections proper, and I liked you not only from judgment but
choice; for I considered your influence as an additional motive to
excite me to study of wisdom. But what do I perceive now in the
arguments of your letter, with which you appear to be to highly
satisfied? A wretched and perpetual sophistry, which, in the erroneous
deviations of your reason, shew the disorder of your mind; and which I
would not stoop to refute, if I did not commiserate your delirium.
To subvert all your reasoning with one word, I would only ask you a
single question. You who believe in the existence of a God, in the
immortality of the soul, and in the free-will of man; you surely
cannot suppose that an intelligent being is embodied, and stationed on
the earth by accident only, to exist, to suffer, and to die. It is
certainly most probable that the life of man is not without some
design, some end, some moral object. I intreat you to give me a direct
answer to this point; after which we will deliberately examine your
letter, and you will blush to have written it.
But let us wave all general maxims, about which we often hold violent
disputes, without adopting any of them in practice; for in their
application, we always find some particular circumstances, which make
such an alteration in the state of things, that every one thinks
himself dispensed from submitting to the rules, which he prescribes to
others; and it is well known, that every man who establishes general
principles, deems them obligatory on all the world, himself excepted.
Once more let us speak to you in particular.
You believe that you have a right to put an end to your being. Your
proof is of a very singular nature; “because I am disposed to die, say
you, I have a right to destroy myself.” This is certainly a very
convenient argument for villains of all kinds: they ought to be very
thankful to you, for the arms with which you have furnished them;
there can be no crimes, which, according to your arguments, may not be
justified by the temptation to perpetrate them, and as soon as the
impetuosity of passion shall prevail over the horror of guilt, their
disposition to do evil will be considered as a right to commit it.
Is it lawful for you therefore to quit life? I should be glad to know
whether you have yet begun to live? what! was you placed here on earth
to do nothing in this world? did not heaven when it gave you
existence, give you some task or employment? If you have accomplished
your day’s work before evening, rest yourself for the remainder of the
day, you have a right to do it; but let us see your work. What answer
are you prepared to make the supreme judge, when he demands an account
of your time? Tell me, what can you say to him----I have seduced a
virtuous girl: I have forsaken a friend in his distress. Thou unhappy
wretch! point out to me that just man who can boast that he has lived
long enough; let me learn from him in what manner I ought to have
spent my days, to be at liberty to quit life.
You enumerate the evils of human nature. You are not ashamed to
exhaust common place topics, which have been hackney’d over a hundred
times; and you conclude that life is an evil. But search, examine into
the order of things; and see whether you can find any good which is
not intermingled with evil. Does it therefore follow that there is no
good in the universe, and can you confound what is in its own nature
evil, with that which is only an evil accidentally? You have confessed
yourself, that the transitory and passive life of man is of no
consequence, and only bears respect to matter, from which he will soon
be disencumbered; but his active and moral life, which ought to have
most influence over his nature, consists in the exercise of free-will.
Life is an evil to a wicked man in prosperity, and a blessing to an
honest man in distress: for it is not its casual modification, but its
relation to some final object, which makes it either good or bad.
After all, what are these cruel torments which force you to abandon
life? do you imagine that under your affected impartiality in the
enumeration of the evils of this life, I did not discover that you was
ashamed to speak of your own? Trust me, and do not at once abandon
every virtue. Preserve at least your wonted sincerity, and speak thus
openly to your friend; I have lost all hope of seducing a modest
woman, I am obliged therefore to be a man of virtue; I had much rather
die.”
You are weary of living; and you tell me, that life is an evil. Sooner
or later you will receive consolation, and then you will say life is a
blessing. You will speak with more truth, though not with better
reason; for nothing will have altered but yourself. Begin the
alteration then from this day, and since all the evil you lament is
in the disposition of your own mind, correct your irregular
appetites, and do not set your house on fire, to avoid the trouble of
putting it in order.
I endure misery, say you; is it in my power to avoid suffering? But
this is changing the state of the question for the subject of enquiry
is, not whether you suffer, but whether your life is an evil? Let us
proceed. You are wretched, you naturally endeavour to extricate
yourself from misery. Let us see whether, for that purpose, it is
necessary to die.
Let us for a moment examine the natural tendency of the afflictions of
the mind, as in direct opposition to the evils of the body, the two
substances being of contrary natures. The latter become worse and more
inveterate the longer they continue, and at length utterly destroy
this mortal machine. The former, on the contrary, being only external
and transitory modifications of an immortal and uncompounded essence,
are insensibly effaced, and leave the mind in its original form, which
is not susceptible of alteration. Grief, disquietude, regret, and
despair, are evils of short duration which never take root in the
mind, and experience always falsifies that bitter reflection, which
makes us imagine our misery will have no end. I will go farther; I
cannot imagine that the vices which contaminate us, are more inherent
in our nature, than the troubles we endure; I not only believe that
they perish with the body which gives them birth, but I think, beyond
all doubt, that a longer life would be sufficient to reform mankind,
and that many ages of youth would teach us that nothing is preferable
to virtue.
However this may be, as the greatest part of our physical evils are
incessantly increasing, the acute pains of the body, when they are
incurable, may justify a man’s destroying himself; for all his
faculties being distracted with pain, and the evil being without
remedy, he has no longer any use either of his will or of his reason;
he ceases to be a man before he is dead, and does nothing more in
taking away his life, than quit a body which incumbers him, and in
which his soul is no longer resident.
But it is otherwise with the afflictions of the mind; which, let them
be ever so acute, always carry their remedy with them. In fact, what
is it that makes any evil intolerable? nothing but its duration. The
operations of surgery are generally much more painful, than the
disorders they cure; but the pain occasioned by the latter is lasting,
that of the operation is momentary, and therefore preferable. What
occasion is there therefore for any operation to remove troubles which
die of course by their duration, the only circumstance which could
render them insupportable? Is it reasonable to apply such desperate
remedies to evils which expire of themselves? To a man who values
himself on his fortitude, and who estimates years at their real value,
of two ways by which he may extricate himself from the same troubles,
which will appear preferable, death or time? Have patience, and you
will be cured. What would you desire more?
Oh! you will say, it doubles my afflictions, to reflect that they will
cease at last! this is the vain sophistry of grief! an apothegm void
of reason, of propriety, and perhaps of sincerity. What an absurd
motive of despair is the hope of terminating misery! [48] Even
allowing this fantastical reflection, who would not chuse to increase
the present pain for a moment, under the assurance of putting an end
to it, as we scarify a wound in order to heal it? and admitting any
charm in grief, to make us in love with suffering, when we release
ourselves from it by putting an end to our being, do we not at that
instant incur all that we apprehend hereafter?
Reflect thoroughly, young man; what are ten, twenty, thirty years, in
competition with immorality? pain and pleasure pass like a shadow;
life slides away in an instant; it is nothing of itself; its value
depends on the use we make of it. The good that we have done is all
that remains, and it is that alone which marks its importance.
Therefore do not say any more that your existence is an evil, since it
depends upon yourself to make it a blessing; and if it is an evil to
have lived, this is an additional reason for prolonging life. Do not
pretend neither to say any more that you are at liberty to die; for it
is as much as to say that you have power to alter your nature, that
you have a right to revolt against the Author of your being, and to
frustrate the end of your existence. But when you add, that your death
does injury to no one, do you recollect that you make this declaration
to your friend?
Your death does injury to no one? I understand you! You think the loss
I shall sustain by your death of no importance, you deem my affliction
of no consequence. I will urge to you no more the rights of friendship
which you despise, but are there not obligations still more dear, [49]
which ought to induce you to preserve your life? If there is a person
in the world who loved you to that degree as to be unwilling to
survive you, and whose happiness depends on yours, do you think that
you have no obligations to her? will not the execution of your wicked
design disturb the peace of a mind, which has been, with such
difficulty, restored to its former innocence? are not you afraid to
add fresh torments to a heart of such sensibility? are not you
apprehensive lest your death should be attended with a loss more
fatal, which would deprive the world and virtue itself of its
brightest ornament? and if she should survive you, are not you afraid
to rouse up remorse in her bosom, which is more grievous to support
than life itself? Thou ungrateful friend, thou indelicate lover! wilt
thou always be taken up wholly with thyself? wilt thou always think on
thy own troubles alone? hast thou no regard for the happiness of one
who was so dear to thee? and cannot you resolve to live for her, who
was willing to die with you?
You talk of the duties of a magistrate, and of a father of a family;
and because you are not under those circumstances, you think yourself
absolutely free. And are you then under no obligations to society, to
whom you are indebted for your preservation, your talents, your
understanding: do you owe nothing to your native country, and to those
wretches who may need your assistance? O what an accurate calculation
you make! among the obligations you have enumerated, you have only
omitted those of a man and of a citizen. Where is the virtuous
patriot, who refused to enlist under a foreign prince, because his
blood ought not to be spilt but in the service of his country; and who
now, in a fit of despair, is ready to shed it against the express
prohibition of the laws? The laws, the laws, young man! did any wise
man ever despise them? Socrates, though innocent, out of regard to
them, refused to quit his prison. You do not scruple to violate them
by quitting life unjustly; and you ask, what injury do I?
You endeavour to justify yourself by example. You presume to mention
the Romans: you talk of the Romans! it becomes you indeed to cite
those illustrious names. Tell me, did Brutus die a lover in despair,
and did Cato tear out his entrails for his mistress? Thou weak and
abject man, what resemblance is there between Cato and thee? shew me
the common standard between that sublime soul and thine. Ah vain
wretch, hold thy peace! I am afraid to profane his name by a
vindication of his conduct. At that august and sacred name, every
friend to virtue should bow to the ground, and honour the memory of
the greatest hero in silence.
How ill you have selected your examples, and how meanly you judge of
the Romans, if you imagine that they thought themselves at liberty to
quit life so soon as it become a burthen to them. Recur to the
excellent days of that republic, and see whether you will find a
single citizen of virtue, who thus freed himself from the discharge of
his duty, even after the most cruel misfortunes. When Regulus was on
his return to Carthage, did he prevent the torments which he knew were
preparing for him, by destroying himself? What would not Posthumius
have given, when obliged to pass under the yoke at Caudium, had this
resource been justifiable? how much did even the senate admire that
effort of courage, which enabled the consul Varro to survive his
defeat? For what reason did so many generals voluntarily surrender
themselves to their enemies, they to whom ignominy was so dreadful,
and who were so little afraid of dying? It was because they considered
their blood, their life, and their latest breath, as devoted to their
country; and neither shame nor misfortune could dissuade them from
this sacred duty. But when the laws were subverted, and the state
became a prey to tyranny, the citizens resumed their natural liberty,
and the right they had over their own lives. When Rome was no more, it
was lawful for the Romans to give up their lives; they had discharged
their duties on earth, they had no longer any country to defend, they
were therefore at liberty to dispose of their lives, and to obtain
that freedom for themselves, which they could not recover for their
country. After having spent their days in the service of expiring
Rome, and in fighting for the defence of its laws, they died great and
virtuous as they had lived, and their death was an additional tribute
to the glory of the Roman name, since none of them beheld a sight
above all others most dishonourable, that of a true citizen stooping
to an usurper.
But thou, what art thou? what has thou done? dost thou think to excuse
thyself on account of thy obscurity? does thy weakness exempt thee
from thy duty, and because thou hast neither rank nor distinction in
thy country, art thou less subject to the laws? It becomes you vastly
to presume to talk of dying, while you owe the service of your life to
your equals? Know that a death such as you meditate, is shameful and
surreptitious. It is a theft committed on mankind in general. Before
you quit life, return the benefits you have received from every
individual. But, say you, I have no attachments. I am useless in the
world. O thou young philosopher! art thou ignorant that thou canst not
move a single step without finding some duty to fulfil; and that every
man is useful to society, even by means of his existence alone.
Hear me, thou rash young man! thou art dear to me. I commiserate thy
errors. If the least sense of virtue still remains in thy breast,
attend, and let me teach thee to be reconciled to life. Whenever thou
art tempted to quit it, say to thyself----“Let me at least do one good
action before I die.” Then go in search for one in a state of
indigence whom thou may’st relieve; for one under misfortunes, whom
thou may’st comfort; for one under oppression, whom thou may’st
defend. Introduce to me those unhappy wretches whom my rank keeps at a
distance. Do not be afraid of misusing my purse, or my credit: make
free with them; distribute my fortune, make me rich. If this
consideration restrains you to day, it will restrain you to-morrow; if
to-morrow, it will restrain you all your life. If it has no power to
restrain you, die! you are below my care.
Letter CXVI. From Lord B----.
I cannot, my dear friend, embrace you to-day as I was in hopes I
should, being detained two days longer at Kensington. It is the way of
the court to be very busy in doing nothing, and all affairs run in a
constant succession without being dispatched. The business which has
confined me here eight days, might have been concluded in two hours;
but as the chief concern of the ministry is to preserve an air of
business, they waste more time in putting me off, than it would cost
them to dispatch me. My impatience, which is rather too evident, does
not contribute to shorten the delay. You know that the court is not
suited to my turn; I find it more intolerable since we have lived
together, and I had rather a hundred times share your melancholy, than
be pestered with the knaves which abound in this country.
Nevertheless, in conversing with these busy sluggards, a thought
struck me with regard to you, and I only wait your consent to dispose
of you to advantage. I perceive that in struggling with your
affliction, you suffer both from your uneasiness of mind, and from
your resistance. If you are determined to live and overcome it, you
have formed this resolution less in conformity to the dictates of
reason and honour, than in compliance with your friends. But this is
not enough. You must recover the relish of life to discharge its
duties as you ought; for with so much indifference about every thing,
you will succeed in nothing. We may both of us talk as we will; but
reason alone will never restore you to your reason. It is necessity
that a multiplicity of new and striking objects should in some measure
withdraw you from that attention which your mind fixes solely on one
object of its affections. To recover yourself, you must be detached
from inward reflection, and nothing but the agitation of an active
life, can restore you to serenity.
An opportunity offers for this purpose, which is not to be
disregarded; a great and noble enterprise is on foot, and such an one
as has not been equalled for ages. It depends on you to be a spectator
and assistant in it. You will see the grandest sight which the eye of
man ever beheld, and your turn for observation will be abundantly
gratified. Your appointment will be honourable, and, with the talents
you are master of, will only require courage and good health. You will
find it attended with more danger than confinement, which will make it
more agreeable to you; and, in few words, your engagement will not be
for any long time. I cannot give you farther information at present;
because this scheme, which is almost ripe for discovery, is
nevertheless a secret with which I am not yet acquainted in all its
particulars. I will only add, that if you decline this lucky and
extraordinary opportunity, you will probably never recover it again,
and will regret it as long as you live.
I have ordered my servant, who is the bearer of this letter, to find
you out wherever you are, and not to return without a line; for the
affair requires dispatch, and I must give an answer before I leave
this place.
Letter CXVII. Answer.
Do, my lord; dispose of me; I will agree to whatever you propose. Till
I am worthy to serve you; at least I claim the merit of obeying you.
Letter CXVIII. From Lord B----.
Since you approve of the thought I suggested, I will not delay a
minute to acquaint you that every thing is concluded, and to explain
to you the nature of the engagement I have entered into, in pursuance
of the authority you gave me to make the agreement on your behalf.
You know that a squadron of five men of war is equipped at Plymouth,
and that they are ready to set sail. The commodore is Mr. George
Anson, a brave and experienced officer, and an old friend of mine. It
is destined for the South-sea, whither it is to sail through the
straits of Le Maire, and to come back by the East-Indies. You see
therefore that the object is no less than to make the tour of the
world, an expedition which, it is imagined, will take up three years.
I could have entered you as a volunteer; but to give you more
importance among the crew, I have obtained the addition of a title for
you, and you stand on the list in the capacity of engineer of the land
forces: this will be more suitable to you, because, having followed
the bent of your genius from your first outset in the world, I know
you made it your early study.
I propose to return to London tomorrow, [50] to present you to Mr.
Anson within two days. In the mean time, take care to get your
equipage ready, and provide yourself with books and instruments; for
the embarkation is ready, and only waits for sailing orders. My dear
friend, I hope that God will bring you back from this long voyage, in
full health of mind and body; and that at your return, we shall meet
never to part again.
Letter CXIX. To Mrs. Orbe
My dear and lovely cousin, I am preparing to make the tour of the
world; I am going into another hemisphere, in pursuit of that peace
which I could not enjoy in this. Fool that I am! I am going to wander
over the universe, without being able to find one place where my heart
can rest. I am going to find a retreat from the world, where I may be
at a distance from you. But it becomes me to regard the will of a
friend, a benefactor, a father. Without the smallest hopes of a cure,
at least I will take pains for it; Eloisa and virtue require the
sacrifice. In three hours time I shall be at the mercy of the winds;
in three days, I shall lose sight of Europe; in three months, I shall
be in unknown seas, raging with perpetual tempests; in three years
perhaps... How dreadful is the thought of never seeing you more! alas!
the greatest danger is in my own breast; for whatever may be my fate,
I am resolved, I swear, that you shall see me worthy to appear in your
sight, or you shall never behold me more.
Lord B----, who is on his return to Rome, will deliver this letter in
his way, and acquaint you with all particulars concerning me. You are
acquainted with his disposition, and you will easily guess at those
circumstances which he does not chuse to communicate. You was once no
stranger to mine; therefore you may likewise form some judgment of
those things which I do not care to relate myself.
Your friend, I hear, has the happiness to be a mother as well as
yourself. Ought she then to be? ... O inexorable heaven! ... O _my_
mother, why did heaven in its wrath grant you a son? ...
I must conclude; I feel that I must. Farewell, ye pure and celestial
souls! Farewell ye tender and inseparable friends, the best women on
earth! Each of you is the only object worthy of the other’s
affections. May you mutually contribute to each other’s happiness.
Deign now and then to call to mind the memory of an unfortunate
wretch, who only existed to share with you every sentiment of his
soul, and who ceased to live, the moment he was divided from you. If
ever----... I hear the signal, and the shouts of the sailors. The wind
blows strong, and the sails are spread. I must on board: I must be
gone. Thou vast and immense sea, which perhaps wilt bury me beneath
thy waves! O that upon thy swelling surge I could recover that calm
which has forsaken my troubled soul!
Volume III
Letter CXX. From Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
How tedious is your stay! This going backward and forward is very
disagreeable. How many hours are lost before you return to the place
where you ought to remain for ever, and therefore, how much worse is
it in you ever to go away! The idea of seeing you for so short a time,
takes from the pleasure of your company. Do not you perceive that by
residing at your own house and mine alternately, you are in fact at
home in neither, and cannot you contrive some means by which you may
make your abode in both at once?
What are we doing, my dear cousin? How many precious moments we lose,
when we have none to waste! Years steal upon us; youth begins to
vanish; life slides away imperceptibly; its momentary bliss is in our
possession, and we refuse to enjoy it! Do you recollect the time when
we were yet girls, those early days so agreeable and delightful, which
no other time of life affords, and which the mind with so much
difficulty forgets? How often, when we were obliged to part for a few
days, or even for a few hours, have we sadly embraced each other, and
vowed that when we were our own mistresses, we would never be asunder?
We are now our own mistresses, and yet we pass one half of the year at
a distance from each other. Is then our affection weaker? My dear and
tender friend, we are both sensible how much time, habit, and your
kindness have rendered our attachment more strong and indissoluble. As
to myself, your absence daily becomes more insupportable, and I can no
longer live a minute without you. The progress of our friendship is
more natural than it appears to be; it is founded not only on a
similarity of character, but of condition. As we advance in years, our
affections begin to centre in one point. We every day lose something
that was dear to us, which we can never replace. Thus we perish by
degrees, till at length, being wholly devoted to self-love, we lose
life and sensibility, even before our existence ceases. But a
susceptible mind arms itself with all its force against this
anticipated death; when a chillness begins to seize the extremities,
it collects all the genial warmth of nature round its own centre;
the more connections it loses, the closer it cleaves to those which
remain, and all its former ties are combined to attach it to the
last object.
This is what I seem to experience, young as I am. Ah! my dear, my poor
heart has been too susceptible of tender impressions! It was so early
exhausted, that it grew old before its time, and so many different
affections have absorbed it to that degree, that it has no room for
any new attachments. You have known me in the successive capacities of
a daughter, a friend, a mistress, a wife, and a mother. You know how
every character has been dear to me! Some of these connections are
utterly destroyed, others are weakened. My mother, my affectionate
mother is no more; tears are the only tribute I can pay to her memory,
and I do but half enjoy the most agreeable sensations of nature. As to
love, it is wholly extinguished, it is dead for ever, and has left a
vacancy in my heart, which will never be filled up again. We have lost
your good and worthy husband, whom I loved as the dear part of
yourself, and who was so well deserving of your friendship and
tenderness. If my boys were grown up, maternal affection might supply
these vacancies; but that affection, like all others, has need of
participation, and what return can a mother expect from a child, only
four or five years old? Our children are dear to us, long before they
are sensible of our love, or capable of returning it; and yet, how
much we want to express the extravagance of our fondness, to some one
who can enter into our affection. My husband loves them; but not with
that degree of sensibility I could wish; he is not intoxicated with
fondness as I am; his tenderness for them is too rational; I would
have it to be more lively, and more like my own. In short, I want a
friend, a mother, who can be as extravagantly fond of my children, and
her own, as myself. In a word, the fondness of a mother makes the
company of a friend more necessary to me, that I may enjoy the
pleasure of talking continually about my children, without being
troublesome. I feel double the pleasure in the caress of my little
Marcellinus, when I see that you share it with me. When I embrace your
daughter, I fancy that I press you to my bosom. We have observed a
hundred times, on seeing our little cherubs at play together, that the
union of our affections has so united them, that we have not been able
to distinguish to which of us they severally belonged.
This is not all: I have powerful reasons for desiring to have you
always near me, and your absence is painful to me in more respects
than one. Think on my aversion to all hypocrisy, and reflect on the
continual reserve in which I have lived upwards of six years with the
man whom I love above all others in the world. My odious secret
oppresses me more and more, and my duty to reveal it seems every day
more indispensable. The more I am prompted by honour to disclose it,
the more I am obliged by prudence to conceal it. Consider what a
horrid state it is for a wife to carry mistrust, falsehood and fear,
even to her husband’s arms; to be afraid of opening her heart to him
who is master of it, and to conceal one half of my life to ensure the
peace of the other? Good God! from whom do I conceal my secret
thoughts, and hide the recesses of a soul with which he has so much
reason to be satisfied? From my Wolmar, my husband, and the most
worthy husband with which heaven ever rewarded the virtue of unsullied
chastity. Having deceived him once, I am obliged to continue the
deceit, and bear the mortification of finding myself unworthy of all
the kindness he expresses. My heart is afraid to receive any testimony
of his esteem, his most tender caresses make me blush, and my
conscience interprets all his marks of respect and attention, into
symptoms of reproach and disdain. It is a cruel pain constantly to
harbour this remorse, which tells me, that he mistakes the object of
his esteem. Ah! if he but knew me, he would not use me thus tenderly!
No, I cannot endure this horrid state; I am never alone with that
worthy man, but I am ready to fall on my knees before him, to confess
my fault, and to expire at his feet with grief and shame.
Nevertheless, the reasons which at first restrained me, acquire fresh
strength every day, and every motive which might induce me to make the
declaration, conspires to enjoin me silence. When I consider the
peaceable and tranquil state of the family, I cannot reflect without
horror, what an irreparable disturbance might be occasioned by a
single word. After six years passed in perfect union, shall I venture
to disturb the peace of so good and discreet a husband, who has no
other will than that of his happy wife, no other pleasure than to see
order and tranquility throughout his family? Shall I afflict with
domestic broils, an aged father who appears to be so contented, and so
delighted with the happiness of his daughter and his friend? Shall I
expose my dear children, those lovely and promising infants, to have
their education neglected and shamefully slighted, to become the
melancholy victims of family discord, between a father inflamed with
just indignation, tortured with jealousy, and an unfortunate and
guilty mother, always bathed in tears? I know what Mr. Wolmar is, how
he esteems his wife; but how do I know what he will be when he no
longer regards her? Perhaps he seems calm and moderate, because his
predominant passion has had no room to display itself. Perhaps he
would be as violent in the impetuosity of his anger, as he is gentle
and composed now he has nothing to provoke him.
If I owe such regard to every one about me, is not something likewise
due to myself? Does not a virtuous and regular course of life for six
years obliterate, in some measure, the errors of youth, and am I still
obliged to undergo the punishment of a failing which I have so long
lamented? I confess, my dear cousin, that I look backwards with
reluctance; the reflection humbles me to that degree that it dispirits
me, and I am too susceptible of shame, to endure the idea, without
falling into a kind of despair. I must reflect on the time which has
passed since my marriage, in order to recover myself. My present
situation inspires me with a confidence of which those disagreeable
reflections would deprive me. I love to nourish in my breast these
returning sentiments of honour. The rank of a wife and mother exalts
my soul, and supports me against the remorse of my former condition.
When I view my children and their father about me, I fancy that every
thing breathes an air of virtue, and they banish from my mind the
disagreeable remembrance of my former frailties. Their innocence is
the security of mine; they become dearer to me, by being the
instruments of my reformation; and I think on the violation of honour
with such horror, that I can scarce believe myself the same perfect
who formerly was capable of forgetting its precepts. I perceive myself
so different from what I was, so confirmed in my present state, that I
am almost induced to consider what I have to declare, as a confession
which does not concern me, and which I am not obliged to make.
Such is the state of anxiety and uncertainty in which I am continually
fluctuating in your absence. Do you know what may be the consequence
of this one day or other? My father is soon to set out for Bern, and
is determined not to return till he has put an end to a tedious
lawsuit, not being willing to leave us the trouble of concluding it,
and perhaps doubting our zeal in the prosecution of it. In the
interim, between his departure and his return, I shall be alone with
my husband, and I perceive that it will then be impossible for me to
keep the fatal secret any longer. When we have company, you know Mr.
Wolmar often chuses to retire and take a solitary walk; he chats
with the peasants; he enquires into their situation; he examines the
condition of their grounds; and assists them, if they require it, both
with his purse and his advice. But when we are alone, he never walks
without me; he seldom leaves his wife and children, and he enters into
their little amusements with such an amiable simplicity, that on these
occasions I always feel a more than common tenderness for him. In
these tender moments, my reserve is in so much more danger, as he
himself frequently gives me opportunities of throwing it aside, and
has a hundred times held conversation with me which seemed to excite
me to confidence. I perceive, that sooner or later, I must disclose my
mind to him; but since you would have the confession concerted between
us, and made with all the precaution which discretion requires, return
to me immediately, or I can answer for nothing.
My dear friend, I must conclude, and yet what I have to add, is of
such importance, that you must allow me a few words more. You are not
only of service to me when I am with my children and my husband, but
above all when I am alone with poor Eloisa: solitude is more
dangerous, because it grows agreeable to me, and I court it without
intending it. It is not, as you are sensible, that my heart still
smarts with the pain of its former wounds; no, they are cured, I
perceive that they are, I am very certain, I dare believe myself
virtuous. I am under no apprehensions about the present, it is the
time past which torments me. There are some reflections as dreadful,
as the original sensation; the recollection moves us; we are ashamed
to find that we shed tears, and we do but weep the more. They are
tears of compassion, regret, and repentance; love has no share in
them; I no longer harbour the least spark of love; but I lament the
mischiefs it has occasioned; I bewail the fate of a worthy man who has
been bereft of peace and perhaps of life, by gratifying an indiscreet
passion. Alas! he has undoubtedly perished in this long and dangerous
voyage which he undertook out of despair. If he was living, he would
send us tidings from the farthest part of the world; near four years
have elapsed since his departure. They say the squadron on which he is
aboard, has suffered a thousand disasters, that they have lost three
fourths of their crew, that several ships have gone to the bottom, and
that no one can tell what is become of the rest. He is no more, he is
no more! A secret foreboding tells me so. The unfortunate wretch has
not been spared, any more than so many others. The distresses of his
voyage, and melancholy, still more fatal than all, have shortened his
days. Thus vanishes every thing which glitters for a while on earth.
The reproach of having occasioned the death of a worthy man, was all
that was wanting to compleat the torments of my conscience. With what
a soul was he endued! how susceptible of the tenderest love! He
deserved to live!
I try in vain to dissipate these melancholy ideas; but they return
every minute in spite of me. Your friend requires your assistance, to
enable her to banish them, or to moderate them; and since I cannot
forget this unfortunate man, I had rather talk of him with you, than
think of him by myself.
You see how many reasons concur to make your company continually
necessary to me. If you, who have been more discreet and fortunate,
are not moved by the same reasons, yet does not your inclination
persuade you of the same necessity? If it is true that you will never
marry again, having so little satisfaction in your family, what house
can be more convenient for you than mine? For my part, I am in pain,
as I know what you endure in your own; for notwithstanding your
dissimulation, I am no stranger to your manner of living, and I am not
to be duped by those gay airs which you affected to display at
Clarens. You have often reproached me with my failings; and I have a
very great one to reproach you with in your turn; which is, that your
grief is too solitary and confined. You get into a corner to indulge
your affliction, as if you were ashamed to weep before your friend.
Clara, I do not like this. I am not ungenerous like you; I do not
condemn your tears, I would not have you cease at the end of two or
ten years, or while you live, to honour the memory of so tender a
husband; but I blame you that after having passed the best of your
days in weeping with your Eloisa, you rob her of the pleasure of
weeping in her turn with you, and of washing away, by more honourable
tears, the scandal of those which she shed in your bosom. If you are
ashamed of your grief, you are a stranger to real affliction! If you
find a kind of pleasure in it, why will you not let me partake of it?
Are you ignorant that a participation of affections communicates a
soft and affecting quality to melancholy, which content never feels?
And was not friendship particularly designed to alleviate the evils of
the wretched, and lessen their pains?
Such, my dear, are the reflections you ought to indulge; to which I
must add, that when I propose your coming to live with me, I make the
proposal no less in my husband’s name than in my own. He has often
expressed his surprize, and even been offended, that two such
intimates as we, should live asunder: he assures me that he has told
you so, and he is not a man who talks inadvertently. I do not know
what solution you will take with respect to these proposals; I have
reason to hope, that it will be such as I could wish. However it be,
mine is fixed and unalterable. I have not forgotten the time when you
would have followed me to England. My incomparable friend! it is now
my turn. You know my dislike of the town, my taste for the country,
for rural occupations, and how strongly a residence of three years has
attached me to my house at Clarens. You are no stranger likewise to
the trouble of removing a whole family, and you are sensible that it
would be abusing my father’s good nature to oblige him to move so
often. Therefore if you will not leave your family and come to govern
mine, I am determined to take a house at Lausanne, where we will all
live with you. Prepare yourself therefore; every thing requires it; my
inclination, my duty, my happiness. The security of my honour, the
recovery of my reason, my condition, my husband, my children, myself,
I owe all to you; I am indebted to you for all the blessings I enjoy,
I see nothing but what reminds me of your goodness, and without you I
am nothing. Come then, my much loved friend, my guardian angel; come
and enjoy the work of your own hands; come and gather the fruits of
your benevolence. Let us have but one family, as we have but one soul
to cherish it; you shall superintend the education of my sons, and I
will take care of your daughters; we will share the maternal duties
between us, and make our pleasure double. We will raise our minds
together to the contemplation of that Being, who purified mine by
means of your endeavours and having nothing more to hope for in this
life, we will quietly wait for the next, in the bosom of innocence and
friendship.
Letter CXXI. Answer.
Good heaven! my dear cousin, how I am delighted with your letter! Thou
lovely preacher! ... Lovely indeed: but in the preaching strain
nevertheless. What a charming peroration! A perfect model of ancient
oratory. The Athenian architect! ... That florid speaker! ... You
remember him... In your old Plutarch... Pompous descriptions, superb
temple! ... When he had finished his harangue, comes another; a plain
man; with a grave, sober, and unaffected air...who answered, as your
cousin Clara might do...with a low, hollow, and deep tone..._All
that, he has said, I will do_. Here he ended, and the assembly rang
with applause! Peace to the man of words. My dear, we may be
considered in the light of these two architects; and the temple in
question, is that of friendship.
But let us recapitulate all the fine things you have said to me.
First, that we loved each other; secondly, that my company was
necessary to you; thirdly, that yours was necessary to me likewise;
and lastly, that as it was in our power to live together the rest of
our days, we ought to do it. And you have really discovered all this
without a guide! In truth, thou art a woman of vast eloquence! Well,
but let me tell how I was employed on my part, while you was composing
this sublime epistle. After that, I will leave you to judge, whether
what you say, or what I do, is most to the purpose.
I had no sooner lost my husband, than you supplied the vacancy he had
left in my heart. While he was living, he shared my affections with
you; when he was gone, I was yours entirely, and as you observe with
respect to the conformity of friendship and maternal affection, my
daughter was an additional tie to unite us. I not only determined,
from that time, to pass my days with you, but I formed a more enlarged
plan. The more effectually to blend our two families into one, I
proposed, on a supposition that all circumstances prove agreeable, to
marry my daughter some day or other to your eldest son, and the name
of husband assumed in jest, seemed to be a lucky omen of his taking it
one day in earnest.
With this view, I endeavoured immediately to put an end to the trouble
of a contested inheritance, and finding that my circumstances enabled
me to sacrifice some part of my claim in order to settle the rest, I
thought of nothing but placing my daughter’s fortune in some sure
funds, where it might be secure from any apprehensions of a law suit.
You know that I am whimsical in most things; my whim in this was to
surprize you. I intended to come into your room one morning early,
with my child in one hand, and the parchment in the other; and to have
presented them both to you, with a fine compliment on committing to
your care the mother, the daughter, and their effects, that is to say,
my child’s fortune. Govern her, I proposed to have said, as best suits
the interest of your son; for from henceforwards it is your concern
and his; for my own part, I shall trouble myself about her no longer.
Full of this pleasing idea, it was necessary for me to open my mind to
somebody who might assist me to execute my project. Guess now whom I
chose for a confident? One Mr. Wolmar: Should not you know him? “My
husband, cousin?” Yes, your husband, cousin. The very man from whom
you make such a difficulty of concealing a secret, which it is of
consequence to him never to know, is he who has kept a secret from
you, the discovery of which would have given you so much pleasure.
This was the true subject of all that mysterious conversation between
us, about which you used to banter us with so much humour. You see
what hypocrites these husbands are. Is it not very droll in them to
accuse us of dissimulation? But I required much more of your husband.
I perceived that you had the same plan which I had in view, but you
kept it more to yourself, as one who did not care to communicate her
thoughts, till she was led to the discovery. With an intent therefore
to make your surprize more agreeable, I would have had him, when you
proposed our living together, to have seemed as if he disapproved of
your eagerness, and to have given his consent with reluctance. To this
he made me an answer, which I well remember, and which you ought never
to forget; for since the first existence of husbands, I doubt whether
any one of them ever made such an answer before. It was as follows.
“My dear little cousin, I know Eloisa...I know her well...better
than she imagines perhaps...her generosity of heart is so great, that
what she desires ought not to be refused, and her sensibility is too
strong to bear a denial, without being afflicted. During these five
years that we have married, I do not know that I have given her the
least uneasiness; and I hope to die without ever being the cause of
her feeling a moment’s inquietude.” Cousin, reflect on this: This is
the husband whose peace of mind you are incessantly meditating to
disturb.
For my part I had less delicacy, or more gentleness of disposition,
and I so naturally diverted the conversation to which your affection
so frequently led you, that as you could not tax me with coldness or
indifference towards you, you took it into your head that I had a
second marriage in view, and that I loved you better than any thing,
except a husband. You see, my dear child, your most inmost thoughts do
not escape me. I guess your meaning, I penetrate your designs; I enter
into the bottom of your soul, and for that reason I have always adored
you. This suspicion, which so opportunely led you into a mistake,
appeared to me well worth encouraging. I took upon me to play the part
of the coquettish widow, which I acted so well as to deceive even you.
It is a part for which I have more talents than inclination. I
skilfully employed that piquant air which I know how to put on, and
with which I have entertained myself in making a jest of more than one
young coxcomb. You have been absolutely the dupe of my affectation,
and you thought me in haste to supply the place of a man, to whom of
all others it would be most difficult to a fit successor. But I am too
ingenuous to play the counterfeit long, and your apprehensions were
soon removed. But to confirm you the more, I will explain to you my
real sentiments on that head.
I have told you an hundred times when I was a maid, that I was never
designed for a wife. Had my determination depended on myself alone, I
should never have married. But our sex cannot purchase liberty but by
slavery; and before we can become our own mistresses, we must begin by
being servants. Though my father did not confine me, I was not without
uneasiness in my family. To free myself from that vexation, therefore,
I married Mr. Orbe. He was such a worthy man, and loved me with such
tenderness, that I most sincerely loved him in my turn. Experience
gave me a more advantageous opinion of marriage than I had conceived
of it, and effaced those impressions I had received from Chaillot. Mr.
Orbe made me happy, and did not repent his endeavours. I should have
discharged my duty with any other, but I should have vexed him, and I
am sensible that nothing but so good a husband could have made me a
tolerable wife. Would you think that even this afforded me matter of
complaint? My dear, we loved each other too affectionately; we were
never gay. A slighter friendship would have been more sprightly; I
should even have preferred it, and I think I should have chosen to
have lived with less content, if I could have laughed oftener.
Add to this, that the particular circumstances of your situation, gave
me uneasiness. I need not remind you of the dangers to which an unruly
passion exposed you. I reflect on them with horror. If you had only
hazarded your life, perhaps I might have retained some remains of
gaiety: but terror and grief pierced my soul, and till I saw you
married, I did not enjoy one moment of real pleasure. You are no
stranger to my affliction at that time, you felt it. It had great
influence over your good disposition, and I shall always bless those
fortunate tears, which were probably the occasion of your return to
virtue.
In this manner I passed all the time that I lived with my husband.
Since it has pleased the Almighty to take him from me, judge whether I
can hope to find another so much to my mind, and whether I have any
temptation to make the experiment? No, cousin, matrimony is too
serious a state for me; its gravity does not suit with my humour; it
makes me dull, and sits awkwardly upon me; not to mention that all
constraint whatever is intolerable to me. Consider, you who know me,
what charms can an attachment have in my eyes, during which, for seven
years together, I have not laughed seven times heartily! I do not
propose, like you, to turn matron at eight and twenty. I find myself a
smart little widow, likely to get a husband still, and I think that if
I was a man, I should have no objection to such a one as myself. But
to marry again, cousin! hear me; I sincerely lament my poor husband, I
would have given up one half of my days, to have passed the other half
with him; and nevertheless, could he return to life, I should take him
again for no other reason, than because I had taken him before.
I have declared to you my real intentions. If I have not been able to
put them in execution, notwithstanding Mr. Wolmar’s kind endeavours,
it is because difficulties seem to increase, as my zeal to surmount
them strengthens. But my zeal will always gain the ascendency, and
before the summer is over, I hope to return to you for the remainder
of my days.
I must now vindicate myself from the reproach of concealing my
uneasiness, and choosing to weep alone; I do not deny it, and this is
the way I spend the most agreeable time I pass here. I never enter my
house, but I perceive some traces which remind me of him, who made it
agreeable to me. I cannot take a step, I cannot view a single object,
without perceiving some signs of his tenderness and goodness of heart;
and would you have my mind to be unaffected? When I am here, I am
sensible of nothing but the loss I have sustained. When I am near you,
I view all the comfort I have left. Can you make your influence over
my disposition, a crime in me? If I weep in your absence, and laugh in
your company, whence proceeds the difference? Ungrateful woman! it is
because you alleviate all my afflictions, and I cannot grieve while I
enjoy your society.
You have said a great deal in favour of our long friendship; but I
cannot pardon you for omitting a circumstance that does me most
honour; which is, that I love you, though you eclipse me! Eloisa, you
were born to rule. Your empire is more despotic than any in the world.
It extends even over the will, and I am sensible of it more than any
one. How happens it, my Eloisa? We are both in love with virtue;
honour is equally dear to us; our talents are the same; I have very
near as much spirit as you; and am not a bit less handsome. I am
sensible of all this, and yet notwithstanding all, you prescribe to
me, you overcome me, you cast me down, your genius crushes mine, and I
am nothing before you. Even while you were engaged in an attachment
with which you reproached yourself, and that I, who had not copied
your failing, might have taken the lead in my turn, yet the ascendency
still remained in you. The frailty I condemned in you, appeared to me
almost in the light of a virtue; I could scarce forbear admiring in
you, what I should have censured in another. In short, even at that
time, I never accosted you without a sensible emotion of involuntary
respect; and it is certain that nothing but your gentleness and
affability of manners could entitle me to the rank of your friend: by
nature, I ought to be your servant. Explain this mystery if you can;
for my part, I am at a loss how to solve it.
But after all, I do in some measure conceive the reason, and I believe
that I have explained it before now. The reason is, that your
disposition enlivens every one round you, and gives them a kind of new
existence, for which they are bound to adore you, since they derive it
entirely from you. It is true, I have done you some signal services;
you have so often acknowledged them, that it is impossible for me to
forget them. I cannot deny but that, without my assistance, you had
been utterly undone. But what did I do, more than return the
obligation I owed you? Is it possible to have a long acquaintance with
you without finding one’s mind impressed with the charms of virtue,
and the delights of friendship? Do not you know that you have power to
arm in your defence everyone who approaches you, and that I have no
advantage whatever over others, but that of being, like the guards of
Serositis, of the same age and sex, and of having been brought up with
you. However it be, it is some comfort to Clara, that, though she is
of less estimation than Eloisa, yet without Eloisa she would be of
less value still; and in short, to tell you the truth, I think that we
stood in great need of each other, and that we should both have been
losers if fate had parted us.
I am chiefly concerned lest, while my affairs detain me here, you
should discover your secret, which you are every minute ready to
disclose. Consider, I intreat you, that there are solid and powerful
reasons for concealing it, and that nothing but a mistaken principle
can tempt you to reveal it. Besides, our suspicion that it is no
longer a secret to him who is most interested in the discovery, is an
additional argument against making any declaration without the
greatest circumspection. Perhaps your husband’s reserve may serve as
an example and a lesson to us: for in such cases there is very often a
great difference between pretending to be ignorant of a thing, and
being obliged to know it. Stay therefore, I beseech you, till we
consult once more on this affair. If your apprehensions were well
grounded, and your lamented friend was no more, the best resolution
you could take, would be to let your history and his misfortunes be
buried together. If he is alive, as I hope he is, the case may be
different; but let us wait till we are sure of the event. In every
state of the case, do not you think that you ought to pay some regard
to the last advice of an unfortunate wretch, whose evils all spring
from you?
With respect to the danger of solitude, I conceive and cannot condemn
your fears, though I am persuaded that they are ill founded. Your past
terrors have made you fearful; but I presage better of the time
present, and you would be less apprehensive, if you had more reason to
be so. But I cannot approve of your anxiety with regard to the fate of
our poor friend. Now your affections have taken a different turn,
believe me he is as dear to me as to yourself. Nevertheless I have
forebodings quite contrary to yours, and more agreeable to reason.
Lord B---- has heard from him twice, and wrote to me on the receipt of
the last letter, to acquaint me that he was in the South seas, and had
already escaped all the dangers you apprehend. You know all this as
well as I, and yet you are as uneasy as if you were a stranger to
these particulars. But there is a circumstance you are ignorant of,
and of which I must inform you; it is, that the ship on which he is on
board, was seen two months ago off the Canaries, making sail for
Europe. This is the account my father received from Holland, which he
did not fail to transmit to me; for it is his custom to be more
punctual in informing me concerning public affairs, than in
acquainting me with his own private concerns. My heart tells me that
it will not be long before we hear news of our philosopher, and that
your tears will be dried up, unless after having lamented him as dead,
you weep to find him alive, But, thank God, you are no longer in
danger from your weakness.
_Deh! fosse or qui quel miser puer un poco,
Ch’ e giá di piangere e di viver lasso!_
This is the sum of my answer. Your affectionate friend proposes, and
shares with you the agreeable expectation of a lasting re-union. You
find that you are neither the first, nor the only author of this
project; and that the execution of it is more forward than you
imagined. Have patience therefore, my dear friend, for this summer: It
is better to delay our meeting for same time, than to be under the
necessity of parting again.
Well, good Madam, have not I been as good as my word, and is not my
triumph compleat? Come, fall on your knees, kiss this letter with
respect, and humbly acknowledge that, once in her life at least,
Eloisa Wolmar has been outdone in friendship.
Letter CXXII. To Mrs. Orbe.
My dear cousin, my benefactress, my friend! I come from the
extremities of the earth, and bring a heart full of affection for you.
I have crossed the line four times; I have traversed the two
hemispheres; I have seen the four quarters of the globe; its diameter
has been between us; I have been quite round it, and yet could not
escape from you one moment. It is in vain to fly from the object of
our adoration: the image, more fleet than the winds, pursues us from
the end of the world, and wherever we transport ourselves, we bear
with us the idea by which we are animated. I have endured a great
deal; I have seen others suffer more. How many unhappy wretches have
I seen perish! Alas! They rated life at a high price! And yet I
survived them... Perhaps my condition was less to be pitied; the
miseries of my companions affected me more than my own. I am wretched
here, said I to myself, but there is a corner of the globe where I am
happy and tranquil; and the prospect of felicity on the side of the
lake at Geneva, made me amends for what I suffered on the ocean. I
have the pleasure on my return to find my hopes confirmed: Lord B----
informs me that you both enjoy health and peace; and that if you, in
particular, have lost the agreeable distinction of a wife, you
nevertheless retain the title of a friend and mother, which may
contribute to your happiness.
I am at present too much in haste to send you a detail of my voyage
in this letter. I dare hope that I shall soon have a more convenient
opportunity; meantime I must be content to give you a slight sketch,
rather to excite than gratify your curiosity. I have been near four
years in making this immense tour, and I returned in the same ship in
which I set sail, the only one of the whole squadron which we have
brought back to England.
I have seen South-America, that vast continent which for want of arms
has been obliged to submit to the Europeans, who have made it a
desert, in order to secure their dominion. I have seen the coasts of
Brazil, from whence Lisbon and London draw their treasures, and where
the miserable natives tread upon gold and diamonds, without daring to
lay hands on them for their own life. I crossed, in mild weather,
those stormy seas under the Antarctic circle, and I met with the most
horrible tempests in the Pacific ocean.
_E in mar dubbioso sotto ignoto polo
Provai l’onde fallaci, e’l vento in fido._
I have seen, at a distance, the abode of those supposed giants, who
are no otherwise greater than the rest of their species, than as they
are more courageous, and who maintain their dependence more by a life
of simplicity and frugality, than by their extraordinary stature. I
made a residence of three months in a desert and delightful island,
which afforded an agreeable and lively representation of the primitive
beauty of nature, and which seems to be fixed at the extremity of the
world to serve as an asylum to innocence and persecuted love; but the
greedy European indulges his brutal disposition in preventing the
peaceful Indian from residing there, and does justice on himself, by
not making it his own abode.
I have seen, in the rivers of Mexico and Peru, the same scenes as at
Brazil; I have seen the few wretched inhabitants, the sad remains of
two powerful nations, loaded with irons, ignominy and misery, weeping
in the midst of their precious metals, and reproaching heaven for
having lavished such treasures among them. I have seen the dreadful
conflagration of a whole city, which perished in the flames without
having made any resistance or defence. Such is the right of war among
the intelligent, humane, and refined Europeans! They are not satisfied
with doing the enemy all the mischief from whence they can reap any
advantage, but they reckon as clear gain, all the destruction they can
make among his possessions. I have coasted along almost the whole
western part of America, not without being struck with admiration on
beholding fifteen hundred leagues of coast, and the greatest sea in
the world, under the dominion of a single potentate, who may be said
to keep the keys of one hemisphere.
After having crossed this vast sea, I beheld a new scene on the other
continent, I have seen the most numerous and most illustrious nation
in the world, in subjection to a handful of Banditti; I have had close
intercourse with this famous people, and I do not wonder that they are
slaves. As often conquered as attacked, they have always been a prey
to the first invader, and will be so to the end of the world. They are
well suited to their servile state, since they have not the courage
even to complain. They are learned, lazy, hypocritical, and deceitful:
they talk a great deal without saying anything; they are full of
spirit, without any genius; they abound in signs, but are barren in
ideas; they are polite, full of compliments, dextrous, crafty, and
knavish; they comprise all the duties of life in trifles, all morality
in grimace, and have no other idea of humanity, than what consists in
bows and salutations. I landed upon a second desert island, more
unknown, more delightful still than the first, and where the most
cruel accident had like to have confined us for ever. I was the only
one perhaps, whom so agreeable an exile did not terrify; am I not
doomed to be an exile every where? In this place of terror and
delight, I saw the attempts of human industry to disengage a civilized
being from a solitude where he wants nothing; and plunge him into an
abyss of new necessities.
On the vast ocean, where one would imagine men would be glad to meet
with their own species, I have seen two great ships sail up to each
other, join, attack, and fight together with fury, as if that immense
space was too little for either of them. I have seen them discharge
flames and bullets against each other. In a sight which was not of
long duration, I have seen the picture of hell. I have heard the
triumphant shouts of the conquerors, drown the cries of the wounded,
and the groans of the dying. I blushed to receive my share of an
immense plunder; but I received it in the nature of a trust, and as it
was taken from the wretched, to the wretched it shall be restored.
I have seen Europe transported to the extremities of Africa, by the
labours of that avaricious, patient, and industrious people, who by
time and perseverance have surmounted difficulties which all the
heroism of other nations could never overcome. I have seen those
immense and miserable countries, which seem destined to no other
purpose than to cover the earth with herds of slaves. At their vile
appearance, I turned away my eyes, out of disdain, horror and pity;
and on beholding one fourth part of my fellow creatures transformed
into beast for the service of the rest, I could not forbear lamenting
that I was a man.
Lastly, I beheld, in my fellow travellers, a bold and intrepid people,
whose freedom and example retrieved, in my opinion, the honour of the
species; a people, who despised pain and death, and who dreaded
nothing but hunger and disquiet. In their commander, I beheld a
captain, a soldier, a pilot, a prudent and great man, and to say still
more perhaps, a friend worthy of Lord B----. But throughout the whole
world, I have never met with any resemblance of Clara Orbe, or Eloisa
Etange, or found one who could recompense a heart truly sensible of
their worth, for the loss of their society.
How shall I speak of my cure? It is from you that I must learn how far
it is perfect. Do I return more free, and more discreet than I
departed? I dare believe that I do, and yet I cannot affirm it. The
same image has constant possession of my heart; you know how
impossible it is for me ever to efface it; but her dominion over me is
more worthy of her, and if I do not deceive myself, she holds the same
empire in my heart, as in your own. Yes, my dear cousin, her virtue
has subdued me; I am now, with regard to her, nothing more than a most
sincere and tender friend, my adoration of her is of the same nature
with yours; or rather, my affections do not seem to be weakened, but
rectified, and however nicely I examine, I find them to be as pure as
the object which inspires them. What can I say more, till I am put to
the proof, by which I may be able to form a right judgment of myself?
I am honest and sincere; I will be what I ought to be; but how shall I
answer for my affections, when I have so much reason to mistrust them?
Have I power over the past? How can I avoid recollecting a thousand
passions which have formerly distracted me? How shall my imagination
distinguish what is, from what has been? And how shall I consider her
as a friend, whom I never yet saw but as a mistress? Whatever you may
think of the secret motive of my eagerness, it is honest and rational,
and merits your approbation. I will answer beforehand, at least for my
intentions. Permit me to see you, and examine me yourself, or allow me
to see Eloisa, and I shall then know my own heart.
I am to attend Lord B---- into Italy. Shall I pass close by your
house, and not see you? Do you think this possible? Ah! if you are so
cruel to require it, you ought not to be obeyed! But why should you
desire it? Are you not the same Clara, as kind and compassionate as
you are virtuous and discreet, who condescended from her infancy to
love me, and who ought to love me still more, now that I am indebted
to her for every thing. [51] No, my dear and lovely friend, such a
cruel denial will not become you, nor will it be just to me; it shall
not put the finishing stroke to my misery. Once more, once more in my
life, I will lay my heart at your feet. I will see you, you shall
consent to an interview. I will see Eloisa likewise, and she too shall
give her consent. You are both of you too sensible of my regard for
her. Can you believe me capable of making this request, if I found
myself unworthy to appear in her presence? She has long since bewailed
the effects of her charms, ah! let her for once behold the fruits of
her virtue!
P. S. Lord B----’s affairs detain him here for some time; if I may be
allowed to see you, why should not I get the start of him, to be with
you the sooner?
Letter CXXIII. From Mr. Wolmar.
Though we are not yet acquainted, I am commanded to write to you. The
most discreet and most beloved wife, has lately disclosed her heart to
her happy husband. He thinks you worthy to have been the object of her
affections, and he makes you an offer of his house. Peace and
innocence reign in this mansion; you will meet with friendship,
hospitality, esteem and confidence. Examine your heart, and if you
find nothing there to deter you, come without any apprehensions. You
will not depart from him, without leaving behind you at least one
friend, by name.
WOLMAR.
P. S. Come, my friend, we expect you with eagerness. I hope I need not
fear a denial.
ELOISA.
Letter CXXIV. From Mrs. Orbe.
_In which the preceding Letter was inclosed._
Welcome, welcome a thousand times, dear St. Preux! for I intend that
you shall retain that name, at least among us. I suppose it will be
sufficient to tell you, that you will not be excluded, unless you mean
to exclude yourself. When you find, by the inclosed letter, that I
have done more than you required of me, you will learn to put more
confidence in our friends, and not to reproach them on account of
those inquietudes which they participate when, compelled by reason,
they are under a necessity of making you uneasy. Mr. Wolmar has a
desire to see you, he makes you an offer of his house, his friendship,
and his advice; this is more than requisite to quiet my apprehensions
with regard to your journey, and I should injure myself, if I
mistrusted you one moment. Mr. Wolmar goes farther, he pretends to
accomplish your cure, and he says that neither Eloisa, you, nor I, can
be perfectly happy till it is compleat. Though I have great confidence
in his wisdom, and more in your virtue, yet I cannot answer for the
success of this undertaking. This I know, that considering the
disposition of his wife, the pains he proposes to take, is out of pure
generosity to you.
Come then, my worthy friend, in all the security of an honest heart,
and satisfy the eagerness with which we all long to embrace you, and
to see you easy and contented: come to your native land, and in the
midst of your friends, rest yourself after all your travels, and
forget all the hardships you have undergone. The last time you saw me,
I was a grave matron, and my friend was on the brink of the grave; but
now that she is well, and I am once more single, you will find me as
gay, and almost as handsome as ever. One thing however is very
certain, that I am not altered with respect to you, and you may travel
many times round the world, and not find one who has so sincere a
regard for you as your, &c.
Letter CXXV. To Lord B----.
Just risen from my bed: ’tis yet the dead of night. I cannot rest a
moment. My heart is so transported, that I can scarce confine it
within me. You, my Lord, who have so often rescued me from despair,
shall be the worthy confident of the first pleasure I have tasted for
many a year.
I have seen her, my Lord! My eyes have beheld her! I heard her voice.
I have prest her hand with my lips. She recollected me; she received
me with joy; she called me her friend, her dear friend; she admitted
me into her house: I am happier than ever I was in my life. I lodge
under the same roof with her, and while I am writing to you, we are
scarce thirty paces asunder.
My ideas are too rapid to be exprest; they crowd upon me all at once,
and naturally impede each other. I must pause a while to digest my
narrative into some kind of method.
After so long an absence, I had scarce given way to the first
transports of my heart, while I embraced you as my friend, my
deliverer, and my father, before you thought of taking a journey to
Italy. You made me wish for it, in hopes of relief from the burthen of
being useless to you. As you could not immediately dispatch the
affairs which detained you in London, you proposed my going first,
that I might have more time to wait for you here. I begged leave to
come hither; I obtained it, I set out, and though Eloisa made the
first advances towards an interview, yet the pleasing reflection that
I was going to meet her, was checked by the regret of leaving you. My
Lord, we are now even, this single sentiment has cancelled my
obligations to you.
I need not tell you that my thoughts were all the way taken up with
the object of my journey; but I must observe one thing, that I began
to consider that same object, which had never quitted my imagination,
quite in another point of view. till then I used to recall Eloisa to
my mind, sparkling, as formerly, with all the charms of youth. I had
always beheld her lovely eyes, enlivened by that passion with which
she inspired me. Every feature which I admired, seemed, in my opinion,
to be a surety of my happiness. My affection was so interwoven with
the idea of her person, that I could not separate them. Now I was
going to see Eloisa married, Eloisa a Mother, Eloisa indifferent! I
was disturbed, when I reflected how much an interval of eight years
might have impaired her beauty. She had had the small-pox; she was
altered; how great might that alteration be? My imagination
obstinately refused to allow any blemish in that lovely face. I
reflected likewise on the expected interview between us, and what kind
of reception I might expect. This first meeting presented itself to my
mind under a thousand different appearances, and this momentary idea
came athwart my imagination a thousand times a day.
When I perceived the top of the hills, my heart beat violently, and
told me, There she is! I was affected in the same manner at sea, on
viewing the coast of Europe. I felt the same emotions at Meillerie,
when I discovered the house of the Baron D’Etange. The world, in my
imagination, is divided only into two regions, _that_ where she is,
and _that_ where she is not. The former dilates as I remove from her,
and contracts when I approach her, as a spot where I am destined never
to arrive. It is at present confined to the walls of her chamber.
Alas! that place alone is inhabited; all the rest of the universe is
an empty space.
The nearer I drew to Switzerland, the more I was agitated. That
instant in which I discovered the lake of Geneva from the heights of
Jura, was a moment of rapture and extasy. The light of my country,
that beloved country, where a deluge of pleasures had overflowed my
heart; the pure and wholesome air of the Alps; the gentle breeze of
the country, more sweet than the perfumes of the East; that rich and
fertile spot, that unrivalled landskip, the most beautiful that ever
struck the eye of man; that delightful abode, to which I found nothing
comparable in the vast tour of the globe; the aspect of a free and
happy people; the mildness of the season, the serenity of the climate;
a thousand pleasing recollections, which recalled to my mind the
pleasures I had enjoyed: all these circumstances together threw me
into a kind of transport which I cannot describe, and seemed to
collect the enjoyment of my whole life into one happy moment. Having
crossed the lake, I felt a new impression, of which I had no idea. It
was a certain emotion of fear, which checked my heart, and disturbed
me in spite of all my endeavours. This dread, of which I could not
discover the cause, increased as I drew nearer to the town; it abated
my eagerness to get thither, and rose to such a degree, that my
expedition gave me as much uneasiness as my delay had occasioned me
before. When I came to Vevey, I felt a sensation which was very far
from being agreeable. I was seized with a violent palpitation, which
stopped my breath, and I spoke with a trembling and broken accent. I
could scarce make myself understood when I enquired for Mr. Wolmar;
for I durst not mention his wife. They told me he lived at Clarens.
This information eased my breast from a pressure equal to five hundred
weight, and considering the two leagues I had to travel farther as a
kind of respite, I was rejoiced at a circumstance which at any other
time would have made me uneasy; but I learnt with concern that Mrs.
Orbe was at Lausanne. I went into an inn to recruit my strength, but I
could not swallow a morsel: when I attempted to drink I was almost
suffocated, and could not empty a glass but at several sips. When I
saw the horses put to, my apprehensions were doubled. I believe I
should have given any thing in the world to have had one of the wheels
broken by the way. I no longer saw Eloisa; my disturbed imagination
presented nothing but confused objects before me; my soul was in a
general tumult. I had experienced grief and despair, and should have
preferred them to that horrible state. In a few words, I can assure
you, that I never in my life underwent such cruel agitation as I
suffered in this little way, and I am persuaded that I could not have
supported it a whole day.
When I arrived, I ordered the chaise to stop at the gate, and finding
that I was not in a condition to walk, I sent the postillion to
acquaint Mr. Wolmar that a stranger wanted to speak with him. He was
taking a walk with his wife. They were acquainted with the message,
and came round another way, while I kept my eyes fixed on the avenue,
and waited, in a kind of trance, in expectation of seeing somebody
come from thence.
Eloisa had no sooner perceived me than she recollected me. In an
instant, she saw me, she shrieked, she ran, she leaped into my arms.
At the sound of her voice I started, I revived, I saw her, I felt her.
O my Lord! O my friend!... I cannot speak... Her look, her shriek, her
manner inspired me with confidence, courage, and strength, in an
instant. In her arms I felt warmth, and breathed new life. A sacred
transport kept us for some time closely embraced in deep silence; and
it was not till after we recovered from this agreeable delirium, that
our voices broke forth in confused murmurs, and our eyes intermingled
tears. Mr. Wolmar was present; I knew he was, I saw him: but what was
I capable of seeing? No, though the whole universe had been united
against me; though a thousand torments had surrounded me, I would not
have detached my heart from the least of those caresses, those tender
offerings of a pure and sacred friendship, which we will bear with us
to heaven!
When the violent impetuosity of our first meeting began to abate, Mrs.
Wolmar took me by the hand, and turning towards her husband, she said
to him, with a certain air of candor and innocence which instantly
affected me, Tho’ he is my old acquaintance, I do not present him to
you, but I receive him from you, and he will hereafter enjoy my
friendship no longer than he is honoured with yours----If new
friends, said Mr. Wolmar, embracing me, express less natural ardor
than those of long standing, yet they will grow old in their turn, and
will not yield to any in affection. I received his embraces; but my
heart had quite exhausted itself, and I was entirely passive.
After this short scene was over, I observed, by a side-glance, that
they had put up my chaise, and taken off my trunk. Eloisa held by my
arm, and I went with them towards the house, almost overwhelmed with
pleasure, to find they were determined I should remain their guest.
It was then that, upon a more calm contemplation of that lovely face,
which I imagined might have grown homely, I saw with an agreeable, yet
sad surprize, that she was really more beautiful and sparkling than
ever. Her charming features are now more regular; she is grown rather
fatter, which is an addition to the resplendent fairness of her
complexion. The small-pox has left some slight marks on her cheeks
scarce perceptible. Instead of that mortifying bashfulness which
formerly used to make her cast her eyes downwards, you may perceive in
her chaste looks, the security of virtue allied with gentleness and
sensibility; her countenance, tho’ not less modest, is less timid; an
air of greater freedom, and more liberal grace, has succeeded that
constrained carriage which was compounded of shame and tenderness; and
if a sense of her failing rendered her then more bewitching, a
consciousness of her purity now renders her more celestial.
We had scarce entered the parlour, when she disappeared, and returned
in a minute. She did not come alone. Who do you think she brought with
her? Her children! Those two lovely little ones, more beauteous than
the day; in whose infant faces you might trace all the charms and
features of their mother. How was I agitated at this sight? It is
neither to be described nor conceived. A thousand different emotions
seized me at once. A thousand cruel and delightful reflections divided
my heart. What a lovely sight! What bitter regrets! I found myself
distracted with grief, and transported with joy. I saw, if I may be
allowed the expression, the dear object of my affections multiplied
before me. Alas! I perceived at the same time too convincing a proof
that I had no longer any interest in her, and my losses seemed to be
multiplied with her increase.
She led them towards me. Behold, said she, with an affecting tone that
pierced my soul, behold the children of your friend: they will
hereafter be your friends. Henceforward I hope you will be theirs. And
immediately the two little creatures ran eagerly to me, took me by the
hand, and so overwhelmed me with their innocent caresses, that every
emotion of my soul centered in tenderness. I took them both in my
arms, and pressing them against my throbbing breast, Dear and lovely
little souls, said I, with a sigh, you have an arduous task to
perform. May you resemble the authors of your being; may you imitate
their virtues; and by your own hereafter, administer comfort to their
unfortunate friends. Mrs. Wolmar, in rapture threw herself round my
neck a second time, and seemed disposed to repay me, by _her_
embraces, those caresses which _I_ had bestowed on her two sons. But
how different was this from our first embrace! I perceived the
difference with astonishment. It was the mother of a family whom I now
embraced; I saw her surrounded by her husband and children: and the
scene struck me with awe. I discovered an air of dignity in her
countenance, which had not affected me till now: I found myself
obliged to pay her a different kind of respect; her familiarity was
almost uneasy to me; lovely as she appeared to me, I could have kissed
the hem of her garment, with a better grace than I saluted her cheek.
In a word, from that moment, I perceived that either she or I were no
longer the same, and I began in earnest to have a good opinion of
myself.
Mr. Wolmar at length took me by the hand, and conducted me to the
apartment which had been prepared for me. This, said he, as he
entered, is your apartment: it is not destined to the use of a
stranger; it shall never belong to another, and hereafter, if you do
not occupy it, it shall remain empty. You may judge whether such a
compliment was not agreeable to me; but as I had not yet deserved it,
I could not hear it without confusion. Mr. Wolmar, however, spared me
the trouble of an answer. He invited me to take a turn in the garden.
His behaviour there was such as made me less reserved, and assuming
the air of a man who was well acquainted with my former indiscretions,
but who entirely confided in my integrity, he conversed with me as a
father would speak to his child; and by conciliating my esteem, made
it impossible for me ever to deceive him. No, my Lord, he is not
mistaken in me; I shall never forget that it is incumbent on me to
justify his and your good opinion. But why should my heart reject his
favours? Why should the man whom I am bound to love be the husband of
Eloisa?
That day seemed defined to put me to every kind of proof which I could
possibly undergo. After we had joined Mrs. Wolmar, her husband was
called away to give some necessary orders, and I was left alone with
her.
I then found myself involved in fresh perplexity, more painful and
more unexpected than any which I had yet experienced. What should I
say to her? How could I address her? Should I presume to remind her of
our former connections, and of those times which were so recent in my
memory? Should I suffer her to conclude that I had forgot them, or
that I no longer regarded them? Think what a punishment it must be to
treat the object nearest your heart as a stranger! What infamy, on the
other hand, to abuse hospitality so far as to entertain her with
discourse to which she could not now listen with decency? Under these
various perplexities I could not keep my countenance; my colour went
and came; I durst not speak, nor lift up my eyes, nor make the least
motion; and I believe that I should have remained in this uneasy
situation till her husband’s return, if she had not relieved me. For
her part, this _tete a tete_ did not seem to embarrass her in the
least. She preserved the same manner and deportment as before, and
continued to talk to me with the same freedom; the only, as I
imagined, endeavoured to affect more ease and gaiety, tempered with a
look, not timid or tender, but soft and affectionate, as if she meant
to encourage me to recover my spirits, and lay aside a reserve which
she could not but perceive.
She talked to me of my long voyages; she enquired into particulars;
into those especially which related to the dangers I had escaped, and
the hardships I had endured: for she was sensible, she said, that she
was bound in friendship to make me some reparation. Ah, Eloisa! said
I, in a plaintive accent, I have enjoyed your company but for a
moment; would you send me back to the Indies already? No, she
answered, with a smile, but I would go thither in my turn.
I told her that I had given you a detail of my voyage, of which I had
brought her a copy for her perusal. She then enquired after you with
great eagerness. I gave her an account of you, which I could not do
without recounting the troubles I had undergone, and the uneasiness I
had occasioned you. She was affected; she began to enter into her own
justification in a more serious tone, and to convince me that it was
her duty to act as she had done. Mr. Wolmar joined us in the middle of
her discourse, and what confounded me was, that she proceeded in the
same manner as if he had not been there. He could not forbear smiling,
on discovering my astonishment. After she concluded, You see, said he,
an instance of the sincerity which reigns in this house. If you mean
to be virtuous, learn to copy it: it is the only request I have to
make, and the only lesson I would teach you. The first step towards
vice, is to make a mystery of actions innocent in themselves, and
whoever is fond of disguise, will sooner or later have reason to
conceal himself. One moral precept may supply the place of all the
rest, which is this: neither to say or do any thing, which you would
not have all the world see and hear. For my part, I have always
esteemed that Roman, above all other men, who wished that his house
was built in such manner, that the world might see all his
transactions.
I have two proposals, he continued, to make to you. chuse freely that
which you like best; but accept either one or the other. Then taking
his wife’s hand and mine, and closing them together, he said, Our
friendship commences from this moment; this forms the dear connection,
and may it be indissoluble. Embrace her as your sister and your
friend; treat her as such constantly; the more familiar you are with
her, the better I shall esteem you: but behave, when _tete a tete_, as
if I was present; or in my presence, as if I was absent. This is all I
desire. If you prefer the latter, you may chuse it without any
inconvenience; for as I reserve to myself the right of intimating to
you any thing which displeases me, so long as I am silent in that
respect, you may be certain that I am not offended.
I should have been greatly embarrassed by this discourse two hours
before, but Mr. Wolmar began to gain such an ascendancy over me, that
his authority already grew somewhat familiar to me. We all three
entered once more into indifferent conversation, and every time I
spoke to Eloisa, I did not fail to address her by the stile of
_Madam_. Tell me sincerely, said her husband at last, interrupting me,
in your _tete a tete_ party just now, did you call her _Madam?_ No,
answered I, somewhat disconcerted, but politeness... Such politeness,
he replied, is nothing but the mask of vice; where virtue maintains
its empire, it is unnecessary; and I discard it. Call my wife _Eloisa_
in my presence, or _Madam_ when you are alone; it is indifferent to
me. I began to know what kind of man I had to deal with, and I
resolved always to keep my mind in such a state as to bear his
examination.
My body drooping with fatigue, stood in need of refreshment, and my
spirits required rest; I found both one and the other at table. After
so many years absence and vexation, after such tedious voyages, I said
to myself, in a kind of rapture, I am in company with Eloisa, I see
her, I talk with her; I sit at table with her, she views me without
inquietude, and entertains me without apprehensions. Nothing
interrupts our mutual satisfaction. Gentle and precious innocence, I
never before relished thy charms, and to-day, for the first time, my
existence ceases to be painful.
At night, when I retired to rest, I passed by their chamber; I saw
them go in together; I proceeded to my own in a melancholy mood, and
this moment was the least agreeable to me of any I that day
experienced.
Such, my Lord, were the occurrences of this first interview, so
passionately wished for, and so dreadfully apprehended. I have
endeavoured to collect myself since I have been alone; I have
compelled myself to self-examination; but as I am not yet recovered
from the agitation of the preceding day, it is impossible for me to
judge of the true state of my mind. All that I know for certain, is,
that if the nature of my affection for her is not changed, at least
the mode of it is altered, for I am always anxious to have a third
person between us, and I now dread being alone with her, as much as I
longed for it formerly.
I intend to go to Lausanne in two or three days. I have seen Eloisa
but half, not having seen her cousin; that dear and amiable friend, to
whom I am so much indebted, and who will always share my friendship,
my services, my gratitude, and all the affections of my soul. On my
return I will take the first opportunity to give you a farther
account. I have need of your advice, and I shall keep a strict eye
over my conduct. I know my duty, and will discharge it. However
agreeable it may be to fix my residence in this house, I am
determined, I have sworn, that when I grow too fond of my abode, I
will quit it immediately.
Letter CXXVI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
If you had been kind enough to have staid with us as long as we
desired, you would have had the pleasure of embracing your friend
before your departure. He came hither the day before yesterday, and
wanted to visit you to day; but the fatigue of his journey confines
him to his room, and this morning he was let blood. Besides, I was
fully determined, in order to punish you, not to let him go so soon;
and unless you will come hither, I promise you that it will be a long
time before you shall see him. You know it would be very improper to
let him see the _inseparables_ asunder.
In truth, Clara, I cannot tell what idle apprehensions bewitched my
mind with respect to his coming hither, and I am ashamed to have
opposed it with such obstinacy. As much as I dreaded the sight of him,
I should now be sorry not to have seen him, for his presence has
banished those fears which yet disturbed me, and which, by fixing my
attention constantly on him, might at length have given me just cause
of uneasiness. I am so far from being apprehensive of the affection I
feel for him, that I believe I should mistrust myself more was he less
dear to me; but I love him as tenderly as ever, though my love is of a
different nature. It is by comparing my present sensations with those
which his presence formerly occasioned, that I derive my security, and
the difference of such opposite sentiments is perceived in proportion
to their vivacity.
With regard to him, though I knew him at the first glance, he
nevertheless appeared to be greatly altered; and what I should
formerly have thought impossible, he seems, in many respects, to be
changed for the better. On the first day, he discovered many symptoms
of perplexity, and it was with great difficulty that I concealed mine
from him. But it was not long before he recovered that free deportment
and openness of manner which becomes his character. I had always seen
him timid and bashful; the fear of offending me, and perhaps the
secret shame of acting a part unbecoming a man of honour, gave him an
air of meanness and servility before me, which you have more than once
very justly ridiculed. Instead of the submission of a slave, at
present he has the respectful behaviour of a friend, who knows how to
honour the object of his esteem. He now communicates his sentiments
with freedom and honesty; he is not afraid lest his severe maxims of
virtue should clash with his interest; he is not apprehensive of
injuring himself or affecting me, by praising what is commendable in
itself, and one may perceive in all that he says the confidence of an
honest man, who can depend upon himself, and who derives that
approbation from his own conscience, which he formerly sought for only
in my looks. I find also that experience has cured him of that
dogmatical and peremptory air which men are apt to contract in their
closets; that he is less forward to judge of mankind, since he has
observed them more; that he is less ready to establish general
propositions, since he has seen so many exceptions; and that in
general, the love of truth has banished the spirit of system: so that
he is become less brilliant, but more rational; and one receives much
more information from him, now that he does not affect to be so wise.
His figure likewise is altered, but nevertheless not for the worse;
his countenance is more open; his deportment more stately; he has
contracted a kind of martial air in his travels, which becomes him the
better, as the lively and spirited gesture he used to express when he
was in earnest, is now turned into a more grave and sober demeanour.
He is a seaman, whose appearance is cold and phlegmatic, but whose
discourse is fiery and impetuous. Though he is turned of thirty, he
has the look of a young man, and joins all the spirit of youth to the
dignity of manhood. His complexion is entirely altered; he is as black
as a Negro, and very much marked with the small-pox. My dear, I must
own the truth; I am uneasy whenever I view those marks, and I catch
myself looking at them very often in spite of me.
I think I can discover that if I am curious in examining him, he is
not less attentive in viewing me. After so long an absence, it is
natural to contemplate each other with a kind of curiosity; but if
this curiosity may be thought to retain any thing of our former
eagerness, yet what difference is there in the manner as well as the
motive of it! If our looks do not meet so often, we nevertheless view
each other with more freedom. We seem to examine each other
alternately by a kind of tacit agreement. Each perceives, as it were,
when it is the other’s turn, and looks a different way to give the
other an opportunity. Though free from the emotions I formerly felt,
yet how is it possible to behold with indifference one who inspired
the tenderest passion, and who, to this hour, is the object of the
purest affection? Who knows whether self-love does not endeavour to
justify past errors? Who knows whether, though no longer blinded by
passion, we do not both flatter ourselves by secretly approving our
former choice? Be it as it may, I repeat it without a blush, that I
feel a most tender affection for him, which will endure to the end of
my life. I am so far from reproaching myself for harbouring these
sentiments, that I think they deserve applause; I should blush not to
perceive them, and consider it as a defect in my character, and the
symptom of a bad disposition. With respect to him, I dare believe,
that next to virtue, he loves me beyond any thing in the world. I
perceive that he thinks himself honoured by my esteem; I in my turn
will regard his in the same light, and will merit its continuance. Ah!
if you saw with what tenderness he caresses my children; if you knew
what pleasure he takes in talking of you, you would find, Clara, that
I am still dear to him.
What increases my confidence in the opinion we both entertain of him,
is that Mr. Wolmar joins with us, and since he has seen him, believes,
from his own observation, all that we have reported to his advantage.
He has talked of him much these two evenings past, congratulating
himself on account of the measures he has taken, and rallying me for
my opposition. No, said he yesterday, we will not suffer so worthy a
man to mistrust himself; we will teach him to have more confidence in
his own virtue, and perhaps we may one day or other reap the fruits of
our present endeavours with more advantage than you imagine. For the
present, I must tell you that I am pleased with his character, and
that I esteem him particularly for one circumstance which he little
suspects, that is, the reserve with which he behaves towards me. The
less friendship he expresses for me, the more he makes me his friend;
I cannot tell you how much I dreaded lest he should load me with
caresses. This was the first trial I prepared for him, there is yet
another by which I intend to prove him; and after that I shall cease
all farther examination. As to the circumstance you mentioned, said I,
it only proves the frankness of his disposition; for he would never
resolve to put on a pliant and submissive air before my father, though
it was so much his interest, and I so often intreated him to do it. I
saw with concern that his behaviour deprived him of the only resource,
and yet could not dislike him for not being able to play the hypocrite
on any occasion. The case is very different, replied my husband: there
is a natural antipathy between your father and him, founded on the
opposition of their sentiments. With regard to myself, who have no
symptoms or prejudices, I am certain that he can have no natural
aversion to me. No one can hate me; a man without passions cannot
inspire any one with an aversion towards him: but I deprived him of
the object of his wishes, which he will not readily forgive. He will
however conceive the stronger affection for me, when he is perfectly
convinced that the injury I have done him does not prevent me from
looking upon him with an eye of kindness. If he caressed me now, he
would be a hypocrite; if he never caresses me, he will be a monster.
Such, my dear Clara, is the situation we are in, and I begin to think
that heaven will bless the integrity of our hearts, and the kind
intentions of my husband. But I am too kind to you in entering into
all these details; you do not deserve that I should take such pleasure
in conversing with you; but I am determined to tell you no more, and
if you desire farther information, you must come hitherto receive it.
P. S. I must acquaint you nevertheless with what has passed with
respect to the subject of this letter. You know with what indulgence
Mr. Wolmar received the late confession which our friend’s unexpected
return obliged me to make. You saw with what tenderness he endeavoured
to dry up my tears, and dispel my shame. Whether, as you reasonably
conjectured, I told him nothing new, or whether he was really affected
by a proceeding which nothing but sincere repentance could dictate, he
has not only continued to live with me as before, but he even seems to
have increased his attention, his confidence, and esteem, as if he
meant, by his kindness, to repay the confusion which my confession
cost me. My dear Clara, you know my heart; judge then what an
impression such a conduct must make!
As soon as I found that he was determined to let our old friend come
hither, I resolved on my part, to take the best precautions I could
contrive against myself: which was to chuse my husband himself for my
confident; to hold no particular conversation, which I did not
communicate to him, and to write no letter which I did not shew to
him. I even made it a part of my duty to write every letter as if it
was not intended for his inspection, and afterwards to shew it to him.
You will find an article in this which was penned on this principle;
if while I was writing, I could not forbear thinking that he might
read it, yet my conscience bears witness that I did not alter a single
word on that account; but when I shewed him my letter, he bantered me,
and had not the civility to read it.
I confess that I was somewhat piqued at his refusal; as if he had
doubted my honour. My emotion did not escape his notice, and this most
open and generous man soon removed my apprehensions. Confess, said he,
that you have said less concerning me than usual in that letter. I
owned it; was it decent to say much of him, when I intended to shew
him what I had written? Well, he replied with a smile, I had rather
that you would talk of me more, and not know what you say of me.
Afterwards, he continued, in a more serious tone; Marriage, said he,
is too grave and solemn a state to admit of that free communication
which tender friendship allows. The latter connection often happily
contributes to moderate the rigour of the former; and it may be
reasonable in some cases for a virtuous and discreet woman to seek for
that comfort, intelligence, and advice from a faithful confident,
which it might not be proper for her to desire of her husband. Though
nothing passes between you but what you would chuse to communicate,
yet take care not to make it a duty, lest that duty should become a
restraint upon you, and your correspondence grow less agreeable by
being more diffusive. Believe me, the open-hearted sincerity of
friendship is restrained by the presence of a witness, whoever it be.
There are a thousand secrets of which three friends ought to
participate; but which cannot be communicated but between two. You may
impart the same things to your friend and to your husband, but you do
not relate them in the same manner; and if you will confound these
distinctions, the consequence will be, that your letters will be
addressed more to me than to her, and that you will not be free from
restraint either with one or the other. It is as much for my own
interest as for yours, that I urge these reasons. Do not you perceive
that you are already, with good reason, apprehensive of the indelicacy
of praising me to my face? Why will you deprive yourself of the
pleasure of acquainting your friend how tenderly you love your
husband, and me of the satisfaction of supposing that in your most
private intercourses, you take delight in speaking well of me? Eloisa!
Eloisa! he added, pressing my hand, and looking at me with tenderness,
why will you demean yourself by taking precautions so unworthy of you,
and will you never learn to make a true estimate of your own worth?
My dear friend, it is impossible to tell you how this incomparable man
behaves to me: I no longer blush in his presence. Spite of my frailty,
he lifts me above myself, and by dint of reposing confidence in me, he
teaches me to deserve it.
Letter CXXVII. Answer.
Impossible! our traveller returned, and have I not yet seen him at my
feet, loaded with the spoils of America? But it is not him, I assure
you, whom I accuse of this delay; for I am sensible it is as grievous
to him as to me: but I find that he has not so thoroughly forgotten
his former state of servility as you pretend, and I complain less of
his neglect, than of your tyranny. It is very droll in you indeed, to
desire such a prude as I am, to make the first advances, and run to
salute a swarthy pockfretten face, which has passed four times under
the line. But you make me smile to see you in such haste to scold, for
fear I should begin first. I should be glad to know what pretence you
have to make such an attempt? Quarrelling is my talent. I take
pleasure in it, I acquit myself to a miracle, and it becomes me well;
but you, my dear cousin, are a mere novice at this work. If you did
but know how graceful you appear in the act of confession, how lovely
you look with a supplicating eye, and an air of confusion, instead of
scolding you would spend your days in asking pardon, were it only out
of coquetry.
For the present, you must ask my pardon in every respect. A fine
project truly, to chuse a husband for a confident, and a most
obliging precaution indeed for a friendship so sacred as ours! Thou
faithless friend, and pusillanimous woman! On whom can you depend, if
you mistrust yourself and me? Can you, without offence to both,
considering the sacred tie under which you live, suspect your own
inclinations and my indulgence? I am amazed that the very idea of
admitting a third person into the tittle tattle secrets of two women,
did not disgust you! As for my part, I love to prattle with you at my
ease, but if I thought that the eye of man ever pried into my letters,
I should no longer have any pleasure in corresponding with you; such a
reserve would insensibly introduce a coldness between us, and we
should have no more regard for each other than two indifferent women.
To what inconveniences your silly distrust would have exposed us, if
your husband had not been wiser than you!
He acted very discreetly in not reading your letter. Perhaps he would
have been less satisfied with it than you imagine, and less than I am
myself, who am better capable of judging of your present condition, by
the fate in which I have seen you formerly. All those contemplative
sages who have passed their lives in the study of the human heart, are
less acquainted with the real symptoms of love, than the most shallow
woman, if she has any sensibility. Mr. Wolmar would immediately have
observed that our friend was the subject of your whole letter, and he
would not have seen the postscript, in which you do not once mention
him. If you had written this postscript ten years ago, my dear, I
cannot tell how you would have managed, but your friend would
certainly have been crowded into some corner, especially as there was
no husband to overlook it.
Mr. Wolmar would have observed farther with what attention you
examined his guest, and the pleasure you take in describing his
person; but he might devour Plato and Aristotle, before he would know
that we _look at_ a lover, but do not _examine_ him. All examination
requires a degree of indifference, which we never feel when we behold
the object of our passion.
In short, he would imagine that all the alterations you remark might
have escaped another, and I on the contrary was afraid of finding that
they had escaped you. However your guest may be altered from what he
was, he would appear the same, if your affections were not altered.
You turn away your eyes whenever he looks at you; this is a very good
symptom. You _turn them away_, cousin? You do not now _cast them
down_? Surely you have not mistaken one word for another. Do you think
that our philosopher would have perceived this distinction?
There is another circumstance very likely to disturb a husband; it is
a kind of tenderness and affection which still remains in your stile,
when you speak of the object who was once so dear to you. One who
reads your letters, or hears you speak, ought to be well acquainted
with you, not to be mistaken with regard to your sentiments; he ought
to know that it is only a friend to whom you are speaking, or that,
you speak in the same manner of all your friends; but as to that, it
is the natural effect of your disposition, with which your husband is
too well acquainted to be alarmed. How is it possible but that, in a
mind of such tenderness, pure friendship will bear some resemblance to
love? Pray observe, my dear cousin, that all I say to you on this head
ought to inspire you with fresh courage: your conduct is discreet, and
that is a great deal; I used to trust only to your virtue, but I
begin now to rely on your reason; I consider your cure at present,
though not perfect, yet as easily accomplished, and you have now made
a sufficient progress, to render you inexcusable if you do not
compleat it.
Before I came to your postscript, I remarked the passage which you had
the sincerity not to suppress or alter, though conscious that it would
be open to your husband’s inspection. I am certain, that if he had
read it, it would, if possible, have doubled his esteem for you;
nevertheless it would have given him no great pleasure. Upon the
whole, your letter was very well calculated to make him place an
entire confidence in your conduct, but at the same time it tended to
give him uneasiness with respect to your inclinations. I own those
marks of the small-pox, which you view so much, give me some
apprehensions; love never yet contrived a more dangerous disguise. I
know that this would be of no consequence to any other; but always
remember, Eloisa, that she who was not to be reduced by the youth and
fine figure of her lover, was lost when she reflected on the
sufferings he had endured for her. Providence no doubt intended that
he should retain the marks of that distemper, to exercise your virtue,
and that you should be free from them, in order to put his to the
proof.
I come now to the principal subject of your letter; you know that on
the receipt of our friend’s, I flew to you immediately; it was a
matter of importance. But at present, if you knew in what difficulties
that short absence has involved me, and how many things I have to do
at once, you would be sensible how impossible it is for me to leave my
house again, without exposing myself to fresh inconveniencies, and
putting myself under a necessity of passing the winter here again,
which is neither for your interest or mine. Is it not better to
deprive ourselves of the pleasure of a hasty interview of two or three
days, that we may be together for six months. I imagine likewise that
it would not be improper for me to have a little particular and
private conversation with our philosopher: partly to found his
inclinations and confirm his mind; partly to give him some useful
advice with regard to the conduct he should observe towards your
husband, and even towards you; for I do not suppose that you can talk
to him with freedom on that subject, and I can perceive, even from
your letter, that he has need of council. We have been so long used to
govern him, that we are in conscience responsible for his behaviour;
and till he has regained the free use of his reason, we must supply
the deficiency. For my own part, it is a charge I shall always
undertake with pleasure; for he has paid such deference to my advice
as I shall never forget, and since my husband is no more, there is not
a man in the world whom I esteem and love so much as himself. I have
likewise reserved for him the pleasure of doing me some little
services here. I have a great many papers in confusion, which he will
help me to regulate, and I have some troublesome affairs in hand in
which I shall have occasion for his diligence and understanding. As to
the rest, I do not propose to detain him above five or six days at
most, and perhaps I may send him to you the next day. For I have too
much vanity to wait till he is seized with impatience to return, and I
have too much discernment to be deceived in that case.
Do not fail therefore as soon as he is recovered, to send him to me;
that is, to let him come, or I shall give over all raillery. You know
very well that if I laugh whilst I cry, and yet am not the less in
affliction, so I laugh likewise at the same time that I scold, and yet
am not the less in a passion. If you are discreet, and do things with
a good grace, I promise you that I will send him back to you with a
pretty little present, which will give you pleasure, and a great deal
of pleasure; but if you suffer me to languish with impatience, I
assure you that you shall have nothing.
P.S. A propos; tell me, does our seaman smoak? does he swear? does he
drink brandy? Does he wear a great cutlass? has he the look of a
Buccaneer? O how I long to see what sort of an air a man has who comes
from the Antipodes!
Letter CXXVIII. Clara to Eloisa.
Here, take back your slave, my dear cousin. He has been mine for these
eight days past, and he bears his chains with so good a grace, that he
seems formed for captivity. Return me thanks that I did not keep him
still eight days longer; for without offence to you, if I had kept him
till he began to grow tired of me, I should not have sent him back so
soon. I therefore detained him without any scruple; but I was so
scrupulous however, that I durst not let him lodge in my house. I have
sometimes perceived in myself that haughtiness of soul, which disdains
servile ceremonies, and which is so confident with virtue. In this
instance however, I have been more reserved than usual, without
knowing why: and all that I know for certain is, that I am more
disposed to censure, than to applaud my reserve.
But can you guess what induced our friend to stay here so patiently?
First, he had the pleasure of my company, and I presume that
circumstance alone was sufficient to make him patient. Then he saved
me a great deal of confusion, and was of service to me in my business;
a friend is never tired of such offices. A third reason which you have
probably conjectured, though you pretend not to know it, is that he
talked to me about you; and if we subtract the time employed in this
conversation from the whole time which he has passed here, you will
find that there is very little remaining to be placed to my account.
But what an odd whim, to leave you, in order to have the pleasure of
talking of you! Not so odd as may be imagined. He is under constraint
in your company; he must be continually upon his guard; the least
indiscretion would become a crime, and in those dangerous moments,
minds endued with sentiments of honour, never fail to recollect their
duty; but when we are remote from the object of our affections, we may
indulge ourselves with feasting our imaginations. If we stifle an idea
when it becomes criminal, why should we reproach ourselves for having
entertained it when it was not so? Can the pleasing recollection of
innocent pleasures, ever be a crime? This, I imagine, is a way of
reasoning, which you will not acquiesce in, but which nevertheless may
be admitted. He began, as I may say, to run over the whole course of
his former affections. The days of his youth passed over a second time
in our conversation. He renewed all his confidence in me; he recalled
the happy time, in which he was permitted to love you; he painted to
my imagination, all the charms of an innocent passion----Without
doubt, he embellished them!
He said little of his present condition with regard to you, and what
he mentioned rather denoted respect and admiration, than love; so that
I have the pleasure to think that he will return, much more confident
as to the nature of his affections, than when he came hither. Not but
that, when you are the subject, one may perceive at the bottom of that
susceptible mind, a certain tenderness, which friendship alone, though
not less affecting, still expresses in a different manner; but I have
long observed that it is impossible to see you, or to think of you
with indifference; and if to that general affection which the sight of
you inspires, we add the more tender impression which an indelible
recollection must have left upon his mind, we shall find that it is
difficult and almost impossible that, with the most rigid virtue, he
should be otherwise than he is. I have fully interrogated him,
carefully observed him, and watched him narrowly; I have examined him
with the utmost attention. I cannot read his inmost thoughts, nor do I
believe them more intelligible to himself: but I can answer, at least,
that he is struck with a sense of his duty and of yours, and that the
idea of Eloisa abandoned and contemptible, would be more horrible than
his own annihilation. My dear cousin, I have but one piece of advice
to give you, and I desire you to attend to it; avoid any detail
concerning what is passed, and I will take upon me to answer for the
future.
With regard to the restitution which you mentioned, you must think no
more of it. After having exhausted all the reasons I could suggest, I
intreated him, pressed him, conjured him, but in vain. I pouted, I
even kissed him, I took hold of both his hands, and would have fallen
on my knees to him if he would have suffered me; but he would not so
much as hear me. He carried the obstinacy of his humour so far, as to
swear that he would sooner consent never to see you again, than part
with your picture. At last, in a fit of passion, he made me feel it.
It was next his heart. There, said he, with a sigh which almost
stopped his breath, there is the picture, the only comfort I have
left, and of which nevertheless you would deprive me; be assured that
it shall never be torn from me, but at the expense of my life. Believe
me, Eloisa, we had better be discreet, and suffer him to keep the
picture. Afterall, where is the importance? His obstinacy will be his
punishment.
After he had thoroughly unburthened and eased his mind, he appeared so
composed that I ventured to talk to him about his situation. I found
that neither time nor reason had made any alteration in his system,
and that he confined his whole ambition to the passing his life in the
service of Lord B----. I could not but approve such honourable
intentions, so consistent with his character, and so becoming that
gratitude, which is due to such unexhausted kindness. He told me that
you were of the same opinion; but that Mr. Wolmar was silent. A sudden
thought strikes me. From your husband’s singular conduct, and other
symptoms, I suspect that he has some secret design upon our friend,
which he does not disclose. Let us leave him to himself, and trust to
his discretion. The manner in which he behaves, sufficiently proves
that, if my conjecture is right, he meditates nothing but what will be
for the advantage of the person, about whom he has taken such uncommon
pains.
You gave a very just description of his figure and of his manners,
which proves that you have observed him more attentively than I should
have imagined. But don’t you find that his continued anxieties have
rendered his countenance more expressive than it used to be?
Notwithstanding the account you gave me, I was afraid to find him
tinctured with that affected politeness, those apish manners which
people seldom fail to contract at Paris, and which, in the round of
trifles which employ an indolent day, are vainly displayed under
different modes. Whether it be that some minds are not susceptible of
this polish, or whether the sea air entirely effaced it, I could not
discover in him the least marks of affectation; and all the zeal he
expressed for me, seemed to flow entirely from the dictates of his
heart. He talked to me about my poor husband; but instead of
comforting me, he chose to join with me in bewailing him, and never
once attempted to make any fine speeches on the subject. He caressed
my daughter, but instead of admiring her as I do, he reproached me
with her failings, and, like you, complained that I spoiled her; he
entered into my concerns with great zeal, and was seldom of my opinion
in any respect. Moreover, the wind might have blown my eyes out,
before he would have thought of drawing a curtain; I might have been
fatigued to death in going from one room to another, before he would
have had gallantry enough to have stretched out his hand, covered with
the skirt of his coat, to support me: my fan lay upon the ground
yesterday for more than a second, and he did not fly from the bottom
of the room, as if he was going to snatch it out of the fire. In the
morning, before he came to visit me, he never once sent to inquire how
I did. When we are walking together, he does not affect to have his
hat nailed upon his head, to shew that he knows the pink of the mode.
[52] At table, I frequently asked him for his snuff-box, which he
always gave me in his hand, and never presented it upon a plate, like
a _fine gentleman_; or rather like a footman. He did not fail to drink
my health twice at least at dinner, and I will lay a wager that if he
stays with us this winter, we shall see him sit round the fire with
us, and warm himself like an old cit. You laugh, cousin; but shew me
one of our gallants newly arrived from Paris, who preserves the same
manly deportment. As to the rest, I think you must allow that our
philosopher is altered for the worse in one respect, which is, that he
takes rather more notice of people who speak to him, which he cannot
do but to your prejudice; nevertheless, I hope that I shall be able to
reconcile him to Madam Belon. For my part, I think him altered for the
better, because he is more serious than ever. My dear, take great care
of him till my arrival. He is just the man I could wish to have the
pleasure of plaguing all day long.
Admire my discretion; I have taken no notice yet of the present I send
you, and which is an earnest of another to come. But you have received
it before you opened my letter, and you know how much, and with what
reason I idolize it; you, whose avarice is so anxious about this
present, you must acknowledge that I have performed more than I
promised. Ah! the dear little creature! While you are reading this,
she is already in your arms; she is happier than her mother; but in
two months time I shall be happier than she, for I shall be more
sensible of my felicity. Alas! dear cousin, do not you possess me
wholly already? Where you and my daughter are, what part of me is
wanting? There she is, the dear little infant; take her as your own; I
give her up; I put her into your hands: I consign all maternal
authority over to you; correct my failings; take that charge upon
yourself, of which I acquitted myself so little to your liking:
henceforward be as a mother to her, who is one day to be your
daughter-in-law, and to render her dearer to me still, make another
Eloisa of her if possible. She is like you in the face already; as to
her temper, I guess that she will be grave and thoughtful; when you
have corrected those little caprices which I have been accused of
encouraging you will find that my daughter will give herself the airs
of my cousin; but she will be happier than Eloisa in having less tears
to shed, and less struggles to encounter. Do you know that she can’t
be any longer without her little M----, and that it is partly for that
reason I send her back? I had a conversation with her yesterday, which
made our friends ready to die with laughing. First, she leaves me
without the least regret, I, who am her humble servant all day long,
and can deny her nothing she asks for; and you, of whom she is afraid,
and who answer her, _No_, twenty times a day; you, by way of
excellence, are her little mamma, whom she visits with pleasure, and
whose denials she likes better than all my fine presents: when I told
her that I was going to send her to you, she was transported as you
may imagine; but to perplex her, I told her that you, in return was to
send me little M---- in her stead, and that was not agreeable to her.
She was quite at a non-plus, and asked what I would do with him. I
told her that I would take him to myself: she began to pout. Harriot,
said I, won’t you give up your little M---- to me? No, said she,
somewhat coldly. No? But if I won’t give him up neither, who shall
settle it between us? Mamma, my little mamma shall settle it. Then I
shall have the preference, for you know she will do whatever I desire.
Oh, but mamma will do nothing but what’s right! And do you think I
should desire what’s wrong? The sly little jade began to smile. But
after all, I continued, for what reason should she refuse to give me
little M----? Because he is not fit for you. And why is he not fit for
me? Another arch smile as full of meaning as the former. Tell me
honestly, is it not because you think me too old for him? No, mamma,
but he is too young for you... This from a child but seven years old
...
I amused myself with piquing her still farther. My dear Henriette,
said I, assuming a serious air, I assure you that he is not fit for
you neither. Why so? she cried, as if she had been suddenly alarmed.
Because he is too giddy for you. Oh, mamma, is that all? I will make
him wise. But if unfortunately he should make you foolish? Then,
mamma, I should be like you. Like me, impertinence? Yes, mamma, you
are saying all day that you are foolishly fond of me. Well then, I
will be foolishly fond of him, that’s all.
I know you don’t approve of this pretty prattle, and that you will
soon know how to check it. Neither will I justify it, though I own it
delights me; but I only mention it to convince you, that my daughter
is already in love with her little M----, and that if he is two years
younger than her, she is not unworthy of that authority, which she may
claim by right of seniority. I perceive likewise, by opposing your
example and my own to that of your poor mother’s, that where the woman
governs, the house is not the worse managed. Farewell, my dear friend;
farewell, my constant companion! The time is approaching, and the
vintage shall not be gathered without me.
Letter CXXIX. To Lord B----.
What pleasures, too late enjoy’d, (alas, enjoy’d too late) have I
tasted these three weeks past! How delightful to pass one day in the
bosom of calm friendship, secure from the tempests of impetuous
passion! What a pleasing and affecting scene, my Lord, is a plain and
well-regulated family, where order, peace, and innocence reign
throughout; where, without pomp or retinue, everything is assembled,
which can contribute to the real felicity of mankind! The country, the
retirement, the season, the vast body of water which opens to my view,
the wild prospect of the mountains, everything conspires to recall to
my mind the delightful island of Tinian. I flatter myself that the
earnest prayers, which I there so often repeated, are now
accomplished. I live here agreeably to my taste, and enjoy society
suitable to my liking. I only want the company of two persons to
compleat my happiness, and I hope to see them here soon.
In the mean time, till you and Mrs. Orbe come to perfect those
charming and innocent pleasures, which I begin to relish here, I will
endeavour, by way of detail, to give you an idea of that domestic
economy, which proclaims the happiness of the master and mistress, and
communicates their felicity to every one under their roof. I hope that
my reflections may one day be of use to you, with respect to the
project you have in view, and this hope encourages me to pursue them.
I need not give you a description of Clarens house. You know it. You
can tell how delightful it is, what interesting recollections it
presents to my mind; you can judge how dear it must be to me, both on
account of the present scenes it exhibits, and of those which it
recalls to my mind. Mrs. Wolmar, with good reason, prefers this abode
to that of Etange, a superb and magnificent castle, but old,
inconvenient, and gloomy, its situation being far inferior to the
country round Clarens.
Since Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have fixed their residence here, they have
converted to use every thing which served only for ornament: it is no
longer a house for shew, but for convenience. They have shut up a long
sweep of rooms, to alter the inconvenient situation of the doors; they
have cut off some over-sized rooms, that the apartments might be
better distributed. Instead of rich and antique furniture, they have
substituted what is neat and convenient. Every thing here is pleasant
and agreeable; every thing breathes an air of plenty and propriety,
without any appearance of pomp and luxury. There is not a single room,
in which you do not immediately recollect that you are in the country,
but in which, nevertheless, you will find all the conveniences you
meet with in town. The same alterations are observable without doors.
The yard has been enlarged at the expense of the coach-houses. Instead
of an old tattered billiard-table, they have made a fine press, and
the spot which used to be filled with screaming peacocks, which they
have parted with, is converted into a dairy. The kitchen-garden was
too small for the kitchen; they have made another out of a flower
garden, but so convenient and so well laid out, that the spot, thus
transformed, looks more agreeable to the eye than before. Instead of
the mournful yews which covered the wall, they have planted good
fruit-trees. In the room of the useless Indian _black-berry_, fine
young mulberry-trees now begin to shade the yard, and they have
planted two rows of walnut-trees quite to the road, in the place of
some old linden trees which bordered the avenue. They have throughout
substituted the useful in the room of the agreeable, and yet the
agreeable has gained by the alteration. For my own part, at least, I
think that the noise of the yard, the crowing of the cocks, the lowing
of the cattle, the harness of the carts, the rural repasts, the return
of the husband-men, and all the train of rustic economy, give the
house a more rural, more lively, animated and gay appearance, than it
had in its former state of mournful dignity.
Their estate is not out upon lease, but they are their own farmers,
and the cultivation of it employs a great deal of their time, and
makes a great part both of their pleasure and profit. The manor of
Etange is nothing but meadow, pasture and wood: but the produce of
Clarens consists of vineyards, which are considerable objects, and in
which, the difference of culture produces more sensible effects than
in corn; which is a farther reason why, in point of economy, they
should prefer the latter as a place of residence. Nevertheless, they
generally go to Etange every year at harvest time, and Mr. Wolmar
visits it frequently. It is a maxim with them, to cultivate their
lands to the utmost they will produce, not for the sake of
extraordinary profit, but as a means of employing more hands. Mr.
Wolmar maintains that the produce of the earth is in proportion to the
number of hands employed; the better it is tilled, the more it yields;
and the surplus of its produce furnishes the means of cultivating it
still farther; the more it is stocked with men and cattle, the greater
abundance it yields for their support. No one can tell, says he, where
this continual and reciprocal increase of produce and of labour may
end. On the contrary, land neglected loses its fertility; the less men
a country produces, the less provisions it furnishes. The scarcity of
inhabitants is the reason why it is insufficient to maintain the few
it has, and in every country which tends to depopulation, the people
will sooner or later die of famine.
Therefore having a great deal of land, which they cultivate with the
utmost industry, they require, besides the servants in the yard, a
great number of day labourers, which procures them the pleasure of
maintaining a great number of people without any inconvenience to
themselves. In the choice of their labourers, they always prefer
neighbours and those of the same place, to strangers and foreigners.
Though by this means they may sometimes be losers in not choosing the
most robust, yet this loss is soon made up by the affection which this
preference inspires in those whom they chuse, by the advantage
likewise of having them always about them, and of being able to depend
on them at all times, though they keep them in pay but part of the
year.
They always make two prices with these labourers. One is a strict
payment of right, the current price of the country, which they engage
to pay them when they hire them. The other, which is more liberal, is
a payment of generosity; it is bestowed only as they are found to
deserve it, and it seldom happens that they do not earn the surplus:
for Mr. Wolmar is just and strict, and never suffers institutions of
grace and favour to degenerate into custom and abuse. Over these
labourers there are overseers, who watch and encourage them. These
overseers work along with the rest; and are interested in their
labour, by a little augmentation which is made to their wages, for
every advantage that is reaped from their industry. Besides, Mr.
Wolmar visits them almost every day himself, sometimes often in a day,
and his wife loves to take these walks with him. In times of
extraordinary business, Eloisa every week bestows some little
gratifications to such of the labourers, or other servants, as, in the
judgment of their master, shall have been most industrious for eight
days past. All these means of promoting emulation, though seemingly
expensive, when used with justice and discretion, insensibly make
people laborious and diligent, and in the end bring in more than is
disbursed; but as they turn to no profit, but by time and
perseverance, few people know any thing of them, or are willing to
make use of them.
But the most effectual method of all, which is peculiar to Mrs.
Wolmar, and which they who are bent on economy seldom think of, is
that of gaining the hearts of those good people, by making them the
objects of her affection. She does not think it sufficient to reward
their industry, by giving them money, but she thinks herself bound to
do farther services to those who have contributed to hers. Labourers,
domestics, all who serve her, if it be but for a day, become her
children; she takes part in their pleasures, their cares, and their
fortune; she inquires into their affairs, and makes their interests
her own; she engages in a thousand concerns for them, she gives them
her advice, she composes their differences, and does not shew the
affability of her disposition in smooth and fruitless speeches, but in
real services, and continual acts of benevolence. They, on their
parts, leave everything to serve her, on the least motion. They fly
when she speaks to them; her look alone animates their zeal; in her
presence they are contented; in her absence they talk of her, and are
eager to be employed. Her charms, and her manner of conversing do a
great deal, but her gentleness and her virtues do more. Ah! my Lord,
what a powerful and adorable empire is that of benevolent beauty!
With respect to their personal attendants, they have within doors
eight servants, three women and five men, without reckoning the
baron’s valet de chambre, or the servants in the out-houses. It seldom
happens that people, who have but few domestics, are ill served; but,
from the uncommon zeal of these servants, one would conclude that
each thought himself charged with the business of the other seven, and
from the harmony among them, one would imagine that the whole business
was done by one man. You never see them in the out-houses idle and
unemployed, or playing in the court-yard, but always about some useful
employment; they help in the yard, in the cellar, and in the kitchen;
The gardener has nobody under him but them, and what is most
agreeable, you see them do all this chearfully and with pleasure.
They take them young, in order to form them to their minds. They do
not follow the maxim here, which prevails at Paris and London, of
choosing domestics ready formed, that is to say, compleat rascals,
runners of quality, who in every family they go through, catch the
failings both of master and man, and make a trade of serving every
body, without being attached to any one. There can be neither honesty,
fidelity, or zeal among such fellows, and this collection of rabble
serves to ruin the masters and corrupt the children in all wealthy
families. Here, the choice of domestics is considered as an article of
importance. They do not regard them merely as mercenaries, from whom
they only require a stipulated service, but as members of a family,
which, should they be ill chosen, might be ruined by that means. The
first thing they require of them is to be honest, the next is to love
their master, and the third to serve him to his liking; but where a
master is reasonable, and servant intelligent, the third is the
consequence of the two first. Therefore they do not take them from
town, but from the country. This is the first place they live in, and
it will assuredly be the last if they are good for any thing. They
take them out of some numerous family overstocked with children, whose
parents come to offer them of their own accord. They chuse them
young, well made, healthy, and of a pleasant countenance. Mr. Wolmar
interrogates and examines them, and then presents them to his wife. If
they prove agreeable to both, they are received at first upon trial,
afterwards they are admitted among the number of servants, or more
properly the children of the family, and they employ some days in
teaching their duty with a great deal of care and patience. The
service is so simple, so equal and uniform, the master and mistress
are so little subject to whims and caprice, and the servants so soon
conceive an affection for them, that their business is soon learned.
Their condition is agreeable; they find conveniences which they had
not at home; but they are not suffered to be enervated by idleness,
the parent of all vice. They do not allow them to become gentlemen,
and to grow proud in their service. They continue to work as they did
with their own family; in fact, they do but change their father and
mother, and get more wealthy parents. They do not therefore hold their
old rustic employments in contempt. Whenever they leave this place,
there is not one of them who had not rather turn peasant, than take
any other employment. In short, I never saw a family, where every one
acquits himself so well in his service, and thinks so little of the
trouble of servitude.
Thus by training up their servants themselves, in this discreet
manner, they guard against the objection which is so very trifling,
and so frequently made, viz. “I shall only bring them up for the
service of others.” Train them properly, one might answer, and they
will never serve any one else. If in bringing them up, you solely
regard your own benefit, they have a right to consult their own
interest in quitting you; but if you seem to consider their advantage,
they will remain constantly attached to you. It is the intention alone
which constitutes the obligation, and he who is indirectly benefited
by an act of kindness, wherein I meant to serve my self only, owes me
no obligation whatever.
As a double preventive against this inconvenience, Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar
take another method, which appears to me extremely prudent. At the
first establishment of their houshold, they calculated what number of
servants their fortune would allow them to keep, and they found it to
amount to fifteen or sixteen; in order to be better served they made a
reduction of half that number; so that with less retinue, their
service is more exactly attended. To be more effectually served still,
they have made it the interest of their servants to continue with them
a long time. When a domestic first enters into their service, he
receives the common wages; but those wages are augmented every year by
a twentieth part: so that at the end of twenty years, they will be
more than doubled, and the charge of keeping these servants will be
nearly the same, in proportion to the master’s circumstances. But
there is no need of being a deep algebraist to discover that the
expense of this augmentation is more in appearance than reality, that
there will be but few to whom double wages will be paid, and that if
they were paid to all the servants, yet the benefit of having been
well served for twenty years past, would more than compensate the
extraordinary expense. You perceive, my Lord, that this is a certain
expedient of making servants grow continually more and more careful,
and of attaching them to you, by attaching yourself to them. There is
not only prudence, but justice in such a provision. Is it reasonable
that a new-comer, who has no affection for you, and who is perhaps an
unworthy object, should receive the same salary, at his first entrance
into the family, as an old servant, whose zeal and fidelity have been
tried in a long course of services, and who besides, being grown in
years, draws near the time when he will be incapable of providing for
himself? The latter reason, however, must not be brought into the
account, and you may easily imagine that such a benevolent master and
mistress do not fail to discharge that duty, which many, who are
devoid of charity, fulfill out of ostentation; and you may suppose
that they do not abandon those whose infirmities or old age render
them incapable of service.
I can give you a very striking instance of their attention to this
duty. The Baron D’Etange being desirous to recompense the long
services of his valet de chambre, by procuring him an honourable
retreat, had the interest to obtain for him the L.S.E.E. an easy
and lucrative post. Eloisa has just now received a most affecting
letter from this old servant, in which he intreats her to get him
excused from accepting this employment. “I am in years, says he, I
have lost all my family; I have no relations but my master and his
family; all my hope is to end my days quietly in the house where I
have passed the greatest part, of them. Often, dear madam, as I have
held you in my arms when but an infant, I prayed to heaven that I
might one day hold your little ones in the same manner. My prayers
have been heard; do not deny me the happiness of seeing them grow and
prosper like you. I who have been accustomed to a quiet family, where
shall I find such another place of rest in my old age? Be so kind to
write to the Baron in my behalf. If he is dissatisfied with me, let
him turn me off, and give me no employment; but if I have served him
faithfully for these forty years past, let him allow me to end my days
in his service and yours; he cannot reward me better.” It is needless
to enquire whether Eloisa wrote to the Baron or not. I perceive that
she would be as unwilling to part with this good man, as he would be
to leave her. Am I wrong, my Lord, when I compare a master and
mistress, thus beloved, to good parents, and their servants to
obedient children? You find that they consider themselves in this
light.
There is not a single instance in this family of a servant’s giving
warning. It is even very seldom that they are threatened with a
dismission. A menace of this kind alarms them in proportion as their
service is pleasant and agreeable. The best subjects are always the
soonest alarmed, and there is never any occasion to come to
extremities but with such as are not worth regretting. They have
likewise a rule in this respect. When Mr. Wolmar says, I discharge
you, they may then implore Mrs. Wolmar to intercede for them, and
through her intercession may be restored; but if she gives them
warning, it is irrevocable, and they have no favour to expect. This
agreement between them is very well calculated both to moderate the
extreme confidence which her gentleness might beget in them, and the
violent apprehensions they might conceive from his inflexibility. Such
a warning nevertheless is excessively dreaded from a just and
dispassionate master; for besides that they are not certain of
obtaining favour, and that the same person is never pardoned twice,
they forfeit the right which they acquire from their long service, by
having had warning given, and when they are restored, they begin a new
service as it were. This prevents the old servants from growing
insolent, and makes them more circumspect, in proportion as they have
more to lose.
The three maid-servants are, the chamber-maid, the governess, and the
cook. The latter is a country girl, very proper and well qualified for
the place, whom Mrs. Wolmar has instructed in cookery: for in this
country, which is as yet in some measure in a state of simplicity,
young ladies learn to do that business themselves, that when they keep
house, they may be able to direct their servants; and consequently are
less liable to be imposed upon by them. B---- is no longer the
chambermaid; they have sent her back to Etange, where she was born;
they have again entrusted her with the care of the castle, and the
superintendence of the receipts, which makes her in some degree
comptroller of the houshold. Mr. Wolmar intreated his wife to make
this regulation; but it was a long time before she could resolve to
part with an old servant of her mother’s, though she had more than one
reason to be displeased with her. But after their last conference, she
gave her consent, and B---- is gone. This girl is handy and honest,
but babbling and indiscreet. I suspect that she has, more than once,
betrayed the secrets of her mistress, that Mr. Wolmar is sensible of
it, and to prevent her being guilty of the same indiscretion with
respect to a stranger, he has prudently taken this method to avail
himself of her good qualities, without running any hazard from her
imperfections. She who is taken in her room, is that same Fanny, of
whom you have often heard me speak with so much pleasure.
Notwithstanding Eloisa’s prediction, her favours, her father’s
kindness and yours, this deserving and discreet woman has not been
happy in her connection. Claud Anet, who endured adversity so
bravely, could not support a more prosperous state. When he found
himself at ease, he neglected his business, and his affairs being
quite embarrassed, he fled the country, leaving his wife with an
infant whom she has since lost. Eloisa having taken her home,
instructed her in the business of a chamber-maid, and I was never more
agreeably surprized than to find her settled in her employment, the
first day of my arrival. Mr. Wolmar pays great regard to her, and they
have both entrusted her with the charge of superintending their
children, and of having an eye likewise over their governess, who is a
simple credulous country lass, but attentive, patient, and tractable;
so that in short, they have omitted no precaution to prevent the vices
of the town from creeping into a family, where the master and mistress
are strangers to them, and will not suffer them under their roof.
Though there is but one table among all the servants, yet there is but
little communication between the men and women, and this they consider
as a point of great importance. Mr. Wolmar is not of the same opinion
with those masters, who are indifferent to every thing which does not
immediately concern their interests, and who only desire to be well
served, without troubling themselves about what their servants do
beside. He thinks, on the contrary, that they who regard nothing but
their own service, cannot be well served. Too close a connection
between the two sexes, frequently occasions mischief. The disorders of
most families arise from the rendezvous which are held in the chamber-
maid’s apartment. If there is one whom the steward happens to be fond
of, he does not fail to seduce her at the expense of his master. A
good understanding among the men, or among the women, is not alone
sufficiently firm to produce any material consequences. But it is
always between the men and the women that those secret monopolies are
established, which in the end ruin the most wealthy families. They pay
a particular attention therefore to the discretion and modesty of the
women, not only from principles of honesty and morality, but from
well-judged motives of interest. For whatever some may pretend, no one
who does not love his duty, can discharge it as he ought; and none
ever loved their duty, who were devoid of honour.
They do not, to prevent any dangerous intimacy between the two sexes,
restrain them by positive rules which they might be tempted to violate
in secret, but without any seeming intention, they establish good
customs, which are more powerful than authority itself. They do not
forbid any intercourse between them, but ’tis contrived in such a
manner that they have no occasion or inclination to see each other.
This is effectuated by making their business, their habits, their
tastes, and their pleasures entirely different. To maintain the
admirable order which they have established, they are sensible that in
a well-regulated family there should be as little correspondence as
possible between the two sexes. They, who would accuse their master of
caprice, was he to enforce such a rule by way of injunction, submit,
without regret, to a manner of life which is not positively prescribed
to them, but which they themselves conceive to be the best and most
natural. Eloisa insists that it must be so in fact; she maintains that
neither love nor conjugal union is the result of a continual commerce
between the sexes. In her opinion, husband and wife were designed to
live together, but not to live in the same manner. They ought to act
in concert, but not to do the same things. The kind of life, says she,
which would delight the one, would be insupportable to the other; the
inclinations which nature has given them, are as different as the
occupations she has assigned them: they differ in their amusements as
much as in their duties. In a word, each contributes to the common
good by different ways, and the proper distribution of their several
cares and employments, is the strongest tie that cements their union.
For my own part, I confess that my observations are much in favour of
this maxim. In fact, is it not the general practice, except among the
French, and those who imitate them, for the men and women to live
separately? If they see each other, it is rather by short interviews,
and as it were by stealth, as the Spartans visited their wives, than
by an indiscreet and constant intercourse, sufficient to confound and
destroy the wisest bounds of distinction which nature has set between
them. We do not, even among the savages, see men and women intermingle
indiscriminately. In the evening, the family meet together; every one
passes the night with his wife; when the day begins, they separate
again, and the two sexes enjoy nothing in common, but their meals at
most. This is the order, which, from its universality, appears to be
most natural, and even in those countries where it is perverted, we
may perceive some vestiges of it remaining. In France, where the men
have submitted to live after the fashion of the women, and to be
continually shut up in a room with them, you may perceive from their
involuntary motions that they are under confinement. While the ladies,
sit quietly, or loll upon their couch, you may perceive the men get
up, go, come, and sit down again, perpetually restless, as if a kind
of mechanical instinct continually counteracted the restraint they
suffered, and prompted them, in their own respite, to that active and
laborious life for which nature intended them. They are the only
people in the world where the men _stand_ at the theatre, as if they
went into the pit to relieve themselves of the fatigue of having been
sitting all day in a dining room. In short, they are to sensible of
the irksomeness of this effeminate and sedentary indolence, that in
order to checquer it with some degree of activity at least, they yield
their places at home to strangers, and go to other mens’ wives in
order to alleviate their disgust!
The example of Mrs. Wolmar’s family contributes greatly to support the
maxim she establishes. Every one, as it were, being confined to their
proper sex, the women there live in a great measure apart from the
men. In order to prevent any suspicious connections between them, her
great secret is to keep both one and the other constantly employed;
for their occupations are so different, that nothing but idleness can
bring them together. In the morning, each apply to their proper
business, and no one is at leisure to interrupt the other. After
dinner, the men are employed in the garden, the yard, or in some other
rural occupation: the women are busy in the nursery till the hour
comes at which they take a walk with the children, and sometimes
indeed with the mistress, which is very agreeable to them, as it is
the only time in which they take the air. The men, being sufficiently
tired with their day’s work, have seldom any inclination to walk, and
therefore rest themselves within doors.
Every Sunday, after evening service, the women meet again in the
nursery, with some friend or relation whom they invite in their turns
by Mrs. Wolmar’s consent. There, they have a little collation prepared
for them by Eloisa’s direction; and she permits them to chat, sing,
run or play at some little game of skill, fit to please children, and
such as they may bear a part in themselves. The entertainment is
composed of syllabubs, cream, and different kinds of cakes, with such
other little viands as suit the taste of women and children. Wine is
almost excluded, and the men, who are rarely admitted of this little
female party, never are present at this collation, which Eloisa seldom
misses. I am the only man who has obtained this privilege. Last
Sunday, with great importunity, I got leave to attend her there. She
took great pains to make me consider it as a very singular favour. She
told me aloud that she granted it for that once only, and that she had
even refused Mr. Wolmar himself. You may imagine whether this
difficulty of admission does not flatter female vanity a little, and
whether a footman would be a welcome visitor, where his master was
excluded.
I made a most delicious repast with them. Where will you find such
cream-cakes as we have here? Imagine what they must be, made in a
dairy where Eloisa presides, and eaten in her company. Fanny presented
me with some cream, some seed cake, and other little comfits. All was
gone in an instant. Eloisa smiled at my appetite. I find, said she,
giving me another plate of cream, that your appetite does you credit
every where, and that you make as good a figure among a club of
females, as you do among the Valaisians. But I do not, answered I,
make the repast with more impunity; the one may be attended with
intoxication as well as the other; and reason may be as much
distracted in a nursery, as in a wine cellar. She cast her eyes down
without making any reply, blushed, and began to play with her
children. This was enough to sting me with remorse. This, my Lord, was
my first indiscretion, and I hope it will be the last.
There was a certain air of primitive simplicity in this assembly,
which affected me very sensibly. I perceived the same chearfulness in
every countenance, and perhaps more openness than if there had been
men in company. The familiarity which was observable between the
mistress and her servants, being founded on sincere attachment and
confidence, only served to establish respect and authority; and the
services rendered and received, appeared like so many testimonies of
reciprocal friendship. There was nothing, even to the very choice of
the collation, but what contributed to make this assembly engaging.
Milk and sugar are naturally adapted to the taste of the fair sex, and
may be deemed the symbols of innocence and sweetness, which are their
most becoming ornaments. Men, on the contrary, are fond of high
flavours, and strong liquors; a kind of nourishment more suitable to
the active and laborious life for which nature has designed them; and
when these different tastes come to be blended, it is an infallible
sign that the distinction between the two sexes is inordinately
confounded. In fact, I have observed that in France, where the women
constantly intermix with the men, they have entirely lost their relish
for milk meats, and the men have in some measure lost their taste for
wine; and in England, where the two sexes are better distinguished,
the proper taste of each is better preserved. In general, I am of
opinion, that you may very often form some judgment of people’s
disposition, from their choice of food. The Italians, who live a great
deal on vegetables, are soft and effeminate. You Englishmen, who are
great eaters of meat, have something harsh in your rigid virtue, and
which favours of barbarism. The Swiss, who is naturally of a calm,
gentle and cold constitution, but hot and violent when in a passion,
is fond both of one and the other, and drinks milk and wine
indiscriminately. The Frenchman, who is pliant and changeable, lives
upon all kinds of food, and conforms himself to every taste. Eloisa
herself may serve as an instance: for though she makes her meals with
a keen appetite, yet she does not love meat, ragouts, or salt, and
never yet tasted wine by itself. Some excellent roots, eggs, cream and
fruit, compose her ordinary diet, and was it not for fish, of which
she is likewise very fond, she would be a thorough Pythagorean.
To keep the women in order would signify nothing, if the men were not
likewise under proper regulations; and this branch of domestic
economy, which is not of less importance, is still more difficult; for
the attack is generally more lively than the defence: the guardian of
human nature intended it so. In the common wealth, citizens are kept
in order by principles of morality and virtue; but how are we to keep
servants and mercenaries under proper regulations, otherwise than by
force and restraint? The art of a master consists in disguising this
restraint under the veil of pleasure and interest, that what they are
obliged to do, may seem the result of their own inclination. Sunday
being a day of idleness, and servants having a right of going where
they please, when business does not require their duty at home, that
one day often destroys all the good examples and lessons of the other
six. The habit of frequenting public houses, the converse and maxims
of their comrades, the company of loose women, soon render them
unserviceable to their masters, and unprofitable to themselves; and by
teaching them a thousand vices, make them unfit for servitude, and
unworthy of liberty.
To remedy this inconvenience, they endeavour to keep them at home by
the same motives which induce them to go abroad. Why do they go
abroad? To drink and play at a public house. They drink and play at
home. All the difference is, that the wine costs them nothing, that
they do not get drunk, and that there are some winners at play,
without any losers. The following is the method taken for this
purpose.
Behind the house is a shady walk, where they have fixed the lifts.
There, in the summertime, the livery servants and the men in the yard
meet every Sunday after sermon time, to play in little detached
parties, not for money, for it is not allowed, nor for wine, which is
given them; but for a prize furnished by their master’s generosity:
which is generally some piece of goods or apparel fit for their use.
The number of games is in proportion to the value of the prize, so
that when the prize is somewhat considerable, as a pair of silver
buckles, a neckcloth, a pair of silk stockings, a fine hat, or any
thing of that kind, they have generally several bouts to decide it.
They are not confined to one particular game, but they change them,
that one man, who happens to excel in a particular game, may not carry
off all the prizes, and that they may grow stronger and more dextrous
by a variety of exercises. At one time, the contest is who shall first
reach a mark at the other end of the walk; at another time it is who
shall throw the same stone farthest; then again it is who shall carry
the same weight longest. Sometimes they contend for a prize by
shooting at a mark. Most of these games are attended with some little
preparations, which serve to prolong them; and render them
entertaining. Their master and mistress often honour them with their
presence; they sometimes take their children with them; nay even
strangers resort thither, excited by curiosity, and they desire
nothing better than to bear a share in the sport; but none are ever
admitted without Mr. Wolmar’s approbation and the consent of the
players, who would not find their account in granting it readily. This
custom has imperceptibly become a kind of shew, in which the actors,
being animated by the presence of the spectators, prefer the glory of
applause to the lucre of the prize. As these exercises make them more
active and vigorous, they set a greater value on themselves, and being
accustomed to estimate their importance from their own intrinsic
worth, rather than from their possessions, they prize honour,
notwithstanding they are footmen, beyond money.
It would be tedious to enumerate all the advantages which they derive
from a practice so trifling in appearance, and which is always
despised by little minds; but it is the prerogative of true genius to
produce great effects by inconsiderable means. Mr. Wolmar has assured
me that these little institutions which his wife first suggested,
scares stood him in fifty crowns a year. But, said he, how often do
you think I am repaid this sum in my housekeeping and my affairs in
general, by the vigilance and attention with which I am served by
these faithful servants, who derive all their pleasures from their
master; by the interest they take in a family which they consider as
their own; by the advantage I reap, in their labours, from the vigour
they acquire at their exercises; by the benefit of keeping them always
in health, in preserving them from those exercises which are common to
men in their station, and from those disorders which frequently attend
such excesses; by securing them from any propensity to knavery, which
is an infallible consequence of irregularity, and by confirming them
in the practice of honesty; in short, by the pleasure of having such
agreeable recreations within ourselves at such a trifling expense? If
there are any among them, either man or woman, who do not care to
conform to our regulations, but prefer the liberty of going where they
please on various pretences, we never refuse to give them leave; but
we consider this licentious turn as a very suspicious symptom, and we
are always ready to mistrust such dispositions. Thus these little
amusements which furnish us with good servants, serve also as a
direction to us in the choice of them.----I must confess my Lord,
that, except in this family, I never saw the same men made good
domestics for personal service, good husbandmen for tilling the
ground, good soldiers for the defence of their country, and honest
fellows in any station into which fortune may chance to throw them.
In the winter, their pleasures vary as well as their labours. On a
Sunday, all the servants in the family and even the neighbours, men
and women indiscriminately, meet after service-time in a hall where
there is a good fire, some wine, fruits, cakes, and a fiddle to which
they dance. Mrs. Wolmar never fails to be present for some time at
least, in order to preserve decorum and modesty by her presence, and
it is not uncommon for her to dance herself, though among her own
people. When I was first made acquainted with this custom, it appeared
to me not quite conformable to the strictness of Protestant morals. I
told Eloisa so; and she answered me to the following effect.
Pure morality is charged with so many severe duties, that if it is
over burthened with forms which are in themselves indifferent they
will always be of prejudice to what is really essential. This is said
to be the case with the monks in general, who being slaves to rules
totally immaterial, are utter strangers to the meaning of honour and
virtue. This defeat is less observable among us, though we are not
wholly exempt from it. Our churchmen, who are as much superior to
other priests in knowledge, as our religion is superior to all others
in purity, do nevertheless maintain some maxims, which seem to be
rather founded on prejudice than reason. Of this kind, is that which
condemns dancing and assemblies, as if there were more harm in dancing
than singing, as if each of these amusements were not equally a
propensity of nature, and as if it were a crime to divert ourselves
publicly with an innocent and harmless recreation. For my own part, I
think, on the contrary, that every time there is a concourse of the
two sexes, every public diversion becomes innocent, by being public;
whereas the most laudable employment becomes suspicious in a _tete a
tete_ party. [53] Man and woman were formed for each other, their union
by marriage is the end of nature. All false religion is at war with
nature, ours which conforms to and rectifies natural propensity,
proclaims a divine institution which is most suitable to mankind.
Religion ought not to increase the embarrassment which civil
regulations throw in the way of matrimony, by difficulties which the
gospel does not create, and which are contrary to the true spirit of
Christianity. Let any one tell me which young people can have an
opportunity of conceiving a mutual liking, and of seeing each other
with more decorum and circumspection, than in an assembly where the
eyes of the spectators being constantly upon them, oblige them to
behave with peculiar caution? How can we offend God by an agreeable
and wholesome exercise, suitable to the vivacity of youth, an exercise
which consists in the art of presenting ourselves to each other with
grace and elegance, and wherein the presence of the spectator imposes
a decorum, which no one dares to violate? Can we conceive a more
effectual method to avoid imposition with respect to person at least,
by displaying ourselves with all our natural graces and defects before
those whose interest it is to know us thoroughly, ere they oblige
themselves to love us? Is not the obligation of reciprocal affection
greater than that of self-love, and is it not an attention worthy of a
pious and virtuous pair who propose to marry, thus to prepare their
hearts for that mutual love, which heaven prompts.
What is the consequence, in those places where people are under a
continual restraint, where the most innocent gaiety is punished as
criminal, where the young people of different sexes dare not meet in
public, and where the indiscreet severity of the pastor preaches
nothing, in the name of God, but servile constraint, sadness and
melancholy? They find means to elude an insufferable tyranny, which
nature and reason disavow. When gay and sprightly youth are debarred
from lawful pleasures, they substitute others more dangerous in their
stead. _Tete a tete_ parties artfully concerted, supply the place of
public assemblies. By being obliged to concealment as if they were
criminal, they at length become so in fact. Harmless joy loves to
display itself in the face of the world, but vice is a friend to
darkness; and innocence and secrecy never subsist long together. My
dear friend, said she, grasping my hand, as if she meant to convey her
repentance, and communicate the purity of her own heart to mine; who
can be more sensible of the importance of this truth than ourselves?
What sorrow and troubles, what tears and remorse we might have
prevented for so many years past, if we could, but have foreseen how
dangerous a _tete a tete_ intercourse was to that virtue which we
always loved!
Besides, said Mrs. Wolmar, in a softer tone, it is not in a numerous
assembly, where we are seen and heard by all the world, but in private
parties, where secrecy and freedom is indulged, that our morals are in
danger. It is from this principle, that whenever my domestics meet, I
am glad to see them all together. I even approve of their inviting
such young people in the neighbourhood whose company will not corrupt
them; and I hear with pleasure, that, when they mean to commend the
morals of any of our young neighbours, they say----He is admitted at
Mr. Wolmar’s. We have a farther view in this. Our men servants are all
very young, and, among the women, the governess is yet single; it is
not reasonable that the retired life they lead with us, should debar
them of an opportunity of forming an honest connection. We endeavour
therefore, in these little meetings, to give them this opportunity,
under our inspection, that we may assist them in their choice; and
thus by endeavouring to make happy families, we increase the felicity
of our own.
I ought now to justify myself for dancing with these good people; but
I rather chuse to pass sentence on myself in this respect, and I
frankly confess that my chief motive is the pleasure I take in the
exercise. You know that I always resembled my cousin in her passion
for dancing; but after the death of my mother, I bade adieu to the
ball and all public assemblies; I kept my resolution, even to the day
of my marriage, and will keep it still, without thinking it any
violation to dance now and then in my own house with my guests and my
domestics. It is an exercise very good for my health during the
sedentary life which we are obliged to live here in winter. I find it
an innocent amusement; for after a good dance, my conscience does not
reproach me. It amuses Mr. Wolmar likewise, and all my coquetry in
this particular is only to please him. I am the occasion of his coming
into the ball room; the good people are best satisfied when they are
honoured with their master’s presence; and they express a satisfaction
when they see me amongst them. In short, I find that such occasional
familiarity forms an agreeable connection and attachment between us,
which approaches nearer the natural condition of mankind, by
moderating the meanness of servitude, and the rigour of authority.
Such, my Lord, are the sentiments of Eloisa, with respect to dancing,
and I have often wondered how so much affability could consist with
such a degree of subordination, and how she and her husband could so
often stoop to level themselves with their servants, and yet the
latter never be tempted to assume equality in their turn. I question
if any Asiatic monarchs are attended in their palaces with more
respect, than Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar are served in their own house. I
never knew any commands less imperious than theirs, or more readily
executed: if they ask for any thing, their servants fly; if they
excuse their failings, they themselves are nevertheless sensible of
their faults. I was never better convinced how much the force of what
is said, depends on the mode of expression.
This has led me into a reflection on the affected gravity of masters;
which is, that it is rather to be imputed to their own failings, than
to the effects of their familiarity, that they are despised in their
families, and that the insolence of servants is rather an indication
of a vicious than of a weak master: for nothing gives them such
assurance, as the knowledge of his vices, and they consider all
discoveries of that kind as so many dispensations, which free them
from their obedience to a man whom they can no longer respect.
Servants imitate their masters, and by copying them awkwardly, they
render those defects more conspicuous in themselves, which the polish
of education, in some measure, disguised in the others. At Paris, I
used to judge of the ladies of my acquaintance, by the air and manners
of their waiting-women, and this rule never deceived me. Besides that
the lady’s woman, when she becomes the confident of her mistress’s
secrets, makes her buy her discretion at a dear rate, she likewise
frames her conduct according to her lady’s sentiments, and discloses
all her maxims, by an awkward imitation. In every instance, the
master’s example is more efficacious than his authority; it is not
natural to suppose that their servants will be honester than
themselves. It is to no purpose to make a noise, to swear, to abuse
them, to turn them off, to get a new set; all this avails nothing
towards making good servants. When they, who do not trouble themselves
about being hated and despised by their domestics, nevertheless
imagine that they are well served, the reason of their mistake is,
that they are contented with what they see, and satisfied with an
appearance of diligence, without observing the thousand secret
prejudices they suffer continually, and of which they cannot discover
the source. But where is the man so devoid of honour, as to be able to
endure the contempt of everyone round him? Where is the woman so
abandoned as not to be susceptible of insults? How many ladies, both
at Paris and in London, who think themselves greatly respected, would
burst into tears if they heard what was said of them in their anti-
chambers? Happily for their peace, they comfort themselves by taking
these Arguses for weak creatures, and by flattering themselves that
they are blind to those practices which they do not even deign to hide
from them. They likewise in their turn discover, by their sullen
obedience, the contempt they have for their mistresses. Masters and
servants become mutually sensible, that it is not worth their while to
conciliate each other’s esteem.
The behaviour of servants seems to me to be the most certain and nice
proof of the master’s virtue; and I remember, my Lord, to have formed
a good opinion of yours at Valais without knowing you, purely because,
though you spoke somewhat harshly to your attendants, they were not
the less attached to you, and that they expressed as much respect for
you in your absence, as if you had been within hearing. It has been
said that no man is a hero in the eyes of his Valet de Chambre;
perhaps not; but every worthy man will enjoy his servant’s esteem;
which sufficiently proves that heroism is only a vain phantom, and
that nothing is solid but virtue. The power of its empire is
particularly observable here in the lowest commendations of the
servants. Commendations the less to be suspected, as they do not
consist of vain eulogiums, but of an artless expression of their
feelings. As they cannot suppose, from any thing which they see, that
other masters are not like theirs, they therefore do not commend them
on account of those virtues which they conceive to be common to
masters in general, but, in the simplicity of their hearts, they thank
God for having sent the rich to make those under them happy, and to be
a comfort to the poor.
Servitude is a state so unnatural to mankind, that it cannot subsist
without some degree of discontent. Nevertheless they respect their
master, and say nothing. If any murmurings escape them against their
mistress, they are more to her honour than encomiums would be. No one
complains that she is wanting in kindness to them, but that she pays
so much regard to others; no one can endure that his zeal should be
put in competition with that of his comrades, and as every one
imagines himself foremost in attachment, he would be first in favour.
This is their only complaint, and their greatest injustice.
There is not only a proper subordination among those of inferior
station, but a perfect harmony among those of equal rank; and this is
not the least difficult part of domestic economy. Amidst the clashings
of jealousy and self-interest, which makes continual divisions in
families not more numerous than this, we seldom find servants united
but at the expense of their masters. If they agree, it is to rob in
concert; if they are honest, every one shews his importance at the
expense of the rest; they must either be enemies or accomplices, and
it is very difficult to find a way of guarding at the same time both
against their knavery and their dissentions. The masters of families
in general know no other method but that of choosing the alternative
between these two inconveniencies. Some, preferring interest to
honour, foment a quarrelsome disposition among their servants by means
of private reports, and think it a masterpiece of prudence to make
them superintendents and spies over each other. Others, of a more
indolent nature, rather chuse that their servants should rob them,
and live peaceably among themselves; they pique themselves upon
discountenancing any information which a faithful servant may give
them out of pure zeal. Both are equally to blame. The first, by
exciting continual disturbances in their families, which are
incompatible with good order and regularity, get together a heap of
knaves and informers, who are busy in betraying their fellow servants,
that they may hereafter perhaps betray their masters. The second, by
refusing all information with regard to what passes in their families,
countenance combinations against themselves, encourage the wicked,
dishearten the good, and only maintain a pack of arrogant and idle
rascals at a great expense, who, agreeing together at their master’s
cost, look upon their service as a matter of favour, and their thefts
as perquisites. [54]
It is a capital error in domestic as well as in civil economy, to
oppose one vice to another, or to attempt an equilibrium between them,
as if that which undermines the foundations of all order, could ever
tend to establish regularity. This mistaken policy only serves to
unite every inconvenience. When particular vices are tolerated in a
family, they do not reign alone. Let one take root, a thousand will
soon spring up. They presently ruin the servants who harbour them,
undo the master who tolerates them, and corrupt or injure the children
who remark them with attention. What father can be so unworthy as to
put any advantage whatever in competition with this last
inconvenience? What honest man would chuse to be master of a family,
if it was impossible for him to maintain peace and fidelity in his
house at the same time, and if he must be obliged to purchase the
attachment of his servants; at the expense of their mutual good
understanding?
Who does not see, that in this family, they have not even an idea of
any such difficulty? So much does the union among the several members
proceed from their attachment to the head. It is here we may perceive
a striking instance, how impossible it is to have a sincere affection
for a master without loving every thing that belongs to him; a truth
which is the real foundation of Christian charity. Is it not very
natural, that the children of the same father should live together
like brethren? This is what they tell us every day at church, without
making us feel the sentiment; and this is what the domestics in this
family feel, without being told it.
This disposition to good fellowship is owing to a choice of proper
subjects. Mr. Wolmar, when he hires his servants, does not examine
whether they suit his wife and himself, but whether they suit each
other, and if they were to discover a settled antipathy between two of
the best servants, it would be sufficient for them to discharge one:
for, says Eloisa, in so small a family, a family where they never go
abroad, but are constantly before each other, they ought to agree
perfectly among themselves. They ought to consider it as their
father’s house, where all are of the same family. One, who happens to
be disagreeable to the rest, is enough to make them hate the place;
and that disagreeable object being constantly before their eyes, they
would neither be easy themselves, nor suffer us to be quiet.
After having made the best assortment in their power, they unite them
as it were by the services which they oblige each to render the other,
and they contrive that it shall be the real interest of every one to
be beloved by his fellow servants. No one is so well received who
solicits a favour for himself, as when he asks it for another; so that
whoever has any thing to request, endeavours to engage another to
intercede for him; and this they do with greater readiness, since,
whether their master grants or refuses the favour requested, he never
fails to acknowledge the merit of the person interceding. On the
contrary, both he and Mrs. Wolmar always reject the solicitations of
those who only regard themselves. Why, say they, should I grant, what
is desired in your favour, who have never made me any request in
favour of another? Is it reasonable, that you should be more favoured
than your companions, because they are more obliging than you? They do
more; they engage them to serve each other in private, without any
ostentation, and without assuming any merit. This is the more easily
accomplished, as they know that their master, who is witness of their
discretion, will esteem them the more, thus self-interest is a gainer,
and self-love no loser. They are so convinced of this general
disposition to oblige, and they have such confidence in each other,
that when they have any favour to ask, they frequently mention it at
table by way of conversation; very often, without farther trouble,
they find that the thing has been requested and granted, and as they
do not know whom to thank, their obligation is to all.
It is by this, and such like methods, that they beget an attachment
among them, resulting from, and subordinate to, the zeal they have for
their master. Thus, far from leaguing together to his prejudice, they
are only united for his service. However it may be their interest to
love each other, they have still stronger motives for pleasing him;
their zeal for his service gets the better of their mutual good will,
and each considering himself as injured by losses which may make their
master less able to recompense a faithful servant, they are all
equally incapable of suffering any individual to do him wrong
unnoticed. This principle of policy which is established in this
family, seems to have somewhat sublime in it; and I cannot
sufficiently admire how Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have been able to
transform the vile function of an informer into an office of zeal,
integrity, and courage, as noble, or at least as praise-worthy, as it
was among the Romans.
They began by subverting, or rather by preventing, in a plain and
perspicuous manner, and by affecting instances, that servile and
criminal practice, that mutual toleration at the master’s cost, which
a worthless servant never fails to inculcate to a good one, under the
mask of a charitable maxim. They made them understand, that the
precept which enjoins us to hide our neighbour’s faults, relates to
those only which do injury to no one; that if they are witness to any
injustice which injures a third person, and do not discover it, they
are guilty of it themselves; and that as nothing can oblige us to
conceal such faults in others, but a consciousness of our own defects,
therefore no one would chuse to countenance knaves, if he was not a
knave himself. Upon these principles, which are just in general, as
between man and man, but more strictly so with respect to the close
connection between master and servant, they hold it here as an
incontestable truth, that whoever sees their master wronged, without
making a discovery, is more guilty than he who did the wrong; for he
suffers himself to be misled by the prospect of advantage, but the
other in cool blood and without any view of interest, can be induced
to secrecy by no other motive than a thorough disregard of justice, an
indifference towards the welfare of the family he serves, and a hidden
desire of copying the example he conceals. Therefore even where the
fault is considerable, the guilty party may nevertheless sometimes
hope for pardon, but the witness who conceals the fact, is infallibly
dismissed as a man of a bad disposition.
In return, they receive no accusation which may be suspected to
proceed from injustice and calumny; that is to say, they admit of none
in the absence of the accused. If any one comes to make a report
against his fellow servant, or to prefer a personal complaint against
him, they ask him whether he is sufficiently informed, that is to say,
whether he has entered into any previous inquiry with the person whom
he is going to accuse. If he answers in the negative, they ask him how
he can judge of an action, when he is not acquainted with the motives
to it? The fact, say they, may depend on some circumstance to which
you are a stranger; there may be some particulars which may serve to
justify or excuse it, and which you know nothing of. How can you
presume to condemn any one’s conduct, before you know by what motives
it is directed? One word of explanation would probably have rendered
it justifiable in your eyes. Why then do you run the risk of
condemning an action wrongfully, and of exposing me to participate of
your injustice? If he assures them, that he has entered into a
previous explanation with the accused; why then, say they, do you come
without him, as if you was afraid that he would falsify what you are
going to relate? By what right do you neglect taking the same
precaution with respect to me, which you think proper to use with
regard to yourself? Is it reasonable to desire me to judge of a fact
from your report, of which you refuse to judge yourself by the
testimony of your own eyes; and would not you be answerable for the
partial judgment I might form, if I was to remain satisfied with your
bare deposition? In the end, they direct them to summon the party
accused; if they consent, the matter is soon decided; if they refuse,
they dismiss them with a severe reprimand, but they keep the secret,
and watch them both so narrowly, that they are not long at a loss to
know which is in fault.
This rule is so well known and so well established, that you never
hear a servant in this family speak ill of his absent comrade, for
they are all sensible that it is the way to pass for a liar and a
coward. When any one of them accuses another, it is openly, frankly,
and not only to his face, but in the presence of all his fellow
servants, that they who are witnesses to their accusation, may be
vouchers of their integrity. In case of any personal disputes among
them, the difference is generally made up by mediators without
troubling Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar; but when the interest of the master is
at stake, the matter cannot remain a secret; the guilty party must
either accuse himself or be accused. These little pleadings happen
very seldom, and never but at table, in the rounds which Eloisa makes
every day while her people are at dinner or supper, which Mr. Wolmar
pleasantly calls her general sessions. After having patiently attended
to the accusation and the defence, if the affair regards her interest,
she thanks the accuser for his zeal. I am sensible, says she, that you
have a regard for your fellow servant, you have always spoken well of
him, and I commend you because the love of your duty and of justice
has prevailed over your private affections; it is thus that a faithful
servant and an honest man ought to behave. If the party accused is not
in fault, she always subjoins some compliment to her justification of
his innocence. But if he is really guilty, she in some measure spares
his shame before the rest. She supposes that he has something to
communicate in his defence, which he does not chuse to declare in
public; she appoints an hour to hear him in private, and it is then
that she or her husband talk to him as they think proper. What is very
remarkable is, that the most severe of the two is not most dreaded,
and that they are less afraid of Mr. Wolmar’s solemn reprimand, than
of Eloisa’s affecting reproaches. The former, speaking the language of
truth and justice, humbles and confounds the guilty; the latter
strikes them with the most cruel remorse, by convincing them with what
regret she is forced to withdraw her kindness from them. She sometimes
extorts tears of grief and shame from them, and it is not uncommon for
her to be moved herself when she sees them repent, in hopes that she
may not be obliged to abide by her word.
They who judge of these concerns by what passes in their own families,
or among their neighbours, would probably deem them frivolous or
tiresome. But you, my Lord, who have such high notions of the duties
and enjoyments of a master of a family, and who are sensible what an
ascendency natural disposition and virtue have over the human heart,
you perceive the importance of these minutiae, and know on what
circumstances their success depends. Riches do not make a man rich, as
is well observed in some romance. The wealth of a man is not in his
coffers, but in the use he makes of what he draws out of them; for our
possessions do not become our own, but by the uses to which we allot
them, and abuses are always more inexhaustible than riches; whence it
happens that our enjoyments are not in proportion to our expenses, but
depend on the just regulation of them. An idiot may toss ingots of
gold into the sea, and say he has enjoyed them: but what comparison is
there between such an extravagant enjoyment, and that which a wise man
would have derived from the least part of their value? Order and
regularity, which multiply and perpetuate the use of riches, are alone
capable of converting the enjoyment of them into felicity. But if real
property arises from the relation which our possessions bear to us, if
it is rather the use than the acquisition of riches which confers it,
what can be more proper subjects of attention for a master of a family
than domestic economy, and the prudent regulation of his houshold, in
which the most perfect correspondences more immediately concern him,
and where the happiness of every individual is an addition to the
felicity of the head?
Are the most wealthy the most happy? No: how then does wealth
contribute to felicity? But every well regulated family is emblematic
of the master’s mind. Gilded ceilings, luxury and magnificence, only
serve to shew the vanity of those who display such parade; whereas,
whenever you see order without melancholy, peace without slavery,
plenty without profusion, you may say with confidence, the master of
this house is a happy being.
For my own part, I think the most certain sign of true content is a
domestic and retired life, and that they who are continually resorting
to others in quest of happiness, do not enjoy it at home. A father of
a family who amuses himself at home, is rewarded for his continual
attention to domestic concerns, by the constant enjoyment of the most
agreeable sensations of nature. He is the only one who can be properly
said to be master of his own happiness, because, like heaven itself,
he is happy in desiring nothing more than he enjoys. Like the Supreme
Being, he does not wish to enlarge his possessions, but to make them
really his own, under proper directions, and by using them conformably
to the just relations of things: if he does not enrich himself by new
acquisitions, he enriches himself by the true enjoyment of what he
possesses. He once only enjoyed the income of his lands, he now enjoys
the lands themselves, by over-looking their culture, and surveying
them from time to time. His servant was a stranger to him: he is now
part of his enjoyment; his child; he makes him his own. Formerly, he
had only power over his servant’s actions, now he has authority over
his inclinations. He was his master only by paying him wages, now he
rules by the sacred dominion of benevolence and esteem. Though fortune
spoils him of his wealth, she can never rob him of those affections
which are attached to him; she cannot deprive a father of his
children; all the difference is, that he maintained them yesterday,
and that they will support him tomorrow. It is thus that we may learn
the true enjoyment of our riches, of our family, and of ourselves; it
is thus that the minutiae of a family become agreeable to a worthy man
who knows the value of them; it is thus that, far from considering
these little duties as troublesome, he makes them a part of his
happiness, and derives the glory and pleasure of human nature from
these noble and affecting offices.
If these precious advantages are despised or little known, and if the
few who endeavour to acquire them seldom obtain them, the reason, in
both cases, is the same. There are many simple and sublime duties,
which few people can relish and fulfil. Such are those of the master
of a family, for which the air and bustle of the world gives him a
disgust, and which he never discharges properly when he is only
inflamed by motives of avarice and interest. Some think themselves
excellent masters, and are only careful economists; their income may
thrive, and their family nevertheless be in a bad condition. They
ought to have more enlarged views to direct an administration of such
importance, so as to give it a happy issue. The first thing to be
attended to in the due regulation of a family, is to admit none but
honest people, who will not have any secret intention to disturb that
regularity. But are honesty and servitude so compatible, that we may
hope to find servants who are honest men? No, my Lord, if we would
have them, we must not inquire for them, but we must make them; and
none who are not men of integrity themselves are capable of making
others honest. It is to no purpose for a hypocrite to affect an air of
virtue, he will never inspire any one with an affection for it; and if
he knew how to make virtue amiable, he would be in love with it
himself. What do formal lessons avail, when daily example contradicts
them, unless to make us suspect that the moralist means to sport with
our credulity? What an absurdity are they guilty of who exhort us to
do as they say, and not as they act themselves! He who does not act up
to what he says, never speaks to any effect; for the language of the
heart is wanting, which alone is persuasive and affecting. I have
sometimes heard conversations of this kind held, in a gross manner,
before servants, in order to read them lectures, as they do to
children sometimes, in an indirect way. Far from having any reason to
imagine that they were the dupes of such artifice, I have always
observed them smile in secret at their master’s folly, who must have
taken them for blockheads, by making an awkward display of sentiments
before them, which they knew were none of his own.
All these idle subtleties are unknown in this family, and the grand
art by which the master and mistress make their servants what they
would desire them to be, is to appear themselves before them what
they really are. Their behaviour is always frank and open, because
they are not in any fear lest their actions should bely their
processions. As they themselves do not entertain principles of
morality different from those which they inculcate to others, they
have no occasion for any extraordinary circumspection in their
discourse; a word blundered out unseasonably does not overthrow the
principles they have laboured to establish. They do not indiscreetly
tell all their affairs, but they openly proclaim all their maxims.
Whether at table, or abroad, _tete a tete_, or in public, their
sentiments are still the same; they ingenuously deliver their opinions
on every subject, and without their having any individual in view,
every one is instructed by their conversation. As their servants never
see them do any thing but what is just, reasonable and equitable, they
do not consider justice as a tax on the poor, as a yoke on the
unhappy, and as one of the evils of their condition. The care they
take never to let the labourers come in vain, and lose their day’s
work in seeking after their wages, teaches their servants to set a
just value on time. When they see their master so careful of other
men’s time, each concludes that his own time must be of consequence,
and therefore deems idleness the greatest crime he can be guilty of.
The confidence which their servants have in their integrity, gives
that force to their regulations which makes them observed, and
prevents abuses. They are not afraid, when they come to receive their
weekly gratuities, that their mistress should partially determine the
youngest and most active to have been the most diligent. An old
servant is not apprehensive lest they should start some quibble, to
save the promised augmentation to their wages. They can never hope to
take advantage of any division between their master and mistress, in
order to make themselves of consequence, and to obtain from one what
the other has refused. They who are unmarried, are not afraid lest
they should oppose their settlement, in order to detain them longer;
and by that means make their service a prejudice to them. If a strange
servant was to tell the domestics of this family, that master and
servants are in a state of war with each other, that when the latter
do the former all the injury they can, they only make lawful
reprisals, that masters being usurpers, liars and knaves, there can
consequently be no harm in using them as they use their prince, the
people, or individuals, and in returning those injuries with
dexterity, which they offer openly----one who should talk in this
manner would not be attended to; they would not give themselves the
trouble to controvert or obviate such sentiments; they who give rise
to them, are the only persons whose business it is to refute them.
You never perceive any sullenness or mutiny in the discharge of their
duty, because there is never any haughtiness or capriciousness in the
orders they receive; nothing is required of them but what is
reasonable and expedient, and their master and mistress have too much
respect for the dignity of human nature, even in a state of servitude,
to put them upon any employment which may debase them. Moreover,
nothing here is reckoned mean but vice, and whatever is reasonable and
necessary, is deemed honourable and becoming.
They do not allow of any intrigues abroad, neither has any one any
inclinations of that kind. They are sensible that their fortune is
most firmly attached to their masters, and that they shall never want
any thing while his family prospers. Therefore in serving him, they
take care of their own patrimony, and increase it by making their
service agreeable; this above all things is their interest. But this
word is somewhat misapplied here, for I never knew any system of
policy by which self-interest was so skilfully directed, and where at
the same time it had less influence than in this family. They all act
from a principle of attachment, and one would think that venal souls
were purified as soon as they entered into this dwelling of wisdom and
union. He would imagine that part of the master’s intelligence, and of
the mistress’s sensibility, was conveyed to each of their servants;
they seem so judicious, benevolent, honest, and so much above their
station. Their greatest ambition is to do well, to be valued and
esteemed; and they consider an obliging expression from their master
or mistress, in the light of a present.
These, my Lord, are the most material observations I have made on that
part of the economy of this family, which regards the servants and
labourers. As to Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s manner of living, and the
education of their children, each of these articles very well deserves
a separate letter. You know with what view I began these remarks; but
in truth the whole forms such an agreeable representation, that we
need only meditate upon it to advance it, and we require no other
inducement, than the pleasure it affords us.
Letter CXXX. To Lord B----.
No, my Lord, I do not retract what I have said; in this family, the
useful and agreeable are united throughout; but occupations of use are
not confined to those pursuits which yield profit: they comprehend
farther every innocent and harmless amusement which may serve to
improve a relish for retirement, labour, and temperance, which may
contribute to preserve the mind in a vigorous state, and to keep the
heart free from the agitation of tumultuous passions. If inactive
indolence begets nothing but melancholy and irksomeness, the delights
of an agreeable leisure are the fruits of a laborious life. We only
work to enjoy ourselves; this alternative of labour and recreation is
our natural state. The repose which serves to refresh us after past
labours, and encourage us to renew them, is not less necessary for us
than labour itself.
After having admired the good consequences attending the vigilance and
attention of the prudent Eloisa in the conduct of her family, I was
witness of the good effects of the recreation she uses in a retired
place, where she takes her favourite walk, and which she calls her
elysium.
I had often heard them talk of this elysium, of which they made a
mystery before me. Yesterday however the excessive heat being almost
equally intolerable both within doors and without, Mr. Wolmar proposed
to his wife to make holiday that afternoon, and instead of going into
the nursery towards evening as usual, to come and breathe the fresh
air with us in the orchard; she consented, and thither we went.
This place, though just close to the house, is hidden in such a manner
by a shady walk which parts it from the house, that it is not visible
from any point. The thick foliage with which it is environed renders
it impervious to the eye, and it is always carefully locked up. I was
scarce got within-side, but, the door being covered with alder and
hazel trees, I could not find out which way I came in, when I turned
back, and seeing no door, it seemed as if I had dropped from the
clouds.
On my entrance into this disguised orchard, I was seized with an
agreeable sensation; the freshness of the thick foliage, the beautiful
and lively verdure, the flowers scattered on each side, the murmuring
of the purling stream, and the warbling of a thousand birds, struck my
imagination as powerfully as my senses; but at the same time I thought
myself in the most wild and solitary place in nature, and I appeared
as if I had been the first mortal who had ever penetrated into this
desert spot. Being seized with astonishment, and transported at so
unexpected a sight, I remained motionless for some time, and cried
out, in an involuntary fit of enthusiasm, O Tinian! O Juan Fernandez!
[55] Eloisa, the world’s end is at your threshold! Many people, said
she, with a smile, think in the same manner; but twenty paces at most
presently brings them back to Clarens: let us see whether the charm
will work longer upon you. This is the same orchard where you have
walked formerly, and where you have played at romps with my cousin.
You may remember that the grass was almost burned up, the trees thinly
planted, affording very little umbrage, and that there was no water.
You find that now it is fresh, verdant, cultivated, embellished with
flowers, and well watered; what do you imagine it may have cost me to
put it in the condition you see? For you must know that I am the
superintendent, and that my husband leaves the entire management of it
to me. In truth, said I, it has cost you nothing but inattention. It
is indeed a delightful spot, but wild and rustic; and I can discover
no marks of human industry. You have concealed the door; the water
springs I know not whence; nature alone has done all the rest, and
even you could not have mended her work. It is true, said she, that
nature has done every thing, but under my direction, and you see
nothing but what has been done under my orders. Guess once more.
First, I replied, I cannot conceive how labour and expense can be made
to supply the effects of time. The trees... As to them, said Mr.
Wolmar, you may observe that there are none very large, and they were
here before. Besides, Eloisa began this work a long while before her
marriage, and presently after her mother’s death, when she used to
come here with her father in quest of solitude. Well, said I, since
you will have these large and massy bowers, these sloping tufts, these
umbrageous thickets to be the growth of seven or eight years, and to
be partly the work of art, I think you have been a good economist if
you have done all within this vast circumference for two thousand
crowns. You have only guessed two thousand crowns too much, says she,
for it cost me nothing. How, nothing? No, nothing; unless you place a
dozen days work in the year to my gardener’s account, as many to two
or three of my people, and some to Mr. Wolmar, who has sometimes
condescended to officiate, in my service, as a gardener. I could not
comprehend this riddle; but Eloisa, who had hitherto held me, said to
me, letting me loose, Go, and you will understand it. Farewell Tinian,
farewell Juan Fernandez, farewell all enchantment! In a few minutes
you will find your way back from the end of the world.
I began to wander over the orchard thus metamorphosed with a kind of
extasy; and if I found no exotic plants, nor any of the products of
the Indies, I found all those which were natural to the soil disposed
and blended in such a manner, as to produce the most chearful and
lively effect. The verdant turf, thick but short and close, was
intermixed with wild thyme, balm, sweet marjoram, and other fragrant
herbs. You might perceive a thousand wild flowers dazzle your eyes,
among which you would be surprized to discover some garden flowers,
which seemed to grow natural with the rest. I now and then met with
shady tufts as impervious to the rays of the sun, as if they had been
in a thick forest. These tufts were composed of trees of a very
flexible nature, the branches of which they bend, till they hang on
the ground, and take root, as I have seen some trees naturally do in
America. In the more open spots, I saw here and there bushes of roses,
raspberries, and gooseberries, little plantations of lilac, hazel
trees, alders, feringa, broom, and trifolium, dispersed without any
order or symmetry, and which embellished the ground, at the same time
that it gave it the appearance of being overgrown with weeds. I
followed the track through irregular and serpentine walks, bordered by
these flowery thickets, and covered with a thousand garlands composed
of vines, hops, rose-weed, snake-weed, and other plants of that kind,
with which honey-suckles and jessamine deigned to inter-twine. These
garlands seemed as if they were scattered carefully from one tree to
another, and formed a kind of drapery over our heads which sheltered
us from the sun; while under foot we had smooth, agreeable, and dry
walking upon a fine moss, without sand or grass or any rugged shoots.
Then it was I first discovered, not without astonishment, that this
verdant and bushy umbrage, which had deceived me so much at a
distance, was composed of these luxuriant and creeping plants, which
running all along the trees, formed a thick foliage over head, and
afforded shade and freshness underfoot. I observed likewise, that by
means of common industry, they had made several of these plants take
root in the trunks of the trees, so that they spread more, being
nearer the top. You will readily conceive that the fruit is not the
better for these additions; but this is the only spot where they have
sacrificed the useful to the agreeable, and in the rest of their
grounds they have taken such care of the trees that, without the
orchard, the return of fruit is greater than it was formerly. If you
do but consider how delightful it is to meet with wild fruit in the
midst of a wood, and to refresh one’s self with it, you will easily
conceive what a pleasure it must be to meet with excellent and ripe
fruit in this artificial desert, though it grows but here and there,
and has not the best appearance; which gives one the pleasure of
searching and selecting the best.
All these little walks were bordered and crossed by a clear and limpid
rivulet, which one while winded through the grass and flowers in
streams scarce perceptible; at another, rushed in more copious floods
upon a clear and speckled gravel, which rendered the water more
transparent. You might perceive the springs rise and bubble out of the
earth, and sometimes you might observe deep canals, in which the calm
and gentle fluid served as a mirror to reflect the objects around.
Now, said I to Eloisa, I comprehend all the rest: but these waters
which I see on every side?... They come from thence she replied,
pointing to that side where the terrass lies. It is the same stream
which, at a vast expense, supplied the fountain, in the flower garden,
for which nobody cares. Mr. Wolmar will not destroy it, out of respect
to my father who had it made; but with what pleasure we come here
everyday to see this water run through the orchard, which we never
look at in the garden! The fountain plays for the entertainment of
strangers; this little rivulet flows for our amusement. It is true
that I have likewise brought hither the water from the public
fountain, which emptied itself into the lake, through the highway, to
the detriment of passengers, besides its running to waste without
profit to any one. It formed an elbow at the foot of the orchard
between two rows of willows; I have taken them within my inclosure,
and I bring the same water hither through different channels.
I perceived then that all the contrivance consisted in managing these
streams, so as to make them flow in meanders, by separating and
uniting them at proper places, by making them run as little upon the
slope as possible, in order to lengthen their course, and make the
most of a few little murmuring cascades. A lay of earth, covered with
some gravel from the lake, and strewed over with shells, forms a bed
for these waters. The same streams running at proper distances under
some large tiles covered with earth and turf, on a level with the
ground, forms a kind of artificial springs where they issue forth.
Some small streams spout through pipes on some rugged places, and
bubble as they fall. The ground thus refreshed and watered,
continually yields fresh flowers, and keeps the grass always verdant
and beautiful.
The more I wandered over this delightful asylum, the more I found the
agreeable sensation improve which I experienced at my first entrance:
nevertheless my curiosity kept me in exercise; I was more eager to
view the objects around me, than to inquire into the cause of the
impressions they made on me, and I chose to resign myself to that
delightful contemplation, without taking the trouble of reflection;
but Mrs. Wolmar drew me out of my reverie, by taking me under the arm;
All that you see, said she, is nothing but vegetable and inanimate
nature, which in spite of us, always leaves behind it a melancholy
idea of solitude. Come and view nature animated and more affecting.
There you will discover some new charm every minute in the day. You
anticipate me, said I, I hear a confused chirping noise, and I see but
few birds; I suppose you have an aviary. True, said she, let us go to
it. I durst not as yet declare what I thought of this aviary; but
there was something in the idea of it which disgusted me, and did not
seem to correspond with the rest.
We went down, through a thousand turnings, to the bottom of the
orchard, where I found all the water collected in a fine rivulet,
flowing gently between two rows of old willows, which had been
frequently lopped. Their tops being hollow and half bare, formed a
kind of vessel, from whence, by the contrivance I just now mentioned,
grew several tufts of honey-suckles, of which one part intertwined
among the branches, and the other dropped carelessly along the side of
the rivulet. Near the extremity of the inclosure, was a little bason,
bordered with grass, bulrushes, and weeds, which served as a watering
place to the aviary, and was the last use made of this water, so
precious and so well husbanded.
Somewhat beyond this bason was a platform, which was terminated, in an
angle of the inclosure, by a hillock planted with a number of little
trees of all kinds; the smallest stood towards the summit, and their
size increased, in proportion as the ground grew lower, which made
their tops appear to be horizontal, or at least shewed that they were
one day intended to be so. In the front stood a dozen of trees, which
were young as yet, but of a nature to grow very large, such as the
beech, the elm, the ash, and the acacia. The groves on this side,
served as an asylum to that vast number of birds which I had heard
chirping at a distance, and it was under the shade of this foliage, as
under a large umbrella, that you might see them hop about, run, frisk,
provoke each other, and fight, as if they had not perceived us. They
were so far from flying at our approach, that, according to the notion
with which I was prepossessed, I imagined them to have been inclosed
within a wire; but when we came to the border of the bason, I saw
several of them alight, and come towards us through a short walk which
parted the platform in two, and made a communication between the bason
and the aviary. Mr. Wolmar then going round the bason, scattered two
or three handfuls of mixed grain, which he had in his pocket, along
the walk, and when he retired, the birds flocked together and began to
seed like so many chickens, with such an air of familiarity, that I
plainly perceived they had been trained up to it. This is charming,
said I: your using the word aviary, surprized me at first, but I now
see what it is; I perceive that you invite them as your guests,
instead of confining them as your prisoners. What do you mean by our
guests? replied Eloisa; it is we who are theirs. They are masters
here, and we pay them for being admitted some times. Very well, said
I, but how did these masters get possession of this spot? How did you
collect together so many voluntary inhabitants? I never heard of any
attempt of this kind, and I could not have believed that such a design
could have succeeded, if I had not evidence of it before my eyes.
Time and patience, said Mr. Wolmar, have worked this miracle. These
are expedients which the rich scarce ever think of in their pleasures.
Always in haste for enjoyment, force and money are the only
instruments they know how to employ; they have birds in cage, and
friends at so much a mouth. If the servants ever came near this place,
you would soon see the birds disappear, and if you perceive vast
numbers of them at present, the reason is that this spot has always,
in some degree, been a refuge for them. There is no bringing them
together where there are none to invite them, but where there are some
already, it is easy to increase their numbers by anticipating all
their wants, by not frightening them, by suffering them to hatch with
security, and by never disturbing the young ones in their nest; for by
these means, such as are there, abide there, and those which come
after them continue. This grove was already in being, though it was
divided from the orchard; Eloisa has only inclosed it by a quick-set
hedge, removed that which parted it, and enlarged and adorned it with
new designs. You see to the right and left of the walk which leads to
it, two spaces filled with a confused mixture of grass, straw, and all
sorts of plants. She orders them every year to be sown with corn,
millet, turnsol, hemp-seed, vetch; and in general all sorts of grain
which birds are fond of, and nothing is ever reaped. Besides this,
almost every day she or I bring them something to eat, and when we
neglect, Fanny supplies our place. They are supplied with water, as
you see, very easily. Mrs. Wolmar carries her attention so far as to
provide for them, every spring, little heaps of hair straw, wool,
moss, and other materials proper to build their nests. Thus by their
having materials at hand, provisions in abundance, and by the great
care we take to secure them from their enemies, [56] the uninterrupted
tranquility they enjoy induces them to lay their eggs in this
convenient place, where they want for nothing, and where nobody
disturbs them. Thus the habitation of the fathers becomes the abode of
the children, and the colony thrives and multiplies.
Ah! said Eloisa, do you see nothing more? No one thinks beyond
himself; but the affection of a constant pair, the zeal of their
domestic concerns, paternal and maternal fondness, all this is lost
upon you. Had you been here two months ago, you might have feasted
your eyes with the most lovely sight, and have gratified your feelings
with the most tender sensations in nature. Madam, said I, somewhat
gravely, you are a wife and a mother; there are pleasures of which it
becomes you to be susceptible. Mr. Wolmar then taking me cordially by
the hand, said, You have friends, and those friends have children; how
can you be a stranger to paternal affection? I looked at him, I looked
at Eloisa, they looked at each other, and cast such an affecting eye
upon me, that embracing them alternately, I said with tender emotion,
They are as dear to me as to yourself. I do not know by what strange
effect a single word can make such an alteration in our minds, but
since that moment, Mr. Wolmar appears to me quite another man, and I
consider him less in the light of a husband to her whom I have so long
adored, as in that of the father of two children for whom I would lay
down my life.
I was going to walk round the bason, in order to draw nearer to this
delightful asylum, and its little inhabitants, but Mrs. Wolmar checked
me. Nobody, says she, goes to disturb them in their dwelling, and you
are the first of our guests whom I ever brought so far. There are four
keys to this orchard, of which my father and we have each of us one:
Fanny has the fourth, as superintendent, and to bring the children
here now and then; the value of which favour is greatly enhanced by
the extreme circumspection which is required of them while they are
here. Even Gustin never comes hither without one of the four: when the
two spring months are over in which his labours are useful, he scarce
ever comes hither afterwards, and all the rest we do ourselves. Thus,
said I, for fear of making our birds slaves to you, you make
yourselves slaves to your birds. This, she replied, is exactly the
sentiment of a tyrant, who never thinks that he enjoys liberty, but
while he is disturbing the freedom of others.
As we were coming back, Mr. Wolmar threw a handful of barley into the
bason, and on looking into it, I perceived some little fish. Ah, ah,
said I immediately, here are some prisoners nevertheless. Yes, said
he, they are prisoners of war, who have had their lives spared.
Without doubt, added his wife. Some time since Fanny stole two perch
out of the kitchen, and brought them hither without my knowledge. I
leave them here, for fear of offending her if I sent them to the lake;
for it is better to confine the fish in too narrow a compass, than to
disoblige a worthy creature. You are in the right, said I, and the
fish are not much to be pitied for having escaped from the frying-pan
into the water.
Well, how does it appear to you? said she, as we were coming back; are
you got to the end of the world yet? No, I replied, I am quite out of
the world, and you have in truth transported me into elysium. The
pompous name she has given this orchard, said Mr. Wolmar, very well
deserves that raillery. Be modest in your commendation of childish
amusements, and be assured that they have never intrenched on the
concerns of the mistress of a family. I know it, I am sure of it, I
replied, and childish amusements please me more in this way than the
labours of men.
Still there is one thing here, I continued, which I cannot conceive:
which is, that though a place: so different from what it was, can
never have been altered to its present state; but by great care and
culture; yet I can no where discover the least trace of cultivation.
Every thing is verdant, fresh, and vigorous, and the hand of the
gardener is no where to be discerned: nothing contradicts the idea of
a desert island, which struck me at the first entrance, and I cannot
perceive any footsteps of men. Oh, said Mr. Wolmar, it is because they
have taken great pains to efface them. I have frequently been witness
to, and sometimes an accomplice in this roguery. They sow all the
cultivated spots with grass, which presently hides all appearance of
culture. In the winter, they cover all the dry and barren spots with
some lays of manure, the manure eats up the moss, revives the grass
and the plants; the trees themselves do not fare the worse, and in the
summer there is nothing of it to be seen. With regard to the moss
which covers some of the walks, Lord B---- sent us the secret of
making it grow from England. These two sides, he continued, were
inclosed with walls; the walls have been covered not with hedges, but
with thick trees, which make the boundaries of the place appear like
the beginning of a wood. The two other sides are secured by strong
thickset hedges well stocked with maple, hawthorn, holy-oak, privet,
and other small trees, which destroy the appearance of the hedges, and
make them look more like coppice-woods. You see nothing here in an
exact row, nothing level; the line never entered this place; nature
plants nothing by the line; the affective irregularity of the winding
walks are managed with art, in order to prolong the walk, to hide the
boundaries of the island, and to enlarge its extent in appearance,
without making inconvenient and too frequent turnings. [57]
Upon considering the whole, I thought it somewhat extraordinary that
they should take so much pains to conceal the labour they had been at;
would it not have been better to have taken no such pains?
Notwithstanding all we have told you, replied Eloisa, you judge of the
labour from its effect, and you deceive yourself. All that you see are
wild and vigorous plants which need only to be put into the earth, and
which afterwards spring up of themselves. Besides, nature seems
desirous of hiding her real charms from the sight of men, because they
are too little sensible of them, and disfigure them when they are
within their reach; she flies from public places; it is on the tops of
mountains, in the midst of forests, in desert islands, that she
displays her most affecting charms. They who are in love with her and
cannot go so far in pursuit of her, are forced to do her violence, by
obliging her, in some measure, to come and dwell with them, and all
this cannot be effected without some degree of illusion.
At these words, I was struck with an idea which made them laugh. I am
supposing to myself, said I, some rich man to be master of this house,
and to bring an architect who is paid an extravagant price for
spoiling nature. With what disdain would he enter this plain and
simple spot! With what contempt would he order these ragged plants to
be torn up! What fine lines he would draw! What fine walks he would
cut! What fine geese-feet, what fine trees in the shape of umbrellas
and fans he would make! What fine arbor work----nicely cut out! What
beautiful grass-plats of fine English turf, round, square, sloping,
oval! What fine yew-trees cut in the shape of dragons, pagods,
marmosets, and all sorts of monsters! With what fine vases of brass,
with what fine fruit in stone he would decorate his garden! [58] ...
When he had done all this, said Mr. Wolmar, he would have made a very
fine place, which would scarce ever be frequented, and from whence one
should always go with eagerness to enjoy the country; a dismal place
where nobody would walk, but only use it as a thoroughfare when they
were setting out to walk; whereas in my rural rambles, I often make
haste to return that I may walk here.
I see nothing in those extensive grounds so lavishly ornamented, but
the vanity of the proprietor and of the artist, who being eager to
display, one his riches and the other his talents, only contribute, at
a vast expense, to tire those who would enjoy their works. A false
taste of grandeur, which was never designed for man, poisons all his
pleasures. An air of greatness has always something melancholy in it;
it leads us to consider the wretchedness of those who affect it. In
the midst of these grass-plats and fine walks, the little individual
does not grow greater; a tree twenty feet high will shelter him as
well as one of sixty, [59] he never occupies a space of more than
three feet, and in the midst of his immense possessions he is lost
like a poor worm.
There is another taste directly opposite to this, and still more
ridiculous, because it does not allow us the pleasure of walking, for
which gardens were intended. I understand you, said I; you allude to
those petty virtuosi, who die away at the sight of a ranunculus, and
fall prostrate before a tulip. Hereupon, my Lord, I gave them an
account of what happened to me formerly at London in the flower-garden
into which we were introduced with so much ceremony, and where we saw
all the treasures of Holland displayed with so much lustre upon four
beds of dung. I did not forget the ceremony of the umbrella and the
little rod with which they honoured me, unworthy as I was, as well as
the rest of the spectators. I modestly acknowledged how, by
endeavouring to appear a virtuoso in my turn, and venturing to fall in
ecstasies at the sight of a tulip which seemed to be of a fine shape
and of a lively colour, I was mocked, hooted at, and hissed by all the
connoisseurs, and how the florist who despised the flower despised its
panegyrist likewise to that degree, that he did not even deign to look
at me all the time we were together. I added, that I supposed he
highly regretted having prostituted his rod and umbrello on one so
unworthy.
This taste, said Mr. Wolmar, when it degenerates into a passion, has
something idle and little in it, which renders it puerile and
ridiculously expensive. The other, at least, is noble, grand, and has
something real in it. But what is the value of a curious root which an
insect gnaws or spoils perhaps as soon as it is purchased, or of a
flower which is beautiful at noon day, and fades before sun-set; what
signifies a conventional beauty, which is only obvious to the eyes of
virtuosi, and which is a beauty only because they will have it to be
so? The time will come when they will require different kinds of
beauty in flowers, from that which they seek after at present, and
with as good reason; then you will be the connoisseur in your turn,
and your virtuoso will appear ignorant. All these trifling attentions,
which degenerate into a kind of study, are unbecoming a rational
being, who, would keep his body in moderate exercise, or relieve his
mind by amusing himself in a walk with his friends. Flowers were made
to delight our eyes as we pass along, and not to be so curiously
anatomized. [60] See the queen of them shine in every part of the
orchard. It perfumes the air; it ravishes the eyes, and costs neither
care nor culture. It is for this reason that florists despise it;
nature has made it so lovely, that they cannot add to it any borrowed
beauty, and as they cannot plague themselves with cultivating it, they
find nothing in it which flatters their fancy. The mistake of your
pretenders to taste is, that they are desirous of introducing art in
every thing, and are never satisfied unless the art appears; whereas
true taste consists in concealing it, especially when it concerns any
of the works of nature. To what purpose are those strait gravelled
walks which we meet with continually; and those stars which are so far
from making a park appear more extensive to the view, as is commonly
supposed, that they only contribute awkwardly to discover its
boundaries? Do you ever see fine gravel in woods, or is that kind of
gravel softer to the feet than moss or down? Does nature constantly
make use of the square or rule? Are they afraid lest she be visible in
some spot notwithstanding all their care to disfigure her? Upon the
whole, it is droll enough to see them affect to walk in a strait line
that they may sooner reach the end, as if they were tired of walking,
before they have well begun? Would not one imagine, by their taking
the shortest cut, that they were going a journey instead of a walk,
and that they were in a hurry to get out as soon they come in?
How will a man of taste act, who lives to relish life, who knows how
to enjoy himself, who pursues real and simple pleasures, and who is
inclined to make a walk before his house? He will make it so
convenient and agreeable that he may enjoy it every hour of the day,
and yet so natural and simple, that it will seem as if he had done
nothing. He will introduce water, and will make the walk verdant,
cool, and shady; for nature herself unites these properties. He will
bestow no attention on symmetry, which is the bane of nature and
variety, and the walks of gardens in general are so like each other,
that we always fancy ourselves in the same. He will make the ground
smooth, in order to walk more conveniently; but the two sides of his
walks will not be exactly parallel; their direction will not always be
recti-lineal, they will be somewhat irregular like the steps of an
indolent man, who saunters in his walk: he will not be anxious about
opening distant perspectives. The taste for perspective and distant
views proceeds from the disposition of men in general, who are never
satisfied with the place where they are. They are always desirous of
what is distant from them, and the artist who cannot make them
contented with the objects around them, flies to this resource to
amuse them; but such a man as I speak of, is under no such
inquietudes, and when he is agreeably fixed, he does not desire to be
elsewhere. Here, for example, we have no prospect, and we are very
well satisfied without any. We are willing to think that all the
charms of nature are inclosed here, and I should be very much afraid
lest a distant view should take off a good deal of the beauty from
this walk. [61] Certainly he who would not chuse to pass his days in
this simple and pleasant place, is not master of true taste or of a
vigorous mind. I confess that one ought not to make a parade of
bringing strangers hither; but then we can enjoy it ourselves, without
shewing it to any one.
Sir, said I, these rich people who have such fine gardens, have very
good reasons for not choosing to walk alone, or to be in company with
themselves only; therefore they are in the right to lay them out for
the pleasure of others. Besides, I have seen gardens in China, made
after your taste, and laid out with so much art that the art was not
seen, but in such a costly manner, and kept up at such a vast expense,
that that single idea destroyed all the pleasure I had in viewing
them. There were rocks, grottos, and artificial cascades in level and
sandy places, where there was nothing but spring-water; there were
flowers and curious plants of all the climates in China and Tartary,
collected and cultivated in the same soil. It is true, there were no
fine walks or regular compartments; but you might see curiosities
heaped together with profusion, which in nature are only to be found
separate and scattered. Nature was there represented under a thousand
various forms, and yet the whole taken together was not natural. Here
neither earth nor stones are transplanted, you have neither pumps nor
reservoirs, you have no occasion for green-houses or stoves, of bell
glasses or straw-beds. A plain spot of ground has been improved by a
few simple ornaments. A few common herbs and trees, and a few purling
streams which flow without pomp or constraint, have contributed to
embellish it. It is an amusement, which has cost little trouble, and
the simplicity of it is an additional pleasure to the beholder. I can
conceive that this place might be made still more agreeable, and yet
be infinitely less pleasing to me. Such, for example, is Lord Cobham’s
celebrated park at Stow. It consists of places extremely beautiful and
picturesque, modelled after the fashion of different countries, and in
which every thing appears natural except their conjunction, as in the
gardens of China, which I just now mentioned. The proprietor who made
this stately solitude, has even erected ruins, temples, old buildings,
and different ages as well as different places are collected with more
than mortal magnificence. This is the very thing I dislike. I would
have the amusements of mankind carry an air of ease with them which
does not put one in mind of their weakness, and that while we admire
these curiosities our imagination may not be disturbed by reflecting
on the vast sums of money and labour they have cost. Are we not
destined to trouble enough, without making our amusements a fatigue?
I have but one objection, I added, looking at Eloisa, to make to your
elysium, but which you will probably think of some weight, which is,
that it is a superfluous amusement. To what purpose was it to make a
new walk, when you have such beautiful groves on the other side of the
house which you neglect? That’s true, said she, somewhat disconcerted,
but I like this better. If you had thoroughly reflected on the
propriety of your question before you had made it, said Mr. Wolmar,
interrupting us, it might be imputed to you as more than an
indiscretion. My wife has never set her foot in those groves since she
has been married. I know the reason though she has always kept it a
secret from me. You who are no stranger to it, learn to respect the
spot where you are; it has been planted by the hands of virtue.
I had scarce received this just reprimand, but the little family led
by Fanny, came in as we were going out. These three lovely children
threw themselves round Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s necks. I likewise shared
their little caresses. Eloisa and I returned into elysium to take a
little turn with them; afterwards we went to join Mr. Wolmar who was
talking to some workmen. In our way, she told me, that she no sooner
became a mother, than an idea struck into her mind, with respect to
that walk, which increased her zeal for embellishing it. I had an eye,
said she, to the health and amusement of my children as they grew
older. It requires more care than labour to keep up this place; it is
more essential to give a certain turn to the branches of the plants,
than to dig and cultivate the ground; I intend one day to make
gardeners of my little ones: they shall have sufficient exercise to
strengthen their constitution, and not enough to enfeeble it. Besides,
what is too much for their age, shall be done by others, and they
shall confine themselves to such little works as may amuse them. I
cannot describe, she added, what pleasure I enjoy in imagining my
infants busy in returning those little attentions which I now bestow
on them with such satisfaction, and the joy of which their tender
hearts will be susceptible, when they see their mother walking with
delight under the shades, which have been formed by their own hands.
In truth, my friend, said she, with an affecting tone, time thus spent
is an emblem of the felicity of the next world, and it was not without
reason that, reflecting on these scenes, I christened this place
before hand by the name of elysium. My Lord, this incomparable woman
is as amiable in the character of a mother as in that of a wife, a
friend, a daughter, and to the eternal punishment of my soul, she was
thus lovely when my mistress.
Transported with this delightful place, I intreated them in the
evening to consent that, during my stay, Fanny should entrust me with
her key, and consign to me the office of feeding the birds. Eloisa
immediately sent a sack of grain to my chamber, and gave me her own
key. I cannot tell for what reason, but I accepted it with a kind of
concern, and it seemed as if Mr. Wolmar’s would have been more
acceptable to me.
In the morning I rose early, and with all the eagerness of a child,
went to lock myself in the desert island. What agreeable ideas did I
hope to carry with me into that solitary place, where the mild aspect
of nature alone was sufficient to banish from my remembrance, all that
new-coin’d system which had made me so miserable! All the objects
around me will be the work of her whom I adored. In every thing about
me, I shall behold her image; I shall see nothing which her hand has
not touched; I shall kiss the flowers which have been her carpet; I
shall inhale, with the morning dew, the air which she has breathed;
the taste she has displayed in her amusements, will bring all her
charms present to my imagination, and in every thing she will appear
the Eloisa of my soul.
As I entered elysium with this temper of mind, I suddenly recollected
the last word which Mr. Wolmar said to me yesterday very near the same
spot. The recollection of that single word, instantly changed my whole
frame of mind. I thought that I beheld the image of virtue, where I
expected to find that of pleasure. That image intruded on my
imagination with the charms of Mrs. Wolmar, and for the first time
since my return, I saw Eloisa in her absence; not such as she appeared
to me formerly and as I still love to represent her, but such as she
appears to my eyes every day. My Lord, I imagined that I beheld that
amiable, that chaste, that virtuous woman, in the midst of the train
which surrounded her yesterday. I saw those three lovely children,
those honourable and precious pledges of conjugal union and tender
friendship, play about her, and give and receive a thousand affecting
embraces. At her side I beheld the grave Wolmar, that husband so
beloved, so happy, and so worthy of felicity. I imagined that I could
perceive his judicious and penetrating eye pierce to the very bottom
of my soul, and make me blush again; I fancied that I heard him utter
reproaches which I too well deserved, and repeat lectures to which I
had attended in vain. Last in her train I saw Fanny Regnard, a lively
instance of the triumph of virtue and humanity over the most ardent
passion. Ah! what guilty thought could reach so far as her, through
such an impervious guard? With what indignation I suppressed the
shameful transports of a criminal and scarce extinguished passion, and
how I should have despised myself had I contaminated such a ravishing
scene of honour and innocence, with a single sigh. I recalled
to mind the reflections she made as we were going out, then my
imagination attending her into that futurity on which she delights to
contemplate, I saw that affectionate mother wipe the sweat from her
children’s foreheads, kiss their ruddy cheeks, and devote that heart,
which was formed for love, to the most tender sentiments of nature.
There was nothing, even to the very name of elysium, but what
contributed to rectify my rambling imagination, and to inspire my soul
with a calm far preferable to the agitation of the most seductive
passions. The word elysium seemed to me an emblem of the purity of her
mind who adopted it; and I concluded that she would never have made
choice of that name, had she been tormented with a troubled
conscience. Peace, said I, reigns in the utmost recesses of her soul,
as in this asylum which she has named.
I proposed to myself an agreeable reverie, and my reflections there
were more agreeable, even than I expected. I passed two hours in
elysium, which were not inferior to any time I ever spent. In
observing with what rapidity and delight they passed away, I perceived
that there was a kind of felicity in meditating on honest reflections,
which the wicked never know, and which consists in being pleased with
one’s-self. If we were to reflect on this without prejudice, I don’t
know any other pleasure which can equal it. I perceive, at least, that
one who loves solitude as I do, ought to be extremely cautious not to
do any thing which may make it tormenting. Perhaps these principles
may lead us to discover the spring of those false judgments of mankind
with regard to vice and virtue; for the enjoyment of virtue is all
internal, and is only perceived by him who feels it: but all the
advantages of vice strike the imagination of others, and only he who
has purchased them, knows what they cost.
_Se a ciascun l’interno affanno
Si legesse in fronte scritto
Quanti mai, che Invidia fanno
Ci farebbero pieta?_ [62]
As it grew late before I perceived it, Mr. Wolmar came to join me, and
acquaint me that Eloisa and the tea waited for me. It is you
yourselves, said I, making an apology, who pre-vented my coming
sooner: I was so delighted with the evening I spent yesterday, that I
went thither again to enjoy this morning; luckily there is no mischief
done, and as you have waited for me, my morning is not lost. That’s
true, said Mr. Wolmar; it would be better to wait till noon, than lose
the pleasure of breakfasting together. Strangers are never admitted
into my room in the morning, but breakfast in their own. Breakfast is
the repast of intimates, servants are excluded, and impertinents never
appear at that time; we then declare all we think, we reveal all our
secrets, we disguise none of our sentiments; we can then enjoy the
delights of intimacy and confidence, without indiscretion. It is the
only time almost in which we are allowed to appear what we really are;
why can’t it last the day through! Ah, Eloisa! I was ready to say;
this is an interesting wish! but I was silent. The first thing I
learned to suppress with my love, was flattery. To praise people to
their face, is but to tax them with vanity. You know, my Lord, whether
Mrs. Wolmar deserves this reproach. No, no; I respect her too much,
not to respect her in silence. Is it not a sufficient commendation of
her, to listen to her, and observe her conduct?
Letter CXXXI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
It is decreed, my dear friend, that you are on all occasions to be my
protectress against myself, and that after having delivered me from
the snares which my affections laid for me, you are yet to rescue me
from those which reason spreads to entrap me. After so many cruel
instances, I have learned to guard against mistakes, as much as
against my passions, which are frequently the cause of them. Why had
I not the same precaution always! If in time past, I had relied less
on the light of my own understanding, I should have had less reason to
blush at my sentiments.
Do not be alarmed at this preamble. I should be unworthy your
friendship, if I was still under a necessity of consulting you upon
dismal subjects. Guilt was always a stranger to my heart, and I dare
believe it to be more distant from me now than ever. Therefore, Clara,
attend to me patiently, and believe that I shall never need your
advice in difficulties which honour alone can resolve.
During these six years which I have lived with Mr. Wolmar in the most
perfect union which can subsist between a married couple, you know
that he never talked to me either about his family or himself, and
that having received him from a father as solicitous for his
daughter’s happiness as jealous of the honour of his family, I never
expressed any eagerness to know more of his concerns, than he thought
proper to communicate. Satisfied with being indebted to him for my
honour, my repose, my reason, my children, and all that can render me
estimable in my own eyes, besides the life of him who gave me being, I
was convinced that the particulars concerning him, to which I was a
stranger, would not falsify what I knew of him, and there was no
occasion for my knowing more, in order to love, esteem, and honour him
as much as possible.
This morning at breakfast he proposed our taking a little walk before
the heat came on; then under a pretence of not going through the
country in morning dishabille, as he said, he led us into the woods,
and exactly into that wood, where all the misfortunes of my life
commenced. As I approached that fatal spot, I felt a violent
palpitation of heart, and should have refused to have gone in, if
shame had not checked me, and if the recollection of a word which
dropped the other day in elysium, had not made me dread the
interpretations which might have been passed on such a refusal. I do
not know whether the philosopher was more composed; but some time
after having cast my eyes upon him by chance, I found his countenance
pale and altered, and I cannot express to you the uneasiness it gave
me.
On entering into the wood I perceived my husband cast a glance towards
me and smile. He sat down between us, and after a moment’s pause,
taking us both by the hand, my dear children, said he, I begin to
perceive that my schemes will not be fruitless, and that we three may
be connected by a lasting attachment, capable of promoting our common
good, and procuring me some comfort to alleviate the troubles of
approaching old age: but I am better acquainted with you two, than you
are with me; it is but just to make every thing equal among us, and
though I have nothing very interesting to impart, yet as you have no
secrets hidden from me, I will have none concealed from you.
He then revealed to us the mystery of his birth, which had hitherto
been known to no one but my father. When you are acquainted with it,
you will imagine what great temper and moderation a man must be master
of, who was able to conceal such a secret from his wife during six
years; but it is no pain to him to keep such a secret, and he thinks
too slightly of it, to be obliged to exert any vast efforts to conceal
it.
I will not detain you, said he, with relating the occurrences of my
life. It is of less importance to you to be acquainted with my
adventures than with my character. The former are simple in their
nature like the latter, and when you know what I am, you will easily
imagine what I was capable of doing. My mind is naturally calm, and my
affections temperate. I am one of those men, whom people think they
reproach when they call them insensible; that is, when they upbraid
them with having no passion, which may impel them to swerve from the
true direction of human nature. Being but little susceptible of
pleasure or grief, I receive but faint impressions from those
interesting sentiments of humanity, which make the affections of
others our own. If I feel uneasiness when I see the worthy in
distress, it is not without reason that my compassion is moved, for
when I see the wicked suffer, I have no pity for them. My only active
principle is a natural love of order, and the concurrence of the
accidents of fortune with the conduct of mankind well combined
together, pleases me exactly like beautiful symmetry in a picture, or
like a piece well represented on the stage. If I have any ruling
passion, it is that of observation: I love to read the hearts of
mankind. As my own seldom misleads me, as I make my observations with
a disinterested and dispassionate temper, and as I have acquired some
sagacity by long experience, I am seldom deceived in my judgments;
this advantage therefore is the only recompense which self-love
receives from my constant studies: for I am not fond of acting a part,
but only of observing others play theirs. Society is agreeable to me
for the sake of contemplation, and not as a member of it. If I could
alter the nature of my being and become a living eye, I would
willingly make the exchange. Therefore my indifference about mankind
does not make me independent of them; without being solicitous to be
seen, I want to see them, and though they are not dear, they are
necessary, to me.
The two first characters in society which I had an opportunity of
observing were courtiers and valets; two orders of men who differ more
in appearance than fact, but so little worthy of being attended to,
and so easily read, that I was tired of them at first sight. By
quitting the court, where every thing is presently seen, I secured
myself, without knowing it, from the danger which threatened me, and
which I should not have escaped. I changed my name, and having a
desire to be acquainted with military men, I solicited admission into
the service of a foreign prince; it was there that I had the happiness
of being useful to your father, who was impelled by despair for having
killed his friend, to expose himself rashly and contrary to his duty.
The grateful and susceptible heart of a brave officer began then to
give me a better opinion of human nature. He attached himself to me
with that zealous friendship which it was impossible for me not to
return, and from that time we formed connections which have every day
grown stronger. I discovered, in this new state of my mind, that
interest is not always, as I had supposed, the sole motive which
influences human conduct, and that among the crowd of prejudices which
are opposite to virtue, there are some likewise which are favourable
to her. I found that the general character of mankind was founded on a
kind of self-love indifferent in itself, and either good or bad
according to the accidents which modify it, and which depend on
customs, laws, rank, fortune, and every circumstance relative to human
policy. I therefore indulged my inclination, and despising the vain
notions of worldly condition, I successively threw myself into all the
different situations in life, which might enable me to compare them
together, and know one by the other. I perceived, as you have observed
in one of your letters, said he to St. Preux, that we see nothing if
we rest satisfied with looking on, that we ought to act ourselves in
order to judge of men’s actions, and I made myself an actor to qualify
myself for a spectator. We can always lower ourselves with ease; and I
stooped to a variety of situations, which no man of my station ever
condescended to. I even became a peasant, and when Eloisa made me her
gardener, she did not find me such a novice in the business, as she
might have expected.
Besides gaining a thorough knowledge of mankind, which indolent
philosophy only attains in appearance, I found another advantage which
I never expected. This was, the opportunity it afforded me of
improving, by an active life, that love of order I derived from
nature, and of acquiring a new relish for virtue by the pleasure of
contributing towards it. This sentiment made me less speculative,
attached me somewhat more to myself, and from a natural consequence of
this progress, I perceived that I was alone. Solitude, which was
always tiresome to me, became hideous, and I could not hope to escape
it long. Though I did not grow less dispassionate, I found the want of
some connection; the idea of decay, without any one to comfort me,
afflicted me by anticipation, and for the first time in my life, I
experienced melancholy and uneasiness. I communicated my troubles to
the Baron D’Etange. You must not, said he, grow an old bachelor. I
myself, after having lived independent as it were in a state of
matrimony, find that I have a desire of returning to the duties of a
husband and a father, and I am going to repose myself in the midst of
my family. It depends on yourself to make my family your own, and to
supply the place of the son whom I have lost. I have an only daughter
to marry: she is not destitute of merit; she has a sensibility of
mind, and the love of her duty makes her love every thing relative to
it. She is neither a beauty, nor a prodigy of understanding; but come
and see her, and believe me that if she does not affect you, no woman
will ever make an impression on you. I came, I saw you, Eloisa, and I
found that your father had reported modestly of you. Your transports,
the tears of joy you shed when you embraced him, gave me the first, or
rather the only emotion I ever experienced in my life. If the
impression was slight, it was the only one I felt, and our sensations
are strong only in proportion to those which oppose them. Three years
absence made no change in my inclinations. I was no stranger to the
state of yours in my return, and on this occasion I must make you a
return for the confession which has cost you so dear.” Judge, my dear
Clara, with what extraordinary surprize, I learnt that all my secrets
had been discovered to him before our marriage and that he had wedded
me, knowing me to be the property of another.
This conduct, continued Mr. Wolmar, was unpardonable. I offended
against delicacy; I sinned against prudence; I exposed your honour and
my own; I should have been apprehensive of plunging you and myself
into irretrievable calamities; but I loved you, and I loved nothing
but you. Every thing else was indifferent to me. How is it possible to
restrain a passion, be it ever so weak, when it has no counterpoise.
This is the inconvenience of calm and dispassionate tempers. Every
thing goes right while their insensibility secures them from
temptations; but if one happens to touch them, they are conquered as
soon as they are attacked, and reason, which governs while she sways
alone, has no power to resist the slightest effort. I was tempted but
once, and I gave way to it. If the intoxication of any other passion
had rendered me wavering, I should have fallen, every false step I
took; none but spirited souls are able to struggle and conquer. All
great efforts, all sublime actions are their province; cool reason
never achieved any thing illustrious, and we can only triumph over our
passions by opposing one against another. When virtue gains the
ascendancy, she reigns alone, and keeps all in due poise; this forms
the true philosopher, who is as much exposed to the assaults of
passion as another, but who alone is capable of subduing them by their
own force, as a pilot steers through adverse winds.
You find that I do not attempt to extenuate my fault; had it been one,
I should infallibly have committed it; but I knew you, Eloisa, and was
guilty of none when I married you. I perceived that all my prospect
of happiness depended on you alone, and that if any one was capable of
making you happy, it was myself. I knew that peace and innocence were
essential to your mind, that the affection with which it was pre-
engaged could not afford them, and that nothing could banish love but
the horror of guilt. I saw that your soul laboured under an oppression
which it could not shake off but by some new struggle, and that to
make you sensible how valuable you still were, was the only way to
render you truly estimable.
Your heart was formed for love; I therefore slighted the disproportion
of age, which excluded me from a right of pretending to the affection,
which he who was the object of it could not enjoy, and which it was
impossible to obtain for any other. On the contrary, finding my life
half spent, and that I had been susceptible but of a single
impression, I concluded that it would be lasting, and I pleased myself
with the thoughts of preserving it the rest of my days. In all my
tedious searches, I found nothing so estimable as yourself, I thought
that what you could not effect, no one in the world could accomplish;
I ventured to rely on your virtue, and I married you. The secrecy you
observed did not surprize me; I knew the reason, and from your prudent
conduct, I guessed how long it would last. From a regard to you, I
copied your reserve, and I would not deprive you of the honour of one
day making me a confession, which, I plainly perceived, was at your
tongue’s end every minute. I have not been deceived in any particular;
you have fully answered all I expected from you. When I made choice of
a wife, I desired to find in her an amiable, discreet and happy
companion. The first two requisites have been obtained. I hope, my
dear, that we shall not be disappointed of the third.
At these words, in spite of all my endeavours not to interrupt him but
by my tears, I could not forbear throwing myself round his neck, and
crying out; O my dear husband! O thou best and most amiable of men!
Tell me what is wanting to compleat my happiness, but to promote your
felicity, and to be more deserving... You are as happy as you can be,
said he, interrupting me; you deserve to be so; but it is time to
enjoy that felicity in peace, which has hitherto cost you such vast
pains. If your fidelity had been all I required, that would have been
ensured the moment you made me the promise; I wanted moreover to make
it easy and agreeable to you, and we have both laboured to this end in
concert, without communicating our views to each other. Eloisa, we
have succeeded; better than you imagine perhaps. The only fault I find
in you is, that you do not resume that confidence which you have a
right to repose in yourself, and that you undervalue your own worth.
Extreme diffidence is as dangerous as excessive confidence. As that
rashness which prompts us to attempts beyond our strength renders our
power ineffectual, so that timidity which prevents us from relying on
ourselves, renders it useless. True prudence consists in being
thoroughly acquainted with the measure of our own power, and acting up
to it. You have acquired an increase of strength by changing your
condition. You are no longer that unfortunate girl who bewailed the
weakness she indulged; you are the most virtuous of women, you are
bound by no laws but those of honour and duty, and the only fault that
can now be imputed to you, is that you retain too lively a sense of
your former indiscretion. Instead of taking reproachful precautions
against yourself, learn to depend upon your self, and your confidence
will increase your strength. Banish that injurious diffidence, and
think yourself happy in having made choice of an honest man at an age
which is liable to imposition, and in having entertained a lover
formerly, whom you may now enjoy as a friend, even under your
husband’s eye. I was no sooner made acquainted with your connections,
than I judged of you by each other. I perceived what enthusiastic
delusion led you astray; it never operates but on susceptible minds;
it sometimes ruins them, but it is by a charm which has power to
seduce them alone. I judged that the same turn of mind which formed
your attachment would break it as soon as it became criminal, and that
vice might find an entrance, but never take root in such hearts as
yours.
I conceived moreover that the connection between you ought not to be
broken; that there were so many laudable circumstances attending your
mutual attachment, that it ought rather to be rectified than
destroyed; and that neither of the two could forget the other, without
diminishing their own worth. I knew that great struggles only served
to inflame strong passions, and that if violent efforts exercised the
mind, they occasioned such torments as by their continuance might
subdue it. I took advantage of Eloisa’s gentleness, to moderate the
severity of her reflections. I nourished her friendship for you, said
he to St. Preux; I banished all immoderate passion, and I believe that
I have preserved you a greater share of her affections, than she would
have left you, had I abandoned her entirely to herself.
My success encouraged me, and I determined to attempt your cure as I
had accomplished hers; for I had an esteem for you, and
notwithstanding the prejudices of vice, I have always observed that
every good end is to be obtained from susceptible minds by means of
confidence and sincerity. I saw you, you did not deceive me; you will
not deceive me; and though you are not yet what you ought to be, I
find you more improved than you imagine, and I am better satisfied
with you than you are with yourself. I know that my conduct has an
extravagant appearance, and is repugnant to the common received
principles. But maxims become less general, in proportion as we are
better acquainted with the human heart: and Eloisa’s husband ought not
to act like men in common. My dear children, said he, with a tone the
more affecting as it came from a dispassionate man; remain what you
are, and we shall all be happy. Danger consists chiefly in opinion; be
not afraid of yourselves, and you will have nothing to apprehend; only
think on the present, and I will answer for the future. I cannot
communicate any thing farther to day, but if my schemes succeed, and
my hopes do not betray me, our destiny will be better fulfilled, and
you two will be much happier than if you had enjoyed each other.
As we rose, he embraced us, and would have us likewise embrace each
other, on that spot. On that very spot where formerly... Clara, O my
dear Clara, how dearly have you ever loved me! I made no resistance.
Alas! How indiscreet would it have been to have made any! This kiss
was nothing like that which rendered the grove terrible to me. I
silently congratulated myself, and I found that my heart was more
changed than I had hitherto ventured to imagine.
As we were walking towards home, my husband, taking me by the hand,
stopt me, and shewing me the wood we had just left, he said to me
smiling; Eloisa, be no longer afraid of this asylum; it has not been
lately profaned. You will not believe me, cousin, but I swear that he
has some supernatural gift of reading one’s inmost thoughts: may
heaven continue it to him! Having such reason to despise myself, it is
certainly to this art that I am indebted for his indulgence.
You do not see yet any occasion I have for your advice; patience, my
angel! I am coming to that point; but the conversation which I have
related, was necessary to clear up what follows.
On our return, my husband, who has long been expected at Etange, told
me that he proposed going thither to-morrow, that he should see you in
his way, and that he should stay there five or six days. Without
saying all I thought concerning such an ill-timed journey, I told him
that I imagined the necessity was not so indispensable as to oblige
Mr. Wolmar to leave his guest, whom he had himself invited to his
house. Would you have me, he replied, use ceremony with him to remind
him that he is not at home? I am like the Valaisians for hospitality.
I hope he will find their sincerity here, and allow us to use their
freedom. Perceiving that he would not understand me, I took another
method, and endeavoured to persuade our guest to take the journey with
him. You will find a spot, said I, which has its beauties, and such as
you are fond of; you will visit my patrimony and that of my ancestors;
the interest you take in every thing which concerns me, will not allow
me to suppose that such a sight can be indifferent to you. My mouth
was open to add that the castle was like that of Lord B----, who...
but luckily I had time to bite my tongue. He answered me coolly that I
was in the right, and that he would do as I pleased. But Mr. Wolmar,
who seemed determined to drive me to an extremity, replied that he
should do what was most agreeable to himself. Which do you like best,
to go or to stay? To stay, said he, without hesitating. Well, stay
then, rejoined my husband, taking him by the hand: you are a sincere
and honest man, and I am well pleased with that declaration. There was
no room for much altercation between my husband and me, in the hearing
of this third person. I was silent, but could not conceal my
uneasiness so well, but my husband perceived it. What! said he, with
an air of discontent, St. Preux being at a little distance from us,
shall I have pleaded your cause against yourself in vain, and will
Mrs. Wolmar remain satisfied with a virtue which depends on
opportunity? For my part, I am more nice; I will be indebted for the
fidelity of my wife, to her affection, not to chance; and it is not
enough that she is constant, it wounds my delicacy to think that she
should doubt her constancy.
At length, he took us into his closet, where I was extremely surprized
to see him take from a drawer, along with the copies of some of our
friend’s correspondences which I delivered to him, the very original
letters which I thought I had seen burned by B---- in my mother’s
room. Here, said he to me, shewing them to us, are the pledges of my
security; if they deceive me, it would be a folly to depend on any
thing which concerns human nature. I consign my wife and my honour in
charge to her, who, when single and seduced, preferred an act of
benevolence, to a secure and private rendezvous. I trust Eloisa, now
that she is a wife and a mother, to him who, when he had it in his
power to gratify his desires, yet knew how to respect Eloisa when
single and a fond girl. If either of you think so meanly of
yourselves, as to suppose that I am in the wrong, say so, and I
retract this instant. Cousin, do you think that one could easily
venture to make answer to such a speech?
I nevertheless sought an opportunity in the afternoon of speaking with
my husband in private, and without entering into reasons which I was
not at liberty to urge, I only intreated him to put off his journey
for two days. My request was granted immediately; and I employ the
time, in sending you this express and waiting for your answer, to know
how I am to act.
I know that I need but desire my husband not to go at all, and he who
never denied me any thing, will not refuse me so slight a favour. But
I perceive, my dear, that he takes a pleasure in the confidence he
reposes in me, and I am afraid of forfeiting some share of his esteem,
if he should suppose that I have occasion for more reserve than he
allows me. I know likewise, that I need but speak a word to St. Preux,
and that he will accompany my husband without hesitation; but what
will my husband think of the change, and can I take such a step
without preserving an air of authority over St. Preux, which might
seem to entitle him to some privileges in his turn? Besides, I am
afraid, lest he should conclude from this precaution that I find it
absolutely necessary, and this step which at first sight appears most
easy, is the most dangerous perhaps at the bottom. Upon the whole
however I am not ignorant that no consideration should be put in
competition with a real danger, but does this danger exist in fact?
This is the very doubt which you must resolve for me.
The more I examine the present state of my mind, the more I find to
encourage me. My heart is spotless, my conscience calm, I have no
symptoms of fear or uneasiness and with respect to every thing which
passes within me, my sincerity before my husband costs me no trouble.
Not but that certain involuntary recollections sometimes occasion
tender emotions from which I had rather be exempt; but these
recollections are so far from being produced by the sight of him who
was the original cause of them, that they seem to be less frequent
since his return, and however agreeable it is to me to see him, yet,
I know not from what strange humour, it is more agreeable to me to
think of him. In a word, I find that I do not even require the aid of
virtue in order to be composed in his presence, and, exclusive of the
horror of guilt, it would be very difficult to revive those sentiments
which virtue has extinguished.
But is it sufficient, my dear, that my heart encourages me, when
reason ought to alarm me? I have forfeited the right of depending on
my own strength. Who will answer that my confidence, even now, is not
an illusion of vice? How shall I rely on those sentiments which have
so often deceived me? Does not guilt always spring from that pride
which prompts us to despise temptation; and when we defy those dangers
which have occasioned our fall, does it not shew a disposition to
yield again to temptation?
Weigh all these circumstances, my dear Clara, you will find that
though they may be trifling in themselves, they are of sufficient
importance to merit attention, when you consider the object they
concern. Deliver me from the uncertainty into which they have thrown
me. Shew me how I must behave in this critical conjuncture; for my
past errors have affected my judgment, and rendered me diffident in
deciding upon any thing. Whatever you may think of yourself, your
mind, I am certain, is tranquil and composed; objects present
themselves to you such as they are; but in mine, which is agitated
like a troubled sea, they are confounded and disfigured. I no longer
dare to depend upon any thing I see, or any thing I feel, and
notwithstanding so many years repentance, I perceive, with concern,
that the weight of past failings is a burthen we must bear to the end
of our lives.
Letter CXXXII. Answer.
Poor Eloisa! With so much reason to live at ease, what torments you
continually create! All thy misfortunes come from thyself, O Israel!
If you adhered to your own maxims; if, in point of sentiment, you only
hearkened to the voice within you, and your heart did but silence your
reason, you would then without scruple trust to that security it
inspires, and you would not constrain yourself against the testimony
of your own heart, to dread a danger which can arise only from thence.
I understand you, I perfectly understand you, Eloisa; being more
secure in yourself than you pretend to be, you have a mind to humble
yourself on account of your past failings, under a pretence of
preventing new ones; and your scruples are not so much precautions
against the future, as a penance you impose upon yourself to atone for
the indiscretion which ruined you formerly. You compare the times; do
you consider? Compare situations likewise, and remember that I then
reproved you for your confidence, as I now reprove you for your
diffidence.
You are mistaken, my dear; but nature does not alter so soon. If we
can forget our situation for want of reflection, we see it in its true
light when we take pains to consider of it, and we can no more conceal
our virtues than our vices from ourselves. Your gentleness and
devotion have given you a turn for humility. Mistrust that dangerous
virtue which only excites self-love by making it centre in one point,
and be assured that the noble sincerity of an upright mind, is greatly
preferable to the pride of humility. If moderation is necessary in
wisdom, it is requisite likewise in those precautions it suggests,
lest a solicitude which is reproachful to virtue should debase the
mind, and, by keeping us in constant alarm, render a chimerical danger
a real one. Don’t you perceive that after we have had a fall, we
should hold ourselves upright, and that by leaning too much towards
the side opposite to that on which we fell, we are in danger of
falling again? Cousin, you loved like Eloisa. Now, like her, you are
an extravagant devotee; he even said that you may be more successful
in the latter than you were in the former! In truth, if I was less
acquainted with your natural timidity, your apprehensions would be
sufficient to terrify me in my turn, and if I was so scrupulous, I
might, from being alarmed for you, begin to tremble for myself.
Consider farther, my dear friend; you whose system of morality is as
easy and natural as it is pure and honest, do not make constructions
which are harsh and foreign to your character, with respect to your
maxims concerning the separation of the sexes. I agree with you that
they ought not to live together, nor after the same manner; but
consider whether this important rule does not admit of many
distinctions in point of practice; examine whether it ought to be
applied indiscriminately, and without exception to married as well as
to single women, to society in general as well as to particular
connections, to business as well as to amusements, and whether that
honour and decency which inspire these maxims, ought not sometimes to
regulate them? In well governed countries, where the natural relations
of things are attended to in matrimony, you would admit of assemblies
where young persons of both sexes, might see, be acquainted, and
associate with each other; but you prohibit them, with good reason,
from holding any private intercourse. But is not the case quite
different with regard to married women and the mothers of families,
who can have no interest, that is justifiable, in exhibiting
themselves in public; who are confined within doors by their domestic
concerns, and who should not be refused to do any thing at home which
is becoming the mistress of a family? I should not like to see you in
the cellars presenting the wine for the merchants to taste, nor to see
you leave your children to settle accounts with a banker; but if an
honest man should come to visit your husband, or to transact some
business with him, will you refuse to entertain his guest in his
absence; and to do him the honours of the house for fear of being left
_tete a tete_ with him? Trace this principle to its source, and it
will explain all your maxims. Why do we suppose that women ought to
live retired and apart from the men? Shall we do such injustice to our
sex as to account for it upon principles drawn from our weakness, and
that it is only to avoid the danger of temptations? No, my dear, these
unworthy apprehensions do not become an honest woman, and the mother
of a family who is continually surrounded with objects which nourish
in her the sentiments of honour, and who is devoted to the most
respectable duties of human nature. It is nature herself that divides
us from the men, by prescribing to us different occupations; it is
that amiable and timorous modesty, which, without being immediately
attentive to chastity, is nevertheless its surest guardian; it is that
cautious and affecting reserve, which at one and the same time
cherishing both desire and respect in the hearts of men, serves as a
kind of coquetry to virtue. This is the reason why even husbands
themselves are not excepted out of this rule. This is the reason why
the most discreet women generally maintain the greatest ascendancy
over their husbands; because, by the help of this prudent and discreet
reserve, without shewing any caprice or non-compliance, they know,
even in the embraces of the most tender union, how to keep them at a
distance, and prevent their being cloyed with them. You will agree
with me that your maxims are too general not to admit of exceptions,
and that not being founded on any rigorous duty, the same principle
of decorum which established them, may sometimes justify our
dispensing with them.
The circumspection which you ground on your past failings, is
injurious to your present condition; I will never pardon this
unnecessary caution which your heart dictates, and I can scarce
forgive it in your reason. How was it possible that the rampart which
protects your person, could not secure you from such an ignominious
apprehension? How could my cousin, my sister, my friend, my Eloisa,
confound the indiscretions of a girl of too much sensibility, with the
infidelity of a guilty wife? Look around you, you will see nothing but
what contributes to raise and support your mind. Your husband who has
such confidence in you, and whose esteem it becomes you to justify;
your children whom you would train to virtue, and who will one day
deem it an honour that you was their mother; your venerable father who
is so dear to you, who enjoys your felicity, and who derives more
lustre from you than from his ancestors; your friend whose fate
depends on yours, and to whom you must be accountable for a
reformation to which she has contributed; her daughter, to whom you
ought to set an example of those virtues which you would excite in
her; your philosopher, who is a hundred times fonder of your virtues,
than of your person, and who respects you still more than you
apprehend; lastly, yourself, who are sensible what painful efforts
your discretion has cost you, and who will surely never forfeit the
fruit of so much trouble in a single moment; how many motives capable
of inspiring you with courage, conspire to make you ashamed of having
ventured to mistrust yourself! But in order to answer for my Eloisa,
what occasion have I to consider what she is? It is enough that I know
what she was, during the indiscretions which she bewails. Ah! if your
heart had ever been capable of infidelity, I would allow you to be
continually apprehensive: but at the very time when you imagined that
you viewed it at a distance, you may conceive the horror its real
existence would have occasioned you, by what you felt at that time,
when but to imagine it, had been to have committed it.
I recollect with what astonishment we learnt that there was a nation
where the wellness of a fond maid is considered as an inexpiable
crime, though the adultery of a married woman is there softened by the
gentle term of gallantry, and where married women publicly make
themselves amends for the short-lived restraint they undergo while
single. I know what maxims, in this respect, prevail in high life,
where virtue passes for nothing, where every thing is empty
appearance, where crimes are effaced by the difficulty of proving
them, or where the proof itself becomes ridiculous against custom. But
you, Eloisa, you who glowed with a pure and constant passion, who was
guilty only in the eyes of men, and between heaven and earth was open
to no reproach! You, who made yourself respected in the midst of your
indiscretions; you, who being abandoned to fruitless regret, obliged
us even to adore those virtues which you had forfeited; you, who
disdained to endure self-contempt, when every thing seemed to plead in
your excuse, can you be apprehensive of guilt, after having paid so
dearly for your weakness? Will you dare to be afraid that you have
less power now, than you had in those days which cost you so many
tears? No, my dear, so far from being alarmed at your former
indiscretions, they ought to inspire you with courage; so severe a
repentance does not lead to remorse, and whoever is so susceptible of
shame, will never bid defiance to infamy.
If ever a weak mind had supports against its weakness, they are such
as uphold you; if ever a vigorous mind was capable of supporting
itself, what prop can yours require? Tell me, what reasonable grounds
there can be for your apprehensions? All your life has been a
continual struggle, in which, even after your defeat, honour and duty
never ceased opposition, and at length came off victorious. Ah!
Eloisa! shall I believe that, after so much pain and torment, after
twelve years passed in tears, and six spent gloriously, that you still
dread a trial of eight days? In few words, deal sincerely with
yourself; if there really is any danger, save your person, and blush
at the condition of your heart; if there is no danger, it is an
offence to your reason, it is a dishonour to your virtue to be
apprehensive of perils which can never affect it. Do you not know that
there are some scandalous temptations which never approach noble
minds; that it is even shameful to be under a necessity of subduing
them, and that to take precautions against them, is not so much to
humble, as to debase ourselves?
I do not presume to give you my arguments as unanswerable, but only to
convince you that yours may be controverted, and that is sufficient to
warrant my advice. Do not depend on yourself, for you do not know how
to do yourself justice, nor on me; who even in your indiscretions
never considered any thing but your heart and always adored you; but
refer to your husband who sees you such as you are, and judges of you,
exactly according to your real worth. Being, like all people of
sensibility, ready to judge ill of those who appear insensible, I
mistrusted his power of penetration into the secrets of susceptible
minds, but since the arrival of our traveller, I find by his letters
that he reads yours perfectly well, and that there is not a single
emotion which escapes his observation. I find his remarks so just and
acute, that I have almost changed my opinion to the other extreme; and
I shall readily believe that your dispassionate people, who consult
their eyes more than their hearts, judge better of other men’s
passions, than your impetuous lively and vain persons like myself, who
always begin by supposing themselves in another’s place, and can never
see any thing but what they feel. However it be, Mr. Wolmar is
thoroughly acquainted with you, he esteems you, he loves you, and his
destiny is blended with yours. What does he require, but that you
would leave to him the entire direction of your conduct, with which
you are afraid to trust yourself? Perhaps finding old age coming on,
he is desirous, by some trials on which he may depend, to prevent
those uneasy jealousies, which an old husband generally feels who is
married to a young wife; perhaps the design he has in view requires
that you should live in a state of familiarity with your friend,
without alarming either your husband or yourself; perhaps he only
means to give you a testimony of confidence and esteem, worthy of that
which he entertains for you. You should never oppose such sentiments,
as if the weight of them was too much for you to endure; and for my
part, I think, that you cannot act more agreeably to the dictates of
prudence and modesty, than by relying entirely on his tenderness and
understanding.
Could you, without offending Mr. Wolmar, punish yourself for a vanity
you never had, and prevent a danger which no longer exists? Remain
alone with the philosopher, use all the superfluous precautions
against him, which would formerly have been of such service to you;
maintain the same reserve as if you still mistrusted your own heart
and his, as well as your own virtue. Avoid all pathetic conversation,
all tender recollection of time past; break off or prevent long _tete
a tete_ interviews; be constantly surrounded by your children; do not
stay long with him in a room, in elysium, or in the grove notwithstanding
the profanation. Above all things, use these precautions in so
natural a manner, that they may seem to be the effect of chance, and
that he may never once suspect that you are afraid of him. You love to
go upon the water; but you deprive yourself of the pleasure on account
of your husband who is afraid of that element, and of your children
whom you do not chuse to venture there. Take the advantage of this
absence, to entertain yourself with this recreation, and leave your
children to the care of Fanny. By this means you may securely devote
yourself to the sweet familiarity of friendship, and quietly enjoy a
long _tete a tete_ under the protection of the watermen, who see
without understanding, and from whom we cannot go far without thinking
what we are about.
A thought strikes me which many people would laugh at, but which will
be agreeable to you, I am sure; that is to keep an exact journal in
your husband’s absence, to shew him on his return, and to think on
this journal, with regard to every circumstance which is to be set
down in it. In truth, I do not believe that such an expedient would be
of service to many women; but a sincere mind, incapable of deceit, has
many resources against vice, which others stand in need of. We ought
to despise nothing which tends to preserve a purity of manners, and it
is by means of trifling precautions, that great virtues are secured.
Upon the whole, as your husband is to see me in his way, he will tell
me, I hope, the true reasons of his journey, and if I do not find them
substantial, I will persuade him from proceeding any farther, or at
all events, I will do what he has refused to do: upon this you may
depend. In the mean time, I think I have said enough to fortify you
against a trial of eight days. Go, Eloisa, I know you too well not to
answer for you as much, nay more than I could for myself. You will
always be what you ought to be, and what you desire to be. If you do
but rely on the integrity of your own mind, you will run no risk
whatever; for I have no faith in these unforeseen defects; it is in
vain to disguise voluntary failings by the idle appellation of
weaknesses; no woman was ever yet overcome who had not an inclination
to surrender; and if I thought that such a fate could attend you,
believe me, trust to the tenderness of my friendship, rely on all the
sentiments which would arise in the heart of your poor Clara, I should
be too sensibly interested in your protection, to abandon you entirely
to yourself.
As to what Mr. Wolmar declared to you concerning the intelligence he
received before your marriage, I am not much surprized at it; you know
I always suspected it; and I will tell you, moreover, that my
suspicions are not confined to the indiscretions of B----. I could
never suppose that a man of truth and integrity like your father, and
who had some suspicions at least himself, would resolve to impose upon
his son-in-law and his friend. If he engaged you so strictly to
secrecy, it was because the mode of discovery would come from him in a
very different manner to what it would have proceeded from you, and
because he was willing no doubt to give it a turn less likely to
disgust Mr. Wolmar, than that which he very well knew you would not
fail to give it yourself. But I must dismiss your messenger, we will
chat about there matters more at our leisure about a month hence.
Farewell, my dearest cousin, I have preached long enough to the
preacher; resume your old occupation.----I find myself quite uneasy
that I cannot be with you yet. I disorder all my affairs, by hurrying
to dispatch them, and I scarce know what to do. Ah Chaillot,
Chaillot... If I was less giddy...but I always hope that I shall----
P. S. A propos; I forgot to make my compliments to your highness. Tell
me, I beseech you, is the gentleman your husband Atteman, Knes, or
Boyard? [63] O poor child! You, who have so often lamented being born
a gentlewoman, are in high luck to become the wife of a prince!
Between ourselves nevertheless you discover apprehensions which are
somewhat vulgar for a woman of such high quality. Do not you know,
that little scruples belong to mean people; and that a child of a good
family, who should pretend to be his father’s son, would be laughed
at.
Letter CXXXIII. Mr. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
I am going to Etange, my sweet cousin, and I proposed to call upon you
in my way; but a delay of which you are the cause obliges me to make
more haste, and I had rather lie at Lausanne as I come back, that I
may pass a few hours the more with you. Besides I want to consult you
with regard to many particulars, which it is proper to communicate
before hand that you may have time to consider of them before you give
me your opinion.
I would not explain my scheme to you in relation to the young man,
till his presence had confirmed the good opinion I had conceived of
him. I think I may now depend upon him sufficiently to acquaint you,
between ourselves, that my design is to entrust him with the education
of my children. I am not ignorant that those important concerns are
the principal duty of a parent; but when it will be time to exert
them, I shall be too old to discharge them, and being naturally calm
and speculative by constitution, I should never have been sufficiently
active to govern the spirit of youth. Besides for a reason you know,
[64] Eloisa would be concerned to see me assume an office, in which I
should never acquit myself to her liking. I have a thousand reasons
besides; your sex is not equal to these duties; their mother shall
confine herself to the education of her Henrietta; to your share I
allot the management of the houshold upon the plan already
established, and of which you approve; and it shall be my business to
behold three worthy people concurring to promote the happiness of the
family, and to enjoy that repose in my old age, for which I shall be
indebted to their labours.
I have always found, that my wife was extremely averse from trusting
her children to the care of mercenaries, and I could not discommend
her scruples. The respectable capacity of a preceptor requires so many
talents which are not to be paid for, so many virtues which have no
piece set upon them, that it is in vain to think of procuring one by
means of money. It is from a man of genius only that we can expect the
talents of a preceptor; it is from the heart of an affectionate friend
alone that we can hope to meet with the zeal of a parent; and genius
is not to be sold any more than attachment.
All the requisite qualities seem to be united in your friend; and if I
am well acquainted with his disposition, I do not think he would
desire greater happiness, than to make those beloved children
contribute to their mother’s felicity. The only obstacle I can foresee
is his affection for Lord B----, which will not allow him to disengage
himself from so dear a friend, to whom he has such great obligations,
at least if his Lordship does not require it himself. We expect to see
this extraordinary man very soon; and as you have a great ascendancy
over him, if he answers the idea you have given me of him, I may
commit the business, so far as it relates to him, to your management.
You have now, my dear cousin, the clue of my whole conduct, which,
without this explanation, must have appeared very extraordinary, and
which, I hope, will hereafter meet with Eloisa’s approbation and
yours. The advantage of having such a wife as I have, made me try many
expedients which would have been impracticable with another. Though I
leave her, in full confidence, with her old lover, under no other
guard than her own virtue, it would be madness to establish that lover
in my family, before I was certain that he ceased to be such; and how
could I be assured of it, if I had a wife on whom I had less
dependence?
I have often observed you smile at my remarks on love; but now I
think I can mortify you. I have made a discovery which neither you nor
any other woman, with all the subtlety they attribute to your sex,
would ever have made; the proof of which you will nevertheless
perceive at first sight, and you will allow it to be equal to
demonstration, when I explain to you the principles on which I ground
it. Was I to tell you that my young couple are more fond than ever,
this undoubtedly would not appear wonderful to you. Was I to assure
you on the contrary, that they are perfectly cured; you know the power
of reason and virtue, and therefore you would not look upon that
neither as a vast miracle: but if I tell you, that both these
opposites are true at the same time; that they love each other with
more ardor than ever, and that nothing subsists between them but a
virtuous, attachment; that they are always lovers, and yet never more
than friends: this, I imagine is what you would least expect, what
you will have more difficulty to conceive, and what nevertheless
precisely corresponds with truth.
This is the riddle, which makes those frequent contradictions, which
you must have observed in them, both in their conversation and in
their letters. What you wrote to Eloisa concerning the picture, has
served more than any thing to explain the mystery, and I find that
they are always sincere, even in contradicting themselves continually.
When I say they, I speak particularly of the young man; for as to your
friend, one can only speak of her by conjecture. A veil of wisdom and
honour makes so many folds about her heart, that it is impenetrable to
human eyes, even to her own. The only circumstance which leads me to
imagine that she has still some distrust to overcome is, that she is
continually considering with herself what she should do if she was
perfectly cured; and she examines herself with so much accuracy, that
if she was really cured, she would not do it so well.
As to your friend, who, though virtuously inclined, is less
apprehensive of his present feelings, I find that he still retains all
the affections of his youth; but I perceive them without having any
reason to be offended at them. It is not Eloisa Wolmar he is fond of,
but Eloisa Etange; he does not hate me as the possessor of the object
I love, but as the ravisher of her whom he doated on. His friend’s
wife is not his mistress, the mother of two children is not her who
was formerly his scholar. It is true she is very like that person, and
often puts him in mind of her. He loves her in the time past. This is
the true explanation of the riddle. Deprive him of his memory, and you
destroy his love.
This is not an idle subtlety, my pretty cousin, but a solid
observation, which, if extended to other affections, may admit of a
more general application, than one would imagine. I even think that,
it would not be difficult to explain it by your own ideas. The time,
when you parted the two lovers, was when their passion was at the
highest degree of impetuosity. Perhaps, if they had continued much
longer together, they would gradually have grown cool; but their
imagination, being strongly affected, constantly presented each to the
other in the light in which they appeared at the time of their
separation. The young man, not perceiving those alterations which the
progress of time made in his mistress, loved her such as he had seen
her formerly, not such as she was then. [65] To compleat his
happiness, it would not have been enough to have given him possession
of her, unless she could have been given to him at the same age; and
under the same circumstances she was in, when their loves commenced.
The least alteration in these particulars would have lessened so much
of the felicity he proposed to himself; she is grown handsomer, but
she is altered, her improvement, in that sense, turns to her
prejudice; for it is of his former mistress, not of any other, that he
is enamoured.
What deceives him, is, that he confounds the times, and often
reproaches himself on account of a passion which he thinks present,
and which in fact is nothing more than the effect of too tender a
recollection; but I do not know, whether it will not be better to
accomplish his cure, than to undeceive him. Perhaps, in this respect,
we may reap more advantage from his mistake, than from his better
judgment. To discover to him the true state of his affections, would
be to apprize him of the death of the object he loved; this might be
an affliction dangerous to him, inasmuch as a state of melancholy is
always favourable to love.
Freed from the scruples which restrain him, he would probably be more
inclined to indulge recollections which he ought to stifle; he would
converse with less reserve, and the traces of Eloisa are not so
effaced in Mrs. Wolmar, but upon examination he might find them again.
I have thought, that instead of undeceiving him with respect to his
opinion of the progress he has made, and which encourages him to
pursue it to the end, we should rather endeavour to banish the
remembrance of those times which he ought to forget, by skilfully
substituting other ideas in the room of those he is so fond of. You,
who contributed to give them birth, may contribute more than any one
to efface them: but I shall wait till we are all together, that I may
tell you in your ear what you shall do for this purpose; a charge,
which if I am not mistaken, will not be very burthensome to me. In the
mean time, I endeavour to make the objects of his dread familiar to
him, by presenting them to him in such a manner, that he may no longer
think them dangerous. He is impetuous, but tractable and easily
managed. I avail myself of this advantage to give a turn to his
imagination. In the room of his mistress, I compel him always to look
at the wife of his friend, and the mother of my children; I efface one
picture by another, and hide the past with the present. We always ride
a startish horse up to the object which frights him, that he may not
be frightened at it again. We should act in the same manner with
those young people, whose imaginations are on fire even after their
affections are grown cold, and whose fancy presents monsters at a
distance, which disappear as they draw nearer.
I think I am well acquainted with the strength of both, and I do not
expose them to a trial which they cannot support: for wisdom does not
consist in using all kinds of precautions indiscriminately, but in
choosing those which are really useful, and in neglecting such as are
superfluous. The eight days, during which I leave them together, will
perhaps be sufficient for them to discover the true state of their
minds, and to know in what relation they really stand to each other.
The oftener they perceive themselves in private with each other, the
sooner they will find out their mistake, by comparing their present
sensations with those they felt formerly, when they were in the same
situation. Besides, it is of importance that they should use
themselves to endure, without danger, that state of familiarity, in
which they must necessarily live together, if my schemes take place. I
find by Eloisa’s conduct, that you have given her advice, which she
could not refuse taking, without wronging herself. What pleasure I
should take in giving her this proof that I am sensible of her real
worth, if she was a woman with whom a husband might make a merit of
such confidence! But if she gains nothing over her affections, her
virtue will still be the same; it will cost her dearer, and she will
not triumph the less. Whereas if she is still in danger of feeling any
inward uneasiness, it can arise only from some moving conversation,
which she must be too sensible before hand will awaken recollection,
and which she will therefore always avoid. Thus, you see, you must not
in this instance judge of my conduct by common maxims, but from the
motives which actuate me, and from the singular disposition of her
towards whom I shall regulate my behaviour.
Farewell, my dear cousin, till my return. Though I have not entered
into these explanations with Eloisa, I do not desire you to keep them
secret from her. It is a maxim with me, never to make secrets among my
friends; therefore I commit these to your discretion; make that use of
them which your prudence and friendship will direct. I know you will
do nothing, but what is best and most proper.
Letter CXXIV. To Lord B----.
Mr. Wolmar set out yesterday for Etange, and you can scarce conceive
in what a melancholy state his departure has left me. I think the
absence of his wife would not have affected me so much as his. I find
myself under greater restraint, than even when he is present; a
mournful silence takes possession of my heart; its murmurs are stifled
by a secret dread; and, being less tormented with desires than
apprehensions, I experience all the horrors of guilt, without being
exposed to the temptations of it.
Can you imagine, my Lord, where my mind gains confidence, and loses
these unworthy dreads? In the presence of Mrs. Wolmar. As soon as I
approach her, the sight of her pacifies my inquietude; her looks
purify my heart. Such is the ascendency of hers, that it always seems
to inspire others with a sense of her innocence, and to confer that
composure which is the effect of it. Unluckily for me, her system of
life does not allow her to devote the whole day to the society of her
friends; and in those moments which I am obliged to pass out of her
company, I should suffer less, if I was farther distant from her.
What contributes to feed the melancholy which oppresses me, is a
reflection which she made yesterday after her husband’s departure.
Though till that moment she kept up her spirits tolerably, yet for a
long time her eyes followed him with an air of tenderness, which I
then imagined was only occasioned by the departure of that happy
husband; but I found by her conversation, that the emotion was to be
imputed to another cause, which was a secret to me. You see, said she,
in what manner we live together, and you may judge whether he is dear
to me. Do not imagine; however, that the sentiment which attaches me
to him, though as tender and as powerful as that of love, is likewise
susceptible of its weakness. If an interruption of the agreeable habit
of living together is painful to us, we are consoled by the firm hope
of resuming the same habit again. A fate of such permanence admits few
vicissitudes which we have reason to dread; and in an absence of a few
days, the pain of so short an interval does not affect me so strongly,
as the pleasure of seeing an end to it. The affliction, which you read
in my eyes, proceeds from a more weighty cause, and though it is
relative to Mr. Wolmar, it is not occasioned by his departure.
My dear friend, she continued, with an affecting tone, there is no
true happiness on earth. My husband is one of the most worthy and
affectionate of men; the duty which incites us is cemented by mutual
inclination; he has no desires but mine; I have children which give,
and promise pleasure hereafter to their mother; there cannot be a more
affectionate, virtuous, and amiable friend, than her whom my heart
doats on, and with whom I shall pass my days; you yourself contribute
to my felicity, by having so well justified my esteem and affection
for you; a long and expensive law-suit, which is nearly finished, will
soon bring the best of fathers to my arms; every thing prospers with
us; peace and order reign throughout the family; our servants are
zealous and faithful; our neighbours express every kind of attachment
to us; we enjoy the good will of the public. Blest with every thing
which heaven, fortune, and men can bestow, all things conspire to my
happiness. A secret uneasiness, one trouble only, poisons all, and I
am not happy. She uttered these last words with a sigh, which pierced
my soul, and which I had no share in raising. She is not happy, said
I, sighing in my turn, and I am no longer an obstacle to her felicity!
That melancholy thought disordered my ideas in a moment, and disturbed
the repose which I began to taste. Unable to endure the intolerable
state of doubt into which her conversation had thrown me, I importuned
her so eagerly to disclose her whole mind to me, that at length she
deposited the fatal secret with me, and allows me to communicate it to
you. But this is the hour of recreation, Mrs. Wolmar is come out of
the nursery to walk with her children, she has just told me as much. I
attend her, my Lord; I leave you for the present; and I shall resume,
in my next, the subject I am now obliged to quit.
Letter CXXXV. Mrs. Wolmar to her Husband.
I expect you next Tuesday according to your appointment, and you will
find every thing disposed agreeable to your desire. Call on Mrs. Orbe
in your way back; she will tell you what has passed during your
absence; I had rather you should learn it from her than from me.
I thought, Mr. Wolmar, I had deserved your esteem; but your conduct is
not the more prudent, and you sport most cruelly with your wife’s
virtue.
Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.
I must give you an account, my Lord, of a danger we have incurred
within these few days, and from whence we are happily delivered at the
expense of a little terror and fatigue. This relation very well
deserves a letter by itself; when you read it, you will perceive the
motives which engage me to write.
You know that Mrs. Wolmar’s house is not far from the lake, and that
she is fond of the water. It is three days since her husband’s absence
has left us without employment; and the pleasantness of the evening
made us form a scheme for one of these parties the next day. Soon as
the sun was up, we went to the river’s side; we took a boat with nets
for fishing, three rowers, and a servant, and we embarked with some
provisions for dinner. I took a fowling-piece to knock down some
besolets, [66] but was ashamed to kill birds out of wantonness, and
only for the pleasure of doing mischief. I amused myself therefore in
observing the siflets, the crenets, [67] and I fired but once at a
grebe, at a great distance, which I missed.
We passed an hour or two in fishing within 500 paces of the shore. We
had good success, but Eloisa had them all thrown into the water again,
except a trout which had received a blow from the oar. The animals,
said she, are in pain; let us deliver them; let us enjoy the pleasure
they will feel on escaping from danger. This operation, however, was
performed slowly, and against the grain, not without some
representations against it; and I found that our gentry would have had
a much better relish for the fish they had catched, than for the moral
which saved their lives.
We then launched farther into the lake; soon after, with all the
vivacity of a young man, which it is time for me to check, undertaking
to manage the master oar, I rowed the boat into the middle of the
lake, so that we were soon above a league from shore. Then I explained
to Eloisa every part of that superb horizon which environed us. I
shewed her at a distance the mouth of the Rhone, whose impetuous
current stops on a sudden within a quarter of a league, as if it was
afraid to sully the chrystal azure of the lake with its muddy waters.
I made her observe the redans of the mountains, whose correspondent
angles, running parallel, formed a bed in the space between, fit to
receive the river which occupied it. As we got farther from shore, I
had great pleasure in making her take notice of the rich and
delightful banks of the _Pays de Vaud_, where the vast number of
towns, the prodigious throng of people, with the beautiful and verdant
hills all around, formed a most ravishing landscape: where every spot
of ground, being cultivated and equally fertile, supplies the
husbandman, the shepherd, and the vinedresser with the certain fruits
of their labours, which are not devoured by the greedy publican.
Afterwards I pointed out _Chablais_, a country not less favoured by
nature, and which nevertheless affords nothing but a spectacle of
wretchedness; I made her perceive the manifest distinction between the
different effects of the two governments, with respect to the riches,
number and happiness, of the inhabitants. It is thus, said I, that the
earth expands her fruitful bosom, and lavishes treasures among those
happy people who cultivate it for themselves. She seems to smile and
be enlivened, at the sweet aspect of liberty; she loves to nourish
mankind. On the contrary, the mournful ruins, the heath and brambles
which cover a half desert country, proclaim from afar that it is under
the dominion of an absent proprietor, and that it yields with
reluctance a scanty produce to slaves who reap no advantage from it.
While we were agreeably amusing ourselves with viewing the
neighbouring coasts, a gale arising, which drove us aslant towards the
opposite shore, began to blow very high, and when we thought to tack
about, the resistance was so strong that it was impossible for our
slight boat to overcome it. The waves soon began to grow dreadful; we
endeavoured to make for the coast of Savoy, and tried to land at the
village of Meillerie which was over against us, and the only place
almost where the shore affords a convenient landing. But the wind,
changing and blowing stronger, rendered all the endeavours of the
watermen ineffectual, and discovered to us a range of steep rocks
somewhat lower, where there was no shelter.
We all tugged at our oars, and at that instant I had the mortification
to perceive Eloisa grow sick, and see her weak and fainting at the
bottom of the boat. Happily she had been used to the water, and her
sickness did not last long. In the mean time, our efforts increased
with our danger; the heat of the sun, the fatigue, and profuse
sweating, took away our breaths, and made us excessively faint. Then
summoning all her courage, Eloisa revived our spirits by her
compassionate kindness; she wiped the sweat from off each of our
faces; and mixing some wine and water, for fear of intoxication, she
presented it alternately to those who were most exhausted. No, your
lovely friend never appeared with such lustre as at that moment, when
the heat and the agitation of her spirits gave an additional glow to
her complexion; and what greatly improved her charms, was that you
might plainly perceive, by the tenderness of her behaviour, that her
solicitude proceeded less from apprehensions for herself than
compassion for us. At one time, two planks having started by a shock
which dipt us all, she concluded that the boat was split, and in the
exclamation of that affectionate mother, I heard these words
distinctly: O my children, must I never see you more! As for my self,
whose imagination always exceeds the danger, though I knew the utmost
of our perilous condition, yet I expected every minute to see the boat
swallowed up, that delicate beauty struggling in the midst of the
waves, and the roses upon her cheeks chilled by the cold hand of
death.
At length, by dint of labour, we reached Meillerie; and after having
struggled above an hour within ten paces of the shore, we at last
compassed our landing. When we had landed, all our fatigues were
forgotten. Eloisa took upon herself to recompense the trouble which
every one had taken; and as in the height of danger her concern was
for us, she seemed now on shore to imagine that we had saved nobody
but her.
We dined with that appetite, which is the gift of hard labour. The
trout was served up: Eloisa, who was extremely fond of it, eat but
little; and I perceived, that to make the watermen amends for the
regret which the late sacrifice cost them, she did not chuse that I
should eat much myself. My Lord, you have observed a thousand times
that her amiable disposition is to be seen in trifles as well as in
matters of consequence.
After dinner, the water being still rough, and the boat wanting to be
refitted, I proposed taking a walk. Eloisa objected to the wind and
sun, and took notice of my being fatigued. I had my views, and I
obviated all her objections. I have been accustomed, said I, to
violent exercise from my infancy: far from hurting my health, they
strengthen my constitution; and my late voyage has still made me more
robust. As to the sun and wind, you have your straw hat, and we will
get under the wind and in the woods; we need only climb among the
rocks, and you who are not fond of a flat, will willingly bear the
fatigue. She consented, and we set out while our people were at
dinner.
You know, that when I was banished from Valais, I came, about ten
years ago, to Meillerie, to wait for leave to return. It was there I
passed those melancholy but pleasing days, solely intent upon her; and
it was from thence I wrote her that letter, with which she was so
strongly affected. I always wished to re-visit that lovely retreat,
which served me as an asylum in the midst of ice, and where my heart
loved to converse, in idea, with the object of all others most dear to
its affections. An opportunity of visiting this beloved spot in a more
agreeable season, and in company with her whose image formerly dwelt
there with me, was the secret motive of my walk. I took a pleasure in
pointing out to her those old memorials of such a constant and
unfortunate passion.
We got thither after an hour’s walk through cool and winding paths,
which ascending insensibly, between the trees and the rocks, were no
otherwise inconvenient than by being tedious. As we drew near, and I
recollected former tokens, I found myself a little disordered; but I
overcame it, I concealed my uneasiness, and we reached the place. This
solitary spot formed a wild and desert nook, but full of those sorts
of beauties, which are only agreeable to susceptible minds, and appear
horrible to others. A torrent, occasioned by the melting of the snow,
rolled in a muddy stream within twenty paces of us, and carried dirt,
sand, and stones along with it, not without considerable noise. Behind
us, a chain of inaccessible rocks divided the place where we stood
from that part of the Alps which they call the Ice-houses, because
from the beginning of the world, they have been covered with vast
mountains of ice, which are continually increasing. [68] Forests of
gloomy fir-trees afforded us a melancholy shade on the right. On the
left was a large wood of oak beyond which the torrent issued, and
beneath that vast body of water, which the lake forms in the bay of
the Alps, parted us from the rich coast of the _Pays de Vaud_,
crowning the whole landscape with the top of the majestic Jura.
In the midst of these noble and superb objects, the little spot where
we were, displayed all the charms of an agreeable and rural retreat;
small floods of water filtered through the rocks, and flowed along the
verdure in chrystal streams. Some wild fruit trees leaned their heads
over ours; the cool and moist earth was covered with grass and
flowers. Comparing this agreeable retreat with the objects which
surrounded us, one would have thought that this desert spot was
designed as an asylum for two lovers, who alone had escaped the
general wreck of nature.
When we had reached this corner, and I had attentively examined it for
some time, Now, said I to Eloisa, looking at her with eyes swimming in
tears, is your heart perfectly still in this place, and do you feel no
secret emotion at the sight of a spot which is full of you?
Immediately, without waiting for her answer, I led her towards the
rock, and shewed her where her cypher was engraved in a thousand
places, with several verses in Petrarch and Tasso relative to the
state I was in when I engraved them. On seeing them again at such a
distance of time, I found how powerfully the review of these objects
renewed my former violent sensations. I addressed her with some degree
of impetuosity: O Eloisa, the everlasting delight of my soul! This is
the spot, where the most constant lover in the world formerly sighed
for thee. This is the retreat, where thy beloved image made all the
scene of his felicity, and prepared him for that happiness which you
yourself afterwards dispensed. No fruit or shade were then to be found
here: these compartments were not then furnished with verdure or
flowers; the course of these streams did not then make these
separations, these birds did not chirp then, the voracious sparhawk,
the dismal crow, and the dreadful eagle alone made these caverns echo
with their cries; huge lumps of ice hung from these rocks; festoons of
snow were all the ornaments which bedecked these trees; every thing
here bore marks of the rigour of winter and hoary frost; the ardor of
my affection alone made this place supportable, and I spent whole days
here wrapt in thought of thee. Here is the stone where I used to sit,
to reflect on your happy abode at a distance; on this I penned that
letter which moved your heart; these sharp flints served me as graving
tools to cut out your name; here I crossed that frozen torrent to
regain one of your letters which the wind carried off; there I came to
review and give a thousand kisses to the last you ever wrote to me;
this is the brink where, with a gloomy and greedy eye, I measured the
depth of this abyss: in short, it was here that, before my sad
departure, I came to bewail you as dead, and swore never to survive
you. O thou lovely fair one, too constantly adored, thou for whom
alone I was born! Must I revisit this spot with you by my side, and
must I regret the time I spent here in bewailing your absence?... I was
proceeding further; but Eloisa perceiving me draw near the brink, was
affrighted, and seizing my hand pressed it without speaking, a word,
looked tenderly upon me, and could scarce suppress a rising sigh; soon
after turning from me and taking me by the arm, Let us be gone, my
friend, said she, with a tone of emotion, the air of this place is not
good for me. I went with her sighing, but without making her any
answer; and I quitted that melancholy spot for ever, with as much
regret, as I would have taken leave of Eloisa herself.
We came back gently to the harbour after some few deviations, and
parted. She chose to be alone, and I continued walking without knowing
whither I went. At my return, the boat not being yet ready, nor the
water smooth, we made a melancholy supper, with down-cast eyes; and
pensive looks, eating little and talking still less. After supper, we
sat on the strand, waiting an opportunity to go off. The moon shone on
a sudden, the water became smoother, and Eloisa proposed our
departure. I handed her into the boat, and when I sat down by her, I
never thought of quitting her hand. We kept a profound silence. The
equal and measured sound of the oars threw me into a reverie. The
lively chirping of the snipes, [69] recalling to my mind the pleasures
of a past period, made me dull. By degrees I found the melancholy
which oppressed me increase. A serene sky, the mild reflection of the
moon, the silver froth of the water which sparkled around us, the
concurrence of agreeable sensations; even the presence of the beloved
object herself, could not banish bitter reflections from my mind.
I began with recollecting a walk of the same kind which we took
together, during the rapture of our early loves. All the pleasing
sensations which then affected me, were present to my mind, to torment
me the more; all the adventures of our youth, our studies, our
entertainments, our letters, our assignations, our pleasures,
_E tanta fede, e si dolci memorie,
E si lungo costume!_
This croud of little objects, which recalled the image of my past
happiness, all pressed upon me and rushed into my memory, to increase
my present wretchedness. It is past, said I to myself, those times,
those happy times will be no more; they are gone for ever! Alas! they
will never return; and yet we live, and we are together, and our
hearts are still united! I seemed as if I could have endured her death
or her absence with more patience; and thought that I had suffered
less all the time I was parted from her. When I bewailed her at a
distance, the hope of seeing her again was comfort to my soul; I
flattered myself that the sight of her would banish all my sorrows in
an instant, at least I could conceive it possible to be in a more
cruel situation than my own. But to be by her side; to see her, to
touch her, to talk to her, to love her, to adore her, and, whilst I
almost enjoyed her again, to find her lost to me for ever; this is
what threw me into such fits of fury and rage, as by degrees agitated
me even to despair. My mind soon began to conceive deadly projects,
and in a transport, which I yet tremble to think of, I was violently
tempted to throw her with myself into the waves, and to end my days
and tedious torments in her arms. This horrid temptation grew so
strong at last, that I was obliged suddenly to quit her hand and walk
to the other end of the boat.
There my lively emotions began to take another turn; a more gentle
sensation by degrees stole upon my mind, and tenderness overcame
despair; I began to shed floods of tears, and that condition, compared
to the state I had just been in, was not unattended with pleasure. I
wept heartily for a long time, and found myself easier. When I was
tolerably composed, I returned to Eloisa, and took her by the hand
again. She held her handkerchief in her hand, which I found wet. Ah!
said I to her softly, I find that our hearts have not ceased to
sympathize! True, said she, in a broken accent, but may it be the last
time they ever correspond in this manner! We then began to talk about
indifferent matters, and after an hour’s rowing, we arrived without
any other accident. When we came in, I perceived that her eyes were
red and much swelled; and she must have discovered that mine were not
in a better condition. After the fatigue of this day, she stood in
great need of rest: she withdrew, and I went to bed.
Such, my friend, is the journal of the day, in which, without
exception, I experienced the most lively emotions I ever felt. I hope
they will prove a crisis, which will entirely restore me to myself.
Moreover I must tell you that this adventure has convinced me more
than all the power of argument, of the free-will of man, and the merit
of virtue. How many people yield to weak temptations? As for Eloisa,
my eyes beheld, and my heart felt her emotions: she underwent the most
violent struggle that day that ever human nature sustained;
nevertheless she conquered. O my Lord, when, seduced by your mistress,
you had power at once to triumph over her desires and your own, was
you not more than man? But for your example I had, perhaps, been lost.
The recollection of your virtue, renewed my own a hundred times in
that perilous day.
Letter CXXXV. [70] From Lord B----.
Awake, my friend, and emerge from childhood. Let not your reason
slumber to the end of your life. The hours glide imperceptibly away,
and ’tis now high time for you to grow wise. At thirty years of age
surely a man should begin to reflect. Reflect, therefore, and be a
man, at least once before you die.
Your heart, my dear friend, has long imposed on your understanding.
You strove to philosophize before you were capable of it, mistaking
your feelings for reason, and judging of things by the impressions
they made on you, which has always kept you ignorant of their real
state. A good heart, I will own, is indispensably necessary to the
knowledge of truth: he who feels nothing can learn nothing; he may
float from error to error in a sea of scepticism, but his discoveries
will be vain, and his information fruitless, being ignorant of the
relation of things to man, on which all true science depends. It were
to stop half-way, however, in our pursuits after knowledge, not to
enquire also into the relation of things to each other, in order to be
better able to judge of their connection with ourselves. To know the
nature and operation of our passions is to know little, if we know
not, at the same time, how to judge of and estimate their objects.
This latter knowledge is to be acquired only in the tranquility of
studious retirement. The youth of the philosopher is the time for
experiment, his passions being the instrument of his inquiries; but
after having applied himself long enough to the perception of external
objects, he retires within himself to consider, to compare, to know
them. To this task you ought to apply yourself sooner than any other
person in the world. All the pleasures and pains, of which a
susceptible mind is capable, you have felt; all that a man can see,
you have seen. In the space of twelve years you have exhausted all
those sensations, which might have served you during a long life, and
have acquired even in youth the extensive experience of age. The first
observations you were led to make, were on simple, unpolished
villagers, on persons almost such as they came out of the hand of
nature; just as if they had been presented to you for the ground-work
of your piece, or as proper objects by which to compare every other.
Banished next to the metropolis of one of the most celebrated people
in the universe, you leaped, as one may say, from one extremity to the
other, your genius supplying all the intermediate degrees. Then
visiting the only nation of men, which remains among the various herds
that are scattered over the face of the earth, you had an opportunity
of seeing a well governed society, or at least a society under a good
government; you had there an opportunity of observing how far the
public voice is the foundation of liberty. You have travelled thro’
all climates, and have visited all countries beneath the sun. Add to
this a sight still more worthy admiration, that which you enjoy in the
presence of a sublime and refined soul, triumphant over its passion,
and ruling over itself. The first object of your affections is that
which is now daily before you, your admiration of which is but the
better founded for your having seen and contemplated so many others.
There is now nothing more worth your attention or concern. The only
object of your future contemplation should be yourself, that of your
future enjoyment the fruits of your knowledge. You have lived enough
for this life; think now of living for that which is to come, and
which will last for ever.
Your passions, by which you were so long enslaved, did not deprive you
of your virtue. This is all your boast, and doubtless you have reason
to glory in it; yet be not too proud. Your very fortitude is the
effect of your weakness. Do you know how it came that you grew
enamoured of virtue? It was because virtue always appeared to your
imagination in the amiable form of that lovely woman, by whom she is
so truly represented, and whose image you will always adore. But will
you never love her for her own sake? Will you never, like Eloisa,
court virtue of your own accord? Vain and indolent enthusiast! Will
you content yourself with barely admiring her virtues, without
attempting to imitate them? You speak, in rapture, of the manner in
which she discharges the important duties of wife and mother; but when
will you discharge those of a man and a friend, by her example? Shall
a woman be able to triumph over herself, and a philosopher find it so
difficult to conquer his passions? Will you continue to be always a
mere prater, like the rest of them, and be content to write good
books, instead of doing good actions? [71] Take care, my friend; I
still perceive an air of softness and effeminacy in your writing,
which displeases me, as I think it rather the effect of an
unextinguished passion than peculiar to your character. I hate
imbecility in any one, and cannot bear the thoughts of it in my
friend. There is no such thing as virtue without fortitude, for
pusillanimity is the certain attendant on vice. How dare you rely on
your own strength, who have no courage? Believe me, were Eloisa as
weak as you, the very first opportunity would debase you into an
infamous adulterer. While you remain alone with her, therefore, learn
to know her worth, and blush at your own demerit.
I hope soon to be able to see you at Clarens: you know the motives of
my desiring to see Italy again. Twelve years of mistakes and troubles
have rendered me suspicious of myself; to resist my inclinations,
however, my own abilities might suffice; but to give the preference of
one to the other, to know which I should indulge, requires the
assistance of a friend: nor shall I take less pleasure in being
obliged to him on this occasion, than I have done in obliging him in
others. Between friends, their obligations, as well as their
affections, should be reciprocal. Do not deceive yourself, however;
before I put any confidence in you, I shall enquire whether you are
worthy of it, and if you deserve to return me the services you have
formerly received. Your heart I know, and am satisfied with its
integrity; but this is not all: it is your judgment I shall have
occasion for, to direct me in making a choice which should be governed
entirely by reason, and in which mine may be partial. I am not
apprehensive of danger from those passions, which, making open war
upon us, give us warning to put ourselves upon our defence; and,
whatever be their effect, leave us still conscious of our errors. We
cannot so properly be said to be overcome by these, as to give way to
them. I am more fearful of delusion than constraint, and of being
involuntarily induced to do what my reason condemns. We have no need
of foreign assistance to suppress our inclinations; but the assistance
of a friend may be necessary to point out which it is most prudent to
indulge: in this case it is that the friendship of a wise man may be
useful, by his viewing, in a different light, those objects with which
it is our interest to be intimately acquainted. Examine yourself,
therefore, and tell me whether, vainly repining at your fate, you will
continue for ever useless to yourself and others, or if, resuming the
command over yourself, you will at last become capable of advising and
assisting your friend.
My affairs will not detain me in London more than a fortnight longer,
when I shall set out for our army in Flanders, where I intend to stay
about the same time; so that you must not expect to see me before the
end of next month or the beginning of October. In the mean time, write
no more to me at London, but direct your letters to the army,
agreeable to the inclosed address. When you write, proceed also in
your descriptions; for, notwithstanding the censure I pass on your
letters, they both affect and instruct me; giving me, at the same
time, the most flattering ideas of a life of peace and retirement,
agreeable to my temper and age. In particular, I charge you to ease my
mind of the disquietude you have excited concerning Mrs. Wolmar. If
she be dissatisfied, who on earth can hope for happiness? After the
relation you have given me, I cannot conceive what can be wanting to
compleat her felicity.
Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.
Yes, my Lord, I can with transport assure you, the affair of Meillerie
was the crisis of my folly and misfortunes. My conversation with Mr.
Wolmar, made me perfectly acquainted with the true state of my heart.
That heart, too weak I confess, is nevertheless cured of its passion
as much as it possibly can be; and I prefer my present state of silent
regret to that of being perpetually fearful of falling into guilt.
Since the return of this worthy friend, I no longer hesitate to give
him that title which you have rendered so valuable. It is the least I
can bestow on every one who assists me in returning to the paths of
virtue. My heart is now become as peaceful as the mansion I inhabit. I
begin to be at ease in my residence; to live as if I was at home; and,
if I do not take upon me altogether the tone and authority of master,
I feel yet a greater pleasure in supposing myself a brother of the
family. There is something so delightful in the simplicity and
equality, which reign in this retirement, that I cannot help being
affected with tenderness and respect. Thus I spend my days in
tranquillity, amidst practical philosophy and susceptible virtue. In
company with this happy couple, their situation insensibly affects me,
and raises my heart by degrees into unison with theirs.
What a delightful retreat! What a charming habitation! A continuance
in this place renders it even yet more delightful; and though it
appear not very striking at first sight, it is impossible not to be
pleased with it, when it is once known. The pleasure Mrs. Wolmar takes
in discharging the noblest duties, in making all who approach her
virtuous and happy, communicates itself to all those who are the
objects of her care, to her husband, her children, her guests, her
domestics. No tumultuous scenes of noisy mirth, no loud peals of
laughter, are heard in this peaceful mansion; but, in their stead, you
always meet with contented hearts and chearful countenances. If at any
time you see a tear, it is the tear of susceptibility and joy.
Troubles, cares and sorrow intrude not here, any more than vice and
remorse, of which they are the fruits.
As to Eloisa, it is certain that, excepting the secret cause of
uneasiness, with which I acquainted you in my last, [72] every thing
conspires to make her happy. And yet, with so many reasons to be so, a
thousand other women would think themselves miserable in the same
situation. Her uniform and retired manner of living would be to them
insupportable; they would think the noise of children insufferable;
they would be fatigued to death with the care of their family; they
would not be able to bear the country; the esteem and prudence of a
husband, not over tender, would hardly recompense them for his
indifference and age; his presence, and even his regard for them,
would be burthensome. They would either find means to send him abroad,
that they might live more at their liberty; or would leave him to
himself; despising the peaceful pleasures of their situation, and
seeking more dangerous ones elsewhere, they would never be at ease in
their own house, unless when they came as visitors. It requires a
sound mind to be able to enjoy the pleasures of retirement; the
virtuous only being capable of amusing themselves with their family
concerns, and of voluntarily secluding themselves from the world: if
there be on earth any such thing as happiness, they undoubtedly enjoy
it in such a state. But the means of happiness are nothing to those
who know not how to make use of them; and we never know in what true
happiness consists, till we have acquired a taste for its enjoyment.
If I were desired to speak with precision, as to the reason why the
inhabitants of this place are happy, I should think I could not answer
with greater propriety than to say, it is because _they here know how
to live;_ not in the sense in which these words would be taken in
France, where it would be understood that they had adopted certain
customs and manners in vogue: No; but they have adopted such manners
as are most agreeable to human life, and the purposes for which man
came into the world; to that life you mention, of which you have set
me an example, which extends beyond itself, and is not given up for
lost even in the hour of death.
Eloisa has a father who is anxious for the honour and interests of his
family: she has children for whose subsistence it is necessary to
provide. This ought to be the chief care of man in a state of society;
and was therefore the first in which Eloisa and her husband united.
When they began house-keeping, they examined into the state of their
fortunes; not considering so much whether they were proportioned to
their rank, as to their wants; and seeing they were sufficient for the
provision of an honourable family, they had not so bad an opinion of
their children, as to be fearful, lest the patrimony they had to leave
would not content them. They applied themselves therefore rather to
improve their present, than acquire a larger fortune: they placed
their money rather safely than profitably; and, instead of purchasing
new estates, set about increasing the value of that which they already
had; leaving their own example in this point, as the only treasure by
which they would desire to see the inheritance of their offspring
increased.
It is true, that an estate which is not augmented, is liable to many
accidents by which it will naturally diminish: but if this were a
sufficient motive to begin increasing, when would it cease to be a
pretext for a constant augmentation? Must it be divided among several
children? Be it so; must they be all idle? Will not the industry of
each be a supplement to his share? and ought it not to be considered
in the partition? It is thus that insatiable avarice makes its way
under the mask of prudence, and leads to vice under the cloak of its
own security. It is in vain, says Mr. Wolmar, to attempt to give to
human affairs that stability, which is not in their nature. Prudence
itself requires that we should leave many things to chance; and, if
our lives and fortunes depend so much on accident, what a folly is it
to make ourselves really unhappy, in order to prevent doubtful evils,
or avoid inevitable dangers? The only precaution he took was, to live
one whole year on his principal, in order to have so much before hand
to receive of the interest, so that he had always the yearly product
of his estate at command. He chose rather to diminish his capital than
to be perpetually under the necessity of dunning for his rents; the
consequence of which has been in the end advantageous to him, as it
prevented him from borrowing and other ruinous expedients, to which
many people are obliged to have recourse on every unforeseen accident.
Thus good management supplies the place of parsimony, and he is in
fact a gainer by what he has spent.
The master of this house possesses but a moderate fortune, according
to the estimation of the world; but in reality I hardly know any body
more opulent. There is indeed no such thing as absolute wealth: that
term signifying only the relation between the wants and possessions of
those who are rich. One man is rich, though possessing only an acre of
land; another is a beggar in the midst of heaps of gold. Luxury and
caprice have no bounds, and make more persons poor than real wants.
But the proportion, between their wants and their abilities of
supplying them, is here established on a sure foundation, namely, the
perfect harmony subsisting between the husband and wife: the former
taking upon him the charge of collecting the rents and profits of his
estate, and the latter, that of regulating their expenses; and on this
harmony depends their wealth.
I was at first struck with a peculiarity in the economy of this house,
where there appeared so much ease, freedom and gaiety, in the midst of
order and diligence; the great fault of well regulated houses being
that they always wear an air of gloominess and restraint. The extreme
solicitude also of the heads of the family looks too much like
avarice. Every thing about them seems constrained, and there appears
something servile in their punctuality, which renders it intolerable.
The domestics do their duty indeed, but then they do it with an air of
discontent and mistrust The guests, it is true, are well-received; but
they dare not make use of a freedom cautiously bestowed, and are
always afraid of doing something that will be reckoned a breach of
regularity. Such slavish fathers of families cannot be said to live
for themselves, but for their children; without considering that they
are not only fathers but men, and that they ought to set their
children an example how to live prudent and happy. More judicious
maxims are adopted here. Mr. Wolmar thinks one of the principal duties
of a father of a family is to make his house, in the first place,
agreeable, that his children may delight in their home, and that
seeing their father happy, they may be tempted to tread in his
footsteps. Another of his maxims, and which he often repeats, is that
the gloomy and sordid lives of fathers and mothers are almost always
the first cause of the ill-conduct of children.
As to Eloisa, who never had any other guide, and who needed no better,
than her own heart, she obeys, without scruple, its dictates; being
then certain of doing right. Can a mind so susceptible as hers be
insensible to pleasure? On the contrary she delights in every
amusement, nor refuses to join in any diversion that promises to be
agreeable; but her pleasures are the pleasures of Eloisa. She neglects
neither her own convenience nor the satisfaction of those who are dear
to her. She esteems nothing superfluous that may contribute to the
happiness of a sensible mind; but censures every thing as such that
serves only to make a figure in the eyes of others; so that you will
find in this house all the gratifications which luxury and pleasure
can bestow, without refinement or effeminacy. With respect to
magnificence and pomp, you will see no more of it than she was obliged
to submit to, in order to please her father; her own taste, however,
prevails even here, which consists in giving to every thing less
brilliancy and shew, than grace and elegance. When I talk to her of
the methods which are daily invented at Paris and London, to hang the
coaches easier; she does not disapprove of that; but, when I tell her
of the great expense they are at in the varnishing of them, she can
hardly believe or comprehend me; she asks me, if such fine varnish
makes the coaches more commodious. Indeed she scruples not to say,
that I exaggerate a good deal on the scandalous paintings with which
they now adorn their equipages, instead of the coats of arms formerly
used; as if it were more eligible to be known to the world for a man
of licentious manners, than as a man of family. But she was
particularly shocked when I told her that the ladies had introduced,
and kept up, this custom, and that their chariots were distinguishable
from those of the gentlemen only, by paintings more lascivious and
immodest. I was obliged to recount to her an expression of your noble
friend’s, on this subject, which she could hardly digest. I was with
him one day to look at a vis-a-vis, which happened to be in this
taste. But he no sooner cast his eye on the panels than he turned away
from it, telling the owner that he should offer carriages of that kind
to wanton women of quality; for that no modest man could make use of
them.
As the first step to virtue is to forbear doing ill, so the first step
to happiness is to be free from pain. These two maxims, which, well
understood, would render precepts of morality in a great degree
useless, are favourite ones with Mrs. Wolmar. She is extremely
affected by the misfortunes of others; and it would be as difficult
for her to be happy with wretched objects about her, as it would be
for an innocent man to preserve his virtue and live in the midst of
vice. She has none of that barbarous pity, which is satisfied with
turning away its eye from the miserable objects it might relieve. On
the contrary, she makes it her business to seek out such objects: it
is the existence, and not the presence, of the unhappy which gives her
affliction. It is not sufficient for her to be ignorant that there are
any such; it is necessary to her quiet that she should be assured
there are none miserable; at least within her sphere of charity: for
it would be unreasonable to extend her concern beyond her own
neighbourhood, and to make her happiness depend upon the welfare of
all mankind. She takes care to inform herself of the necessities of
all that live near her, and interests herself in their relief as if
their wants were her own. She knows every one personally, includes
them all, as it were, in her family, and spares no pains to banish,
or alleviate, those misfortunes and afflictions to which human life is
subject.
I am desirous, my Lord, of profiting by your instructions; but you
must forgive me a piece of enthusiasm, of which I am no longer
ashamed, and with which you yourself are affected. There will never be
another Eloisa in the world. Providence takes a particular interest in
every thing that regards her, nor leaves any thing to the consequence
of accident. Heaven seems to have sent her upon earth, to serve at
once as an example of that excellence of which human nature is
capable, and of that happiness it may enjoy in the obscurity of
private life, without having recourse either to those public virtues
which sometimes raise humanity above itself, or to those honours with
which the breath of popular applause rewards them. Her fault, if love
be a fault, has served only to display her fortitude and virtue. Her
relations, her friends, her servants, all happily situated, were
formed to respect her and be respected by her. Her country is the only
one upon earth where she ought to have been born; to be happy herself,
it was necessary for her to live among a happy people. If, to her
misfortune, she had been born among those unhappy wretches, who groan
beneath the load of oppression, and struggle in vain against the iron
hand of cruelty, every complaint of the oppressed had poisoned the
sweets of her life; the common ruin had been hers, and her benevolent
heart had made her feel incessantly those evils she could not have
redressed.
Instead of that, every thing here animates and supports the native
goodness of her disposition. She has no public calamities to afflict
her. She sees not around her the frightful pictures of indigence and
despair. The villagers in easy circumstances, have more need of her
advice than her bounty. [73] But, if there be found among them an
orphan, too young to earn his subsistence; an obscure widow who pines
in secret indigence; a childless father, whose arms, enfeebled by age,
cannot supply him with the means of life; she is not afraid that her
bounty will increase the public charge, by encouraging idleness or
knavery. The happiness she herself feels, multiplies and extends
itself all around her. Every house she enters soon becomes a copy of
her own: nor are convenience and order only copied from her example,
but harmony and goodness become equally the objects of domestic
management. When she goes abroad, she sees none but agreeable objects
about her; and when she returns home she is saluted by others still
more engaging. Her heart is delighted by every prospect that meets her
eyes; and little susceptible as it is of self-love, it is led to love
itself in the effects of its own benevolence. No, my Lord, I repeat it
again; nothing that regards Eloisa can be indifferent to the cause of
virtue. Her charms, her talents, her taste, her errors, her
afflictions, her abode, her friends, her family, her pains, her
pleasures, every thing, in short, that compleats her destiny, compose
a life without example; such as few women would chuse to imitate, and
yet such as all, in spite of themselves, must admire.
What pleases me most, in the solicitude which prevails here regarding
the happiness of others is, that their benevolence is always exerted
with prudence, and is never abused. We do not always succeed in our
benevolent intentions; but, on the contrary, some people imagine they
are doing great services, who are, in reality, doing great injuries;
and, with a view to a little manifest good, are guilty of much
unforeseen evil. Mrs. Wolmar indeed possesses, in an eminent degree, a
qualification very rare, even among women of the best character; I
mean an exquisite discernment in the distribution of her favours, and
that as well in the choice of means to render them really useful, as
of the persons on whom they are bestowed. For her conduct in this
point, she has laid down certain rules to which she invariably
adheres. She knows how to grant, or refuse, every thing that is asked
of her, without betraying the least weakness in her compliance, or
caprice in her denial. Whoever hath committed one infamous or wicked
action, hath nothing to hope for from her but justice, and her pardon,
if he has offended her; but never that favour and protection, which
she can bestow on a worthier object. I heard her once refuse a favour,
which depended on herself only, to a man of this stamp. “I wish you
happy,” said she to him coldly, “but I shall not contribute any thing
to make you so, lest I should put it in your power to injure others.
There are too many honest people in the world, who require relief, for
me to think of assisting you.” It is true this piece of just severity
cost her dear, and it is but seldom she has occasion to exercise it.
Her maxim is, to look upon all those as deserving people, of whose
demerits she is not fully convinced; and there are few persons weak
and wicked enough not to evade the full proofs of their guilt. She has
none of that indolent charity of the wealthy, who give money to the
miserable, to be excused from attending to their distress; and know
how to answer their petitions only by giving alms. Her purse is not
inexhaustible, and since she is become the mother of a family, she
regulates it with more economy. Of all the kinds of relief we may
afford to the unhappy, the giving alms is certainly that which costs
us least trouble; but it is also the most transitory and least
serviceable to the object relieved: Eloisa does not seek to get rid of
such objects, but to be useful to them.
Neither does she grant her recommendation, or exert her good offices,
without first knowing whether the use intended to be made of her
interest be just and reasonable. Her protection is never refused to
any one, who really stands in need of, and deserves to obtain it: but
for those who desire to raise themselves through fickleness or
ambition only, she can very seldom be prevailed upon to give herself
any trouble. The natural business of man is to cultivate the earth,
and subsist on its produce. The peaceful inhabitant of the country
needs only to know in what happiness consists, to be happy. All the
real pleasures of humanity are within his reach; he feels only those
pains which are inseparable from it, those pains which whoever seeks
to remove will only change for others more severe. [74] His situation
is the only necessary, the only useful one in life. He is never
unhappy, but when others tyrannize over him, or seduce him by their
vices. In agriculture and husbandry consists the real prosperity of a
country, the greatness and strength which a people derive from
themselves, that which depends, not on other nations, which is not
obliged to attack others for its own preservation, but is productive
of the surest means of its own defence. In making an estimate of the
strength of a nation, a superficial observer would visit the court,
the prince, his posts, his troops, his magazines and his fortified
towns; but the true politician would take a survey of the country, and
visit the cottages of the husbandmen. The former would only see what
is already executed, but the latter what was capable of being put into
execution.
On this principle they proceed here, and yet more so at Etange: they
contribute as much as possible to make the peasants happy in their
condition, without ever assisting them to change it. The better, as
well as the poorer, sort of people are equally desirous of sending
their children to the cities, the one that they may study and become
gentlemen, the others that they may find employment, and so ease their
parents of the charge of maintaining them. The young people, on their
part, have curiosity, and are generally fond of roving: the girls
aspire to the dress and finery of the citizens; and the boys, most of
them go into foreign service, thinking it better to return with the
haughty and mean air of mercenaries, and a ridiculous contempt of
their former condition, than with that love for their country and
liberty which honourably distinguished their progenitors. It is the
care of this benevolent family to remonstrate against these mistaken
prejudices, to represent to the peasants the danger of their
children’s principles; the ill consequences of sending them from home,
and the continual risks they run of losing their life, fortune and
morals, where a thousand are ruined for one who does well. If after
all they continue obstinate, they are left at their own indiscretion,
to run into vice and misery; and the care, which was thrown away on
them is turned upon those who have listened to reason. This is exerted
in teaching them to honour their native condition, by seeming to
honour it ourselves: we do not converse with peasants, indeed, in the
stile of courts; but we treat them with a grave and distant
familiarity, which, without raising any one out of his station,
teaches them to respect ours. There is not one honest labourer in the
village, who does not rise greatly in his own estimation, when an
opportunity offers of our shewing the difference of our behaviour to
him, and to such petty visitants, who come home to make a figure, for
a day or two, and to obscure their relations. Mr. Wolmar and the
Baron, when he is here, seldom fail of being present at the exercises
and reviews of the militia of the village and parts adjacent: their
presence has a great effect on the youth of the country, who are
naturally of a martial and spirited temper, and are extremely
delighted to see themselves honoured with the presence of veteran
officers. They are still prouder of their own merit, when they see
soldiers retired from foreign service less expert than themselves: yet
this they often do; for, do what you will, five pence a day, and the
fear of being caned, will never produce that emulation which may be
excited in a free man under arms, by the presence of his relations,
his neighbours, his friends, his mistress, and the honour of his
country.
Mrs. Wolmar’s great maxim is, therefore, never to encourage any one to
change his condition, but to contribute all in her power to make every
one happy in his present station; being particularly solicitous to
present the happiest of all situations, that of a peasant in a free
state, from being despised in favour of other employments.
I remember, I one day made an objection on this subject founded on the
different talents which nature seems to have bestowed on mankind, in
order to fit them for different occupations, without any regard to
their birth. This she obviated, however, by observing that there were
two more material things to be consulted, before talents: these were
virtue and happiness. Man, said she, is too noble a being to be made a
mere tool of for the use of others: he ought not to be employed in
what he is fit for, without consulting how far such employment is fit
for him; for we are not made for our stations, but our stations for
us. In the right distribution of things therefore, we should not adapt
men to circumstances, but circumstances to men; we should not seek
that employment for which a man is best adapted, but that which is
best adapted to make him virtuous and happy. For it can never be right
to destroy one human soul for the temporal advantage of others, nor to
make any man a villain for the use of honest people. Now, out of a
thousand persons, who leave their native villages, there are not ten
of them but what are spoiled by going to town, and become even more
profligate than those who initiate them into vice. Those, who succeed
and make their fortunes, frequently compass it by base and dishonest
means; while the unsuccessful, instead of returning to their former
occupation, rather chuse to turn beggars and thieves. But, supposing
that one out of the thousand resist the contagion of example, and
perseveres in the sentiments of honesty, do you think that upon the
whole, his life is as happy as it might have been in the tranquil
obscurity of his first condition.
It is no easy matter to discover the talents with which nature hath
severally endowed us. On the contrary, it is very difficult to
distinguish those of young persons the best educated and most
attentively observed: how then shall a peasant, meanly bred, presume
to judge of his own? There is nothing so equivocal as the genius
frequently attributed to youth; the spirit of imitation has often a
greater share in it than natural ability, and very often it depends
more on accident than a determined inclination; nor does even
inclination itself always determine the capacity. Real talents, or
true genius, are attended with a certain simplicity of disposition,
which makes it less restless and enterprising, less ready to thrust
itself forward than a superficial and false one; which is nevertheless
generally mistaken for the true, and consists only in a vain desire of
making a figure without talents to support it. One of these geniuses
hears the drum beat, and is immediately in idea a general; another
sees a palace building, and directly commences architect. Thus Gustin,
my gardener, from seeing some of my works, must needs learn to draw. I
sent him to Lausanne to a master, and he imagines himself already a
fine painter. The opportunity, and the desire of preferment, generally
determine mens’ profession. But it is not enough to be sensible of the
bent of our genius, unless we are willing to pursue it. Will a prince
turn coachman, because he is expert at driving a set of horses? Will a
duke turn cook, because he is ingenious at inventing ragouts? Our
talents all tend to preferment; no one pretends to those which would
fit him for an inferior station: do you think this is agreeable to the
order of nature? Suppose every one sensible of his own talents, and as
willing to employ them, how is it possible? How could they surmount so
many obstacles? How could they overcome so many unworthy competitors?
He, who finds in himself the want of abilities, would call in subtilty
and intrigue to his aid; and thereby frequently becomes an overmatch
for others of greater capacity and sincerity. Have you not told me
yourself a hundred times, that the many establishments in favour of
the arts have only been of prejudice to them? In multiplying
indiscreetly the number of professors and academicians, true merit is
lost in the crowd; and the honours, due to the most ingenious, are
always bestowed on the most intriguing. Did there exist, indeed, a
society, wherein the rank and employment of its respective members
were exactly calculated to their talents and personal merit, every one
might there aspire to the place he should be most fit for; but it is
necessary to conduct ourselves by other rules, and give up that of
abilities, in societies where the vilest of all talents is the only
one that leads to fortune.
I will add further, continued she, that I cannot be persuaded of the
utility of having so many different talents displayed. It seems
necessary, the number of persons so qualified should be exactly
proportioned to the wants of society; now if those only were appointed
to cultivate the earth, who should have eminent talents for
agriculture; or if all those were taken from that employment, who
might be found more proper for some other, there would not remain a
sufficient number of labourers to furnish the common necessaries of
life. I am apt to think, therefore, that great talents in men are like
great virtues in drugs, which nature has provided to cure our
maladies, though its intention certainly was that we should never
stand in need of them. In the vegetable creation there are plants
which are poisonous: in the brutal animals that would tear us to
pieces; and among mankind there are those who possess talents no less
destructive to their species. Besides, if every thing were to be put
to that use for which its qualities seem best adapted, it might be
productive of more harm than good in the world. There are thousands
of simple honest people, who have no occasion for a diversity of great
talents; supporting themselves better by their simplicity, than others
with all their ingenuity. But, in proportion as their morals are
corrupted, their talents are displayed, as if to serve as a supplement
to the virtues they have lost, and to oblige the vicious to be useful,
in spite of themselves.
Another subject, on which we differed, was the relieving of beggars.
As we live near a public road, great numbers are constantly passing
by; and it is the custom of the house to give to every one that asks.
I represented to her, that this practice was not only throwing that
money away, which might be charitably bestowed on persons in real
want; but that it tended to multiply beggars and vagabonds, who take
pleasure in that idle life, and, by rendering themselves a burthen to
society, deprive it of their labour.
I see very well, says she, you have imbibed prejudices, by living in
great cities, and some of those maxims by which your complaisant
reasoners love to flatter the hard-heartedness of the wealthy: you
make use of their very expressions. Do you think to degrade a poor
wretch below a human being, by giving him the contemptuous name of
beggar? Compassionate as you really are, how could you prevail on
yourself to make use of it? Repeat it no more, my friend, it does not
come well from your lips: believe me, it is more dishonourable for the
cruel man by whom it is used, than for the unhappy wretch who bears
it. I will not pretend to decide whether those, who thus inveigh
against the giving alms, are right or wrong; but this I know, that Mr.
Wolmar, whose good sense is not inferior to that of your philosophers,
and who has frequently told me of the arguments they use to suppress
their natural compassion and sensibility, has always appeared to
despise them, and has never disapproved of my conduct. His own
argument is simple. We permit, says he, and even support at a great
expense, a multitude of useless professions; many of which serve only
to spoil and corrupt our manners. Now, to look upon the profession of
a beggar as a trade, so far are we from having any reason to fear the
like corruption of manners from the exercise of it, that, on the
contrary, it serves to excite in us those sentiments of humanity,
which ought to unite all mankind. Again, if we look upon begging as a
talent, why should I not reward the eloquence of a beggar, who has art
enough to excite my compassion, and induce me to relieve him, as well
as I do a comedian, who on the stage makes me shed a few fruitless
tears? If the one makes me admire the good actions of others, the
other induces me to do a good action myself: all, that we feel at the
representation of a tragedy, goes off as soon as we come out of the
playhouse; but the remembrance of the unhappy object we have relieved
gives continual pleasure. A great number of beggars may be burthensome
to a state: but of how many professions, which are tolerated and
encouraged, may we not say the same? It belongs to the legislature and
administration to take care there should be no beggars; but, in order
to make them lay down their trade, [75] is it necessary to make all
other ranks of people inhuman and unnatural? For my part, continued
Eloisa, without knowing what the poor may be to the state, I know they
are all my brethren, and that I cannot, without thinking myself
inexcusable, refuse them the small relief they ask of me. The greater
part of them, I own, are vagabonds; but I know too much of life, to be
ignorant how many misfortunes may reduce an honest man to such a
situation; and how can I be sure, that an unhappy stranger, who comes,
in the name of God, to implore my assistance, and to beg a poor morsel
of bread, is not such an honest man, ready to perish for want, and
whom my refusal may drive to despair? The alms I distribute at the
door are of no great value. A half-penny and a piece of bread are
refused to nobody; and twice the proportion is always given to such as
are maimed or otherwise evidently incapable of labour. Should they
meet with the same relief at every house, which can afford it, it
would be sufficient to support them on their journey; and that is all
a needy traveller has a right to expect. But, supposing this was not
enough to yield them any real help, it is at least a proof that we
take some part in their distress; a sort of salutation that softens
the rigour of refusing them more. A half-penny and a morsel of bread
cost little more, and are a more civil answer, than a mere _God help
you_; which is too often the only thing bestowed, as if the gifts of
providence were not placed in the hands of men, or that heaven had any
other store on earth than what is laid up in the coffers of the rich.
In short, whatever we ought to think of such unfortunate wretches, and
though nothing should in justice be given to common beggars, we ought
at least, out of respect to ourselves, to take some notice of
suffering humanity, and not harden our hearts at the sight of the
miserable.
This is my behaviour to those, who, without any other subterfuge or
pretext, come openly a begging. With respect to such as pretend to be
workmen, and complain for want of employment, we have here tools of
almost every kind for them, and we set them to work. By this means we
assist them and put their industry to the proof; a circumstance which
is now so well known that the lazy cheat never comes again to the
gate.
It is thus, my Lord, this angelic creature always deduces something
from her own virtues, to combat those vain subtilties, by which people
of cruel dispositions palliate their vices. The solicitude and pains
she takes to relieve the poor, are also ranked among her amusements,
and take up great part of the time she can spare from her most
important duties. After having performed her duty to others, she then
thinks of herself; and the means she takes to render life agreeable
may be reckoned among her virtues: so commendable are her constant
motives of action, that moderation and good sense are always mixed
with her pleasures! She is ambitious to please her husband, who
always delights in seeing her chearful and gay: she is desirous of
instilling into her children a taste for innocent pleasures, wherein
moderation order and simplicity prevail, and secure the heart from the
violence of impetuous passions. She amuses herself, therefore, to
divert them, as the dove softens the grain to nourish the young ones.
Eloisa’s mind and body are equally sensible. The same delicacy
prevails as well in her senses as her sentiments. She was formed to
know and taste every pleasure. Virtue having been long esteemed by her
as the most refined of all delights, in the peaceful enjoyment of that
supreme pleasure, she debars herself of none that are consistent with
it; but then her method of enjoyment resembles the austerity of self-
denial: not indeed of that afflicting and painful self-denial, which
is hurtful to nature, and which its author rejects as ridiculous
homage; but of that slight and moderate restraint, by which the empire
of reason is preserved; and which serves as a whet to pleasure by
preventing disgust. She will have it, that every thing which pleases
the sense, and is not necessary to life, changes its nature, whenever
it becomes habitual; that it ceases to be pleasant in becoming
needful; that we thus by habit lay ourselves at once under a needless
restraint and deprive ourselves of a real pleasure; and that the art
of satisfying our desires lies not in indulging, but in suppressing,
them. The method she takes to enhance the pleasures of the least
amusement, is to deny herself the use of it twenty times for once that
she enjoys it. Thus her mind preserves its first vigour; her taste is
not spoiled by use; she has no need to excite it by excess; and I have
often seen her take exquisite delight in a childish diversion, which
would have been insipid to any other person on earth.
A still nobler object, which she proposes to herself from the exercise
of this virtue, is that of remaining always mistress of herself, and
thereby to accustom her passions to obedience, and to subject her
inclinations to rule. This is a new way to be happy; for it is certain
that we enjoy nothing with so little inquietude, as what we can part
from without pain; and if the philosopher be happy, it is because he
is the man from whom fortune can take the least.
But what appears to me the most singular in her moderation, is that
she pursues it for the very same reasons which hurry the voluptuous
into excess. Life is indeed short, says she, which is a reason for
enjoying it to the end, and managing its duration in such a manner as
to make the most of it. If one day’s indulgence and satiety deprives
us of a whole year’s taste for enjoyment, it is bad philosophy to
pursue our desires so far as they may be ready to lead us, without
considering whether we may not out-live our faculties, and our hearts
be exhausted before our time. I see that your common epicures, in
order to let slip no opportunity of enjoyment, lose all; and,
perpetually anxious in the midst of pleasures, can find no enjoyment
in any. They lavish away the time of which they think they are
economists, and ruin themselves, like misers, by not knowing how to
give any thing away. For my part, I hold the opposite maxim; and
should prefer, in this case, rather too much severity than relaxation.
It sometimes happens that I break up a party of pleasure, for no other
reason than that it is too agreeable; and, by repeating it another
time, have the satisfaction of enjoying it twice.
Upon such principles are the sweets of life, and the pleasures of mere
amusement, regulated here. Amidst her various application to the
several branches of her domestic employment, Eloisa takes particular
care that the kitchen is not neglected. Her table is spread with
abundance; but it is not the destructive abundance of fantastic
luxury: all the viands are common, but excellent, in their kind; the
cookery is simple, but exquisite. All that consists in appearance
only, whose nicety depends on the fashion, all your delicate and far-
fetched dishes, whose scarcity is their only value, are banished from
the table of Eloisa. Among the most delicious also of those which are
admitted, they daily abstain from some; which they reserve in order to
give an air of festivity to those meals for which they were intended,
and which are thereby rendered more agreeable, without being more
costly. But of what kind, think you, are these dishes which are so
carefully husbanded? Choice game? Sea-fish? Foreign produce? No.
Something better than all that. They are perhaps a particular choice
salad of the country; fine greens of our own gardens; fish of the
lake, dressed in a peculiar manner; cheese from the mountains; a
German party, or game caught by some of the domestics. The table is
served in a modest and rural but agreeable manner, chearfulness and
gratitude crowning the whole. Your gilt covers, round which the guests
sit starving with hunger; your pompous glasses, stuck out with flowers
for the desert, are never introduced here, to take up the place
intended for victuals; we are entirely ignorant of the art of
satisfying hunger by the eye. But then no where do they so well know
how to add welcome to good chear, to eat a good deal without eating
too much, to drink chearfully without intoxication, to sit so long at
table without being tired, and to rise from it without disgust. On the
first floor there is a little dining room, different from that in
which we usually dine, which is on the ground floor. This room is
built in the corner of the house, and has windows in two aspects:
those on one side over-look the garden, beyond which we have a
prospect of the lake between the trees: on the other side, we have a
fine view of a spacious vineyard, that begins to display the golden
harvest which we shall reap in about two months. This room is small,
but ornamented with every thing that can render it pleasant and
agreeable. It is here Eloisa gives her little entertainments to her
father, to her husband, to her cousin, to me, to herself, and
sometimes to her children. When she orders the table to be spread
there, we know immediately the design; and Mr. Wolmar has given it the
name of the Saloon of Apollo: but this Saloon differs no less from
that of Lucullus, in the choice of the persons entertained, than in
that of the entertainment. Common guests are not admitted into it; we
never dine there, when there are any strangers: it is the inviolable
asylum of mutual confidence, friendship and liberty. The society of
hearts is there joined to the social bond of the table; the entrance
into it is a kind of initiation into the mysteries of a cordial
intimacy; nor do any persons ever meet there but such as wish never to
be separated. We wait impatiently for you, my Lord, who are to dine
the very first day in the Apollo.
For my part, I was not at first admitted to that honour, which was
reserved for me till after my return from Mrs. Orbe’s. Not that I
imagined they could add any thing to the obliging reception I met with
on my arrival; but the supper, made for me there, gave me other ideas.
It is impossible to describe the delightful mixture of familiarity,
chearfulness, and social ease, which I then experienced, and had never
before tasted in my whole life. I found myself more at liberty without
being told to assume it, and we seemed even to understand one another
much better than before. The absence of the domestics, who were
dismissed from their attendance, removed that reserve which I still
felt at heart; and it was then that I first, at the instance of
Eloisa, resumed the custom I had laid aside for many years, of
drinking wine after meals.
I was enraptured at this repast, and wished that all our meals might
have been made in the same manner. I knew nothing of this delightful
room, said I to Mrs. Wolmar; why don’t you always eat here? See,
replied she, how pretty it is! Would it not be a pity to spoil it?
This answer seemed too much out of character for me not to suspect she
had some farther meaning. But why, added I, have you not the same
conveniences below, that the servants might be sent away, and leave us
to talk more at liberty? That, replied she, would be too agreeable,
and the trouble of being always at ease is the greatest in the world.
I immediately comprehended her system by this, and concluded that her
art of managing her pleasures consisted in being sparing of them.
I think she dresses herself with more care than formerly; the only
piece of vanity I ever reproached her for, being that of neglecting
her dress. The haughty fair one had her reasons, and left me no
pretext to disown her power. But, do all she could, my enchantment was
too strong for me to think it natural; I was too obstinate in
attributing her negligence to art. Not that the power of her charms is
diminished; but she now disdains to exert it; and I should be apt to
say, she affected a greater neatness in her dress that she might
appear only a pretty woman, had I not discovered the reason for her
present solicitude in this point. During the first two or three days I
was mistaken; for, not reflecting that she was dressed in the same
manner at my arrival, which was unexpected, I thought she had done it
out of respect to me. I was undeceived, however, in the absence of Mr.
Wolmar. For the next day she was not attired with that elegance, which
so eminently distinguished her the preceding evening, nor with that
affecting and voluptuous simplicity which formerly enchanted me; but
with a certain modesty that speaks through the eyes to the heart, that
inspires respect only, and to which beauty itself but gives additional
authority. The dignity of wife and mother appeared in all her charms;
the timid and affectionate looks she cast on me, were now mixed with
an air of gravity and grandeur, which seemed to cast a veil over her
features. In the mean time, she betrayed not the least alteration in
her behaviour; her equality of temper, her candor knew nothing of
affectation. She practiced only a talent natural to her sex, to change
sometimes our sentiments and ideas of them, by a different dress, by
a cap of this form, or a gown of that colour. The day on which she
expected her husband’s return, she again found the art of adorning her
natural charms without hiding them; she came from her toilet indeed a
dazzling beauty, and I saw she was not less capable to outshine the
most splendid dress, than to adorn the most simple. I could not help
being vexed, when I reflected on the cause of her preparation.
This taste for ornament extends itself, from the mistress of the
house, through all the family. The master, the children, the servants,
the equipage, the building, the garden, the furniture, are all set off
and kept in such order as shews what they are capable of, though
magnificence is despised:----I do not mean true magnificence, and
which consists less in the expense, than in the good order and noble
disposition of things. [76]
For my own part, I must confess it appears to me a more grand and
noble sight, to see a small number of people happy in themselves and
in each other, in a plain modest family, than to see the most splendid
palace filled with tumult and discord, and every one of its
inhabitants taking advantage of the general disorder, and building up
their own fortunes and happiness on the ruin of another. A well-
governed private family forms a single object, agreeable and
delightful to contemplate; whereas, in a riotous palace, we see only a
confused assemblage of various objects, whose connection and
dependence are merely apparent. At first sight, indeed, they seem
operating to one end; but in examining them nearer, we are soon
undeceived.
To consult only our most natural impressions, it should seem that, to
despise luxury and parade, we need less of moderation than of taste.
Symmetry and regularity are pleasing to every one. The picture of ease
and happiness must affect every heart; but a vain pomp, which relates
neither to regularity nor happiness, and has only the desire of making
a figure in the eyes of others for its object, however favourable an
idea it may excite in us of the person who displays it, can give
little pleasure to the spectator. But what is taste? Does not a
hundred times more taste appear in the order and construction of plain
and simple things, than in those which are over-loaded with finery?
What is convenience? Is any thing in the world more inconvenient than
pomp and pageantry? [77] What is grandeur? It is precisely the
contrary. When I see the intention of an architect to build a large
palace, I immediately ask myself why it is not larger? Why does not
the man, who keeps fifty servants, if he aims at grandeur, keep an
hundred? That fine silver plate, why is it not gold? The man who gilds
his chariot, why does he not also gild the ceiling of his apartment?
If his ceilings are gilt, why does not gild the roof too? He, who was
desirous of building an high tower, was right in his intention to
raise it up to heaven; otherwise it was to no purpose to build, as the
point where he might at last stop, would only serve to shew, at the
greater distance, his want of ability. O man! vain and feeble
creature! Shew me thy power, and I will shew thee thy misery!
A regularity in the disposal of things, every one of which is of real
use, and all confined to the necessaries of life, not only presents an
agreeable prospect but as it pleases the eye, at the same time gives
content to the heart. For a man views them always in a pleasing light,
as relating to and sufficient for himself. The picture of his own
wants or weakness does not appear, nor does the chearful prospect
affect him with sorrowful reflections. I defy any sensible man to
contemplate, for an hour, the palace of a prince, and the pomp which
reigns there, without falling into melancholy reflections, and
bemoaning the lot of humanity. On the contrary, the prospect of this
house, with the uniform and simple life of its inhabitants, diffuse
over the mind of the spectator a secret pleasure, which is perpetually
increasing. A small number of good-natured people, united by their
mutual wants and reciprocal benevolence, concur by their different
employments in promoting the same end; every one, finding in his
situation all that is requisite to contentment, and not desiring to
change it, applies himself as if he thought to stay here all his life;
the only ambition among them being that of properly discharging their
respective duties. There is so much moderation in those who command,
and so much zeal in those who obey, that equals might agree to
distribute the same employments among them, without any one having
reason to complain of his lot. No one envies that of another; no one
thinks of augmenting his fortune, but by adding to the common good:
the master and mistress estimating their own happiness by that of
their domestics and the people about them. One finds here nothing to
add or diminish, because here is nothing, but what is useful, and that
indeed is all that is to be found; insomuch that nothing is wanted
which may not be had, and of that there is always a sufficiency.
Suppose, now, to all this were added, lace, pictures, lustres,
gilding; in a moment you would impoverish the scene. In seeing so much
abundance in things necessary, and no mark of superfluity, one is now
apt to think, that if those things were the objects of choice, which
are not here, they would be had in the same abundance. In seeing also
so plentiful a provision made for the poor, one is led to say, This
house cannot contain its wealth. This seems to me to be true
magnificence.
Such marks of opulence, however, surprized me, when I first heard what
fortune must support it. You are ruining yourselves, said I to Mr. and
Mrs. Wolmar; it is impossible so moderate a revenue can supply so much
expense. They laughed at me, and soon convinced me, that, without
retrenching any of their family expenses, they could, if they pleased,
lay up money and increase their estate, instead of diminishing it. Our
grand secret, to grow rich, said they, is to have as little to do with
money as possible, and to avoid, as much as may be, those intermediate
exchanges, which are made between the harvest and the consumption.
None of those exchanges are made without some loss; and such losses,
if multiplied, would reduce a very good estate to little or nothing,
as by means of brokerage a valuable gold box may fetch in a sale the
price only of a trifling toy. The expense of transporting our produce
is avoided, by making use of some part on the spot, and that of
exchange, by using others in their natural state. And as for the
indispensable necessity of converting those in which we abound for
such as we want, instead of making pecuniary bargains, we endeavour to
make real exchanges, in which the convenience of both parties supplies
the place of profit.
I conceive, answered I, the advantages of this method; but it does not
appear to me without inconvenience. For, besides the trouble to which
it must subject you, the profit must be rather apparent than real, and
what you lose in the management of your own estate, probably over-
balances the profits the farmers would make of you. The peasants are
better economists, both in the expenses of cultivation, and in
gathering their produce, than you can be. That, replied, Mr. Wolmar,
is a mistake; the peasant thinks less of augmenting the produce than
of sparing his expenses, because the cost is more difficult for him to
raise than the profits are useful. The tenant’s view is not so much to
increase the value of the land, as to lay out but little on it; and if
he depends on any certain gain, it is less by improving the soil, than
exhausting it. The best that can happen, is, that instead of
exhausting, he quite neglects it. Thus, for the sake of a little ready
money, gathered in with ease, an indolent proprietor prepares for
himself, or his children, great losses, much trouble, and sometimes
the ruin of his patrimony.
I do not deny, continued Mr. Wolmar, that I am at a much greater
expense in the cultivation of my land, than a farmer would be; but
then I myself reap the profit of his labour, and the culture being
much better than his, my crop is proportionably larger: so that,
though I am at a greater expense, I am still, upon the whole, a
gainer. Besides, this excess of expense is only apparent, and is, in
reality, productive of great economy; for, were we to let out our
lands for others to cultivate, we should be ourselves idle: we must
live in town, where the necessaries of life are dear; we must have
amusements, that would cost us much more than those we take here. The
business, which you call a trouble, is at once our duty and our
delight; and, thanks to the regulation it is under, is never
troublesome: on the contrary, it serves to employ us, instead of those
destructive schemes of pleasure, which people in town run into, and
which a country life prevents, whilst that which contributes to our
happiness becomes our amusement.
Look round you, continued he, and you will see nothing but what is
useful; yet all these things cost little, and save a world of
unnecessary expense. Our table is furnished with nothing but viands of
our own growth; our dress and furniture are almost all composed of the
manufactures of the country: nothing is despised with us because it is
common, nor held in esteem because it is scarce. As every thing, that
comes from abroad, is liable to be disguised and adulterated, we
confine ourselves, as well through nicety as moderation, to the choice
of the best home commodities, the quality of which is less dubious.
Our viands are plain, but choice; and nothing is wanting to make ours
a sumptuous table, but the transporting it a hundred leagues off; in
which case every thing would be delicate, every thing would be rare,
and even our trouts of the lake would be thought infinitely better,
were they to be eaten at Paris.
We observe the same rule in the choice of our apparel, which you see
is not neglected; but its elegance is the only thing we study, and not
its cost, and much less its fashion. There is a wide difference
between the price of opinion and real value. The latter, however, is
all that Eloisa regards; in choosing a gown, she enquires not so much
whether the pattern be old or new, as whether the stuff be good and
becoming. The novelty of it is even sometimes the cause of her
rejecting it, especially when it enhances the price, by giving it an
imaginary value.
You should further consider, that the effect of every thing here
arises less from itself than from its use, and its dependencies;
insomuch that out of parts of little value, Eloisa has compounded a
whole of great value. Taste delights in creating and stamping upon
things a value of its own: as the laws of fashion are inconstant and
destructive, hers is economical and lasting.
What true taste once approves must be always good, and though it be
seldom in the mode, it is, on the other hand, never improper. Thus, in
her modest simplicity, she deduces, from the use and fitness of
things, such sure and unalterable rules, as will stand their ground
when the vanity of fashions is no more. The abundance of mere
necessaries can never degenerate into abuse; for what is necessary has
its natural bounds, and our real wants know no excess. One may lay out
the price of twenty suits of cloaths in buying one, and eat up at a
meal the income of a whole year; but we cannot wear two suits at one
time, nor dine twice the same day. Thus the caprice of opinion is
boundless, whereas nature confines us on all sides; and he, who, with
a moderate fortune, contents himself with living well, will run no
risk of ruin.
Hence, you see, continued the prudent Wolmar, in what manner a little
economy and industry may lift us out of the reach of fortune. It
depends only on ourselves to increase ours, without changing our
manner of living; for we advance nothing but with a view of profit,
and whatever we expend puts us soon in a condition to expend much
more.
And yet, my Lord, nothing of all this appears at first sight: the
general air of affluence, and profusion, hides that order and
regularity to which it is owing. One must be here some time to
perceive those sumptuary laws, which are productive of so much ease
and pleasure; and it is with difficulty that one at first comprehends
how they enjoy what they spare. On reflection, however, one’s
satisfaction increases, because it is plain that the source is
inexhaustible, and that the art of enjoying life serves at the same
time to prolong it. How can any one be weary of a state so conformable
to that of nature? How can he waste his inheritance by improving it
every day? How ruin his fortune, by spending only his income? When one
year provides for the next, what can disturb the peace of the present?
The fruits of their past labour support their present abundance, and
those of their present labour provide a future plenty: they enjoy at
once what is expended and what is received, and both past and future
times unite in the security of the present.
I have looked into all the particulars of domestic management, and
find the same spirit extend itself throughout the whole. All their
lace and embroidery are worked in the house; all their cloth is spun
at home, or by poor women supported by their charity. Their wool is
sent to the manufactories of the country, from whence they receive
cloth, in exchange, for cloathing the servants. Their wine, oil, and
bread, are all made at home; and they have woods, of which they cut
down regularly what is necessary for firing. The butcher is paid in
cattle, the grocer in corn, for the nourishment of his family; the
wages of the workmen and the servants are paid out of the produce of
the lands they cultivate; the rent of their houses in town serves to
furnish those they inhabit in the country; the interest of their money
in the public funds furnishes a subsistence for the masters, and also
the little plate they have occasion for. The sale of the corn and
wine, which remain, furnishes a fund for extraordinary expenses; a
fund which Eloisa’s prudence will never permit to be exhausted, and
which her charity will not suffer to increase. She allows for matters
of mere amusement the profits, only, of the labour done in the house,
of the grubbing up uncultivated land, of planting trees, &c. Thus the
produce and the labour always compensating each other, the balance
cannot be disturbed; and it is impossible, from the nature of things,
it should be destroyed.
Add to this, that the abstinence, which Eloisa imposes on herself,
through that voluptuous temperance I have mentioned, is at once
productive of new means of pleasure, and new resources of economy. For
example, she is very fond of coffee, and, when her mother was living,
drank it every day. But she has left off that practice, in order to
heighten her taste for it, now drinking it only when she has company,
or in her favourite dining room, in order to give her entertainments
the air of a treat. This is a little indulgence which is the more
agreeable, as it costs her little, and at the same time restrains and
regulates her appetite. On the contrary, she studies to discover and
gratify the taste of her father and husband with an unwearied
attention; a charming prodigality which makes them like every thing so
much the more, for the pleasure they see she takes in providing it.
They both love to sit a little after meals, in the manner of the
Swiss; on which occasions, particularly after supper, she never fails
to treat them with a bottle of wine more old and delicate than common.
I was at first deceived by the fine names she gave to her wines,
which, in sac, I found to be extremely good; and, drinking them as
wines of the growth of the countries whose names they bore, I took
Eloisa to task for so manifest a breach of her own maxims; but she
laughed at me and put me in mind of a passage in Plutarch, where
Flaminius compares the Asiatic troops of Antiochus, distinguished by a
thousand barbarous names, to the several ragouts under which a friend
of his had disguised one and the same kind of meat. It is just so,
said she, with these foreign wines. The Lisbon, the Sherry, the
Malaga, the Champagne, the Syracuse, which you have drank here with so
much pleasure, are all, in fact, no other than wines of this country,
and you see from hence the vineyard that produced them. If they are
inferior in quality to the celebrated wines, whose names they bear,
they are also without their inconveniences; and as one is certain of
the materials of which they are composed, they may be drank with less
danger. I have reason to believe, continued she, that my father and
husband like them as well as more scarce and costly wines. Eloisa’s
wines, indeed, says Mr. Wolmar to me, have a taste which pleases us
better than any others, and that arises from the pleasure she takes in
preparing them. Ah! returned she, then they will be always exquisite.
You will judge whether, amidst such a variety of business, that
indolence and want of employment, which make company, visitings, and
such formal society necessary, can find any place here. We visit our
neighbours, indeed, just enough to keep up an agreeable acquaintance,
but too little to be slaves to each other’s company. Our guests are
always welcome, but are never invited or intreated. The rule here is
to see just so much company as to prevent the losing a taste for
retirement; rural occupation supplying the place of amusements: and to
him, who finds an agreeable and peaceful society in his own family,
all other company is insipid. The manner, however, in which we pass
our time, is too simple and uniform to tempt many people, but it is
the disposition of those, who have adopted it, that makes it
delightful. How can persons of a sound mind be wearied with
discharging the most endearing and pleasing duties of humanity, and
with rendering each other’s lives mutually happy? Satisfied every
night with the transactions of the day, Eloisa wishes for nothing
different on the morrow. Her constant morning prayer is, that the
present day may prove like the past. She is engaged perpetually in the
same round of business, because no alteration would give her more
pleasure. Thus, without doubt, she enjoys all the happiness of which
human life is capable: for is not our being pleased with the
continuation of our lot a certain sign that we are happy? One seldom
sees in this place those knots of idle people, which are usually
called good company; but then one beholds those who interest our
affections infinitely more, such as peaceable peasants, without art,
and without politeness; but honest, simple, and contented in their
station: old officers retired from the service; merchants wearied with
application to business, and tired of growing rich; prudent mothers of
families, who bring their children to the school of modesty and good
manners: such is the company Eloisa assembles about her. To these her
husband sometimes adds some of those adventurers, reformed by age and
experience, who, having purchased wisdom at their own cost, return,
without reluctance, to cultivate their paternal soil, which they wish
they had never left. When any one relates at table the occurrences of
their lives, they consist not of the marvellous adventures of the
wealthy Sindbad, recounting, in the midst of eastern pomp and
effeminacy, how he acquired his vast wealth. Their tales are the
simple narratives of men of sense, who, from the caprice of fortune,
and the injustice of mankind, are disgusted with the vain pursuit of
imaginary happiness, and have acquired a taste for the objects of true
felicity.
Would you believe that even the conversation of peasants hath its
charms for these elevated minds, of whom the philosopher himself might
be glad to profit in wisdom? The judicious Wolmar discovers in their
rural simplicity more characteristical distinction, more men that
think for themselves, than under the uniform mask worn in great
cities, where every one appears what other people are, rather than
what he is himself. The affectionate Eloisa finds their hearts
susceptible of the smallest offers of kindness, and that they esteem
themselves happy in the interest she takes in their happiness. Neither
their hearts nor understandings are formed by art; they have not
learned to model themselves after the fashion, and are less the
creatures of men than those of nature.
Mr. Wolmar often picks up, in his rounds, some honest old peasant,
whose experience and understanding give him great pleasure. He brings
him home to Eloisa, by whom he is received in a manner which denotes,
not her politeness, or the dignity of her station, but the benevolence
and humanity of her character. The good man is kept to dinner; Eloisa
placing him next herself, obligingly helping him, and asking kindly
after his family and affairs. She smiles not at his embarrassment, nor
takes notice of the rusticity of his manners; but by the ease of her
own behaviour frees him from all restraint, maintaining throughout
that tender and affectionate respect, which is due to an infirm old
age, honoured by an irreproachable life. The venerable old man is
enraptured, and, in the fullness of heart, seems to experience again
the vivacity of youth. In drinking healths to a young and beautiful
lady, his half-frozen blood grows warm; and he begins to talk of
former times, the days of his youth, his amours, the campaigns he has
made, the battles he has been in, of the magnanimity and feats of his
fellow soldiers, of his return to his native country, of his wife, his
children, his rural employments, the inconveniencies he has remarked,
and the remedies he thinks may be applied to remove them: during which
long detail, he often lets fall some excellent, moral, or useful
lesson in agriculture, the dictates of age and experience; but be
there even nothing in what he says, so long as he takes a pleasure in
saying it, Eloisa would take pleasure in hearing.
After dinner she retires into her own apartment, to fetch some little
present for the wife or daughter of the good old man. This is
presented to him by the children, who in return receive some trifle of
him, with which she had secretly provided him for that purpose. Thus
she initiates them betimes, to that intimate and pleasing benevolence,
which knits the bond of society between persons of different
conditions. The children are accordingly accustomed to respect old
age, to esteem simplicity of manners, and to distinguish merit in all
ranks of people. The young peasants, on the other hand, seeing their
fathers thus entertained at a gentleman’s house, and admitted to the
master’s table, take no offence at being themselves excluded; they
think such exclusion not owing to their rank, but their age; they
don’t say, We are too poor, but, we are too young to be thus treated.
Thus the honour done to their aged parents, and their hope of one day
enjoying the same distinction, make them amends for being debarred
from it at present, and excite them to become worthy of it. At his
return home to his cottage, their delighted guest impatiently produces
the presents he has brought his wife and children, who are over-joyed
at the honour done them; the good old man, at the same time, eagerly
relating to them the reception he met with, the dainties he has eaten,
the wines he has tasted, the obliging discourse and conversation, the
affability of the gentlefolks, and the assiduity of the servants; in
the recital of all which, he enjoys it a second time, and the whole
family partake of the honour done to their head. They join in concert
to bless that illustrious house, which affords at once an example to
the rich and an asylum for the poor, and whose generous inhabitants
disdain not the indigent, but do honour to grey hairs. Such is the
incense that is pleasing to benevolent minds; and, if there be any
prayers to which heaven lends a gracious ear, they are certainly, not
those which are offered up by meanness and flattery, in the hearing of
the person prayed for, but such as the grateful and simple heart
dictates in secret, beneath its own roof.
It is thus, that agreeable and affectionate sentiments give charms to
a life, insipid to indifferent minds: it is thus, that business,
labour, and retirement, become amusing by the art of managing them. A
sound mind knows how to take delight in vulgar employments, as a
healthful body relishes the most simple aliments. All those indolent
people, who are diverted with so much difficulty, owe their disgust to
their vices, and lose their taste for pleasure only with that of their
duty. As to Eloisa, it is directly contrary; the employment, which a
certain languor of mind made her formerly neglect, becomes now
interesting from the motive that excites to it: One must be totally
insensible to be always without vivacity. She formerly sought solitude
and retirement, in order to indulge her reflections on the object of
her passion; at present she has acquired new activity, by having
formed new and different connections. She is not one of those indolent
mothers of a family, who are contented to study their duty when they
should discharge it, and lose their time in inquiring after the
business of others, which they should employ in dispatching their own.
Eloisa practises at present what she learnt long ago. Her time for
reading and study has given place to that of action. As she rises an
hour later than her husband, so she goes an hour later to bed. This
hour is the only time she employs in study; for the day is not too
long for the various business in which she is engaged.
This, my Lord, is what I had to say to you concerning the economy of
this house and of the retired life of those who govern it. Contented
in their station, they peaceably enjoy its conveniences; satisfied
with their fortune, they seek not to augment it for their children;
but to leave them, with the inheritance they themselves received, an
estate in good condition, affectionate servants, a taste for
employment, order, moderation, and for every thing that can render
delightful and agreeable to men of sense the enjoyment of a moderate
fortune, as prudently preserved as honestly acquired.
Letter CXXXVII. To Lord B----.
We have had visitors for some days past. They left us yesterday, and
we renewed that agreeable society subsisting between us three, which
is by so much the more delightful, as there is nothing, even in the
bottom of our hearts, that we desire to hide from each other. What a
pleasure do I take, in resuming a new being, which renders me worthy
of your confidence. At every mark of esteem which I receive from
Eloisa and her husband, I say to myself, with an air of self-
sufficiency, At length I may venture to appear before Lord B----. It
is with your assistance, it is under your eyes, that I hope to do
honour to my present situation by my past follies. If an extinguished
passion casts the mind into a state of dejection, a passion subdued
adds to the consciousness of victory, a new elevation of sentiment, a
more lively attachment to all that is sublime and beautiful. Shall I
lose the fruit of a sacrifice, which hath cost me so dear? No, my
Lord; I feel that, animated by your example, my heart is going to
profit by all those arduous sentiments it has conquered. I feel, that
it was necessary for me to be what I was, in order for me to become
what I am.
After having thrown away six days, in frivolous conversation with
persons indifferent to us, we passed yesterday morning, after the
manner of the English, in company and silence; tasting at once the
pleasure of being together and the sweetness of self-recollection. How
small a part of mankind know any thing of the pleasures of this
situation! I never saw a person in France who had the least idea of
it. The conversation of friends, say they, can never be exhausted. It
is true, the tongue may easily find words for common attachments: but
friendship, my Lord, friendship! thou animating celestial sentiment!
what language is worthy of thee? What tongue presumes to be thy
interpreter? Can any thing spoken to a friend equal what is felt in
his company? Good God I how many things are conveyed by a squeeze of
the hand, by an animating look, by an eager embrace, by a sigh that
rises from the bottom of the heart! And how cold in comparison is the
first word which is spoken after that! I shall never forget the
evenings I passed at Besancon, those delightful moments sacred to
silence and friendship. Never, Oh B----! Thou noblest of men!
sublimest of friends! No, never have I undervalued what you then did
for me; never have my lips presumed to mention it. It is certain, that
this state of contemplation affords the greatest delight to
susceptible minds. But I have always observed, that impertinent
visitors prevent one from enjoying it, and that friends ought to be by
themselves, to be at liberty to say nothing. At such a time one should
be, if one may use the expression, collected in each other; the least
avocation is destructive, the least constraint is insupportable. It is
then so sweet to pronounce the dictates of the heart without
restraint. It seems as if one dared to think freely only of what one
can as freely speak; it seems as if the presence of a stranger
restrained the sentiment, and compressed those hearts, which could so
fully dictate themselves alone.
Two hours passed away in this silent extasy, more delightful, a
thousand times, than the frigid repose of the deities of Epicurus.
After breakfast, the children came, as usual, into the apartment of
Eloisa; who, instead of retiring and shutting herself up with them in
the work-room, according to custom, kept them with her, as if to make
them some amends for the time they had lost without seeing us:----and
we none of us parted till dinner. Harriot, who begins to know how to
handle her needle, sat at work before Fanny, who was weaving lace, and
rested her cushion on the back of her little chair. The two boys were
busy at a table turning over the leaves of a book of prints, the
subject of which the eldest explained to the younger; Harriot, who
knew the whole by heart, being attentive to, and correcting him when
wrong: and sometimes, pretending to be ignorant what figures they were
at, she made it a pretence to rise, and go backwards and forwards from
the chair to the table. During these little lessons, which were given
and taken with little pains and less restraint, the younger boy was
playing with some counters which he had secreted under the book. Mrs.
Wolmar was at work on some embroidery near the window opposite the
children, and her husband and I were still sitting at the tea-table,
reading the Gazette, to which she gave but little attention. But when
we came to the article, which mentions the illness of the king of
France, and the singular attachment of his people, unequalled by any
thing but that of the Romans for Germanicus, she made some reflections
on the disposition of that affectionate and benevolent nation, whom
all the world hate, whilst they have no hatred to any one; adding,
that she envied only a sovereign the power of making himself beloved.
To this her husband replied, You have no need to envy a sovereign, who
have so long had us all for your subjects. On which she turned her
head, and cast a look on him so affecting and tender, that it struck
me prodigiously. She said nothing indeed; for what could she say equal
to such a look? Our eyes met: and I could perceive, by the manner in
which her husband pressed my hand, that the same emotion had affected
us all three, and that the delightful influence of her expansive heart
diffused itself around, and triumphed over insensibility itself.
We were thus disposed when that silent scene began, of which I just
now spoke: you may judge, that it was not the consequence of coldness
or chagrin. It was first interrupted by the little management of the
children; who, nevertheless, as soon as we left off speaking,
moderated their prattle, as if afraid of disturbing the general
silence. The little teacher was the first that lowered her voice, made
signs to the others, and ran about on tip toe, while their play became
the more diverting by this light constraint. This scene, which seemed
to present itself in order to prolong our tenderness, produced its
natural effect.
_Ammutiscon le lingue, e parlan l’alme._
How many things may be said without opening one’s lips! How warm the
sentiments that may be communicated, without the cold interposition of
speech! Eloisa insensibly permitted her attention to be engaged by the
same object. Her eyes were fixed on the three children; and her heart,
ravished with the most enchanting extasy, animated her charming
features with all the affecting sweetness of maternal tenderness.
Thus given up to this double contemplation, Wolmar and I were
indulging our reveries, when the children put an end to them. The
eldest, who was diverting himself with the prints, seeing the counters
prevented his brother from being attentive, took an opportunity, when
he had piled them up, to give them a knock and throw them down on the
floor. Marcellin fell a crying; and Eloisa, without troubling herself
to quiet him, bid Fanny pick up the counters. The child was
immediately hushed; the counters were nevertheless not brought him,
nor did he begin to cry again as I expected. This circumstance, which
however was nothing in itself, recalled to my mind a great many
others, to which I had given no attention; and when I think of them, I
don’t remember ever to have seen children, with so little speaking to,
give so little trouble. They hardly ever are out of their mother’s
sight, and yet one can hardly perceive they are in company. They are
lively and playful, as children of their age should be, but never
clamorous or teizing; they are already discreet, before they know what
discretion is. But what surprizes me most, is, that all this appears
to be brought about of itself; and that, with such an affectionate
tenderness for her children, Eloisa seems to give herself so little
concern about them. In fact, one never sees her very earnest to make
them speak or hold their tongues, to make them do this or let that
alone. She never disputes with them; she never contradicts them in
their amusements: so that one would be apt to think she contented
herself with seeing and loving them; and that when they have passed
the day with her, she had discharged the whole duty of a mother
towards them.
But, though this peaceable tranquility appears more agreeable in
contemplation than the restless solicitude of other mothers, yet I was
not a little surprized at an apparent indolence, so little agreeable
to her character. I would have had her even a little discontented,
amidst so many reasons to the contrary; so well doth a superfluous
activity become maternal affection! I would willingly have attributed
the goodness of the children to the care of the mother; and should
have been glad to have observed more faults in them, that I might have
seen her more solicitous to correct them.
Having busied myself with these reflections a long time in silence, I
at last determined to communicate them to her. I see, said I, one day,
that heaven rewards virtuous mothers, in the good disposition of their
children; but the best disposition must be cultivated. Their education
ought to begin from the time of their birth. Can there be a time more
proper to form their minds, than when they have received no impression
that need to be effaced? If you give them up to themselves in their
infancy, at what age do you expect them to be docile? While you have
nothing else to teach them, you ought to teach them obedience. Why,
returned she, do my children disobey me? That were difficult, said I,
as you lay no commands upon them. On this she looked at her husband
and laughed; then, taking me by the hand, she led me into the closet,
that we might converse without being heard by the children.
Here, explaining her maxims at leisure, she discovered to me, under
that air of negligence, the most vigilant attention of maternal
tenderness. I was a long time, said she, of your opinion with regard
to the premature instruction of children; and while I expected my
first child, was anxious concerning the obligations I should soon have
to discharge. I used often to speak to Mr. Wolmar on that subject.
What better guide could I take than so sensible an observer, in whom
the interest of a father was united to the indifference of a
philosopher? He fulfilled, and indeed surpassed my expectations. He
soon made me sensible, that the first and most important part of
education, precisely that which all the world neglects, [78] is that
of preparing a child to receive instruction.
The common error of parents, who pique themselves on their own
knowledge, is to suppose their children capable of reasoning as soon
as they are born, and to talk to them as if they were grown persons
before they can speak. Reason is the instrument they use, whereas
every other means ought first to be used in order to form that reason;
for it is certain, that, of all the knowledge which men acquire, or
are capable of acquiring, the art of reasoning is the last and most
difficult to learn. By talking to them, at so early an age, in a
language they do not understand, they learn to be satisfied with mere
words; to talk to others in the same manner; to contradict every thing
that is said to them; to think themselves as wise as their teachers:
and all that one thinks to obtain by reasonable motives, is in fact
acquired only by those of fear or vanity.
The most consummate patience would be wearied out, by endeavouring to
educate a child in this manner: and thus it is that, fatigued and
disgusted with the perpetual importunity of their children, their
parents, unable to support the noise and disorder they themselves have
given rise to, are obliged to part with them, and to deliver them over
to the care of a master; as if one could expect in a preceptor more
patience and good-nature than in a father.
Nature, continued Eloisa, would have children be children before they
are men. If we attempt to pervert that order, we produce only forward
fruit, which has neither maturity nor flavour, and will soon decay; we
raise young professors and old children. Infancy has a manner of
perceiving, thinking and feeling, peculiar to itself. Nothing is more
absurd than to think of substituting ours in its stead; and I would as
soon expect a child of mine to be five foot high, as to have a mature
judgment, at ten years old.
The understanding does not begin to form itself till after some years,
and when the corporeal organs have acquired a certain confidence. The
design of nature is therefore evidently to strengthen the body, before
the mind is exercised. Children are always in motion; rest and
reflection is inconsistent with their age; a studious and sedentary
life would prevent their growth and injure their health; neither their
body nor mind can support restraint. Shut up perpetually in a room
with their books, they lose their vigour, become delicate, feeble,
sickly, rather stupid than reasonable; and their minds suffer, during
their whole lives, for the weakness of their bodies.
But, supposing such premature instruction were as profitable as it is
really hurtful to their understandings, a very great inconvenience
would attend the application of it to all indiscriminately, without
regard to the particular genius of each. For, besides the constitution
common to its species, every child at its birth possesses a peculiar
temperament, which determines its genius and character; and which it
is improper either to pervert or restrain; the business of education
being only to model and bring it to perfection. All these characters
are, according to Mr. Wolmar, good in themselves: for nature, says he,
makes no mistakes. [79] All the vices imputed to malignity of
disposition are only the effect of the bad form it hath received.
According to him, there is not a villain upon earth, whose natural
propensity, well directed, might not have been productive of great
virtues; nor is there a wrong-head in being, that might not have been
of use to himself and society, had his natural talents taken a certain
bias; just as deformed and monstrous images are rendered beautiful and
proportionable, by placing them in a proper point of view. Every
thing, says he, tends to the common good in the universal system of
nature. Every man has his place assigned in the best order and
arrangement of things; the business is to find out that place, and not
to disturb such order. What must be the consequence then of an
education begun in the cradle, and carried on always in the same
manner, without regard to the vast diversity of temperaments and genius
in mankind? Useless or hurtful instructions would be given to the
greater part, while at the same time they are deprived of such as
would be most useful and convenient; nature would be confined on every
side, and the greatest qualities of the mind defaced, in order to
substitute in their place mean and little ones, of no utility. By
using indiscriminately the same means with different talents, the one
serves to deface the other, and all are confounded together. Thus,
after a great deal of pains thrown away in spoiling the natural
endowments of children, we presently see those transitory and
frivolous ones of education decay and vanish, while those of nature,
being totally obscured, appear no more: and thus we lose at once what
we have pulled down, and what we have raised up. In a word, in return
for so much pains indiscreetly taken, all these little prodigies
become wits without sense, and men, without merit, remarkable only for
their weakness and insignificancy.
I understand your maxims, said I to Eloisa; but I know not how to
reconcile them with your own opinion on the little advantage arising
from the display of the genius and natural talents of individuals,
either respecting their own happiness or the real interests of
society. Would it not be infinitely better to form a perfect model of
a man of sense and virtue, and then to form every child by education
after such a model, by animating one, retraining another, by
regulating its passions, improving its understanding, and thus
correcting nature?----Correcting nature! says Mr. Wolmar, interrupting
me, that is a very fine expression; but before you make use of it,
pray reply to what Eloisa has already advanced.
The most significant reply, as I thought, was to deny the principle on
which her arguments were founded; which I accordingly did. You
suppose, said I, that the diversity of temperament and genius, which
distinguish individuals, is the immediate work of nature; whereas
nothing is less evident. For, if our minds are naturally different,
they must be unequal; and if nature has made them unequal, it must be
by endowing some, in preference to others, with a more refined
perception, a greater memory, or a greater capacity of attention. Now,
as to perception and memory, it is proved by experience, that their
different degrees of extent or perfection are not the standard of
genius and abilities; and as to a capacity of attention, it depends
solely on the force of the passions by which we are animated; and it
is also proved that all mankind are by nature susceptible of passions,
strong enough to excite in them that degree of attention necessary to
a superiority of genius.
If a diversity of genius, therefore, instead of being derived from
nature, be the effect of education; that is to say, of the different
ideas and sentiments, which objects excite in us during our infancy,
of the various circumstances in which we are engaged, and of all the
impressions we receive; so far should we be from waiting to know the
character of a child before we give it education, that we should, on
the contrary, be in haste to form its character by giving it a proper
education.
To this he replied, that it was not his way to deny the existence of
any thing, because he could not explain it. Look, says he, upon those
two dogs in the court-yard. They are of the same litter; they have
been fed and trained together; have never been parted; and yet one of
them is a brisk, lively, good-natured, docible cur; while the other is
lumpish, heavy, cross-grained, and incapable of learning any thing.
Now their difference of temperament, only, can have produced in them
that of character, as the difference of our interior organization
produces in us that of our minds: in every other circumstance they
have been alike.----Alike! interrupted I; what a vast difference may
there not have been, though unobserved by you? How many minute objects
may not have acted on the one, and not on the other! How many little
circumstances may not have differently affected them, which you have
not perceived! Very pretty indeed, says he; so, I find you reason like
the astrologers; who, when two men are mentioned of different fortune
yet born under the same aspect, deny the identity of circumstances. On
the contrary, they maintain, that, on account of the rapidity of the
heavenly motions, there must have been an immense distance between the
themes, in the horoscope, of the one and the other; and that, if the
precise moment of their births had been carefully noted, the objection
had been converted into a proof.
But, pray, let us leave these subtilties, and confine ourselves to
observation. This may teach us, indeed, that there are characters
which are known almost at the birth, and children that may be studied
at the breast of their nurses: but these are of a particular class,
and receive their education in beginning to live. As for others, who
are later known, to attempt to form their genius before their
characters are distinguished, is to run a risk of spoiling what is
good in their natural dispositions, and substituting what is worse in
its place. Did not your master Plato maintain, that all the art of
man, that all philosophy could not extract from the human mind what
nature had not implanted there; as all the operations in chemistry are
incapable of extracting from any mixture more gold than is already
contained in it? This is not true of our sentiments or our ideas; but
it is true of our disposition or capacity of acquiring them. To change
the genius, one must be able to change the interior organization of
the body; to change a character, one must be capable of changing the
temperament on which it depends. Have you ever heard of a passionate
man’s becoming patient and temperate, or of a frigid methodical genius
having acquired a spirited imagination? For my own part, I think it
would be just as easy to make a fair man brown, or a blockhead a man
of sense. ’Tis in vain then to attempt to model different minds by one
common standard. One may restrain, but we can never change them: one
may hinder men from appearing what they are, but can never make them
really otherwise; and, though they disguise their sentiments in the
ordinary commerce of life, you will see them reassume their real
characters on every important occasion. Besides, our business is not
to change the character, and alter the natural disposition of the
mind, but, on the contrary, to improve and prevent its degenerating;
for by these means it is, that a man becomes what he is capable of
being, and that the work of nature is compleatd by education. Now,
before any character can be cultivated, it is necessary that it should
be studied; that we should patiently wait its opening; that we should
furnish occasions for it to display itself; and that we should forbear
doing any thing, rather than doing wrong. To one genius it is
necessary to give wings, and to another shackles; one should be
spurred forward, another reined in; one should be encouraged, another
intimidated; sometimes it should be checked, and at others assisted.
One man is formed to extend human knowledge to the highest degree; to
another it is even dangerous to learn to read. Let us wait for the
opening of reason; it is that which displays the character, and gives
it its true form: it is by that also it is cultivated, and there is no
such thing as education before the understanding is ripe for
instruction.
As to the maxims of Eloisa, which you think opposite to this doctrine,
I see nothing in them contradictory to it: on the contrary, I find
them, for my own part, perfectly compatible. Every man at his birth
brings into the world with him, a genius, talents and character
peculiar to himself. Those, who are destined to live a life of
simplicity in the country, have no need to display their talents in
order to be happy: their unexerted faculties are like the gold mines
of the Valais, which the public good will not permit to be opened. But
in a more polished society, where the head is of more use than the
hands, it is necessary that all the talents nature hath bestowed on
men should be exerted; that they should be directed to that quarter,
in which they can proceed the furthest; and above all, that their
natural propensity should be encouraged by every thing which can make
it useful. In the first case, the good of the species only is
consulted; every one acts in the same manner; example is their only
rule of action; habit their only talent; and no one exerts any other
genius than that which is common to all: Whereas in the second case we
consult the interest and capacity of individuals; if one man possess
any talent superior to another, it is cultivated and pursued as far as
it will reach; and if a man be possessed of adequate abilities, he may
become the greatest of his species. These maxims are so little
contradictory, that they have been put in practice in all ages.
Instruct not therefore the children of the peasant, nor of the
citizen, for you know not as yet what instruction is proper for them.
In every case let the body be formed, till the judgment begins to
appear: then is the time for cultivation.
All this would seem very well, said I, if I did not see one
inconvenience, very prejudicial to the advantages you promise yourself
from this method; and this is, that children, thus left to themselves,
will get many bad habits, which can be prevented only by teaching them
good ones. You may see such children readily contract all the bad
practices they perceive in others, because such examples are easily
followed, and never imitate the good ones, which would cost them more
trouble. Accustomed to have every thing, and to do as they please on
every occasion, they become mutinous, obstinate and intractable.----
But, interrupted Mr. Wolmar, it appears to me that you have remarked
the contrary in ours, and that this remark has given rise to this
conversation. I must confess, answered I, this is the very thing which
surprizes me. What can she have done to make them so tractable? What
method hath she taken to bring it about? What has she substituted
instead of the yoke of discipline? A yoke much more inflexible,
returned he immediately, that of necessity: but, in giving you an
account of her conduct, you will be better able to comprehend her
views. He then engaged Eloisa to explain her method of education;
which, after a short pause, she did in the following manner.
“Happy, my dear friend, are those who are well-born! I lay not so
great a stress as Mr. Wolmar does on my own endeavours. I doubt much,
notwithstanding his maxims, that a good man can ever be made out of a
child of a bad disposition and character. Convinced, nevertheless, of
the excellence of his method, I endeavoured to regulate my conduct, in
the government of my family, in every respect agreeable to him. My
first hope is, that I shall never have a child of a vicious
disposition; my second, that I shall be able to educate those God has
given me, under the direction of their father, in such a manner, that
they may one day have the happiness of possessing his virtues. To this
end I have endeavoured to adopt his rules by giving them a principle
less philosophical, and more agreeable to maternal affection; namely
to make my children happy. This was the first prayer of my heart after
I was a mother, and all the business of my life is to effect it. From
the first time I held my eldest son in my arms, I have reflected that
the state of infancy is almost a fourth part of the longest life; that
men seldom pass through the other three fourths; and that it is a
piece of cruel prudence to make that first part uneasy, in order to
secure the happiness of the rest, which may never come. I reflected,
that during the weakness of infancy, nature had oppressed children in
so many different ways, that it would be barbarous to add to that
oppression the empire of our caprices, by depriving them of a liberty
so very much confined, and which they were so little capable of
abusing. I resolved, therefore, to lay mine under as little constraint
as possible; to leave them to the free exertion of all their little
powers; and to suppress in them none of the emotions of nature. By
these means I have already gained two great advantages; the one, that
of preventing their opening minds from knowing any thing of
falsehood, vanity, anger, envy, and in a word of all those vices which
are the consequences of subjection, and which one is obliged to have
recourse to, when we would have children do what nature does not
teach: the other is, that they are more at liberty to grow and gather
strength, by the continual exercise which instinct directs them to.
Accustomed, like the children of peasants, to expose themselves to the
heat and cold, they grow as hardy; are equally capable of bearing the
inclemencies of the weather; and become more robust as living more at
their ease. This is the way to provide against the age of maturity,
and the accidents of humanity. I have already told you, that I dislike
that destructive pusillanimity, which, by dint of solicitude and care,
enervates a child, torments it by constant restraint, confines it by a
thousand vain precautions, and, in short, exposes it during its whole
life to those inevitable dangers it is thus protected from but for a
moment; and thus, in order to avoid catching a few colds while
children, men lay up for themselves consumptions, pleurisies, and a
world of other diseases.
What makes children, left thus to themselves, acquire the ill habits
you speak of, is that, not contented with their own liberty, they
endeavour to command others; which is owing to the absurd indulgence
of too many fond mothers, who are to be pleased only by indulging all
the fantastical desires of their children. I flatter myself, my
friend, that you have seen in mine nothing like the desire of command
and authority, even over the lowest domestic; and that you have seen
me countenance as little the false complaisance and ceremony used to
them. It is in this point, that I think I have taken a new and more
certain method to make my children at once free, easy, obliging and
tractable and that on a principle the most simple in the world, which
is, by convincing them they are but children.
To consider the state of infancy in itself, is there a being in the
universe more helpless or miserable; that lies more at the mercy of
every thing about it; that has more need of pity and protection, than
an infant? Does it not seem, that, on this account, the first noise
which nature directs it to make is that of crying and complaint? Does
it not seem, that nature gives it an affecting and tender appearance,
in order to engage every one who approaches it, to assist its
weakness, and relieve its wants? What, therefore, can be more
offensive, or contrary to order, than to see a child pert and
imperious, commanding every one about him, and assuming impudently the
tone of a master over those who, should they abandon him, would leave
him to perish? Or can any thing be more absurd than to see parents
approve such behaviour, and encourage their children to tyrannise over
their nurses, till they are big enough to tyrannise over the parents
themselves?
As to my part, I have spared no pains to prevent my son’s acquiring
the dangerous idea of command and servitude, and have never given him
room to think himself attended more out of duty than pity. This point
is, perhaps, the most difficult and important in education; nor can I
well explain it, without entering into all those precautions which I
have been obliged to take, to suppress in him that instinctive
knowledge, which is so ready to distinguish the mercenary service of
domestics from the tenderness of maternal solicitude.
One of my principal methods has been, as I have just observed, to
convince him of the impossibility of his subsisting at his age,
without our assistance. After which I had no great difficulty to shew
him, that, in receiving assistance from others, we lay ourselves under
obligations to them, and are in a state of dependence; and that the
servants have a real superiority over him, because he cannot do
without them, while he, on the contrary, can do them no service: so
that instead of being vain of their attendance, he looks upon it with
a sort of humiliation, as a mark of his weakness, and ardently wishes
for the time, when he shall be big and strong enough to have the
honour of serving himself.”
These notions, I said, would be difficult to establish in families,
where the father and mother themselves are waited on like children;
but in this, where every person has some employment allotted him, even
from the master and mistress to the lowest domestic; where the
intercourse between them apparently consists only of reciprocal
services, I do not think it impossible: but I am at a loss to conceive
how children, accustomed to have their real wants so readily
satisfied, can be prevented from expecting the same gratification of
their imaginary wants or humours; or how it is that they do not
sometimes suffer from the humour of a servant, who may treat their
real wants as imaginary ones.
“Oh, my friend, replied Mrs. Wolmar, an ignorant woman may frighten
herself at any thing, or nothing. But the real wants of children, as
well as grown persons, are very few; we ought rather to regard the
duration of our ease than the gratifications of a single moment. Do
you think, that a child, who lies under no restraint, can suffer so
much from the humour of a governess, under the eye of its mother, as
to hurt it? You imagine inconveniencies, which arise from vices
already contracted, without reflecting that my care has been to
prevent such vices from being contracted at all. Women naturally love
children; and no misunderstanding would arise between them, except
from the desire of one to subject the other to their caprices. Now
that cannot happen here, neither on the part of the child, of whom
nothing is required, nor on that of the governess, whom the child has
no notion of commanding. I have in this acted directly contrary to
other mothers, who in appearance would have their children obey the
domestics, and in reality require the servants to obey the children:
here neither of them command nor obey; but the child never meets with
more complaisance, from any person, than he shews for them. Hence,
perceiving that he has no authority over the people about him, he
becomes tractable and obliging; in seeking to gain the esteem of
others, he contracts an affection for them in turn: this is the
infallible effect of self-love; and from this reciprocal affection,
arising from the notion of equality, naturally result those virtues,
which are constantly preached to children, without any effect.
I have thought, that the most essential part in the education of
children, and which is seldom regarded in the best families, is to
make them sensible of their inability, weakness and dependence, and,
as my husband called it, the heavy yoke of that necessity which nature
has imposed on our species; and that, not only in order to shew them
how much is done to alleviate the burthen of that yoke, but especially
to instruct them betimes in what rank providence has placed them, that
they may not presume too far above themselves, or be ignorant of the
reciprocal duties of humanity.
Young people, who from their cradle have been brought up in ease and
effeminacy, who have been caressed by every one, indulged in all their
caprices, and have been used to obtain easily every thing they
desired; enter upon the world with many impertinent prejudices, of
which they are generally cured by frequent mortifications, affronts
and chagrin. Now I would willingly spare my children this second kind
of education, by giving them, at first, a just notion of things. I had
indeed once-resolved to indulge my eldest son in every thing he
wanted, from a persuasion that the first impulses of nature must be
good and salutary: but I was not long in discovering, that children,
conceiving from such treatment that they have a right to be obeyed,
depart from a state of nature almost as soon as born; contracting our
vices from our example, and theirs by our indiscretion. I saw, that if
I indulged him in all his humours, they would only increase by such
indulgence; that it was necessary to stop at some point, and that
contradiction would be but the more mortifying, as he should be less
accustomed to it: but that it might be less painful to him, I began to
use him to it by degrees; and in order to prevent his tears and
lamentations, I made every denial irrecoverable. It is true, I
contradict him as little as possible, and never without due
consideration. Whatever is given or permitted him, is done
unconditionally and at the first instance; and in this we are
indulgent enough: but he never gets any thing by importunity, neither
his tears nor intreaties being of any effect. Of this he is now so
well convinced, that he makes no use of them; he goes his way on the
first word, and frets himself no more at seeing a box of sweetmeats
taken away from him, than at seeing a bird fly away, which he would be
glad to catch; there appearing to him the same impossibility of having
the one as the other; and so far from beating the chairs and tables,
that he dares not lift his hand against those who oppose him. In every
thing that displeases him, he feels the weight of necessity, the
effect of his own weakness, but never----excuse me a moment, says she,
seeing I was going to reply; I foresee your objection and am coming to
it immediately.
The great cause of the ill humour of children is the care which is
taken either to quiet or to aggravate them. They will sometimes cry
for an hour, for no other reason in the world than because they
perceive we would not have them. So long as we take notice of their
crying, so long have they a reason for continuing to cry; but they
will soon give over of themselves, when they see no notice is taken of
them: for, old or young, nobody loves to throw away his trouble. This
is exactly the case with my eldest boy, who was once the most peeviest
little bawler, stunning the whole house with his cries; whereas now
you can hardly hear there is a child in the house. He cries, indeed,
when he is in pain; but then it is the voice of nature, which should
never be restrained; and he is again hushed as soon as ever the pain
is over. For this reason I pay great attention to his tears, as I am
certain he never sheds them for nothing: and hence I have gained the
advantage of being certain when he is in pain and when not; when he is
well and when sick; an advantage which is lost with those who cry out
of mere humour, and only in order to be appeased. I must confess,
however, that this management is not to be expected from nurses and
governesses: for, as nothing is more tiresome than to hear a child
cry, and as these good women think of nothing but the time present,
they do not foresee, that by quieting it to day, it will cry the more
tomorrow. But what is still worse, this indulgence produces an
obstinacy which is of more consequence as the child grows up. The very
cause that makes it a squawler at three years of age, will make it
stubborn and refractory at twelve, quarrelsome at twenty, imperious
and insolent at thirty, and insupportable all its life.
I come now to your objection, added she, smiling. In every indulgence
granted to children, they can easily see our desire to please them,
and therefore they should be taught to suppose we have reason for
refusing or complying with their requests. This is another advantage
gained by making use of authority, rather than persuasion, on every
necessary occasion. For, as it is impossible they can always be blind
to our motives, it is natural for them to imagine that we have some
reason for contradicting them, of which they are ignorant. On the
contrary, when we have once submitted to their judgment, they will
pretend to judge of every thing; and thus become cunning, deceitful,
fruitful in shifts and chicanery, endeavouring to silence those who
are weak enough to argue with them: for, when one is obliged to give
them an account of things above their comprehension, they attribute
the most prudent conduct to caprice, because they are incapable of
understanding it. In a word, the only way to render children docile
and capable of reasoning, is not to reason with them at all; but to
convince them, that it is above their childish capacities; for they
will always suppose the argument in their favour, unless you can give
them good cause to think otherwise. They know very well that we are
unwilling to displease them, when they are certain of our affection;
and children are seldom mistaken in this particular: therefore, if I
deny any thing to my children, I never reason with them; I never tell
them why I do so or so; but I endeavour, as much as possible, that
they should find it out; and that even after the affair is over. By
these means they are accustomed to think that I never deny them any
thing without a sufficient reason, though they cannot always see it.
On the same principle it is, that I never suffer my children to join
in the conversation of grown persons, or foolishly imagine themselves
upon an equality with them, because they are permitted to prattle. I
would have them give a short and modest answer, when they are spoke
to, but never to speak of their own head, or ask impertinent questions
of persons so much older than themselves, to whom they ought to shew
more respect.”
These, interrupted I, are very rigid rules, for so indulgent a mother
as Eloisa. Pythagoras himself was not more severe with his disciples.
You are not only afraid to treat them like men, but seem to be fearful
lest they should too soon cease to be children. By what means can they
acquire knowledge more certain and agreeably, than by asking questions
of those who know better than themselves? What would the Parisian
ladies think of your maxims, whose children are never thought to
prattle too much or too long: they judge of their future
understanding, by the nonsense and impertinence they utter when young?
That may not be amiss, Mr. Wolmar will tell me, in a country where the
merit of the people lies in chattering, and a man has no business to
think, if he can but talk. But I cannot understand how Eloisa, who is
so desirous of making the lives of her children happy, can reconcile
that happiness with so much restraint; nor amidst so much confinement,
what becomes of the liberty with which she pretends to indulge them.
“What, says she, with impatience, do we restrain their liberty, by
preventing them from trespassing on ours? And cannot they be happy,
truly, without a whole company’s sitting silent to admire their
puerilities? To prevent the growth of their vanity is a surer means to
effect their happiness: for the vanity of mankind is the source of
their greatest misfortunes, and there is no person so great or so
admired, whose vanity has not given him much more pain than pleasure.
[80]
What can a child think of himself, when he sees a circle of sensible
people listening to, admiring, and waiting impatiently for, his wit,
and breaking out in raptures at every impertinent expression? Such
false applause is enough to turn the heart of a grown person; judge
then what effect it must have upon that of a child. It is with the
prattle of children, as with the predictions in the Almanac. It would
be strange, if amidst such a number of idle words, chance did not now
and then jumble some of them into sense. Imagine the effect which such
flattering exclamations must have on a simple mother, already too much
flattered by her own heart. Think not, however that I am proof against
this error, because I expose it. No, I see the fault, and yet am
guilty of it. But, if I sometimes admire the repartees of my son, I do
it at least in secret. He will not learn to become a vain prater, by
hearing me applaud him; nor will flatterers have the pleasure, in
making me repeat them, of laughing at any weakness.
I remember one day, having company, I went out to give some necessary
orders, and on my return found four or five great blockheads busy at
play with my boy; they came immediately to tell me, with great
rapture, the many pretty things he had been saying to them, and with
which they seemed quite charmed. Gentlemen, said I, coldly, I doubt
not but you know how to make puppets say very fine things; but I hope
my children will one day be men, when they will be able to act and
talk of themselves; I shall then be always glad to hear what they have
said and done well. Seeing this manner of paying their court did not
take, they since play with my children, but not as with Punchinello;
and to say the truth, they are evidently better, since they have been
less admired.
As to their asking questions, I do not prohibit it indiscriminately. I
am the first to tell them to ask, softly, of their father or me, what
they desire to know. But I do not permit them to break in upon a
serious conversation, to trouble every body with the first piece of
impertinence that comes into their heads. The art of asking questions
is not quite so easy as may be imagined. It is rather that of a
master, than of a scholar. The wise know and enquire, says the Indian
proverb, but the ignorant know not even what to enquire after. For
want of such previous instruction, children, when at liberty to ask
questions as they please, never ask any but such as are frivolous and
answer no purpose, or such difficult ones whose solution is beyond
their comprehension. Thus, generally speaking, they learn more by the
questions which are asked of them, than from those which they ask of
others.
But were this method, of permitting them to ask questions, as useful
as it is pretended to be, is not the first and most important science
to them, that of being modest and discreet? and is there any other
that should be preferred to this? Of what use then is an unlimited
freedom of speech to children, before the age at which it is proper
for them to speak? Or the right of impertinently obliging persons to
answer their childish questions? These little chattering querists ask
questions, not so much for the sake of instruction, as to engage one’s
notice. This indulgence, therefore, is not so much the way to instruct
them, as to render them conceited and vain; an inconvenience much
greater, in my opinion, than the advantage they gain by it: for
ignorance will by degrees diminish, but vanity will always increase.
The worst that can happen from too long a reserve, will be, that my
son, when he comes to years of discretion, will be less fluent in
speech, and may want that volubility of tongue, and multiplicity of
words, which he might otherwise have acquired: but when we consider
how much the custom of passing away life in idle prattle, impoverishes
the understanding, this happy sterility of words appears rather an
advantage than otherwise. Shall the organ of truth, the most worthy
organ of man, the only one whose use distinguishes him from the
brutes, shall this be prostituted to no better purposes than those,
which are answered as well by the inarticulate sounds of other
animals? He degrades himself even below them, when he speaks and says
nothing; a man should preserve his dignity, as such, even in his
lightest amusements. If it be thought polite to stun the company with
idle prate, I think it a much greater instance of true politeness to
let others speak before us; to pay a greater deference to what is
said, than to what we say ourselves; and to let them see we respect
them too much, to think they can be entertained by our nonsense. The
good opinion of the world, that which makes us courted and caressed by
others, is not obtained so much by displaying our own talents, as by
giving others an opportunity of displaying theirs, and by placing our
own modesty as a foil to their vanity. You need not be afraid that a
man of sense, who is silent only from reserve and discretion, should
ever be taken for a fool. It is impossible in any country whatever,
that a man should be characterised by what he has not said, or that he
should be despised for being silent.
On the contrary, it may be generally observed, that people of few
words impose silence on others who pay an extraordinary attention to
what they say, which gives them every advantage of conversation. It is
so difficult for the most sensible man to retain his presence of mind,
during the hurry of a long discourse; so seldom that something does
not escape him, that he afterwards repents of, that it is no wonder if
he chuses to suppress what is pertinent, to avoid the risk of talking
nonsense.
But there is a great difference between six years of age and twenty;
my son will not be always a child, and in proportion as his
understanding ripens, his father designs it shall be exercised. As to
my part, my task does not extend so far. I may nurse children, but I
have not the presumption to think of making them men. I hope, says
she, looking at her husband, this will be the employment of more able
heads. I am a woman and a mother, and know my place and my duty; and
hence, I say again, it is not my duty to educate my sons, but to
prepare them for being educated.
Nor do I any thing more in this than pursue the system of Mr. Wolmar,
in every particular; which, the farther I proceed, the more reason I
find to pronounce excellent and just. Observe my children,
particularly the eldest; have you ever seen children more happy, more
chearful, or less troublesome? You see them jump, and laugh, and run
about all day, without incommoding any one. What pleasure, what
independence, is their age capable of, which they do not enjoy, or
which they abuse? They are under as little restraint in my presence,
as when I am absent. On the contrary, they seem always at more liberty
under the eye of their mother, than elsewhere; and, though I am the
author of all the severity they undergo, they find me always more
indulgent than any body else: for I cannot support the thought of
their not loving me better than any other person in the world. The
only rules imposed on them in our company, are those of liberty
itself, viz they must lay the company under no greater restraint, than
they themselves are under; they must not cry louder than we talk; and
as they are not obliged to concern themselves with us, they are not to
expect our notice. Now, if ever they trespass against such equitable
rules as these, all their punishment is, to be immediately sent away;
and I make this a punishment, by contriving to render every other
place disagreeable to them. Setting this restriction aside, they are,
in a manner, quite unrestrained; we never oblige them to learn any
thing; never tire them with fruitless corrections; never reprimand
them for trifles; the only lessons which are given them being those of
practice. Every person in the house, having my directions, is so
discreet and careful in this business, that they leave me nothing to
wish for; and, if any defect should arise, my own assiduity would
easily repair it.
Yesterday, for example, the eldest boy, having taken a drum from his
brother, set him a crying. Fanny said nothing to him, at the time; but
about an hour after, when she saw him in the height of his amusement,
she in her turn took it from him, which set him a crying also. What,
said she, do you cry for? You took it just now, by force, from your
brother, and now I take it from you; what have you to complain of? Am
not I stronger than you? She then began to beat the drum, as if she
took pleasure in it. So far all went well, till sometime after, she
was going to give the drum to the younger, but I prevented her, as
this was not acting naturally, and might create envy between the
brothers. In losing the drum, the youngest submitted to the hard law
of necessity; the elder, in having it taken from him, was sensible of
his injustice: both knew their own weakness, and were in a moment
reconciled.”
A plan, so new, and so contrary to received opinions, at first
surprized me. By dint of explanation, however, they at length
represented it in an admirable light, and I was made sensible that the
path of nature is the best. The only inconvenience, which I find in
this method, and which appeared to me very great, was to neglect the
only faculty which children possess in perfection, and which is only
debilitated by their growing into years. Methinks, according to their
own system of education, that the weaker the understanding, the more
one ought to exercise and strengthen the memory, which is then so
proper to be exercised. It is that, said I, which ought to supply the
place of reason; it is enriched by judgment. [81] The mind becomes
heavy and dull by inaction. The seed takes no root in a soil badly
prepared, and it is a strange manner of preparing children to become
reasonable, by beginning to make them stupid. How! stupid! cried Mrs.
Wolmar immediately. Do you confound two qualities so different, and
almost contrary, as memory and judgment? As if an ill-digested and
unconnected lumber of things, in a weak head, did not do more harm
than good to the understanding. I confess, that, of all the faculties
of the human mind, the memory is the first which opens itself, and is
the most convenient to be cultivated in children: but which, in your
opinion, should be preferred, that which is most easy for them to
learn, or that which is most important for them to know? Consider the
use which is generally made of this aptitude, the eternal constraint
to which they are subject in order to display their memory, and then
compare its utility to what they are made to suffer. Why should a
child be compelled to study languages he will never talk, and that
even before he has learnt his own tongue? Why should he be forced
incessantly to make and repeat verses he does not understand, and
whose harmony all lies at the end of his fingers; or be perplexed to
death with circles and triangles, of which he has no idea; or why
burthened with an infinity of names of towns and rivers, which he
constantly mistakes, and learns anew every day? Is this to cultivate
the memory to the improvement of the understanding, or is all such
frivolous acquisition worth one of those many tears it costs him? Were
all this, however, merely useless, I should not so much complain of
it; but is it not pernicious to accustom a child to be satisfied with
mere words? Must not such a heap of crude and indigested terms and
notions be injurious to the formation of those primary ideas with
which the human understanding ought first to be furnished? And would
it not be better to have no memory at all, than to have it stuffed
with such a heap of literary lumber, to the exclusion of necessary
knowledge!
If nature has given to the brain of children that softness of texture,
which renders it proper to receive every impression, it is not fit for
us to imprint the names of sovereigns, dates, terms of art, and other
insignificant words of no meaning to them while young, nor of any use
to them as they grow old: but it is our duty to trace out betimes all
those ideas which are relative to the state and condition of humanity,
those which relate to their duty and happiness, that they may serve to
conduct them through life in a manner agreeable to their being and
faculties. The memory of a child may be exercised, without poring over
books. Every thing he sees, every thing he hears, catches his
attention, and is stored up in his memory: he keeps a journal of the
actions and conversation of men, and from every scene that presents
itself, deduces something to enrich his memory. It is in the choice of
objects, in the care to shew him such only as he ought to know, and to
hide from him those of which he ought to be ignorant, that the true
art of cultivating the memory consists.
You must not think, however, continued Eloisa, that we entirely
neglect that care on which you think so much depends. A mother, if she
is the least vigilant, holds in her hands the reins over the passions
of her children. There are ways and means to excite in them a desire
of instruction; and so far as they are compatible with the freedom of
the child, and tend not to sow in him the seeds of vice, I readily
employ them, without being chagrined if they are not attended with
success: for there is always time enough for knowledge, but not a
moment should be lost in forming the disposition. Mr. Wolmar lays,
indeed, so great a stress on the first dawnings of reason, that he
maintains, though his son should be totally ignorant at twelve years
old, he might know not a whit the less at fifteen; without considering
that nothing is less necessary than for a man to be a scholar, and
nothing more so than for him to be just and prudent. You know that our
eldest reads already tolerably well. I will tell you how he became
fond of it; I had formed a design to repeat to him, from time to time,
some fable out of la Fontaine, and had already begun, when he asked me
one day, seriously, if ravens could talk. I saw immediately the
difficulty of making him sensible of the difference between fable and
falsehood, and laying aside la Fontaine, got off as well as I could,
being from that moment convinced that fables were only proper for
grown persons, and that simple truth only should be repeated to
children. In the room of la Fontaine, therefore, I substituted a
collection of little interesting and instructive histories, taken
mostly from the bible; and, finding he grew attentive to these tales,
I composed others as entertaining as possible, and applicable to
present circumstances. These I wrote out fair, in a fine book
ornamented with prints, which I kept locked up, except at the times of
reading. I read also but seldom, and never long at a time, repeating
often the same story, and commenting a little, before I passed on to
another. When I observed him particularly intent, I pretended to
recollect some orders necessary to be given, and left the story
unfinished just in the most interesting part, laying the book down
negligently, and leaving it behind me. I was no sooner gone than he
would take it up, and go to his Fanny or somebody else, begging them
to read the remainder of the tale; but as nobody was at his command,
and every one had his instructions, he was frequently refused. One
would give him a flat denial, another had something else to do, a
third muttered it out very low and badly, and a fourth would leave it
in the middle, just as I had done before. When we saw him heartily
wearied out with so much dependence, somebody intimated to him, to
learn to read himself, and then he need not ask any body, but might
turn it over at pleasure. He was greatly delighted with the scheme;
but, where should he find any one obliging enough to instruct him?
This was a new difficulty, which we took care, however, not to make
too great. In spite of this precaution, he was tired out three or four
times; but of this I took no other notice, than to endeavour to make
my little histories the more amusing, which brought him again to the
charge with so much ardour, that though it is not six months since he
began to learn, he will be very soon able to read the whole
collection, without any assistance.
It is in this manner I endeavour to excite his zeal and inclination,
to attain such knowledge as requires application and patience; but
though he learns to read, he gets no such knowledge from books, for
there is no such in the books he reads, nor is the application to it
proper for children. I am desirous also of furnishing their heads with
ideas, and not with words; for which reason I never set them to get
any thing by heart.
Never! said I, interrupting her, that is saying a great deal. Surely
you have taught him his prayers and his catechism! There you are
mistaken, she replied. As to the article of prayers, I say mine, every
morning and evening, aloud in the nursery, which is sufficient to
teach them, without obliging them to learn. As to their catechism,
they know not what it is. What! Eloisa! your children never learn
their catechism! No, my friend, my children do not learn their
catechism. Indeed! said I, quite surprized, so pious a mother!----I
really do not comprehend you. Pray what is the reason they do not
learn it? The reason is, said she, that I would have them some time or
other believe it: I would have them be Christians. I understand you, I
replied; you would not have their faith consist in mere words; you
would have them believe, as well as know, the articles of their
religion; and you judge very prudently that it is impossible for a man
to believe what he does not understand. You are very difficult, said
Mr. Wolmar, smiling; pray, were you a Christian by chance? I
endeavour to be one, answered I, resolutely. I believe all that I
understand of the Christian religion, and respect the rest, without
rejecting it. Eloisa made me a sign of approbation, and we resumed the
former subject of conversation; when, after explaining herself on
several other subjects, and convincing me of her active and
indefatigable maternal zeal, she concluded by observing, that her
method exactly answered the two objects she proposed, namely, the
permitting the natural disposition and character of her children to
discover themselves, and empowering herself to study and examine it.
My children, continued she, lie under no manner of restraint, and yet
cannot abuse their liberty. Their disposition can neither be depraved
nor perverted; their bodies are left to grow, and their judgments to
ripen at ease and leisure: subjection debases not their minds nor does
flattery excite their self-love; they think themselves neither
powerful men nor enslaved animals, but children happy and free. To
guard them from vices, not in their nature, they have in my opinion, a
better preservative than lectures which they would not understand, or
of which they would soon be tired. This consists in the good behaviour
of those about them; in the good conversation they hear, which is so
natural to them all, that they stand in no need of instruction; it
consists in the peace and unity of which they are witnesses; in the
harmony which is constantly observed, and in the conduct and
conversation of every one around them. Nursed hitherto in natural
simplicity, whence should they derive those vices, of which they have
never seen the example? Whence those passions they have no opportunity
to feel, those prejudices which nothing they observe can impress? You
see they betray no bad inclination; they have adopted no erroneous
notions. Their ignorance is not opinionated, their desires are not
obstinate; their propensity to evil is prevented, nature is justified,
and every thing serves to convince me, that the faults we accuse her
of, are not those of nature but our own.
It is thus that, given up to the indulgence of their own inclinations,
without disguise or alteration, our children do not take an external
and artificial form, but preserve exactly that of their original
character. It is thus that character daily unfolds itself to
observation, and gives us an opportunity to study the workings of
nature, even to her most secret principles. Sure of never being
reprimanded or punished, they are ignorant of lying or concealing any
thing from us; and in whatever they say, whether before us or among
themselves, they discover, without restraint, whatever lies at the
bottom of their hearts. Being left at full liberty to prattle all day
long to each other, they are under no restraint before me. I never
check them, enjoin them to silence, or indeed pretend to take notice
of what they say, while they talk sometimes very blameably, though I
seem to know nothing of the matter. At the same time, however, I
listen to them with attention, and keep an exact account of all they
say and do; for these are the natural productions of the soil which we
are to cultivate. A naughty word in their mouths is a plant or seed
foreign to the soil, sown by the vagrant wind: should I cut it off by
a reprimand, it would not fail ere long to shoot forth again. Instead
of that, therefore, I look carefully to find its root, and pluck it
up. I am only, said she, smiling, the servant of the gardener; I only
weed the garden, by taking away the vicious plants: it is for him to
cultivate the good ones.
It must be confessed also that with all the pains I may take, I ought
to be well seconded to succeed, and that such success depends on a
concurrence of circumstances, which is perhaps to be met with no where
but here. The knowledge and discretion of a sensible father are
required, to distinguish and point out in the midst of established
prejudices, the true art of governing children from the time of their
birth; his patience is required to carry it into execution, without
ever contradicting his precepts by his practice; it is necessary that
one’s children should be happy in their birth, and that nature should
have made them amiable; it is necessary to have none but sensible and
well disposed servants about one, who will not fail to enter into the
design of their matter. One brutal or servile domestic would be enough
to spoil all. In short, when one thinks how many adventitious
circumstances may injure the best designs, and spoil the best-
concerted projects, one ought to be thankful to Providence for every
thing that succeeds, and to confess that wisdom depends greatly on
good fortune. Say rather, I replied, that good fortune depends on
prudence. Don’t you see that the concurrence of circumstances, on
which you felicitate yourself, is your own doing, and that every one
who approaches you is, in a manner, compelled to resemble you? O ye
mothers of families! when you complain that your views, your
endeavours, are not seconded, how little do you know your own power!
Be but what you ought, and you will surmount all obstacles; you will
oblige every one about you to discharge their duty, if you but
discharge yours. Are not your rights those of nature? In spite of the
maxims or practice of vice, these will be always respected by the
human heart. Do you but aspire to be women and mothers, and the most
gentle empire on earth will be also the most respectable.
In the close of our conversation Eloisa remarked that her task was
become much easier since the arrival of Harriot. It is certain, said
she, I should have had less trouble if I would have excited a spirit
of emulation between the brothers. But this step appeared to me too
dangerous; I chose, therefore, rather to take more pains, and to run
less risk. Harriot has made up for this; for, being of a different
sex, their elder, fondly beloved by both, and very sensible for her
age, I make a kind of governess of her, and with the more success, as
her lessons are less suspected to be such.
As to herself, her education falls under my care; but the principles
on which I proceed are so different, as to deserve particular
explanation. Thus much, at least, I can say of her already, that it
will be difficult to improve on the talents nature has given her, and
that her merit is equal to her mother’s, if her mother could possible
have an equal.
We now, my Lord, expect you every day here, so that this should be my
last letter. But I understand the reason of your stay with the army,
and tremble for the consequence. Eloisa is no less uneasy, and desires
you will oftener let her hear from you; conjuring you, at the same
time, to think how much you endanger the peace of your friends, by
exposing your person. For my part, I have nothing to say to you on
this subject. Discharge your duty; the advice of pusillanimity is as
foreign from my heart as from yours. I know too well, my dear B----,
the only catastrophe worthy of you, is, to lose your life in the
service and for the honour of your country; but ought you not to give
some account of your days to him, who has preserved his only for your
sake?
Volume IV
Letter CXL. From Lord B---- to Mrs. Orbe.
I find, by your two last letters, that a former one is missing,
apparently the first you wrote me from the army, and in which you
accounted for Mrs. Wolmar’s secret uneasiness. Not having received
that letter, I imagine it was in the mail of one of our couriers, who
was taken; you will, therefore, my friend, be pleased to re-
communicate its contents. I am at a loss to conjecture what they were,
and am uneasy about them. For again, I say, if happiness and peace
dwell not in Eloisa’s mind, I know not where they will find an asylum
on earth. You may make her easy, as to the dangers she imagines we are
here exposed to; we have to do with an enemy too expert to suffer us
to pursue him. With a handful of men, he baffles our attempts, and
deprives us of all opportunity to attack him. As we are very sanguine,
however; we may probably raise difficulties which the best generals
would not be able to surmount, and at length oblige the French to
fight us. I foresee our first success will cost us dear, and that the
victory we gained at Dettingen will make us lose one in Flanders. We
make head against a very able commander. Nor is this all; he possesses
the love and confidence of his troops, and the French soldiers, when
they have a good opinion of their leader, are _invincible_. [82] On the
contrary, they are good for so little when they are commanded by
courtiers they despise, that frequently their enemies need only to
watch the intrigues of the cabinet, and seize a proper opportunity,
to vanquish with certainty the bravest people on the continent: this
they very well know. The duke of Marlborough, taking notice of the
good look and martial air of a French soldier, taken prisoner at the
battle of Blenheim, told him, if the French army had been composed of
fifty thousand such men as he, it would not have been so easily
beaten; Zounds sir, replied the grenadier, there are men enough in it
like me, but it wants such a man as you; now such a man at present
commands the French troops, and is on our side wanting; but we have
courage, and trouble ourselves little about that. At all events,
however, I intend to see their operations for the remainder of the
campaign, and am resolved not to leave the army till it goes into
winter-quarters. We shall all be gainers by such a delay, the season
being too far advanced for us to think of crossing the mountains this
year. I shall spend the winter with you, and not go to Italy till the
beginning of the spring. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar I have thus changed
my design, that I may have more time to contemplate that affecting
picture you so pathetically describe, and that I may have also the
opportunity to see Mrs. Orbe settled with them. Continue, my dear sir,
to write with your usual punctuality, and you will do me a greater
pleasure than ever: my equipage having been taken by the enemy, I have
no books; but amuse myself in reading over your letters.
Letter CXLI. To Lord B----.
What pleasure does your lordship give me in acquainting me with your
design of passing the winter with us at Clarens! but how dearly you
make me pay for it by prolonging your stay at the army! what
displeases me most, however, is to perceive that your resolution of
making a campaign was fixed before we parted, though you mentioned
nothing of it to me. I see, my lord, your reason for keeping it a
secret, and cannot be pleased with you for it. Did you despise me so
much as to think me unfit to accompany you? or have you ever known me
mean enough to be attached to any thing I should prefer to the honour
of dying with my friend? But if it was improper for me to follow you
to the army, you should at least have left me in London; that would
have displeased me less than your sending me hither.
By your last letter I am convinced that one of mine is indeed missing;
the loss of which must have rendered the two succeeding ones in many
respects obscure; but the necessary explanations to make them
intelligible, shall be soon transmitted you. What is at present more
particularly needful, is to remove your uneasiness concerning that of
Mrs. Wolmar.
I shall not take upon me to give you a regular continuation of the
discourse we had together after the departure of her husband. Many
things have since intervened that make me forget great part of it, and
it was resumed at so many different times during his absence, that I
shall content myself, to avoid repetition, with giving you a summary
of the whole.
In the first place she told me, that Mr. Wolmar, who neglected nothing
in his power to make her happy, was nevertheless the sole author of
all her disquietude; and that the more sincere their mutual attachment
grew, the greater was her affliction. Would you think it, my lord?
This gentleman so prudent, so reasonable, so little addicted to any
kind of vice, so little subject to the tyranny of human passions,
knows nothing of that faith which gives virtue all its merit; and in
the innocence of an irreproachable life, feels only at the bottom of
his heart, the dreadful tranquillity of the unbeliever. The reflection
which arises from this contrast, in principle and morals, but
aggravates Eloisa’s grief; she would think him even less culpable in
disregarding the author of his Being, had he more reason to dread his
anger, or presumption to brave his power. That the guilty should be
led to appease their consciences at the expence of truth; that the
pride of thinking differently from the vulgar may induce others to
embrace error, she can readily conceive; but, continued she sighing,
how a man so virtuous, and so little vain of his understanding, should
be an infidel, surpasses my conception!
But before I proceed farther, it will be necessary to inform you of
the peculiar character of this married couple. You are to conceive
them as living solely for each other, and constantly taken up with
their family; it being necessary to know the strictness of the union
subsisting between them, to comprehend how their difference of
sentiments, in this one article, is capable of disturbing it. Mr.
Wolmar, educated in the customs of the Greek church, was not one of
those who could support the absurdity of such ridiculous worship. His
understanding, superior to the feeble yoke imposed on it, soon shook
it off with contempt; rejecting, at the same time, every thing offered
to his belief on such doubtful authority; thus forced in a manner into
impiety, he degenerates into Atheism.
Having resided ever since in Roman-catholic countries, he has never
been induced to a better opinion of Christianity, by what he found
professed there. Their religion, he saw, tended only to the interest
of their priests; that it consisted entirely of ridiculous grimaces,
and a jargon of words without meaning. He perceived that men of sense
and probity were unanimously of his opinion, and that they did not
scruple to say so; nay, that the clergy themselves, under the rose,
ridiculed in private what they inculcated and taught in public; hence
he has often assured me that, after having taken much time and pains
in the search, he never met with above three priests in his life that
believed a God. [83]
By endeavouring to set himself to rights in there matters, he
afterwards bewildered himself in metaphysical enquiries; and, seeing
only doubts and contradictions offer themselves on every side,
advanced so far that, when he returned to the doctrines of
Christianity, he came too late, and incapable of either belief or
conviction, the best arguments appeared to him inconclusive. He
finished his career, therefore, by equally opposing all religious
tenets whatever; and was converted from Atheism only to become a
Sceptic.
Such is the husband which heaven has destined to Eloisa; to her whose
true faith and sincere piety cannot have escaped your observations;
but to know how much her gentle soul is naturally inclined to
devotion, requires that long intimacy with her, in which her cousin
and I have lived. It might be said, no terrestrial object being equal
to her tenderness, her excess of sensibility is reduced to ascend to
its source: not like a saint Theresa, whose amorous heart only changes
its object: hers is a heart truly inexhaustible, which neither love
nor friendship can drain; but whose affections are still raised to the
only Being, worthy her ardent love. [84] Her love to God does not
detach her from his creatures; it gives her neither severity nor
spleen. But all her affections, proceeding from the same cause, and
tempering each other become more sweet and attracting; she would, I
believe, be less devout, if her love toward her husband, her children,
her cousin, and me were less than it is. What is very singular, also,
is that she knows but little of her own heart; and even complains that
she finds in herself, a soul barren of tenderness and incapable of
love to the sublimest object.----“Do what you will, she often says,
the heart is affected only by the interposition of the senses, or the
assistance of the imagination; and how shall we see or imagine the
immensity of the Supreme Being? [85] When I would raise myself up to
the deity, I know no longer where I am; perceiving no relation between
us, I know not how to reach him, I neither see nor feel anything, I
drop into a kind of annihilation; and, if I may venture to judge of
others by myself, I should apprehend the ecstasies of the mystics are
no less owing to the fulness of the heart than the emptiness of the
head.”
“What must I do then, added she, to get rid of these delusions of a
wandering mind? I substitute a less refined worship, but within the
reach of my comprehension, in the room of those sublime
contemplations, which surpass my mental faculties. With regret I
debase the majesty of the divinity, and interpose perceptible objects
between the deity and my feeble senses; not being able to contemplate
his essence, I contemplate at least his works, and admire his
goodness; but whatever method I take, instead of that pure love and
affection he demands, it is only an interested gratitude I have to
offer him.”
Thus, every thing is productive of sentiment in a susceptible mind;
the whole universe presenting to Eloisa, nothing but what is a subject
for love and gratitude. On every side she sees and adores the
benevolent hand of providence; her children are pledges committed by
it to her care; she receives its gifts, in the produce of the earth;
she sees her table covered by its bounty; she sleeps under its
protection; she awakes in peace under its care; she is instructed by
its chastisements, is made happy by its favours: all the benefits she
reaps, all the blessings she enjoys, are so many different subjects
for adoration and praise. If the attributes of the divinity are beyond
her feeble sight, she feels in every part of the creation, the common
father of mankind. To honour thus the supreme benevolence, is it not
to serve as much as possible an infinite Being?
Think, my lord, what pain it must give a woman of such a disposition,
to spend a life of retirement with a man who, while he forms a part of
her existence, cannot partake, of that hope which makes her existence
dear; not to be able to join him in praise and gratitude to the deity,
nor to converge with him on the blessed futurity we have to hope from
his goodness! to see him insensible, in doing good, to every thing
which should make virtue agreeable to us; and, with the strangest
absurdity, thinking like an infidel and acting as a Christian. Imagine
her walking abroad with her husband; the one admiring, in the
beautiful verdure of spring, or golden fruits of autumn, the power and
beneficence of the great Creator of all things; the other seeing in
them nothing but a fortuitous combination of atoms, united only by
chance. Imagine to yourself the situation of a married couple, having
a sincere regard for each other, who, for fear of giving offence, dare
not indulge themselves in such sentiments or reflections as the object
around them inspire; but who are bound in duty, even from their
reciprocal affections, to lay themselves under continual restraint.
Eloisa and I hardly ever walk out together, but some striking or
picturesque object puts her in mind of this disagreeable circumstance.
Alas! said she with great emotion to me, one day, this beautiful
prospect before us, so lively, so animating in our eyes, is a dead and
lifeless scene in those of the unfortunate Wolmar. In all that harmony
of created beings which nature displays, in vain do they unite to
speak their Maker’s praise: Mr. Wolmar perceives only a profound and
eternal silence.
You who know Eloisa, who know what delight her communicative mind
takes in imparting its sentiments; think what she must suffer by such
constraint, even though it were attended with no other inconvenience,
than that unsocial reserve which is peculiarly disagreeable between
two persons so intimately connected. But Eloisa has much greater cause
of uneasiness. In vain does she oppose those involuntary terrors,
those dreadful ideas that rush upon her mind. They return with
redoubled force, and disturb every moment of her life. How horrid must
it be for such an affectionate wife to think the supreme Being is the
avenger of his offended attributes! to think the happiness of him on
whom her own depends must end with his life; and to behold a reprobate
of God in the father of her children! all her sweetness of disposition
can hardly preserve her from falling into despair at this horrible
idea; her religion only, which imbitters the infidelity of her
husband, yielding her strength to support it. If heaven, says she
sometimes, refuses me the conversion of this honest man, I have but
one blessing to ask; which is that I may die before him.
Such, my lord, is the too just cause of Eloisa’s chagrin; such is the
secret affliction which preys on her mind, and is aggravated by the
care she takes to conceal it. Atheism, which stalks abroad undisguised
among the Papists, is obliged to hide its head in every country, where
reason, giving a sanction to religion, deprives infidels of all
excuse. Its principles are naturally destructive; and, though they
find partisans among the rich and great, who promote them, they are
held in the utmost horror by an oppress’d and miserable people; who,
seeing their tyrants thus freed from the only curb to restrain their
insolence, comfort themselves with the hope of another life, their
only consolation in this. Mrs. Wolmar, foreseeing the ill-consequences
of her husband’s scepticism, and being desirous to preserve her
children from the bad effects of so dangerous an example, prevailed on
him to keep his principles a secret; to which she found no great
trouble to persuade a man who, though honest and sincere, is yet
discreet, unaffected, without vanity, and far from wishing to deprive
others of a blessing which he himself cannot enjoy. In consequence of
this, he keeps his tenets to himself; he goes to church with us;
conforms himself to custom; and without making a verbal confession of
what he does not believe, avoids giving scandal, and pays all that
respect to the established religion of the country which the state has
a right to demand of its citizens.
They have been married now almost eight years, during which time Mrs.
Orbe only has been in the secret; nor probably would she of herself
ever have discovered it. Such care indeed is taken to save
appearances, and with so little affectation, that, after having spent
six weeks together in the greatest intimacy, I had not the least
suspicion; and should perhaps never have known Mr. Wolmar’s sentiments
on religious matters, if Eloisa herself had not apprized me of them.
Several motives determined her to that confidence: In the first place,
a too great reserve would have been incompatible with the friendship
that subsists between us. Again, it would be only aggravating her
uneasiness at her own cost, to deny herself the consolation of sharing
it with a friend. She was, besides, unwilling that my presence would
be long an obstacle to the conversation they frequently held together
on a subject she had so much at heart. In short, knowing you intended
soon to join us here, she was desirous, with the consent of her
husband, that you should be previously made acquainted with his
sentiments; as she hopes to find from your prudence and abilities, a
supplement to our hitherto fruitless efforts, worthy of your
character.
The opportunity she laid hold of to place this confidence in me, made
me suspect also another reason, which however she herself never
insinuated. Her husband has just left us; we lived formerly together;
our hearts had been enamoured of each other; they still remembered
their former transports; had they now forgot themselves but for a
moment, we had been plunged into guilt and infamy. I saw plainly she
was fearful of our private conversations, and sought to prevent the
consequences she feared; and I was myself too well convinced, by the
remembrance of what happened at Meillerie, that they who consider
least in themselves are the safest to be trusted.
Under these groundless apprehensions, which her natural timidity
inspired, she conceived she could take no better precaution than
always to have a witness to our conversation, whose presence could not
fail of being respected; and to call in, as a third person, the awful
and upright judge, who searches the heart, and is privy to the most
secret actions of men. Thus, committing herself to the immediate
protection of the divinity, I found the deity always between us. What
criminal desire could ever assail such a safeguard? my heart grew
refined by her zeal, and I partook of her virtue.
Thus, the gravest topics of discourse took up almost all our private
conferences in the absence of her husband; and since his return, we
have resumed them frequently in his presence. He attends to our
conversation, as if he was not at all concerned; and, without
despising our endeavours, sometimes advises us in our method of
argument. It is this which makes me despair of success; for had he
less sincerity, one might attack that vicious faculty of the mind that
nourishes his infidelity; but, if we are to convince him by dint of
reasoning, where shall we find information that has escaped his
knowledge, or arguments that have eluded his sagacity? For my part,
when I have undertaken to dispute with him, I have found that all mine
had been before exhausted to no purpose by Eloisa; and that my
reasoning fell far short of that pathetic eloquence which dictated by
the heart, flowed in persuasive accents from her tongue. I fear, my
lord, we shall never make a convert of this man. He is too frigid, not
immoral; his passions are not to be moved; sensibility, that innate
proof of the truth of religion, is wanting; and the want of this alone
is enough to invalidate all others.
Notwithstanding Eloisa’s care to disguise her uneasiness from him, he
knows and partakes of it; his discernment will not permit him to be
imposed on. His own chagrin therefore, on account of hers, is but too
apparent. Hence he has been tempted several times, she told me, to
affect a change of sentiments; and, for the sake of Eloisa’s peace, to
adopt tenets he could not in fact believe: but his soul was above the
meanness of hypocrisy. This dissimulation, instead of imposing on
Eloisa, would only have afforded a new cause of sorrow. That
sincerity, that frankness, that union of hearts, which now comfort
them under their afflictions, would then have no more subsisted
between them. Was it by making himself less worthy her esteem that he
could hope to calm her fears? No, instead therefore of deceiving her,
he tells her sincerely his thoughts; but this he does in a manner so
simple and unaffected, so little disdainful of received opinions, so
unlike that ironical, contemptuous behaviour of free-thinkers, that
such melancholy confessions are extremely afflicting. As she cannot,
however, inspire her husband with that faith and hope, with which she
herself is animated, she studies with the more assiduity to indulge
him, in all those transient pleasures to which his happiness is
confined. Alas! says she weeping, if the poor unfortunate has his
heaven in this life, let us make it, at, least, as agreeable to him as
possible! [86]
That veil of sorrow, which this difference in opinion throws over
their union, gives a farther proof of the irresistible ascendant of
Eloisa, in the consolation with which that affliction is tempered, and
which perhaps no other person in the world would be able to apply. All
their altercations, all their disputes, on this important point, so
far from giving rise to ill nature, contempt, or anger, generally end
in some affecting scene which the more endears them to each other.
Our conversation falling yesterday upon the same subject, as it
frequently does when we three are by ourselves, we were led into a
dispute concerning the origin of evil; in which I endeavoured to
prove, that no absolute or general evil existed in the system of
nature; but that even particular and relative evils were much less in
reality, than in appearance; and that, on the whole, they were more
than recompensed by our particular and relative good. As an example of
this, I appealed to Mr. Wolmar himself, and, penetrated with a sense
of the happiness of his situation, I described it so justly, and in
such agreeable colours, that he seemed himself affected with the
description. “Such,” says he, interrupting me, “are the delusive
arguments of Eloisa: she always substitutes sentiment in the place of
reason, and argues so affectingly, that I cannot help embracing her at
every reply: Was it not her philosophical preceptor,” added he,
smiling, “that taught her this manner of reasoning?” Two months
before, this piece of pleasantry would have cruelly disconcerted me;
but my first embarrassment was now over, and I joined in the laugh:
nor did Eloisa, tho’ she blush’d a little, appear any more embarrassed
than myself. We continued the dispute. Wolmar, not contending about
the quantity of evil, contented himself with observing that whether
little or much, evil still existed; and thence inferred the want
either of power, wisdom, or goodness, in the first cause. I, on my
part, stove to deduce the origin of physical evil from the properties
of matter, and of moral evil from the free agency of man. I advanced,
that nothing was impossible to the deity, except the creation of
substances as perfect and exempt from evil as himself. We were in the
heat of our dispute when I perceived Eloisa had left us. “Can you
guess whither she is gone?” said her husband, seeing me look around
for her. “I suppose,” said I, “to give some orders in her family.”
“No,” replied he, “she would not have left us at this time for that.
Business of that kind is, I know not how, transacted without my ever
seeing her interfere.” “Then she is gone to the nursery?” “No; her
children are not more at her heart, than my conversion.” “Well then,”
said I, “I know not what she is gone about; but I am well assured she
is employed in some useful concern.” “Still less,” said he coldly;
“come, come along; you shall see if I guess right.”
He then stept softly along the room, and I followed him in the same
manner: when, coming to the door of Eloisa’s closet, and finding it
shut, he threw it suddenly open. Oh! my lord! what a sight did this
present us! Eloisa on her knees, her hands lifted up to heaven, and
her face bathed in tears! She rose up precipitately, wiping her eyes,
hiding her face, and trying to escape us: never did I see so affecting
a confusion. Her husband did not give her time to get away; but ran to
her, in a kind of transport. “Ah, my dear!” said he, embracing her,
“even the fervency of your prayers betrays the weakness of your cause:
what prevents their efficacy? if your desires were heard, they would
presently be granted.” “I doubt not,” said she, with a devout
confidence, “but they will be granted; how soon or late, I leave to
heaven. Could I obtain it, at the expense of my life, I should lay it
down with pleasure, and think the last the best employed of all my
days.”
Come, my lord, leave those scenes of destruction you are now engaged
in, and act a nobler part. Can a philosopher prefer the honour of
destroying mankind, to the virtue of endeavouring to save them? [87]
Letter CXLII. To Lord B----.
What! my lord, after being absent a whole campaign, must you take a
journey to Paris? Have you then entirely forgotten Clarens, and its
inhabitants? Are we less dear to you than my lord H----? or, are you
more necessary to that friend, than to those who expect you here? you
oblige us to oppose our wishes to yours, and make me in particular
lament, that I have not interest enough at the court of France, to
prevent your obtaining the passports you wait for. But, no matter; go,
visit your worthy countryman. In spite of you both, we will be
revenged of you for the preference given him; for, whatever pleasure
you may enjoy in his company, I know that, when you come to be with
us, you will regret the time you staid away.
On receiving your letter, I at first suspected you were charged with
some secret commission. If peace were in view, where could be found a
more worthy mediator? But when do kings put their confidence in men of
worth? Dare they listen to the truth? do they know how to respect true
merit? No, my dear Lord B----, you are not made for a minister of
state; and I think too well of you to imagine, if you had not been
born a peer, you would ever have risen to that dignity. Come, come, my
friend, you will be better at Clarens, than at court. What an
agreeable winter shall we pass together, if the hope of seeing you
here does not deceive me! our happiness is every day preparing, by the
arrival of one or other of those privileged minds, who are so dear to
each other, so worthy of each other’s esteem, and who seem only to
wait for you to be able to live without all the rest of the world. On
hearing what a lucky accident brought hither the baron’s adversary,
you foresaw the consequences of that rencounter; it has really fallen
out as you foretold. That old litigant, tho’ almost as obstinate and
inflexible as his opponent, could not resist the ascendant we got over
him. After seeing and conversing with Eloisa, he began to be ashamed
of contending with her father; and on leaving her, set out for Bern,
in so favourable a disposition, that we hear an accommodation is far
advanced, and from the baron’s last letter expect his return home in a
few days. This you will already have been told by Mr. Wolmar: but
probably you do not yet know that Mrs. Orbe, having settled her
affairs, arrived here on Thursday last, and resides entirely at the
house of her friend. As I knew beforehand the day of her arrival, I
set out to meet her, unknown to Mrs. Wolmar, whom she had a mind to
surprize: we met on this side Lutry and returned together.
I think I never saw her so sprightly and agreeable; but unequal,
absent, giving little attention to any thing, and seldom replying;
talking by fits and starts; in a word, given up entirely to that
restlessness which is natural to us, when just on the point of
obtaining what we have long ardently desired. One would have thought,
every minute, that she was afraid of being obliged to return. Her
journey, tho’ so long deferred, was undertaken so precipitately, that
it almost turned the heads of both mistress and domestics. A whimsical
disorder appeared throughout the whole of her little baggage. If her
woman imagined, as she did every now and then, that she had left
something behind, Clara as constantly assured her she had put it into
the seat of the coach where, upon farther enquiry, it was not to be
found.
As she was unwilling Eloisa should hear the rattling of her coach, she
got out in the avenue before we came to the gate; and, skudding across
the courtyard like a sylph, ran upstairs with so much precipitation
that she was obliged to stop and take breath on the first landing
place, before she could get up the next flight. Mr. Wolmar came out to
meet her, but she was in too much hurry to speak to him. On opening
the door of Eloisa’s apartment, I saw her sitting near the window,
with the little Harriot on her knee. Clara had prepared for her a fine
compliment, in her way, a compound of affection and pleasantry; but,
on setting her foot over the threshold, compliment and pleasantry were
all forgotten; she flew forward to embrace her friend with a transport
impossible to be described, crying out ah! my dear, dear cousin!
Harriot, seeing her mother, fled to meet her, and crying out _Mamma,
Mamma_, ran with so much force against her, that the poor child fell
backwards on the floor. The effect of the sudden appearance of Clara,
the fall of Harriot, the joy, the apprehensions, that seized upon
Eloisa at that instant, made her give a violent shriek, and faint
away. Clara was going to lift up the child when she saw her friend
turn pale, which made her hesitate whom to assist; till, seeing me
take up Harriot, she flew to the relief of Eloisa; but, in
endeavouring to recover her, sunk down likewise in a swoon by the side
of her friend.
The child, seeing them both without motion, made such loud
lamentations as soon brought the little Frenchwoman into the room; the
one clung about her mother, the other ran to her mistress. For my
part, I was so struck, so affected, that I stalked about the room with
out knowing what I did: venting broken exclamations, and making
involuntary motions to no purpose. Wolmar himself, the unsusceptible
Wolmar, seemed affected. But where is the heart of iron whom such a
scene of sensibility would not affect? where is the unfortunate mortal
from whom such a scene of tenderness would not have extorted tears?
Instead of running to Eloisa, this fortunate husband threw himself on
a settee, to enjoy the delightful scene. “Be not afraid,” says he,
seeing our uneasiness. “In these accidents nature only is exhausted
for a moment, to recover itself with new vigour; they are never
dangerous. Let me prevail on you not to interrupt the pleasure I take
in this transporting sight, but partake it with me. How ravishingly
delightful must it be to you? I never tasted any thing like it, and am
yet the most unhappy of all here.”
You may judge, my lord, by the first moment of their meeting, the
consequences of the reunion of these charming friends. It has excited
throughout the whole house a sound of gladness, a tumultuous joy, that
has not yet subsided. Eloisa was in such an agitation as I never saw
her in before; it was impossible for her to think of any thing all
that day, but to gaze on her new visitor, and load her with fresh
caresses. No body even thought of the saloon of Apollo; there was no
occasion for thinking of it when every place gave equal pleasure. We
were hardly, even the next day, composed enough to think of making an
entertainment on the occasion. Had it not been for Wolmar, every thing
would have gone wrong. In the mean time, every one was dressed in the
best manner. No other care was admitted, than what tended to
amusement. The entertainment was not grand, but extremely joyous;
throughout the whole there reigned a pleasing confusion and disorder,
which was its greatest embellishment.
The morning was spent in putting Mrs. Orbe in possession of her
employment of intendant or housekeeper, and she betrayed the same
eagerness to enter into her office, as a child does after a new
plaything; at which we were highly diverted. In entering the saloon at
dinner, both cousins were agreeably surprized to see on every side,
their names in cypher, artificially formed with flowers. Eloisa
guessed in an instant to whom she was obliged for that piece of
ingenuity, and embraced me in a transport of joy. Clara, contrary to
former custom, hesitated to follow her example; till Wolmar
reprimanding her, she blushed, and embraced me. Her sweet confusion,
which I observed but too plainly, had an effect on me which I cannot
describe; but I could not feel myself in her arms without emotion.
After dinner, a fine collation was set out in the gynaeceum, or
women’s apartment; where for once Mr. Wolmar and I were admitted, and
were entertained agreeably. In the evening all the house, now
increased by three persons, assembled to dance. Clara seemed
ornamented by the hands of the Graces, never having appeared to so
much advantage as on that day. She danced, she chatted, she laugh’d,
she gave orders, she was capable of every thing. Having protested she
would tire me out, she danced down five or six country dances in a
breath; and then reproached me for footing it with the gravity of a
philosopher. I, on the other hand, told her she danc’d like a fairy;
that she was full as mischievous, and that she would not let me rest
night nor day. You shall see to the contrary, says she, here’s that
will set you to sleep presently: with that she started up, and led
down another dance.
She was really indefatigable; but it was otherwise with Eloisa: she
could hardly support herself; her knees trembled, as she danced; she
was too much affected, to be chearful. One might observe a tear of joy
every now and then trickle from her eyes; she regarded her cousin with
a kind of delicious transport; took a pleasure in conceiving herself
the guest for whom the entertainment was made, and looked fondly upon
Clara as the mistress of the house who entertained her.
After supper, I play’d off the fireworks I brought from China, which
had a pretty effect. We sat up great part of the night. At length it
became time to break up: Mrs. Orbe was tired, or had danced enough to
be so; and Eloisa was desirous she should not sit up too late.
After this we became insensibly tranquil, and good order took place.
Clara, giddy and inconsiderate as she seems, knows how to check her
sallies, and put on an air of authority, when she pleases. She has,
besides great good sense, an exquisite discernment, the penetration of
Wolmar, and the goodness of Eloisa; and tho’ extremely liberal, has a
good deal of discretion in her generosity: for, tho’ left so young a
widow, and charged with the care of a daughter, the fortunes of both
increase in her hands; so that there is no reason to apprehend the
house will, under her direction, be less prudently governed than
before. In the mean time, Eloisa has the satisfaction of devoting
herself entirely to an occupation more agreeable to her taste; that
is, the education of her children: and I doubt not but Harriot will
profit greatly by one of her mothers having relieved the other. I say
her mothers, because by the manner in which they both behave to her,
it is difficult to distinguish which is really so; so that some
strangers, who arrived here to day, are still, or appear to be, in
doubt about it. In fact, they both call her _Harriot_, or _my child_,
indifferently. She calls the one her _Mamma_, and the other her
_little Mamma_: she has the same love for both, and pays them equal
obedience. If the ladies are asked whose child it is, each answers it
is hers: if Harriot be questioned, she says that she has two mothers;
so that it is no wonder that people are puzzled. The most discerning,
however, think her the child of Eloisa; Harriot, whose father was of a
fair complexion, being fair like her, and something resembling her in
features. A greater maternal tenderness appears also in the soft
regards of Eloisa, than in the sprightlier looks of Clara. The child
puts on also a more respectful air, and is more reserved in her
behaviour before the former. She places herself involuntarily oftener
on the side of Eloisa, because she most frequently talks to her. It
must be confessed all appearances are in favour of our _little mamma_;
and I perceive the deception is so agreeable to the two cousins, that
it may be sometimes perhaps intended.
In a fortnight, my lord, nothing will be wanting here but your
presence; and when you are arrived, I shall have a very bad opinion of
that man, who should be tempted to ransack the world for a virtue, or
a pleasure, which may not be found in this house.
Letter CXLIII. To Lord B----.
For these three days past I have attempted every evening successively
to write to you; but found myself, through the fatigue of the day, too
sleepy to effect my purpose at night, and in the morning I am again
called upon early to my employment. A pleasing tranquillity, more
intoxicating than wine, takes possession of my senses; and I cannot
without regret bear a moment’s avocation from the new and agreeable
amusements I find here.
I cannot indeed conceive that any place would be disagreeable to me in
such company; but do you know why Clarens in itself is agreeable? it
is that here I find myself actually in the country, which I could
hardly ever say before. The inhabitants of cities know not how to
enjoy the country; they know not what it is to be there; and, even
when they are there, know not what to do with themselves. They are
ignorant of all rustic business and amusements; they despise them;
they seem at home as if they were in a foreign country, and I am not
at all surprized that they are displeased with it. Among the country
people, we should live as they do, or not associate with them at all.
The Parisians, who imagine they go into the country, mistake the
thing; they carry Paris along with them. They are attended with their
singers, their wits, their authors, and their parasites. Cards, music,
and plays, engross all their attention; [88] their tables are spread
in the same manner as at Paris; they sit down to their meals at the
same hours; are served with the same dishes, and in the same pomp: in
a word, they do just the same things in the country as they did in
town, where, for that reason, it had been better they had stayed; for,
however opulent they are, or careful to omit nothing they are
accustomed to, they always find something wanting, and perceive the
impossibility of carrying Paris altogether along with them. Thus, that
variety they are so fond of eludes their search; they are acquainted
only with one manner of living, and are therefore a continual burthen
to themselves. To me every rural employment affords something
agreeable; nor is there any so painful and laborious as to excite our
compassion for the labourer. As the object of both public and private
utility, husbandry is peculiarly interesting; and, as it was the first
employment of man in his state of innocence, it fills the mind with
the most pleasing sensations, and affects us with the agreeable ideas
of the golden age. The imagination cannot help being warmed by the
prospects of seedtime and harvest: If we look around us, and see the
fields covered with hay makers, and with flocks of sheep scattered at
a distance, one is sensibly affected with a pleasure arising one knows
not how. The voice of nature thus sometimes softens our savage hearts,
and, though its dictates are too often fruitless, it is so agreeable
that we never hear it without pleasure.
I must confess, that the misery which appears on the face of some
countries, where the taxes devour the produce of the earth, the eager
avarice of a greedy collector, the inflexible rigour of an inhuman
master, take away much of the beauty of the prospect. To see the poor
jaded cattle ready to expire under the whip; to see the unhappy
peasants themselves emaciated with fasting, clothed in rags, groaning
with fatigue, and hardly secured from the inclemencies of the weather
by their wretched huts; these are deplorable sights, and it makes one
almost blush to be a man when one thinks how the very vitals of such
poor objects are drained to satisfy their cruel masters. But what
pleasure is it, on the other hand, to see the prudent and humane
proprietors, in milder governments, make the cultivation of their
lands the instrument of their benevolence, their recreation, their
pleasures! to see them with open hands distribute the bounties of
providence! to see their servants, their cattle, and every creature
about them, fatten on the abundance that flows from their barns, their
cellars and granaries! to see them surrounded with peace and plenty,
and make, of the employment that enriches them, a continual
entertainment! How is it possible for one to be inattentive to the
agreeable illusions which such objects present? we forget the age we
live in, and the vices of our cotemporaries, and are transported in
imagination to the time of the patriarchs; we are desirous to set
one’s own hands to work; to join in the rustic employment, and partake
of the happiness annexed to it. Oh! how delightful were the days of
love and innocence, when the women were affectionate and modest, the
men simple and content! such were the days when a lover did not regret
fourteen years of servitude to obtain his mistress. Fair daughter of
Laban! keeper of thy father’s flocks, how amiable must thou have been!
how irresistible thy charms! No, never doth beauty exert its power so
much as when in the midst of rural scenes and rustic simplicity. Here
is the real seat of its empire; here she sits on her throne,
surrounded by the graces; adorned by whose lands, she captivates all
beholders. Excuse this rhapsody, my lord; I return now to my subject.
For this month past the autumnal heats have been preparing a
favourable vintage, which the first has already induced us to begin;
[89] the parched leaves falling off the vines, and exposing to view
the clustered grapes, whose juicy ripeness invites the hands of the
gatherers. Vines loaded with this salutary fruit, which heaven bestows
on the unfortunate as a cure for all their woes; the sound of the
casks, tubs, and tons, which they are hooping anew on every side, the
songs of the gatherers with which the vintage re-echoes; the continual
trotting backwards and forwards of those who carry the grapes to the
press, the harsh sound of the rustic instruments that animate the
people to work; the agreeable and affecting picture of a general good
humour, which seems to be extended at that time over the face of the
whole earth; add to these the fog, which the sun exhales in a morning
and draws up like the curtain of theatre, to display so delightful a
scene; all conspire to give it the air of an entertainment; and that
an entertainment which is the more pleasing on reflection, that it is
the only one in which mankind have art enough to join utility with
delight.
Mr. Wolmar, who has one of the best vineyards in the country, has made
all the necessary preparations for his vintage. His backs, his
winepress, his cellar, his casks, are all ready for that delicious
liquor for which they are designed. Mrs. Wolmar herself takes charge
of the crop; the choice of the labourers, and the order and
distribution of the several parts of the work falling to her share.
Mrs. Orbe takes care of all entertainments, and of the payment of the
day-labourers agreeable to the police established here; the laws of
which are never infringed or broken. As to my part, I am set to
inspect the press and enforce the directions of Eloisa, who cannot
bear the steam of the backs; and Clara did not fail to recommend me to
this employ, as it was so well adapted to a toper. Thus every one
having an allotted task, we are all up early in the morning, and are
assembled to go to the vineyard. Mrs. Orbe, who never thinks herself
sufficiently employed, undertaking further to observe and rate those
that are idle; in doing which I can safely say, with respect to me at
least, that she acquits herself with a malicious assiduity. As to the
old baron, while we are all employed, he walks out with his gun, and
comes, every now and then, to take me from my work, to go with him a
thrush-shooting; and I am taxed by my companions with being secretly
engaged to him. So that by degrees I lose my old name of philosopher
and get that of an idler; appellations which in reality are not so
very different. You see, by what I have told you of the baron, that we
are quite reconciled, and that Wolmar has reason to be content with
his second experiment. [90] Shall I hate the father of my friend? no,
were I his son, I could not respect him more than I do. In fact, I
know not any man more sincere, more open, more generous, or more
honourable in every respect than this old gentleman. But the
extravagance of his notions and prejudices is odd enough. Since he is
certain I cannot be united to his family, he is extremely civil; and,
provided I be not his son-in-law, he will readily give up every thing,
and allow me a superiority to himself. The only thing I cannot forgive
him, is, that when we are alone, he will some time rally the pretended
philosopher on his former lectures. His pleasantry on this head hurts
me, and I am always vexed at it; but he turns my resentment into
ridicule, and says, Come along, let us go bring down a thrush or two;
we have carried this argument far enough. And then he calls out, as we
go out of doors; here, Clara, Clara! provide a good supper for your
master; I am going to get him an appetite. Notwithstanding his age,
also, I can assure you, he brushes among the vines with his gun, with
as much activity as myself, and is incomparably a better marksman. I
have some satisfaction, however, in that he dares not drop a word
before his daughter; the little scholar prescribing no less to her
father than to her preceptor. But to return to our vintage.
It is now a week since we have been employed in this agreeable
occupation, yet we have hardly done half our work. Besides the wines
intended for sale and for common use, which are only simply tho’
carefully made, our benevolent fairy makes others of a more exquisite
flavour for us drinkers; I myself assisting in the magical operations.
We make wines of all countries from the grapes of one vineyard: to
make one sort, she orders the stalks of the bunches to be twisted when
the grape is ripe, and lets them dry by the heat of the sun upon the
stock; for another, she has the grapes picked and stoned before they
are put into the press; Again, for a third sort, she has the red
grapes gathered before sunrising, and carefully conveyed to the press,
fresh with their bloom and covered with the morning dew, to make white
wine. She makes a sweet wine, by putting into the casks _must_,
reduced to a syrup by evaporation; a dry wine, by checking its
fermentation; a bitter cordial by steeping wormwood; [91] and a
muscadel wine, with the help of simples. All those different wines
have their peculiar methods of preparation; every one of which is
simple and wholesome. And thus an industrious economy makes up for a
diversity of soils, and unites twenty climates in one. You cannot
conceive with what assiduity, with what alacrity, all our business is
done. We sing and laugh all day long, without the least interruption
to our work. We live altogether in the greatest familiarity; are all
treated on a footing, and yet no one forgets himself. The ladies put
on none of their airs, the countrywomen are decent, the men droll, but
never rude. Those are the most caressed who sing the best songs, tell
the best stories, or hit off the best joke. Our good understanding
even gives rise to pleasant bickerings between us, and our mutual
raillery is exerted only to shew how far we can bear with good temper
each others severity. There is no returning home to play the gentle
folks; we stay all the day long in the vineyard; Eloisa having caused
a lodge to be built there, whither we retreat to warm ourselves when
cold, or to shelter us from the rain. We dine with the peasants, and
at their hour, as well as work with them. We eat their soup, a little
coarse indeed, but very good, and seasoned with excellent herbs. We
laugh not at their downright behaviour and rustic compliments; but, in
order to free them from constraint, give into their own ways without
affectation. This complacence on our side, also, is not lost upon
them; they are sensible of it; and, seeing that we are so ready to go
out of our way for them, are more willing to go on in their own for
us. At dinner the children are brought from the house, and pass the
rest of the day in the vineyard. How rejoiced are the peasants to see
them! then, taking them up in their sturdy arms, they bless them, and
wish heaven may prolong their days to resemble their parents, and make
them in like manner a blessing to their country. When I think that the
most of these men have born arms, and understand the use of the sword
and musket, as well as the management of the hoe and pruning-knife, in
seeing Eloisa so loved and respected by them, and herself and children
received with such affecting acclamations, I cannot help calling to
mind the virtuous and illustrious Agrippina, shewing her son to the
troops of Germanicus. Incomparable Eloisa! who exercises in the
simplicity of private life, the despotic power of wisdom and
beneficence; your person a dear and sacred trust deposited in the
hands of your country-men, every one of whom would defend and protect
you at the hazard of his own life; it is yours to live more securely,
more honourably, in the midst of a whole people who love you, than
monarchs surrounded with guards.
In the evening, we all return home chearfully together; the workpeople
being lodged and boarded with us all the time of the vintage; and even
on Sundays after the evening service, we assemble and dance together
till supper time. On the other days of the week, also, we remain
altogether, after we are returned home, except the baron, who, eating
no suppers, goes to bed early, and Eloisa, who with her children stays
with him till his bedtime. Thus, from the time we take upon ourselves
the business of the vintage till we quit it, we never once mix the
city and country life together. These Saturnalia are much more
agreeable and discreet than those of the Romans. The constraint they
affected was too preposterous to improve either the master or the
slave; but the peaceful equality which prevails here, re-establishes
the order of nature, is productive of instruction to some, of
consolation to others, and of a friendly connection between all. [92]
Our assembly room is an old hall with a great chimney and a good fire
in it. On the mantlepiece are lighted up three lamps, made by Mr.
Wolmar’s orders, of tin, just to catch the smoke and reflect the
light. To prevent giving rise to envy, every thing is carefully
avoided that might in the eyes of these poor people, appear more
costly than what they meet with at home; no other mark of opulence
being displayed than the choice of the best of common things, and a
little more profusion in their distribution. Supper is served upon two
long tables; where the pomp and luxury of entertainments is amply
supplied by good humour and plenty. Every one sits down to table,
master, labourers, and servants; every one without distinction gets up
to help himself, without exception or preference; the whole repast
ending in gratitude and festivity. All drink at their discretion,
subject to no other rules than those of decency and sobriety. The
presence of superiors, whom they so truly respect, keeps the
workpeople within bounds; yet lays no restraint on their ease and
chearfulness. And should any one happen to forget himself and give
offence, the company is not disturbed by reprimands, the offender
being dismissed the next day, without farther notice.
Thus, do I take advantage of the pleasures of the country and the
season. I resume the freedom of living after the manner of the
country, and to drink pure wine pretty often; but I drink none that is
not poured out by the hands of one or other of the two cousins; who
take upon them to measure my thirst by the strength of my head, and to
manage my reason as they think proper; nor does any one know better
how to manage it, or has like them the art to give or take it away
from me at pleasure. When the fatigue of the day, or the length and
festivity of the repast, add to the strength of the liquor, I indulge
myself without restraint in the sallies it inspires. They are no
longer such as I need suppress, even in the presence of the sagacious
Wolmar. I am no longer afraid his penetrating eye should see into the
bottom of my heart; and, when a tender idea arises in my memory, one
look from Clara dissipates it; one look of Eloisa makes me blush for
my weakness.
After supper, we sit up an hour or two to peel hemp; every one singing
a song in turn. Sometimes the women sing all together, or one sings
alone, and the rest join in chorus to the burthen of the song. Most of
their songs are old tales, set to no very agreeable tunes. There is,
not withstanding something antique and affecting, which on the whole
is very pleasing. The words are generally very simple, unaffected, and
often very sorrowful: they are, nevertheless, diverting. Clara cannot
forbear smiling, Eloisa blushing, and myself from giving a sigh, when
the same turns and expressions are repeated in these songs, which have
heretofore been made use of between us. On those occasions, as I look
upon them, the remembrance of times past rushes upon my mind: I am
seized with a trembling, an insupportable burthen oppresses my heart,
and leaves so deep an impression of sorrow that I can hardly shake it
off. I find, nevertheless, in these evenings a sort of pleasure which
I cannot describe, and which is nevertheless very great.
The union of people of different conditions, the simplicity of their
occupation, the idea of ease, concord and tranquillity, the peaceful
sensation it awakes in the soul; these altogether have something
affecting that disposes every one to make choice of the most
interesting songs. The concert of female voices is also not without
its charms. For my part, I am convinced, that of all kinds of harmony
there is none so agreeable as singing in unison; and that we only
require a variety of concords, because our taste is depraved. Does not
harmony in fact exist in every single note? What then can we add to
it, without changing the proportions which nature has established in
the relation of harmonious sounds.
Nature has done every thing in the best manner, but we would do
better, and so spoil all.
There is as great an emulation among us about the work of the evening,
as about that of the day; and a piece of roguery I was guilty of
yesterday, brought me into a little disgrace. As I am not the most
expert at hemp-peeling, and am sometimes absent in thought, I begun
to be tired with always being pointed at for doing the least work. I
shovelled the stalks with my feet therefore from my next neighbours,
to enlarge my own heap; but that inexorable Mrs. Orbe, perceiving it;
made a sign to Eloisa, who, detecting me in the fact, reprimanded me
severely. Come, come, says she, aloud, I’ll have no injustice done
here, though in jest; it is thus, people accustom themselves to
cheating, and prove rogues in good earnest, and then, what is worse,
make a jest of it.
In this manner we pass our evenings. When it is near bedtime, Mrs.
Wolmar stands up, and says, Come, now let us to our fireworks. On
which, every one takes up his bundle of hemp-stalks, the honourable
proofs of his labour, which are carried in triumph into the middle of
the courtyard, and there laid as trophies in a heap, and set on fire.
Everyone, however, has not indiscriminately this honour; but those to
whom Eloisa adjudges it, by giving the torch to him or her, who has
done most work that evening; and when this happens to be herself, she
does it with her own hands, without more to do. This ceremony is
accompanied with acclamations and clapping of hands. The stalks soon
burn up in a blaze, which ascends to the clouds; a real bonfire, about
which we laugh and sing, till it is out. After this, the whole company
are served with liquor, and every one drinks to the health of the
conqueror, and goes to bed, content with a day past in labour,
chearfulness and innocence, which he would willingly begin again the
next day, the next after that, and every day, to the last of his life.
Letter CXLIV. To Mr. WOLMAR.
Enjoy, my dear Wolmar, the fruits of your labour. Receive the
acknowledgements of a heart, which you have taken so much pains to
render worthy of being offered to your acceptance. Never did any man
undertake so arduous a task; never did any one attempt what you have
executed; nor did ever a susceptible and grateful mind, feel more than
that with which you have inspired me. Mine had lost its force, its
vigour, its very being; but you have restored them all; I was dead to
virtue, to happiness, and owe to you that moral life, to which you
have raised me. O my benefactor! my father! in giving myself up
entirely to you, I can only offer, as to the deity, the gifts I have
received at your hands.
Must I confess to you my weakness and my fears? Hitherto I have always
distrusted myself. It is not a week ago that I blushed for the
weakness of my heart, and thought all our pains had been lost. That
cruel and discouraging moment, however, thanks to heaven and you, is
past, never to return. I do not think myself cured, only because you
tell me so, but because I feel it: I stand no longer in need of your
answering for me, who have put me in a state to answer for myself. It
was necessary for me to be absent from you and Eloisa, to know what I
should be without your support. It is at a distance from her abode,
that I learn not to be afraid to approach her.
As I write the particulars of our journey to Mrs. Orbe, I shall not
repeat them here; I am not unwilling you should know my foibles; but I
have not the courage to tell you of them. It is, my dear Wolmar, my
last fault. I feel myself so far already from being liable to commit
the like again, that I cannot think of it without disdain; and yet it
is so little a while since, that I cannot acknowledge it without
shame. You, who can so readily forgive my errors, will doubtless
forgive the shame which attends my repentance.
Nothing is now wanting to compleat my happiness. My Lord B---- has
told me all. Shall I then, my dear friend, be devoted entirely to you?
shall I educate your children? shall the eldest of the three be
preceptor to the rest? with what ardour have I not desired it? The
hope of being thought worthy of such employment has redoubled my
assiduity to second your paternal care and instructions.
How often have I not expressed my earnestness, in this particular, to
Eloisa! with what pleasure have I not interpreted the discourse of
both of you, in my favour! but although she was convinced of my zeal
for your service, and seemed to approve of its object, she never
entered so explicitly into my designs as to encourage me to speak more
openly. I was sensible I ought rather to merit that honour than ask
for it. I expected of you and her that proof of your confidence and
esteem. I have not been deceived in my expectation, nor shall you, my
dear friends, believe me, be deceived in yours.
You know that, in the course of our conversation on the education of
your children, I have thrown together upon paper some of those
sentiments which such conversation furnished me with, and which you
approved. Since my departure, some new reflections have suggested
themselves on the same subject: I have reduced the whole into a kind
of system, which, when I have properly digested, I shall communicate
to you for your examination. I do not think, however, I shall be able
to make it fit for your inspection till after our arrival at Rome. My
system begins, or finishes, that of Eloisa; or rather, it is nothing
more than a connection and illustration of hers; for it consists only
in rules to prevent the natural disposition from being spoiled, in
subjecting it to the laws and customs of society.
I have recovered my reason by your care: my heart is again sound and
at liberty: I see myself beloved by all whose love I could wish to
possess: futurity presents me with an agreeable prospect. With all
this, my situation should surely be delightful; but it is decreed, my
soul shalt never enjoy tranquillity. As the end of our journey
approaches, I see the crisis of the fate of my illustrious friend: it
is I, who, so to speak, ought to decide it. Cannot I at least do that
once for him which he has so often done for me? cannot I nobly
discharge the greatest and most important duty of my life? My dear
Wolmar, I retain all your lessons in my heart; but, to make them
useful, why don’t I possess your sagacity? Ah could I but one day see
Lord B---- happy! could I, agreeable to your projects, see us but all
assembled together, never to part again! could I entertain a wish for
any thing on earth besides! Yes one, the accomplishment of which
depends not on you, nor me, nor on any other person in the world; but
on him who has a reward in store for the virtues of Eloisa, and, keeps
a secret register of your good actions.
Letter CXLV. To Mrs. Orbe.
Where are you, my charming cousin? where is the amiable confident of
that feeble heart, which is, on so many accounts, yours; and which you
have so often comforted in despair? come, and let me lay open to you
the confession of its last error. Is it not always your province to
purify it by confession and pardon? is there a fault which it can
reproach itself with after it hath confessed it to you? No, it is no
longer the same; and its regeneration is owing to you: you have given
me a new heart, which now offers you its first services: but I shall
not think myself quite free from that which I quit, till I have
deposited it in your hands.
The moment of my life in which I had most reason to be contented with
myself was that in which I left you. Recovered of my errors, I looked
upon that instant as the tardy era of my return to my duty. I begun it
therefore, by paying off part of that immense debt I owed to
friendship, in leaving so delightful an abode to follow a benefactor,
a philosopher, who, pretending to stand in need of my services, put
the success of his to the proof. The more disagreeable my departure,
the more I piqued myself, on making so great a sacrifice. After having
spent half my time in nourishing an unhappy passion, I consecrated the
other half to justify it, and to render, by my virtues a more worthy
homage to her, who so long received that of my heart. I proudly
contemplated the first of my days in which I had neither given
occasion for my own blushes, for yours, for hers, nor for those of any
one who was dear to me. My Lord B----, being apprehensive of a
sorrowful parting, was for our setting out early, without taking a
formal leave; but, though hardly any body was stirring in the house,
we could not elude your friendly vigilance. Your door half open and
your woman on the watch; your coming out to meet us, and our going in
and finding a table set out and tea made ready, all these
circumstances brought to my mind those of former times; and, comparing
my present departure with that which came to my remembrance, I
found myself so very differently disposed to what I was on the former
occasion, that I rejoiced to think, Lord B----, was a witness of that
difference, and hoped to make him forget at Milan the shameful scene
of Besancon. I never found myself so resolute before; I prided myself
in displaying my temper before you, behaving with more fortitude than
you had ever seen in me; and gloried, in parting, to think I had
appeared before you such as I was going ever afterwards to be. This
idea added to my courage; I supported my spirits by your esteem; and
perhaps should have left you without weeping, if a tear, trickling
down your cheek, had not drawn a sympathetic drop from my eyes.
I left you with a heart fully sensible of its obligations, and
particularly penetrated with such as your friendship has laid me
under; resolved to employ the rest of my life in deserving them. My
Lord B----, taking me to task for my past follies, laid before me no
very agreeable picture; and I knew by the just severity with which he
censured my foibles, that he was little afraid of imitating them. He
pretended, nevertheless, to be apprehensive of it; and spoke to me
with some uneasiness of his journey to Rome, and the unworthy
attachments which, in spite of himself, led him thither: but I saw
plainly that he exaggerated his own dangers, to engage my attention
the more to him, and draw it off from those to which I was myself
exposed. Just as we got into Velleneuve, one of our servants, who was
but badly mounted, was thrown off his horse, and got a small contusion
on his head: on which his master had him bled, and determined to stay
there that night. We accordingly dined early, and afterwards took
horses and went to Bex, to see the silt manufactury; where, at my
lord’s desire, who had some particular reason for requesting it, I
took a sketch of the building and works, so that we did not return to
Velleneuve till night. After supper we chatted a good while over our
punch, and went to bed pretty late. It was in this conversation he
informed me of the charge intended to be committed to my care, and
what measures had been taken to bring it about. You may judge of the
effect this piece of information had upon me; a conversation of this
nature did not incline me to sleep. It was at length, however, time to
retire.
As I entered the chamber appointed for me, I immediately recollected
it to be the same in which I had formerly slept, on my journey to
Sion. The view of it made an impression on me, which would be very
difficult for me to describe. I was struck with such lively ideas of
what I then was, that I imagined myself again in the same situation,
though ten years of my life had passed away in the interval, and all
my troubles had been forgotten. But alas! that reflection was but of a
short duration, and the next moment oppressed me with the weight of my
former afflictions. How mortifying were the recollections that
succeeded to my first reverie! what dreadful comparisons suggested
themselves to my mind! ye pleasures of early youth; ye exquisite
delights of a first passion, O why, said I, doth your remembrance
wound a heart already too much oppressed with griefs? thrice happy
were those days! days now no more, in which I loved and was beloved
again; in which I gave myself up in peaceful innocence, to the
transports of a mutual passion; in which I drank its intoxicating
draughts, and all my faculties were lost in the rapture, the extasy,
the delirium of love. On the rocks of Meillerie, in the midst of frost
and snow, with the frightful precipices before my eyes, was there a
being in the creation so happy as I? and yet I then wept! I then
thought myself unfortunate! sorrow even then ventured to approach my
heart! what therefore should I be now, when I have possessed all that
my soul held dear, and lost it for ever? I deserve my misfortune, for
having been so little sensible of my happiness!----did I weep then?
----didst thou weep? unfortunate wretch!----thou shall weep no more
----thou hast no right to weep.----Why is she not dead? said I, in a
transport of rage, yes, I should then be less unhappy; I could then
indulge myself in my griefs: I should embrace her cold tomb with
pleasure: my affliction should be worthy of her: I might then say,
She hears my cries, she sees my tears, she is moved by my groans,
she approves and accepts of my homage.----I should then, at least,
have cherished the hope of being united to her again.----But she
lives and is happy in the possession of another.----She lives, and
her life is my death; her happiness is my torment; and heaven,
having taken her from me, deprives me even of the mournful pleasure
of regretting her loss----she lives, but not for me: she lives for
my despair, who am an hundred times farther from her than if she
were no more.
I went to bed under those tormenting reflections; they accompanied me
in my sleep and disturbed it with terrible apprehensions. The most
poignant afflictions, sorrow, and death composed my dreams; and all
the evils I ever felt, represented themselves to my imagination in a
thousand new forms, to torment me over again. One vision in
particular, and that the most cruel of all, still pursued me; and
though the confused apparitions of various phantoms, several times
appeared and vanished, they all ended in the following.
Methought I saw the departed mother of your friend on her deathbed,
and her daughter on her knees before her, bathed in tears, kissing her
hands and receiving her last breath. This scene, which you once
described to me, and which will never be effaced from my memory, was
represented in striking colours before me. O my dear mother, said
Eloisa, in accents that chilled my very soul, she who is indebted to
you for her life, deprives you of yours! Alas! take back what you gave
me; for without you it will be only a life of sorrow. My child,
answered her languishing mother, God is just, and his will must be
obeyed----you will be a mother in your turn, and----she could say no
more----On this methought, I went forward to look upon her; but she
was vanished, and Eloisa lay in her place; I saw her plainly and
perfectly knew her, though her face was covered with a veil. I gave a
shriek, and ran to take off the veil; but, methought after many
attempts to lay hold of it I could not reach it, but tormented myself
with vain endeavours to grasp what, though it covered her face,
appeared to be impalpable. Upon which, methought, she addressed me in
a faint voice, and said, Friend, be composed, the awful veil that is
spread over me, is too sacred to be removed. At these words I
struggled, made a new effort, and awoke; when I found myself in my
bed, harassed with fright and fatigue, my face covered with big drops
of sweat, and drowned in tears.
My fears being a little dissipated, I went to sleep again; again the
same dream put me into the same agitations: I awoke again and went to
sleep the third time, when the same mournful scene still presented
itself, the same appearance of death, and always the same impenetrable
veil, eluding my grasp, and hiding from me the dying object which it
covered.
On waking from this last dream, my terror was so great, that I could
not overcome it, though quite awake. I threw myself out of bed,
without well knowing what I did, and wandered up and down my chamber,
like a child in the dark, imagining myself beset with phantoms, and
still fancying in my ears, the sound of that voice, whose plaintive
notes I never heard without emotion. The dawn of day beginning to cast
some light upon the objects in my chamber, served only to transform
them, agreeable to my troubled imagination. My fright increased, and
at length entirely deprived me of reason. Having with some difficulty
found the door, I ran out of my room, bolted into that of Lord B----
and, drawing open his curtains, threw myself down upon his bed almost
breathless, crying out, She is gone----she is gone----I shall
never see her more.----His lordship started out of his sleep, and flew
to his sword, imagining himself attacked by robbers. But he presently
perceived who it was; and I soon after recollected myself: this was
the second time of my life that I had appeared before him in such
confusion.
He made me sit down and compose myself; and as soon as he had learnt
the cause of my fright, endeavoured to turn it into ridicule; but,
seeing me too deeply affected with it, and that the impression it had
made was not to be easily effaced, he changed his tune. For shame,
says he with an air of severity, you neither deserve my friendship nor
esteem: had I taken a quarter of the pains with one of my footmen
which I have done with you, I had made a man of him: but you are fit
for nothing. It is indeed, my lord, answered I, too true. I had
nothing good in me but what came from her, whom now I shall see no
more; and am therefore good for nothing. At this he smiled, and
embraced me. Come, come, says he, endeavour to compose yourself;
tomorrow you will be a reasonable creature. He then changed the
conversation and proposed to set out. The horses were accordingly
ordered to be put to. In getting into the chaise, my lord whispered
something to the postilion, who immediately drove off.
We travelled for some time without speaking. I was so taken up with my
last night’s dream, that I heard and saw nothing; not even observing
that the lake, which, the day before, was on my right hand, was now on
my left. The rattling of the chaise upon the pavement, however, at
length awoke me out of my lethargy; I looked up, and to my great
surprise, found we were returned to Clarens. About a furlong from the
gate, my lord ordered us to be set down; and, taking me aside, you
see, my design, said he; it has no need of further explanation: go
thou visionary mortal, continued he, pressing my hand between his, go
and see her again. Happy is exposing your follies only to your
friends, make haste, and I will wait for you here; but be sure you do
not return, till you have removed that fatal veil which is woven in
your brain.
What could I say? I left him without making any answer, and, trembling
as I advanced, slowly approached the house. What a part, said I to
myself, am I going to act here? how dare I shew myself? what pretext
have I for this unexpected return? with what face can I plead my
ridiculous terrors, and support the contemptuous looks of the generous
Wolmar? In short, the nearer I drew to the house, the more childish my
fears seemed to me, aid the more contemptible my extravagant
behaviour: my mind, however, still misgave me, and I went on, tho’
every step more slowly, till I came just to the court-yard; when I
heard the door of the elysium just open and shut again. Seeing nobody
come out, I made a tour round the aviary keeping as close to it as
possible; I then listened, and could hear you conversing together;
but, tho’ I could not distinguish a word you said, I thought I
perceived something in the sound of your voice so languishing and
tender, that I could not hear it without emotion; and in Eloisa’s a
sweet and affectionate accent, not only such as is usual to her, but
so mild and peaceful as to convince me all was well.
This restored me to my senses at once, and woke me in good earnest
from my dream. I perceived myself immediately so altered that I
laughed at my ridiculous fears; and, while I reflected that only a
hedge and a few shrubs prevented me from seeing her alive and in good
health, whom I imagined I should never see again, I renounced for ever
my fearful and chimerical apprehensions; and determined, without more
ado; to return without even seeing her. You may believe me, Clara,
when I protest to you that I not only did not see her, but went back,
proud of not having been so weak as to push my credulity to the end,
and of having at least done so much credit to myself, as not to have
it said of a friend of Lord B----’s, that he could not get the better
of a dream.
This, my dear cousin, is what I had to tell you, and is the last
confession I have to make. The other particulars of our journey are
not at all interesting; let it suffice, therefore, to assure you, that
not only his lordship has been very well satisfied with me since, but
that I am still more so with myself, who am more sensible of my cure
than he can be. For fear of giving him any needless distrust, I
concealed from him my not having actually seen you. When he asked me
if the veil was drawn aside, I answered without hesitation in the
affirmative; and we have not mentioned it since. Yes, cousin, the veil
is drawn aside for ever; that veil which has so long hoodwinked my
reason. All my unruly passions are extinguished. I see and respect my
duty. You are both dearer to me than ever, but my heart knows no
difference between you; nor feels the least inclination to separate
the inseparables.
We arrived the day before yesterday at Milan, and the day after
tomorrow we shall leave it. In about a week we hope to be at Rome, and
expect to find letters from you on our arrival. How tedious will seem
the time before I shall see those two surprising persons who have so
long troubled the repose of the greatest of minds! O Eloisa! O Clara!
no woman that is not equal to you, is worthy of such a man!
Letter CXLVI. From Mrs. Orbe.
We all waited impatiently to hear from you, so that you will easily
guess how much pleasure your letters gave our little community; but
what you will hardly imagine is, that they should give me less than
any other person in the house. They all were pleased that you had
happily passed the Alps; for my part, I had no pleasure in reflecting
that the Alps were between us.
With respect to the particulars of your return, we have said nothing
of them to the baron; besides I skipped over some of your soliloquies,
in reading your letter before every body. Mr. Wolmar is so ingenuous,
as only to laugh at you; but Eloisa could not recollect the last
moments of her dying mother, without shedding fresh tears. Your letter
had no other effect upon her than reviving her affliction.
As to myself, I will confess to you, my dear preceptor, that I am no
longer surprized to see you in continual astonishment at yourself;
always committing some new folly, and always repenting of it: you have
long passed your life in self-reproach over night, and in applauding
yourself in the morning.
I will freely acknowledge to you, also, that the great effort of your
courage, in turning back when so near us, just as wise as you came,
does not appear to me so extraordinary as it may to you. There seems
to me more vanity in it, than prudence; and, I believe, upon the
whole, I should have liked a little less fortitude with more
discretion. From such a manner of running away, may not one ask, to
what purpose you came? you were ashamed to shew your self, and it is
of your being afraid to shew your self that you ought in fact to be
ashamed. As if the pleasure of seeing your friends were not an ample
recompense for the petty chagrin their raillery might give you. Ought
you not to have thought yourself happy in the opportunity of diverting
us with your bewildered looks? as I could not laugh at you then,
however, I will laugh at you now; tho’ I lose half the pleasure in not
seeing your confusion.
Unhappily there is something worse than all this; which is, that I
have caught your fears, without having your means of dispelling them.
That dream of yours has something in it so horrible, that I am at once
terrified and afflicted with it, in spite of all I can do. In reading
your letter I am apt to blame your agitation; after I have read it, I
blame your security. It is impossible to see a sufficient reason for
your being so much affected, and at the same time for your becoming
tranquil. It is very strange, that your fearful apprehensions should
prevail till the very moment in which you might have been satisfied,
and that you should stop there. Another step, a motion, a word had
done the business. You were alarmed without reason, and composed again
without cause: but you have infected me with a terror which you no
longer feel; and it appears, that, if you have given an instance once
in your life of your fortitude, it has been at my expense. Since the
receipt of your fatal letter, my heart is constantly oppressed. I
cannot approach Eloisa, without trembling at the thoughts of losing
her. I think every now and then I see a deadly paleness over-spread
her countenance; and this morning, as I embraced her, tears burst
involuntarily from me, and poured down my cheeks. O, that veil! that
veil! There is something so prophetic in it, that it troubles me every
time I think of it. No, I cannot forgive you for not removing it, when
you had it in your power, and fear I shall never have a moment’s peace
of mind till I see you again in company with her. You must own, that,
after having talked so long of philosophy, you have here given a very
unreasonable proof of yours. Dream again, and come and see your
friends; it were better for you to do this and be a _visionary
mortal_, than to run away from them and be a philosopher.
It appears by a letter of Lord B----’s to Mr. Wolmar, that he thinks
seriously of coming to settle with us. As soon as he is determined,
and his heart has made its choice, may you both return steadfast and
happy! This is the constant prayer of our little community, and above
all that of your friend,
Clara Orbe.
P. S. If you really heard nothing of our conversation in the elysium,
it is perhaps so much the better for you; for you know me to be
vigilant enough to see some people without their seeing me, and
severe enough to verify the proverb, that _listeners seldom, hear any
good of themselves_.
Letter CXLVII. From Mr. Wolmar.
As I write to Lord B----, and explain myself so fully with respect to
you, I have hardly any thing more to say at present than to refer you
to his letter. Yours would perhaps require of me a return of
civilities; but these I had rather make in actions than in words. To
make you one of my family, to treat you as my brother, my friend; to
make her you loved your sister; to put into your hands a paternal
authority over my children; to invest you with my privileges, after
having robbed you of yours; these are the compliments I have to make
you. If, on your part, you justify my conduct, it will be sufficient
praise. I have endeavoured to honour you with my esteem; it is yours
to honour me by your merit. Let no other encomiums pass between us.
So far am I from being surprized at seeing you affected with a dream,
that I see no very good reason for your reproaching yourself for being
so. One dream more or less seems to be of no importance in such
systematical gentlemen as yourself, whose very principles are
visionary.
What I reproach you for, is less the effect of your dream, than the
species of it; and that for a reason very different, perhaps, from
what you may imagine. A certain tyrant once condemned a man to death
for dreaming that he had stabbed him. Recollect the reason he gave for
that sentence, and make the application. What! you are going to
determine the fate of your friend, and you are thinking of your old
amours! Had it not been for the conversation of the preceding evening,
I should never forgive you that dream. Think in the daytime of what
you are going to do at Rome, and you will dream less at night of what
is doing at Vevey.
The little Frenchwoman is sick, which keeps Mrs. Wolmar so constantly
employed that she has not time to write to you. Some body, however,
will willingly take upon themselves that agreeable talk. Happy youth!
to whose happiness every thing conspires! the rewards of virtue all
await your merit. As to that of my good will, trouble no one with it;
it is from you only I expect it.
Letter CXLVIII. To Mr. Wolmar.
Let this letter be kept to ourselves. Let the errors of the best of
men be for ever buried in profound secrecy. In what a dangerous task
have I engaged! O my sensible and generous friend! why do I not retain
your counsel in my memory, as I do your benevolence at my heart! never
did I before stand in more need of your prudence, nor did ever the
apprehensions of falling short of it so much embarrass the little I
have. Ah! what is become of your paternal advice, your instruction,
your knowledge? what will become of me without you? Yes, I would give
up every flattering prospect in life to have you here, in this
critical moment, though but for one week.
I have been deceived in all my conjectures: I have as yet done nothing
but blunder. I was afraid only of the marchioness. After having seen
her and been struck with admiration at her beauty and address, I
applied myself, with all my might, to wean the affections of her noble
lover from so attracting an object. Charmed with the thoughts of
bringing him over to the side where I thought there was no danger, I
launched out in the praise of Laura, and spoke of her with the esteem
and admiration with which she had inspired me: in weakening his
stronger attachment for her rival, I hoped, by degrees, entirely to
destroy both. My lord easily gave in to my design; and, exceeding even
the bounds of complaisance, perhaps to punish my importunities, by
alarming me on the other side, affected a much greater warmth of
passion for Laura than he really felt. But what shall I say to him
now? the ardour of his passion remains without any affectation. His
heart, exhausted by so many trials, was left in a state of weakness of
which she has taken the advantage. It would be difficult indeed for
any man long to affect a passion for her, which he did not feel. In
fact, it is impossible to look upon this lovely unfortunate, without
being struck by her air and figure; a certain cast of languor and
depression, which constantly shades her charming features, in damping
the vivacity of her looks, renders them but the more affecting; and as
the sun darts its rays through the passing clouds, so do her eyes cast
the more piercing looks through the clouds of grief that obscure their
lustre. Her very dejection has all the grace of modesty; in seeing,
one pities her; in hearing, one respects her. In short, I can avow, in
justification of my friend, that I know only two men in the world, who
could see and converse with her without danger.
Oh Wolmar! he is lost to reason. I see, and feel it; I own it to you
with bitterness of heart. I tremble to think how far his extravagant
passion may make him forget himself and his duty. I tremble lest that
intrepid love of virtue, which makes him despise the opinion of the
world, should hurry him into the other extreme, and lead him to
trespass even the sacred laws of decorum and decency. Shall my Lord
B---- contract such a marriage? can you think it----under the eve of
his friend too! who sees, who suffers it! and who lies under
infinite obligations to him! no, he shall rip open my breast, and
tear out my heart with his own hand, ere he shall thus abuse it.
But what shall I do! how shall I behave myself? you know his
impetuosity of temper. Argument will avail nothing; and his discourse
of late, has only increased my apprehensions for him. At first, I
affected not to understand him, and reasoned indirectly in general
maxims; he in turn affected not to understand me. If I endeavour to
touch him a little more to the quick, he answers sententiously, and
imagines he has refuted me. If I reply and enforce my argument, he
flies into a passion, and talks in a manner so unfriendly, that a real
friend knows not how to answer him. You may believe that, on this
occasion, I am neither timid nor bashful; when we are doing our duty,
we are too apt to be proud and tenacious; but pride has nothing to do
here; it is necessary I should succeed; and unsuccessful attempts will
only prejudice better means. I hardly dare enter with him into any
argument, for I every day experience the truth of what you told me,
that he is a better reasoner than I, and that the way to win him to my
party is not to irritate him by dispute.
Besides, he looks, a little cold upon me at present. Appearances would
make one apt to think he is uneasy at my importunity. How this
weakness debases a man in so many respects superior to the rest of
mankind! the great, the sublime Lord B----, stands in awe of his
friend, his creature, his pupil! it even seems by some words he has
let fall concerning the choice of his residence if he does not marry,
that he has a mind to try my fidelity by opposing it to my interest.
He well knows I ought not, neither can I leave him. No, I will do my
duty and follow my benefactor. If I were base and mean, what should I
gain by my perfidy? Eloisa and her generous husband would not trust
the education of their children to one who hath betrayed his friend.
You have often told me, that the inferior passions are not easily
converted from their pursuit; but that the superior ones may be armed
against themselves. I imagined, I might be able to make use of that
maxim in the present case. In fact, the motives of compassion, of a
contempt for the prejudices of the world, of habit, of every thing
that determines my Lord B---- on this occasion, are of that inferior
nature and elude all my attacks: whereas true love is inseparable from
generosity, and by that one always has some hold of him. I have
attempted that indirect method, and despair not of success. It may
seem cruel; and, to say truth, I have not done it without some
repugnance: all circumstances, however considered, I conceive I am
doing service even to Laura herself. What would she do in the rank to
which she might be raised by marriage, but expose her former ignominy?
but, how great may she not be in remaining what she is! If I know any
thing of that extraordinary young lady, she is better formed to enjoy
the sacrifice she has made, than the rank she ought to refuse. If this
resource fails me, there remains one more in the magistracy, on the
account of their difference of religion; but this method shall not be
taken, till I am reduced to the last extremity, and have tried every
other in vain. Whatever may happen, I shall spare nothing to prevent
so unworthy and disgraceful an alliance. Believe me, my dear Wolmar, I
shall be tenacious of your esteem to the latest hour of my life, and
whatever my lord may write to you, whatever you may have said, depend
on it, cost what it will, while this heart beats within my breast,
Lauretta Pisana shall not be Lady B----.
If you approve of my measures, this letter needs no answer; if you
think me in any wise mistaken, oblige me with your instructions. But
be expeditious, for there is not a moment to lose. I shall have my
letter directed by a strange hand: do the same by your answer. After
having read what I have written, please, also, to burn my letter, and
be silent as to its contents. This is the first, and the only secret I
ever desired you to conceal from my two cousins: and if I had dared to
consider more in my own judgement, you yourself should have known
nothing of it. [93]
Letter CXLIX. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe
The courier from Italy seemed only to wait for your departure, for his
own arrival; as if to punish you for having staid only for him. Not
that I myself made the pretty discovery of the cause of your
loitering: it was my husband who observed, that after the horses had
been put to at eight o’clock, you deferred your departure till eleven;
not out of regard to us, but for a reason easy to be guessed at; from
your asking twenty times, if it was ten o’clock, because the post
generally goes by at that time.
Yes, my dear cousin, you are caught; you cannot deny it. In spite of
the prophetic Chaillot, her Clara, so wild, or rather so discreet, has
not been so to the end. You are caught in the same toils from which
you took so much pains to extricate your friend, and have not been
able to preserve that liberty yourself, to which you restored me. It
is my turn to laugh now. Ah my dear friend, one ought to have your
talents to know how to laugh like you, and give even to raillery the
affecting turn and appearance of kindness. Besides, what a difference
in our situation! with what face can I divert myself with an evil, of
which I am the cause, and from which you have taken upon yourself, to
free me. There is not a sentiment in your breast that does not awake a
sense of gratitude in mine, even your weakness being in you the effect
of virtue. It is this which consoles and diverts me. My errors are to
be lamented; but one may laugh at the false modesty which makes you
blush at a passion as innocent as yourself.
But to return to your Italian courier, and leave moralizing for a
while. This courier then, who has been so long in coming, you will ask
what he has brought us. Nothing but good news of our friends, and a
letter as big as a packet for you. O ho! I see you smile and take
breath now. As the letter is sent you, however, you will doubtless
wait patiently to know what it contains. It may yet nevertheless be of
some estimation, even though it did not come when expected; for it
breathes such a----but I will only write news to you, and I dare say
what I was going to say is none.
With that letter is come another from Lord B----, to my husband, with
a great many compliments also for us. This contains some real news,
which is so much the more unexpected, as the first was silent on the
subject. Our friends at Rome were to set out the next day for Naples,
where Lord B---- has some business; and from whence they are to go to
see mount Vesuvius.----Can you conceive, my dear, that such a sight
can be entertaining? but on their return to Rome, think, Clara, guess
what may happen.----Lord B---- is on the point of being married----
not, I thank heaven, to that unworthy marchioness, who he tells us on
the contrary, is much indisposed. To whom then?----To Laura, the
amiable Laura, who----yet, what a marriage! Our friend says not a word
about it. Immediately after the marriage, they will all three set out
and come thither, to take their future measures. What they are to be,
my husband has not told me; but he expects that St. Preux will stay
with us.
I must confess to you his silence gives me some little uneasiness; I
cannot see clearly through it. I think I see an odd peculiarity of
circumstances and contest of human passions absolutely unintelligible.
I cannot see how so good a man should contract so lasting an affection
for so bad a woman as the marchioness, or indeed, how a woman of such
a violent and cruel temper could entertain so ardent a love, if one
may so call her guilty passion for a man of so different a
disposition. Neither can I imagine, how a young creature, so generous,
affectionate and disinterested as Laura, could be able to support her
first dissoluteness of manners; how that flattering and deceitful
tenderness of heart, which misleads our sex, should recover her; how
love, which is the ruin of so many modest women, should make her
chaste.
Will Lady B---- then come hither? hither, my dear Clara! what do you
think of it? after all, what a prodigy must that astonishing woman be,
who, ruined by a dissolute and abandoned education, was reclaimed by
her tenderness of heart, and whom love hath conducted to virtue! ought
any one to admire her more than I, who have acted quite contrary; who
was led astray by inclination, when every thing else conspired to
conduct me in the paths of virtue. I sunk not so low it is true; but
have I raised myself like her? have I avoided so many snares, and made
such sacrifices as she has made? from the lowest ignominy she has
risen to the highest degree of honour, and is a thousand times more
respectable than if she had never fallen. She has sense and virtue:
what needs she more to resemble us? if it be impossible for a woman to
repair the errors of her youth, what right have I to more indulgence
than she? with whom can I hope to stand excused, and to what respect
can I pretend, if I refuse to respect her.
And yet, though my reason tells me this, my heart speaks against it;
and, without being able to tell why, I cannot think it right that Lord
B---- should contract such a marriage, and that his friend should be
concerned in the affair. Such is the force of prejudice! so difficult
is it to shake off the yoke of public opinion! which, nevertheless,
generally induces us to be unjust: the past good is effaced by the
present evil; but, is the past evil ever effaced by any present good?
I hinted to my husband my uneasiness, as to the conduct of St. Preux
in this affair. He seems, said I, to be ashamed to speak of it to my
cousin: I know he is incapable of baseness, but he is too easy, and
may have too much indulgence for the foibles of a friend. No, answered
he, he has done what he ought, and I know will continue to do so; this
is all I am at liberty to tell you at present of the matter; but St.
Preux is honest, and I will engage for him, you will be satisfied with
his conduct.----It is impossible, Clara, that Wolmar can deceive me,
or St. Preux him. So positive an assurance therefore fully satisfied
me; and made me suspect my scruples to be the effect of a fallen
delicacy, and that if I was less vain and more equitable, I should
find Laura more deserving the rank of Lady B----.
But to take leave of her for the present, and return to ourselves.
Don’t you perceive too well, in reading this letter, that our friends
are likely to return sooner than we expected? and is not your heart a
little affected by it? does it not flutter, and beat quicker than
ordinary? that heart too susceptible, and too nearly akin to mine? is
it not apprehensive of the danger of living familiarly with a beloved
object? to see him every day? to sleep under the same roof? and if my
errors did not lessen me in your esteem, does not my example give you
reason to fear for yourself? In your younger years, how many
apprehensions for my safety did not your good sense and friendship
suggest, which a blind passion made me despise! It is now, my dear
friend, my turn to be apprehensive for you, and I have the better
claim to your regard; as what I have to offer is founded on sad
experience. Attend to me then, ere it be too late; lest, having past
half your life in lamenting my errors, you should pass the other in
lamenting your own. Above all things, place not too great a confidence
in your gaiety of temper, which, though it may be a security to those
who have nothing to fear, generally betrays those who are in real
danger. You, my dear Clara, once laughed at love, but that was because
you were a stranger to the passion, and not having felt its power, you
thought yourself above its attacks. Love is avenged, and laughs in its
turn at you. Learn to distrust its deceitful mirth, lest it should one
day cost you an equal portion of grief. It is time, my dear friend, to
lay you open to yourself; for hitherto you have not taken that
interesting view: you are mistaken in your own character, and know not
how to set a just value upon yourself. You consider in the opinion of
Chaillot; who, because of your vivacity of disposition; judged you to
be little susceptible of heart; but a heart like yours was beyond her
talents to penetrate. Chaillot was incapable of knowing you, nor does
any person in the world know you truly but myself. I have left you in
your mistake so long as it could be of service to you, but at present
it may be hurtful, and therefore it is necessary to undeceive you.
You are lively, and imagine yourself to have but little sensibility.
How much, alas! are you deceived: your vivacity itself proves
evidently the contrary. Is it not always exerted on sentimental
subjects? does not even your pleasantry come from the heart? your
raillery is a greater proof of your affection than the compliments of
others; you smile, but your smiles penetrate our hearts; you laugh,
but your laughter draws from us the tears of affection; and I have
remarked, that among those who are indifferent to you, you are always
serious.
If you really were no other than you pretend to be, tell me, what
motive could have so forcibly united us? where had been those bonds of
unparalleled friendship that now subsists between us? By what miracle
should such an attachment give the preference to a heart so little
capable of it? can she who lived but for her friend, be incapable of
love? she who would have left father, husband, relations, and country
to have followed her? what have I done in comparison of this! I, who
have confessedly a susceptible heart, and permitted myself to love;
yet, with all my sensibility, have hardly been able to return your
friendship! these contradictions have instilled into your head as
whimsical an idea of your own character as such a giddy brain can
conceive; which is, to conceit yourself at once the warmest friend and
the coldest lover. Incapable of disowning these gentle ties with which
you perceived you were bound, you thought yourself incapable of being
fettered by any other. You thought nothing in the world could affect
you but Eloisa; as if those hearts which are by nature susceptible,
could be affected but by one object, and as if, because you loved no
other than me, I could be the proper object of your affection. You
pleasantly asked me once, if souls were of a different sex. No, my
dear, the soul is of no sex; but its affections make that distinction,
and you begin to be too sensible of it. Because the first lover that
offered himself did not affect you, you immediately concluded no other
could; because you was not in love with your suitor, you concluded you
could never be in love with any one. When he became your husband,
however, you loved him, and that with so ardent an affection, that it
injured even the intimacy with your friend: that heart, so little
susceptible, as you pretend, could annex to love as tender a
supplement to satisfy the fond desires of a worthy man.
Ah my poor cousin! it is your task for the future to resolve your own
doubts, and if it be true,
_Ch’un freddo amante è mal sicuro amica._
I am greatly afraid I have at present one reason more than ever I had
to rely upon you. But to go on with what I had to say to you on this
subject.
I suspect that you were in love much sooner than you perhaps imagine;
or at least, that the same inclination which ruined me would have
reduced you, had I not been first caught in the snare. Can you
conceive a sentiment so natural and agreeable, could be so tardy in
its birth? can you conceive that at our age, we could either of us
live in a familiarity with an amiable young man without danger, or
that the conformity so general in our taste and inclination, should
not extend to this particular? No, my dear, you, I am certain, would
have loved him, if I had not loved him first. Less weak, though not
less susceptible, you might have been more prudent than I, without
being more happy. But what inclination could have prevailed in your
generous mind, over the horror you would have felt at the infidelity
of betraying your friend! it was our friendship that saved you from
the snares of love: you respected my lover with the same friendship,
and thus redeemed your heart at the expense of mine.
These conjectures are not so void of foundation as you may imagine;
and had I a mind to recollect those times which I could wish to
forget, it would not be difficult for me to trace even in the care you
imagined you took only in my concerns, a farther care, still more
interesting, in those of the object of my affection. Not daring to
love him yourself, you encouraged me to do it; you thought each of us
necessary to the happiness of the other, and therefore, that heart,
which has not its equal in the world, loved us both the more tenderly.
Be assured, that had it not been for your own weakness, you would not
have been so indulgent to me; but you would have reproached yourself
for a just severity towards me, with an imputation of jealousy. You
were conscious of having no right to contend with a passion in me,
which ought nevertheless to have been subdued; and, being more fearful
of betraying your friend than of not acting discreetly, you thought,
in offering up your own happiness to ours, you had made a sufficient
sacrifice to virtue.
This, my dear Clara, is your history; thus hath your despotic
friendship laid me under the necessity of being obliged to you for my
shame, and of thanking you for my errors. Think not, however, that I
would imitate you in this. I am no more disposed to follow your
example than you mine; and as you have no reason to fear falling into
my errors, I have no longer, thank heaven! the same reasons for
granting you indulgence. What better use can I make of that virtue to
which you restored me, than to make it instrumental in the
preservation of yours?
Let me therefore give you my farther advice on the present occasion.
The long absence of our preceptor has not softened your regard for
him. Your being left again at liberty, and his return, have given rise
to opportunity, which love hath been ingenious enough to improve. It
is not a new sentiment produced in your heart; it is only one which,
long concealed there, has at length seized this occasion to discover
itself. Proud enough to avow it to yourself, you are perhaps impatient
to confess it to me. That confession might seem to you almost
necessary to make it quite innocent; in becoming a crime in your
friend it ceased to be one in you, and perhaps you only gave yourself
up to the passion you so many years contended with the more
effectually to cure your friend.
I was sensible, my dear, of all this; and was little alarmed at a
passion which I saw would be my own protection, and on account of
which you have nothing to reproach yourself. The winter we passed
together in peace and friendship, gave me yet more hopes of you; for I
saw that so far from losing your vivacity, you seemed to have improved
it. I frequently observed you affectionate, earnest, attentive; but
frank in your professions, ingenuous even in your raillery, unreserved
and open, and in your liveliest sallies, the picture of innocence.
Since our conversation in the _elysium_, I have not so much reason to
be satisfied with you. I find you frequently sad and pensive. You take
as much pleasure in being alone as with your friend: you have not
changed your language, but your accent; you are more cautious in your
pleasantry; you don’t mention him so often; one would think you were
in constant fear lest he should overhear you; and it is easy to see by
your uneasiness that you wanted to hear from him, much oftener than
you confessed.
I tremble, my good cousin, lest you should not be sensible of the
worst of your disorder, and that the shaft has pierced deeper than you
seem to be aware of. Probe your heart, my dear, to the bottom; and
then tell me, again I repeat it, tell me if the most prudent woman
does not run a risk by being long in the company of a beloved object;
tell me if the confidence which ruined me can be entirely harmless to
you; you are both at liberty; this is the very circumstance that makes
opportunity dangerous. In a mind truly virtuous, there is no weakness
will get the better of conscience, and I agree with you, that one has
always fortitude enough to avoid committing a wilful crime: but alas!
what is a constant protection against human weakness? Reflect however,
on consequences; think on the effects of shame. We must pay a due
respect to ourselves, if we expect to receive it from others; for how
can we flatter ourselves, that others will pay to us what we have not
for ourselves? or where can we think she will stop in the career of
vice, who sets out without fear? These arguments I should use even to
women, who pay no regard to religion and morality, and have no rule of
conduct but the opinion of others: but with you, whose principles are
those of virtue and Christianity, who are sensible of, and respect,
your duty, who know and follow other rules than those of public
opinion, your first honour is to stand excused by your own conscience,
and that is the most important.
Would you know where you are wrong in this whole affair? It is, I say
again, in being ashamed of entertaining a sentiment which you have
only to declare, to render it perfectly innocent: but, with all your
vivacity, no creature in the world is more timid. You affect
pleasantry only to shew your courage, your poor heart trembling all
the while for fear. In pretending to ridicule your passion, you do
exactly like the children, who sing in the dark because they are
afraid. O my dear friend, reflect on what you yourself have often
said; it is a false shame which leads to real disgrace, and virtue
never blushes at any thing but what is criminal. Is love in itself a
crime? does it not, on the contrary, consist of the most refined as
well as the most pleasing of all inclinations? is not its end laudable
and virtuous? does it ever enter into base and vulgar minds? does it
not animate only the great and noble? does it not ennoble their
sentiments? does it not raise them even above themselves? alas! if to
be prudent and virtuous we must be insensible to love, among whom
could virtue find its votaries on earth? among the refuse of nature
and the dregs of mankind.
Why then do you reproach yourself? have you not made choice of a
worthy man? is he not disengaged? are not you so too? does he not
deserve all your esteem? has he not the greatest regard for you? will
you not be even too happy in conferring happiness on a friend so
worthy of that name; paying, with your hand and heart, the debts long
ago contracted by your friend; and in doing him honour by raising him
to yourself, as a reward to unsuccessful, to persecuted merit.
I see what petty scruples still lie in your way. The receding from a
declared resolution, by taking a second husband; the exposing your
weakness to the world; the marrying a needy adventurer; for low minds,
always lavish of scandal, will doubtless so call him. These are the
reasons which make you rather ashamed of your passion than willing to
justify it; that make you desirous of stifling it in your bosom,
rather than render it legitimate. But pray does the shame lie in
marrying the man one loves, or in loving without marrying him? between
these lies your choice. The regard you owe to the deceased requires
you should respect his widow so much, as rather to give her a husband
than a gallant: and, if your youth obliges you to make choice of one
to supply his place, is it not paying a further regard to his memory,
to fix that choice upon the man he most often esteemed when living.
As to his inferiority in point of fortune, I shall perhaps only offend
you in replying to so frivolous an objection, when it is opposed to
good sense and virtue. I know of no debasing inequality, but that
which arises either from character or education. To whatever rank a
man of a mean disposition and low principle may rise, an alliance with
him will always be scandalous. But a man educated in the sentiments of
virtue and honour is equal to any other in the world, and may take
place in whatever rank he pleases. You know what were the sentiments
of your father, when your friend was proposed for me. His family is
reputable, tho’ obscure. He is every where deservedly esteemed. With
all this, was he the lowest of mankind, he would deserve your
consideration: for it is surely better to derogate from nobility than
virtue; and the wife of a mechanic is more reputable than the mistress
of a prince.
I have a glimpse of another kind of embarrassment, in the necessity
you lie under of making the first declaration: for, before he presumes
to aspire to you, it is necessary you should give him permission; this
is one of the circumstances justly attending an inequality of rank,
which often obliges the superior to make the most mortifying advances.
As to this difficulty, I can easily forgive you, and even confess it
would appear to me of real consequence, if I could not find out a
method to remove it. I hope you depend so far on me as to believe this
may be brought about without your being seen in it; and on my part, I
depend so much on my measures, that I shall undertake it with
assurance of success: for notwithstanding what you both formerly told
me of the difficulty of converting a friend into a lover, if I can
read that heart which I too long studied, I don’t believe that on this
occasion any great art will be necessary. I propose, therefore, to
charge myself with this negotiation, to the end that you may indulge
yourself in the pleasure of his return, without reserve, regret,
danger, or scandal. Ah my dear cousin! how delighted shall I be to
unite for ever two hearts so well formed for each other, and which
have been long united in mine. May they still (if possible) be more
closely united! may we have but one heart amongst us! Yes, Clara, you
will serve your friend by indulging your love, and I shall be more
certain of my own sentiments, when I shall no longer make a
distinction between him and you.
But, if notwithstanding what I have alledged, you will not give into
this project, my advice is, at all events, to banish this dangerous
man; always to be dreaded by one or the other: for, be it as it may,
the education of our children is still less important to us than the
virtue of their mothers. I leave you to reflect, during your journey,
on what I have written. We will talk further about it on your return.
I send this letter directly to Geneva; lest, as you were to lie but
one night at Lausanne, it should not find you there. Pray bring me a
good account of that little republic. From the agreeable description,
I should think you happy in the opportunity of seeing it; if I could
set any store by pleasures, purchased with the absence of my friends.
I never loved grandeur, and at present I hate it, for having deprived
me so many years of your company. Neither you nor I, my dear, went to
buy our wedding cloaths at Geneva; and yet, however deserving your
brother may be, I much doubt whether your sister-in-law will be more
happy, with her Flanders lace and India silks, than we in our native
simplicity. I charge you, however, notwithstanding my ill-natured
reflections, to engage them to celebrate their nuptials at Clarens. My
father hath written to yours, and my husband to the bride’s mother, to
invite them hither. Their letters you will find inclosed: please to
deliver them, and enforce their invitations with your interest. This
is all I could do, in order to be present at the ceremony; for I
declare to you, I would not upon any account leave my family. Adieu.
Let me have a line from you, at least to let me know when I am to
expect you here. It is now the second day since you left me, and I
know not how I shall support two days more without you.
P. S. While I was writing this letter, Miss Harriot truly must give
herself the air of writing to her mamma too. As I always like children
should write their own thoughts, and not those which are dictated to
them, I indulged her curiosity; and let her write just what she
pleased, without altering a word. This makes the third letter
inclosed. I doubt, however, whether this is what you will look for in
casting your eye over the contents of the packet. But, for the other
letter, you need not look long, as you will not find it. It is
directed to you, at Clarens; and at Clarens only it ought to be read:
so, take your measures accordingly.
Letter CL. Harriot to her Mother.
Where are you then, mamma? They say at Geneva; which is such a long,
long way off that one must ride two days, all day long, to reach you:
surely, mamma, you don’t intend to go round the world? my little pappa
is set out this morning for Etange; my little grand pappa is gone a
hunting; my little mamma is gone into her closet to write; and there
is nobody with me but Pernette and the Frenchwoman. Indeed, mamma, I
don’t know how it is; but, since our good friend has left us, we are
all scattered about strangely. You began first, mamma; you soon began
to be tired, when you had nobody left to tease: but what is much worse
since you are gone, is, that my little mamma is not so good humour’d
as when you were here. My little boy is very well, but he does not
love you; because you did not dance him yesterday as you used to do.
As for me, I believe I should love you a little bit still, if you
would return quickly, that one might not be so dull. But, if you would
make it up with me quite, you must bring my little boy something that
would please him. To quiet him indeed, would not be very easy, you
would be puzzled to know what to do with him. O that our good friend
was but here now! for it is as he said, my fine fan is broke to
pieces, my blue skirt is torn all to pieces, my white frock is in
tatters; my mittens are no worth a farthing. Fare you well, mamma, I
must here end my letter; for my little mamma has finished hers, and is
coming out of her closet. I think her eyes are red, but I durst not
say so: in reading this, however, she will see I observed it. My good
mamma, you are certainly very naughty, to make my little mamma cry.
P. S. Give my love to my grand pappa, to my uncles, to my new aunt and
her mamma, and to every body: tell them I would kiss them all, and you
too, mamma; but that you are all so far of, I can’t reach you.
Letter CLI. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.
I cannot leave Lausanne without writing you a line, to acquaint you of
my safe arrival here; not however so chearfully disposed as I could
wish. I promised myself much pleasure in a journey, which you have
been too often tempted to take; but, in refusing to accompany me, you
have made it almost disagreeable; and how should it be otherwise?
when it is troublesome, I have all the trouble to myself, and when it
is tolerably agreeable, I regret your not being with me to partake of
the pleasure. I had nothing to say, it is true, against your reasons
for staying at home; but you must not think I was therefore satisfied
with them. If you do, indeed, my good cousin, you are mistaken; for
the very reason why I am dissatisfied is, that I have no right to be
so. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, to have always the best
of the argument, and to prevent your friend from having what she
likes, without leaving her one good reason to find fault with you. All
had gone to rack and ruin, no doubt, had you left your husband, your
family, and your little marmots in the lurch for one week; it had been
a wild scheme, to be sure; but I should have liked you a hundred times
the better for it: whereas, in aiming to be all perfection, you are
good for nothing at all, and are only sit to keep company with angels.
Notwithstanding our past disagreement, I could not help being moved at
the sight of my friends and relations; who, on their part, received me
with pleasure; or, at least, with a profusion of civilities. I can
give you no account of my brother, till I am better acquainted with
him. With a tolerable figure, he has a good deal of the formal air of
the country he comes from. He is serious, cold, and I think has a
surly haughtiness in his disposition, which makes me apprehensive for
his wife, that he will not prove so tractable a husband as ours; but
will take upon him a good deal of the lord and master.
My father was so delighted to see me, that he even left unfinished the
perusal of an account of a great battle which the French, as if to
verify the prediction of our friend, have lately gained in Flanders.
Thank heaven, he was not there! Can you conceive the intrepid Lord
B---- would stand to see his countrymen run away, or that he would
have joined them in their flight? No, never; he would sooner have
rushed a thousand times on death.
But, a propos of our friend,----our other friend hath not written for
some time. Was not yesterday the day for the courier to come from
Italy? If you receive any letters, I hope you will not forget I am a
party concerned in the news.
Adieu, my dear cousin; I must set out. I shall expect your letters at
Geneva; where we hope to arrive tomorrow by dinner time. As for the
rest, you may be assured, that, by some means or other, you shall be
at the wedding; and that, if you absolutely will not come to Lausanne,
I will come with my whole company to plunder Clarens, and drink up all
the wine that is to be found in the town.
Letter CLII. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar
Upon my word, my dear, you have read me a charming lecture! you keep
it up to a miracle! you seem to depend, however, too much on the
salutary effect of your sermons. Without pretending to judge whether
they would formerly have lull’d your preceptor to sleep, I can assure
you they do not put me to sleep at present; on the contrary, that
which you sent me yesterday was so far from affecting me with
drowsiness that it kept me awake all night. I bar, however, the
remarks of that Argus your husband, if he should see the letter. But I
will write in some order, and I protest to you, you had better burn
your fingers, than shew it him.
If I should be very methodical, and recapitulate with you article for
article, I should usurp your privilege; I had better, therefore, set
them down as they come into my head; to affect a little modesty also,
and not give you too much fair-play, I will not begin with our
travellers, or the courier from Italy. At the worst, if it should so
happen, I shall only have my letter to write over again, and to
reverse it, by putting the beginning at the latter end. I am
determined however to begin with the supposed Lady B----. I can assure
you, I am offended at the very title; nor shall I ever forgive St.
Preux for permitting her to take it, Lord B---- for conferring it on
her, or you for acknowledging it. Shall Eloisa Wolmar receive Lauretta
Pisana into her house! permit her to live with her! think of it,
child, again. Would not such a condescension in you be the most cruel
mortification to her? can you be ignorant that the air you breathe is
fatal to infamy? will the poor unfortunate dare to mix her breath with
yours? will she dare to approach you? She would be as much affected by
your presence as a creature possessed would be at the sacred relics in
the hand of the exorcist: your looks would make her sink into the
earth; the very sight of you would kill her.
Not that I despise the unhappy Laura; God forbid! on the contrary, I
admire and respect her, the more as her reformation is heroic and
extraordinary. But is it sufficient to authorise those mean
comparisons by which you debase yourself; as if in the indulgence of
the greatest weakness, there was not something in true love that is a
constant security to our person, and which made us tenacious of our
honour? but I comprehend and excuse you. You have but a confused view
of low and distant objects: you look down from your sublime and
elevated station upon the earth, and see no inequalities on its
surface. Your devout humility knows how to take an advantage even of
your virtue.
But what end will all this serve? will our natural sensations make the
less impression? will our self-love be less active? in spite of your
arguments you feel a repugnance at this match: you tax your sensations
with pride; you would strive against them and attribute them to
prejudice. But tell me, my dear, how long has the scandal attendant on
vice consisted in mere opinion? what friendship do you think can
possibly subsist between you and a woman, before whom, one cannot
mention chastity, or virtue, without making her burst into tears of
shame, without renewing her sorrows, without even insulting her
penitence? believe me, my dear, we may respect Laura, but we ought not
to see her; to avoid her is the regard which modest women owe to her
merit: it would be cruel to make her suffer in our company.
I will go farther, you say your heart tells you, this marriage ought
not to take place. Is not this as much as to tell you it will not.
Your friend says nothing about it in his letter! in the letter which
he wrote to me! and yet you say that letter is a very long one----and
then comes the discourse between you and your husband----that husband
of yours is a slyboots, and ye are a couple of cheats thus to trick me
out of the news ye have heard. But then your husband’s sentiments!----
methinks his sentiments were not so necessary; particularly for you
who have seen the letter, nor indeed were they for me, who have not
seen it: for I am more certain of the conduct of your friend from my
own sentiments, than from all the wisdom of philosophy.
See there now!----did I not tell you so? that intruder will be
thrusting himself in, no body knows how. For fear he should come
again, however, as we are now got into his chapter, let us go through
it, that it may be over, and we may have nothing to do with him again.
Let us not bewilder ourselves with conjectures, had you not been
Eloisa, had not your friend been your lover, I know not what business
he would now have had with you, nor what I should have had to do with
him. All I know is, that, if my ill fears had so ordered it that he
had first made love to me, it had been all over with his poor head;
for, whether I am a fool or not, I should certainly have made him one.
But what signifies what I might have been? let us come to what I am.
Attached by inclination to you, from our earliest infancy, my heart
has been in a manner absorbed by yours; affectionate and susceptible
as I was, I of myself was incapable of love or sensibility. All my
sentiments came from you; you alone stood in the place of the whole
world, and I lived only to be your friend. Chaillot saw all this, and
founded on it the judgment she passed on me. In what particular, my
dear, have you found her mistaken?
You know I looked upon your friend as a brother: as the son of my
mother was the lover of my friend. Neither was it my reason, but my
heart that gave him this preference. I should have been even more
susceptible than I am, had I never experienced any other love. I
caressed you, in caressing the dearest part of yourself, and the
chearfulness which attended my embraces was a proof of their purity.
For doth a modest woman ever behave so to the man she loves? did you
behave thus to him? no, Eloisa, love in a female heart is cautious and
timid; reserve and modesty are all its advances; it discloses by
endeavouring to hide itself, and whenever it confers the favour of its
caresses, it well knows how to set a value upon them. Friendship is
prodigal, but love is avaricious and sparing.
I confess indeed, that too intimate connections at his age and mine,
are dangerous; but, with both our hearts engaged by the same object,
we were so accustomed to place it between us, that, without
annihilating you at least, it was impossible for us to come together.
Even that familiarity, so dangerous on every other occasion, was then
my security. Our sentiments depend on our ideas, and when these have
once taken a certain turn, they are not easily perverted. We had
talked together too much in one strain, to begin upon another; we had
advanced too far to return back the way we came: love is jealous of
its prerogative, and will make its own progress; it does not chuse
that friendship should meet it half way. In short, I am still of the
same opinion, that criminal caresses never take place between those
that have been long used to the endearing embraces of innocence. In
aid of my sentiments, came the man destined by heaven to constitute
the momentary happiness of my life. You know, cousin, he was young,
well made, honest, complaisant and solicitous to please; it is true,
he was not so great a master in love as your friend; but it was me
that he loved: and, when the heart is free, the passion which is
addressed to ourselves, hath always in it something contagious. I
returned his affections therefore, with all that remained of mine, and
his share was such as left him no room to complain of his choice. With
all this, what had I to apprehend. I will even go so far as to confess
that the prerogatives of the husband, joined to the duties of a wife,
relaxed for a moment the ties of friendship; and that, after my change
of condition, giving myself up to the duties of my new station, I
became a more affectionate wife than I was a friend: but, in returning
to you, I have brought back two hearts instead of one, and have not
since forgot that I alone am charged with that double obligation.
What, my dear friend, shall I say farther? at the return of our old
preceptor, I had, as it were, a new acquaintance to cultivate:
methought I looked upon him with very different eyes; my heart
fluttered as he saluted me, in a manner I had never felt before; and
the more pleasure that emotion gave me, the more it made me afraid. I
was alarmed at a sentiment which seemed criminal, and which perhaps
would not have existed had it not been innocent. I too plainly
perceived that he was not, nor could be any longer your lover; I was
too sensible that his heart was disengaged, and that mine was so too.
You know the rest, my dear cousin; my fears, my scruples were, I see,
as well known to you as to myself. My unexperienced heart, was so
intimidated by sensations so new to it, that I even reproached myself
for the earnest desire I felt to rejoin you; as if that desire had not
been the same before the return of our friend. I was uneasy that he
should be in the very place where I myself most inclined to be, and
believe I should not have been so much displeased to find myself less
desirous of it, as at conceiving that it was not entirely on your
account. At length, however, I returned to you, and began to recover
my confidence. I was less ashamed of my weakness after having
confessed it to you. I was even less ashamed of it in your company: I
thought myself protected in turn, and ceased to be afraid of myself. I
resolved, agreeable to your advice, not to change my conduct towards
him. Certainly a greater reserve would have been a kind of
declaration, and I was but too likely to let slip involuntary ones, to
induce me to make any directly. I continued, therefore, to trifle with
him through bashfulness, and to treat him familiarly through modesty:
but perhaps all this, not being so natural as formerly, was not
attended with the same propriety, nor exerted to the same degree. From
being a trifler, I turned a downright fool; and what perhaps increased
my assurance was, I found I could be so with impunity. Whether it was
your example that inspired me, or whether it be that Eloisa refines
every thing that approaches her, I found myself perfectly tranquil,
while nothing remained of my first emotions, but the most pleasing,
yet peaceful sensations, which required nothing more than the
tranquillity I possessed.
Yes, my dear friend, I am as susceptible and affectionate as you; but
I am so in a different manner. Perhaps, with more lively passions, I
am less able to govern them; and that very chearfulness, which has
been so fatal to the innocence of others has preserved mine. Not that
it has been always easy, I confess; any more than it is to remain a
widow at my years, and not be sometimes sensible that the daytime
constitutes but one half of our lives. Nay, notwithstanding the grave
face you put on the matter, I imagine your case does not differ in
that greatly from mine. Mirth and pleasantry may then afford no
unseasonable relief; and perhaps be a better preservative than graver
lessons. How many times, in the stillness of the night, when the heart
is all open to itself, have I driven impertinent thoughts out of my
mind, by studying tricks for the next day! how many times have I not
averted the danger of a private conversation by an extravagant fancy!
there is always, my dear, when one is weak, a time wherein gaiety
becomes serious; but that time will not come to me.
These are at least my sentiments of the matter, and what I am not
ashamed to confess in answer to you. I readily confirm all that I said
in the elysium, as to the growing passion I perceived, and the
happiness I had enjoyed during the winter. I indulged myself freely in
the pleasing reflections of being always in company with the person I
loved, while I desired nothing farther; and, if that opportunity had
still subsisted, I should have coveted no other. My chearfulness was
the effect of contentment, and not of artifice. I turned the pleasure
of conversing with him into drollery, and perceived that, in
contenting myself with laughing, I was not paving the way for future
sorrow.
I could not indeed help thinking sometimes, that my continual playing
upon him gave him less real displeasure than he affected. The cunning
creature was not angry at being offended, and if he was a long time
before he could be brought to temper, it was only, that he might enjoy
the pleasure of being intreated. Again, I in my turn have frequently
laid hold of such occasions to express a real tenderness for him,
appearing all the while to make a jest of him: so that you would have
been puzzled to say which was the most of a child. One day, I remember
that you was absent, he was playing at chess with your husband, while
I and the little Frenchwoman were diverting ourselves at shuttlecock
in the same room; I gave her the signal, and kept my eye on our
philosopher; who, I found by the boldness of his looks and the
readiness of his moves, had the best of the game. As the table was
small, the chessboard hung over its edge, I watched my opportunity,
therefore, and without seeming to design it, gave the board a knock
with a back stroke of my racquet, and overturned the whole game on the
floor. You never in your life law a man in such a passion: he was even
so enraged that, when I gave him his choice of a kiss, or a box in the
ear by way of penance, he sullenly turned away from me as I presented
him my cheek. I asked pardon, but to no purpose: he was inflexible,
and I doubt not that he would lave left me on my knees, had I
condescended to kneel for it. I put an end to his resentment, however,
by another offence which made him forget the former, and we were
better friends than ever.
I could never have extricated myself so well by any other means; and I
once perceived that, if our play had become serious, it might have
proved too much so. This was one evening when he played with us that
simple and affecting duo of Leo’s _Vado a morir ben mio_. You sung
indeed with indifference enough: but I did not; for just as we came to
the most pathetic part of the song, he leaned forward, and as my hand
lay upon the harpsichord, imprinted on it a kiss, whose impression I
felt at my heart. I am not very well acquainted with the ardent kisses
of love; but this I can say, that mere friendship, not even ours, ever
gave or received any thing like that. After such moments, what is the
consequence of reflecting on them in solitude, and of bearing him
constantly in memory? for my part, I was so much affected at the time,
that I sung out of tune and put the music out. We went to dancing, I
made the philosopher dance; we eat little or nothing; sat up very
late; and, though I went to bed weary, I only dosed till morning.
I have therefore very good reason for not laying any restraint on my
humour, or changing my manners. The time that will make such an
alteration necessary is so near, that it is not worth while to
anticipate. The time to be prudish and reserved will come but too
soon. While I am in my twenties, therefore, I shall make use of my
privilege; for when once turned of thirty, people are no longer wild
without being ridiculous; and your find-fault of a husband hath
assurance enough to tell me already that I shall be allowed but six
months longer to dress a salad with my fingers. Patience! to retort
his sarcasm, however, I tell him I will dress it for him in that
manner for these six years to come, and if I do, I protest to you he
shall eat it;----but to return from my ramble. If we have not the
absolute command over our sentiments, we have at least some over our
conduct. I could, without doubt, have requested of heaven a heart more
at ease; but may I be able to my last hour to plead at its dread
tribunal, a life as innocent as that which I passed this winter! in
fact, I have nothing in the least to reproach myself with, respecting
the only man in whose power it might be to make me criminal. It is not
quite the same, my dear, since his departure: being accustomed to
think for him in his absence, I think of him every hour in the day,
and, to confess the truth, find him more dangerous in idea than in
person. When he is absent, I am over head and ears in love; when
present, I am only whimsical. Let him return, and I shall be cured of
all my fears. The chagrin his absence gives me, however, is not a
little aggravated by my uneasiness at his dream. If you have placed
all to the account of love, therefore you are mistaken; friendship has
had part in my uneasiness. After the departure of our friends your
looks were pale and changed; I expected you every moment to fall sick.
Not that I am credulous: I am only fearful. I know very well that a
bad dream does not necessarily produce a sinister event; but I am
always afraid lest such an event should succeed it. Not one night’s
rest could I get for that unlucky dream, till I saw you recover your
former bloom. Could I have suspected the effects his anxiety would
have had on me, without knowing any thing of it, I would certainly
have given every thing I had in the world that he should have shewn
himself when he came back so much like a fool from Villeneuve.
At length, however, my fears vanished with your suspicious looks. Your
health and appetite having a greater effect on me than your
pleasantries. The arguments these sustained at table, against my
apprehensions, in time dissipated them. To increase our happiness our
friend is on his return, and I am in every respect delighted. His
return, so far from alarming me, gives me confidence; and as soon as
we see him again, I shall fear nothing for your life, nor my repose.
In the mean time be careful, dear cousin, of my friend; and be under
no apprehensions for yours; she will take care of herself, I will
engage for her. And yet I have still a pain at my heart----I feel an
oppression which I cannot account for. Ah my dear! to think that we
may one day part for ever! that one may survive the other! how unhappy
will she be on whom that lot shall fall! She will either remain little
worthy to live, or lifeless before her death.
You will ask me, to what purpose is all this vain lamentation? you
will say, fie on these ridiculous terrors! instead of talking of death
let us chuse a more entertaining topic, and talk about your marriage.
Your husband has indeed long entertained such a notion, and perhaps if
he had never spoken of it to me, it would never have come into my
head. I have since thought of it now and then, but always with
disdain. It would be absolutely making an old woman of me; for, if I
should have any children by a second marriage, I should certainly
conceit myself the grandmother of those of the first. You are
certainly very good to take upon yourself so readily to spare the
blushes of your friend, and to look upon your taking that trouble as
an instance of your charitable benevolence. For my own part,
nevertheless, I can see very well that all the reasons, founded on
your obliging solicitude, are not equal to the least of mine against a
second marriage.
To be serious, I am not mean-spirited enough to number among those
reasons any reluctance I should have to break an engagement rashly
made with myself, nor the fear of being censured for doing my duty,
nor an inequality in point of fortune in a circumstance where that
person reaps the greatest honour to whom the other would be obliged
for his: but, without repeating what I have so often told you
concerning my case of independency and natural aversion to the
marriage yoke, I will abide by only one objection, and this I draw
from those sacred dictates which nobody in the world pays a greater
regard to than yourself. Remove this obstacle, cousin, and I give up
the point. Amidst all those airs of mirth and drollery, which give you
so much alarm, my conscience is perfectly easy. The remembrance of my
husband excites not a blush; I even take pleasure to think him a
witness of my innocence; for why should I be afraid to do that, now he
is dead, which I used to do when he was living? but will this be the
case, Eloisa, if I should violate those sacred engagements which
united us; if I should swear to another that everlasting love, which I
have so often swore to him; if my divided heart should rob his memory
of what it bestowed on his successor, and be incapable without
offending one to discharge the obligations it owes the other? will not
that form, now so pleasing to my imagination, fill me with horror and
affright? will it not be ever present to poison my delight? and will
not his remembrance, which now constitutes the happiness of my life,
be my future torment? with what face can you advise me to take a
second husband, after having vowed never to do the like yourself, as
if the same reasons which you give me were not as applicable to
yourself in the same circumstances? they were friends, you say and
loved each other. So much the worse. With what indignation will not
his shade behold a man who was dear to him, usurp his rights, and
seduce his wife from her fidelity? in short, though it were true that
I owed no obligation to the deceased, should I owe none to the dear
pledge of his love? and can I believe he would ever have chosen me,
had he foreseen that I should ever have exposed his only child to see
herself undistinguished among the children of another? another word,
and I have done: who told you, pray, that all the obstacles between us
arise from me? In answering for him, have you not rather consulted
your will than your power? Or, were you certain of his consent, do you
make no scruple to offer me a heart exhausted by a former passion? do
you think that mine ought to be content with it, and that I might be
happy with a man I could not make so? think better of it, my dear
cousin. Not requiring a greater return of love than I feel, I should
not be satisfied with less, and I am too virtuous a woman to think the
pleasing my husband a matter of indifference. What security have you
then for the completion of your hopes? Is the pleasure he may take in
my company, which may be only the effect of friendship; is that
transitory delight, which at his age may arise only from the
difference of sex; Is this, I say, a sufficient foundation? If such
pleasure had produced any lasting sentiment, is it to be thought he
would have been so profoundly silent, not only to me, but to you, and
even to your husband; by whom an eclairissement of that nature could
not fail of being favourably received.
Has he ever opened his lips on this head to any one? in all the
private conversations I have had with him, he talked of no body but
you. In those which you have had, did he ever say anything of me? how
can I imagine that, if he had concealed a secret of this kind in his
breast, I should not have perceived him to be under some constraint,
or that it would not, by some indiscretion or other, have escaped him?
nay, since his departure, which of us does he most frequently mention
in his letters? which of us is the subject of his dreams? I admire
that you should think me so tender and susceptible, and should not at
the same time suppose my heart would suggest all this. But I see
through your device, my sweet friend; it is only to authorise your
pretensions to reprisals, that you charge me with having formerly
saved my heart at the expense of yours. But I am not so to be made the
dupe of your subtlety. And so here is an end of my confession; which I
have made, not to contradict, but to set you right; having nothing
farther to say on this head, than to acquaint you with my resolution.
You now know my heart as well, if not better, than myself. My honour,
my happiness are equally dear to you as to myself; and, in the present
tranquillity of your passions, you will be the best able to judge of
the means to secure both the one and the other. Take my conduct
therefore under your direction. I submit it entirely to you. Let us
return to our natural state, and reciprocally change our employment;
we shall both do the better for it: do you govern, and you shall find
me tractable: let it be your place to direct what I should do, and it
shall be mine to follow your directions.
Take my heart, and inclose it up in yours; what business have
inseparables for two? but to return to our travellers; though, to say
truth, I have already said so much about one, that I hardly dare speak
a word about the other, for fear you should remark too great a
difference in my stile, and that even my friendship for the generous
Englishman should betray too much regard for the amiable Swiss.
Besides, what can I say about letters I have not seen? you ought at
least to send me that of Lord B----. But you durst not send it without
the other. ’Tis very well. You might however have done better. Well,
recommend me to your duennas of twenty: they are infinitely more
tractable than those of thirty.
I must revenge myself, however, by informing you of the effect of your
fine reserve. It has only made me imagine the letter in question, that
letter which breathes such a----only a hundred times more tender
than it really is. Out of spite, I take pleasure in conceiving it
filled with soft expressions which cannot be in it; so that if I am
not passionately admired, I shall make you suffer for it. After all, I
cannot see with what face you can talk to me of the Italian post. You
prove in your letter that I was not in the wrong to wait for it, but
for not having waited long enough. Had I stayed but one poor quarter
of an hour longer, I should have met the packet, have laid hold of it
first, and read it at my ease. It had then been my turn to make a
merit of giving it you. But, since the grapes are too sour, you may
keep the letters. I have two others which I would not change for them
were they better worth reading than I imagine they are. There is that
of Harriot, I can assure you, even exceeds your own; nor have either
you or I, in all our lives, ever wrote any thing so pretty. And yet
you give yourself airs forsooth of treating this prodigy as a little
impertinent. Upon my word I suspect that to arise from mere envy; and,
since I have discovered in her this new talent, I purpose, before you
spoil her writing as you have done her speech, to establish between
her apartment and mine an Italian post, from whence I will have no
pilfering of packets.
Farewell, my dear friend, you will find inclosed the answers to your
letters, which will give you no mean idea of my interest here. I would
write to you something about this country and its inhabitants; but it
is high time to put an end to this volume of a letter. You have
besides quite perplexed me with your strange fancies. As we have five
or six days longer to stay here, and I shall have time to give another
look at what I have already seen, you will be no loser by the delay;
and you may depend on my transmitting you another volume as big as
this, before my departure.
Letter CLIII. Lord B---- to Mr. Wolmar.
No! my dear Wolmar, you were not mistaken: St. Preux is to be depended
on; but I am not; and I have paid dear for the experience that hath
convinced me of it. Without his assistance I should have been a dupe
to the very proof to which I put his fidelity. You know that, to
satisfy his notions of gratitude; and divert his mind with new
objects, I pretended that my journey to Italy was of greater
importance than it really was. To bid a final adieu to the attachments
of my youth, and bring back a friend perfectly cured of his, were, the
fruits I promised myself from the voyage. I informed you that his
dream, at Villeneuve, gave me some uneasiness for him. That dream made
me even suspect the motives of his transport, on being told that you
had chosen him preceptor for your children, and that he should pass
the remainder of his life with you. ‘The better’ to observe the
effusions of his heart, I had at first removed all difficulties, by
declaring my intention of settling also in your part of the world; and
thus I prevented any of those objections his friendship might have
made on account of leaving me. A change in any resolutions, however,
made me soon alter my tale.
He had not seen the marchioness thrice, before we were both agreed in
our opinion of her. Unfortunate woman! possessed of noble qualities,
but without virtue! her ardent, sincere passion, at first affected me,
and nourished mine; but her passion was tinged with the blackness of
her soul, and inspired me in the end with horror. When he had seen
Laura, and knew her disposition; her beauty, her wit and unexampled
attachment, I formed a resolution to make use of her to acquire a
perfect knowledge of the situation of St. Preux. If I marry Laura,
said I to him, it is not my intention to carry her to London, where
she may be known; but to a place, where virtue is respected in
whomsoever it is found: you will there discharge your duty of
preceptor, and we shall still continue to live together. If I do not
marry her, it is time for me, however, to think of settling. You know
my house in Oxfordshire, and will make your choice, either to take
upon you the education of Mr. Wolmar’s children, or to accompany me in
my retirement. To this, he made me just such an answer as I expected;
but I had a mind to observe his conduct. If, in order to spend his
time at Clarens, he had promoted a marriage which he ought to have
opposed, or on the contrary, preferred the honour of his friend to his
own happiness; in either case, I say, the experiment answered my end,
and I knew what to think of the situation of his heart.
On trial, I found him to be such as I wished; firmly resolved against
the project I pretended to have formed, and ready with all his
arguments to oppose it; but I was continually in her company, and was
moved by her tenderness and affliction. My heart, totally disengaged
from the marchioness, began to fix itself on her rival, by this
constant intercourse. The sentiments of Laura increased the attachment
she had before inspired; and I began to be ashamed of sacrificing to
that prejudice I despised, the esteem which I was so well convinced
was due to her merit; I began even to be in doubt, whether I had not
laid myself under some obligation to do that merit justice, by the
hopes I had given her, if not in words, at least by my actions. Though
I never promised her any thing, yet to have kept her in suspense and
expectation for nothing, would be to deceive her; and I could not help
thinking such a deception extremely cruel. In short, annexing a kind
of duty to my inclination, and consulting happiness more than
reputation, I attempted to reconcile my passion to reason, and
resolved to carry my pretended scheme as far as it would go, and even
to execute it in reality, if I could not recede without injustice.
After some time, however, I began to be more uneasy on account of St.
Preux, as he did not appear to act the part he had undertaken with
that zeal I expected. Indeed he opposed my professed design of
marriage, but took little pains to check my growing inclination;
speaking to me of Laura in such a strain of encomium as, at the same
time that he appeared to dissuade me from marrying her, added fuel to
the flame by increasing my affection. This inconsistency gave me some
alarm; I did not think him so steady as before. He seemed shy of
directly opposing my sentiments, gave way to my arguments, was fearful
of giving offence, and indeed seemed to have lost all that intrepidity
in doing his duty, which the true passion for it inspires. Some other
observations which I made also, increased my distrust. I found out
that he visited Laura unknown to me; and that, by their frequent
signs, there was a secret understanding between them. On her part, the
prospect of being united to the man she loved seemed to give her no
pleasure; I observed in her the same degree of tenderness indeed, but
that tenderness was no longer mixed with joy at my approach; a gloomy
sadness perpetually clouding her features. Nay, sometimes in the
tenderest part of our conversations, I have caught her casting a side
glance on St. Preux; on which a tear would often steal silently down
her check, which she endeavoured to conceal from me. In short, they
carried the matter so far, that I was at last greatly perplexed. What
could I think? it is impossible, said I to myself, that I can all this
while have been cherishing a serpent in my bosom? how far have I not
reason to extend my suspicions, and return those he formerly
entertained of me? weak and unhappy as we are, our misfortunes are
generally of our own seeking! Why do we complain that bad men torment
us, while the good are so ingenious at tormenting each other! All this
operated but to induce me to come to a determination. For, though I
was ignorant of the bottom of their intrigue, I saw the heart of Laura
was still the same; and that proof of her affection endeared her to me
the more. I proposed to come to an explanation with her before I put
an end to the affair; but I was desirous of putting it off till the
last moment, in order to get all the light I could possibly
beforehand. As for St. Preux, I was resolved to convince myself, to
convince him, and in short to come at the truth of the matter before I
took any step in regard to him; for it was easy to suppose that an
infallible rupture must happen, and I was unwilling to place a good
disposition and a reputation of twenty years standing, in the balance
against mere suspicions.
The marchioness was not ignorant of what passed; having her spies in
the convent where Laura resides, who informed her of the report of her
marriage. Nothing more was necessary to excite her rage. She wrote me
threatening letters; nay; she went farther; but, as it was not the
first time she had done so, and we were on our guard, her attempts
were fruitless. I had only the pleasure to see that our friend did not
spare himself on this occasion nor make any scruple to expose his own
life to save that of his friend.
Overcome by the transports of her passion, the marchioness fell sick,
and was soon past recovery; putting at once an end to her misfortunes
and her guilt. [94] I could not help being afflicted to hear of her
illness, and sent doctor Eswin to give her all the assistance in his
power, as a physician. St. Preux went also to visit her in my behalf;
but she would neither see one nor the other. She would not even bear
to hear me named during her illness, and inveighed against me with the
most horrid imprecations every time I was mentioned. I was grieved at
heart for her situation, and felt my wounds ready to bleed afresh;
reason however supported my spirits and resolution, but I should have
been one of the worst of men to think of marriage, while a woman, so
dear to me, lay in that extremity. In the mean time our friend,
fearing I should not be able to resist the strong inclination I had to
see her, proposed a journey to Naples; to which I consented.
The second day after our arrival there, he came into my chamber with a
fixed and grave countenance, holding a letter in his hand, which he
seemed to have just received. I started up, and cried out, The
marchioness is dead! would to God, said he, coldly, she were! it were
better not to exist, than to exist only to do evil; but it is not of
her I bring you news; tho’ what I bring concerns you nearly; be
pleased, my lord, to give me an uninterrupted hearing. I was silent,
and thus he began.
In honouring me with the sacred name of friend, you taught me how to
deserve it. I have acquitted myself of the charge you entrusted with
me, and, seeing you ready to forget yourself, have ventured to assist
your memory. I saw you unable to break one connection but by entering
into another; both equally unworthy of you. Had an unequal marriage
been the only point in question, I should only have reminded you, that
you was a peer of England, and advised you either to renounce all
pretensions to public honour, or to respect public opinion. But a
marriage so scandalous! can you? no, my lord, you will not make so
unworthy a choice. It is not enough that your wife should be virtuous,
her reputation should be unstained. Believe me, a wife for Lord
B---- is not easily to be found. Read that, my lord, and see what I
have done.
He then gave me a letter. It was from Laura. I opened it with emotion
and read as follows.
My Lord,
“Love at length prevailed, and you were willing to marry me: but I am
content. Your friend has pointed out my duty, and I perform it
without regret. In dishonouring you, I should have lived unhappy; in
leaving your honour unstained, methinks I partake of it. The sacrifice
of my felicity to a duty so severe, makes me forget even the shame of
my youth. Farewell! from this moment I am no longer in your power or
my own. Farewell, my lord, for ever! pursue me not in my retreat, to
despair; but: hear my last request. Confer not on any other woman,
that honour I could not accept. There was but one heart in the world
made for yours, and it was that of”
_Laura_.
The agitation of mind I was in, on reading this letter, prevented me
from speaking. He took the advantage of my silence, to tell me that,
after my departure, she had taken the veil in the convent where she
boarded; that the court of Rome, being informed she was going to be
married to a Lutheran, had given orders to prevent his seeing her; and
confessed to me frankly, that he had taken all these measures in
concert with herself. I did not oppose your designs, continued he,
with all the power I might; fearing your return to the marchioness,
and being desirous of combating your old passion by that which you
entertained for Laura. In seeing you run greater lengths than I
intended, I applied to your understanding: but, having from my own
experience but too just reason to distrust the power of argument, I
sounded the heart of Laura; and, finding in it all that generosity
which is inseparable from true love, I prevailed on her to make this
sacrifice. The assurance of being no longer the object of your
contempt, inspired her with a fortitude which renders her the more
worthy of your esteem. She has done her duty, you must now do yours.
Then eagerly embracing and pressing me to his heart, “I read, says he,
in our common destiny, those laws which heaven dictates to both, and
requires us to obey. The empire of love is at an end, and that of
friendship begins: my heart attends only to its sacred call; it knows
no other tie than that which unites me to you. Fix on whatever place
of residence you please, Clarens, Oxford, London, Paris, or Rome; it
is equal to me, so we but live together. Go whither you will, seek an
asylum wherever you think fit, I will follow you throughout the world:
for I solemnly protest, in the face of the living God, that I will
never leave you till death.”
I was greatly affected at the zeal and affection of this young man;
his eyes sparkling with pleasure on this effusion of his heart. I
forgot at once both the marchioness and Laura. Is there indeed any
thing in the world to be regretted, while one preserves so dear a
friend? Indeed, I was now fully convinced, by the part he so readily
took on this occasion, that he was entirely cured of his ancient
passion; and that the pains you had taken, were not thrown away upon
him. In short, I could not doubt, by the solemn engagement he had thus
voluntarily made, that his attachment to me was truly sincere; and
that his virtue had entirely got the better of his inclinations. I can
therefore bring him back with confidence. Yes, my dear Wolmar, he is
worthy to educate youth; and what is more, of being received into your
house.
A few days after, I received an account of the death of the
marchioness; at which I was but little affected, as she had indeed
been long dead in respect to me. I had hitherto regarded marriage as a
debt, which every man contracts at the time of his birth, with his
country and mankind; for which reason, I had resolved to marry, the
less out of inclination than duty; but I am now of another opinion.
The obligation to marriage, I now conceive, is not so universal; but
that it depends on the rank and situation which every man holds in
life. Celibacy is, doubtless, wrong in the common people, such as
manufacturers, husbandmen, and others, who are really useful and
necessary to the state. But for those superior orders of men, who
compose the legislature and the magistracy, to which every other
aspires, and which are always sufficiently supplied, it is both lawful
and expedient. For were the rich all obliged to marry, the increase of
number among those subjects which are a dead weight on the state,
would only tend to its depopulation. Mankind will always find masters
enough, and England will sooner want labourers than peers.
I think myself at full liberty, therefore, in the rank to which I was
born, to indulge my own inclination in this respect. At my age, it is
too late to think of repairing the shocks my heart hath sustained from
love. I shall devote my future hours therefore to friendship, the
pleasures of which I can no where cultivate so well as at Clarens. I
accept, therefore, your obliging offers, on such conditions, as my
fortune ought to add to yours, that it may not be useless to me.
Besides, after the engagement St. Preux hath entered into, I know no
other method of detaining him with you, but by residing with you
myself; and if ever he grows tired or troublesome, it will be
sufficient for me to leave you, to make him follow. The only
embarrassment I shall in this case lie under, respects my customary
voyages to England; for, tho’ I have no longer any interest in the
house of peers, yet while I am one of the number, I think it necessary
I should continue to do my duty as such. But I have a faithful friend
among my brother peers, whom I can empower to answer for me in
ordinary cases; and on extraordinary occasions, wherein I think it my
duty to go over in person, I can take my pupil along with me; and even
he, his pupils with him, when they grow a little bigger and you can
prevail on yourself to trust them with us. Such voyages cannot fail of
being useful to them, and will not be so very long as to make their
absence afflicting to their mother.
I have not shewn this letter to St. Preux, nor, do I desire you should
shew every part of it to the ladies: it is proper that my scheme to
sound the heart of our friend, should be known only to you and me. I
would not have you conceal anything from them, however, that may do
honour to this worthy youth, even tho’ it should be discovered at my
expense: but I must here take my leave.
I have sent the designs and drawings for my pavilion, for you to
reform, alter, and amend, as you please; but I would have you to
execute them immediately if possible. I would have struck out the
music room; for I have now lost almost all pretensions to taste, and
am careless of amusement: at the request of St. Preux, however, I have
left it, as he proposes now and then to exercise your children there.
You will receive also some few books, to add to your library. But what
novelty will you find in books? No, my dear Wolmar, you only want to
understand that of nature, to be the wisest of men.
Letter CLIV. Answer.
I was impatient, my dear B----, to come to the end of your adventures.
It seemed very strange to me, that, after having so long resisted the
force of your inclinations, you had waited only for a friend to assist
you to give way to them: tho’, to say truth, we find ourselves often
more weak when supported by others, than when we rely solely on our
own strength. I confess, however, I was greatly alarmed by your last
letter, when you told me your marriage with Laura was a thing
absolutely determined. Not but that, in spite of this assurance, I
still entertained some doubts of the event; and, if my suspicions had
been disappointed, I would never have seen St. Preux again. As it is,
you have both acted as I flattered myself you would, and have so fully
justified the good opinion I had of you, that I shall be delighted
whenever you think proper to return, and settle here agreeable to the
design we had planned. Come, ye uncommon friends! come to increase and
partake of the happiness we here enjoy. However flattering the hopes
of those who believe in a future state, for my part, I had rather
enjoy the present in their company; nay, I perceive you are both more
agreeable to me with the tenets you possess, than you would be if
unhappy enough to think as I do.
As to St. Preux, you know what were my sentiments of him at your
departure; there was no need to make any experiment on his heart to
settle my judgment concerning him. My proof had been before made, and
I thought I knew him as well as it was possible for one man to know
another. I had, besides, more than one reason to place a confidence in
him; and was more secure of him than he was of himself. For tho’ he
seems to have followed your example in renouncing matrimony, you will
perhaps find reason here to prevail on him to change his system. But I
will explain myself farther on this head when I see you.
With respect to yourself, I think your sentiments on celibacy quite
new and refined. They may, for ought I know, be judicious also, when
applied to political institutions, intended to balance and keep in
equilibrium the relative powers of states; but I am in doubt, whether
they are not more subtle than solid, when applied to dispense with the
obligations that individuals lie under to the laws of nature. It seems
to me that life is a blessing we receive on condition of transmitting
it to our successors; a kind of tenure which ought to pass from
generation to generation; and that every one who had a father, is
indispensably obliged to become one. Such has been hitherto your
opinion also; it was one of your motives for going to Italy: but I
know from whence you derive your new system of philosophy; there is an
argument in Laura’s letter, which your heart knows not how to
invalidate.
Our sprightly cousin has been for these eight or ten days past at
Geneva, with her relations, on family affairs: but we daily expect her
return. I have told my wife as much as was expedient she should know
of your letter. We had learnt of Mr. Miol, that your marriage was
broken off; but she was ignorant of the part St. Preux had in that
event: and you may be assured it will give her great pleasure to be
informed of all he has done to merit your beneficence, and justify
your esteem. I have shewn her the plan and designs for your pavilion,
in which she thinks there is much taste. We propose to make some
little alterations, however, as the ground requires; which, as they
will make your lodging the more convenient, we doubt not you will
approve.
We wait, nevertheless, for the sanction of Clara, before we resolve;
for, without her, you know there is nothing to be done here. In the
meantime I have set the people to work, and hope to have the masonry
pretty forward before winter.
I am obliged to you for your books; but I no longer read those I am
master of, and it is too late in life for me to begin to study those I
do not understand. I am, however, not quite so ignorant as you would
make me. The only volume of nature’s works which I read, is the heart
of man; of my abilities for comprehending which, my friendship for you
is a sufficient proof.
Letter CLV. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.
My stay here, my dear cousin, gives me a world of anxieties; the worst
of all which is, that the agreeableness of the place would induce me
to stay longer. The city is delightful, its inhabitants hospitable,
and their manners courteous; while liberty, which I love of all
things, seems to have taken refuge amongst them. The more I know of
this little state, the more I find an attachment to one’s country
agreeable; and pity those who, pretending to call themselves of this
or that country, have no attachment to any. For my part, I perceive
that, if I had been born in this, I should have had truly a Roman
soul. As it is, I dare not, however, pretend to say that
_Rome is no more at Rome, but where I dwell._
For I am afraid you will be malicious enough, to think the contrary.
But why need we talk always about Rome, and Rome? the subject of this
letter shall be Geneva. I shall say nothing about the face of the
country, it is much like ours, except that it is less mountainous, and
more rural. I shall also say nothing about the government: my good
father will, doubtless, give you enough of it; as he is employed here
all day long, in the fulness of his heart, talking politics with the
magistrates; and I find him not a little mortified that the gazette so
seldom makes mention of Geneva. You may judge of the tediousness of
their conversation, by the length of my letters: for, when I am
wearied with their discourse, I leave them, and, in order to divert
myself am tiresome to you. All I remember of their long conferences
is, that they hold in high esteem the great good sense which prevails
in this city. When we regard indeed the mutual action and reaction of
all parts of the state, which afford a reciprocal balance to each
other, it is not to be doubted that there are greater abilities
employed in the government of this little republic than in that of
some great kingdoms, where every thing supports itself by its own
proper strength; and the reins of administration may be thrown into
the hands of a blockhead, without any danger to the constitution. I
can assure you, this is not the case here. I never hear any body talk
to my father about the famous ministers of great courts, without
thinking of the wretched musician who thundered away upon our great
organ at Lausanne, and thought himself a prodigious able hand because
he made a great noise. The people here have only a little spinner, but
in general they make good harmony, though the instrument be now and
then a little out of tune.
Neither shall I say any thing about,----but with telling you what I
shall not say, I shall never have done. To begin then with one thing,
that I may sooner come to a conclusion. Of all people in the world
those of Geneva are the most easily known and characterised. Their
manners, and even their vices, are mixed with a certain frankness
peculiar to themselves. They are conscious of their natural goodness
of heart, and that makes them not afraid to appear such as they are.
They have generosity, sense and penetration; but they are apt to love
money too well; a fault which I attribute to their situation and
circumstances, which make it so necessary; the territory of this state
not producing a sufficient nourishment for its inhabitants. Hence it
happens that, the natives of Geneva, who are scattered up and down
Europe to make their fortunes, copy the airs of foreigners; and,
having adopted the vices of the countries where they have lived, bring
them home in triumph with their wealth. [95] Thus the luxury of other
nations makes them despise the simplicity of their own; its spirit and
liberty appear ignoble, and they forge themselves chains of gold, not
as marks of slavery, but as ornaments they are proud of.
But what have I to do with these confounded politics? indeed here I am
stunned with them, and have them constantly rung in my ears. I hear
nothing else talked of; unless when my father is absent, which never
happens except when the post arrives. It is ourselves, my dear,
nevertheless, that infect every place we go to; for, as to the
conversation of the people, it is generally useful and agreeable;
indeed there is little to be learned even from books, which may not
here be acquired by conversation. The manners of the English have
reached even so far as this country; and the men, living more separate
from the women than in ours, contract among themselves a graver turn,
and have more solidity in their discourse. This advantage is attended;
nevertheless, with an inconvenience that is very soon experienced.
They are extremely prolix, formal, proverbial, and argumentative.
Instead of writing like Frenchmen, as they speak, they, on the
contrary, speak as they write. They declaim instead of talking; and
one thinks they are always going to support a thesis. They divide
their discourse into chapters and sections, and take the same method
in their conversations as they do in their books. They speak as if
they were reading, strictly observing etymological distinctions, and
pronouncing their words exactly as they are spelt: in short, their
conversations consist of harangues; and they prattle as if they were
preaching.
But what is the most singular is, that, with this dogmatical and
frigid air in their discourse, they are lively, impetuous, and betray
strong passions; nay, they would express themselves well enough upon
sentimental subjects, if they were not too particular in words, or
knew how to address the heart. But their periods and their commas are
insupportable; and they describe so composedly the most violent
passions, that, when they have done, one looks about one to see who is
affected.
In the mean time, I must confess I am bribed a little to think well of
their hearts, and to believe they are not altogether void of taste.
For you must know, as a secret, that a very pretty gentleman for a
husband, and, as they say, very rich, hath honoured me with his
regards; and I have more gratitude and politeness than to call in
question what he has told me. Had he but come eighteen months sooner,
what pleasure should I have taken in having a sovereign for my slave,
and in turning the head of a noble lord! but at present, mine is not
clear enough to make that sport agreeable.
But to return to that taste for reading which makes the people of
Geneva think. It extends to all ranks and degrees amongst them, and is
of advantage to all. The French read a great deal; but they read only
new books; or rather they run them over, less for the sake of knowing
what they contain, than to have it to say they have read them. On the
contrary, the readers at Geneva peruse only books of merit; they read
and digest what they read; making it their business to understand, not
to criticize upon, them. Criticisms and the choice of books are made
at Paris; while choice books are almost the only ones that are read at
Geneva. By this means, their reading has less variety and is more
profitable. The women, on their part, employ a good deal of their time
also in reading; [96] and their conversation is affected by it, but in
a different manner. The fine ladies are affected and set up for wits
here, as well as with us. Nay, the petty citizens themselves learn
from their books a kind of methodical chit-chat, a choice of words
which one is surprized to hear from them, as we are sometimes with the
prattle of forward children. They must unite all the good sense of the
men, all the sprightliness of the women, and all the wit common to
both; or the former will appear a little pedantic, and the latter
prudish.
As I was looking out of my window yesterday, I overheard two
tradesmens daughters, both very pretty, talking together in a manner
sprightly enough to attract my attention. I listened, and heard one of
them propose to the other, laughing, to write a journal of their
transactions. “Yes,” replied the other immediately, “a journal of a
morning and a comment at night.” What say you, cousin? I know not if
this be the stile of tradesmens daughters; but I know one must be
taken up greatly indeed, not to be able, during the whole day, to make
more than a comment on what has passed. I fancy this lass had read the
Arabian nights entertainments.
Thus, with a stile a little elevated, the women of Geneva are lively
and satirical; and one sees here the effect of the nobler passions, as
much as in any city in the world. Even in the simplicity of their
dress there is taste; they are graceful also in their manners, and
agreeable in conversation. As the men are less gallant than
affectionate, the women are less coquettish than tender; their
susceptibility gives, even to the most virtuous among them, an
agreeable and refined turn, which reaches the heart, and thence
deduces all its refinement. So long as the ladies of Geneva preserve
their own manners, they will be the most amiable women in Europe; but
they are in danger of being soon all Frenchified, and then Frenchwomen
will be more agreeable than they.
Thus every thing goes to ruin, when manners grow corrupted. Even taste
depends on morals, and disappears with them; giving way to affect and
pompous pretensions, that have no other foundation than fashion. True
wit also lies nearly under the same circumstances. Is it not the
modesty of our sex that obliges us to make use of address to resist
the arts of men? and, if they are reduced to make use of artifice to
excite our attention, have we less occasion for ingenuity to seem not
to understand them? is it not the men who set our tongues and wits at
liberty? who make us so keen at repartee, and oblige us to turn their
persons and pretensions into ridicule? you may say what you will, but
I maintain it that a certain coquettish air and malicious raillery,
confounds a gallant much more than silence or contempt. What pleasure
have I not taken in seeing a discontented Celadon, blush, stammer and
lose himself at every word; while the shafts of ridicule, less flaming
but more pointed than those of love, flew about him like hail; in
seeing him shot thorough and thorough with icicles, whose coldness
added to the smart of the wounds! even you yourself, who never loved
to give pain, do you believe your mild and ingenuous behaviour, your
timid, gentle looks conceal less roguery and art than my hoydening?
Upon my word, my dear, I much doubt, with all your hypocritical airs,
if an account were taken of all the lovers you and I have made fools
of, whether yours would not be the longer list. I cannot help laughing
every time I think of that poor Constans, who came to me in such a
passion to reproach you with having too great a regard for him. She is
so obliging to me, says he, that I know not what to complain of, and
declines my pretensions with so much good sense, that I am ashamed of
finding myself so unable to reply to her arguments; in short she is so
much my friend, that I find myself incapable of supporting the
character of her lover.
But to return to my subject. I believe there is no place in the world
where married people agree better, and are better managers, than in
this city: here a domestic life is peaceful and agreeable; the
husbands are in general obliging, and the wives almost Eloisas. Here
your system really exists. The two sexes employ and amuse themselves
so differently that they are never tired with each others customs and
company, but meet again with redoubled pleasure. This heightens the
enjoyment of the wise; abstinence from what we delight in, is a tenet
of your philosophy; it is indeed the epicurism of reason.
But, unhappily, this ancient modesty begins a little to decline. The
sexes begin to associate more frequently, they approach in person and
their hearts recede. It is here as with us, every thing is a mixture
of good and bad, but in different proportions. The virtues of the
natives of this country are of its own production; their vices are
exotic. They are great travellers, and easily adopt the customs and
manners of other nations; they speak other languages with facility,
and learn without difficulty their proper accent, nevertheless they
have a disagreeable drawling tone in the pronunciation of their own;
particularly among the women, who travel but little. More humbled by
their insignificance, than proud of their liberty, they seem among
foreigners to be ashamed of their country, and are therefore in a
hurry, as one may say, to naturalise themselves in that where they
happen to reside; and perhaps the character they have of being
avaricious and selfish, contributes not a little to this false shame.
It would be better, without doubt, to wipe off the stain by a
disinterested example, than to scandalize their fellow citizens by
being ashamed of their country. But they despise the place of their
nativity, even while they render it estimable; and are still more in
the wrong not to give their city the honour of their own personal
merit.
And yet, however avaricious they may be, they are not accused of
amassing fortunes by low and servile means: they seldom attach
themselves to the great, or dance attendance at courts; personal
slavery being as odious to them as that of the community. Pliant and
flexible as Alcibiades, they are equally impatient of servitude; and,
though they adopt the customs of other nations, they imitate the
people without being slaves to the prince. They are chiefly employed
in trade, because that is the surest road to wealth, consistent with
liberty.
And this great object of their wishes makes them often bury the
talents with which they are prodigally endowed by nature. This brings
me back to the beginning of my letter. They have ingenuity and
courage, are lively and penetrating, nor is there any thing virtuous
or great which surpasses their comprehension and abilities. But, more
passionately fond of money than of honour, in order to live in
abundance they die in obscurity, and the only example they leave to
their children, is the love of those treasures which for their sakes
they have amassed.
I learn all this from the natives themselves; for they speak of their
own characters very impartially.
For my part, I know not what they may be abroad, but at home they are
an agreeable people: and I know but one way to quit Geneva without
regret. Do you know, cousin, what this is? you may affect as much
ignorance and humility as you please; if you should say you have not
already guessed, you certainly would tell a fib. The day after
tomorrow our jovial company will embark in a pretty little ship,
fitted out for the occasion: for we chuse to return by water on
account of the pleasantness of the season and that we may be all
together. We purpose to pass the first night at Morges, to be the next
day at Lausanne, on account of the marriage ceremony, and the day
following to be at----you know where. When you see at a distance the
flags flying, the torches flaming, and hear the cannon roar; I charge
you skid about the house like a mad thing, and call the whole family
to arms! to arms! the enemy! the enemy is coming!
P. S. Although the distribution of the apartments incontestably
belongs to me as housekeeper, I will give it up to you on this
occasion; insisting only that my father be placed in those of Lord
B---- on account of his charts and maps; with which I desire it may
be compleatly hung from the ceiling to the floor.
Letter CLVI. From Mrs. Wolmar.
How delightful are my sensations in beginning this letter! it is the
first time in my life that I ever wrote to you without fear or shame!
I am proud of the friendship which now subsists between us, as it is
the fruit of an unparallel’d conquest over a fatal passion: a passion
which may sometimes be overcome, but is very rarely refined into
friendship. To relinquish that which was once dear to us when honour
requires it, may be effected by the efforts of ordinary minds; but to
have been what we once were to each other, and to become what we now
are, this is a triumph indeed. The motive for ceasing to love may
possibly be a vicious one; but that which converts the most tender
passion into as sincere a friendship cannot be equivocal: it must be
virtuous. But should we ever have arrived at this of ourselves? never,
never, my good friend; it had been rashness to attempt it. To avoid
each other was the first article of our duty, and which nothing should
have prevented us from performing. We might without doubt have
continued our mutual esteem; but we must have ceased to write, or to
converse. All thoughts of each other must have been suppressed, and
the greatest regard we could have reciprocally shewn, had been to
break off all correspondence.
Instead of that, let us consider our present situation; can there be
on earth a more agreeable one, and do we not reap a thousand times a
day the reward of our self-denial? to see, to love each other, to be
sensible of our bliss, to pass our days together in fraternal intimacy
and peaceful innocence; to think of each other without remorse, to
speak without blushing; to do honour to that attachment for which we
have been so often reproached; this is the point at which we are at
last arrived. O my friend! how far in the career of honour have we
already run! let us resolve to persevere, and finish our race as we
have begun.
To whom are we indebted for such extraordinary happiness? you cannot
be ignorant: you know it well. I have seen your susceptible heart
overflow with gratitude at the goodness of the best of men, to whom
both you and I have been so greatly obliged: a goodness that does not
lay us under fresh obligations, but only renders those more dear which
were before sacred. The only way to acknowledge his favours is to
merit them; for the only value he sets on them consists in their
emolument to us. Let us then reward our benefactor by our virtue; for
this is all he requires, and therefore all we owe him. He will be
satisfied with us and with himself, in having restored us to our
reason.
But permit me to lay before you a picture of your future situation,
that you may yourself examine it and see if there be any thing in it
to make you apprehensive of danger: Yes, worthy youth, if you respect
the cause of virtue, attend with a chaste ear to the counsels of your
friend. I tremble to enter upon a subject in which I am sorry to
engage; but how shall I be silent without betraying my friend? will it
not be too late to warn you of the danger when you are already
entangled in the snare? Yes, my friend, I am the only person in the
world who is intimate enough with you to present it to your view. Have
I not a right to talk to you as a sister, as a mother?
Your career, you tell me, is finished; if so, its end is premature.
Though your first passion be extinguished, your sensibility still
remains; and your heart is the more to be suspected, as its only cause
of restraint no longer exists. A young man, of great ardor and
susceptibility resolves to live continent and chaste; he knows, he
feels, he has a thousand times said, that fortitude of mind which is
productive of every virtue, depends on the purity of sentiment which
supports it. As love preserved him from vice in his youth, his good
sense must secure him in manhood; however severe may be the duty
enjoined him, he knows there is a pleasure arising from it, that will
compensate its rigour; and, though it be necessary to enter the
conflict when conquest is in view, can he do less now out of piety to
God than he did before out of regard to a mistress? such I imagine is
your way of reasoning, and such the maxims you adopt for your future
conduct: for you have always despised those persons who, content with
outward appearances, have one doctrine for theory and another for
practice, and who lay upon others a burthen of moral duties which they
themselves are unwilling to bear.
But what kind of life has such a prudent, virtuous man made choice of,
in order to comply with those rules he has prescribed? less a
philosopher than a man of probity and a Christian, he has not surely
taken his vanity for a guide: he certainly knows that it is much
easier to avoid temptations, than to withstand them; does he therefore
avoid all dangerous opportunities? does he shun those objects which
are most likely to move his passions? has he that humble diffidence of
himself which is the best security to virtue? quite the contrary; he
does not hesitate rashly to rush on danger. At thirty years of age, he
is going to seclude himself from the world, in company with women of
his own age; one of which was once too dear to him for him ever to
banish the dangerous idea of their former intimacy from his mind;
another of whom has lived with him in great familiarity, and a third
is attached to him by all those ties which obligations conferred
excite in grateful minds. He is going to expose himself to every thing
that can renew those passions which are but imperfectly extinguished;
he is going to entangle himself in those snares which he ought, of all
others, to avoid. There is not one circumstance attending his
situation which ought not to make him distrust his own strength, nor
one which will not render him for ever contemptible should he be weak
enough to be off his guard for a moment. Where then is that great
fortitude of mind, in which he presumes to place such confidence? in
what instance has it hitherto appeared that he can be answerable for
it, for the future? did he acquire it at Paris, in the house of the
colonel’s lady? or was he influenced by it last summer at Meillerie?
has it been his security during the winter, against the charms of
another object, or this spring against the terrifying apprehensions of
a dream? by the slender assistance it once afforded him, is there any
reason to suppose it will always bring him off victorious? he may know
when his duty requires how to combat the passions of a friend; but
will he be as capable of combating his own? Alas! let him learn from
the best half of his life to think modestly of the other.
A state of violence and constraint may be supported for a while. Six
months, for instance, a year, is nothing; fix any certain time and we
may presume to hold out. But when that state is to last as long as we
live, where is the fortitude that can support itself under it? who can
sustain a constant state of self-denial? O my friend! a life of
pleasure is short, but a life of virtue is exceeding long. We must be
incessantly on our guard. The instant of enjoyment is soon passed, and
never more returns; that of doing evil passes away too; but as
constantly returns, and is ever present. Forget ourselves for a
moment, and we are undone! is it in such a state of danger and trial,
that our days can pass away in happiness and tranquillity, or is it
for such as have once escaped the danger to expose themselves again to
like hazards? what future occasions may not arise as hazardous as
those you have escaped, and what is worse, equally unforeseen? do you
think the monuments of danger exist only at Meillerie? they are in
every place where we are; we carry them about with us: yes, you know
too well that a susceptible mind interests the whole universe in its
passion, and that every object here will excite our former ideas and
remind us of our former sensations.
I believe, however, I am presumptuous enough to believe, that will
never happen to me; and my heart is ready enough to answer for yours.
But, though it may be above meanness, is that easy heart of yours
above weakness? and am I the only person here it will cost you pains
to _respect_? forget not, St. Preux, that all who are dear to me are
intitled to be respected as myself; reflect that you are continually
to bear the innocent play of an amiable woman; think of the eternal
disgrace you will deservedly fall into, if your heart should go astray
for a moment, and you should harbour any designs on her you have so
much reason to honour.
I would have your duty, your word and your ancient friendship restrain
you; the obstacles which virtue throws in your way may serve to
discourage idle hopes; and, by the help of your reason, you may
suppress your fruitless wishes: but would you thence be freed from the
influence of sense and the snares of imagination? obliged to respect
us both and to forget our sex, you will be liable to temptation from
our servants, and might perhaps think yourself justified by the
condescension: but would you be in reality less culpable? or can the
difference of rank change the nature of a crime? on the contrary, you
would debase yourself the more, as the means you might employ would be
more ignoble. But is it possible that you should be guilty of such
means! no, perish the base man, who would bargain for an heart, and
make love a mercenary passion! such men are the cause of all the
crimes which are committed by debauchery: for she who is once bought
will be ever after to be sold: and amidst the shame into which she is
inevitably plunged, who may most properly be said to be the author of
her misery, the brutal wretch who insults her in a brothel, or her
seducer who shewed her the way thither, by first paying a price for
her favours?
I will add another consideration which, if I am not mistaken, will
affect you. You have been witness of the pains I have taken to
establish order and decency in my family. Tranquility and modesty,
happiness and innocence prevail throughout the whole. Think, my
friend, of yourself, of me, of what we were, of what we are, and what
we ought to be. Shall I have it one day to say, in regretting my lost
labour, it is to you I owe the disorder of my house?
Let us, if it be necessary, go farther, and sacrifice even modesty to
a true regard for virtue. Man is not made for a life of celibacy, and
it is very difficult in a state so contrary to that of nature, not to
fall into some public or private irregularity. For how shall a man be
always on his guard against an intestine enemy? Look upon the rash
votaries of other countries, who enter into a solemn vow, not to be
men. To punish them for their presumption, heaven abandons them to
their own weakness: they call themselves saints, for entering into
engagements which necessarily make them sinners; their continence is
only pretended, and, for affecting to set themselves above the duties
of humanity, they debase themselves below it. It is easy to stand upon
punctilio, and affect a nice observance of laws which are kept only in
appearance; [97] but a truly virtuous man cannot but perceive that his
essential duties are sufficient without extending them to works of
supererogation.
It is, my dear St. Preux, the true humility of a Christian, always to
think his duty too much for his strength; apply this rule, and you
will be sensible that a situation which might only alarm another man,
ought to make you tremble. The less you are afraid, the more reason
you have to fear, and if you are not in some degree deterred by the
severity of your duty, you can have little hopes of being able to
discharge it.
Such are the perils that threaten you here. I know that you will never
deliberately venture to do ill; and the only evils you have cause to
apprehend are those which you cannot foresee. I do not however bid you
draw your conclusions solely from my reasoning; but recommend it to
your mature consideration. If you can answer me in a manner
satisfactory to yourself, I shall be satisfied; if you can rely upon
yourself, I too shall rely upon you. Tell me that you have overcome
all the foibles of humanity, that you are an angel, and I will receive
you with open arms.
But is it possible for you, whilst a man, to lead a life of continual
self-denial and mortification? to have always the most severe duties
to perform! to be constantly on your guard with those whom you so
sincerely love! no, no, my amiable friend, happy is he who in this
life can make one single sacrifice to virtue. I have one in view,
worthy of a man who has struggled and suffered in its cause. If I do
not presume too far, the happiness I have ventured to design for you,
will repay every obligation of my heart, and be even greater than you
would have enjoyed, had providence favoured our first inclinations. As
I cannot make you an angel myself, I would unite you to one who would
be the guardian of your heart, who will refine it, reanimate it to
virtue, and under whose auspices you may securely live with us in this
peaceful retreat of angelic innocence. You will not, I conceive, be
under much difficulty to guess who it is I mean, as it is an object
which has already got footing in the heart which it will one day
entirely possess, if my project succeeds.
I foresee all the difficulties attending it, without being
discouraged, as the design is virtuous, I know the influence I have
over my fair friend, and think I shall not abuse it by exerting my
power in your favour. But you are acquainted with her resolutions, and
before I attempt to alter them I ought to be well assured of your
sentiments, that while I am endeavouring to prevail on her to permit
your addresses, I may be able to answer for your love and gratitude:
for if the inequality which fortune has made between you deprives you
of the privilege of making such a proposal yourself, it is still more
improper that this privilege should be granted before we know how you
will receive it. I am not unacquainted with your delicacy, and know
that if you have any objections to make, they will respect her rather
than yourself. But banish your idle scruples. Do you think you can be
more tenacious of my friend’s reputation than I am? no, however dear
you are to me, you need not be apprehensive lest I should prefer your
interest to her honour. But as I value the esteem of people of sense,
so I despise the prejudices and inconsiderate censures of the
multitude, who are ever led by the false glare of things, and are
strangers to real virtue. Were the difference in point of fortune
between you a hundred times greater than it is, there is no rank in
life to which great talents and good behaviour have not a right to
aspire: and what pretensions can a woman have to disdain to make that
man her husband, whom she is proud to number among her friends? You
know the sentiments of us both in these matters. A false modesty and
the fear of censure, lead to more bad actions than good ones; for
virtue never blushes at any thing but vice.
As to yourself, that pride which I have some time remarked in you
cannot be exerted with greater impropriety than on this occasion; and
it would be a kind of ingratitude in you to receive from her,
reluctantly, one favour more. Besides, however nice and difficult you
may be in this point, you must own it is more agreeable, and has a
much better look, for a man to be indebted for his fortune to his wife
than to a friend; as he becomes a protector of the one, and is
protected by the other and as nothing can be more true than, that a
virtuous man cannot have a better friend than his wife.
If after all, if there remain in the bottom of your heart any
repugnance to enter into new love engagements, you cannot too speedily
suppress them, both for your own honour and my repose: for I shall
never be satisfied with either you or myself till you really become
what you ought to be, and take pleasure in what your duty requires.
Ah! my friend, ought I not to be less apprehensive of such a
repugnance to new engagements, than of inclinations too relative to
the old? what have I not done with regard to you, to discharge my
duty? I have even exceeded my promises. Do I not even give you an
Eloisa? will you not possess the better half of myself, and be still
dearer to the other? with what pleasure shall I not indulge myself,
after such a connection, in my attachment to you! yes, accomplish to
her those vows you made to me, and let your heart fulfil with her all
our former engagements. May it, if possible, give to hers all it owes
to mine. O St. Preux! to her I transfer that ancient debt. Remember it
is not easily to be discharged.
Such, my friend is the scheme I have projected to reunite you to us
without danger; in giving you the same place in our family which you
already hold in our hearts, attached by the most dear and sacred
connections, we shall live together, sisters and brothers; you no
longer your own enemy nor ours. The warmest sentiments when legitimate
are not dangerous. When we are no longer under the necessity of
suppressing them, they cannot excite our apprehensions. So far indeed
from endeavouring to suppress sentiments so innocent and delightful,
we should make them at once both our pleasure and our duty. We should
then love each other with the purest affection, and should enjoy the
united charms of friendship, love and innocence. And, if in executing
the charge you have taken upon yourself, heaven should recompense the
care you take of our children, by blessing you with children of your
own, you will then know from experience how to estimate the service
you have done us. Endowed with the greatest blessings of which human
nature is capable, you will learn to support with pleasure the
agreeable burthen of a life useful to your friends and relations; you
will, in short, perceive that to be true which the vain philosophy of
the vicious could never believe; that happiness is even in this world
the reward of the virtuous.
Reflect at leisure on my proposal, not however to determine whether it
suits you; I require not your answer on that point; but whether it is
proper for Mrs. Orbe, and whether you can make her as happy as she
ought to make you. You know in what manner she has discharged her duty
in every station of her sex. Judge by what she is, what she has a
right to expect. She is as capable of love as Eloisa, and should be
loved in the same degree. If you think you can deserve her, speak; my
friendship will try to effect such an union, and from hers, flatters
itself with success. But, if my hopes are deceived in you, you are at
least a man of honour and probity, and are not unacquainted with her
delicacy; you would not covet happiness at the expense of her
felicity: let your heart be worthy of her, or let the offer of it
never be made.
Once more, I say, consult your own heart; consider well of your answer
before you send it. In matters relative to the happiness of one’s
whole life, common prudence will not permit us to determine without
great deliberation: but, in an affair where our whole soul, our
happiness both here and hereafter is at stake, even to deliberate
lightly would be a crime. Call to your aid, therefore, my good friend,
all the dictates of true wisdom; nor will I be ashamed to put you in
mind of those which are most essential. You don’t want religion: I am
afraid however, you do not draw from it all the advantage which your
conduct might receive from its precepts; but that your philosophical
pride elevates you above true Christian simplicity: in particular,
your notions of prayer are by no means consistent with mine. In your
opinion, that act of humiliation is of no use to us. God having
implanted in every man’s conscience all that is necessary to direct
him aright, has afterwards left him to himself, a free agent, to act
as he pleases. But you well know this is not the doctrine of St. Paul,
nor that which is professed in our church. We are free agents, it is
true, but we are by nature ignorant, weak and prone to evil: of whom
then shall we acquire strength and knowledge, but of the source of all
power and wisdom? and how shall we obtain them if we are not humble
enough to ask? take care, my friend, that to the sublime ideas you
entertain of the supreme Being, human pride doth not annex the abject
notions, which belong only to man. Can you think the deity wants such
arts as are necessary to human understanding, or that he lies under
the necessity of generalising his ideas to comprehend them the more
readily? according to your notions of things, providence would be
under an embarrassment to take care of individuals. You seem to be
afraid that, constant attention to a diversity of objects must perplex
and fatigue infinite wisdom, and to think that it can act better by
general than particular laws; doubtless because this seems easier for
the Almighty. The deity is highly obliged to such great philosophers
for furnishing him with convenient means of action, to ease him of his
labour. But why should we ask any thing of him? Say you: is he not
acquainted with our wants? Is he not a father that provides for his
children? do we know better than he what is needful for us, or are we
more desirous of happiness than he is that we should be happy?
This, my dear St. Preux, is all sophistry. The greatest of our wants,
even the only one we have no remedy for, is that of being insensible
of them; and the first step to relief is the knowledge of our
necessities. To be wise we must be humble; in the sensibility of our
weakness we become strong. Thus justice is united to clemency, thus
grace and liberty triumph together.
Slaves by our weakness, we are set free by prayer: for it depends on
us to seek and obtain favour; but the power to do this, depends not on
ourselves.
Learn then not always to depend on your own sagacity on difficult
occasions; but on that Being whose omnipotence is equal to his wisdom,
and who knows how to direct us in every thing aright. The greatest
defect in human wisdom, even in that which has only virtue for its
object, is a too great confidence, which makes us judge by the present
of the future, and of our whole lives from the experience of a single
moment. We perceive ourselves resolute one instant, and therefore
conclude we shall always be so. Puffed up with that pride, which is
nevertheless mortified by daily experience, we think we are under no
danger of falling into a snare which we have once escaped. The modest
language of true fortitude is, _I had resolution on this or that
occasion_; but he who boasts of his present security knows not how
weak he may prove on the next trial; and, relying on his borrowed
strength as if it was his own, deserves to feel the want of it when he
stands in most need of assistance. How vain are all our projects, how
absurd our reasonings in the eyes of that Being, who is not confined
to time or space! man is so weak as to disregard things which are
placed at a distance from him: he sees only the objects which
immediately surround him; changes his notions of things as the point
of sight is changed from whence he views them. We judge of the future
from what agrees with us now, without knowing how far that which
pleases to day may be disagreeable tomorrow: we depend on ourselves,
as if we were always the same, and yet are changing every day. Who can
tell if they shall always desire what they now wish for? if they shall
be tomorrow what they are to day, if external objects and even a
change in the constitution of the body may not vary the modification
of their minds, and if we may not be made miserable by the very means
we have concerted for our happiness? shew me the fixed and certain
rule of human wisdom, and I will take it for my guide. But if the best
lesson it can teach us is, to distrust our own strength, let us have
recourse to that superior wisdom which cannot deceive us, and follow
those dictates which cannot lead us astray. It is that wisdom I
implore to enlighten my understanding to advise you; do you implore
the same to direct your resolutions? Whatever these be, I well know
you will take no step which does not at present appear honourable and
just: but this is not enough, it is necessary you should take such as
will be always so; and of the means to do this, neither you nor I are
of ourselves competent judges.
Letter CLVII. Answer.
From Eloisa! a letter from her after seven years silence! yes it is
her writing. I see, I feel it: can my eyes be a stranger to characters
which my heart can never forget? and do you still remember my name? do
you still know how to write it? does not your hand tremble as your pen
forms the letters? Ah Eloisa! whither have you hurried my wandering
thoughts? the form, the fold, the seal, the superscription of your
letter call to my mind those very different epistles which love used
to dictate. In this the heart and hand seem to be in opposition to
each other. Ought the same hand writing to be employed in committing
to paper sentiments so very different?
You will be apt to judge that my thinking so much of your former
letters, too evidently confirms what you have suggested in your last.
But you are mistaken. I plainly perceive that I am changed, and that
you are no longer the same; and what proves it to me the most is that
except your beauty and goodness, every thing I see in you now is a new
subject of admiration. This remark may anticipate your assurance. I
rely not on my own strength, but on the sentiment which makes it
unnecessary. Inspired with every thing which I ought to honour in her
whom I have ceased to adore, I know into what degree of respect my
former homage ought to be converted. Penetrated with the most lively
gratitude, it is true, I love you as much as ever; but I esteem and
honour you most for the recovery of my reason.
Ever since the discerning and judicious Wolmar has discovered my real
sentiments, I have acquired a better knowledge of myself, and am less
alarmed at my weakness. Let it deceive my imagination as it will, the
delusion will be still agreeable; it is sufficient that it can no
longer offend you, and that my ideal errors serve in the end to
preserve me from real danger.
Believe me, Eloisa, there are impressions which neither time,
circumstance, nor reason can efface. The wound may heal, but the scar
will remain, an honorable mark that preserves the heart from any
other wound. Love and inconstancy are incompatible; when a lover is
fickle he ceases to be a lover. For my part, I am no longer a lover;
but, in ceasing to adore you as such, I remain under your protection.
I am no longer apprehensive of danger from you, but then you prevent
my apprehensions from others. No, respectable Eloisa, you shall never
see in me any other than a friend to your person and a lover only of
your virtues: but our love, our first, our matchless love shall never
be rooted out of my heart. The remembrance of the flower of my age
shall never be thus tarnished: for, were I to live whole centuries,
those happy hours of my youth will never return, nor be banished from
my memory. We may, it is true, be no longer the same; but I shall
never forget what we have been.
Let us come now to your cousin. I cannot help confessing, my dear
friend, that since I have no longer dared to contemplate your charms,
I have become more sensible to hers. What eyes could be perpetually
straying from beauty to beauty without fixing their admiration on
either? mine have lately gazed on hers perhaps with too much pleasure;
and I must own that her charms, before imprinted on my heart, have
during my absence made a deeper impression. The sanctuary of my heart
is shut up; but her image is in the temple. I gradually become to her
what I might have been at first, had I never beheld you; and it was in
your power only to make me sensible of the difference between what I
feel for her and the love I had for you. My senses, released from that
terrible passion, embrace the delightful sentiments of friendship. But
must love be the result of this union? Ah Eloisa! what difference!
where is the enthusiasm? the adoration? where are those divine
transports, those distractions, a hundred times more sublime, more
delightful, more forcible than reason itself? a slight warmth, a
momentary delirium, seize me, affect me a while and then vanish. In
your cousin and me I see two friends who have a tender regard for each
other and confess it. But have lovers a _regard_ for each other? no,
_you_, and _I_ are two words prohibited in the lover’s language. Two
lovers are not two persons, but one.
Is my heart then really at ease? how can it be so? she is charming,
she is both your friend and mine: I am attached to her by gratitude,
and think of her in the most delightful moments of reflection. How
many obligations are hence conferred on a susceptible mind, and how is
it possible to separate the tenderest sentiments from those to which
she has such an undoubted right! Alas! it is decreed that between you
and her, my heart will never enjoy one peaceful moment!
O women, women! dear and fatal objects! whom nature has made beautiful
for our torment, who punish us when we brave your power, who pursue
when we dread your charms; whose love and hate are equally
destructive; and whom we can neither approach nor fly with impunity!
beauty, charm, sympathy! inconceivable Being, or chimera! source of
pain and pleasure! beauty more terrible to mortals than the element to
which the birth of your Goddess is ascribed: it is you who create
those tempests which are so destructive to mankind. How, dearly,
Eloisa! how dearly, Clara! do I purchase your cruel friendship!
I have lived in a tempest and it is you who have always raised it: but
how different are the agitations which you separately excite!
different as the waves of the lake of Geneva from those of the main
ocean. The first are short and quick, and by their constant agitation
are often fatal to the small barks that ride without making way on
their surface: but on the ocean, calm and mild in appearance, we find
ourselves mounted aloft and softly borne forward to a vast distance on
waves, whose motions are slow and almost imperceptible. We think we
scarce move from the place, and arrive at the farthest parts of the
earth.
Such is in fact the difference between the effects which your charms
and hers have on my heart. That first unequalled passion, which
determined the destiny of my life, and which nothing could conquer
but itself, had its birth before I was sensible of its generation; it
hurried me on before I knew where I was, and involved me in
irrevocable ruin before I believed myself led astray. While the wind
was fair, my labouring bark was every moment alternately roaring into
the clouds and plunging into the deep: but I am now becalmed and know
no longer where I am. On the contrary, I see, I feel too well how much
her presence affects me, and conceive my danger greater than it really
is. I experience some slight raptures, which are no sooner felt than
gone. I am one moment transported with passion and the next peaceful
and calm: in vain is the vessel beaten about by the waves, while there
is no wind to fill its sails: my heart, contented with her real
charms, does not exaggerate them: she appears more beautiful to my
eyes than to my imagination; and I am more afraid of her when present
than absent. Your charms have, on the contrary, had always a very
different effect; but at Clarens I alternately experience both.
Since I left it, indeed, the image of our cousin presents itself
sometimes more powerfully to my imagination. Unhappily, however, it
never appears alone: it affects me not with love, but with
disquietude.
These are in reality my sentiments with regard both to the one and the
other. All the rest of your sex are nothing to me; the pangs I have so
long suffered have banished them entirely from my remembrance;
_E fornito ’l mio tempo a mezzo gli anni._
Adversity has supplied the place of fortitude, to enable me to conquer
nature and triumph over temptation. People in distress have few
desires, you have taught me to vanquish by resisting them. An unhappy
passion is an instrument of wisdom. My heart is become, if I may so
express myself, the organ of all my wants, for when that is at ease I
want nothing. Let not you or your cousin disturb its tranquillity, and
it will for the future be always at ease.
In this situation, what have I to fear from my self? and by what cruel
precaution would you rob me of happiness, in order to prevent my being
exposed to lose it? how capricious is it to have made me fight and
conquer, to rob me afterwards of the reward of my victory? do you not
condemn those who brave unnecessary danger? why then did you recall me
at so great a hazard, to run so many risks? or, why would you banish
me when I am so worthy to remain? Ought you to have permitted your
husband to take the trouble he has done for nothing? why did you not
prevent his taking the pains which you were determined to render
fruitless? why did you not say to him, _leave the poor Wretch at the
other end of the world, or I shall certainly transport him again?_
alas! the more afraid you are of me the sooner you ought to recall me
home. It is not in your presence I am in danger, but in your absence;
and I dread the power of your charms only where you are not. When the
formidable Eloisa pursues me, I fly for refuge to Mrs. Wolmar, and I
am secure. Whither shall I fly if you deprive me of the asylum I find
in her? all times and places are dangerous while she is absent; for in
every place I find either Clara or Eloisa. In reflecting on the time
past, in meditating on the present, the one and the other alternately
agitate my heart, and thus my restless imagination becomes tranquil
only in your presence, and it is with you only I find security against
myself. How shall I explain to you the change I perceive in
approaching you? you have always exerted the same sovereign power; but
its effects are now different from what they were: in suppressing the
transports you once inspired, your empire is more noble and sublime; a
peaceful serenity has succeeded to the storm of the passions: my
heart, modelled by yours, loves in the same manner and becomes
tranquil by your example. But in this transitory repose I enjoy only a
short truce with the passions; and, though I am exalted to the
perfection of angels in your presence, I no sooner forsake you than I
fall into my native meanness. Yes, Eloisa, I am apt sometimes to think
I have two souls, and that the good one is deposited in your hands.
Ah! why do you seek to separate me from it?
But you are fearful of the consequences of youthful desires,
extinguished only by trouble and adversity. You are afraid for the
young women who are in your house and under your protection. You are
afraid of that which the prudent Wolmar was not afraid of. How
mortifying to me are such apprehensions! do you then esteem your
friend less than the meanest of your servants? I can, however, forgive
your thinking ill of me; but never your not paying yourself that
respect which is so justly your due. No, Eloisa, the flame with which
I once burnt has purified my heart; and I am no longer actuated like
other men. After what I have been, should I so debase myself though
but for a moment, I would hide myself in the remotest corner of the
earth, and should never think myself too far removed from Eloisa.
What! could I disturb that peaceful order and domestic tranquillity,
in which I take so much pleasure? could I sully that sweet retreat of
innocence and peace, wherein I have dwelt with so much honour? could I
be so base as----no, the most debauched, the most abandoned, of men
would be affected with so charming a picture. He could not fail of
being enamoured with virtue in this asylum. So far from carrying
thither his licentious manners, he would betake himself thither to
cast them off. Could I then, Eloisa, be capable of what you insinuate?
and that under your own eyes? no, my dear friend, open your doors to
me without scruple; your mansion is to me the temple of virtue; its
sacred image strikes me in every part of it, and binds me to its
service. I am not indeed an angel; but I shall dwell in the habitation
of angels, and will imitate their example. Those who would not wish to
resemble them, will never seek their company.
You see it is with difficulty I come to the chief object of your last
letter; that which I should have first and most maturely considered,
and which only should now engage my thoughts, if I could pretend to
the happiness proposed to me. O Eloisa, benevolent and incomparable
friend! in offering me thus your other half, the most valuable present
in the universe next to yourself, you do more for me if possible than
ever you have done before. A blind ungovernable passion might have
prevailed on you to give me yourself; but to give me your friend is
the sincerest proof of your esteem. From this moment I begin to think
myself, indeed, a man of real merit, since I am thus distinguished.
But how cruel, at the same time, is this proof of it. In accepting
your offer I should bely my heart, and to deserve must refuse it. You
know me, and may judge.
It is not enough that your charming cousin should engage my
affections; I know she should be loved as you are. But will it, can it
be? or does it depend on me to do her that justice, in this
particular, which is her due? alas! if you intended ever to unite me
to her, why did you not leave me a heart to give her; a heart which
she might have inspired with new sentiments, and which in turn might
have offered her the first fruits of love! I ought to have a heart at
ease and at liberty, such as was that of the prudent and worthy Orbe,
to love her only as he did. I ought to be as deserving as he was, in
order to succeed him: otherwise the comparison between her former and
present situation will only serve to render the latter less
supportable, the cold and divided love of a second husband, so far
from consoling her for the loss of the first, will but make her regret
him the more. By her union with me, she will only convert a tender
grateful friend into a common husband. What will she gain by such an
exchange? She will be doubly a loser by it; her susceptible mind will
severely feel its loss; and how shall I support a continual sadness,
of which I am the cause, and which I cannot remove? in such a
situation alas! her grief would be first fatal to me. No, Eloisa, I
can never be happy at the expense of her ease. I love her too well to
marry her.
Be happy! no, can I be happy without making her so? can either of the
parties be separately happy or miserable in marriage? are not their
pleasures and pains, common to both? and does not the chagrin which
one gives to the other always rebound on the person who caused it? I
should be made miserable by her afflictions, without being made happy
by her goodness. Beauty, fortune, merit, love, all might conspire to
ensure my felicity! but my heart, my froward heart, would counterwork
them all; would poison the source of my delights, and make me
miserable in the very midst of happiness.
In my present situation, I take pleasure in her company: but if I
attempt to augment that pleasure by a closer union, I shall deprive
myself of the most agreeable moments of my life. Her turn for humour
and gaiety may give an amorous cast to her friendship, but this is
only whilst there are witnesses to her favours. I may also feel too
lively an emotion for her; but it is only when by your presence you
have banished every tender sentiment for Eloisa. When she and I are by
ourselves, it is you only who render our conversation agreeable. The
more our attachment increases, the more we think on the source from
which it sprung; the ties of friendship are drawn closer, and we love
each other but to talk of you. Hence arise a thousand pleasing
reflections, pleasing to Clara and more so to me, all which a closer
union would infallibly destroy. Will not such reflections, in that
case too delightful, be a kind of infidelity to her? and with what
face can I make a beloved and respectable wife the confident of those
infidelities of which my heart, in spite of me, would be guilty? this
heart could no longer transfuse itself into hers. No longer daring to
talk of you, I should soon forbear to speak at all. Honour and duty
imposing on me a new reserve, would thus estrange from me the wife of
my bosom, and I should have no longer a guide or a counsellor to
direct my steps or correct my errors. Is this the homage she has a
right to expect from me? is this that tribute of gratitude and
tenderness which I ought to pay to her? is it thus that I am to make
her and myself happy?
Is it possible that Eloisa, can have forgotten our mutual vows? for my
part, I never can forget them. I have lost all, except my sincerity,
and that I will preserve inviolate to my last hour. As I could not
live for you, I will die unmarried. Nay, had I not already made such a
promise to myself, I would do it now. For though it be a duty to
marry, it is yet a more indispensable one not to make any person
unhappy; and all the sentiments such a contract would now excite in
me, would be mixed with the constant regret of that which I once
vainly hoped for: a regret which would at once be my torment, and that
of her who should be unfortunate enough to be my wife. I should
require of her those days of bliss which I expected with you. How
should I support the comparison! what woman in the world could bear
that? ah, no, I could never endure the thoughts of being at once
deprived of you, and destined to be the husband of another.
Seek not then, my dear friend, to shake those resolutions on which
depends the repose of my life: seek not to recall me out of that state
of annihilation into which I am fallen; lest, in bringing me back to a
sense of my existence, my wounds should bleed afresh, and I should
again sink under a load of misfortunes. Since my return I perceived
how deeply I became interested in whatever concerned your charming
friend; but I was not alarmed at it, as I knew the situation of my
heart would never permit me to be too solicitous. Indeed I was not
displeased with an emotion, which, while it added softness to the
attachment I always had for Clara, would assist in diverting my
thoughts from a more dangerous object, and enable me to support your
presence with greater confidence. This emotion has something in it of
the pleasure of love without any of its pains. The calm delight I take
in seeing her is not disturbed by the restless desire of possessing
her: contented to pass my whole life in the manner I passed the last
winter, I find between you both that peaceful and agreeable situation,
[98] which tempers the austerity of virtue and renders its lessons
amiable. If a vain transport affects me for a moment, every thing
conspires to suppress it; and I have too effectually vanquished those
infinitely more impetuous and dangerous emotions to fear any that can
assail me now. I honour your friend no less than I love her, and that
is saying every thing. But should I consult only my own interest, the
rights of the tenderest friendship are too valuable, to risk their
loss, by endeavouring to extend them; and I need not even think of the
respect which is her due to prevent my ever saying a single word in
private conversation which would require interpretation, or which she
ought not to understand. She may perhaps have sometimes remarked a
little too much solicitude in my behaviour towards her but she has
surely never observed in my heart any desire to express it. Such as I
was for six months past, such would I be with regard to her, as long
as I live. I know none who approach you, so perfect as she is; but
were she even more perfect than yourself, I feel that after having
been your lover I should never have become hers.
But before I conclude this letter, I must give you my opinion of
yours. Yes, Eloisa, with all your prudence and virtue, I can discover
in it the scruples of a timorous mind, which thinks it a duty to
frighten itself; and conceives its security lies in being afraid. This
extreme timidity is as dangerous as excessive confidence. In
constantly representing to us imaginary monsters, it wastes our
strength in combating chimeras; and by terrifying us without cause,
makes us less on our guard against, as well as less capable of
discerning, real dangers. Read over again, now and then, the letter
which Lord B----, wrote to you last year, on the subject of your
husband; you will find in it some good advice that may be of service
to you in many respects. I do not discommend your devotion, it is
affecting, amiable, and like yourself; it is such as even your husband
should be pleased with. But take care lest timidity and precaution
lead you to quietism, and lest by representing to yourself danger on
every side, you are induced at length to confide in nothing. Don’t you
know, my dear friend, that a state of virtue is a state of warfare.
Let us employ our thoughts less on the dangers which threaten us, than
on ourselves; that we may be always prepared to withstand temptation.
If to run in the way of temptation is to deserve to fall, to shun it
with too much solicitude is often to fly from the opportunities of
discharging the noblest duties; it is not good to be always thinking
of temptations, even with a view to avoid them. I shall never seek
temptation: but, in whatever situation Providence may place me for the
future, the eight months I passed at Clarens will be my security; nor
shall I be afraid that any one will rob me of the prize you taught me
to deserve. I shall never be weaker than I have been, nor shall ever
have greater temptations to resist. I have left the bitterness of
remorse and I have tasted the sweets of victory, after all which I
need not hesitate a moment in making my choice; every circumstance of
my past life, even my errors, being a security for my future
behaviour.
I shall not pretend to enter with you into any new or profound
disquisitions, concerning the order of the universe, and the
government of those beings, of which it is composed: it will be
sufficient for me to say, that in matters so far above human
comprehension there is no other way of rightly judging of things
invisible, but by induction from those which are visible; and that all
analogy makes for those general laws which you seem to reject. The
most rational ideas we can form of the supreme Being confirm this
opinion: for, although omnipotence lies under no necessity of adopting
methods to abridge his labour, it is nevertheless worthy of supreme
wisdom to prefer the most simple modes of action, that there may be
nothing useless either in cause or effect. In the formation of man he
endowed him with all the necessary faculties to accomplish what should
be required of him, and when we ask of him the power to do good, we
ask nothing of him, but what he has already given us. He has given us
understanding to know what is good, a heart to love [99] and liberty
to make choice of it. Therefore, in these sublime gifts consists
divine grace; and as we have all received it, we are all accountable
for its effects.
I have heard, in my time, a good deal of arguments against the free
agency of man, and despise all its sophistry. A casuist may take what
pains he will to prove that I am no free agent, my innate sense of
freedom constantly destroys his arguments: for whatever choice I make
after deliberation, I feel plainly that it depended only on myself to
have made the contrary. Indeed all the scholastic subtilties I have
heard on this head are futile and frivolous; because they prove too
much, are equally used to oppose truth and falsehood; and, whether man
be a free agent or not, serve equally to prove one or the other. With
these kind of reasoners, the Deity himself is not a free agent, and
the word liberty is in fact a term of no meaning. They triumph, not in
having solved the difficulty, but in having substituted a chimera in
its room. They begin by supposing that every intelligent being is
merely passive, and from that supposition deduce consequences to prove
its inactivity: a very convenient method of argumentation truly! if
they accuse their adversaries of reasoning in this manner, they do us
injustice. We do not _suppose_ ourselves free and active beings; we
feel that we are so. It belongs to them to shew not only that this
sentiment may deceive us, but that it really does so. [100] The bishop
of Cloyne has demonstrated that, without any diversity in appearances,
body or matter may have no absolute existence; but is this enough to
induce us to affirm that it absolutely has no existence? In all this,
the mere phenomenon would cost more trouble than the reality; and I
will always hold by that which appears the most simple.
I don’t believe therefore, that after having provided in every shape
for the wants of man in his formation, God interests himself in an
extraordinary manner for one person more than another. Those who abuse
the common aids of Providence are unworthy such assistance, and those
who made good use of them have no occasion for any other. Such a
partiality appears to me injurious to divine justice. You will say,
this severe and discouraging doctrine may be deduced from the holy
scripture. Be it so. Is it not my first duty to honour my Creator? In
whatever veneration then I hold the sacred text, I hold its author in
a still greater; and I could sooner be induced to believe the bible
corrupted or unintelligible, than that God can be malevolent or
unjust. St. Paul would not have the vessel say to the potter who
formed it, why hast thou framed me thus? this is very well, if the
potter should apply it only to such services as he constructed it to
perform but if he should censure this vessel as being inadequate to
the purpose for which it was constructed; has it not a right to ask,
why hast thou made me thus?
But does it follow from hence that prayer is useless? God forbid that
I should deprive myself of that resource. Every act of the
understanding which raises us to God carries us above ourselves; in
imploring his assistance we learn to experience it. It is not his
immediate act that operates on us, it is we that improve ourselves by
raising our thoughts in prayer to him. [101] All that we ask aright,
he bestows; and, as you observe, we acquire strength in confessing our
weakness. But if we abuse this ordinance and turn mystics, instead of
raising ourselves to God, we are lost in our own wild imaginations; in
seeking grace, we renounce reason; in order to obtain of heaven one
blessing, we trample under foot another; and in obstinately
persisting, that heaven should enlighten our hearts, we extinguish the
light of our understandings. But who are we that should insist on the
deity’s performing miracles, when we please, in our favour?
You know very well, there is no good thing that may not be carried
into a blameable excess; even devotion itself, when it degenerates
into the madness of enthusiasm. Yours is too pure ever to arrive at
this excess; but you have reason to be on your guard against a less
degree of it. I have heard you often censure the ecstasies of the
pietists; but do you know from whence they arise? from allotting a
longer time to prayer than is consistent with the weakness of human
nature. Hence the spirits are exhausted, the imagination takes fire,
they see visions, they become inspired and prophetical; nor is it then
in the power of the understanding to stop the progress of fanaticism.
Now, you shut yourself frequently in your closet, and are constant in
prayer. You do not indeed as yet converse with pietists, [102] but you
read their books. Not that I ever censured your taste for the writings
of the worthy Fenelon: but what have you to do with those of his
disciple? You read Muralt. I indeed read him too: but I make choice of
his letters, you of his divine instinct. But remark his end, lament
the extravagant errors of that sensible man, and think of yourself. At
present a pious, a true Christian, beware Eloisa of becoming a mere
devotee.
I receive your counsel, my dear friend, with the docility of a child,
and give you mine with the zeal of a father. Since virtue, instead of
dissolving our attachments, has rendered them indissoluble, the same
lessons may be of use to both, as the same interests connect us. Never
shall our hearts speak to each other, never shall our eyes meet
without presenting to both a respectable object which shall mutually
elevate our sentiments, the perfection of the one reciprocally
assisting the other.
But though our deliberations may be common to both, the conclusion is
not; it is yours alone to decide. Cease not, then, you who have ever
been mistress of my destiny, cease not to be so still. Weigh my
arguments, and pronounce sentence: whatever you order me to do, I will
submit to your direction, and will at least deserve the continuance of
it. Should you think it improper for me to see you personally again,
you will yet be always present to my mind, and preside over my
actions. Should you deprive me of the honour of educating your
offspring, you will not deprive me of the virtues which you have
inspired. These are the offspring of your mind, which mine adopts as
its own, and will never bear to have them torn from it.
Speak to me, Eloisa, freely. As I have now been explicit to what I
think and feel on this occasion, tell me what I must do. You know how
far my destiny is connected with that of my illustrious friend. I have
not consulted him on this occasion; I have neither shewn him this
letter nor yours. If he should know that you disapprove his project,
or rather, that of your husband, he will reject it himself; and I am
far from designing to deduce from thence any objection to your
scruples; he only ought to be ignorant of them till you have finally
determined. In the mean time, I shall find some means or other to
delay our departure, in which, though they may surprize him a little,
I know he will acquiesce. For my own part, I had rather never see you
more, than to see you only just to bid you again adieu: and to live
with you as a stranger, would be a state of mortification which I have
not deserved.
Letter CLVIII. From Mrs. Wolmar.
How does your headstrong imagination affright and bewilder itself! and
at what, pray? truly at the sincerest proofs of my friendship and
esteem which you ever experienced: at the peaceful reflections which
my solicitude for your real happiness inspired; at the most obliging,
the most advantageous, and the most honourable proposal that was ever
made you; at my desire, perhaps an indiscreet one, of uniting you by
indissoluble ties to our family; at the desire of making a relation, a
kinsman of an ingrate, who affects to believe I want to discard him as
a friend. To remove your present uneasiness, you need only take what I
write in the most natural sense the words will bear. But you have long
delighted in tormenting yourself with false constructions. Your
letters are like your life, sublime and mean, masterly and puerile.
Ah, my dear philosopher! will you never cease to be a child?
Where, pray, have you learnt that I intended to impose on you new
laws, to break with you, and send you back to the farthest part of the
world? do you really find this to be the tenor of my letter? in
anticipating the pleasure of living with you, I was fearful of those
inconveniencies, which I conceived might possibly arise; therefore
endeavoured to remove them, by making your fortune more equal to your
merit and the regard I had for you. This is my whole crime; is there
anything in it at which you have reason to be alarmed?
Indeed, my friend, you are in the wrong; for you are not ignorant how
dear you are to me, and how easy it is for you to obtain your wish
without seeking occasion to torment others or yourself.
You may be assured that, if your residence here is agreeable to you,
it will be equally so to me; and that nothing Mr. Wolmar has done for
me gives me greater satisfaction than the care he has taken to
establish you in this house. I agree to it with pleasure, and know we
shall be useful to each other. More ready to listen to good advice
than to suggest it to ourselves, we have both occasion for a guide?
who can be more sensible of the danger of going astray than he whose
return has cost him so dear? what object can better represent that
danger? after having broken through such connections as once subsisted
between us, the remembrance of them should influence us to do nothing
unworthy of the virtuous motives which induced us to break them. Yes,
I shall always think myself obliged to make you the witness of every
action of my life, and to communicate to you every sentiment with
which my heart is inspired. Ah! my friend! I may be weak before the
rest of the world, but I can answer for myself in your company.
It is in this delicacy, which always survives true love, and not in
Mr. Wolmar’s subtle distinctions, that we are to look for the cause of
that elevation of soul, that innate fortitude we experience. Such an
explication is at least more natural, and does more honour to our
hearts, than his, and has a greater tendency to encourage us to
virtue, which alone is sufficient to give it the preference. Hence you
may be assured, that, so far am I from being in such a whimsical
disposition as you imagine, that I am just the reverse. In so much
that, if the project of your returning to reside here must be given
up, I shall esteem such an event as a great misfortune to you, to me,
to my children, and even to my husband; on whose account alone you
know I have many reasons for desiring your presence. But to speak only
of my own particular inclination: you remember your first arrival. Did
I shew less pleasure at seeing you than you felt in seeing me? has it
ever appeared to you that your stay at Clarens gave me the least
trouble or uneasiness? did you think I betrayed the least pleasure at
your departure? must I go farther and speak to you with my usual
freedom? I will frankly confess to you then, that the six last months
we passed together were the happiest of my life, and that in that
short space of time I tasted all the happiness of which my sensibility
has furnished me the idea.
Never shall I forget one day, in particular, of the past winter, when,
after having been reading the journal of your voyages and that of your
friend’s adventures, we supped in the Apollo. It was then that,
reflecting on the felicity with which Providence had blessed me in
this world, I looked round and saw all my friends about me; my father,
my husband, my children, my cousin, Lord B----, and you, without
counting Fanny, who did not cast the least blemish on the scene. This
little saloon, said I to myself, contains all that is dear to my
heart, and perhaps all that is desirable in this world. I am here
surrounded by everything that interests me. The whole universe to me
is in this little spot. I enjoy at once the regard I have for my
friends, that which they have for me, and that which they have for
each other: their mutual goodwill either comes from or relates to me:
I see nothing but what seems to extend my being, and nothing to
divide it. I exist in a manner in all those who are about me: my
imagination can extend no farther. I have nothing more to desire: to
reflect and to be happy is with me the same thing; I live at once in
all that I love, I am replete with happiness and satisfied with life:
come death when thou wilt! I no longer dread thy power: the measure of
my life is full, and I have nothing new to experience worth enjoyment.
The greater pleasure I enjoyed in your company, the more agreeable is
it to me to reflect on it, and the more disquietude also hath every
thing given me that might disturb it. We will for a moment lay aside
that timid morality and pretended devotion, with which you reproach
me. You must confess at least that the social pleasures we tasted
sprung from that openness of heart, by which every thought, every
sentiment, of the one was communicated to the other, and from which
every one, conscious of being what he ought, appeared such as he
really was. Let us suppose now any secret intrigue, any connection
necessary to be concealed, any motive of reserve and secrecy intruding
on our harmony; that moment the reciprocal pleasure we felt in seeing
each other would vanish. Shyness and restraint would ensue; we should
no sooner meet together than we should wish to part; and at length
circumspection and decorum would bring on distrust and distaste. It is
impossible long to love those of whom we are afraid or suspicious.
They soon become troublesome----Eloisa troublesome!----troublesome to
her friend! no, no, that cannot be; there can be no evils in nature,
but such as it is possible to support.
In thus freely telling you my scruples, I do not pretend, however, to
make you change your resolutions; but to induce you to reconsider the
motives on which they are founded; lest, in taking a step, all the
consequences of which you may not foresee, you might have reason to
repent at a time, when you will not dare retract it. As to Mr.
Wolmar’s having no fears, it was not his place to fear, but yours. No
one is so proper a judge of what is to be feared of you, as yourself.
Consider the matter well then; and, if nothing is in reality to be
feared, tell me so, and I shall think of it no more: for I know your
sincerity, and never can distrust your intentions. Your heart may be
capable of an accidental error; but can never be guilty of a
premeditated crime, and this it is that makes the distinction between
a weak man and a wicked one.
Besides, though my objections had really more weight than I am
inclined to think they have, why must things be viewed in their most
disadvantageous light. Surely there can be no necessity for such
extreme precautionary measures. It cannot be requisite that you should
break through all your projects, and fly from us for ever. Though a
child in years, you are possessed of all the experience of age. The
tranquillity of mind which succeeds the noble passion, is a sensation
which increases by fruition. A susceptible heart may dread a state of
repose, to which it has been unaccustomed; but a little time is
sufficient to reconcile us to our peaceful situation, and in a little
time more we give it the preference. For my part, I foresee the hour
of your security to be nearer than you yourself imagine. Extremes, you
know, never last long; you have loved too much not to become in time
indifferent: the cinder which is cast from the furnace can never be
lighted again, but before it becomes such the coal must be totally
burnt out. Be vigilant but for a few years more, and you will then
have nothing to fear, your acceptance of my proposal would at once
have removed all danger; but, independent of that view, such an
attachment has charms enough to be desired for its own sake; and if
your delicacy prevents you from closing with my proposals, I have no
need to be informed how much such a restraint must cost you. At the
same time, however, I am afraid that the pretences which impose on
your reason, are many of them frivolous: I am afraid, that in piquing
yourself on the fulfilling of engagements which no longer exist, you
only make a false shew of virtue, in a constancy, for which you are by
no means to be commended, and which is at present entirely misplaced.
I have already told you, that I think the observance of a rash and
criminal vow is an additional crime. If yours were not so at first, it
is become so now; and that is sufficient to annul it. The promise
which no man ought to break, is that of being always a man of virtue
and resolute in the discharge of his duty; to change when that is
changed, is not levity, but constancy. And at all times as virtue
requires you to do, and you will never break your word. But if there
be among your scruples any solid objection, we will examine it at
leisure. In the mean time, I am not very sorry that you did not
embrace my scheme with the same avidity as I formed it; that my
blunder, if it be one, may give you less pain. I had meditated this
project during the absence of my cousin, with whom, however, I have
since had some general conversation on the subject of a second
marriage, and find her so averse to it, that, in spite of the regard
which I know she has for you, I am afraid I must exert a greater
authority than becomes me, to overcome her reluctance; for this is a
point in which friendship ought to respect the bent of the
inclinations.
I will own nevertheless that I still abide by my design; it would be
so agreeable to us all, would so honourably extricate you from your
present precarious situation in life; would so unite all our
interests, and makes so natural an obligation of that friendship which
is so delightful to all, that I cannot think of giving it up entirely.
No, my friend, you can never be too nearly allied to me; it is not
even enough that you might be my cousin; I could wish you were my
brother.
Whatever may be the consequence of these notions, do more justice to
my sentiments for you. Make use without reserve of my friendship, my
confidence and my esteem. Remember I shall not prescribe any rules to
you; nor do I think I have any reason to do it. Deny me not however
the privilege of giving you advice, but imagine not I lay you under
any commands. If you think you can securely reside at Clarens, come
hither; stay here: you cannot give me greater pleasure. But, if you
think a few years longer absence necessary to cure the suspicious
remains of impetuous youth, write to me often in your absence; come
and see us as often as you will, and let us cultivate a correspondence
founded on the most cordial intimacy.
What pains will not such consolation alleviate? what absence will not
be supportable under the pleasing hope of at last closing our days
together! I will do yet more; I am ready to put one of my children
under your care; I shall think him safer in your hands than my own;
and, when you bring him back, I know not which of you will give me the
greater pleasure by your return. On the other hand, if you become
entirely reasonable, banish your chimerical notions, and are willing
to deserve my cousin, come, pay her your best respects and make her
happy. Come then, and surmount every obstacle that opposes your
success and make a conquest of her heart: such assistance as my
friendship can give shall not on my part be wanting. Come, and make
each other happy, and nothing more will be wanting to render me
compleatly so. But, whatever resolution you take, after having
maturely considered the matter, speak confidently, and affront your
friend no more by your groundless suspicions.
Let me not however, in thinking so much of you, forget myself. My turn
to be heard must come at last; for you as with your friends in a
dispute, as with your adversaries at chess; you defend yourself by
attacking them. You excuse your being a philosopher by accusing me of
being a devotee. I am then, in your opinion a devotee, or ready to
become one: well be it so. Contemptible denominations never change the
nature of things. If devotion is commendable, why am I to blame in
being devout? But, perhaps that epithet is too low for you. The
dignity of the philosopher disdains the worship of the vulgar: it
would serve God in a more sublime manner, and raise even to heaven
itself its pretensions and its pride. Poor philosophers!----but to
return to myself.
I have, from my childhood, respected virtue, and have always
cultivated my reason. I endeavoured to regulate my conduct by human
understanding and sentiment, and have been ill conducted. Before you
deprive me of the guide I have chosen, give me another on which I may
depend. I thought myself as wise as other people, and yet a thousand
others have lived more prudently than I; they must therefore have had
resources which I had not. Why is it that I; knowing myself well born,
have had reason to conceal my life and conversation from the world?
why did I hate the sin which I committed even in spite of myself? I
thought I knew my own strength, I relied on it, and was deceived. All
the resistance which was in my own power, I think, I made; and yet I
fell----how must those have done who have escaped? they must have had
a better support.
From their example I was induced to seek the same support, and have
found in it a peculiar advantage which I did not expect. During the
reign of the passions, they themselves contribute to the continuance
of the anxieties they at first occasion; they retain hope always by
the tide of desire, and hence we are enabled to support the absence of
felicity: If our expectations are disappointed, hope supplies its
place; and the agreeable delusion lasts as long as the passion which
gave it birth. Thus, in a situation of this kind, passion supports
itself, and the very solicitude it causes is a chimerical pleasure
which is substituted for real enjoyment. Nay more: those who have no
desires must be very unhappy; they are deprived, if I may be allowed
the expression, of all they possess. We enjoy less that which we
obtain than that which we hope for, and are seldom happy but in
expectation. In fact, man, made to desire every thing and obtain
little, of boundless avarice yet narrow capacity, has received of
heaven a consolatory aid, which brings to him in idea every thing he
desires, displays it to his imagination, represents it to his view,
and in one sense makes it his own; but to render such imaginary
property still more flattering and agreeable, it is even modified to
his passion. But this shadow vanishes the moment the real object
appears; the imagination can no longer magnify that which we actually
possess, the charms of illusion cease, where those of enjoyment begin.
The world of fancy, therefore, the land of chimeras, is the only world
worthy to be inhabited; and such is the inanity of human enjoyments
that, except that Being which is self existent; there is nothing
delightful but that which has no existence at all.
If this effect does not always follow in the particular objects of our
passions, it is infallible in the common sentiment which includes the
whole. To live without pain is incompatible with our state of
mortality: it would be in fact to die. He who has every thing in his
power, if a creature, must be miserable, as he would be deprived of
the pleasure of desiring; than which every other want would be more
supportable. [103]
This is indeed what I have in part experienced since my marriage and
your return. Every thing around me gives me cause of content, and yet
I am not contented. A secret languor steals into the bottom of my
heart; I find it puffed up and void, as you formerly said was the case
with yours; all my attachments are not sufficient to fill it. This
disquietude I confess is strange: but it is nevertheless true. O my
friend! I am indeed too happy: my happiness is a burthen to me. Can you
think of a remedy for this disgust? for my part, I must own that a
sentiment so unreasonable and so involuntary, has in a great measure
diminished the value of life, and I cannot imagine what blessings it
can bestow which I want, or with which I should be satisfied. Can any
woman be more susceptible than I am? can she love her father, her
husband, her children, her friends, her relations better than I do?
can she be more generally beloved? can she lead a life more agreeable
to her taste? or can she be more at liberty to exchange it for any
other? can she enjoy better health? can she have more expedients to
divert her, or stronger ties to bind her to the world? and yet
notwithstanding all this, I am constantly uneasy: my heart yearns for
something of which it is entirely ignorant.
Therefore finding nothing on this globe capable of giving it
satisfaction, my desiring soul seeks an object in another world; in
elevating itself to the source of sentiment and existence, its languor
vanishes: it is reanimated, it acquires new strength and new life. It
thence obtains a new existence, independent of corporeal passions, or
rather it exists no longer in me, but in the immensity of the supreme
Being; and, disencumbered for a while from its terrestrial shackles,
returns to them again with patience, consoled with the expectation of
futurity.
You smile at all this, my good friend; I understand you. I have indeed
pronounced my own condemnation, having formerly censured the heart,
which I now approve. To this I have only one word to answer; and that
is, I then spoke without experience. I do not pretend to justify it in
every shape. I don’t pretend to say, this visionary taste is prudent,
I only say, it is a delightful supplement to that sense of happiness
which in other things exhausts itself by enjoyment. If it be
productive of evil, doubtless it ought to be rejected; if it deceives
the heart by false pleasure, it ought also on that account to be
rejected. But after all, which has the greater incentive to virtue,
the philosopher with his sublime maxims, or the Christian with his
humble simplicity? who is most happy even in this world, the sage with
his profound understanding, or the enthusiast with his rapture of
devotion? what business have I to think or imagine, when my faculties
are all in a manner alienated? will you say intoxication has its
pleasures? be it so, and be mine esteemed such if you will. Either
leave me in this agreeable delirium, or shew me a more delightful
situation.
I have condemned indeed the ecstasies of the mystics, and condemn them
still, when they serve to detach us from our duty; and, by raising in
us a disgust against an active life by the charms of contemplation,
seduce us into that state of quietism which you imagine me so near;
and from which I believe myself nevertheless to be as far distant as
yourself. I know very well that to serve God is not to pass our lives
on our knees in prayer; that it is to discharge on earth those
obligations which our duty requires; it is to do, with a view to
please him, every thing which the situation in which he hath placed us
demands.
_Il cor gradisce;
E serve a lui chi’l suo dover compisce._
We ought first to perform the duties of our station, and then pray
when we have time. This is the rule I have endeavoured to follow: I
don’t make that self examination, with which you reproach me, a task,
but a recreation. I don’t see why, among the pleasures that are within
my reach, I should be forbidden the most affecting and the most
innocent of all.
I have examined myself with more severity, since the receipt of your
letter. I have enquired into the effects which that pious inclination,
that so much displeases you, produces in my mind; and I can safely
say, I see nothing that should give me reason to fear, at least so
soon as you imagine, the evils of excessive and superfluous devotion.
In the first place, I have not so fervent a longing after this
exercise as to give me pain when I am deprived of an opportunity, nor
am I out of humour at every avocation from it. It never interrupts my
thoughts in the business of the day, nor gives me any disgust or
impatience in the discharge of my duty. If retirement be sometimes
necessary, it is when I have felt some disagreeable emotion, and am
better in my closet than elsewhere. It is there that, entering into
the examination of myself, I recover my temper and ease. If any care
troubles me, if any pain affects me, it is there I go and lay them
down. Every pain, every trouble vanishes before a greater object. In
reflecting on all the bounties of providence towards me, I am ashamed
to be sensible of such trifling ills, and to forget its greater
mercies. I require neither frequent nor long intervals of solitude.
When I am affected by involuntary sadness, the shedding a few tears
before him who is the comforter of hearts, relieves mine in an
instant. My reflections are never bitter nor grievous; even my
repentance is free from dread: my errors give me less cause of fear
than of shame; I regret that I have committed them, but I feel no
remorse, nor dread of their effects. The God I serve is a merciful
Being; a Father, whose goodness only affects me, and surpasses all his
other attributes. His power astonishes me; his immensity confounds my
ideas; his justice----but he has made man weak; and though he be just,
he is merciful. An avenging God is the God of the wicked. I can
neither fear him on my own account, nor pray for his vengeance to be
exerted against any other. It is the God of peace, the God of goodness
whom I adore. I know, I feel, I am the work of his hands, and trust to
see him at the last day such as he has manifested himself to my heart,
during my life.
It is impossible for me to tell you how many pleasing ideas hence
render my days agreeable, and give joy to my heart. In leaving my
closet in such a disposition, I feel myself more light and gay. Every
care vanishes, every embarrassment is removed; nothing rough or
disagreeable appears; but all is smooth and flowing: every thing wears
a pleasant countenance; it costs me no pains to be in good humour; I
love those better whom I loved before, and am still more agreeable to
them; even my husband is more pleased with the disposition which is
the effect of such rational devotion. Devotion, he says, is the opium
of the soul. When taken in small quantities, it enlivens, it animates,
it supports it: a stronger dose lulls it to sleep, enrages or destroys
it. I hope I shall never proceed to such extremes.
You see I am not so much offended at the title of devotee, as perhaps
you intended; but then I do not value it at the rate you imagine: yet
I would not have the term devotion applied to an affected external
deportment, and to a sort of employment which dispenses with every
other. Thus that Mrs. Guyon you mention, had in my opinion done better
to have carefully discharged her duty as mistress of her family, to
have educated her children in the Christian faith; and to have
governed her servants prudently, than to compose books of devotion,
dispute with bishops, and at last be imprisoned in the Bastille for
her unintelligible reveries.
I approve just as little of that mystical and metaphorical language,
which feeds the heart with chimeras, and in the place of spiritual
love, substitutes sentiments too nearly allied to carnal affections,
and too apt to excite them. The more susceptible the heart, or lively
the imagination, the more we ought to be on our guard against those
images by which they may be affected; for how can we see the relations
of the mystical object if we do not at the same time see the sensual;
and how can a modest woman have the assurance to contemplate those
objects in her imagination, which she would blush to look on?
But what sets me most against these devotees by profession, is that
affectation of manners which renders them insensible to humanity; that
excessive pride which makes them look down with pity on the rest of
mankind. If ever they condescend to stoop from their imaginary
elevation to do an act of charity, it is always done in a manner
extremely mortifying to the object: their pity is so cruel and
insulting, their justice is so rigid, their charity so severe, their
zeal so bitter, their contempt so much like hatred, that even the
insensibility of the rest of the world is less cruel than their pity.
Their love for heaven serves them as an excuse for loving nobody on
earth; they have even no affection for one another; nor is there an
instance of sincere friendship to be found among people of extreme
devotion. The more detached they affect to be from the world, the more
they expect from it; and one would think their devotion to God is
exerted only that they may have a pretext to exercise his authority
over the rest of his creatures.
I have such an aversion for all abuses of this kind as should
naturally be my security: if nevertheless I am doomed to fall, it will
not be voluntarily, and I hope, from the friendship of those who are
about me, that it will not be without warning. I must own, I now think
that it was possible for my former inquietude concerning my husband,
to have effected such a change. Happily, the prudent letter of my Lord
B----, to which you very reasonably refer me, together with his
sensible and consolatory conversation, as well as yours, have entirely
dissipated my fears and changed my principles. I now see plainly that
an intolerant spirit must by degrees become obdurate. For what charity
can be long preserved for those who we think must inevitably be
damned? to love them would be to hate God for punishing them. To act
then on principles of humanity, we must take upon ourselves to
condemn actions only, and not men. Let us not assume the horrible
function of devils. Let us not so lightly throw open the gates of hell
for our fellow creatures. Alas! if all those are destined to be
eternally miserable who deceive themselves, where is the mortal who
can avoid it?
O my friends! of what a load have you eased my heart? In teaching me
that an error in judgment is no crime, you have delivered me from a
thousand tormenting scruples. I leave to others the subtle
interpretation of dogmas which I do not comprehend, and content myself
with those glaring truths which strike and at once convince me; those
practical truths which instruct me in my duty. As to any thing
farther, I abide by the rule of your old answer to Mr. Wolmar. A man
is not master of his own sentiments to believe or disbelieve what he
pleases. Can it be a crime for one not to be a logician? no, it is not
the business of conscience to instruct us in the truth of things, but
in the maxims of our duty. It does not teach us to reason well, but to
act aright. In what can my husband be criminal before God? does he
turn his eye from the contemplation of the deity? God himself hath hid
his face from his view. He does not shun the truth; the truth avoids
him. He is not actuated by pride; he does not seek to convert any one
to his own opinion. He is glad they are of a different one. He
approves of our sentiments, he wishes he had the same, but cannot. He
is deprived of our consolations and our hopes. He acts uprightly
without even expecting a recompense: he is in fact more virtuous, more
disinterested than we. He is indeed truly to be pitied! but wherefore
should he be punished? no: goodness, sincerity, honesty, virtue, these
are what heaven requires, and what it will undoubtedly reward: these
constitute the true service which the deity requires, and that service
Mr. Wolmar most uniformly performs. If God judges of our faith by our
words, to be truly virtuous is to believe in him. A true Christian is
a virtuous man: the real infidels are the vicious.
Be not surprized, therefore, my dear friend, that I do not dispute
with you many particulars of your letter, concerning which we are not
of the same opinion. I know too well what you are, to be in pain about
what you believe. What do all those idle questions about free agency
concern me? whether I myself have the power to do good, or can obtain
it by prayer, if in the end I am enabled to do it, does it not amount
to the same thing? whether I acquire what is wanting by asking for it,
or the deity grants it to my prayers, if it be necessary to ask in
order to have it, is not this a sufficient explanation? happy enough
to agree about the principal articles of our faith, why need we
enquire farther? ought we to be desirous of penetrating into the
bottomless abyss of metaphysics, and, in disputing about the divine
essence, throw away the short time which is allotted us here to revere
and honour the deity? we are ignorant what he is; but we know that he
exists, and that is sufficient: he manifests himself in his works, we
feel him constantly within us. We may dispute, but cannot sincerely
disbelieve his existence. He has given us that degree of sensibility
which enables us to perceive, to embrace him; let us pity those to
whom he has not imparted such a portion of susceptibility, without
flattering ourselves that we shall be able to make them sensible of
what they cannot see. Let us respect his decrees in silence and do our
duty: this is the best method to make proselytes.
Do you know any man of better sense or a more enlightened
understanding than Mr. Wolmar? do you know any one more sincere, more
upright, more just, less subject to the control of his passions; who
will be a greater gainer by divine justice or the soul’s immortality?
Do you know any man more nervous, more sublime, more convincing in a
dispute than Lord B----? is there any person by his virtue more worthy
of entering on the defence of the cause of God, more certain of his
existence, more sincerely penetrated with the idea of divine majesty,
more zealous for his glory and more capable of supporting it? yet you
have been a witness of what passed during three months at Clarens: you
have seen two men, having the highest esteem and respect for each
other, and equally disdainful of the pedantry and quirk of scholastic
logic, pass a whole winter in prudent and peaceful as well as lively
and profound argumentations, with a view to convert each other; you
have seen them attack and defend themselves and take every advantage
of which human understanding is capable; and that on a subject wherein
both, being equally interested, desired nothing so earnestly as to be
of one mind.
What was the consequence? their mutual esteem is augmented, and yet
both retain their former sentiments: if such an example does not
for ever cure a prudent man of the rage of dispute, the love of truth
I am sure never will.
For my part, I have thrown aside, and that for ever, such an useless
weapon; and am determined never to mention a single word more to my
husband about religion, unless it be to give a reason for mine. Not
that a notion of divine toleration has rendered me indifferent to his.
I must confess that, though I am become tranquil about his future
state, I do not find I am the less zealous for his conversion. I would
lay down my life to see him once convinced of the truth of divine
revelation, if not for the sake of his future happiness, at least for
his happiness in this life. For of how many pleasures is he not on
this account deprived? what sentiments can give him comfort in his
afflictions? what spectator excites him to those good deeds he
performs in secret? what reward does he hope for from his virtue? how
can he look upon death? no, I hope he will not meet it in this
terrible situation. There remains but one expedient more for me to try
to prevent it; and to that I consecrate the remainder of my life. This
is not to convince, but to affect him; to set him a prevailing
example, and to make religion so amiable that he shall not be able to
resist her charms. Ah! my friend! what a forcible argument against
infidelity is the life of a true Christian? do you believe there is a
being on earth proof against it? this is the task I impose on myself
for the future; assist me to perform it. Mr. Wolmar is cold, but not
insensible. What a picture might we lay open to his heart? his
friends, his children, his wife all uniting to his edification! When
without preaching about God in our discourses, we shall demonstrate
him by those actions which he inspires, by those virtues of which he
is the author, by the pleasure we take in his service: when he shall
see a sketch of paradise in his own house; when an hundred times a day
he shall be compelled to cry out: “human nature is of itself incapable
of this; something divine must prevail here.”
If my enterprise pleases you, if you find yourself worthy to concur in
it, come and let us pass our days together, and never part more till
death. If the project displeases or frightens you, listen to the
dictates of your conscience; that will teach you your duty. I have no
more to say. Agreeable to what Lord B---- intimates, I shall expect
you both towards the latter end of next month. You will hardly know
your apartment again; but in the alteration made in it you will
discover the care of a good friend, who took a pleasure in ornamenting
it for you. You will find there, also, a small assortment of books,
which she bought for you at Geneva, of a better taste than the
_Adonis_; not, but that for the jest’s sake you will find that too.
You must however be discreet; for, as she would not have you know this
is her doing, I hasten to finish my letter before she comes to forbid
my speaking of it. Adieu, my dear friend; our party of pleasure to the
castle of Chillon will take place tomorrow without you. It will not
be the better for that. The bailiff has invited us with our children,
which leaves me no excuse: but I know not why, and yet I cannot help
wishing we were safe returned.
Letter CLIX. From Fanny Anet.
Oh sir! O my benefactor! what tidings do they order me to write to
you! Madam----my poor mistress----good God! methinks I see already how
frightened you are! but you cannot see the affliction we are all in
here.----But I have not a moment to lose----I must tell you.----I
must run----Oh that I had already told you all!----what will become of
you, when you know our misfortune! The whole family went out yesterday
to dine at Chillon. The baron, who was going into Savoy to spend some
days at the castle of Blonay, went away after dinner.
The company attended him a little way, and afterwards walked along the
dyke. Mrs. Orbe and the bailiff’s lady went before with my master; my
mistress followed, having hold by one hand of Harriot and by the other
of Marcellin. I came after with the eldest. His honour, the bailiff,
who had staid behind to speak to some body, came up; and joining the
company, offered my mistress his arm; which, in order to accept of,
she sent Marcellin to me. I ran forward to meet him while the child
did the same towards me; but, in running, his foot slipped and he fell
unhappily into the water. I screamed out, when my mistress, turning
her head and seeing the child in the water, flew back in an instant
and threw herself in after him.
Unhappy that I am! why did I not throw myself in too! better had I
been drowned on the spot! with difficulty I kept the eldest from
leaping after its mother; who kept struggling with the other in her
arms.----No boat, nor people were at hand, so that some time past
before they could be got out of the water----the child soon recovered,
but as for the mother----the fright, the fall, the condition she was
in----ah none knows better than I the danger of such a fall! She was
taken out and remained a good while insensible. The moment she came to
herself, she enquired eagerly after the child----heavens! with what
transport did she embrace him! I thought she was quite well again; but
her spirits lasted her but for a moment: she insisted on being brought
home, but fainted away several times during the journey. By some
orders she gave me, I saw she believed she should not recover. Her
fears were alas! too true! she will never recover. Mrs. Orbe is a good
deal more altered than she. They are all distracted; I am the most
sensible in the whole house----Why should I be uneasy? ah! my good
mistress, if I love you, I shall never have occasion for another.----
Oh my dear sir! may heaven enable you to support this trial! adieu!
the physician is this moment coming out of the chamber. I must run to
meet him----if he gives me hopes, I will let you know it. If I say
nothing, you will know too well the cause.
Letter CLX. From Mrs. Orbe.
Imprudent, unfortunate man! unhappy dreamer! you will now indeed never
see her more----the veil----Eloisa is no more.----
She has herself written to you, I refer you to her letter: respect, I
charge you, her last request. Great and many are the obligations you
have to discharge on this side the grave.----
Letter CLXI. From Mr. Wolmar.
I was unwilling to interrupt the first transports of your grief: my
writing to you would but have aggravated your sorrow, as I was no
better qualified to relate than you to read our sad tale. At present,
possibly, such a relation may not be disagreeable to both. As nothing
remains but the remembrance of her, my heart takes a delight in
recalling every token of that remembrance to my mind. You will have
some consolation in shedding tears to her memory; but of that grand
relief of the unfortunate I am constitutionally deprived, and am
therefore more unhappy than you.
It is not, however, of her illness, but of herself, I would write.
Another might have thrown herself into the water to save her child.
Such an accident, her fever, her death are natural; and may be common
to other mortals: but the employment of her last moments, her
conversation, her sentiments, her fortitude, all these are peculiar to
Eloisa. She was no less singular in the hour of death than she had
been during the whole course of her life; and as I was the sole
witness to many particulars, you can learn them from me alone.
You already know that her fright, her agitation, the fall, and the
water she had imbibed, thew her into fainting fits, from which she did
not recover till after she was brought home. On being carried into the
house, she asked again for the child; the child was brought; and,
seeing him walk about and return her caresses, she became apparently
easy, and consented to take a little rest. Her sleep was but short,
and as the physician was not yet come, she made us sit round on the
bed; that is, Fanny, her cousin and me. She talked to us about her
children, of the great diligence and care which her plan of education
required, and of the danger of a moment’s neglect. Without making her
illness of any great importance, she foresaw, she said, that it would
prevent her for some time from discharging her part of that duty, and
charged us to divide it amongst us.
She enlarged on her own projects, on yours, on the most proper means
to carry them into execution; on the observations she had made as to
what would promote or injure them; and, in a word, on every thing
which might enable us to supply her place, in the discharge of the
duties of a mother, so long as she might be prevented from it herself.
I thought so much precaution unnecessary for one who imagined she
should be prevented from exercising such employment only for a few
days: but what added to my apprehensions was to hear her enter into a
long and particular charge respecting Harriot. As to her sons, she
contented herself with what concerned their education in the earliest
infancy, as if relying on another for the care of their youth.
But in speaking of Harriot, she went farther, extending her remarks
even to her coming-of-age; and, being sensible that nothing could
supply the place of those reflections which her own experience
dictated, she gave us a clear: and methodical abstract of the plan of
education she had laid down, recommending it to the mother in the most
lively and affecting manner.
All these exhortations, respecting the education of young persons and
the duty of mothers, mixt with frequent applications to herself, could
not fail to render the conversation extremely interesting: I saw
indeed that it affected her too much. In the mean time, her cousin
held one of her hands, pressing it every now and then to her lips, and
bathing it with tears, at every reply: Fanny was not less moved; and
as for Eloisa herself, I observed the big tears swell out of her eyes
and steal down her cheeks; but she was afraid to let us see she wept,
lest it should alarm us. But I then saw, that she knew her life was
drawing towards its final period. My only hope was that her fears
might deceive her, and represent the danger greater than it really
was. Unhappily, however, I knew her too well to build much upon such a
deception. I endeavoured several times to stop her, and at last begged
of her not to waste her spirits by talking so much at once on a
subject which might be continued at our leisure. Ah! my dear, replied
she, don’t you know that nothing hurts a woman so much as silence?
and, since I find myself a little feverish, I may as well employ my
discourse about useful matters as prattle away the time about trifles.
The arrival of the physician put the whole house into a confusion,
which it is impossible to describe. All the domestics were gathered
about the door of the chamber, where they waited with their arms
folded and anxious looks, to know his opinion of their mistress’s
situation, as if their own destiny were depending. This sight threw
poor Mrs. Orbe into such an agony of grief, that I began to be afraid
for her senses. Under different pretences, therefore, I dismissed
them, that their presence might no longer affect her. The physician
gave us indeed a little hope, but in such vague terms that it served
to convince me there was none. Eloisa was also reserved on account of
her cousin. When the doctor left the chamber I followed him, which
Clara was also going to do; but Eloisa detained her, and gave me a
wink which I understood, and therefore immediately told the physician,
that if there were any real danger he should as carefully conceal it
from Mrs. Orbe as from the patient, lest her despair should render her
incapable of attending her friend. He told me the case was indeed
dangerous, but that four and twenty hours being hardly elapsed since
the accident, it required more time to form a certain judgment; that
the succeeding night might determine the fate of the patient; but that
he could not positively pronounce any thing till the third day. Fanny
alone was by, on his saying this, on whom we prevailed with some
difficulty to stifle her emotions, and agreed upon what was proper to
tell Mrs. Orbe and the rest of the family.
Toward the evening, Eloisa prevailed with her cousin, who had sat up
with her the preceding night, and was desirous of continuing her
vigilance, to go to bed for some hours. In the mean time, the patient
being informed that she was to be bled in the foot, and that the
physician was prescribing for her, she sent for him to her bedside and
addressed him thus.
“Mr. Bouffon, when it is necessary to flatter a timid patient as to
the danger of his case, the precaution is humane, and I approve of it;
but it is a piece of cruelty to lavish equally on all, the
disagreeable remedies which to many may be superfluous. Prescribe for
me every thing that you think will be really useful, and I will
punctually follow your prescriptions. But as to those of mere
experiment, I beg you will excuse me: it is my body and not my mind
which is disordered; and I am not afraid to end my days, but to
misspend those which remain. The last moments of life are too precious
to be thrown away. If you cannot prolong mine, therefore, I beg you
will at least not shorten them, by preventing me from employing them
as I ought. Either recover me entirely, or leave me; I can die alone.”
Thus, my friend, did this woman, so mild and timid on ordinary
occasions, know how to exert herself in a resolute and serious manner
at this important crisis.
The night was cruel and decisive. Suffocation, oppression, fainting,
her skin dry and burning. An ardent fever tormented her, during the
continuance of which she was heard frequently to call out _Marcellin_,
as if to prevent his running into the water, and to pronounce also
another name, formerly repeated on a like occasion. The next day the
physician told me plainly, that he did not think she could live three
days. I alone was made privy to this afflicting piece of information,
and the most terrible hour of my life was that wherein I kept it a
secret in my breast, without knowing what use to make of it. I strayed
out alone into the garden, musing on the measures I ought to take; not
without many afflicting reflections on the misfortune of being reduced
in the last stage of life to that solitude, of which I was
sufficiently tired, even before I had experienced a more agreeable
one.
I had promised Eloisa the night before, to tell her faithfully the
opinion of the physician, and she had engaged me by every prevailing
argument to keep my word. I felt that engagement on my conscience: but
what to do, I was greatly at a loss! Shall I, said I to myself, in
order to discharge an useless and chimerical duty, afflict her soul
with the news, and lengthen the pangs of death? to tell her the hour
of her dissolution, is it not in fact to anticipate the fatal moment?
in so short an interval what will become of the desires, the hopes,
the elements of life? shall I kill my Eloisa?
Thus meditating on what I should do, I walked on with long and hasty
strides, and in an agitation of mind I had never before experienced.
It was not in my power to shake off the painful anxiety; it remained
an insupportable weight on my spirits. At length I was determined by a
sudden thought.
For whose sake, said I, do I deliberate? for hers, or for mine? on
whose principles do I reason? is it on her system or my own? What
demonstration have I of the truth? In support of her system she also
has nothing but opinion; but that opinion carries with it the force of
evidence, and is in her eyes a demonstration. What right have I, in a
matter which relates chiefly to her, to prefer my opinion, which I
acknowledge to be doubtful, to hers which she thinks demonstrated? let
us compare the consequences of both. According to hers, her
disposition in the last hour of her life will decide her fate to all
eternity. According to mine, all that I can do for her will be a
matter of indifference in three days. According to my system, she will
be then insensible to every thing: but if she be in the right, what a
difference will there be! eternal happiness or misery! Perhaps----that
word is terrible----wretch! risk thy own soul and not hers.
This was the first doubt I ever had concerning that scepticism you
have so often attacked; but it was not the last. This doubt however
freed me from the other. I immediately resolved; and for fear my mind
should change, ran directly to Eloisa’s chamber; where, after
dismissing every body from their attendance, I sat down by her
bedside. I did not make use of those trifling precautions which are
necessary with little minds. I was indeed for some time silent; but
she looked at me and seemed to read my thoughts. Then, holding out her
hand, do you think, said she, you bring me news? no, my dear friend, I
know it already; the cold hand of death is upon me; we must part for
ever.
She proceeded, and continued with me a long conversation, of which I
may one day give you an account; and during which she engraved her
testament on my heart. If I had indeed been ignorant of her
disposition before, her temper of mind at this time would sufficiently
have informed me.
She asked me, if her danger was known in the house. I told her, every
one was greatly apprehensive; but that they knew nothing for certain;
and that the physician had acquainted me only with his opinion. On
this she conjured me carefully to keep it a secret for the remainder
of the day. Clara, continued she, will not be able to support this
stroke, unless it comes from my hand. I shall take upon me that
affecting office tonight. It is chiefly for this reason that I desired
to have the advice of a physician, that I might not subject her
unnecessarily, and merely on my own suggestions to so cruel a trial.
Take care that she may know nothing of it before the time, or you will
certainly risk the loss of a friend, and your children that of a
mother.
She then asked me after her father. I owned that I had sent an express
to him: but took care to conceal from her, that the messenger, instead
of contenting himself with delivering my letter, as I had ordered him,
blundered out a story, from which my old friend, falsely collecting
that his daughter was drowned, fell down stairs in a swoon and hurt
himself; so that he kept his bed at Blonay. The hopes of seeing her
father, affected her very sensibly, and the certainty I had of the
vanity of such hope, had no small share in my uneasiness.
The paroxysms of the preceding night had rendered her extremely weak:
nor did this long conversation at all increase her strength. In this
feeble situation, therefore, she strove to get a little sleep in the
day time; nor did I know, till two days after, that she did not sleep
the whole time. The family continued in great anxiety; every one
waiting in mournful silence for each other to remove their uneasiness,
yet, without daring to ask any questions for fear of being told more
than they wished to know. If there were any good news, they said to
themselves, every one would be eager enough to tell it; and the bad we
shall know but too soon. In this terrible suspense they were satisfied
so long as they heard of no alteration for the worse. Amidst this
dreadful silence, Mrs. Orbe only was active and talkative. As soon as
she came out of Eloisa’s chamber, instead of going to rest, she ran up
and down the house, asking what the doctor said to the one, and to the
other. She had sat up all the preceding night, and could not be
ignorant of what she had seen; but she strove even to impose on
herself and to distrust the evidence of her senses. Those she
interrogated always giving her favourable answers, encouraged her to
ask others, which she continued to do with such an air of solicitude
and poignant distress, that whoever had known the truth could not have
been prevailed upon to tell it her.
In the presence of Eloisa she concealed her anxiety, and indeed the
affecting object which she had before her eyes was sufficiently
afflicting to suppress her vivacity. She was above all things
solicitous to hide her fears from Eloisa; but she could very ill
conceal them. Her trouble even appeared in her affectation to hide it.
Eloisa, on her part also, spared no pains to deceive her cousin, as to
the true state of her case. Without making light of her illness, she
affected to speak of it as a thing that was already past, seeming
uneasy only at the time necessary to restore her. How greatly did I
suffer to see them mutually striving to comfort each other, while I
knew that neither of them entertained that hope in their own breasts,
with which each endeavoured to inspire the other.
Mrs. Orbe had sat up the two preceding nights and had not been
undressed for three days. Eloisa proposed, therefore, that she should
retire to her own bed: but she refused. Well, then, said Eloisa, let a
little bed be made up for you in my chamber; if, added she, as if she
had just thought of it, you will not take part of mine? come, my dear,
says she, what say you? I am not worse, and, if you have no objection
you shall sleep with me. This proposal was accepted. For my part, they
turned me out of the room, and really I stood in need of rest.
I rose early the next morning; and, being anxious for what might have
passed in the night, as soon as I heard them stirring, I went into her
chamber. From the situation in which Mrs. Orbe appeared the preceding
evening, I expected to find her extremely agitated. In entering the
room, however, I saw her sitting on the settee, spiritless and pale,
or rather of a livid complexion: her eyes heavy and dead; yet, she
appeared calm and tranquil, but spoke little; as for Eloisa, she
appeared less feeble than over night; the tone of her voice was
strong, and her gesture animated; she seemed indeed to have borrowed
the vivacity of her cousin. I could easily perceive, however, that
this promising appearance was in a great measure the effect of her
fever; but I remarked also in her looks that something had given her
a secret joy which contributed to it not a little; but of which I
could not discover the cause. The physician confirmed his former
opinion, the patient continued also in the same sentiments, and there
remained no hope.
Being obliged to leave her for some time, I observed, in coming again
into her apartment, that every thing appeared in great order. She had
caused flower-pots to be placed on the chimney piece; her curtains
were half open and tied back; the air of the room was changed, a
grateful odour every where diffusing itself, so that no one would have
taken it for the bed chamber of the sick. The same taste and elegance
appeared also in her deshabille; all which gave her rather the air of
a woman of quality, waiting to receive company, than of a country lady
who was preparing for her last moments. She saw my surprise, smiled at
it, and guessing my sentiments was going to speak to me, when the
children were brought into the room. These now engaged her attention;
and you may judge whether, finding herself ready to part from them for
ever, her caresses were cold or moderate. I even took notice that she
turned oftener, and with more warmth, to him who was the cause of her
death, as if he was become more dear to her on that account.
These embraces, sighs and transports were all mysterious to the poor
children. They loved her indeed tenderly; but it was with that
tenderness peculiar to their age. They comprehended nothing of her
condition, of the repetition of her caresses, of her regret at never
seeing them more: as they saw us sorrowful and affected, they wept;
but knew nothing more. We may teach children to repeat the word death;
but we cannot give them any idea of it: they neither fear it for
themselves or others; they fear to suffer pain, but not to die. When
the excess of pain drew complaints from their poor mother, they
pierced the air with their cries; but when we talked to them of losing
her, they seemed stupid and comprehended nothing. Harriot alone, being
a little older than the others, and of a sex in which understanding
and sentiment appear earlier than in the other, seemed troubled and
frightened to see her little mamma in bed, whom she used always to see
stirring about with her children. I remember that, on this occasion,
Eloisa made a reflection quite in character, on the ridiculous vanity
of Vespasian, who kept his bed so long as he was able to do any thing,
and rose when he could do no more. [104] I know not, says she, if it
be necessary that an emperor should die out of his bed? but this I
know that the mother of a family should never take to her bed, unless
to die.
After having wept over the children, and taken every one of them
apart, particularly Harriot, whom she kept sometime, and who lamented
and sobbed grievously. She called them all three together; gave them
her blessing, and, pointing to Mrs. Orbe, go, my children, said she,
go, and throw yourselves at the feet of your mother: this is she whom
Providence has given you, depriving you of nothing in taking me.
Immediately they all ran to her, threw themselves on their knees, and,
laying hold of her hands, called her their good mamma, their second
mother. Clara stooped forward to embrace them, but strove in vain to
speak; she could only utter a few broken and imperfect exclamations,
amidst sighs and sobs that stifled her voice. Judge if Eloisa was not
moved! the scene indeed became too affecting: for which reason I
interrupted it.
As soon as it was over, we sat down again round the bed; and, though
the vivacity of Eloisa was a little suppressed by the foregoing scene,
she preserved the same air of content in her looks; she talked on
every subject with all that attention and regard which bespeaks a mind
at ease; nothing escaped her; she was as intent on the conversation as
if she had nothing else to think of. She proposed that we should dine
in her chamber, that she might have as much of our company as possible
for the short time she had to live: you may believe this proposal was
not on our part rejected.
The dinner was served up without noise, confusion or disorder, but
with as much regularity as if it had been in the Apollo. Fanny and the
children dined with us. Eloisa, taking notice that every one wanted an
appetite, had the art to prevail on us to eat of almost every thing;
one time by pretending to instruct the cook, at another by asking
whether she might not venture to taste this or that, and then by
recommending it to us to take care of our health, without which we
should not be capable of doing her the service her illness required.
In short, no mistress of a family, however solicitous to do the
honours of her house, could in full health have shewn, even to
strangers, more obliging, or more amiable marks of her kindness, than
those which dying Eloisa expressed for her family. Nothing of what I
expected happened, nothing of what really happened ever entered my
head. In short I was lost in astonishment.
After dinner, word was brought up that the clergyman was come. He came
as a friend to the family, as he often favoured us with a visit.
Though I had not sent for him, as Eloisa did not request it, I must
confess to you, I was pleased to hear he was come, and imagine the
most zealous believer could not on the same occasion have welcomed him
with greater pleasure. His presence indeed promised the removal of
many of my doubts, and some relief from my perplexity.
You will recollect the motives for my telling her of her approaching
end. By the effect which, according to my notions, such a shocking
piece of information should have had on her, how could I conceive that
which it really had? how could I imagine that a woman, so devout as
not to pass a day, when in health, without meditation, who made the
exercise of prayer her delight and amusement, should at such a time as
this, when she had but two days to live; when she was just ready to
appear before her awful judge, instead of making peace with God and
her conscience, amuse herself in ornamenting her chamber, chatting
with her friends, and diverting them at their meals, without ever
dropping a word concerning God’s grace, or her own salvation? what
could I think of her, and her real sentiments? how could I reconcile
her conduct with the notions I had entertained of her piety? how could
I reconcile the use she made of her last moments to what she had said
to the physician, of their great importance? all this appeared to me
an inexplicable enigma; for though I did not expect to find her
practising all the hypocritical airs of the devotees, it seemed to me,
however, high time to think of what she judged of so much importance,
and that it should suffer no delay. If one is devout amidst the noise
and hurry of life, how can one be otherwise at the moment we are going
to quit it, and when there remains no longer time to think of another?
These reflections led me farther than I thought I ever should proceed.
I began to be uneasy lest my opinions, indiscreetly maintained, might
at length have gained too much upon her belief. I had not adopted
hers, and yet I was not willing that she should have renounced them.
Had I been sick, I should certainly have died in my own way of
thinking, but I was desirous that she should die also in hers. These
contradictory notions will appear to you very extravagant; I myself do
not find them very reasonable: they were, however, such as really
suggested themselves, at that time. I do not undertake to justify, I
only relate them.
At length the time drew near, when my doubts were to be cleared up:
for it was easy to see that, sooner or later, the minister would turn
the conversation on the object of his duty; and though Eloisa had been
capable of disguising her sentiments, it would be too difficult for
her to do it in such a manner that a person, attentive and
prepossessed as I was, should not see through the disguise.
It soon after happened as I expected. To pass over, however, the
commonplace compliments with which this worthy clergyman introduced
the subject, as well as the affecting manner in which he represented
the happiness of crowning a well-spent life by a Christian exit; he
added, that he had indeed remembered her to have maintained opinions,
on some points, different from those of the church, or such as may be
most reasonably deduced from the sacred writings; but that, as she had
never persisted in defending them, he hoped she would die, as she had
lived, in the communion of the faithful, and acquiesce in all the
particulars of their common confession.
As Eloisa’s answer removed at once all my doubts, and differed a good
deal from the commonplace discourses on such occasions, I shall give
it you almost word for word; for I listened to it very attentively,
and committed it to paper immediately after.
“Permit me, sir, said she, to begin by thanking you for all the care
you have taken to conduct me in the paths of virtue and Christianity,
and for that complacency with which you have borne with my errors when
I have gone astray. Filled with a due respect for your zeal, as well
as gratitude for all your goodness, I declare with pleasure that it is
to you I am indebted for all my good resolutions, and that you have
always directed me to do what was right, and to believe what was true.
“I have lived and I die in the protestant communion, whose maxims are
deduced from scripture and reason; concerning which my heart hath
always confirmed what my lips uttered; and though I may not have had
always that docility in regard to your precepts which perhaps I ought,
it has arisen from my aversion to all kind of hypocrisy: that which I
could not believe, I never could profess; I have always sincerely
sought what was most conformable to truth, and the glory of my
Creator. I may have been deceived in my research; I have not the
vanity to think I have always been in the right. I may, indeed, have
been constantly in the wrong; but my intention has been invariably
good. This was as much as was in my own power. If God did not
vouchsafe to enlighten my understanding farther, he is too merciful
and just to demand of me an account of what he has not committed to my
care.
“This, sir, is all I think necessary to say on the opinions I profess.
As to the rest, let my present situation answer for me. With my head
distracted by illness and subjected to the delirium of a fever, is it
now a proper time to endeavour to reason better than I did when in
health? when my understanding was unimpaired and as sound as I
received it from my Maker,----if I was deceived then, am I less
subject to be so now? and in my present weakness, does it depend on me
to believe otherwise than I did when in full health and strength of
body and mind? It is our reason which determines our belief, but mine
has lost its best faculties; what dependence then could be made on the
opinions I should now adopt without it? what now remains for me to do,
is to appeal to what I believed before; for the uprightness of my
intention is the same, though I have lost my judgment. If I am in an
error, I am sorry for and detest it; and this is sufficient to set my
heart at ease as to my belief.
“With respect to my preparation for death; that, sir, is made; badly
indeed I own, but it is done in the best manner I could; and at least
much better than I can do it now. I endeavoured to discharge that
important part of my duty before I became incapable of it. I prayed in
health;----when I was strong, I struggled with divine grace for favour;
at present, now I am weak, I am resigned, and rely upon it. The best
prayers of the sick, are patience and resignation. The preparation of
death, is a good life; I know of no other. While I conversed with you,
while I meditated by myself, while I endeavoured to discharge the
duties which Providence ordained for me; it was then I was preparing
myself for death: for meeting my God and judge at my last hour. It was
then I adored him with all my faculties and powers; what more can I
now do, when I have lost them? is my languid soul in a condition to
raise itself to the Almighty? this remnant of a half extinguished
life, absorbed in pain, is it worthy of being offered up to God? no,
sir, he leaves it me to employ it for those he taught me to love, and
from whom it is his sovereign will that I should now depart: I am
going to leave them to go to him, it is therefore with them I should
now concern myself; I shall soon have nothing to do but with him
alone: the last pleasure I take on earth shall be in doing my last
duty; is not that to serve him, and do his will; to discharge all
those duties which humanity enjoins me before I throw it off entirely?
what have I to do to calm troubles which I have not? my conscience is
not troubled: if sometimes it has accused me, it has done it more when
I was in health than at present. It tells me now that God is more
merciful than I am criminal; and my confidence increases as I find I
approach nearer to him. I do not present him with an imperfect, tardy,
or forced repentance, which, dictated by fear, can never be truly
sincere, and is only a snare by which the false penitent is deceived.
I do not present him with the service of the remnant and latter end of
my days, full of pain and sorrow, a prey to sickness, grief, anxiety,
death; and which I would not dedicate to his service till I could do
nothing else. No, I present before him my whole life, full indeed of
errors and faults, but exempt from the remorse of the impious, and the
crimes of the wicked.
“To what punishment can a just God condemn me? the reprobate, it is
said, hate him. Must he not first make me not love him? no, I fear not
to be found one of that number. O thou great eternal being! supreme
intelligence! source of life and happiness! creator! preserver!
father! lord of nature! God powerful and good, of whose existence I
never doubted for a moment and under whose eye I have always delighted
to live! I know, I rejoice that I am going to appear before thy
throne. In a few days my soul, delivered from its earthly tabernacle,
shall begin to pay thee more worthily that immortal homage which will
constitute my happiness to all eternity. I look upon what I shall be,
till that moment comes, as nothing. My body, indeed, still lives; but
my intellectual life is at an end. I am at the end of my career, and
am already judged from what is past. To suffer, to die, is all that I
have now to do: and this is nature’s work. I have endeavoured to live
in such a manner as to have no occasion to concern myself at death,
and now it approaches, I see it without fear. Those who sleep on the
bosom of a father, are in no fear of being awaked.”
This discourse, begun in a grave and slow voice, and ending in a more
elevated and animated tone, made on everyone present, myself not
excepted, an impression the more lively, as the eyes of her who
pronounced it seemed to sparkle with a supernatural fire; rays of
light seemed to encircle her brow; and, if there be any thing in this
world which deserves the name of celestial, it was certainly the face
of Eloisa, while she was thus speaking.
The minister himself was transported at what he heard; and, lifting up
his hands and eyes to heaven, good God! said he, behold the worship
that truly honours thee! deign to render it propitious; for how seldom
do mortals offer thee the like! Madam, continued he, turning to Eloisa
and approaching her bed, I thought to have instructed you, but have
myself been instructed. I have nothing farther to say. You have that
true faith, which knows how to love God. Bear with you that precious
repose and testimony of a good conscience, and believe me it will not
deceive you. I have seen many Christians in your situation, but never
before saw any thing like this. What a difference between such a
peaceful end, and that of those terrified sinners, who implore heaven
with vain and idle prayers unworthy to be heard. Your death, madam, is
as exemplary as your life: you have lived to exercise your charity to
mankind, and die a martyr to maternal tenderness. Whether it please
God to restore you to us, to serve us as an example, or whether he is
pleased to call you to himself to crown your virtue with its due
reward, may we all so long as we survive, live like you, and in the
end follow your example in death; we shall then be certain of
happiness in another life.
He offered now to take his leave; but Eloisa prevailed on him to stay.
You are one of my friends, said she to him, and one of those I take
the greatest pleasure to see; it is for those my last moments are so
precious. We are going to part for too long a time, to part so soon
now. He was well pleased to stay, and I went out and left them.
At my return, I found the conversation continued still on the same
subject; but in a less interesting manner. The minister complained
much of that false notion, which makes religion only of use to persons
on their deathbed, and represents its ministers as men of ill omen. We
are looked upon, says he, in common rather as the messengers of sorrow
and death, than of the glad tidings of life and salvation: and that
because, from the convenient opinion of the world that a quarter of an
hour’s repentance is sufficient to efface fifty years of guilt, we are
only welcome at such a time. We must be clothed in a mourning habit
and affect a morose air, in short nothing is spared to render us
dismal and terrifying. It is yet worse, in other religious
professions. A dying roman-catholic is surrounded by objects the most
terrifying, and is pestered with ceremonies that in a manner bury him
alive. By the pains they take to keep the devils from him, he imagines
he sees his chamber full of them; he dies a hundred times with fear
before he expires, and it is in this state of horror the church
delights to plunge the dying sinner, in order to make the greater
advantage of his purse.
Thank God, said Eloisa, that we were not brought up in those venal
religions, which murder people to inherit their wealth, and who,
selling heaven to the rich, would extend even to the other world that
unjust inequality which prevails in this. I do not at all doubt that
such mournful ideas encourage infidelity, and create a natural
aversion for that species of worship, which adopts them. I hope,
continued she, looking steadfastly at me, that he who may educate our
children will adopt very different maxims: and that he will not
represent religion to them as a mournful exercise, by continually
setting before them the prospect of death. If they learn once but to
live well, they will of themselves know how to die.
In the continuation of this discourse, which became less affecting and
more interrupted than I shall tell you, I fully comprehended the
maxims of Eloisa, and the conduct at which I had been surprized. It
appeared that, perceiving her situation quite desperate, she contrived
only to remove that useless and mournful appearance which the fear of
most persons when dying makes them put on. This she did either to
divert our affliction, or to banish from her own view a spectacle so
moving, and at the same time unnecessary. Death, said she, is of
itself sufficiently painful! why must it be rendered hideous? the care
which others throw away in endeavouring to prolong their lives, I will
employ to enjoy mine to the last moment. Shall I make an hospital of
my apartment, a scene of disgust and trouble, when my last care will
be to assemble in it all those who are most dear to me? If I suffer
the air to stagnate, I must banish my children or expose their health
to danger. If I put on a frightful dress and appearance myself, I
shall be known no longer; I shall be no longer the same person you
will all remember to have loved, and will be able to bear me no
more. I shall, even alive, have the frightful spectacle of horror
before me, which I shall be to my friends when I am dead. Instead of
this, I have discovered the art to extend my life without prolonging
it. I exist, I love, am loved, and live till the last breath forsakes
me. The moment of death is nothing: the natural evil is a trifle; and
I have overcome all those of opinion.
This and a good deal of similar discourse passed between the patient,
the minister, sometimes the doctor, Fanny, and me. Mrs. Orbe was
present all the while but never joined in the conversation. Attentive
to the wants of her friend, she was very assiduous to serve her, when
she wanted any assistance; the rest of the time she remained
immoveable and almost inanimate; she kept looking at her without
speaking, and without understanding any thing of what was said.
As to myself; fearing that Eloisa would talk too much for her
strength, I took the opportunity of the minister and physician’s
talking to each other aside, to tell her, in her ear, that she talked
a great deal for a sick person, and reasoned very profoundly for one
who conceived herself incapable of reasoning. Yes, replied she, very
low, I talk too much for a person that is sick, but not for one that
is dying; I shall very soon have nothing more to say. With respect to
argument, I reason no more now; I have done with it. I have often
reflected on my last illness; I am now to profit by my reflection. I
am no longer capable of reflecting nor resolving; I am now only able
to talk of what I have before thought of, and to practice what I have
formerly resolved.
The remainder of the day passed away in nearly the same tranquillity,
and almost in the same manner as if no sick person was in the house.
Eloisa, just as in full health, calm and resigned, talked with the
same good sense and the same spirit; putting on, now and then, an air
of serenity approaching even to sprightliness. In short, I continued
to observe a certain appearance of joy in her eyes, which increased my
uneasiness, and concerning which I was determined to come to an
explanation.
I delayed it no longer than the same evening: when, seeing I had an
inclination to be left alone with her, she told me I had prevented
her, for that she had something to say to me. It is very well, replied
I, but as I intimated my intention first, give me leave first to
explain myself.
Then sitting down by her and looking at her attentively, my Eloisa,
said I, my dear Eloisa, you have wounded my very soul. Yes, continued
I, seeing her look upon me with some surprise, I have penetrated your
sentiments; you are glad to die, you rejoice to leave me. Reflect on
my behaviour to you since we have lived together: have I ever deserved
on your part so cruel a desire? at that instant she clasped both my
hands in hers, and with a voice that thrilled my soul, who? I! said
she, I glad to leave you! Is it thus you penetrate my sentiments? Have
you so soon forgot our conversation of yesterday? at least,
interrupted I, you die content----I have seen----I see it. Hold, said
she, it is indeed true, I die content; but it is content to die, as I
have lived, worthy the name of your wife. Ask of me no more, for I can
tell you no more: but here, continued she, taking a folded paper from
under her pillow, here is what will unfold to you the mystery. This
paper was a letter which I saw was directed to you. I give it to you
open, added she, giving it into my hands, that after having read it
you will determine within yourself, either to send or suppress it,
according as you think best. I desire, however, you will not read it
till I am no more; and I am certain you will grant that request.
This letter, my dear St. Preux, you will find inclosed. She who wrote
it I well know is dead; but I can hardly bring myself to believe that
she no longer exists.
She questioned me afterwards, expressing great uneasiness, about her
father. Is it possible, said she, that he should know his daughter to
be in danger and she not hear from him! has any misfortune happened to
him? or has he ceased to love me? can it be that my father, so tender
a father, should thus abandon his child? that he should let me die
without seeing him; without receiving his last blessing; without
embracing him in my last moments. Good God! how bitterly will he
reproach himself, when he comes to find that he will see me no more!
----this reflection so extremely afflicted her, that I judged she
would be less affected to know her father was ill than to suspect
his indifference. I therefore determined to acquaint her with the
truth, and in fact found her more easy than under her first
suspicions. The thoughts of never seeing him again, however, much
affected her. Alas! said she, what will become of him when I am
gone? shall he live to survive his whole family! what a life of
solitude will his be? It is impossible he should long survive! at
this moment nature resumed its empire, and the horrors of
approaching death were extremely perceptible. She sighed, clasped
her hands, lifted up her eyes to heaven; and, I saw plainly,
endeavoured to pray, with all that difficulty which she before
observed, always attended the prayers of the sick.
When it was over, she turned to me, and, complaining that she felt
herself very weak; told me, she foresaw this would be the last time we
should have an opportunity of conversing together. I conjure you,
therefore, continued she, by our sacred union, in the name of those
dear infants the pledges of our love, harbour no longer such unjust
suspicions of your wife. Can I rejoice to leave you? you, the business
of whose life it has been to instruct and make me happy! you, who, of
all the men in the world, were the most capable to make me so; you,
with whom only perhaps I could have lived within the bounds of
discretion and virtue! no! believe me, if I could set any value upon
life, it would be that I might spend it with you.----These words,
pronounced with great tenderness, affected me to that degree, that as
I pressed her hands frequently with my lips I found them wet with my
tears. I never before thought my eyes made for weeping. These tears
were the first I ever shed since my birth, and shall be the last till
the hour of my death. After having wept the last for Eloisa, there is
nothing left on earth that can draw from me a tear.
This was a day of great fatigue for poor Eloisa. Her preparation of
Mrs. Orbe in the preceding night, her interview with the children in
the morning, that with the minister in the afternoon, together with
the above conversation with me in the evening had quite exhausted her.
She betook herself to rest, and slept better that night than on the
preceding, whether on account of her lassitude, or that in fact her
fever and paroxysms were less violent.
Early the next morning, word was brought me that a stranger, very
indifferently dressed, desired very earnestly to speak particularly to
Eloisa: and though he was informed of her situation, he still
continued his importunity, saying, his business related to an act of
great charity, that he knew Mrs. Wolmar very well, and that while she
had life remaining, she would take pleasure in exerting her
benevolence. As Eloisa had established it as an inviolable rule that
no person, particularly such as appeared to be in distress, should be
turned away, the servants brought me word of the man and his request:
on which I ordered him in. His appearance was mean to the greatest
degree, being clothed almost in rags, and having in his air and manner
all the symptoms of indigence. I did not observe, however, any thing
further either in his looks or discourse to make me suspicious of him;
though he still persisted in his resolution of telling his business to
none but Eloisa. I told him that if it related to any remedy he might
be possessed of, to save her life, I would give him all the recompense
he might expect from her, without troubling her in her present
extremity. No, sir, replied he, poor as I am, I desire not your money.
I demand only what belongs to me, what I esteem beyond all the
treasures on earth, what I have lost by my own folly, and what Mrs.
Wolmar alone, to whom I owe it, can a second time restore.
This discourse, though unintelligible, determined me, however, what to
do. A designing knave might indeed have said as much, but he could
never have said it in the same manner. He required that none of the
servants should be present, a precaution which seemed mysterious and
strange; I indulged him, and introduced him to Eloisa. He had said
that he was known to Mrs. Orbe; he passed by her, however, without her
taking notice of him, at which I was a little surprized. Eloisa
recollected him immediately. Their meeting was extremely affecting.
Clara, hearing a noise, came forward, and soon remembered her old
acquaintance, nor without some tokens of joy: but these were soon
checked by her affliction. One sentiment only engrossed her attention,
and her heart was insensible to every thing else.
It is needless, I imagine, to tell you who this person was; a thousand
ideas will rise up in your memory and suggest it. But whilst Eloisa
was comforting him, however, she was seized with a violent stoppage of
her breath, and became so ill that we thought she was going to
expire. To prevent any further surprise or distraction, at a time when
her relief only was to be thought on, I put the man into the closet,
and bid him lock himself in. Fanny was then called up, and after some
time Eloisa recovered from her fit; when, looking round and seeing us
all in a consternation about her, she said, never mind, children, this
is only an essay; it is nothing like so painful as one would think.
All was soon tranquil again; but the alarm was so great that I quite
forgot the man in the closet, till Eloisa whispered me to know what
was become of him. This was not, however, till dinner was served up
and we were all sat down to table. I would have gone into the closet
to speak to him, but he had locked the door on the inside as I had
directed him; I was obliged, therefore, to have patience till after
dinner.
During our repast, du Boffon, who dined with us, speaking of a young
widow who was going to marry again, made some reflections on the
misfortunes of widows in general; to which, I replied, the fortune of
those was still harder who were widows while their husbands were
living. That, indeed, sir, answered Fanny, who saw this discourse was
directed to her, is too true, especially if such husbands are beloved.
The conversation then turned upon hers; and, as she always spoke of
him very affectionately, it was natural for her to do so now, at a
time when the loss of her benefactress threatened to make that of her
husband still more severe. This indeed she did in the most affecting
terms, commending the natural goodness of his disposition, lamenting
the bad examples by which he had been reduced, and so sincerely
regretting his loss that, being sufficiently disposed before to
sorrow, she burst out into a flood of tears. At this instant the
closet door flew open, and the poor man, rushing out, threw himself at
her feet, embraced her knees and mingled his tears with hers. She was
holding a glass in her hand, which immediately fell to the ground;
while the poor creature was so affected with joy and surprise that she
had fallen into a fit, had not proper care been instantly taken to
prevent it.
What followed is easily imagined. It was known in a moment over the
whole house that Claud Anet was come. The husband of our good Fanny!
what a festival! he was hardly got out of the chamber before he was
stripped of his tatters and dressed in a decent manner. Had each of
the servants had but two shirts a piece, Anet would soon have had as
many as them all. They had indeed so far prevented me that, when I
went out with a design to get him equipped, I was obliged to make use
of my authority to make them take back the cloaths they had furnished
him.
In the mean time Fanny would not leave her mistress. In order,
however, to give her an opportunity of an hour or two’s conversation
with her husband, we pretended the children wanted to take an airing,
and sent them both to take care of them.
This scene did not disturb Eloisa so much as the preceding ones. There
was nothing in it disagreeable, and it rather did her good than harm.
Clara and I passed the afternoon with her by ourselves, and had two
hours of calm uninterrupted conversation, which she rendered the most
agreeable and interesting of any we had ever experienced in our lives.
She opened it with some observations on the affecting scene we had
just beheld, and which recalled strongly to her mind the times of her
early youth. Then, following the order of events, she made a short
recapitulation of the incidents of her life, with a view to shew that,
taking it for all in all, she had been fortunate and happy; that she
had risen, gradually to the highest pinnacle of earthly happiness, and
that the accident, which now cut her off in the middle of her days,
seemed in all appearance, according to the natural course of things,
to mark the point of separation between the good and evil of mortal
life.
She expressed her gratitude to heaven in that it had been pleased to
give her a susceptible and benevolent heart, a sound understanding and
an agreeable person; in that it had been pleased to give her birth in
a land of liberty, and not in a country of slaves; that she came of an
honourable family and not of an ignoble or criminal race; that she was
born to a moderate fortune, and not either to the superfluous riches
of the great, which corrupt the mind, or to the indigence of the poor,
which debases it. She felicitated herself that she was born of
parents, both of them good and virtuous, replete with justice and
honour, and who, tempering the faults of each other, had formed her
judgment on theirs, without subjecting her to their foibles or
prejudices. She boasted the advantages, she had enjoyed, of being
educated in a rational and holy religion; which, so far from debasing,
elevates and ennobles mankind; which, neither favouring impiety nor
fanaticism, permits its professors to make use, at the same time, both
of faith and reason, to be at once both devout and humane.
Then, pressing the hand of Clara, which she constantly held in hers,
and looking at her with the most affecting tenderness, all these
blessings, said she, I have enjoyed in common with others; but this
one----this, heaven reserved for me alone: I am a woman, and yet have
known a true friend. Heaven gave us birth at the same time; it gave us
a similarity of inclinations which has subsisted to this hour: it
formed our hearts one for the other; it united us in the cradle; I
have been blest with her friendship during my life, and her kind hand
will close my eyes in death. Find another example like this in the
world, and I have no longer any thing to boast. What prudent advice
hath she not given me? from what perils hath she not saved me? under
what afflictions hath she not comforted me? what should I indeed have
been without her? what should I not have been, had I listened more
attentively to her counsel?
Clara, instead of replying, leaned her head on the breast of her
friend, and would have stifled her sighs by her tears: but it was
impossible. Eloisa embraced her with the most cordial affection, and
for a long time a scene of tearless silence succeeded.
When they recovered themselves, Eloisa continued her discourse. These
blessings, said she, were mixed, with their inconveniences; such is
the lot of humanity! My heart was made for love; difficult as to
personal merit, but indifferent to that of opinion, it was morally
impossible that my father’s prejudices should ever agree with my
inclinations. My heart required a lover of its own peculiar choice.
Such a one offered himself, I made choice of him, or rather heaven so
directed my choice, that though a slave to passion, I should not be
abandoned to the horrors of my guilt, and that the love of virtue
should still keep possession of my heart, even after I was criminal.
He made use of the specious insinuating language of virtue, by which a
thousand base men daily seduce our sex; but perhaps he only of all
mankind, was sincere. Did I then know his heart? ah! no. I then knew
no more of him than his professions, and yet I was seduced. I did that
through despair which others have done through wantonness: I even
threw myself, as my father reproached me, into his arms; and yet he
loved and respected me: by that respect alone I began to know him
truly. Every man capable of such behaviour must have a noble soul.
Then, I might safely have trusted him; but I had done that before, and
afterwards ventured to trust in my own strength, and so was deceived.
She then went on, to lavish encomiums on the merit of this unhappy
lover; I will not say she did him more than justice, but the pleasure
she took in it was very obvious. She even praised him at her own
expense, and by endeavouring to be just to him, was unjust to herself.
She went even so far as to maintain that he held adultery in greater
horror than she did; forgetting that he himself had disproved any such
suggestion.
All the other incidents of her life were related in the same spirit.
The behaviour of Lord B----, her husband, her children, your return,
our friendship, every thing was set in the most favourable light. She
recapitulated even her misfortunes with pleasure, as accidents which
had prevented greater misfortunes. She lost her mother at a time when
that loss was peculiarly felt; but if heaven had been pleased to spare
her, a disturbance, fatal to the peace of her family might have been
the consequence. The assistance of her mother, feeble as it was, would
have been sufficient to strengthen her resolution to resist the will
of her father, whence family discord and scandal would have arisen,
perhaps some disaster or dishonour, and perhaps still worse if her
brother had lived. She had married a man, against her own inclination,
whom she did not love; and yet she maintained, that she could not have
been so happy with any other man, not even with the object of her
passion. The death of Mr. Orbe had deprived her of a friend in the
husband, but had restored to her a more amiable one in the wife. She
even went so far as to include her uneasiness, her pains, in the
number of blessings, as they had served to prevent her heart from
being hardened against the sufferings of others. It is unknown, said
she, the delight of bemoaning our own misfortunes or those of others.
A susceptible mind finds a contentment in itself, independent of
fortune. How deeply have I not sighed! how bitterly have I not wept!
and yet, were I to pass my life again, the evil I have committed would
be all that I would wish retrenched; that which I have suffered would
be again agreeable. These, St. Preux, were her own words; when you
have read her letter, they will perhaps seem more intelligible.
Thus, continued she, you see to what felicity I was arrived. I enjoyed
a considerable share of happiness, and had still more in view. The
increasing prosperity of my family, the virtuous education of my
children, all that I held dear in the world assembled, or ready to be
assembled around me. The time present and the future equally
flattering, enjoyment and hope united to compleat my happiness. Thus
raised to the pinnacle of earthly bliss, I could not but descend; as
it came before it was expected, it would have taken its flight while I
was delighted in the thoughts of its duration. What could Providence
have done to have sustained me on the summit of felicity? a permanent
situation is not the lot of mankind? no, when we have acquired every
thing, we must lose something, though it were from no other cause than
that the pleasure of enjoyment diminishes by possession. My father is
already in the decline of life; my children of an age when life is
very uncertain: how many losses might not hereafter assist me, without
my having it in my power to repair, or console myself under, one! A
mother’s affection constantly increases, whilst the tenderness of her
offspring diminishes in proportion as they are absent, or reside at a
distance from her. Mine, as they grow up, would be taken from me: they
would live in the great world, and might neglect me. You intend to
send one of them to Russia; how many tears would not his departure and
absence cost me! all by degrees would be detached from me, and I
should have nothing to supply their loss. How often should I find
myself not in the situation in which I now am going to leave you! and
after all, I must still die. Die perhaps the last of you all, alone
and forsaken! the longer one lives, the more desirous we are of
living, even when our enjoyments are at an end: hence I might survive
till life became a burthen, and yet should fear to die; ’tis the
ordinary consequence of old age. Instead of that, my last moments are
now agreeable, and I have strength to resign myself to death, if death
it may be called to leave behind us what we love. No, my friends, my
children, think not that I shall leave you; I will remain with you; in
leaving you thus united, my heart, my soul, will still reside among
you. You will see me continually among you; you will perceive me
perpetually near you----the time will also come when we shall be
united again; nor shall the virtuous Wolmar himself escape me. My
return to God speaks peace to my soul, and sweetens the bitter moment
that approaches; it promises me for you also the same felicity. I have
been happy, I am still happy, and am going to be so for ever; my
happiness is determined, beyond the power of fortune, to all eternity.
Just then the minister entered. Eloisa was truly the object of his
respect and esteem; nobody knowing better than he the liveliness and
sincerity of her belief. He was but too much affected with the
conversation he had held with her the day before, and above all with
the serenity and fortitude he had observed in her. He had often seen
persons die with ostentation, but never with such calmness. Perhaps
also to the interest he took in her situation was added a little
curiosity to see whether such her uncommon serenity would last to the
end. Eloisa had no occasion to change the subject of discourse to
render it more agreeable to the character of our visitor. As her
conversation when in health was never on frivolous topics, so now she
continued, on her sickbed, to talk over with the same tranquillity,
such subjects as she thought most interesting to herself and her
friends; speaking indifferently on matters by no means indifferent in
themselves.
Thus, following the chain of her ideas relative to her notions of
remaining with her friends, the discourse turned on the situation of
the soul separated from the body: when she took occasion to admire the
simplicity of such persons, who promised on their deathbeds to come
back to their friends, and bring them news of the other world. This,
continued she, is just as reasonable, as the stories of ghosts and
apparitions, that are said to commit a thousand disorders, and torment
credulous good women; as if departed spirits had lungs to scold and
hands to fight with. [105] How is it possible for a pure spirit to act
upon a soul inclosed in a body, and which, by virtue of its union with
such body can perceive nothing but by means of the corporeal organs?
this is not to be conceived. I must confess, however, I see nothing
absurd in supposing that the soul when delivered from the body, should
return, wander about, or perhaps reside near the persons of such as
were dear to it in life: not indeed to inform them of its existence;
it has no means of communicating such information; neither can it act
on us, or perceive what we act, for want of the organs of sense
necessary to that end; but methinks it might become acquainted with
our thoughts and perceptions, by an immediate communication similar to
that by which the Deity is privy to all our thoughts, and by which we
reciprocally read the thoughts of each other, in coming face to face:
[106] for, added she, turning to the minister, of what use can the
senses be when there is nothing for them to do? the supreme Being is
neither seen nor understood; he only makes himself felt, he speaks
neither to the eyes nor the ears, but only to the heart.
I understood, by the answer of the pastor and from some signs which
passed between them, that the resurrection of the body had been one of
the points on which they had formerly disputed. I perceived also that
I now began to give more attention to the articles of Eloisa’s
religion, where her faith seemed to approach the bounds of reason.
She seemed to take so much pleasure in these notions that, had she not
been predetermined to abide by her former opinions, it had been
cruelty to endeavour to invalidate one that seemed so agreeable to her
in her present condition. What an additional pleasure, said she, have
I not an hundred times taken, in doing a good action, in the
imagination that my good mother was present, and that she knew the
heart and approved the intentions of her daughter! there is something
so comfortable in the thoughts of living under the eyes of those who
were dear to us, that with respect to ourselves, they can hardly be
said to be deceased. You may judge whether Clara’s hand was not
frequently pressed during this discourse.
The minister had replied hitherto with a good deal of complacency and
moderation; he took care, however, not to forget his profession for a
moment, but opposed her sentiments on the business of another life. He
told her the immensity, glory and other attributes of God, would be
the only objects which the souls of the blessed would be employed in
contemplating: that such sublime contemplation, would efface every
other idea, that we should see nothing, that we should remember
nothing, even in heaven, but that after so ravishing a prospect, every
thing earthly would be lost in oblivion.
That may well be, returned Eloisa; there is such an immense distance
between the lowness of our thoughts and the divine essence, that we
cannot judge what effect it may have on us, when we are in a situation
to contemplate its beauty. But, as I have hitherto been able to reason
only from my ideas, I must confess that I leave some persons so dear
to me, that it would grieve me much to think I should never remember
them more. One part of my happiness, say I, will consist in the
testimony of a good conscience; I shall certainly remember then how I
have acted on earth: if I remember this, I cannot forget those persons
who were dear to me; who must be still so: to see [107] them no more
then will be a pain to me, and pain enters not into the mansions of
the blest. But if, after all, I am mistaken, says she, smiling, a
mistake for a day or two will be soon at an end. I shall know, sir, in
a short time, more on this subject than even yourself. In the mean
time, this I am well assured of, that so long as I remember that I
have lived on earth, so long shall I esteem those I loved there, among
whom my worthy pastor will not have the lowest place.
In this manner passed the conversation all that day, during which
Eloisa appeared to have more ease, more hope and assurance than ever,
seeming, in the opinion of the minister, to enjoy a foretaste of that
happiness she was going to partake among the blessed. Never did she
appear more tender, more amiable, in a word, more herself than at this
time; always sensible, sentimental, possessing the fortitude of the
philosopher and the mildness of a Christian. Nothing of affectation,
nothing assuming or sententious escaped her; her expression always
dictated by her sentiments with the greatest simplicity of heart. If
sometimes she stifled the complaints which her sufferings might have
drawn from her, it was not through affectation of a stoical
intrepidity; but to prevent those who were about her from being
afflicted; and when the pangs of approaching death triumphed over her
strength, she strove not to hide her sufferings, but permitted us to
comfort her; and when she recovered from them a little, comforted us
in her turn. In the intervals of her pain, she was chearful, but her
chearfulness was extremely affecting; a smile sitting frequently on
the lip while the eye ran over with tears. To what purpose is that
terror which permits us not to enjoy what we are going speedily to
lose? Eloisa was even more pleasing, more amiable than when in health;
and the last day of her life was the most glorious of all.
Towards the evening she had another fit which, though not so severe
as that in the morning, would not permit us to leave the children long
with her. She, remarked, however, that Harriot looked changed, and
though we accounted for it by saying she wept much and eat little, she
said no, her illness was in the blood.
Finding herself better, she would have us sup in her own chamber; the
doctor being still with her. Fanny also, whom we always used to send
for when we chose she should dine or sup at our table, came up unsent
for; which Eloisa perceiving, she smiled and said, yes, child, come,
you shall sup with me tonight; you may have your husband longer than
you will have your mistress. Then turning to me, she said, I shall
have no need to recommend Claud Anet to your protection. No, replied
I, whosoever you have honoured with your benevolence needs no other
recommendation to me.
Eloisa, finding she could bear the light, had the table brought near
the bed, and what is hardly to be conceived of one in her situation,
she had an appetite. The physician who saw no danger in gratifying
her, offered her a bit of chicken; which she refused, but desired a
bit of fish, which she eat with a little bread, and said it was very
good. While she was eating, you should have seen the looks of Mrs.
Orbe; you should have seen, I say, for it is impossible to describe
them. What she eat was so far from doing her harm, that she seemed the
better for it during the remainder of the repast. She was even in such
good humour as to take upon her to complain that we had been so long
without wine. Bring, says she, a bottle of Spanish wine for these
gentlemen. By the looks of the physician, she saw he expected to taste
some genuine Spanish wine, and casting her eyes at Clara, smiled at
the conceit. In the mean time Clara, without giving attention to that
circumstance, looked with extreme concern, sometimes at Eloisa, and
then on Fanny, of whom her eyes seemed to say, or ask something, which
I could not understand.
The wine did not come so soon as was expected; the valet de chambre,
who was entrusted with the key of the cellar, having taken it away
through mistake. On enquiry, indeed, it was found that the provision
intended for one day had lasted five, and that the key was gone
without any body’s perceiving the want of it, notwithstanding the
family had sat up several nights. The physician was amazed, and for my
part, at a loss whether I should attribute this forgetfulness to the
concern or the sobriety of the servants, I was ashamed to make use of
ordinary precautions with such domestics, and therefore ordered the
door of the cellar to be broke open, and that for the future every one
might drink at their discretion.
At length a bottle was brought us, and the wine proved excellent; when
the patient having a mind to taste it, desired some mixed with water;
on which the doctor gave her a glass, and ordered her to drink it
unmixed. Clara and Fanny now cast their eyes more frequently at each
other, but with looks timid and constrained, as if they were fearful
of saying too much.
Her fasting, weakness, and ordinary way of living made the wine have a
great effect on Eloisa. She perceived it, and said she was
intoxicated. After having deferred it so long, said she, it was hardly
worth while to begin to make me tipsy now, for a drunken woman is a
most odious sight. In fact she began to prattle sensibly however as
usual, but with more vivacity than before. It was astonishing,
nevertheless, that her colour was not heighten’d: her eyes sparkled
only with a fire moderated by the languor of her illness; and
excepting her paleness she looked to be in full health. Clara’s
emotion became now extremely visible. She cast a timid look
alternately on Eloisa, on me, on Fanny, and above all on the
physician; these were all expressive of so many interrogatories which
she was desirous but fearful to make. One would have thought every
moment that she was going to speak, but that the fear of a
disagreeable reply prevented her: indeed her disquietude appeared at
length so great that it seemed oppressive.
Fanny, encouraged by all these signs and willing to relieve her,
attempted to speak, but with a trembling voice, faltering out that her
mistress seemed to have been in less pain to ay----that her last
convulsion was not so strong as the preceding----that the evening
seemed----and there she stopped. Clara, who trembled like a leaf while
Fanny was speaking, now fixed her eyes on the physician, listening
with all her attention and hardly venturing to breathe lest she should
not perfectly understand what he was going to say.
A man must have been stupid not to have guessed the meaning of all
this. Du Boffon got up, felt the pulse of the patient, and said, here
is neither intoxication nor fever; the pulse promises well. Clara rose
up in a moment, and, addressing the doctor with the utmost impatience,
would have interrogated him more particularly, but her speech failed
her. How sir! said she----the pulse! the fever! she could say no more;
but her eyes sparkled with impatience, and not a muscle in her face
but indicated the most disquieting curiosity.
The doctor, however, made no answer, but took up the patient’s hand
again, examined her eyes and her tongue, and having stood silent a
while, said, I understand you, madam; but it is impossible for me to
say any thing positively at present, only this, that if the patient is
in the same situation at this hour tomorrow morning I will answer for
her life. The words had scarce dropt from his lips before Clara,
rushing forward quick as lightening, overturned two chairs and almost
the table to get at him, when she clung round his neck and kissed him
a hundred times, sobbing and bathing his face with her tears. With the
same impetuosity she took a ring of value from her finger, and put it
forcibly on his, crying out, as well as she could, quite out of
breath, O sir! if you do but restore her to us, it is not one life
only you will be so happy as to save.
Eloisa saw and heard this, which greatly affected her; looking on her
friend, therefore, she thus broke out in a sorrowful and moving tone,
cruel Clara! how you make me regret the loss of life! are you resolved
to make me die in despair? must you be a second time prepared? these
few words were like a clap of thunder; they immediately extinguished
her transports, but could not quite stifle her rekindled hopes.
The doctor’s reply to Mrs. Orbe was immediately known throughout the
house, and the honest domestics already conceited their mistress half
restored. They unanimously resolved, therefore, to make the doctor a
present, on her recovery, to which each contributed three months
wages, and the money was immediately put into the hands of Fanny; some
borrowing of the others what they wanted to make up their quota of the
sum. This agreement was made with so much eagerness and haste, that
Eloisa heard in her bed the noise of their acclamations. Think, my
friend, what an effect this must have had on the heart of a woman, who
felt herself dying. She made a sign to me to come near, and whispered
in my ear; see how they make me drink to the very bottom that bitter
yet sweet cup of sensibility!
When it was time to retire, Mrs. Orbe, who still partook of her
cousin’s bed, called her women, to sit up that night to relieve Fanny:
the latter however objected to the proposal, and seemingly with
greater earnestness than she would have done, had not her husband been
come. Mrs. Orbe persisted notwithstanding in her design, and both of
them passed the night together in the closet. I sat up in the next
chamber, but the hopes which the domestics entertained had so animated
their zeal, that neither persuasions nor threats could prevail on one
of them to go to bed that night. Thus the whole house sat up all night
under so much impatience, that there was not one of the family who
would not have gladly given a whole year of his life to have had it
nine o’clock in the morning.
I frequently heard them walking in her chamber, during the night,
which did not disturb me; but toward the morning when things seem’d
more quiet and still, I was alarmed at a low, indistinct noise that
seemed to come from Eloisa’s room. I listened and thought I could now
distinguish the groans of a person in extremity. I ran into the room,
threw open the curtain, and there----O St. Preux! there I saw them
both, those amiable friends, motionless, locked in each other’s
embrace, the one fainted away and the other expiring. I cried out, and
hastened to prevent or receive her last sigh; but it was too late;
Eloisa was no more.
I can give you no account of what passed for some hours afterwards;
being ignorant of what befell myself during that time. As soon as I
was a little recovered from my first surprise, I enquired after Mrs.
Orbe; and learnt that the servants were obliged to carry her into her
own chamber, where at last they were forced to confine her to prevent
her returning into that of Eloisa; which she had several times done,
throwing herself on the body, embracing, chasing, and kissing it in a
kind of phrenzy, and exclaiming aloud in a thousand passionate
expressions of fruitless despair.
On entering her apartment, I found her absolutely frantic, neither
seeing nor minding any thing, knowing nobody, but running about the
room, and wringing her hands, sometimes muttering in a hollow voice
some extravagant words, and at others sending forth such terrible
shrieks as to make one shudder with horror. On the feet of the bed sat
her woman, frightened out of her wits, not daring to breathe or stir,
but seeking to hide herself and trembling every limb. In fact the
convulsions, which at this time agitated the unhappy Clara, had
something in them most terrifying. I made a sign that her woman should
retire; fearing lest a single word of consolation, untimely offered,
might have put her into an actual fury.
I did not attempt therefore to speak to her; as she could neither have
listened to or understood me; but observing after some time that her
strength was quite exhausted with fatigue, I placed her on a settee;
then sitting down by her and holding her hands, I ordered the children
to be brought in and called them round her. Unhappily the first she
took notice of was him that was the innocent cause of her friend’s
death. The sight of him I could see made her tremble; her countenance
changed, she turned away her looks from him in a kind of horror, and
struggled to get her hands loose to push him from her. I called him
then to me. Unfortunate boy, said I, for having been too dear to the
one, you are become hateful to the other: it is plain their hearts
were not in every thing alike. She was extremely angry at what I said,
and retorted it severely; it had nevertheless its effect in the
impression it made on her. For she immediately took the child up in
her arms, and attempted to kiss him, but could not, and set him down
again immediately. She did not even look upon him with the same
pleasure as on the other, and I am very glad it is not this boy which
is intended for her daughter.
Ye susceptible minds! what would you have done in my situation? ye
would have acted like Mrs. Orbe. After having taken care of the
children, and of Clara, and given the necessary orders about the
funeral, it was necessary for me to take my horse and be the sorrowful
messenger of the heavy tidings to an unhappy father. I found him still
in pain from his hurt, as well as greatly uneasy and troubled about
the accident which had befallen his daughter. I left him overwhelmed
with sorrow: with the sorrow of the aged, which breaks not out into
external appearances, which excites neither transport nor exclamation,
but preys inwardly and fatally on the heart. That he will never
overcome his grief I am certain, and I can plainly foresee the last
stroke that is wanting to compleat the misfortune of his friend. The
next day I made all possible haste, in order to be at home early, and
pay the last honours to the worthiest of women: but all was not yet
over. She must be made to revive, to afflict me with the loss of her a
second time.
As I drew near my house, I saw one of my people come running out to
meet me, who cried out from as far as he could be heard; sir, sir,
make haste, make haste, my mistress is not dead. I could not
comprehend what he meant; but made all the haste I could, and found
the courtyard full of people, crying for joy and calling out aloud for
blessings on Mrs. Wolmar. I asked the reason of all this; every one
was transported with joy, but no body could give me a reasonable
answer; for as to my own people their heads were absolutely turned. I
made the best of my way therefore to Eloisa’s apartment, where I found
more than twenty persons on their knees round the bed, with their eyes
attentively fixed on the corpse, which, to my great surprise, I saw
dressed out and lying on the bed: my heart fluttered, and I examined
into her situation. But alas! she was dead and cold! This moment of
false hope, so soon and so cruelly extinguished, was the most
afflicting moment of my whole life. I am not apt to be choleric, but I
found myself on this occasion extremely angry, and resolved to come at
the bottom of this extravagant scene. But all was so disguised, so
altered, so changed; that I had the greatest difficulty in the world
to come at the truth. At length, however, I unravelled the mystery,
and thus it was. My father-in-law, being alarmed at the accident he
had heard, and thinking he could spare his valet de chambre, had sent
him over before my arrival to learn the situation of his daughter.
This old servant, being fatigued with riding on horseback, had taken a
boat, and, crossing the lake in the night, arrived at Clarens the very
morning of the day in which I returned. On his arrival he saw the
universal consternation the house was in; and, learning the cause,
went sobbing up to Eloisa’s apartment; where, throwing himself on his
knees by the bedside, he wept and contemplated the features of his
departed mistress. Then giving vent to his sorrows, he cried out, ah!
my good mistress! ah! why did it not please God to take me instead of
you! me, that am old, that have no connections, that can be of no more
service on the face of the earth! but to take you, in the flower of
youth, the pride of your family, the blessing of your house, the hope
of the unfortunate, alas! was I present at your birth, thus to behold
you dead!----
In the midst of these and such like exclamations, which flowed from
the goodness and sincerity of his heart, the weak old man, who kept
his eyes still fixed on the corpse, imagined he saw it move: having
once taken this into his head, he imagined farther that Eloisa turned
her eyes, looked at him and made a sign to him with her head. Upon
this he rose up in great transport and ran up and down the house,
crying out his mistress was not dead, that she knew him, and that he
was sure she was living and would recover. This was sufficient to call
every body together, the servants, the neighbours, and the poor, who
before made the air resound with their lamentations, now all as loudly
cried out in transport; she is not dead! she lives! she lives! the
noise spread and increased; the common people, all fond of the
marvellous, readily propagated the news: every one easily believed
what he wished might be true, and sought to give others pleasure by
countenancing the general credulity. So that, in a short time, the
deceased was reported not only to have made a motion with her head,
but to have walked about, to have conversed, &c. more than twenty
witnesses having had ocular proofs of circumstances that never
happened or existed. No sooner were they possessed with the notion of
her being alive, but a thousand efforts were made to restore her; they
pressed in crowds about her bed, spoke to her, threw spirits in her
face, felt for her pulse, and did every thing their foolish
apprehensions suggested to recover her; till her women justly offended
at seeing the body of her mistress surrounded by a number of men, got
every body turned out of the room and soon convinced themselves how
egregiously they had been deceived. Incapable, however, of resolving
to put end to so agreeable an error, or perhaps still hoping for some
miraculous event, they clothed the body with care, and though her
wardrobe was left to them, they did not spare the richest apparel.
After which laying her out on the bed, and leaving the curtains open,
they returned to their tears amidst the public rejoicings of the
multitude.
I arrived in the height of this phrenzy, but when I became acquainted
with the cause, found it impossible to bring the crowd to reason; and
that if I had shut up my doors and had ordered the immediate burial of
the corpse, it might have occasioned some disturbance; or that I
should have passed, at least, for a paricide of a husband who had
buried his wife alive, and should have been held in detestation by
the whole country. I resolved therefore to defer the funeral. After
six and thirty hours however, I found by the extreme heat of the
weather, the corpse began to change, and, though the face preserved
its features and sweetness, there seemed even there some signs of
alteration. I mentioned it to Mrs. Orbe, who sat in a continued
stupor, at the head of the bed. Not that she was so happy as to be the
dupe of so gross a delusion; but she pretended to be so, that she
might continue in the chamber, and indulge her sorrows.
She understood my design, and silently withdrew. In a moment after,
however, she returned, bringing in her hand that veil of gold tissue
embroidered with pearls, which you brought her from the Indies: [108]
when, coming up to the bed, she kissed the veil, and spreading it over
the face of her deceased friend, she cried out with a shrill voice,
“Accursed be that sacrilegious hand which shall presume to lift up
this veil! accursed be that impious eye which shall dare to look on
this disfigured face!” this action and imprecation had such an effect
on the spectators, that, as if by a sudden inspiration, it was
repeated by one and all from every quarter. Such an impression indeed
did it make on our servants and the people in general, that the
deceased being put into the coffin, dressed as she was, and with the
greatest caution, was carried away and buried in the same attire,
without any person daring to touch the veil that covered her face.
[109]
Those are certainly the most unhappy who, beside the supporting their
own sorrows, are under the necessity of consoling others. Yet this is
my task with my father-in-law, with Mrs. Orbe, with friends, with
relations, with my neighbours, and with my own houshold. I could yet
support it well enough with all but my old friend and Mrs. Orbe: but
you must be a witness to the affliction of the latter to judge how
much it adds to mine. So far from taking my endeavours to comfort her
in good part, she even reproaches me for them; my solicitude offends
her, and the coldness of my affliction but aggravates hers; she would
have my grief be as bitter and extravagant as hers, her barbarous
affliction would gladly see the whole world in despair. Every thing
she says, every thing she does looks like madness; I am obliged
therefore to put up with every thing, and am resolved not to be
offended. In serving her who was beloved by Eloisa, I conceive I do a
greater honour to her memory than by fruitless tears and lamentations.
You will be able to judge, from one instance, of the rest of her
behaviour. I thought I had gained my point, by engaging her to take
care of herself, in order to be able to discharge those duties which
her dying friend had imposed on her. Reduced very low by convulsions,
abstinence and want of rest, she seemed at length resolved to attempt
her usual method of living, and to come to table in the dining-room.
The first time, however, I ordered the children to dine in the
nursery, being unwilling to run the hazard of this essay in their
presence: violent passions of every kind, being one of the most
dangerous objects that can be shewn to children. For the passions when
excessive have always something puerile and diverting to young minds,
by which they are seduced to admire what they ought to dread.
On entering the dining-room, she cast her eye on the table and saw
covers laid for two persons only; at which she flung herself into the
first chair that stood next her, refusing to come to table. I imagined
I knew the reason, and ordered a third plate to be set on the table,
at the place where her cousin used generally to sit. She then
permitted me to lead her to her seat without reluctance, placing
herself with great caution, and disposing her gown as if she was
afraid to incommode the empty chair. On putting the first spoonful of
soup to her mouth, however, she withdrew it, and asked, with a peevish
air, what business that plate had there when no body made use of it? I
answered, she was in the right, and had it taken away. She then strove
to eat, but could get nothing down; by degrees her stomach swelled,
her breath grew short, and all at once she started up and returned to
her own chamber, without saying a word, or hearing any thing that I
said to her, obstinately refusing every thing but tea all that day.
The next day I had the same task to begin again. I now conceived the
best way to bring her to reason was to humour her, and to endeavour to
soften her despair by more tender sentiments. You know how much her
daughter resembles Mrs. Wolmar; that she took a pleasure in
heightening that resemblance, by dressing her in the same manner,
having brought several cloaths for her from Geneva, in which she used
to dress her like Eloisa. I ordered Harriot therefore to be dressed,
as much in imitation of Eloisa as possible, and, after having given
her lesson, placed her at table where Eloisa used to sit; three covers
being laid as the day before.
Clara immediately comprehended my design, and was affected, giving me
a tender and obliging look. This was the first time she seemed
sensible of my assiduity, and I promised myself success from the
expedient.
Harriot, proud to represent her little mamma, played her part
extremely well; so well indeed that I observed the servants in waiting
shed tears. She nevertheless always gave the name of mamma to her
mother, and addressed her with proper respect. At length, encouraged
by success and my approbation, she ventured to put her hand to the
soup-spoon and cried, _Clara, my dear, do you chuse any of this?_ the
gesture, tone and manner, in which she spoke this, were so exactly
like those of Eloisa, that it made her mother tremble. A moment after,
however, she burst into a fit of laughter, and, offering her plate,
replied; yes child give me a little, you are a charming creature. She
then began to eat with an eagerness that surprized me. Looking at her
with some attention, I saw something wild in her eyes, and a greater
impatience in her action and manner than usual. I prevented her
therefore from eating any more, and ’twas well I did so; for, an hour
after she was taken extremely ill with a violent surfeit, which, had
she continued to eat more, might have been fatal. From this time I
resolved to try no more projects of this kind, as they might affect
her imagination too much. Sorrow is more easily cured than madness; I
thought it better therefore to let her suffer under the one a little
longer, than run the hazard of driving her into the other.
This is the situation, my friend, in which we are at present. Since
the baron’s return, indeed, Clara goes up every morning to his
apartment, whether I am at home or abroad; where they generally pass
an hour or two together. She begins also, to take a little more notice
of the children. One of them has been sick; this accident has made her
sensible that she has still something to lose, and has animated her
zeal to the discharge of her duty. Yet, with all this, she is not yet
sufficiently sorrowful; her tears have not yet begun to flow; we wait
for you to draw them forth, for you to dry them up again. You cannot
but understand me. Think of the last advice of Eloisa: it was indeed
first suggested by me, and I now think it more than ever prudent and
useful. Come and be reunited to all that remains of Eloisa. Her
father, her friend, her husband, her children, all expect you, all
desire your company, which cannot fail of being universally useful.
In a word, without farther explanations, come, partake and cure us of
our sorrows; I shall perhaps be more obliged to you than to any other
man in the world.
Letter CLXII. From Eloisa.
_This letter was inclosed in the preceding._
Our projects are at an end. Circumstances, my good friend, are
changed: let us bear it without murmuring; it is the will of
consummate wisdom. We pleased ourselves with the thoughts of being
reunited; such a reunion was not good for us. The goodness of
Providence has prevented it, without doubt to prevent our misery.
Long have I indulged myself in the salutary delusion, that my passion
was extinguished; the delusion is now vanished, when it can be no
longer useful. You imagined me cured of my love; I thought so too. Let
us thank heaven that the deception hath lasted as long as it could be
of service to us. In vain, alas! I endeavoured to stifle that passion
which inspired me with life; it was impossible, it was interwoven with
my heart-strings. It now expands itself, when it is no longer to be
dreaded; it supports me now my strength fails me; it chears my soul
even in death. O my friend! I can now make this confession without
fear or shame; this involuntary sentiment has been of no prejudice to
my virtue, it has never sullied my innocence; I have done my duty in
all things which were in my power. If my heart was yours, it was my
punishment, and not my crime. My virtue is unblemished, and my love
has left behind it no remorse.
I glory in my past life: but who could have answered for my future
years? perhaps were I to live another day I should be culpable! what
then might I not have been during whole years spent in your company?
what dangers have I not run without knowing it? and to how much
greater was I going to be exposed? every trial has indeed been made;
but trials may be too often repeated. Have I not lived long enough to
be happy and virtuous? in taking me hence, heaven deprives me of
nothing which I ought to regret. I go, my friend, at a most favourable
moment; satisfied with you and myself, I depart in peace.
I foresee, I feel your affliction; I know too well you will be left to
mourn; the thoughts of your sorrow cause my greatest uneasiness: but
reflect on the consolation I leave with you. The obligations left you
to discharge on the part of her who was so dear to you, ought to make
it your duty to take care of yourself for her sake. You are left in
charge with her better half. You will lose no more of Eloisa than you
have long been deprived of. Her better part remains with you. Come and
join her family, in the midst of whom Eloisa’s heart will still be
found. Let every one that was dear to her unite to give her a new
being. Your business, your pleasures, your friendship shall be her own
work. The bonds of your union shall give her new life, nor will she
totally expire but with the last of her friends.
Think there remains for you another Eloisa, and forget not what you
owe her. You are both going to lose the half of yourselves; unite
therefore to preserve the other. The only method that remains for you
to survive me, is to supply my place in my family and with my
children. Oh that I could but invent still stronger bonds to unite
those who are so dear to me! but reflect how much you are indebted to
each other, and let that reflection strengthen your mutual attachment.
Your former objections, against entering into such an engagement, will
now become arguments for it. How can either of you ever speak of me
without melting into tenderness? No, Eloisa and Clara shall for the
future be so united together in your thoughts, that it shall not be in
the power of your heart to separate them. Hers will share in every
thing yours has felt for her friend; she will become both the
confident and object of your passion. You will be happy in the
enjoyment of that Eloisa who survives, without being unfaithful to her
you shall have lost; and after so many disappointments and
misfortunes, shall, before the age of life and love is past, burn with
a lawful flame, and possess the happiness of an innocent passion.
Secured by this chaste union, you will be at liberty to employ your
thoughts entirely on the discharge of those duties which I have
recommended; after which you need never be at a loss to account for
the good you have done on earth. You know there exists also a man
worthy of an honour, to which he durst not aspire: you know him to
have been your deliverer, as well as the husband of your friend. Left
alone, without connections in this life, without expectations from
futurity, without joy, without comfort, without hope, he will soon be
the most unfortunate of men. You owe to him the same pains he has
taken with you, and you know the way to render them successful.
Remember the instructions of my former letter. Pass your days with
him. Let no one that loved me forsake him. As he restored your taste
for virtue, so shew him the object and the value of it. Be you truly a
Christian, to engage him to be one too; the success of the attempt is
more probable than perhaps you imagine. He has done his duty, I will
do mine, and you must hereafter do yours. God is just and my
confidence in him will not deceive me.
I have but a word or two more to say, concerning my children. I know
the trouble their education will cost you; but at the same time I know
you will not repine. In the most fatiguing moments of such employment,
reflect that they are the children of Eloisa, and every thing will be
easy. Mr. Wolmar will put into your hands the remarks I have made on
your essay and on the character of my two sons. They are however
unfinished, and I leave them to you, not as rules for your conduct,
but submit them as hints to your judgment. Strive not to make my
children scholars, but benevolent and honest men. Speak to them
sometimes of their mother----you know how dear they were to her----
tell Marcellin, I die willingly as I saved his life. Tell his brother,
it was for him I could have wished to live. Tell their----but I find
myself fatigued; I must put an end to this letter. In leaving my
children with you, I part with you with less regret: for in them I
still continue with you.
Farewell, my dear friend! once more farewell. My life ends, alas! as
it begun. Perhaps I have said too much at a time when the heart
disguises nothing----ah! why should I be afraid to express all I feel?
It is no longer I that speak; I am already in the arms of death.
Before you read this letter, the worms will be preying on the features
of your friend, and will take possession of a heart where your image
will be found no more. But can my soul exist without you? without you,
what happiness can I enjoy? No, we will not part----I go but to expect
you. That virtue, which separated us on earth, will unite us for ever
in the mansions of the blessed. I die in that peaceful hope; too happy
to purchase, at the expense of my life, the privilege of loving you
without a crime, and of telling you so once more.
Letter CLXIII. From Mrs. Orbe.
I am glad to hear that you begin to be so well recovered, as to give
us hopes of seeing you soon here. You must, my friend, endeavour to
get the better of your weakness and try to pass the mountains before
the winter prevents you. The air of this country, will agree with you;
you will see here nothing but sorrow; and perhaps our common
affliction will be the means of soothing yours. Mine stands greatly in
need of your assistance; for I can neither weep, nor speak, nor make
myself understood. Mr. Wolmar indeed, understands me, but he makes me
no answer. The affliction of an unfortunate father also is buried
within himself; nor can any thing be conceived more cruelly
tormenting: he neither hears, sees, nor understands any thing. Age has
no vent for its griefs. My children affect me without knowing how to
be affected themselves. I am solitary in the midst of company; a
mournful silence prevails around me; and in the stupidity of my
affliction, I speak to nobody; having but just life enough in me to
feel the horrors of death. O come, you who partake of my loss, come
and partake of my griefs. Come cherish my heart with your sorrow. This
is the only consolation I can hope for; the only pleasure I can taste.
But before you arrive, and inform me of your intentions relative to a
project which I know has been mentioned to you, it is proper I should
inform you first of mine. I am frank and ingenuous, and therefore will
dissemble nothing. That I have loved you I confess: nay, perhaps I
love you still, and shall always do so: but this I know not, nor
desire to know. I am not ignorant that it is suspected, which I do not
concern myself about. But what I have to say, and what you ought to
observe, is this: that a man who was beloved by Eloisa, and could
resolve to marry another woman, would, in my opinion, be so base and
unworthy a creature, that I should think it a dishonour to call such a
one my friend. And with respect to myself, I protest to you that the
man, whoever he be, that shall presume to talk of love hereafter to
me, shall never have a second opportunity as long as he lives.
Think then only on the employment that awaits you, on the duties
imposed on you, and on her to whom you engaged to discharge them. Her
children are growing up apace, her father is insensibly wasting, her
husband is in continual agitation of mind: in vain he strives to think
her annihilated; his heart rebels against his reason. He speaks of
her, he speaks to her, and sighs. Methinks I see already the repeated
wishes of Eloisa half accomplished, and that you may put a finishing
hand to so great a work. What a motive is here to induce both you and
Lord B---- to repair hither. It is becoming his noble mind that our
misfortunes have not made him change his resolution.
Come then, dear and respectable friends, come and rejoin all that is
left of Eloisa. Let us assemble all that was dear to her: let her
spirit animate us, let her heart unite ours; let us live continually
under her eye. I take a delight in conceiving that her amiable and
susceptible spirit will leave its peaceful mansions to revisit ours;
that it will take a pleasure in seeing its friends imitate her
virtues, in hearing herself honoured by their acknowledgments, in
seeing them kiss her tomb, and sigh at the repetition of her name. No,
she has not yet forsaken these haunts which she used to make so
delightful. They are still full of her. I see her in every object; I
perceive her at every step; every hour of the day I hear her well-
known voice. It was here she lived, here died, and here repose her
ashes----As I go, twice a week, to the church, I cast my eye on the
sad, revered spot----O beauty! is such thy last asylum!----sincerity!
friendship! virtue! pleasure! innocence! all lie buried in her grave
----I feel myself drawn as it were involuntarily to her tomb----I
shudder as I approach----I dread to violate the hallowed earth----I
imagine that I feel it shake and tremble under my feet----that I hear
a plaintive voice call me from the hollow tomb----Clara! [110] where
art thou? Clara! why dost thou not come to thy friend?----alas! her
grave hath yet but half her ashes----it is impatient for the remainder
of its prey----yet a little while, and it shall be satisfied!
Finis.
[Footnote 1: See the 7th Plate.----The cuts are daily expected from
Paris.]
[Footnote 2: See Vol. II. p. 74.]
[Footnote 3: This regards only the modern English romances.]
[Footnote 4: See the letters to M. d’Alembert sur les spectacles.]
[Footnote 5: Preface to Narcisse----Lettre à M. d’Alembert.]
[Footnote 6 It is plain there is a chasm here, and the reader will
find many in the course of this correspondence. Several of the letters
are lost, others are suppressed, and some have been curtailed; but
there appears to be nothing wanting essential to the story.]
[Footnote 7: The Lady seems to have forgot what she said in the
preceding paragraph.]
[Footnote 8: Alluding to a letter which is suppressed.]
[Footnote 9: Unhappy youth! not to perceive, that to suffer himself to
be paid in gratitude, what he refused in money, was infinitely more
criminal. Under the mask of instruction he corrupted her heart;
instead of nourishment he gives her poison, and is thanked by a
deluded mother for the ruin of her child. Nevertheless one may
perceive in him a sincere love for virtue; but it is so soon
dissipated by his passions, that with all his fine preaching, unless
his youth may be admitted as an excuse, he is no better than a wicked
fellow. The two lovers, however, deserve some compassion; the mother
is chiefly in fault.]
[Footnote 10: The sequel will but too well inform the reader, that
this assertion of Eloisa’s was extremely ill grounded.]
[Footnote 11: This sentiment is a very just one. Disorderly passions
_lead_ to bad actions. But pernicious maxims corrupt the understanding,
the very source and spring of good, and cut off the possibility of a
return to virtue.]
[Footnote 12: Titular grants are not very common in the present age,
except those which are bought or are obtained by placemen, the most
honourable appendage to which, that I know of, is the privilege of not
being hanged.]
[Footnote 13: In some countries, agreement in rank and fortune is held
so far preferable to that of nature and of the heart, that an
inequality in the former is judged sufficient to prevent or dissolve
the most happy marriages, without any regard to the honour of the
unfortunate lovers, who are daily made a sacrifice to such odious
prejudices. I heard once a celebrated cause pleaded before the
parliament at Paris, wherein the distinction of rank publicly and
insolently opposed honesty, justice, and the conjugal vow; the
unworthy parent, who gained his cause, disinheriting his son, because
he refused to act the part of a villain. The fair sex are, in that
polite country, subjected in the greatest degree to the tyranny of the
laws. Is it to be wondered at, that they so amply avenge themselves in
the looseness of their manners?]
[Footnote 14: It appears by the sequel that these suspicions fell upon
Lord B----, and that Clara applies them to herself.]
[Footnote 15: Chimerical distinction of rank! It is an English peer
that talks thus. Can there be any reality in all this? Reader, what
think you of it?]
[Footnote 16: This it is to entertain unreasonable prejudices in
favour of one’s own country. I have never heard of a people, among
whom foreigners in general are so ill received, and find so many
obstacles to their advancement as among the English. From the peculiar
taste of this nation, foreigners are encouraged in nothing; and by the
form of government, they are excluded from all emoluments. We must
agree in their favour, however, that an Englishman is never obliged to
any person for that hospitality he churlishly refuses others. Where,
except in London, is there to be seen any of these insolent islanders
servilely cringing at court? In what country except their own do they
seek to make their fortunes? They are churlish it is true, but their
churlishness does not displease me, while it is consistent with
justice. I think it very well they should be nothing but Englishmen;
since they have no occasion to be men.]
[Footnote 17: In imitation of Eloisa, he calls Clara, his cousin, and
Clara, after her example, likewise calls him her friend.]
[Footnote 18: Simple Eloisa! you give no proof here of yours.]
[Footnote 19: The true philosophy of lovers is that of Plato; while
the passion lasts they employ no other. A susceptible mind knows not
how to quit this philosopher; a cold insensible reader cannot endure
him.]
[Footnote 20: Without anticipating the judgment which the reader, or,
Eloisa may pass on the following narratives, it may not be improper to
observe, that, if I had written them myself, though I might not have
made them better, I should have done it in a different manner. I was
several times going to cancel them, and substitute others written in
my own way in their place; but I have at length ventured to insert
them as they are. I bethought myself that a young man of four and
twenty ought not to see things in the same light as a man of fifty,
whom experience had too well instructed to place them in a proper
point of view. I reflected also, that, without having played any great
part in life, I was not however, in a situation to speak with absolute
impartiality. Let these letters pass then as they were originally
written. The common place remarks or trivial observations that may be
found in them, are but small faults, and import little. But it is of
the greatest importance to a lover of truth, that to the end of his
life his passions should never affect the impartiality of his
writings.]
[Footnote 21: We ought, perhaps, to overlook this reasoning in a
Swiss, who sees his own country well governed without the
establishment of either of these professions. How can a state subsist
without soldiers for its defence! no, every state must have defenders.
But its members ought to be soldiers from principle, and not by
profession. The same individuals among the Greeks and Romans were
frequently magistrates in the city, and officers in the field; and
never were either of those functions better served than before those
strange prejudices took place, which now separate and dishonour them.]
[Footnote 22: This reflection, whether true or false, can be extended
only to the subalterns, and those who do not reside in Paris; for
almost all the great and polite men in the kingdom are in the service,
and even the court itself is military. But there is a great difference
between the manners learned in a campaign, and those which are
contracted by living in garrison.]
[Footnote 23: Ye sweating fires, that in the furnace blaze. _A line of
sonnet by Marini._]
[Footnote 24: Provided always that no unforeseen object of pleasantry
starts up to disturb their gravity; for in that case, it is laid hold
of by every one in a moment, and it is impossible to recall their
serious attention. I remember that a handful of gingerbread cakes once
ludicrously put an end to a dramatic representation at the fair. The
actions were indeed quadrupeds; but how many trifling things are there
that would prove gingerbread cakes to some sort of men! it is well
known whom Fontenelle intended to describe in his history of the
Tyrintians.]
[Footnote 25: To be afflicted at the decease of any person, betrays a
sense of humanity, and is a sign of a good disposition, but is no
instance of virtue; there being no moral obligation to lament even the
death of a father. Whoever in such a case, therefore, is not really
afflicted, ought not to affect the appearance of it; for it is more
necessary always to avoid deceit, than to comply with custom.]
[Footnote 26: Moliere ought not to be ranked here with Racine: the
first indeed abounds with maxims and sentential observations, like all
the others, especially in his versified pieces: but in Racine all is
sentimental; he makes every character speak for the author, and is in
this point truly singular among all the dramatic writers of his
nation.]
[Footnote 27: I should have but a bad opinion of the reader’s
sagacity, who, knowing the character and situation of Eloisa, should
think this piece of curiosity hers. It will be seen hereafter that her
lover knew to whom to attribute it. If he could have been deceived in
this point, he had not deserved the name of a lover.]
[Footnote 28: If the reader approves of this criterion, and makes use
of it to judge of this work, I will not appeal from his judgment,
whatever it prove.]
[Footnote 29: Freedom, ease, cleverness.]
[Footnote 30: Speak for yourself, my dear philosopher, others may have
been more happy. A coquet only, promises to every body, what she
should reserve but for one.]
[Footnote 31: Amorous imagination.]
[Footnote 32: Things are changed since that time. By many
circumstances one would suppose these letters to have been written
above twenty years ago; but by their stile, and the manners they
describe, one would conclude them to be of the last century.]
[Footnote 33: I shall not give my opinion of this letter; but I doubt
much, whether a judgment which allows them the qualities they despise,
and denies them those which they value, will be pleasing to the French
ladies.]
[Footnote 34: Obliged by the tyrant to appear on the stage, he
lamented his disgrace in some very affecting verses which justly
irritated every honest mind against Caesar. _After having lived,_ said
he, _sixty years with honour, I left my house this morning, a Roman
knight, but shall return to it this evening an infamous stage-player.
Alas! I have lived a day too long. O fortune! if it was my lot to be
thus once disgraced, why did you not force me hither while youth and
vigour had left me at least an agreeable person: but now, what a
wretched object do I present to the insults of the people of Rome? a
feeble voice, a weak body, a mere corpse an animated skeleton, which
has nothing left of me but my name._ The entire prologue which he
spoke on this occasion, the injustice done him by Caesar, who was
piqued at the noble freedom with which he avenged his offended honour,
the affront he receives at the circus, the meanness of Cicero in
upbraiding him, with the ingenious and satirical reply of Laberius,
are all preserved by Aulus Gellius, and compose in my opinion the most
curious and interesting piece in his whole collection: which is, for
the most part, a very insipid one.]
[Footnote 35: They know nothing of this in Italy; the public would not
suffer it, and thus the entertainment is subject to less expense: it
would cost too much to be ill-served.]
[Footnote 36: _Le bucheron_.]
[Footnote 37: The light airs of the French music have not been
unaptly compared to a cow’s courant, or the hobblings of a fat goose
attempting to fly.]
[Footnote 38: And why should he not omit it? have the women of these
times any thing to do with concerns of this kind? what would become of
us and the state? what would become of our celebrated authors, our
illustrious academicians, if the ladies should give up the direction
of matters of literature and business, and apply themselves only to
the affairs of their family?]
[Footnote 39: We find in the fourth part, that this feigned name was
St. Preux.]
[Footnote 40: Where did the honest Swiss learn this? women of gaiety
have long since assumed more imperious airs. They begin by boldly
introducing their lovers into the house, and if they permit their
husbands to continue there, it is only while they behave towards them
with proper respect. A woman who took pains to conceal a criminal
intrigue, would shew that she was ashamed, and would be despised; not
one female of spirit would take notice of her.]
[Footnote 41: Mr. Richardson makes a jest of these attachments founded
at first sight, and founded on an unaccountable congeniality of
nature. It is easy to laugh at these attachments; but as too many of
this kind take place, instead of entertaining ourselves with
controverting them, would it not be better to teach us how to conquer
them.]
[Footnote 42: Admitting the analogy to be chimerical, yet it lasts as
long as the illusion, which makes us suppose it real.]
[Footnote 43: Minister of the parish.]
[Footnote 44: See page 170 of the present volume.]
[Footnote 45: See the first Vol. Letter 24.]
[Footnote 46: No association is more common than pride and stinginess.
We take from nature, from real pleasures, nay from the stock of
necessaries, what we lavish upon opinion. One man adorns his palace at
the expense of his kitchen: another prefers a fine service of plate to
a good dinner: a third makes a sumptuous entertainment, and starves
himself the rest of the year. When I see a side-board richly
decorated, I expect that the wine will poison me. How often in the
country, when we breathe the fresh morning air, are we tempted by the
prospect of a fine garden? we rise early, and by walking gain a keen
appetite, which makes us wish for breakfast. Perhaps the domestic is
out of the way, or provisions are wanting, or the lady has not given
her orders, and you are tired to death with waiting. Sometimes they
prevent your desires, and make you a very pompous offer of every
thing, upon condition that you accept of nothing. You must last till
three o’clock, or breakfast with the tulips. I remember to have walked
in a very beautiful park, which belonged to a lady, who tho’ extremely
fond of coffee, never drank any but when it was at a very low price;
yet she very liberally allowed her gardener a salary of a thousand
crowns. For my part, I should chuse to have tulips less finely
variegated, and to drink coffee whenever my appetite called for it.]
[Footnote 47: A strange letter this, for the discussion of such a
subject. Do men argue so coolly on a question of this nature, when
they examine it on their own accounts? Is the letter a forgery, or
does the author reason only with an intent to be refuted? what makes
our opinion in this particular dubious, is the example of Robeck which
he cites, and which seems to warrant his own. Robeck deliberated so
gravely that he had patience to write a book, a large, voluminous,
weighty, and dispassionate book; and when he had concluded, according
to his principles, that it was lawful to put an end to our being, he
destroyed himself with the same composure that he wrote. Let us beware
of the prejudices of the times, and of particular countries. When
suicide is out of fashion, we conclude that none but madmen destroy
themselves; all the efforts of courage appear chimerical to dastardly
minds; every one judges of others by himself. Nevertheless, how many
instances are there, well attested, of men, in every other respect
perfectly discreet; who, without remorse, rage, or despair, have
quitted life for no other reason than because it was a burthen to
them, and have died with more composure than they lived?]
[Footnote 48: No, my lord, we do not put an end to misery by these
means, but rather fill the measure of affliction, by burning asunder
the last ties which attach us to felicity. When we regret what was
dear to us, grief itself still attaches us to the object we lament,
which is a state less deplorable, than to be attached to nothing.]
[Footnote 49: Obligations more dear than those of friendship! is it a
philosopher who talks thus! But this affected sophist was of an
amorous disposition.]
[Footnote 50: I do not rightly understand this: Kensington not being
above a mile and a half from London, the noblemen who go to court, do
not lie there; yet Lord B---- tells us, he was obliged to stay there I
know not how many days.]
[Footnote 51: What great obligation has he to her, who occasioned all
the misfortunes of his life? Thou wretched querist! he is indebted to
her for the honour, the virtue and peace of his beloved Eloisa: he
owes her everything.]
[Footnote 52: At Paris, they pique themselves on rendering society
easy and commodious; and this ease is made to consist of a great
number of rules, equally important with the above. In good company,
every thing is regulated according to form and order. All these
ceremonies are in and out of fashion as quick as lightening. The
science of polite life consists in being always upon the watch, to
seize them as they fly, to affect them, and shew that we are
acquainted with the mode of the day.]
[Footnote 53: In my Letter to M. D’Alembert, concerning the theatres,
I have transcribed the following passage and some others; but as I was
then preparing this edition, I thought it better to wait this
publication till I took notice of the quotation.]
[Footnote 54: I have narrowly examined into the management of great
families, and I have found it impossible for a master who has twenty
servants, to know whether he has one honest man among them, and not to
mistake the greatest rascal perhaps to be that one. This alone would
give me an aversion to riches. The rich lose one of the sweetest
pleasures of life, the pleasure of confidence and esteem. They
purchase all their gold at a dear rate!]
[Footnote 55: Desert islands in the South sea, celebrated in Lord
Anson’s voyage.]
[Footnote 56: The mice, owls, hawks, and above all, children.]
[Footnote 57: They were therefore like those fashionable little woods,
so ridiculously twisted, that you are obliged to walk in a zig zag
manner, and to make a _pirouette_ at every step.]
[Footnote 58: I am persuaded that sometime hence, gardens will be
furnished with nothing belonging to the country; neither plants or
trees will be suffered to grow in them: we shall see nothing but China
flowers, baboons, arbor work, gravel of all colours, and fine vases
with nothing in them.]
[Footnote 59: He might have enlarged on the bad taste of lopping trees
in such a ridiculous manner, to make them shoot to the clouds, by
taking off their fine tops, their umbrage, by draining the sap, and
preventing their thriving. This method, it is true, supplies the
gardeners with wood, but it robs the kingdom of it, which is not over
stocked with it already. One would imagine that nature was different
in France, from what it is in any other part of the world, they take
so much pains to disfigure her. The parks are planted with nothing but
long poles; they are like so many forests of masts, and you walk in
the midst of woods without finding any shelter.]
[Footnote 60: The sagacious Wolmar had not sufficiently reflected. Was
he, who was so skilful in judging of men, so bad a judge of nature?
Did he not know that if the author of nature displays his greatness in
great things, he appears still greater in those which are small?]
[Footnote 61: I do not know whether there has ever been an attempt to
give a slight curve to these long walks, that the eye may not be able
to reach the end of the walk, and that the opposite extremity may be
hid from the spectator. It is true, the beauty of the prospects in
perspective would be lost by these means; but proprietors would reap
one advantage which they generally prize at a high rate, which is that
of making their grounds more extensive in appearance, and in the midst
of a starry plot thus bounded, one might think himself in a vast park.
I am persuaded that the walk would be less tiresome, though more
solitary; for whatever gives play to the imagination, excites ideas,
and nourishes the mind; but gardeners are people who have no idea of
these things. How often in a rural spot, would the pencil drop from
their hands, as it did from Le Nostre’s in St. James’s park, if they
knew like him what gave life to nature, and interested the beholder?]
[Footnote 62: He might have added the conclusion, which is very fine,
and as apposite to the subject.
_Si vedria che I lo nemici
Anno in seno, e si reduce
Nel parere a noi felici
Ogni lor felicita._]
[Footnote 63: Mrs. Orbe was ignorant however that the first two names
are titles of distinction in Russia; but Boyard is only that of a
private gentleman.]
[Footnote 64: The reader is not yet acquainted with this reason; but
he is desired not to be impatient.]
[Footnote 65: You women are very ridiculous, to think of rendering
such a frivolous and fluctuating passion as that of love consistent.
Every thing in nature is changeable, every thing is continually
fluctuating, and yet you would inspire a constant passion! And what
right have you to pretend that we must love you for ever, because we
loved you yesterday? Then preserve the same face, the same age, the
same humour; be always the same, and we will always love you, if we
can. But when you alter continually, and require us always to love
you, it is in fact desiring us every minute not to love you; it is not
seeking for constant minds, but looking out for such as are as fickle
as your own.]
[Footnote 66: A bird of passage on the lake of Geneva, which is not
good to eat.]
[Footnote 67: Different sorts of birds on the lake of Geneva, and very
good to eat.]
[Footnote 68: These mountains are so high, that half an hour after
sun-set, its rays still gild the tops of them, and the reflection of
red on those white summits, forms a beautiful roseate colour, which
may be perceived at a great distance.]
[Footnote 69: The snipe on the lake of Geneva is not the bird called
by that name in France. The more lively and animated chirping of the
former, gives an air of life and freshness to the lake at night, which
renders its banks still more delightful.]
[Footnote 70: This letter appears to have been written before the
receipt of the preceding.]
[Footnote 71: Not that this philosophical age has not produced one
true philosopher. I know one, I must confess, and but one; but the
happiest circumstance is, that he resides in my native country. Shall
I venture publicly to name him, whose honour it is to have remained
unknown? Yes, learned and modest Abauzit, let your sublime simplicity
forgive my zeal, which, to say truth, hath not your name for its
object. No, it is not you I would make known in an age unworthy to
admire you; it is Geneva I would honour, by making it known as the
place of your residence. It is my fellow citizens who are honoured by
your presence. Happy the country, where the merit that conceals
itself, is by so much the more esteemed. Happy the people, among whom
presumptuous and forward youth is ashamed of its dogmatic insolence,
and blushes at its vain knowledge before the learned ignorance of age.
Venerable and virtuous old man! you have never been praised by
babbling wits; no noisy academician has written your elogium. Instead
of depositing all your wisdom in books, you have displayed it in your
life, as an example to the country you have deigned to make the object
of your esteem. You have lived like Socrates; but he died by the hands
of his fellow citizens, while you are cherished by yours.]
[Footnote 72: The letter here alluded to is not inserted in this
collection. The reason of it, will be seen hereafter.]
[Footnote 73: There is near Clarens a village called Moutru, the right
of common to which is sufficient to maintain the inhabitants, though
they had not a foot of land of their own. For which reason, the
freedom of that village is almost as difficult to be obtained as that
of Berne. It is a great pity that some honest magistrate is not
appointed to make these burghers a little more sociable, or their
burghership less dear.]
[Footnote 74: Man, perverted from his first state of simplicity,
becomes so stupid that he even knows not what to desire. His wishes
always tend to wealth and never to happiness.]
[Footnote 75: To give to beggars, say some people, is to raise a
nursery of thieves: though it is, on the contrary, to prevent their
becoming such. I allow that the poor ought not to be encouraged to
turn beggars; but, when once they are so, they ought to be supported,
lest they should turn robbers. Nothing induces people to change their
profession so much as their not being able to live by it: now those,
who have once experienced the lazy life of a beggar, get such an
aversion to work that they had rather go upon the highway, at the
hazard of their necks, than betake themselves again to labour. A
farthing is soon asked for and soon refused; but twenty farthings
might provide a supper for a poor man, whom twenty refusals might
exasperate to despair: and who is there who would ever refuse so
slight a gift, if he reflected that he might thereby be the means of
saving two men, the one from theft, and perhaps the other from being
murdered? I have somewhere read that beggars are a kind of vermin,
that hang about the wealthy. It is natural for children to cling about
their parents; but the rich, like cruel parents, disown theirs, and
leave them to be maintained by each other.]
[Footnote 76: And that it does so, appears to me indisputable. There
is true magnificence in the proportion and symmetry of the parts of a
great palace; but there is none in a confused heap of irregular
buildings. There is a magnificence in the uniformity of a regiment in
battalia; but none in the crowd of people, that stand gazing on them,
although perhaps there is not a man among them whose apparel is not of
more value than those of any individual soldier. In a word,
magnificence is nothing more than a grand scene of regularity, whence
it comes to pass that, of all sights imaginable, the most magnificent
are those of nature.]
[Footnote 77: The noise of people in a house of distinction
continually disturbs the quiet of the master of it. It is impossible
for him to conceal any thing from so many Arguses. A crowd of
creditors make him pay dear for that of his admirers. His apartments
are generally so large and splendid, that he is obliged to betake
himself to a closet that he may sleep at ease, and his monkey is often
better lodged than himself. If he would dine, it depends on his cook
and not on his appetite; if he would go abroad, he lies at the mercy
of his horses. A thousand embarrassments stop him in the streets; he
is impatient to be where he is going, but knows not the use of his
legs. His mistress expects him, but the dirty pavement frightens him,
and the weight of his laced coat oppresses him, so that he cannot walk
twenty paces. Hence he loses, indeed, the opportunity of seeing his
mistress; but he is well repaid by the by-standers for the
disappointment, every one remarking his equipage, admiring it, and
saying aloud to the next person, There goes Mr. Such-a-one!]
[Footnote 78: Locke himself, the sagacious Locke, has forgot it,
instructing us rather in the things we ought to require of our
children, than in the means.]
[Footnote 79: This doctrine, so true in itself, surprizes me as
adopted by Mr. Wolmar; the reason of it will be seen presently.]
[Footnote 80: If there ever was a man upon earth made happy by his
vanity, it is past a doubt, that he was a fool.]
[Footnote 81: Here appears to be some little mistake. Nothing is so
useful to the judgment as memory: it is true, however, that it is not
the remembrance of words.]
[Footnote 82: The translator cannot help observing that it was
extraordinary in Mr. Rousseau to put such a false, ridiculous,
assertion in the mouth of an Englishman.]
[Footnote 83: God forbid, that I should give a sanction to assertions
so rash and severe; I insinuate only, that there are people who make
such assertions; and for whose indiscretion, the conduct of the clergy
in every country and of all religions, often give but too much
occasion. So far am I, however, from intending meanly to screen myself
by this note, that my real opinion on this subject is, that no true
believer can be a persecutor and an enemy to toleration. If I were a
magistrate, and the law inflicted death on atheists, I would begin to
put it in execution, by burning the first man that should come to
accuse and prosecute another.]
[Footnote 84: How! Will the deity take up with only the refuse of his
creatures? not so; all the love the human heart can possess for
created beings is so little, that when they think it is replete, it is
yet vacant; an infinite object only can possess it entirely.]
[Footnote 85: It is certain, the mind must be fatigued by the unequal
talk of contemplating the deity. Such ideas are too sensible for the
vulgar, who require a more sensible object of devotion. Are the
Catholics to blame, then, in filling their legends, their calendars,
and their churches with little angels, cherubs, and handsome saints?
The infant Jesus, in the arms of his modest and beautiful mother, is
one of the most affecting, and, at the same time, the most agreeable
spectacles that Christian devotion can present to the view of the
faithful.]
[Footnote 86: How much more natural is this humane sentiment, than the
horrid zeal of persecutors, always employed in tormenting the
unbeliever, as if, to damn him in this life, they themselves were the
fore-runners of devils? I shall ever continue to repeat it; a
persecutor of others cannot be a believer himself.]
[Footnote 87: There is here a long letter wanting, from Lord B---- to
Eloisa. It is mentioned in the sequel; but, for particular reasons, I
was obliged to suppress it.]
[Footnote 88: Hunting indeed might be added. But this exercise is now
made so commodious, that there is not half the fatigue or pleasure in
it there used to be. But I shall not here treat of this subject, which
would furnish too much matter to be inserted in a note: I may take
occasion, perhaps, to speak of it elsewhere.]
[Footnote 89: The vintage is very late in this country; because the
principal crop is of white wines; to which the frost is of service.]
[Footnote 90: This will be better understood by the following extract
of a letter from Eloisa, not inserted in this collection. This, says
Mr. Wolmar, taking me aside, is the second proof I intended to put him
to, if he had not paid great respect to your father, I should have
mistrusted him. But, said I, how shall we reconcile that respect to
the antipathy that subsists between them? It subsists no longer,
replied he. Your father’s prejudices have done St. Preux all the harm
they could; he has no farther reason to fear them, he is not angry at
your father, but pities him. The baron, on his side, is no longer
jealous of St. Preux; he has a good heart; is sensible he has injured
him, and is sorry for it. I see they will do very well together, and
will for the future see each other with pleasure. From this moment
therefore I shall put an entire confidence in him.]
[Footnote 91: In Switzerland they drink a great deal of bitter wine;
and in general, as the herbs of the Alps have more virtue than the
plants of other countries, they make great use of infusions.]
[Footnote 92: If hence arises a kind of equality not less agreeable to
those who descend, than to those who are elevated, does it not follow,
that all conditions of life are in themselves almost indifferent,
since people are not always confined to them? Beggars are unhappy,
because they are always beggars; kings are miserable, because they are
always kings. People in a middling condition are the happiest, because
they can easier vary their circumstances, to enjoy the pleasures of
those above or those below them. They are also more intelligent,
because they have an opportunity of knowing more of the prejudices of
mankind and of comparing them with each other. This seems to me the
principal reason why, generally speaking, people of a middling
station in life are the most happy and are persons of the best sense.]
[Footnote 93: For the better understanding this letter, the reader
should have been made acquainted with the adventures of Lord B----,
which at first I had indeed some notion of inserting in this
collection. But, on second thought, I could not resolve to spoil the
simplicity of this history of the two lovers, with the romance of his.
It is better to leave something to the reader’s imagination.]
[Footnote 94: By a letter not published in this collection, it appears
that Lord B---- was of opinion, that the souls of the wicked are
annihilated in death.]
[Footnote 95: At present they do not take the trouble to seek the
vices of foreigners: the latter are ready enough to bring them.]
[Footnote 96: It is to be remembered that these letters were written
some years ago, a circumstance, I am afraid, that will be often
suggested to the reader.]
[Footnote 97: Some men are continent without having any merit in it,
others are so through virtue, and I doubt not there are many Romish
priests in the latter situation: but to impose a state of celibacy on
so numerous a body of men as the clergy of that church, it is not to
bid them abstain from women, but to be content with the wives of other
men. I am really surprized that in countries where morals are held in
any esteem, the legislature should tolerate such scandalous
engagements.]
[Footnote 98: This is a direct contradiction to what he asserted
before. The poor philosopher seems to be in a droll dilemma between
two pretty women. One might be apt to think he chose to make love to
neither, that he might the better love them both.]
[Footnote 99: St. Preux supposes moral conscience to depend on
sentiment not on judgment, which is contrary to the opinion of the
philosophers. I am apt to think however that he is in the right.]
[Footnote 100: This is not the matter in dispute. It is to know
whether the will be determined without a cause, or what is the cause
that determines the will.]
[Footnote 101: Our gallant philosopher having imitated Abelard in his
practice, seems desirous also of adopting his principles. Their notion
of prayer being a good deal alike.]
[Footnote 102: A sort of enthusiasts that take it into their heads to
follow the gospel strictly according to the letter; in the manner of
the Methodists in England the Moravians in Germany, and the Jansenists
in France; excepting, however, that the latter want only to be masters
to be more severe and persecuting than their enemies.]
[Footnote 103: Hence it is that every sovereign who aspires to be
despotic, aspires to the honour of being miserable. In every kingdom
in the world, would you see the man who is the most unhappy of all his
countrymen, go directly to the sovereign, particularly if he be an
absolute monarch.]
[Footnote 104: This is not quite exact. Suetonius tells us that
Vespasian employed himself as usual, and gave audience on his
deathbed: but perhaps he had done better to have risen to give
audience, and to have gone to bed again to die. This I know, that
Vespasian, if not a great man, was at least a great prince; but it is
not a time to put on the comedian at the hour of death.]
[Footnote 105: Plato says, that the souls of the just, who have
contracted no uncleanness on earth, disengage themselves by death of
all matter, and recover their original purity. But as to the souls of
those who have indulged themselves in filthy and vicious passions,
they do not soon recover that purity, but drag along with them certain
terrestrial particles, that confine them, as it were, to hover about
the receptacles of their bodies. Hence, says he, are seen those
apparitions, which sometimes haunt burial places, etc. in expectation
of new transmigrations,----It is a madness common to philosophers in
all ages, to deny the existence of what is real, and to puzzle their
brains to explain what is only imaginary.]
[Footnote 106: This seems to me to be well expressed; for what can it
be to meet the Deity face to face, but to be able to read the supreme
intelligence.]
[Footnote 107: It is easy to understand that, by the word _see_, is
here meant purely an act of the intellect, such as that whereby we are
said to see the Deity, and the Deity to see us. We cannot perceive the
immediate communication of spirits: but we can conceive it very well;
and better, in my opinion, than the communication of motion between
bodies.]
[Footnote 108: It is clearly to be seen that the dream of St. Preux,
of which Mrs. Orbe’s imagination was constantly full, suggested the
expedient of the veil. I conceive also that if we examine into matters
of this kind strictly, we shall find the same relation between many
predictions and their accomplishment. Events are not always predicted
because they are to happen; but they happen because they were
predicted.]
[Footnote 109: The people of this country, though protestants, are
extremely superstitious.]
[Footnote 110: After having read these letters several times over, I
think I have discovered the reason why the interest, which I imagine
every well-disposed reader will take in them, though perhaps not very
great, is yet agreeable: and this is, because, little as it may prove,
it is not excited by villainies or crimes, nor mixed with the
disagreeable sensations of hatred. I cannot conceive what pleasure it
can give a writer, to imagine and describe the character of a villain;
to put himself in his situation as often as he represents his actions,
or to set them in the most flattering point of view. For my part, I
greatly pity the authors of many of our tragedies, so full of
wickedness and horror, who spend their lives in making characters act
and speak, which one cannot see or hear without shuddering. It would
be to me a terrible misfortune to be condemned to such labour; nor can
I think but that those who do it for amusement must be violently
zealous for the amusement of the public. I admire their genius and
talents; but I thank God, that he has not bestowed such talents upon
me.----]
Transcriber’s Note
This e-book is based on the text of the second London edition of
William Kenrick’s translation of Rousseau’s novel. The second London
edition was printed for R. Griffiths, T. Becket, and P.A. De Hondt in
1761. I accessed this version of the text via Gale Cengage’s
Eighteenth-Century Collections Online (ECCO) database. The document is
used with their permission.
When preparing this edition for e-publication, I retained original
spellings and only intervened in particular circumstances. These
include silently regularizing spellings that shifted over the course
of the text (i.e. D’Etange replaced D’ Etange and d’Etange; Valaisian
replaced Valaisan, Valiasan, entire replaced a combination of
entire and intire, phrenzy replaced a combination of phrensy, phrenzy,
and frenzy, farewell replaced a combination of farewel and farewell,
etc). In all instances, I used the spelling that was more frequently
featured in the text. I also silently corrected obvious printer's
errors, including misnumbered letters (i.e. two letters in a row
mislabeled as letter CVI).
In accordance with Project Gutenberg policy, eighteenth-century verb
conventions (exprest instead of expressed) and spelling (risque
instead of risk) have been retained.
In the original text, em dashes vary significantly in length as was
usual in eighteenth-century literature. This digital edition renders
all em dashes as follows: ----
In the original text, ellipses vary significantly in length as was
usual in eighteenth-century literature. This digital edition renders
all ellipses s follows: ...
Rousseau frequently includes Italian and Latin quotes as well as
occasional French turns of phrase. These are not translated in this
edition. Stewart and Vaché’s modern translation of Rousseau’s original
French text includes translations of most of these sources as well as
excellent scholarly notes. See _Julie, or the New Heloise_, trans.
Philip Stewart and Jean Vaché (University Press of New England, 1997).
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELOISA ***
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