diff options
Diffstat (limited to '76639-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 76639-0.txt | 29686 |
1 files changed, 29686 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/76639-0.txt b/76639-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9608f21 --- /dev/null +++ b/76639-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29686 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76639 *** + + + + + +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 76639 *** |