Opening
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.