Letter I. To Eloisa.
I must fly from you, madam, in truth I must. I am to blame for
continuing with you so long, or rather, I ought never to have beheld
you. But, situated as I am, what can I do? How shall I determine? You
have promised me your friendship; consider my perplexity, and give me
your advice.
You are sensible that I became one of your family in consequence of an
invitation from your mother. Believing me possessed of some little
knowledge, she thought that I might be of service in the education of
her beloved daughter, in a situation where proper masters were not to
be obtained. Proud to be instrumental in adding a few embellishments
to one of nature’s most beautiful compositions, I dared to engage in
the perilous task, unmindful of the danger, or, at least,
unapprehensive of the consequence. I will not tell you that I begin to
suffer for my presumption. I hope I shall never so far forget myself
as to say any thing which you ought not to hear, or fail in that
respect which is due to your virtue, rather than to your birth or
personal charms. If I must suffer, I have the consolation, at least,
that I suffer alone. I can enjoy no happiness at the expense of yours.
And yet I see you and converse with you every day of my life, and am
but too sensible that you innocently aggravate a misfortune which you
cannot pity, and of which you ought to be ignorant. It is true, I know
what prudence would dictate, in a case like this, where there is no
hope; and I should certainly follow her advice if I could reconcile it
with my notions of probity. How can I with decency quit a family into
which I was so kindly invited, where I have received so many
obligations, and where, by the tenderest of mothers, I am thought of
some utility to a daughter whom she loves more than all the world? How
can I resolve to deprive this affectionate parent of the pleasure she
proposes to herself in, one day, surprizing her husband with your
progress in the knowledge of things of which he must naturally suppose
you ignorant? Shall I impolitely quit the house without taking leave
of her? Shall I declare to her the cause of my retreat, and would not
she even have reason to be offended with this confession from a man
whose inferior birth and fortune must for ever remain insuperable bars
to his happiness?
There seems but one method to extricate me from this embarrassment:
the hand which involved me in it must also relieve me. As you are the
cause of my offence, you must inflict my punishment: out of
compassion, at least, deign to banish me from your presence. Shew my
letter to your parents; let your doors be shut against me; spurn me
from you in what manner you please; from you I can bear any thing; but
of my own accord I have no power to fly from you.
Spurn me from you! fly your presence! why? Why should it be a crime to
be sensible of merit, and to love that which we cannot fail to honour?
No, charming Eloisa; your beauty might have dazzled my eyes, but it
never would have misled my heart, had it not been animated with
something yet more powerful. It is that captivating union between a
lively sensibility and invariable sweetness of disposition; it is that
tender feeling for the distresses of your fellow creatures; it is that
amazing justness of sentiment, and that exquisite taste which derive
their excellence from the purity of your soul; they are, in short,
your mental charms much more than those of your person, which I adore.
I confess it may be possible to imagine beauties still more
transcendently perfect; but more amiable, and more deserving the heart
of a wise and virtuous man,----no, no, Eloisa, it is impossible.
I am sometimes inclined to flatter myself that, as in the parity of
our years, and similitude of taste, there is also a secret sympathy in
our affections. We are both so young that our nature can hitherto have
received no false bias from any thing adventitious, and all our
inclinations seem to coincide. Before we have imbibed the uniform
prejudices of the world, our general perceptions seem uniform; and why
dare I not suppose the same concord in our hearts, which in our
judgment is so strikingly apparent? Sometimes it happens that our eyes
meet; involuntary sighs betray our feelings, tears steal from----O!
my Eloisa! if this unison of soul should be a divine impulse----if
heaven should have destined us----all the power on earth----Ah
pardon me! I am bewildered: I have mistaken a vain wish for hope: the
ardour of my desires gave to their imaginary object a solidity which
did not exist. I foresee with horror the torments which my heart is
preparing for itself. I do not seek to flatter my misfortune; if it
were in my power I would avoid it. You may judge of the purity of my
sentiments by the favour I ask. Destroy, if possible, the source of
the poison that both supports and kills me. I am determined to effect
my cure or my death, and I therefore implore your rigorous injunction,
as a lover would supplicate your compassion.
Yes, I promise, I swear, on my part, to do every thing within my power
to recover my reason, or to bury my growing anxiety in the inmost
recesses of my soul. But, for mercy’s sake, turn from me those lovely
eyes that pierce me to the heart; suffer me no longer to gaze upon
that face, that air, those arms, those hands, that engaging manner;
disappoint the imprudent avidity of my looks; no longer let me hear
that enchanting voice, which cannot be heard without emotion; be,
alas! in every respect, another woman, that my soul may return to its
former tranquillity.
Shall I tell you, without apology? When we are engaged in the puerile
amusements of these long evenings, you cruelly permit me, in the
presence of the whole family, to increase a flame that is but too
violent already. You are not more reserved to me than to any of the
rest. Even yesterday you almost suffered me, as a forfeit, to take a
kiss: you made but a faint resistance. Happily, I did not persist. I
perceived by my increasing palpitation, that I was rushing upon my
ruin, and therefore stopped in time. If I had dared to indulge my
inclination, that kiss would have proved my last sigh, and I should
have died the happiest of mortals.
For heaven’s sake, let us quit those plays, since they may possibly be
attended with such fatal consequences; even the most simple of them
all is not without its danger. I tremble as often as our hands meet,
and I know not how it happens, but they meet continually. I start the
instant I feel the touch of your finger; as the play advances I am
seized with a fever, or rather delirium; my senses gradually forsake
me, and, in their absence, what can I say, what can I do, where hide
myself, or how be answerable for my conduct?
The hours of instruction are not less dangerous. Your mother, or your
cousin, no sooner leave the room than I observe a change in your
behaviour. You at once assume an air so serious, so cold, that my
respect, and the fear of offending, destroys my presence of mind, and
deprives me of my judgment: with difficulty and trembling, I babble
over a lesson, which even your excellent talents are unable to pursue.
This affected change in your behaviour is hurtful to us both: you
confound me and deprive yourself of instruction, whilst I am entirely
at a loss to account for this sudden alteration in a person naturally
so even-tempered and reasonable. Tell me, pray tell me, why you are so
sprightly in public, and so reserved when by ourselves? I imagined it
ought to be just the contrary, and that one should be more or less
upon their guard, in proportion to the number of spectators. But
instead of this, when with me alone, you are ceremonious, and familiar
when we join in mixed company. If you deign to be more equal, probably
my torment will be less.
If that compassion which is natural to elevated minds, can move you in
behalf of an unfortunate youth, whom you have honoured with some share
in your esteem; you have it in your power, by a small change in your
conduct, to render his situation less irksome, and to enable him, with
more tranquility, to support his silence and his sufferings: but if
you find yourself not touched with his situation, and are determined
to exert your power to ruin him, he will acquiesce without murmuring:
he would rather, much rather, perish by your order, than incur your
displeasure by his indiscretion. Now, though you are become mistress
of my future destiny, I cannot reproach myself with having indulged
the least presumptive hope. If you have been so kind as to read my
letter, you have complied with all I should have dared to request,
even though I had no refusal to fear.
Letter II. To Eloisa.
How strangely was I deceived in my first letter! instead of
alleviating my pain, I have increased my distress by incurring your
displeasure: and, alas! that, I find, is the least supportable of all
misfortunes. Your silence, your cold, and reserved behaviour, but too
plainly indicate my doom. You have indeed granted one part of my
petition, but it was to punish me with the greater severity.
_E poi ch’ amor di me vi fece accorta
Fur i biondi capelli allor velati,
E l’amorosi sguardo in se raccolto._
You have withdrawn that innocent familiarity in public of which I
foolishly complained; and in private you are become still more severe:
you are so ingeniously cruel, that your complaisance is as intolerable
as your refusal.
Were it possible for you to conceive how much your indifference
affects me, you would certainly think my punishment too rigorous. What
would I not give to recall that unfortunate letter, and that I had
born my former sufferings without complaint! So fearful am I of adding
to my offence, that I should never have ventured to write a second
letter, if I did not flatter myself with the hopes of expiating the
crime I committed in the first. Will you deem it any satisfaction if I
confess that I mistook my own intention? or shall I protest that I
never was in love with you?----O! no; I can never be guilty of such a
horrid perjury! The heart which is impressed with your fair image must
not be polluted with a lye. If I am doomed to be unhappy----be it so.
I cannot stoop to any thing mean or deceitful to extenuate my fault.
My pen refuses to disavow the transgression of which my heart is but
too justly accused.
Methinks I already feel the weight of your indignation, and await its
final consequence as a favour which I have some right to expect; for
the passion which consumes me deserves to be punished, but not
despised. For heaven’s sake, do not leave me to myself; condescend, at
least, to determine my fate; deign to let me know your pleasure. I
will obey implicitly whatever you think proper to command. Do you
impose eternal silence? I will be silent as the grave. Do you banish
me your presence? I swear that I will never see you more. Will my
death appease you? that would be, of all, the least difficult. There
are no terms which I am not ready to subscribe, unless they should
enjoin me not to love you; yet even in that I would obey you if it
were possible.
A hundred times a day I am tempted to throw myself at your feet, bathe
them with my tears, and to implore your pardon, or receive my death:
but a sudden terror damps my resolution; my trembling knees want power
to bend; my words expire upon my lips, and my soul finds no support
against the dread of offending you.
Was ever mortal in so terrible a situation! My heart is but too
sensible of its offence, yet cannot cease to offend: my crime and my
remorse conspire in its agitation, and, ignorant of my destiny, I am
cruelly suspended between the hope of your compassion and the fear of
punishment.
But, no! I do not hope; I have no right to hope: I ask no indulgence,
but that you will hasten my sentence. Let your just revenge be
satisfied. Do you think me sufficiently wretched to be thus reduced to
solicit vengeance on my own head? Punish me, it is your duty; but if
you retain the least degree of compassion for me, do not, I beseech
you, drive me to despair with those cold looks, and that air of
reserve and discontent. When once a criminal is condemned to die, all
resentment should cease.
Letter III. To Eloisa.
Do not be impatient, madam; this is the last importunity you will
receive from me. Little did I apprehend, in the dawn of my passion,
what a train of ills I was preparing for myself! I then foresaw none
greater than that a hopeless passion, which reason, in time, might
overcome; but I soon experienced one much more intolerable in the pain
which I felt at your displeasure, and now the discovery of your
uneasiness is infinitely more afflicting than all the rest. O Eloisa!
I perceive it with bitterness of soul, my complaints affect your peace
of mind. You continue invincibly silent; but my heart is too attentive
not to penetrate into the secret agitations of your mind. Your eyes
appear gloomy, thoughtful, and fixed upon the ground; sometimes they
wander and fall undesignedly upon me; your bloom fades; an unusual
paleness overspreads your cheeks; your gaiety forsakes you; you seem
oppressed with grief and the unalterable sweetness of your disposition
alone enables you to preserve the shadow of your good humour.
Whether it be sensibility, whether it be disdain, whether it be
compassion for my sufferings, I see you are deeply affected. I fear to
augment your distress, and I am more unhappy on this account, than
flattered with the hope it might possibly occasion; for, if I know
myself, your felicity is infinitely dearer to me than my own.
I now begin to be sensible that I judged very erroneously of the
feelings of my heart, and, too late, I perceive, that what I at first
took for a fleeting phrenzy, is but too inseparably interwoven with my
future destiny. It is your late melancholy that has made the
increasing progress of my malady apparent. The lustre of your eyes,
the delicate glow of your complexion, your excellent understanding,
and all the enchantment of your former vivacity, could not have
affected me half so much as your present manifest dejection. Be
assured, divine maid, if it were possible for you to feel the
intolerable flame, which your last eight pensive days of languor and
discontent have kindled in my soul, you yourself would shudder at the
misery you have caused. But there is now no remedy: my despair
whispers, that nothing but the cold tomb will extinguish the raging
fire within my breast.
Be it so: he that cannot command felicity may at least deserve it. You
may possibly be obliged to honour with your esteem the man whom you
did not deign to answer. I am young, and may, perchance, one day,
merit the regard of which I am now unworthy. In the mean time, it is
necessary that I should restore to you that repose which I have lost
for ever, and of which you are, by my presence, in spite of myself,
deprived. It is but just that I alone should suffer, since I alone am
guilty. Adieu, too, too charming Eloisa! Resume your tranquillity, and
be again happy. Tomorrow I am gone for ever. But be assured, that my
violent, spotless passion for you, will end only with my life; that my
heart, full of so divine an object, will never debase itself by
admitting a second impression; that it will divide all its future
homage between you and virtue, and that no other flame shall ever
profane the altar where Eloisa was adored.
Billet I. From Eloisa.
Be not too positive in your opinion that your absence is become
necessary. A virtuous heart will overcome its folly, or be silent, and
so might, perhaps, in time----But you----you may stay.
Answer.
I was a long time silent; your cold indifference forced me to speak at
last. Virtue may possibly get the better of folly, but who can bear to
be despised by one they love? I must be gone.
Billet II. From Eloisa.
No, Sir; after what you have seemed to feel; after what you have dared
to tell me; a man, such as you feign yourself, will not fly; he will
do more.
Answer.
I have feigned nothing except the _moderate_ passion of a heart filled
with despair. To-morrow you shall be satisfied; and notwithstanding
all you can say, the effort will be less painful than to fly from you.
Billet III. From Eloisa.
Foolish youth! if my life be dear to thee, do not dare to attempt thy
own. I am beset, and can neither speak nor write to you till to-
morrow. Wait.
Letter IV. From Eloisa.
Must I then, at last, confess, the fatal, the ill-disguised, secret!
How often have I sworn that it should never burst from my heart but
with my life! Thy danger wrests it from me. It is gone, and my honour
is lost for ever. Alas, I have but too religiously performed my vow;
can there be a death more cruel than to survive one’s honour?
What shall I say, how shall I break the painful silence? or rather,
have I not said all, and am I not already too well understood? Alas!
thou hast seen too much not to divine the rest; Imperceptibly deluded
into the snare of the seducer, I see, without being able to avoid it,
the horrid precipice before me. Artful man! It is not thy passion, but
mine, that excites thy presumption. Thou observest the distraction of
my soul; thou availest thyself of it to accomplish my ruin, and now
that thou hast rendered me despicable, my greatest misfortune is, that
I am forced to behold thee also in a despicable light. Ungrateful
wretch! In return for my esteem, thou hast ruined me. Had I supposed
thy heart capable of exulting, believe me, thou hadst never enjoyed
this triumph.
Well thou knowest, and it will increase thy remorse, that there was
not in my soul one vicious inclination. My virtue and innocence were
inexpressibly dear to me, and I pleased myself with the hopes of
cherishing them in a life of industrious simplicity. But to what
purpose my endeavour, since heaven rejects my offering? The very first
day we met, I imbibed the poison which now infects my senses and my
reason; I felt it instantly, and thy eyes, thy sentiments, thy
discourse, thy guilty pen, daily increase its malignity.
I have neglected nothing to stop the progress of this fatal passion.
Sensible of my own weakness, how gladly would I have evaded the
attack; but the eagerness of thy pursuit hath baffled my precaution. A
thousand times I have resolved to cast myself at the feet of those who
gave me being; a thousand times I have determined to open to them my
guilty heart: but they can form no judgment of its condition; they
would apply but common remedies to a desperate disease; my mother is
weak and without authority; I know the inflexible severity of my
father, and I should bring down ruin and dishonour upon myself, my
family, and thee. My friend is absent, my brother is no more.
I have not a protector in the world to save me from the persecution of
my enemy. In vain I implore the assistance of heaven; heaven is deaf
to the prayers of irresolution. Every thing conspires to increase my
anxiety; every circumstance combines to abandon me to myself, or
rather cruelly to deliver me up to thee; all nature seems thy
accomplice; my efforts are vain, I adore thee in spite of myself. And
shall that heart which, in its full vigour, was unable to resist,
shall it only half surrender? Shall a heart which knows no
dissimulation attempt to conceal the poor remains of its weakness? No,
the first step was the most difficult, and the only one which I ought
never to have taken. Shall I now pretend to stop at the rest? No, that
first false step plunged me into the abyss, and my degree of misery is
entirely in thy power.
Such is my horrid situation, that I am forced to turn to the author of
my misfortunes, and implore his protection against himself. I might, I
know I might, have deferred this confession of my despair; I might,
for some time longer, have disguised my shameful weakness, and by
yielding gradually, have imposed upon myself. Vain dissimulation!
which could only have flattered my pride, but could not save my
virtue: away, away! I see but too plainly whither my first error
tends, and shall not endeavour to prepare for, but to escape,
perdition.
Well then, if thou art not the very lowest of mankind, if the least
spark of virtue lives within thy soul, if it retains any vestige of
those sentiments of honour which seemed to penetrate thy heart, thou
canst not possibly be so vile as to take any unjust advantage of a
confession forced from me by a fatal distraction of my senses. No, I
know thee well; thou wilt support my weakness, thou wilt become my
safeguard, thou wilt defend my person against my own heart. Thy virtue
is the last refuge of my innocence; my honour dares confide in thine,
for thou canst not preserve one without the other. Ah! let thy
generous soul preserve them both, and, at leas, for thy own sake, be
merciful.
Good God! am I thus sufficiently humbled? I write to thee on my knees;
I bathe my paper with my tears; I pay to thee my timorous homage: and
yet thou art not to believe me ignorant that it was in my power to
have reversed the scene; and that, with a little art, which would have
rendered me despicable in my own eyes, I might have been obeyed and
worshipped. Take the frivolous empire, I relinquish it to my friend,
but leave me, ah! leave me my innocence. I had rather live thy slave
and preserve my virtue, than purchase thy disobedience at the price of
my honour. Shouldst thou deign to hear me, what gratitude mayest thou
not claim from her who will owe to thee the recovery of her reason?
How charming must be the tender union of two souls unacquainted with
guilt! Thy vanquished passions will prove the source of happiness, and
thy pleasures will be worthy of heaven itself.
I hope, nay I am confident, that the man to whom I have given my whole
heart will not belie my opinion of his generosity; but I flatter
myself also, if he is mean enough to take the least unseemly advantage
of my weakness, that contempt and indignation will restore my senses,
and that I am not yet sunk so low as to fear a lover for whom I should
have reason to blush. Thou shalt be virtuous, or be despised; I will
be respected, or be myself again; it is the only hope I have left,
preferable to the hope of death.
Letter V. To Eloisa.
Celestial powers! I possessed a soul capable of affliction, O inspire
me with one that can bear felicity! Divine love! spirit of my
existence, O support me! for I sink down opprest with extasy. How
inexpressible are the charms of virtue! How invincible the power of a
beloved object! fortune, pleasure, transport, how poignant your
impression! O how shall I withstand the rapid torrent of bliss which
overflows my heart! and how dispel the apprehensions of a timorous
maid? Eloisa----no! my Eloisa on her knees! My Eloisa weep!----Shall
she, to whom the universe should bend, supplicate the man who adores
her, to be careful of her honour, and to preserve his own? Were it
possible for me to be out of humour with you, I should be a little
angry at your fears; they are disgraceful to us both. Learn, thou
chaste and heavenly beauty, to know better the nature of thy empire.
If I adore thy charming person, is it not for the purity of that soul
by which it is animated, and which bears such ineffable marks of its
divine origin? You tremble with apprehension: good God! what hath she
to fear, who stamps with reverence and honour every sentiment she
inspires? Is there a man upon earth who could be vile enough to offer
the least insult to such virtue?
Permit, O permit me, to enjoy the unexpected happiness of being
beloved----beloved by such----Ye princes of the world, I now look down
upon your grandeur. Let me read a thousand and a thousand times, that
enchanting epistle, where thy tender sentiments are painted in such
strong and glowing colours; where I observe with transport,
notwithstanding the violent agitation of thy soul, that even the most
lively passions of a noble heart never lose sight of virtue. What
monster, after having read that affecting letter, could take advantage
of your generous confession, and attempt a crime which must infallibly
make him wretched and despicable even to himself. No, my dearest
Eloisa, there can be nothing to fear from a friend, a lover, who must
ever be incapable of deceiving you. Though I should entirely have lost
my reason, though the discomposure of my senses should hourly
increase, your person will always appear to me, not only the most
beautiful, but the most sacred deposit with which mortal was ever
instructed. My passion, like its object, is unalterably pure. The
horrid idea of incest does not shock me more than the thought of
polluting your heavenly charms with a sacrilegious touch: you are not
more inviolably safe with your own parent than with your lover. If
ever that happy lover should in your presence forget himself but for a
moment----O ’tis impossible. When I am no longer in love with virtue,
my love for my Eloisa must expire: on my first offence, withdraw your
affection and cast me off for ever.
By the purity of our mutual tenderness, therefore, I conjure you,
banish all your suspicion. Why should your fear exceed the passions of
your lover! To what greater felicity can I aspire, when that with
which I am blest, is already more than I am well able to support? We
are both young, and in love unexperienced, it is true: but is that
honour which conducts us, a deceitful guide? can that experience be
needful which is acquired only from vice? I am strangely deceived, if
the principles of rectitude are not rooted in the bottom of my heart.
In truth, my Eloisa, I am no vile seducer, as, in your despair, you
were pleased to call me; but am artless and of great sensibility,
easily discovering my feelings, but feeling nothing at which I ought
to blush. To say all in one word, my love for Eloisa is not greater
than my abhorrence of the crime. I am even doubtful, whether the love
which you inspire be not in its nature incompatible with vice; whether
a corrupt heart could possibly feel its influence. As for me, the more
I love you, the more exalted are my sentiments. Can there be any
degree of virtue, however unattainable for its own sake, to which I
would not aspire to become more worthy of my Eloisa?
Letter VI. Eloisa To Clara.
Is my dear cousin resolved to spend her whole life in bewailing her
poor Chaillot, and will she forget the living because of the dead? I
sympathize in your grief, and think it just, but shall it therefore be
eternal? Since the death of your mother, she was assiduously careful
of your education; she was your friend rather than your governess. She
loved you with great tenderness, and me for your sake; her
instructions were all intended to enrich our hearts with principles of
honour and virtue. All this I know, my dear, and acknowledge it with
gratitude; but confess with me also, that in some respects she acted
very imprudently; that she often indiscreetly told us things with
which we had no concern; that she entertained us eternally with maxims
of gallantry, her own juvenile adventures, the management of amours;
and that to avoid the snares of men, though she might tell us not to
give ear to their protestations, yet she certainly instructed us in
many things with which there was no necessity for young girls to be
made acquainted. Reflect therefore upon her death as a misfortune, not
without some consolation. To girls of our age, her lessons grew
dangerous, and who knows but heaven may have taken her from us the
very moment in which her removal became necessary to our future
happiness. Remember the salutary advice you gave me when I was
deprived of the best of brothers. Was Chaillot dearer to you? Is your
loss greater than mine?
Return, my dear, she has no longer any occasion for you. Alas! whilst
you are wasting your time in superfluous affliction, may not your
absence be productive of greater evils? Why are you not afraid, who
know the beatings of my heart, to abandon your friend to misfortunes
which your presence might prevent. O Clara! strange things have
happened since your departure. You will tremble to hear the danger to
which I have been exposed by my imprudence. Thank heaven, I hope I
have now nothing to fear: but unhappily I am as it were at the mercy
of another. You alone can restore me to myself: haste therefore to my
assistance. So long as your attendance was of service to poor
Chaillot, I was silent; I should even have been the first to exhort
you to such an act of benevolence. Now that she is no more, her family
are become the objects of your charity: of this obligation we could
better acquit ourselves, if we were together, and your gratitude might
be discharged without neglecting your friend.
Since my father took his leave of us we have resumed our former manner
of living. My mother leaves me less frequently alone; not that she has
any suspicion. Her visits employ more time than would be proper for me
to spare from my little studies, and in her absence Bab fills her
place but negligently. Now though I do not think my good mother
sufficiently watchful, I cannot resolve to tell her so. I would
willingly provide for my own safety, without losing her esteem, and
you alone are capable of managing this matter. Return then, my dear
Clara, prithee return. I regret every lesson at which you are not
present, and am fearful of becoming too learned. Our preceptor is not
only a man of great merit, but of exemplary virtue, and therefore more
dangerous. I am too well satisfied with him to be so with myself. For
girls of our age, it is always safer to be two than one, be the man
ever so virtuous.
Letter VII. Answer.
I understand, and tremble for you: not that I think your danger so
great as your imagination would suggest. Your fears make me less
apprehensive for the present; but I am terrified with the thought of
what may hereafter happen: should you be unable to conquer your
passion, what will become of you! Alas, poor Chaillot, how often has
she foretold, that your first sigh would mark your fortune. Ah!
Eloisa, so young, and thy destiny already accomplished? Much I fear we
shall find the want of that sensible woman whom, in your opinion, we
have lost for our advantage. Sure I am, it would be advantageous for
us to fall into still safer hands; but she has made us too knowing to
be governed by another, yet not sufficiently so to govern ourselves:
she only was able to shield us from the danger to which, by her
indiscretion, we are exposed. She was extremely communicative, and,
considering our age, we ourselves seem to have thought pretty deeply.
The ardent and tender friendship which hath united us, almost from our
cradles, expanded our hearts, and ripened them into sensibility
perhaps a little premature. We are not ignorant of the passions, as to
their symptoms and effects; the art of suppressing them seems to be
all we want. Heaven grant that our young philosopher may know this art
better than we.
By _we_ you know who I mean: for my part, Chaillot used always to say,
that my giddiness would be my security in the place of reason, that I
should never have sense enough to be in love, and that I was too
constantly foolish to be guilty of a great folly. My dear Eloisa, be
careful of yourself! the better she thought of your understanding, the
more she was apprehensive of your heart. Nevertheless, let not your
courage sink. Your prudence and your honour, I am certain, will exert
their utmost, and I assure you, on my part, that friendship shall do
every thing in its power. If we are too knowing for our years, yet our
manners have been hitherto spotless and irreproachable. Believe me, my
dear, there are many girls, who though they may have more simplicity,
have less virtue than ourselves: we know what virtue means, and are
virtuous by choice; and that seems to me the most secure.
And yet, from what you have told me, I shall not enjoy a moment’s
repose till we meet; for if you are really afraid, your danger is not
entirely chimerical. It is true, the means of preservation are very
obvious. One word to your mother, and the thing is done: but I
understand you; the expedient is too conclusive: you would willingly
be assured of not being vanquished, without losing the honour of
having sustained the combat. Alas! my poor cousin----if there was the
least glimmering----Baron D'Etange consent to give his daughter, his
only child, to the son of an inconsiderable tradesman, without
fortune! Dost thou presume to hope he will?----or what dost thou
hope? what would’st thou have? poor Eloisa!----Fear nothing however
on my account. Your friend will keep your secret. Many people might
think it more honest to reveal it, perhaps they are right. For my
part, who am no great casuist, I have no notion of that honesty, which
is incompatible with confidence, faith, and friendship. I imagine that
every relation, every age, have their peculiar maxims, duties, and
virtues; but what might be prudence in another, in me would be
perfidy; and that to confound these things, would more probably make
us wicked than wise and happy. If your love be weak, we will overcome
it; but if it be extreme, violent measures may produce a tragical
catastrophe, and friendship will attempt nothing for which it cannot
be answerable. After all, I flatter myself that I shall have little
reason to complain of your conduct when I have you once under my eye.
You shall see what it is to have a duenna of eighteen!
You know, my dear girl, that I am not absent upon pleasure; and really
the country is not so agreeable in the spring as you imagine: one
suffers at this time both heat and cold; for the trees afford us no
shade, and in the house it is too cold to live without fire. My father
too, in the midst of his building, begins to perceive that the gazette
comes later hither than to town; so that we all wish to return, and I
hope to embrace thee in a few days. But what causes my inquietude is,
that a few days make I know not what number of hours, many of which
are destined to the philosopher: to the philosopher, cousin! you
understand me. Think, O think, that the clock strikes those hours
entirely for him!
Do not blush, my dear girl, nor drop thy eyes, nor look grave; thy
features will not suffer it. Thou knowest I never, in my life, could
weep without laughing, and yet I have not less sensibility than other
people: I do not feel our separation less severely, nor am less
afflicted with the loss of poor Chaillot. Her family I am resolved
never to abandon, and I sincerely thank my kind friend for her promise
to assist me: but to let slip an opportunity of doing good, were to be
no more thyself. I confess the good creature was rather too talkative,
free enough on certain occasions, a little indiscreet with young
girls, and that she was fond of old stories and times past. So that I
do not so much regret the qualities of her mind, though among some bad
ones, many of them were excellent: the loss which I chiefly deplore is
the goodness of her heart, and that mixture of maternal and sisterly
affection, which made her inexpressibly dear to me. My mother I scarce
knew; I am indeed loved by my father, as much as is possible for him
to love; your amiable brother is no more; and I very seldom see my
own. Thus am I left desolate, like an orphan. You are my only
consolation. Yes, my Eloisa lives, and I will weep no more!
P. S. For fear of accident, I shall direct this letter to our
preceptor.
Letter VIII. [6] To Eloisa.
O, my fair Eloisa, what a strange capricious deity is Love! My present
felicity seems far to exceed my most sanguine expectations, and yet I
am discontented. You love me, you confess your passion, and yet I
sigh. My presumptuous heart dares to wish still farther, though all my
wishes are gratified. I am punished with its wild imaginations; they
render me unhappy in the very bosom of felicity. Do not, however,
believe that I have forgotten the laws you have imposed, or lost the
power of obedience: no, but I am displeased to find the observance of
those laws irksome to me alone; that you, who not long ago, was all
imbecility, are now become so great a heroine; and that you are so
excessively careful to prevent every proof of my integrity.
How you are changed, and _you_ alone, within these two months! Where
is now your languor, your disgust, your dejected look? The graces have
again resumed their post; your charms are all returned; the new-blown
rose is not more fresh and blooming; you have recovered your vivacity
and wit; you banter, even with me, as formerly; but what hurts me more
than all this, is that you swear eternal fidelity with as much gaiety
and good humour as if it were something droll, or indifferent.
O, my fair inconstant! is this characteristic of an ungovernable
passion? If you were, in any degree, at war with your inclinations,
would not the constraint throw a damp upon your enjoyments? O how
infinitely more amiable you were, when less beautiful! How do I regret
that pathetic paleness, that precious assurance of a lover’s
happiness, and hate the indiscretion of that health which you have
recovered at the expense of my repose! Yes, I could be much better
satisfied with your indisposition, than with that air of content,
those sparkling eyes, that blooming complexion, which conspire to
insult me. Have you already forgot the time when you were glad to sue
for mercy? Eloisa, Eloisa! the violent tempest hath been very suddenly
allayed.
But what vexes me most, is that, after having committed yourself
entirely to my honour, you should seem apprehensive and mistrustful
where there is no danger. Is it thus I am rewarded for my discretion?
Does my inviolable respect deserve to be thus affronted? Your father’s
absence is so far from giving you more liberty, that it is now almost
impossible to catch you alone. Your _constant_ cousin never leaves you
a moment. I find we are insensibly returning to our former
circumspection, with this difference only that what was then irksome
to you is now become matter of amusement.
What recompense can I expect for the purity of my adoration, if not
your esteem? And to what purpose have I abstained even from the least
indulgence, if it produces no gratitude? In short, I am weary of
suffering ineffectually, and of living in a state of continued self-
denial, without being allowed the merit of it. I cannot bear to be
despised whilst you are growing every day more beautiful. Why am I to
gaze eternally at those delicious fruits which my lips dare not touch?
Must I relinquish all hope, without the satisfaction of a voluntary
sacrifice? No, since you depend no longer upon my honour, it stands
released from its vain engagement; your own precautions are
sufficient. You are ungrateful, and I am too scrupulous; but for the
future I am resolved not to reject the happiness which fortune, in
spite of you, may throw in my way. Be it as it will, I find that I
have taken upon me a charge that is above my capacity. Eloisa, you are
once more your own guardian. I must resign the deposit which I cannot
preserve without being tempted to a breach of faith, and which you
yourself are able to secure with less difficulty than you were pleased
to imagine.
I speak seriously; depend upon your own strength, else banish me, or
in other words, deprive me of existence. The promise I made, was rash
and inconsiderate; and I am amazed how I have been able to keep it so
long. I confess it ought to remain for ever inviolable; but of that I
now perceive the impossibility. He who wantonly exposes his virtue to
such severe trials, deserves to fall. Believe me, fairest among women!
by him who desired life only on your account, you will always be
honoured and respected; but reason may forsake me, and my intoxicated
senses may hint the perpetration of a crime, which, in my cooler
hours, I should abhor. I am however happy in the reflection that I
have not hitherto abused your confidence. Two whole months have I
triumphed over myself; but I am intitled to the reward due to as many
ages of torment.
Letter IX. From Eloisa.
I comprehend you: the pleasures of vice, and the reward of virtue,
would just constitute the felicity you wish to enjoy. Are these your
morals? Truly, my good friend, your generosity had a short duration.
Is it possible that it could be entirely the effect of art? There is
something droll, however, in complaining of my health. Was it that you
hoped to see it entirely destroyed by my ridiculous passion, and
expected to have me at your feet, imploring your pity to save my life?
or did you treat me with respect whilst I continued frightful, with an
intention to retract your promise as soon as I should, in any degree,
become an object of desire? I see nothing so vastly meritorious in
such a sacrifice.
With equal justice, you are pleased to reproach me for the care I have
lately taken to prevent those painful combats with yourself, when in
reality you ought to deem it an obligation. You then retract your
engagement, on account of its being too burthensome a duty; so that in
the same breath, you complain of having too much trouble, and of not
having enough. Recollect yourself a little, and endeavour to be more
uniform, that your pretended sufferings may have a less frivolous
appearance: or perhaps it would be more advisable to put off that
dissimulation which is inconsistent with your character. Say what you
will, your heart is much better satisfied with mine than you would
have me think. Ungrateful man! you are but too well acquainted with
its feelings. Even your own letter contradicts you by the gaiety of
its stile; you would not have so much wit if you had less tranquility.
But, enough of vain reproach to you: let me now reproach myself; it
will probably be with more reason.
The content and serenity with which I have been blest of late, is
inconsistent with my former declaration, and I confess you have cause
to be surprized at the contrast. You were then a witness to my
despair, and you now behold in me too much tranquility; hence you
pronounce me inconstant and capricious. Be not, my good friend, too
severe in your judgment. This heart of mine cannot be known in one
day. Have patience, and, in time, you may probably discover it to be
not unworthy your regard.
Unless you were sensible how much I was shocked when I first detected
my heart in its passion for you, it is impossible to form any idea of
what I suffered. The maxims I imbibed in my education were so
extremely severe, that love, however pure, seemed highly criminal. I
was taught to believe, that a young girl of sensibility was ruined the
moment she suffered a tender expression to pass her lips: my
disordered imagination confounded the crime with the confession of my
love, and I had conceived so terrible an idea of the first step, that
I saw little or no interval between that and the last. An extreme
diffidence of myself increased the alarm; the struggles of modesty
appeared to be those of virtue; and the uneasiness of silence seemed
the importunity of desire. The moment I had spoke I concluded myself
lost beyond redemption; and yet I must have spoken, or have parted
with you for ever. Thus, unable to disguise my sentiments, I endeavoured
to excite your generosity, and depending rather upon you than on
myself, I chose to engage your honour in my defence, as I could have
little reliance on a resource of which I believed myself already
deprived.
I soon discovered my error: I had scarce opened my mind when I found
myself much easier; the instant I received your answer I became
perfectly calm; and two months experience has informed me that my too
tender heart hath need of love, but that my senses can rest satisfied
without a lover. Now judge, you who are a lover of virtue, what joy I
must have felt at this discovery. Emerged from the profound ignominy
into which my fears had plunged me, I now taste the delicious pleasure
of a guiltless passion: it constitutes all my happiness; it hath
influenced my temper and my health, I can conceive no paradise on
earth equal to the union of love and innocence.
I feared you no longer; and when I endeavoured to avoid being alone
with you, it was rather for your sake than my own. Your eyes, your
sighs betrayed more transport than prudence; but though _you_ had
forgotten the bounds you yourself prescribed, _I_ should not.
Alas, my friend, I wish I could communicate to you that tranquility of
soul which I now enjoy! Would it were in my power to teach you to be
contented and happy! What fear, what shame can imbitter our felicity?
In the bosom of love we might talk of virtue without a blush.
_E v’ è il piacer con l’ onestade accanto._
And yet a strange foreboding whispers to my heart, that these are the
only days of happiness allotted us by heaven. Our future prospect
presents nothing to my view, but absence, anxiety, dangers and
difficulties. The least change in our present situation must
necessarily be for the worse. Were we even united for ever, I am not
certain whether our happiness would not be destroyed by its excess;
the moment of possession is a dangerous crisis.
I conjure thee, my kind, my only friend, endeavour to calm the
turbulence of those vain desires which are always followed by regret,
repentance and sorrow. Let us peaceably enjoy our present felicity.
You have a pleasure in giving me instruction, and you know, but too
well, with what delight I listen to be instructed. Let your lessons be
yet more frequent, that we may be as little asunder as decency will
allow. Our absent moments shall be employed in writing to each other,
and thus none of the precious time will pass in vain, which one day
possibly we might give the world to recall. Would to heaven, that our
present happiness might end only with our lives! To improve one’s
understanding, to adorn one’s mind, to indulge one’s heart: can there
possibly be any addition to our felicity?
Letter X. To Eloisa.
How entirely was my Eloisa in the right when she said that I did not
yet know her sufficiently! I constantly flatter myself that I have
discovered every excellence of her soul, when new beauties daily meet
my observation. What woman, but yourself, could ever unite virtue and
tenderness so as to add new charms to both? In spite of myself I am
forced to admire and approve that prudence which deprives me of all
comfort, and there is something so excessively engaging in the manner
of imposing your prohibitions, that I almost receive them with
delight.
I am every day more positive, that there is no happiness equal to that
of being beloved by Eloisa; and so entirely am I of this opinion that
I would not prefer even the person of Eloisa to the possession of her
heart. But why this bitter alternative? Can things be incompatible
which are united in nature? Our time, you say, is precious; let us
enjoy our good fortune without troubling its pure stream with our
impatience. Be it so: but shall we, because we are moderately happy,
reject supreme felicity? Is not all that time lost which might have
been better employed? If it were possible to live a thousand years in
one quarter of an hour, what purpose would it answer to tell over the
tedious number of days when they were past?
Your opinion of our present situation is very just; I am convinced I
ought to be happy, and yet I am much the reverse. The dictates of
wisdom may continue to flow from your lips, but the voice of nature is
stronger than yours: and how can we avoid listening to her, when she
speaks the language of our own hearts? Of all sublunary things, I know
of nothing, except yourself, which deserves a moment’s attention.
Without you, nature would have no allurements: her empire is in your
charms, and there she is irresistible.
Your heart, divine Eloisa, feels none of this. You are content to
ravish our senses, and are not at war with your own. It should seem
that your soul is too sublime for human passions, and that you have
not only the beauty but the purity of angels: a purity which murmuring
I revere, and to which I would gladly aspire. But, no: I am condemned
to creep upon the earth, and to behold Eloisa a constellation in the
heavens. O may you continue to be happy though I am wretched; enjoy
your virtues; and perdition catch the vile mortal who shall ever
attempt to tarnish one of them! Yes, my Eloisa, be happy, and I will
endeavour to forget my own misery, in the recollection of your bliss.
If I know my heart, my love is as spotless as its adorable object. The
passions which your charms have inflamed, are extinguished by the
purity of your soul; I dare not disturb its serenity. Whenever I am
tempted to take the least liberty, I find myself restrained rather by
the dread of interrupting your peace of mind, than by the fear of
offending. In my pursuit of happiness, I have considered only in what
degree it might affect my Eloisa; and finding it incompatible with
hers, I can be wretched without repining.
With what inexplicable, jarring, sentiments you have inspired me! I am
at once submissive and daring, mild and impetuous. Your looks inflame
my heart with love, and when I hear your voice I am captivated with
the charms of innocence. If ever I presume to indulge a wishful idea,
it is in your absence. Your image in my mind is the only object of my
passionate adoration.
And yet I languish and consume away; my blood is all on fire, and
every attempt to damp the flame serves but to increase its fervour.
Still I have cause to think myself very happy; and so I do. Surely I
have little reason to complain, when I would not change my situation
with the greatest monarch on earth. But yet some sad fiend torments me
whose pursuits it is impossible to elude. Methinks I would not die,
and yet I am daily expiring; for you only I wish to live, and you
alone are the cause of my death.
Letter XI. From Eloisa.
My attachment to my dear friend grows every day stronger; your absence
becomes insupportable, and I have no relief but in my pen. Thus my
love keeps pace with yours; for I judge of your passion by your real
fear of offending: your former fears were only feigned, with an intent
to advance your cause. It is an easy matter to distinguish the
dictates of an afflicted heart from the phrenzy of a heated
imagination, and I see a thousand times more affection in your present
constraint than in your former delirium. I know also that your
situation, confined as it is, is not entirely bereft of pleasure. A
sincere lover must be very happy in making frequent sacrifices to a
grateful mistress, when he is assured that not one of them will be
forgotten, but that she will treasure the remembrance in her heart.
But who knows whether, presuming on my sensibility, this may not be a
deeper, and therefore a more dangerous plot than the former? O, no!
the supposition was unjust; you certainly cannot mean to deceive me.
And yet prudence tells me to be more suspicious of compassion than
even of love; for I find myself more affected by your respect than by
all your transport: so that, as you are grown more honest, you are
become in proportion more formidable.
In the overflowing of my heart I will tell you a truth, of which your
own feelings cannot fail to convince you: it is, that in spite of
fortune, parents, and of ourselves, our fates are united for ever, and
we can be only happy or miserable together. Our souls, if I may use
the expression, touch in all points, and we feel an entire coherence:
correct me if I speak unphilosophically. Our destiny may part us, but
cannot disunite us. Henceforward our pains and pleasures must be
mutual; and, like the magnets, of which I have heard you speak, that
have the same motion though in different places, we should have the
same sensations at the two extremities of the world.
Banish, therefore, the vain hope, if you ever entertained it, of
exclusive happiness to be purchased at the expense of mine. Do not
flatter yourself with the idle prospect of felicity founded upon
Eloisa’s dishonour, or imagine that you could behold my ignominy and
my tears, without horror. Believe me, my dear friend, I know your
heart better than yourself. A passion so tender and so true, cannot
possibly excite an impure wish; but we are so attached, that if we
were on the brink of perdition it would be impossible for us to fall
singly; of my ruin yours is the inevitable consequence.
I should be glad to convince you how necessary it is for us both that
I should be entrusted with the care of our destiny. Can you doubt that
you are as dear to me as myself, or that I can enjoy any happiness
exclusive of yours? No, my dear friend, our interest is exactly the
same, but I have rather more at stake, and have therefore more reason
to be watchful. I own I am youngest; but did you never observe that if
reason be generally weaker and sooner apt to decay in our sex, it also
comes more early to maturity than in yours? as in vegetation the most
feeble plants arrive at their perfection and dissolution in the least
time. We find ourselves, from our first conception of things,
instructed with so valuable a treasure, that our dread of consequences
soon unfolds our judgment, and an early sense of our danger excites
our vigilance.
In short, the more I reflect upon our situation, the more I am
convinced that love and reason join in my request: suffer yourself
then to be lead by the gentle deity; for though he is blind, he is not
without a guide.
I am not quite certain that this language of my heart will be
perfectly intelligible to yours, or that my letter will be read with
the same emotion with which it was written: nor am I convinced that
particular objects will ever appear to us in the same light; but
certain I am, that the advice of either which tends least towards
separate happiness, is that which we ought to follow.
Letter XII. To Eloisa.
O my Eloisa, how pathetic is the language of nature! How plainly do I
perceive in your last letter, the serenity of innocence and the
solicitude of love! Your sentiments are exprest without art or
trouble, and convey a more delicious sensation to the mind, than all
the refined periods of studied elocution. Your reasons are
incontrovertible, but urged with such an air of simplicity, that they
seem less cogent at first than they really are; and your manner of
expressing the sublimest sentiments is so natural and easy, that
without reflection one is apt to mistake them for common opinions.
Yes, my Eloisa, the care of our destiny shall be entirely yours: not
because it is your right, but as your duty, and as a piece of justice
I expect from your reason, for the injury you have done to mine. From
this moment to the end of my life, I resign myself to your will;
dispose of me as of one who hath no interest of his own, and whose
existence hath no connection but with you. Doubt not that I will fly
from my resolution, be the terms you impose ever so rigorous; for
though I myself should profit nothing by my obedience, if it adds but
one jot to your felicity, I am sufficiently rewarded. Therefore I
relinquish to you without reserve, the entire care of our common
happiness; secure but your own and I will be satisfied. As for me, who
can neither forget you a single moment, nor think of you without
forbidden emotion, I will now give my whole attention to the
employment you were pleased to assign me.
It is now just a year since we began our studies, and hitherto they
have been directed partly by chance, rather with a design to consult
your taste than to improve it. Besides, our hearts were too much
fluttered to leave us the perfect use of our senses. Our eyes wandered
from the book, and our lips pronounced words, without any ideas. I
remember, your arch cousin, whose mind was unengaged, used frequently
to reproach us with want of conception; she seemed delighted to leave
us behind, and soon grew more knowing than her preceptor. Now though
we have sometimes smiled at her pretensions, she is really the only
one of the three who retains any part of our reading.
But to retrieve, in some degree, the time we have lost, (Ah! Eloisa,
was ever time more happily spent?) I have formed a kind of plan, which
may possibly, by the advantage of method, in some measure, compensate
our neglect. I send it you inclosed; we will read it together; at
present I shall only make a few general observations on the subject.
If, my charming friend, we were inclined to parade with our learning,
and to study for the world rather than for ourselves, my system would
be a bad one; for it tends only to extract a little from a vast
multiplicity of things, and from a large library to select a small
number of books.
Science, in general, may be considered as a coin of great value, but
of use to the possessor, only in as much as it is communicated to
others; it is valuable but as a commodity in traffic. Take from the
learned the pleasure of being heard, and their love of knowledge would
vanish. They do not study to obtain wisdom, but the reputation of it:
philosophy would have no charms if the philosopher had no admirers.
For our parts, who have no design but to improve our minds, it will be
most advisable, to read little and think much; or, which is better,
frequently to talk over the subjects on which we have been reading. I
am of opinion, when once the understanding is a little developed by
reflection, it is better to reason for ourselves than to depend upon
books for the discovery of truth; for by that means it will make a
much stronger impression; whilst on the contrary, by taking things for
granted, we view objects by halves and in a borrowed light. We are
born rich, says Montaigne, and yet our whole education consists in
borrowing. We are taught to accumulate continually, and, like true
misers, we chuse rather to use the wealth of other men, than break
into our own store.
I confess there are many people whom the method I propose would not
suit, who ought to _read much_ and _think little_, because every
borrowed reflection is better than any thing they could have produced.
But I recommend the contrary to you, who improve upon every book you
read. Let us therefore mutually communicate our ideas; I will relate
the opinions of others, then you shall tell me yours upon the same
subject, and thus shall I frequently gather more instruction from our
lecture than yourself.
The more we contract our circle, the more necessary it is to be
circumspect in the choice of our authors. The grand error of young
students, as I told you before, is a too implicit dependence upon
books, and too much diffidence in their own capacity; without
reflecting that they are much less liable to be misled by their own
reason, than by the sophistry of systematical writers. If we would but
consult our own feelings, we should easily distinguish _virtue_ and
_beauty_: we do not want to be taught either of these; but examples of
extreme virtue, and superlative beauty are less common, and these are
therefore more difficult to be understood. Our vanity leads us to
mistake our own peculiar imbecility for that of nature, and to think
those qualities chimerical which we do not perceive within ourselves;
idleness and vice rest upon pretended impossibility, and men of little
genius conclude that things which are uncommon have no existence.
These errors we must endeavour to eradicate, and by using ourselves to
contemplate grand objects, destroy the notion of their impossibility:
thus, by degrees, our emulation is roused by example, our taste
refines, and every thing indifferent becomes intolerable.
But let us not have recourse to books for principles which may be
found within ourselves. What have we to do with the idle disputes of
philosophers, concerning virtue and happiness? Let us rather employ
that time in being virtuous and happy, which others waste in fruitless
enquiries after the means: let us rather imitate great examples, than
busy ourselves with systems and opinions.
I always believed, that virtue was in reality active beauty; or at
least that they were intimately connected, and sprung from the same
source in nature. From this idea it follows, that wisdom and taste are
to be improved by the same means, and that a mind truly sensible of
the charms of virtue, must receive an equal impression from every
other kind of beauty. Yet accurate and refined perceptions are to be
acquired only by habit; and hence it is, that we see a painter, in
viewing a fine prospect or a good picture, in raptures at certain
objects, which a common observer would not even have seen. How many
real impressions do we perceive, which we cannot account for? How many
_Je-ne-sais-quois_ frequently occur, which taste only can determine?
Taste is, in some degree, the microscope of judgment; it brings small
objects to our view, and its operations begin where those of judgment
end. How then shall we proceed in its cultivation? By exercising our
sight as well as feeling, and by judging of the beautiful from
inspection, as we judge of virtue from sensation. I am persuaded there
may be some hearts upon which the first sight, even of Eloisa, would
make no impression.
For this reason, my lovely scholar, I limit your studies to books of
taste and manners. For this reason, changing my precepts into
examples, I shall give you no other definitions of virtue than the
pictures of virtuous men; nor other rules for writing well, than books
which are well written.
Be not surprized that I have thus contracted the circle of your
studies; it will certainly render them more useful: I am convinced, by
daily experience, that all instruction which tends not to improve the
mind, is not worth your attention. We will diminish the languages,
except the Italian, which you understand and admire. We will discard
our elements of algebra and geometry. We would even quit our
philosophy were it not for the utility of its terms. We will, for
ever, renounce modern history, except that of our own country, and
that only on account of our liberty, and the ancient simplicity of our
manners: for let nobody persuade you that the history of one’s own
country is the most interesting; it is false. The history of some
countries will not even bear reading. The most interesting history is,
that which furnishes the most examples, manners, and characters; in a
word, the most instruction. We are told that we possess all these in
as great a degree as the ancients; but turn to their histories and you
will be convinced that this is also a mistake.
There are people whose faces are so unmeaning, that the best painter
cannot catch their likeness, and there are governments so
uncharacteristic as to want no historian; but able historians will
never be wanting where there is matter deserving the pen of a good
writer. In short, they tell us that men are alike in all ages, that
their virtues and vices are the same, and that we admire the ancients
only because they are ancients. This is also false: in former times
great effects were produced by trifling causes, but in our days it is
just the reverse. The ancients were cotemporary with their historians,
and yet we have learnt to admire them: should posterity ever admire
our modern historians, they certainly will not have grounded their
opinion upon ours.
Out of regard to our _constant_ companion, I consent to a few volumes
of belles lettres, which I should not have recommended to you. Except
Petrarch, Tasso, Metastasio, and the best French theatrical authors, I
leave you none of those amorous poets, which are the common amusement
of your sex. The most inspired of them all cannot teach us to love?
Ah, Eloisa, we are better instructed by our own hearts! The phrases
borrowed from books are cold and insipid to us who speak the language
of our souls. It is a kind of reading which cramps the imagination,
enervates the mind, and dims its original brightness. On the contrary,
real love influences all our sentiments, and animates them with new
vigour.
Letter XIII. From Eloisa.
I told you we were happy, and nothing proves it more than the
uneasiness we feel upon the least change in our situation: if it were
not true, why should two days separation give us so much pain? I say
_us_, for I know my friend shares my impatience; he feels my
uneasiness, and is unhappy upon his own account; but to tell me this
were now superfluous.
We have been in the country since last night only; the hour is not yet
come in which I should see you if I were in town; and yet this
distance makes me already find your absence almost insupportable. If
you had not prohibited geometry, I should say, that my inquietude
increases in a compound ratio of the intervals of time and space; so
sensible am I that the pain of absence is increased by distance. I
have brought with me your letter, and your plan of study, for my
meditation; I have read the first already twice over, and own I was a
good deal affected with the conclusion. I perceive, my dear friend,
that your passion deserves the name of real love, because you still
preserve your sense of honour, and are capable of sacrificing every
thing to virtue. To delude a woman in the disguise of her preceptor is
surely, of all the wiles of seduction, the most unpardonable; and he
must have very little resource in himself, who would attempt to move
his mistress by the assistance of romance. If you had availed yourself
of philosophy to forward your designs, or if you had endeavoured to
establish maxims favourable to your interest, those very methods of
deceit would soon have undeceived me; but you have more honesty, and
are therefore more dangerous. From the first moment I perceived in my
heart the least spark of love, and the desire of a lasting attachment,
I petitioned heaven to unite me to a man whose soul was amiable rather
than his person; for well I knew that the charms of the mind were
least liable to disgust, and that probity and honour adorn every
sentiment of the heart. I chose with propriety, and therefore, like
Solomon, I have obtained, not only what I asked for, but also what I
did not ask. I look upon this as a good omen, and I do not despair but
I shall, one day, have it in my power to make my dear friend as happy
as he deserves. We have indeed many obstacles to surmount, and the
expedients are slow, doubtful and difficult. I dare not flatter myself
too much; be assured, however, that nothing shall be forgotten which
the united efforts of love and patience can accomplish. Mean while,
continue to humour my mother, and prepare yourself for the return of
my father, who at last retires, after thirty years services. You must
learn to endure the haughtiness of a hasty old gentleman, jealous of
his honour, who will love you without flattering, and esteem you
without many professions.
I broke off here to take a ramble in the neighbouring woods. You, my
amiable friend, you were my companion, or rather I carried thee in my
heart. I sought those paths which I imagined we should have trod, and
marked the shades which seemed worthy to receive us. The delightful
solitude of the groves seemed to heighten our sensibility, and the
woods themselves appeared to receive additional beauty from the
presence of two such faithful lovers.
Amidst the natural bowers of this charming place, there is one still
more beautiful than the rest, with which I am most delighted, and
where, for that reason, I intend to surprize you. It must not be said
that I want generosity to reward your constant respect. I would
convince you, in spite of vulgar opinions, that voluntary favours are
more valuable than those obtained by importunity. But lest the
strength of your imagination should lead you too far, I must inform
you, that we will not visit these pleasant bowers without my _constant
companion_.
Now I have mentioned my cousin, I am determined, if it does not
displease you, that you shall accompany her hither on Monday next. You
must not fail to be with her at ten o’clock. My mother’s chaise will
be there about that time; you shall spend the whole day with us, and
we will return all together the next day after dinner.
I had wrote so far when I bethought myself, that I have not the same
opportunity here, for the conveyance of my letter, as in town. I once
had an inclination to send you one of your books by Gustin the
gardener’s son, and to inclose my letter in the cover. But, as there
is a possibility that you may not be aware of this contrivance, it
would be unpardonably imprudent to risk our all on so precarious a
bottom. I must therefore be contented to signify the intended
rendezvous on Monday by a billet, and I will myself give you this
letter. Besides, I was a little apprehensive lest you might comment
too freely on the mystery of the bower.
Letter XIV. To Eloisa.
Ah! Eloisa, Eloisa! what have you done? You meant to requite me, and
you are the cause of my ruin. I am intoxicated, or rather, I am mad.
My brains are turned, all my senses are disordered by this fatal kiss.
You designed to alleviate my pain; but you have cruelly increased my
torment. The poison I have imbibed from your lips will destroy me, my
blood boils within my veins; I shall die, and your pity will but
hasten my death.
O immortal remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting
moment! Never, never to be effaced so long as Eloisa lives within my
soul; till my heart is deprived of all sensation thou wilt continue
to be the happiness and torment of my life!
Alas! I possessed an apparent tranquility; resigned myself entirely to
your supreme will, and never murmured at the fate you condescended to
overrule. I had conquered the impetuous sallies of my imagination; I
disguised my looks, and put a lock upon my heart; I but half expressed
my desires, and was as content as possible. Thus your billet found me,
and I flew to your cousin; we arrived at Clarens, my heart beat quick
at the sight of my beloved Eloisa; her sweet voice caused a strange
emotion; I became almost transported, and it was lucky for me that
your cousin was present to engage your mother’s attention. We rambled
in the garden, dined comfortably, you found an opportunity,
unperceived, to give me your charming letter, which I durst not open
before this formidable witness; the sun began to decline, and we
hastened to the woods for the benefit of shade. Alas! I was quite
happy, and I did not even conceive a state of greater bliss.
As we approached the bower, I perceived, not without a secret emotion,
your significant winks, your mutual smiles, and the increasing glow in
thy charming cheeks. Soon as we entered, I was surprized to see your
cousin approach me, and with an affected air of humility, ask me for a
kiss. Without comprehending the mystery, I complied with her request;
and, charming as she is, I never could have had a more convincing
proof of the insipidity of those sensations which proceed not from the
heart. But what became of me a moment after, when I felt----My hands
shook----A gentle tremor----Thy balmy lips----My Eloisa’s lips----
touch, pressed to mine, and myself within her arms? Quicker than
lightening a sudden fire darted through my soul. I seemed all over
sensible of the ravishing condescension, and my heart sunk down
oppressed with insupportable delight; when all at once, I perceived
your colour change, your eyes close; you leant upon your cousin, and
fainted away. Fear extinguished all my joy, and my happiness vanished
like a shadow.
I scarce know any thing that has past since that fatal moment. The
impression it has made on my heart will never be effaced. A
favour?----it is an extreme torment----No, keep thy kisses, I cannot
bear them----They are too penetrating, too painful----they distract
me. I am no more myself, and you appear to me no more the same object.
You seem not as formerly chiding and severe; but methinks I see and
feel thee lovely and tender as at that happy instant when I pressed
thee to my bosom. O Eloisa! whatever may be the consequence of my
ungovernable passion, use me as severely as you please, I cannot
exist in my present condition, and I perceive I must at last expire
at your feet----or in your arms.
Letter XV. From Eloisa.
It is necessary, my dear friend, that we should part for some time: I
ask it as the first proof of that obedience you have so often
promised. If I am urgent in my request, you may be assured I have good
reason for it: indeed I have, and you are too well convinced that I
must to be able to take this resolution; for your part, you will be
satisfied, since it is my desire.
You have long talked of taking a journey into Valais. I wish you would
determine to go before the approach of winter. Autumn, in this
country, still wears a mild and serene aspect; but you see the tops of
the mountains are already white, and six weeks later you should not
have my consent to take such a rough journey. Resolve therefore to set
out to-morrow: you will write to me by the direction which I shall
send, and you will give me yours when you arrive at Sion.
You would never acquaint me with the situation of your affairs; but
you are not in your own country; your fortune I know is small, and I
am persuaded you must diminish it here, where you stay only upon my
account. I look upon myself therefore as your purse-bearer, and send
you a small matter in the little box, which you must not open before
the bearer. I will not anticipate difficulties, and I have too great
an esteem for you to believe you capable of making any on this
occasion.
I beg you will not return without my permission, and also that you
will take no leave of us. You may write to my mother or me, merely to
inform us, that some unforeseen business requires your presence, that
you are obliged to depart immediately; and you may, if you please,
send me some directions concerning my studies, until you return. You
must be careful to avoid the least appearance of mystery. Adieu, my
dear friend, and forget not that you take with you the heart and soul
of Eloisa.
Letter XVI. Answer.
Every line of your terrible letter made me shudder. But I will obey
you; I have promised, and it is my duty: yes, you shall be obeyed. But
you cannot conceive, no, barbarous Eloisa, you will never comprehend
how this cruel sacrifice affects my heart. There wanted not the trial
in the bower to increase my sensibility. It was a merciless refinement
of inhumanity, and I now defy you to make me more miserable.
I return your box unopened. To add ignominy to cruelty is too much;
you are indeed the mistress of my fate, but not of my honour, I will
myself preserve this sacred deposit; alas! it is the only treasure I
have left! and I will never part with it so long as I live.
Letter XVII. Reply.
Your letter excites my compassion; it is the only senseless thing you
have ever written.
I affront your honour! I would rather sacrifice my life. Do you
believe it possible that I should mean to injure your honour? Ingrate!
Too well thou knowest that for thy sake I had almost sacrificed my
own. But tell me what is this honour which I have offended? Ask thy
groveling heart, thy indelicate soul. How despicable art thou if thou
hast no honour but that which is unknown to Eloisa! Shall those whose
hearts are one, scruple to share their possessions? Shall he who calls
himself mine refuse my gifts? Since when is it become dishonourable to
receive from those we love? But the man is despised whose wants exceed
his fortune. Despised! by whom? By those abject souls who place their
honour in their wealth, and estimate their virtue by their weight of
gold. But is this the honour of a good man? Is virtue less honourable
because it is poor?
Undoubtedly there are presents which a man of honour ought not to
accept; but I must tell you, those are equally dishonourable to the
person by whom they are offered; and that what may be given with
honour, it cannot be dishonourable to receive: now my heart is so far
from reproaching me with what I did, that it glories in the motive.
Nothing can be more despicable than a man whose love and assiduities
are bought, except the woman by whom they are purchased. But where two
hearts are united, it is so reasonable and just that their fortunes
should be in common, that if I have reserved more than my share, I
think myself indebted to you for the overplus. If the favours of love
are rejected, how shall our hearts express their gratitude?
But, lest you should imagine that in my design to supply your wants I
was inattentive to my own, I will give you an indisputable proof of
the contrary. Know then, that the purse which I now return contains
double the sum it held before, and that I could have redoubled it if I
had pleased. My father gives me a certain allowance, moderate indeed,
but which my mother’s kindness renders it unnecessary for me to touch.
As to my lace and embroidery, they are the produce of my own industry.
It is true, I was not always so rich; but, I know not how, my
attention to a certain fatal passion has of late made me neglect a
thousand little expensive superfluities; which is another reason why I
should dispose of it in this manner: it is but just that you should be
humbled as a punishment for the evil you have caused, and that love
should expiate the crimes he occasions.
But to the point. You say your honour will not suffer you to accept my
gift. If this be true, I have nothing more to say, and am entirely of
opinion that you cannot be too positive in this respect. If therefore
you can prove this to be the case, I desire it may be done clearly,
incontestably, and without evasion; for you know I hate all appearance
of sophistry. You may then return the purse; I will receive it without
complaining, and you shall hear no more of this affair.
You will be pleased, however, to remember, that I neither like false
honour, nor people who are affectedly punctilious. If you return the
box without a justification, or if your justification be not
satisfactory, we must meet no more. Think of this. Adieu.
Letter XVIII. To Eloisa.
I received your present, I departed without taking leave, and am now a
considerable distance from you. Am I sufficiently obedient? Is your
tyranny satisfied?
I can give you no account of my journey; for I remember nothing more
than that I was three days in travelling twenty leagues. Every step I
took seemed to tear my soul from my body, and thus to anticipate the
pain of death. I intended to have given you a description of the
country through which I passed. Vain project! I beheld nothing but
you, and can describe nothing but Eloisa. The repeated emotions of my
heart threw me into a continued distraction; I imagined myself to be
where I was not; I had hardly sense enough left to ask or follow my
road, and I am arrived at Sion without ever leaving Vevey.
Thus I have discovered the secret of eluding your cruelty, and of
seeing you without disobeying your command. No, Eloisa, with all your
rigour, it is not in your power to separate me from you entirely. I
have dragged into exile but the most inconsiderable part of myself; my
soul must remain with you for ever: with impunity, it explores your
beauty, dwells in rapture upon every charm; and I am happier in
despite of you than I ever was by your permission.
Unfortunately, I have here some people to visit and some necessary
business to transact. I am least wretched in solitude, where I can
employ all my thoughts upon Eloisa, and transport myself to her in
imagination. Every employment which calls off my attention, is become
insupportable. I will hurry over my affairs, that I may be soon at
liberty to wander through the solitary wilds of this delightful
country. Since I must not live with you, I will shun all society with
mankind.
Letter XIX. To Eloisa.
I am now detained here only by your order. Those five days have been
more than sufficient to finish my own concerns, if things may be so
called in which the heart has no interest: so that now you have no
pretence to prolong my exile, unless with design to torment me.
I begin to be very uneasy about the fate of my first letter. It was
written and sent by the post immediately upon my arrival, and the
direction was exactly copied from that which you transmitted me: I
sent you mine with equal care; so that if you had answered me
punctually, I must have received your letter before now. Yet this
letter does not appear, and there is no possible fatality which I have
not supposed to be the cause of its delay. O Eloisa, how many
unforeseen accidents may have happened in the space of one week, to
dissolve the most perfect union that ever existed! I shudder to think
that there are a thousand means to make me miserable, and only one by
which I can possibly be happy. Eloisa, is it that I am forgotten! God
forbid! that were to be miserable indeed. I am prepared for any other
misfortune; but all the powers of my soul sicken at the bare idea of
that.
O no! it cannot be: I am convinced my fears are groundless, and yet my
apprehensions continue. The bitterness of my misfortunes increases
daily; and as if real evils were not sufficient to depress my soul, my
fears supply me with imaginary ones to add weight to the others. At
first my grief was much more tolerable. The trouble of a sudden
departure, and the journey itself were some sort of dissipation! but
this peaceful solitude assembles all my woes. Like a wounded soldier,
I felt but little pain till after I had retired from the field.
How often have I laughed at a lover, in romance, bemoaning the absence
of his mistress! Little did I imagine that your absence would ever be
so intolerable to me! I am now sensible how improper it is for a mind
at rest to judge of other men’s passions; and how foolish, to ridicule
the sensations we have never felt. I must confess, however, I have
great consolation in reflecting that I suffer by your command. The
sufferings which you are pleased to ordain, are much less painful than
if they were inflicted by the hand of fortune; if they give you any
satisfaction, I should be sorry not to have suffered; they are the
pledges of their reward; I know you too well to believe you would
exercise barbarity for its own sake.
If your design be to put me to the proof, I will murmur no more. It is
but just that you should know whether I am constant, endued with
patience, docility, and, in short, worthy of the bliss you design me.
Gods! if this be your idea, I shall complain that I have not suffered
half enough. Ah, Eloisa! for heaven’s sake, support the flattering
expectation in my heart, and invent, if you can, some torment better
proportioned to the reward.
Letter XX. From Eloisa.
I received both your letters at once, and I perceive, by your anxiety
in the second, concerning the fate of the other, that when imagination
takes the lead of reason, the latter is not always in haste to follow,
but suffers her, sometimes, to proceed alone. Did you suppose, when
you reached Sion, that the post waited only for your letter, that it
would be delivered to me the instant of his arrival here, and that my
answer would be favoured with equal dispatch? No, no, my good friend,
things do not always go on so swimmingly. Your two epistles came both
together; because the post happened not to set out till after he had
received the second. It requires some time to distribute the letters;
my agent has not always an immediate opportunity of meeting me alone,
and the post from hence does not return the day after his arrival: so
that, all things calculated, it must be at least a week before we can
receive an answer one from the other. This I have explained to you
with design, once for all, to satisfy your impatience. Whilst you are
exclaiming against fortune and my negligence, you see that I have been
busied in obtaining the information necessary to insure our
correspondence, and prevent your anxiety. Which of us hath been best
employed, I leave to your own decision.
Let us, my dear friend, talk no more of pain; rather partake the joy I
feel at the return of my kind father, after a tedious absence of eight
months. He arrived on Thursday evening, since which happy moment I
have thought of nobody else. [7] O thou, whom, next to the Author of
my being, I love more than all the world! why must thy letters, thy
complainings affect my soul, and interrupt the first transports of a
reunited happy family?
You expect to monopolize my whole attention. But tell me, could you
love a girl, whose passion for her lover could extinguish all
affection for her parents? Would you, because you are uneasy, have me
insensible to the endearments of a kind father? No, my worthy friend,
you must not imbitter my innocent joy by your unjust reproaches. You,
who have so much sensibility, can surely conceive the sacred pleasures
of being prest to the throbbing heart of a tender parent. Do you think
that in those delightful moments it is possible to divide one’s
affection?
_Sol che son figlia io mi rammento adesso._
Yet you are not to imagine I can forget you. Do we ever forget what we
really love? No, the more lively impressions of a moment have no power
to efface the other. I was not unaffected with your departure hence,
and shall not be displeased to see you return. But----be patient like
me, because you must, without asking any other reason. Be assured that
I will recall you as soon as it is in my power; and remember, that
those who complain loudest of absence, do not always suffer most.
Letter XXI. To Eloisa.
How was I tormented in receiving the letter which I so impatiently
expected! I waited at the post-house. The mail was scarce opened
before I gave in my name, and begun to importune the man. He told me
there was a letter for me; my heart leaped; I asked for it with great
impatience, and at last received it. O Eloisa! how I rejoiced to
behold the well-known hand! A thousand times would I have kissed the
precious characters, but I wanted resolution to press the letter to my
lips, or to open it before so many witnesses. Immediately I retired,
my knees trembled; I scarce knew my way; I broke the seal the moment I
had past the first turning; I run over, or rather devoured, the dear
lines, till I came to that part which so movingly speaks your
tenderness and affection for your venerable father; I wept; I was
observed; I then retired to a place of greater privacy, and there
mingled my joyful tears with yours. With transport I embraced your
happy father, though I hardly remember him. The voice of nature
reminded me of my own, and I shed fresh tears to his memory.
O incomparable Eloisa! what can you possibly learn of me? It is from
you only can be learnt every thing that is great and good, and
especially that divine union of nature, love, and virtue, which never
existed but in you. Every virtuous affection is distinguished in your
heart by a sensibility so peculiar to yourself, that, for the better
regulation of my own, as my actions are already submitted to your
will, I perceive, my sentiments also must be determined by yours.
Yet what a difference there is between your situation and mine! I do
not mean as to rank or fortune; sincere affection, and dignity of
soul, want none of these. But you are surrounded by a number of kind
friends who adore you; a tender mother, and a father who loves you as
his only hope; a friend and cousin who seem to breathe only for your
sake: you are the ornament and oracle of an entire family, the boast
and admiration of a whole town; these, all these divide your
sensibility, and what remains for love is but a small part in
comparison of that which is ravished from you by duty, nature and
friendship. But I, alas! Eloisa, a wanderer without a family, and
almost without country, have no one but you upon earth, and am
possessed of nothing, save my love. Be not, therefore, surprized,
though your heart may have more sensibility, that mine should know
better how to love; and that you, who excel me in every thing else,
must yield to me in this respect.
You need not, however, be apprehensive lest I should indiscreetly
trouble you with my complaints. No, I will not interrupt your joy,
because it adds to your felicity, and is in its nature laudable.
Imagination shall represent the pathetic scene; and, since I have no
happiness of my own, I will endeavour to enjoy yours.
Whatever may be your reasons for prolonging my absence, I believe them
just; but though I knew them to be otherwise, what would that avail?
Have I not promised implicit obedience? Can I suffer more in being
silent, than in parting from you? But remember, Eloisa, your soul now
directs two separate bodies, and that the one she animates by choice
will continue the most faithful.
_--------Nodo piu forte:
Fabricato da noi, non dalla forte._
No, Eloisa, you shall hear no repining. Till you are pleased to recall
me from exile, I will try to deceive the tedious hours in exploring
the mountains of Valais, whilst they are yet practicable. I am of
opinion that this unfrequented country deserves the attention of
speculative curiosity, and that it wants nothing to excite admiration,
but a skilful spectator. Perhaps my excursion may give rise to a few
observations, that may not be entirely undeserving your perusal. To
amuse a fine lady one should describe a witty and polite nation; but,
I know, my Eloisa will have more pleasure in a picture where
simplicity of manners and rural happiness are the principal objects.
Letter XXII. From Eloisa.
At last, the ice is broken: you have been mentioned. Notwithstanding
your poor opinion of my learning, it was sufficient to surprize my
father; nor was he less pleased with my progress in music and
drawing: Indeed, to the great astonishment of my mother, who was
prejudiced by your scandal, [8] he was satisfied with my improvement
in every thing, except heraldry, which he thinks I have neglected. But
all this could not be acquired without a master: I told him mine,
enumerating at the same time all the sciences he proposed to teach me,
except one. He remembers to have seen you several times on his last
journey, and does not appear to retain any impression to your
disadvantage.
He then enquired about your fortune; he was told, it was not great:
Your birth? he was answered, _honest_. This word _honest_ sounds very
equivocal in the ears of nobility; it excited some suspicions, which
were confirmed in the explanation. As soon as he was informed that
your birth was not noble, he asked, what you had been paid per month.
My mother replied, that you had not only refused to accept a stipend,
but that you had even rejected every present she had offered. This
pride of yours served but to inflame his own: who indeed could bear
the thought of being obliged to a poor _plebeian_? Therefore it was
determined, that a stipend should be offered, and that, in case you
refused it, notwithstanding your merit, you should be dismissed. Such,
my friend, is the result of a conversation held concerning my most
honoured master, during which his very humble scholar was not entirely
at ease. I thought I could not be in too great a hurry to give you
this information, that you might have sufficient time to consider it
maturely. When you have come to a resolution, do not fail to let me
know it; for it is a matter entirely within your own province, and
beyond my jurisdiction.
I am not much pleased with your intended excursion to the mountains:
not that I think it will prove an unentertaining dissipation, or that
your narrative will not give me pleasure; but I am fearful lest you
may not be able to support the fatigue. Besides, the season is already
too far advanced. The hills will soon be covered with snow, and you
may possibly suffer as much from cold as fatigue. If you should fall
sick in that distant country, I should be inconsolable. Come
therefore, my dear friend, come nearer to your Eloisa: it is not yet
time to return to Vevey; but I would have you less rudely situated,
and so as to facilitate our correspondence. I leave the choice of
place to yourself; only take care that it be kept secret from the
people here, and be discreet without being mysterious. I know you will
be prudent for your own sake, but doubly so for mine.
Adieu. I am forced to break off. You know I am obliged to be very
cautious. But this is not all: my father has brought with him a
venerable stranger, his old friend, who once saved his life in a
battle. Judge then of the reception he deserves! To-morrow he leaves
us, and we are impatient to procure him every sort of entertainment
that will best express our gratitude to such a benefactor. I am
called, and must finish. Once more, adieu.
Letter XXIII. To Eloisa.
I have employed scarce eight days in surveying a country that would
require some years. But, besides that I was driven off by the snow, I
chose to be before the post, who brings me, I hope, a letter from
Eloisa. In the mean time I begin this, and shall afterwards, if it be
necessary, write another in answer to that which I shall receive.
I do not intend to give you an account of my journey in this letter;
you shall see my remarks when we meet; they would take up too much of
our precious correspondence. For the present, it will be sufficient to
acquaint you with the situation of my heart: it is but just to render
you an account of that which is entirely yours.
I set out, dejected with my own sufferings, but consoled with your
joy; which held me suspended in a state of languor that is not
disagreeable to true sensibility. Under the conduct of a very honest
guide, I crawled up the towering hills through many a rugged
unfrequented path. Often would I muse, and then, at once, some
unexpected object caught my attention. One moment I beheld stupendous
rocks hanging ruinous over my head; the next, I was enveloped in a
drizling cloud, which arose from a vast cascade that dashing
thundered against the rocks below my feet; on one side, a perpetual
torrent opened to my view a yawning abyss, which my eyes could hardly
fathom with safety; sometimes I was lost in the obscurity of a hanging
wood, and then was agreeably astonished with the sudden opening of a
flowery plain. A surprising mixture of wild, and cultivated, nature,
points out the hand of man, where one would imagine man had never
penetrated. Here you behold a horrid cavern, and there a human
habitation; vineyards where one would expect nothing but brambles;
delicious fruit among barren rocks, and corn fields in the midst of
cliffs and precipices.
But it is not labour only that renders this strange country so
wonderfully contrasted; for here nature seems to have a singular
pleasure in acing contradictory to herself, so different does she
appear in the same place, in different aspects. Towards the east, the
flowers of spring; to the south; the fruits of autumn; and northwards
the ice of winter. She unites all the seasons in the same instant,
every climate in the same place, different soils on the same land, and
with a harmony elsewhere unknown, joins the produces of the plains to
those of the highest Alps. Add to these, the illusions of vision, the
tops of the mountains variously the illumined, the harmonious mixture
of light and shade, and their different effects in the morning and the
evening as I travelled; you may then form some idea of the scenes
which engaged my attention, and which seemed to change, as I past, as
on an enchanted theatre; for the prospect of mountains being almost
perpendicular to the horizon, strikes the eye at the same instant, and
more powerfully, than that of a plane, where the objects are seen
obliquely and half concealed behind each other.
To this pleasing variety of scenes I attributed the serenity of my
mind during my first day’s journey. I wondered to find that inanimate
beings should over-rule our most violent passions, and despised the
impotence of philosophy for having less power over the soul than a
succession of lifeless objects. But finding that my tranquility
continued during the night, and even increased with the following day,
I began to believe it followed from some other source, which I had not
yet discovered. That day I reached the lower mountains, and passing
over their rugged tops, at last ascended the highest summit I could
possibly attain. Having walked a while in the clouds, I came to a
place of greater serenity, whence one may peacefully observe the
thunder and the form gathering below: ah! too flattering picture of
human wisdom, of which the original never existed, except in those
sublime regions whence the emblem is taken.