Letter CXX. From Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
How tedious is your stay! This going backward and forward is very
disagreeable. How many hours are lost before you return to the place
where you ought to remain for ever, and therefore, how much worse is
it in you ever to go away! The idea of seeing you for so short a time,
takes from the pleasure of your company. Do not you perceive that by
residing at your own house and mine alternately, you are in fact at
home in neither, and cannot you contrive some means by which you may
make your abode in both at once?
What are we doing, my dear cousin? How many precious moments we lose,
when we have none to waste! Years steal upon us; youth begins to
vanish; life slides away imperceptibly; its momentary bliss is in our
possession, and we refuse to enjoy it! Do you recollect the time when
we were yet girls, those early days so agreeable and delightful, which
no other time of life affords, and which the mind with so much
difficulty forgets? How often, when we were obliged to part for a few
days, or even for a few hours, have we sadly embraced each other, and
vowed that when we were our own mistresses, we would never be asunder?
We are now our own mistresses, and yet we pass one half of the year at
a distance from each other. Is then our affection weaker? My dear and
tender friend, we are both sensible how much time, habit, and your
kindness have rendered our attachment more strong and indissoluble. As
to myself, your absence daily becomes more insupportable, and I can no
longer live a minute without you. The progress of our friendship is
more natural than it appears to be; it is founded not only on a
similarity of character, but of condition. As we advance in years, our
affections begin to centre in one point. We every day lose something
that was dear to us, which we can never replace. Thus we perish by
degrees, till at length, being wholly devoted to self-love, we lose
life and sensibility, even before our existence ceases. But a
susceptible mind arms itself with all its force against this
anticipated death; when a chillness begins to seize the extremities,
it collects all the genial warmth of nature round its own centre;
the more connections it loses, the closer it cleaves to those which
remain, and all its former ties are combined to attach it to the
last object.
This is what I seem to experience, young as I am. Ah! my dear, my poor
heart has been too susceptible of tender impressions! It was so early
exhausted, that it grew old before its time, and so many different
affections have absorbed it to that degree, that it has no room for
any new attachments. You have known me in the successive capacities of
a daughter, a friend, a mistress, a wife, and a mother. You know how
every character has been dear to me! Some of these connections are
utterly destroyed, others are weakened. My mother, my affectionate
mother is no more; tears are the only tribute I can pay to her memory,
and I do but half enjoy the most agreeable sensations of nature. As to
love, it is wholly extinguished, it is dead for ever, and has left a
vacancy in my heart, which will never be filled up again. We have lost
your good and worthy husband, whom I loved as the dear part of
yourself, and who was so well deserving of your friendship and
tenderness. If my boys were grown up, maternal affection might supply
these vacancies; but that affection, like all others, has need of
participation, and what return can a mother expect from a child, only
four or five years old? Our children are dear to us, long before they
are sensible of our love, or capable of returning it; and yet, how
much we want to express the extravagance of our fondness, to some one
who can enter into our affection. My husband loves them; but not with
that degree of sensibility I could wish; he is not intoxicated with
fondness as I am; his tenderness for them is too rational; I would
have it to be more lively, and more like my own. In short, I want a
friend, a mother, who can be as extravagantly fond of my children, and
her own, as myself. In a word, the fondness of a mother makes the
company of a friend more necessary to me, that I may enjoy the
pleasure of talking continually about my children, without being
troublesome. I feel double the pleasure in the caress of my little
Marcellinus, when I see that you share it with me. When I embrace your
daughter, I fancy that I press you to my bosom. We have observed a
hundred times, on seeing our little cherubs at play together, that the
union of our affections has so united them, that we have not been able
to distinguish to which of us they severally belonged.
This is not all: I have powerful reasons for desiring to have you
always near me, and your absence is painful to me in more respects
than one. Think on my aversion to all hypocrisy, and reflect on the
continual reserve in which I have lived upwards of six years with the
man whom I love above all others in the world. My odious secret
oppresses me more and more, and my duty to reveal it seems every day
more indispensable. The more I am prompted by honour to disclose it,
the more I am obliged by prudence to conceal it. Consider what a
horrid state it is for a wife to carry mistrust, falsehood and fear,
even to her husband’s arms; to be afraid of opening her heart to him
who is master of it, and to conceal one half of my life to ensure the
peace of the other? Good God! from whom do I conceal my secret
thoughts, and hide the recesses of a soul with which he has so much
reason to be satisfied? From my Wolmar, my husband, and the most
worthy husband with which heaven ever rewarded the virtue of unsullied
chastity. Having deceived him once, I am obliged to continue the
deceit, and bear the mortification of finding myself unworthy of all
the kindness he expresses. My heart is afraid to receive any testimony
of his esteem, his most tender caresses make me blush, and my
conscience interprets all his marks of respect and attention, into
symptoms of reproach and disdain. It is a cruel pain constantly to
harbour this remorse, which tells me, that he mistakes the object of
his esteem. Ah! if he but knew me, he would not use me thus tenderly!
No, I cannot endure this horrid state; I am never alone with that
worthy man, but I am ready to fall on my knees before him, to confess
my fault, and to expire at his feet with grief and shame.
Nevertheless, the reasons which at first restrained me, acquire fresh
strength every day, and every motive which might induce me to make the
declaration, conspires to enjoin me silence. When I consider the
peaceable and tranquil state of the family, I cannot reflect without
horror, what an irreparable disturbance might be occasioned by a
single word. After six years passed in perfect union, shall I venture
to disturb the peace of so good and discreet a husband, who has no
other will than that of his happy wife, no other pleasure than to see
order and tranquility throughout his family? Shall I afflict with
domestic broils, an aged father who appears to be so contented, and so
delighted with the happiness of his daughter and his friend? Shall I
expose my dear children, those lovely and promising infants, to have
their education neglected and shamefully slighted, to become the
melancholy victims of family discord, between a father inflamed with
just indignation, tortured with jealousy, and an unfortunate and
guilty mother, always bathed in tears? I know what Mr. Wolmar is, how
he esteems his wife; but how do I know what he will be when he no
longer regards her? Perhaps he seems calm and moderate, because his
predominant passion has had no room to display itself. Perhaps he
would be as violent in the impetuosity of his anger, as he is gentle
and composed now he has nothing to provoke him.
If I owe such regard to every one about me, is not something likewise
due to myself? Does not a virtuous and regular course of life for six
years obliterate, in some measure, the errors of youth, and am I still
obliged to undergo the punishment of a failing which I have so long
lamented? I confess, my dear cousin, that I look backwards with
reluctance; the reflection humbles me to that degree that it dispirits
me, and I am too susceptible of shame, to endure the idea, without
falling into a kind of despair. I must reflect on the time which has
passed since my marriage, in order to recover myself. My present
situation inspires me with a confidence of which those disagreeable
reflections would deprive me. I love to nourish in my breast these
returning sentiments of honour. The rank of a wife and mother exalts
my soul, and supports me against the remorse of my former condition.
When I view my children and their father about me, I fancy that every
thing breathes an air of virtue, and they banish from my mind the
disagreeable remembrance of my former frailties. Their innocence is
the security of mine; they become dearer to me, by being the
instruments of my reformation; and I think on the violation of honour
with such horror, that I can scarce believe myself the same perfect
who formerly was capable of forgetting its precepts. I perceive myself
so different from what I was, so confirmed in my present state, that I
am almost induced to consider what I have to declare, as a confession
which does not concern me, and which I am not obliged to make.
Such is the state of anxiety and uncertainty in which I am continually
fluctuating in your absence. Do you know what may be the consequence
of this one day or other? My father is soon to set out for Bern, and
is determined not to return till he has put an end to a tedious
lawsuit, not being willing to leave us the trouble of concluding it,
and perhaps doubting our zeal in the prosecution of it. In the
interim, between his departure and his return, I shall be alone with
my husband, and I perceive that it will then be impossible for me to
keep the fatal secret any longer. When we have company, you know Mr.
Wolmar often chuses to retire and take a solitary walk; he chats
with the peasants; he enquires into their situation; he examines the
condition of their grounds; and assists them, if they require it, both
with his purse and his advice. But when we are alone, he never walks
without me; he seldom leaves his wife and children, and he enters into
their little amusements with such an amiable simplicity, that on these
occasions I always feel a more than common tenderness for him. In
these tender moments, my reserve is in so much more danger, as he
himself frequently gives me opportunities of throwing it aside, and
has a hundred times held conversation with me which seemed to excite
me to confidence. I perceive, that sooner or later, I must disclose my
mind to him; but since you would have the confession concerted between
us, and made with all the precaution which discretion requires, return
to me immediately, or I can answer for nothing.
My dear friend, I must conclude, and yet what I have to add, is of
such importance, that you must allow me a few words more. You are not
only of service to me when I am with my children and my husband, but
above all when I am alone with poor Eloisa: solitude is more
dangerous, because it grows agreeable to me, and I court it without
intending it. It is not, as you are sensible, that my heart still
smarts with the pain of its former wounds; no, they are cured, I
perceive that they are, I am very certain, I dare believe myself
virtuous. I am under no apprehensions about the present, it is the
time past which torments me. There are some reflections as dreadful,
as the original sensation; the recollection moves us; we are ashamed
to find that we shed tears, and we do but weep the more. They are
tears of compassion, regret, and repentance; love has no share in
them; I no longer harbour the least spark of love; but I lament the
mischiefs it has occasioned; I bewail the fate of a worthy man who has
been bereft of peace and perhaps of life, by gratifying an indiscreet
passion. Alas! he has undoubtedly perished in this long and dangerous
voyage which he undertook out of despair. If he was living, he would
send us tidings from the farthest part of the world; near four years
have elapsed since his departure. They say the squadron on which he is
aboard, has suffered a thousand disasters, that they have lost three
fourths of their crew, that several ships have gone to the bottom, and
that no one can tell what is become of the rest. He is no more, he is
no more! A secret foreboding tells me so. The unfortunate wretch has
not been spared, any more than so many others. The distresses of his
voyage, and melancholy, still more fatal than all, have shortened his
days. Thus vanishes every thing which glitters for a while on earth.
The reproach of having occasioned the death of a worthy man, was all
that was wanting to compleat the torments of my conscience. With what
a soul was he endued! how susceptible of the tenderest love! He
deserved to live!
I try in vain to dissipate these melancholy ideas; but they return
every minute in spite of me. Your friend requires your assistance, to
enable her to banish them, or to moderate them; and since I cannot
forget this unfortunate man, I had rather talk of him with you, than
think of him by myself.
You see how many reasons concur to make your company continually
necessary to me. If you, who have been more discreet and fortunate,
are not moved by the same reasons, yet does not your inclination
persuade you of the same necessity? If it is true that you will never
marry again, having so little satisfaction in your family, what house
can be more convenient for you than mine? For my part, I am in pain,
as I know what you endure in your own; for notwithstanding your
dissimulation, I am no stranger to your manner of living, and I am not
to be duped by those gay airs which you affected to display at
Clarens. You have often reproached me with my failings; and I have a
very great one to reproach you with in your turn; which is, that your
grief is too solitary and confined. You get into a corner to indulge
your affliction, as if you were ashamed to weep before your friend.
Clara, I do not like this. I am not ungenerous like you; I do not
condemn your tears, I would not have you cease at the end of two or
ten years, or while you live, to honour the memory of so tender a
husband; but I blame you that after having passed the best of your
days in weeping with your Eloisa, you rob her of the pleasure of
weeping in her turn with you, and of washing away, by more honourable
tears, the scandal of those which she shed in your bosom. If you are
ashamed of your grief, you are a stranger to real affliction! If you
find a kind of pleasure in it, why will you not let me partake of it?
Are you ignorant that a participation of affections communicates a
soft and affecting quality to melancholy, which content never feels?
And was not friendship particularly designed to alleviate the evils of
the wretched, and lessen their pains?
Such, my dear, are the reflections you ought to indulge; to which I
must add, that when I propose your coming to live with me, I make the
proposal no less in my husband’s name than in my own. He has often
expressed his surprize, and even been offended, that two such
intimates as we, should live asunder: he assures me that he has told
you so, and he is not a man who talks inadvertently. I do not know
what solution you will take with respect to these proposals; I have
reason to hope, that it will be such as I could wish. However it be,
mine is fixed and unalterable. I have not forgotten the time when you
would have followed me to England. My incomparable friend! it is now
my turn. You know my dislike of the town, my taste for the country,
for rural occupations, and how strongly a residence of three years has
attached me to my house at Clarens. You are no stranger likewise to
the trouble of removing a whole family, and you are sensible that it
would be abusing my father’s good nature to oblige him to move so
often. Therefore if you will not leave your family and come to govern
mine, I am determined to take a house at Lausanne, where we will all
live with you. Prepare yourself therefore; every thing requires it; my
inclination, my duty, my happiness. The security of my honour, the
recovery of my reason, my condition, my husband, my children, myself,
I owe all to you; I am indebted to you for all the blessings I enjoy,
I see nothing but what reminds me of your goodness, and without you I
am nothing. Come then, my much loved friend, my guardian angel; come
and enjoy the work of your own hands; come and gather the fruits of
your benevolence. Let us have but one family, as we have but one soul
to cherish it; you shall superintend the education of my sons, and I
will take care of your daughters; we will share the maternal duties
between us, and make our pleasure double. We will raise our minds
together to the contemplation of that Being, who purified mine by
means of your endeavours and having nothing more to hope for in this
life, we will quietly wait for the next, in the bosom of innocence and
friendship.
Letter CXXI. Answer.
Good heaven! my dear cousin, how I am delighted with your letter! Thou
lovely preacher! ... Lovely indeed: but in the preaching strain
nevertheless. What a charming peroration! A perfect model of ancient
oratory. The Athenian architect! ... That florid speaker! ... You
remember him... In your old Plutarch... Pompous descriptions, superb
temple! ... When he had finished his harangue, comes another; a plain
man; with a grave, sober, and unaffected air...who answered, as your
cousin Clara might do...with a low, hollow, and deep tone..._All
that, he has said, I will do_. Here he ended, and the assembly rang
with applause! Peace to the man of words. My dear, we may be
considered in the light of these two architects; and the temple in
question, is that of friendship.
But let us recapitulate all the fine things you have said to me.
First, that we loved each other; secondly, that my company was
necessary to you; thirdly, that yours was necessary to me likewise;
and lastly, that as it was in our power to live together the rest of
our days, we ought to do it. And you have really discovered all this
without a guide! In truth, thou art a woman of vast eloquence! Well,
but let me tell how I was employed on my part, while you was composing
this sublime epistle. After that, I will leave you to judge, whether
what you say, or what I do, is most to the purpose.
I had no sooner lost my husband, than you supplied the vacancy he had
left in my heart. While he was living, he shared my affections with
you; when he was gone, I was yours entirely, and as you observe with
respect to the conformity of friendship and maternal affection, my
daughter was an additional tie to unite us. I not only determined,
from that time, to pass my days with you, but I formed a more enlarged
plan. The more effectually to blend our two families into one, I
proposed, on a supposition that all circumstances prove agreeable, to
marry my daughter some day or other to your eldest son, and the name
of husband assumed in jest, seemed to be a lucky omen of his taking it
one day in earnest.
With this view, I endeavoured immediately to put an end to the trouble
of a contested inheritance, and finding that my circumstances enabled
me to sacrifice some part of my claim in order to settle the rest, I
thought of nothing but placing my daughter’s fortune in some sure
funds, where it might be secure from any apprehensions of a law suit.
You know that I am whimsical in most things; my whim in this was to
surprize you. I intended to come into your room one morning early,
with my child in one hand, and the parchment in the other; and to have
presented them both to you, with a fine compliment on committing to
your care the mother, the daughter, and their effects, that is to say,
my child’s fortune. Govern her, I proposed to have said, as best suits
the interest of your son; for from henceforwards it is your concern
and his; for my own part, I shall trouble myself about her no longer.
Full of this pleasing idea, it was necessary for me to open my mind to
somebody who might assist me to execute my project. Guess now whom I
chose for a confident? One Mr. Wolmar: Should not you know him? “My
husband, cousin?” Yes, your husband, cousin. The very man from whom
you make such a difficulty of concealing a secret, which it is of
consequence to him never to know, is he who has kept a secret from
you, the discovery of which would have given you so much pleasure.
This was the true subject of all that mysterious conversation between
us, about which you used to banter us with so much humour. You see
what hypocrites these husbands are. Is it not very droll in them to
accuse us of dissimulation? But I required much more of your husband.
I perceived that you had the same plan which I had in view, but you
kept it more to yourself, as one who did not care to communicate her
thoughts, till she was led to the discovery. With an intent therefore
to make your surprize more agreeable, I would have had him, when you
proposed our living together, to have seemed as if he disapproved of
your eagerness, and to have given his consent with reluctance. To this
he made me an answer, which I well remember, and which you ought never
to forget; for since the first existence of husbands, I doubt whether
any one of them ever made such an answer before. It was as follows.
“My dear little cousin, I know Eloisa...I know her well...better
than she imagines perhaps...her generosity of heart is so great, that
what she desires ought not to be refused, and her sensibility is too
strong to bear a denial, without being afflicted. During these five
years that we have married, I do not know that I have given her the
least uneasiness; and I hope to die without ever being the cause of
her feeling a moment’s inquietude.” Cousin, reflect on this: This is
the husband whose peace of mind you are incessantly meditating to
disturb.
For my part I had less delicacy, or more gentleness of disposition,
and I so naturally diverted the conversation to which your affection
so frequently led you, that as you could not tax me with coldness or
indifference towards you, you took it into your head that I had a
second marriage in view, and that I loved you better than any thing,
except a husband. You see, my dear child, your most inmost thoughts do
not escape me. I guess your meaning, I penetrate your designs; I enter
into the bottom of your soul, and for that reason I have always adored
you. This suspicion, which so opportunely led you into a mistake,
appeared to me well worth encouraging. I took upon me to play the part
of the coquettish widow, which I acted so well as to deceive even you.
It is a part for which I have more talents than inclination. I
skilfully employed that piquant air which I know how to put on, and
with which I have entertained myself in making a jest of more than one
young coxcomb. You have been absolutely the dupe of my affectation,
and you thought me in haste to supply the place of a man, to whom of
all others it would be most difficult to a fit successor. But I am too
ingenuous to play the counterfeit long, and your apprehensions were
soon removed. But to confirm you the more, I will explain to you my
real sentiments on that head.
I have told you an hundred times when I was a maid, that I was never
designed for a wife. Had my determination depended on myself alone, I
should never have married. But our sex cannot purchase liberty but by
slavery; and before we can become our own mistresses, we must begin by
being servants. Though my father did not confine me, I was not without
uneasiness in my family. To free myself from that vexation, therefore,
I married Mr. Orbe. He was such a worthy man, and loved me with such
tenderness, that I most sincerely loved him in my turn. Experience
gave me a more advantageous opinion of marriage than I had conceived
of it, and effaced those impressions I had received from Chaillot. Mr.
Orbe made me happy, and did not repent his endeavours. I should have
discharged my duty with any other, but I should have vexed him, and I
am sensible that nothing but so good a husband could have made me a
tolerable wife. Would you think that even this afforded me matter of
complaint? My dear, we loved each other too affectionately; we were
never gay. A slighter friendship would have been more sprightly; I
should even have preferred it, and I think I should have chosen to
have lived with less content, if I could have laughed oftener.
Add to this, that the particular circumstances of your situation, gave
me uneasiness. I need not remind you of the dangers to which an unruly
passion exposed you. I reflect on them with horror. If you had only
hazarded your life, perhaps I might have retained some remains of
gaiety: but terror and grief pierced my soul, and till I saw you
married, I did not enjoy one moment of real pleasure. You are no
stranger to my affliction at that time, you felt it. It had great
influence over your good disposition, and I shall always bless those
fortunate tears, which were probably the occasion of your return to
virtue.
In this manner I passed all the time that I lived with my husband.
Since it has pleased the Almighty to take him from me, judge whether I
can hope to find another so much to my mind, and whether I have any
temptation to make the experiment? No, cousin, matrimony is too
serious a state for me; its gravity does not suit with my humour; it
makes me dull, and sits awkwardly upon me; not to mention that all
constraint whatever is intolerable to me. Consider, you who know me,
what charms can an attachment have in my eyes, during which, for seven
years together, I have not laughed seven times heartily! I do not
propose, like you, to turn matron at eight and twenty. I find myself a
smart little widow, likely to get a husband still, and I think that if
I was a man, I should have no objection to such a one as myself. But
to marry again, cousin! hear me; I sincerely lament my poor husband, I
would have given up one half of my days, to have passed the other half
with him; and nevertheless, could he return to life, I should take him
again for no other reason, than because I had taken him before.
I have declared to you my real intentions. If I have not been able to
put them in execution, notwithstanding Mr. Wolmar’s kind endeavours,
it is because difficulties seem to increase, as my zeal to surmount
them strengthens. But my zeal will always gain the ascendency, and
before the summer is over, I hope to return to you for the remainder
of my days.
I must now vindicate myself from the reproach of concealing my
uneasiness, and choosing to weep alone; I do not deny it, and this is
the way I spend the most agreeable time I pass here. I never enter my
house, but I perceive some traces which remind me of him, who made it
agreeable to me. I cannot take a step, I cannot view a single object,
without perceiving some signs of his tenderness and goodness of heart;
and would you have my mind to be unaffected? When I am here, I am
sensible of nothing but the loss I have sustained. When I am near you,
I view all the comfort I have left. Can you make your influence over
my disposition, a crime in me? If I weep in your absence, and laugh in
your company, whence proceeds the difference? Ungrateful woman! it is
because you alleviate all my afflictions, and I cannot grieve while I
enjoy your society.
You have said a great deal in favour of our long friendship; but I
cannot pardon you for omitting a circumstance that does me most
honour; which is, that I love you, though you eclipse me! Eloisa, you
were born to rule. Your empire is more despotic than any in the world.
It extends even over the will, and I am sensible of it more than any
one. How happens it, my Eloisa? We are both in love with virtue;
honour is equally dear to us; our talents are the same; I have very
near as much spirit as you; and am not a bit less handsome. I am
sensible of all this, and yet notwithstanding all, you prescribe to
me, you overcome me, you cast me down, your genius crushes mine, and I
am nothing before you. Even while you were engaged in an attachment
with which you reproached yourself, and that I, who had not copied
your failing, might have taken the lead in my turn, yet the ascendency
still remained in you. The frailty I condemned in you, appeared to me
almost in the light of a virtue; I could scarce forbear admiring in
you, what I should have censured in another. In short, even at that
time, I never accosted you without a sensible emotion of involuntary
respect; and it is certain that nothing but your gentleness and
affability of manners could entitle me to the rank of your friend: by
nature, I ought to be your servant. Explain this mystery if you can;
for my part, I am at a loss how to solve it.
But after all, I do in some measure conceive the reason, and I believe
that I have explained it before now. The reason is, that your
disposition enlivens every one round you, and gives them a kind of new
existence, for which they are bound to adore you, since they derive it
entirely from you. It is true, I have done you some signal services;
you have so often acknowledged them, that it is impossible for me to
forget them. I cannot deny but that, without my assistance, you had
been utterly undone. But what did I do, more than return the
obligation I owed you? Is it possible to have a long acquaintance with
you without finding one’s mind impressed with the charms of virtue,
and the delights of friendship? Do not you know that you have power to
arm in your defence everyone who approaches you, and that I have no
advantage whatever over others, but that of being, like the guards of
Serositis, of the same age and sex, and of having been brought up with
you. However it be, it is some comfort to Clara, that, though she is
of less estimation than Eloisa, yet without Eloisa she would be of
less value still; and in short, to tell you the truth, I think that we
stood in great need of each other, and that we should both have been
losers if fate had parted us.
I am chiefly concerned lest, while my affairs detain me here, you
should discover your secret, which you are every minute ready to
disclose. Consider, I intreat you, that there are solid and powerful
reasons for concealing it, and that nothing but a mistaken principle
can tempt you to reveal it. Besides, our suspicion that it is no
longer a secret to him who is most interested in the discovery, is an
additional argument against making any declaration without the
greatest circumspection. Perhaps your husband’s reserve may serve as
an example and a lesson to us: for in such cases there is very often a
great difference between pretending to be ignorant of a thing, and
being obliged to know it. Stay therefore, I beseech you, till we
consult once more on this affair. If your apprehensions were well
grounded, and your lamented friend was no more, the best resolution
you could take, would be to let your history and his misfortunes be
buried together. If he is alive, as I hope he is, the case may be
different; but let us wait till we are sure of the event. In every
state of the case, do not you think that you ought to pay some regard
to the last advice of an unfortunate wretch, whose evils all spring
from you?
With respect to the danger of solitude, I conceive and cannot condemn
your fears, though I am persuaded that they are ill founded. Your past
terrors have made you fearful; but I presage better of the time
present, and you would be less apprehensive, if you had more reason to
be so. But I cannot approve of your anxiety with regard to the fate of
our poor friend. Now your affections have taken a different turn,
believe me he is as dear to me as to yourself. Nevertheless I have
forebodings quite contrary to yours, and more agreeable to reason.
Lord B---- has heard from him twice, and wrote to me on the receipt of
the last letter, to acquaint me that he was in the South seas, and had
already escaped all the dangers you apprehend. You know all this as
well as I, and yet you are as uneasy as if you were a stranger to
these particulars. But there is a circumstance you are ignorant of,
and of which I must inform you; it is, that the ship on which he is on
board, was seen two months ago off the Canaries, making sail for
Europe. This is the account my father received from Holland, which he
did not fail to transmit to me; for it is his custom to be more
punctual in informing me concerning public affairs, than in
acquainting me with his own private concerns. My heart tells me that
it will not be long before we hear news of our philosopher, and that
your tears will be dried up, unless after having lamented him as dead,
you weep to find him alive, But, thank God, you are no longer in
danger from your weakness.
_Deh! fosse or qui quel miser puer un poco,
Ch’ e giá di piangere e di viver lasso!_
This is the sum of my answer. Your affectionate friend proposes, and
shares with you the agreeable expectation of a lasting re-union. You
find that you are neither the first, nor the only author of this
project; and that the execution of it is more forward than you
imagined. Have patience therefore, my dear friend, for this summer: It
is better to delay our meeting for same time, than to be under the
necessity of parting again.
Well, good Madam, have not I been as good as my word, and is not my
triumph compleat? Come, fall on your knees, kiss this letter with
respect, and humbly acknowledge that, once in her life at least,
Eloisa Wolmar has been outdone in friendship.
Letter CXXII. To Mrs. Orbe.
My dear cousin, my benefactress, my friend! I come from the
extremities of the earth, and bring a heart full of affection for you.
I have crossed the line four times; I have traversed the two
hemispheres; I have seen the four quarters of the globe; its diameter
has been between us; I have been quite round it, and yet could not
escape from you one moment. It is in vain to fly from the object of
our adoration: the image, more fleet than the winds, pursues us from
the end of the world, and wherever we transport ourselves, we bear
with us the idea by which we are animated. I have endured a great
deal; I have seen others suffer more. How many unhappy wretches have
I seen perish! Alas! They rated life at a high price! And yet I
survived them... Perhaps my condition was less to be pitied; the
miseries of my companions affected me more than my own. I am wretched
here, said I to myself, but there is a corner of the globe where I am
happy and tranquil; and the prospect of felicity on the side of the
lake at Geneva, made me amends for what I suffered on the ocean. I
have the pleasure on my return to find my hopes confirmed: Lord B----
informs me that you both enjoy health and peace; and that if you, in
particular, have lost the agreeable distinction of a wife, you
nevertheless retain the title of a friend and mother, which may
contribute to your happiness.
I am at present too much in haste to send you a detail of my voyage
in this letter. I dare hope that I shall soon have a more convenient
opportunity; meantime I must be content to give you a slight sketch,
rather to excite than gratify your curiosity. I have been near four
years in making this immense tour, and I returned in the same ship in
which I set sail, the only one of the whole squadron which we have
brought back to England.
I have seen South-America, that vast continent which for want of arms
has been obliged to submit to the Europeans, who have made it a
desert, in order to secure their dominion. I have seen the coasts of
Brazil, from whence Lisbon and London draw their treasures, and where
the miserable natives tread upon gold and diamonds, without daring to
lay hands on them for their own life. I crossed, in mild weather,
those stormy seas under the Antarctic circle, and I met with the most
horrible tempests in the Pacific ocean.
_E in mar dubbioso sotto ignoto polo
Provai l’onde fallaci, e’l vento in fido._
I have seen, at a distance, the abode of those supposed giants, who
are no otherwise greater than the rest of their species, than as they
are more courageous, and who maintain their dependence more by a life
of simplicity and frugality, than by their extraordinary stature. I
made a residence of three months in a desert and delightful island,
which afforded an agreeable and lively representation of the primitive
beauty of nature, and which seems to be fixed at the extremity of the
world to serve as an asylum to innocence and persecuted love; but the
greedy European indulges his brutal disposition in preventing the
peaceful Indian from residing there, and does justice on himself, by
not making it his own abode.
I have seen, in the rivers of Mexico and Peru, the same scenes as at
Brazil; I have seen the few wretched inhabitants, the sad remains of
two powerful nations, loaded with irons, ignominy and misery, weeping
in the midst of their precious metals, and reproaching heaven for
having lavished such treasures among them. I have seen the dreadful
conflagration of a whole city, which perished in the flames without
having made any resistance or defence. Such is the right of war among
the intelligent, humane, and refined Europeans! They are not satisfied
with doing the enemy all the mischief from whence they can reap any
advantage, but they reckon as clear gain, all the destruction they can
make among his possessions. I have coasted along almost the whole
western part of America, not without being struck with admiration on
beholding fifteen hundred leagues of coast, and the greatest sea in
the world, under the dominion of a single potentate, who may be said
to keep the keys of one hemisphere.
After having crossed this vast sea, I beheld a new scene on the other
continent, I have seen the most numerous and most illustrious nation
in the world, in subjection to a handful of Banditti; I have had close
intercourse with this famous people, and I do not wonder that they are
slaves. As often conquered as attacked, they have always been a prey
to the first invader, and will be so to the end of the world. They are
well suited to their servile state, since they have not the courage
even to complain. They are learned, lazy, hypocritical, and deceitful:
they talk a great deal without saying anything; they are full of
spirit, without any genius; they abound in signs, but are barren in
ideas; they are polite, full of compliments, dextrous, crafty, and
knavish; they comprise all the duties of life in trifles, all morality
in grimace, and have no other idea of humanity, than what consists in
bows and salutations. I landed upon a second desert island, more
unknown, more delightful still than the first, and where the most
cruel accident had like to have confined us for ever. I was the only
one perhaps, whom so agreeable an exile did not terrify; am I not
doomed to be an exile every where? In this place of terror and
delight, I saw the attempts of human industry to disengage a civilized
being from a solitude where he wants nothing; and plunge him into an
abyss of new necessities.
On the vast ocean, where one would imagine men would be glad to meet
with their own species, I have seen two great ships sail up to each
other, join, attack, and fight together with fury, as if that immense
space was too little for either of them. I have seen them discharge
flames and bullets against each other. In a sight which was not of
long duration, I have seen the picture of hell. I have heard the
triumphant shouts of the conquerors, drown the cries of the wounded,
and the groans of the dying. I blushed to receive my share of an
immense plunder; but I received it in the nature of a trust, and as it
was taken from the wretched, to the wretched it shall be restored.
I have seen Europe transported to the extremities of Africa, by the
labours of that avaricious, patient, and industrious people, who by
time and perseverance have surmounted difficulties which all the
heroism of other nations could never overcome. I have seen those
immense and miserable countries, which seem destined to no other
purpose than to cover the earth with herds of slaves. At their vile
appearance, I turned away my eyes, out of disdain, horror and pity;
and on beholding one fourth part of my fellow creatures transformed
into beast for the service of the rest, I could not forbear lamenting
that I was a man.
Lastly, I beheld, in my fellow travellers, a bold and intrepid people,
whose freedom and example retrieved, in my opinion, the honour of the
species; a people, who despised pain and death, and who dreaded
nothing but hunger and disquiet. In their commander, I beheld a
captain, a soldier, a pilot, a prudent and great man, and to say still
more perhaps, a friend worthy of Lord B----. But throughout the whole
world, I have never met with any resemblance of Clara Orbe, or Eloisa
Etange, or found one who could recompense a heart truly sensible of
their worth, for the loss of their society.
How shall I speak of my cure? It is from you that I must learn how far
it is perfect. Do I return more free, and more discreet than I
departed? I dare believe that I do, and yet I cannot affirm it. The
same image has constant possession of my heart; you know how
impossible it is for me ever to efface it; but her dominion over me is
more worthy of her, and if I do not deceive myself, she holds the same
empire in my heart, as in your own. Yes, my dear cousin, her virtue
has subdued me; I am now, with regard to her, nothing more than a most
sincere and tender friend, my adoration of her is of the same nature
with yours; or rather, my affections do not seem to be weakened, but
rectified, and however nicely I examine, I find them to be as pure as
the object which inspires them. What can I say more, till I am put to
the proof, by which I may be able to form a right judgment of myself?
I am honest and sincere; I will be what I ought to be; but how shall I
answer for my affections, when I have so much reason to mistrust them?
Have I power over the past? How can I avoid recollecting a thousand
passions which have formerly distracted me? How shall my imagination
distinguish what is, from what has been? And how shall I consider her
as a friend, whom I never yet saw but as a mistress? Whatever you may
think of the secret motive of my eagerness, it is honest and rational,
and merits your approbation. I will answer beforehand, at least for my
intentions. Permit me to see you, and examine me yourself, or allow me
to see Eloisa, and I shall then know my own heart.
I am to attend Lord B---- into Italy. Shall I pass close by your
house, and not see you? Do you think this possible? Ah! if you are so
cruel to require it, you ought not to be obeyed! But why should you
desire it? Are you not the same Clara, as kind and compassionate as
you are virtuous and discreet, who condescended from her infancy to
love me, and who ought to love me still more, now that I am indebted
to her for every thing. [51] No, my dear and lovely friend, such a
cruel denial will not become you, nor will it be just to me; it shall
not put the finishing stroke to my misery. Once more, once more in my
life, I will lay my heart at your feet. I will see you, you shall
consent to an interview. I will see Eloisa likewise, and she too shall
give her consent. You are both of you too sensible of my regard for
her. Can you believe me capable of making this request, if I found
myself unworthy to appear in her presence? She has long since bewailed
the effects of her charms, ah! let her for once behold the fruits of
her virtue!
P. S. Lord B----’s affairs detain him here for some time; if I may be
allowed to see you, why should not I get the start of him, to be with
you the sooner?
Letter CXXIII. From Mr. Wolmar.
Though we are not yet acquainted, I am commanded to write to you. The
most discreet and most beloved wife, has lately disclosed her heart to
her happy husband. He thinks you worthy to have been the object of her
affections, and he makes you an offer of his house. Peace and
innocence reign in this mansion; you will meet with friendship,
hospitality, esteem and confidence. Examine your heart, and if you
find nothing there to deter you, come without any apprehensions. You
will not depart from him, without leaving behind you at least one
friend, by name.