The courier from Italy seemed only to wait for your departure, for his
own arrival; as if to punish you for having staid only for him. Not
that I myself made the pretty discovery of the cause of your
loitering: it was my husband who observed, that after the horses had
been put to at eight o’clock, you deferred your departure till eleven;
not out of regard to us, but for a reason easy to be guessed at; from
your asking twenty times, if it was ten o’clock, because the post
generally goes by at that time.
Yes, my dear cousin, you are caught; you cannot deny it. In spite of
the prophetic Chaillot, her Clara, so wild, or rather so discreet, has
not been so to the end. You are caught in the same toils from which
you took so much pains to extricate your friend, and have not been
able to preserve that liberty yourself, to which you restored me. It
is my turn to laugh now. Ah my dear friend, one ought to have your
talents to know how to laugh like you, and give even to raillery the
affecting turn and appearance of kindness. Besides, what a difference
in our situation! with what face can I divert myself with an evil, of
which I am the cause, and from which you have taken upon yourself, to
free me. There is not a sentiment in your breast that does not awake a
sense of gratitude in mine, even your weakness being in you the effect
of virtue. It is this which consoles and diverts me. My errors are to
be lamented; but one may laugh at the false modesty which makes you
blush at a passion as innocent as yourself.
But to return to your Italian courier, and leave moralizing for a
while. This courier then, who has been so long in coming, you will ask
what he has brought us. Nothing but good news of our friends, and a
letter as big as a packet for you. O ho! I see you smile and take
breath now. As the letter is sent you, however, you will doubtless
wait patiently to know what it contains. It may yet nevertheless be of
some estimation, even though it did not come when expected; for it
breathes such a----but I will only write news to you, and I dare say
what I was going to say is none.
With that letter is come another from Lord B----, to my husband, with
a great many compliments also for us. This contains some real news,
which is so much the more unexpected, as the first was silent on the
subject. Our friends at Rome were to set out the next day for Naples,
where Lord B---- has some business; and from whence they are to go to
see mount Vesuvius.----Can you conceive, my dear, that such a sight
can be entertaining? but on their return to Rome, think, Clara, guess
what may happen.----Lord B---- is on the point of being married----
not, I thank heaven, to that unworthy marchioness, who he tells us on
the contrary, is much indisposed. To whom then?----To Laura, the
amiable Laura, who----yet, what a marriage! Our friend says not a word
about it. Immediately after the marriage, they will all three set out
and come thither, to take their future measures. What they are to be,
my husband has not told me; but he expects that St. Preux will stay
with us.
I must confess to you his silence gives me some little uneasiness; I
cannot see clearly through it. I think I see an odd peculiarity of
circumstances and contest of human passions absolutely unintelligible.
I cannot see how so good a man should contract so lasting an affection
for so bad a woman as the marchioness, or indeed, how a woman of such
a violent and cruel temper could entertain so ardent a love, if one
may so call her guilty passion for a man of so different a
disposition. Neither can I imagine, how a young creature, so generous,
affectionate and disinterested as Laura, could be able to support her
first dissoluteness of manners; how that flattering and deceitful
tenderness of heart, which misleads our sex, should recover her; how
love, which is the ruin of so many modest women, should make her
chaste.
Will Lady B---- then come hither? hither, my dear Clara! what do you
think of it? after all, what a prodigy must that astonishing woman be,
who, ruined by a dissolute and abandoned education, was reclaimed by
her tenderness of heart, and whom love hath conducted to virtue! ought
any one to admire her more than I, who have acted quite contrary; who
was led astray by inclination, when every thing else conspired to
conduct me in the paths of virtue. I sunk not so low it is true; but
have I raised myself like her? have I avoided so many snares, and made
such sacrifices as she has made? from the lowest ignominy she has
risen to the highest degree of honour, and is a thousand times more
respectable than if she had never fallen. She has sense and virtue:
what needs she more to resemble us? if it be impossible for a woman to
repair the errors of her youth, what right have I to more indulgence
than she? with whom can I hope to stand excused, and to what respect
can I pretend, if I refuse to respect her.
And yet, though my reason tells me this, my heart speaks against it;
and, without being able to tell why, I cannot think it right that Lord
B---- should contract such a marriage, and that his friend should be
concerned in the affair. Such is the force of prejudice! so difficult
is it to shake off the yoke of public opinion! which, nevertheless,
generally induces us to be unjust: the past good is effaced by the
present evil; but, is the past evil ever effaced by any present good?
I hinted to my husband my uneasiness, as to the conduct of St. Preux
in this affair. He seems, said I, to be ashamed to speak of it to my
cousin: I know he is incapable of baseness, but he is too easy, and
may have too much indulgence for the foibles of a friend. No, answered
he, he has done what he ought, and I know will continue to do so; this
is all I am at liberty to tell you at present of the matter; but St.
Preux is honest, and I will engage for him, you will be satisfied with
his conduct.----It is impossible, Clara, that Wolmar can deceive me,
or St. Preux him. So positive an assurance therefore fully satisfied
me; and made me suspect my scruples to be the effect of a fallen
delicacy, and that if I was less vain and more equitable, I should
find Laura more deserving the rank of Lady B----.
But to take leave of her for the present, and return to ourselves.
Don’t you perceive too well, in reading this letter, that our friends
are likely to return sooner than we expected? and is not your heart a
little affected by it? does it not flutter, and beat quicker than
ordinary? that heart too susceptible, and too nearly akin to mine? is
it not apprehensive of the danger of living familiarly with a beloved
object? to see him every day? to sleep under the same roof? and if my
errors did not lessen me in your esteem, does not my example give you
reason to fear for yourself? In your younger years, how many
apprehensions for my safety did not your good sense and friendship
suggest, which a blind passion made me despise! It is now, my dear
friend, my turn to be apprehensive for you, and I have the better
claim to your regard; as what I have to offer is founded on sad
experience. Attend to me then, ere it be too late; lest, having past
half your life in lamenting my errors, you should pass the other in
lamenting your own. Above all things, place not too great a confidence
in your gaiety of temper, which, though it may be a security to those
who have nothing to fear, generally betrays those who are in real
danger. You, my dear Clara, once laughed at love, but that was because
you were a stranger to the passion, and not having felt its power, you
thought yourself above its attacks. Love is avenged, and laughs in its
turn at you. Learn to distrust its deceitful mirth, lest it should one
day cost you an equal portion of grief. It is time, my dear friend, to
lay you open to yourself; for hitherto you have not taken that
interesting view: you are mistaken in your own character, and know not
how to set a just value upon yourself. You consider in the opinion of
Chaillot; who, because of your vivacity of disposition; judged you to
be little susceptible of heart; but a heart like yours was beyond her
talents to penetrate. Chaillot was incapable of knowing you, nor does
any person in the world know you truly but myself. I have left you in
your mistake so long as it could be of service to you, but at present
it may be hurtful, and therefore it is necessary to undeceive you.
You are lively, and imagine yourself to have but little sensibility.
How much, alas! are you deceived: your vivacity itself proves
evidently the contrary. Is it not always exerted on sentimental
subjects? does not even your pleasantry come from the heart? your
raillery is a greater proof of your affection than the compliments of
others; you smile, but your smiles penetrate our hearts; you laugh,
but your laughter draws from us the tears of affection; and I have
remarked, that among those who are indifferent to you, you are always
serious.
If you really were no other than you pretend to be, tell me, what
motive could have so forcibly united us? where had been those bonds of
unparalleled friendship that now subsists between us? By what miracle
should such an attachment give the preference to a heart so little
capable of it? can she who lived but for her friend, be incapable of
love? she who would have left father, husband, relations, and country
to have followed her? what have I done in comparison of this! I, who
have confessedly a susceptible heart, and permitted myself to love;
yet, with all my sensibility, have hardly been able to return your
friendship! these contradictions have instilled into your head as
whimsical an idea of your own character as such a giddy brain can
conceive; which is, to conceit yourself at once the warmest friend and
the coldest lover. Incapable of disowning these gentle ties with which
you perceived you were bound, you thought yourself incapable of being
fettered by any other. You thought nothing in the world could affect
you but Eloisa; as if those hearts which are by nature susceptible,
could be affected but by one object, and as if, because you loved no
other than me, I could be the proper object of your affection. You
pleasantly asked me once, if souls were of a different sex. No, my
dear, the soul is of no sex; but its affections make that distinction,
and you begin to be too sensible of it. Because the first lover that
offered himself did not affect you, you immediately concluded no other
could; because you was not in love with your suitor, you concluded you
could never be in love with any one. When he became your husband,
however, you loved him, and that with so ardent an affection, that it
injured even the intimacy with your friend: that heart, so little
susceptible, as you pretend, could annex to love as tender a
supplement to satisfy the fond desires of a worthy man.
Ah my poor cousin! it is your task for the future to resolve your own
doubts, and if it be true,
_Ch’un freddo amante è mal sicuro amica._
I am greatly afraid I have at present one reason more than ever I had
to rely upon you. But to go on with what I had to say to you on this
subject.
I suspect that you were in love much sooner than you perhaps imagine;
or at least, that the same inclination which ruined me would have
reduced you, had I not been first caught in the snare. Can you
conceive a sentiment so natural and agreeable, could be so tardy in
its birth? can you conceive that at our age, we could either of us
live in a familiarity with an amiable young man without danger, or
that the conformity so general in our taste and inclination, should
not extend to this particular? No, my dear, you, I am certain, would
have loved him, if I had not loved him first. Less weak, though not
less susceptible, you might have been more prudent than I, without
being more happy. But what inclination could have prevailed in your
generous mind, over the horror you would have felt at the infidelity
of betraying your friend! it was our friendship that saved you from
the snares of love: you respected my lover with the same friendship,
and thus redeemed your heart at the expense of mine.
These conjectures are not so void of foundation as you may imagine;
and had I a mind to recollect those times which I could wish to
forget, it would not be difficult for me to trace even in the care you
imagined you took only in my concerns, a farther care, still more
interesting, in those of the object of my affection. Not daring to
love him yourself, you encouraged me to do it; you thought each of us
necessary to the happiness of the other, and therefore, that heart,
which has not its equal in the world, loved us both the more tenderly.
Be assured, that had it not been for your own weakness, you would not
have been so indulgent to me; but you would have reproached yourself
for a just severity towards me, with an imputation of jealousy. You
were conscious of having no right to contend with a passion in me,
which ought nevertheless to have been subdued; and, being more fearful
of betraying your friend than of not acting discreetly, you thought,
in offering up your own happiness to ours, you had made a sufficient
sacrifice to virtue.
This, my dear Clara, is your history; thus hath your despotic
friendship laid me under the necessity of being obliged to you for my
shame, and of thanking you for my errors. Think not, however, that I
would imitate you in this. I am no more disposed to follow your
example than you mine; and as you have no reason to fear falling into
my errors, I have no longer, thank heaven! the same reasons for
granting you indulgence. What better use can I make of that virtue to
which you restored me, than to make it instrumental in the
preservation of yours?
Let me therefore give you my farther advice on the present occasion.
The long absence of our preceptor has not softened your regard for
him. Your being left again at liberty, and his return, have given rise
to opportunity, which love hath been ingenious enough to improve. It
is not a new sentiment produced in your heart; it is only one which,
long concealed there, has at length seized this occasion to discover
itself. Proud enough to avow it to yourself, you are perhaps impatient
to confess it to me. That confession might seem to you almost
necessary to make it quite innocent; in becoming a crime in your
friend it ceased to be one in you, and perhaps you only gave yourself
up to the passion you so many years contended with the more
effectually to cure your friend.
I was sensible, my dear, of all this; and was little alarmed at a
passion which I saw would be my own protection, and on account of
which you have nothing to reproach yourself. The winter we passed
together in peace and friendship, gave me yet more hopes of you; for I
saw that so far from losing your vivacity, you seemed to have improved
it. I frequently observed you affectionate, earnest, attentive; but
frank in your professions, ingenuous even in your raillery, unreserved
and open, and in your liveliest sallies, the picture of innocence.
Since our conversation in the _elysium_, I have not so much reason to
be satisfied with you. I find you frequently sad and pensive. You take
as much pleasure in being alone as with your friend: you have not
changed your language, but your accent; you are more cautious in your
pleasantry; you don’t mention him so often; one would think you were
in constant fear lest he should overhear you; and it is easy to see by
your uneasiness that you wanted to hear from him, much oftener than
you confessed.
I tremble, my good cousin, lest you should not be sensible of the
worst of your disorder, and that the shaft has pierced deeper than you
seem to be aware of. Probe your heart, my dear, to the bottom; and
then tell me, again I repeat it, tell me if the most prudent woman
does not run a risk by being long in the company of a beloved object;
tell me if the confidence which ruined me can be entirely harmless to
you; you are both at liberty; this is the very circumstance that makes
opportunity dangerous. In a mind truly virtuous, there is no weakness
will get the better of conscience, and I agree with you, that one has
always fortitude enough to avoid committing a wilful crime: but alas!
what is a constant protection against human weakness? Reflect however,
on consequences; think on the effects of shame. We must pay a due
respect to ourselves, if we expect to receive it from others; for how
can we flatter ourselves, that others will pay to us what we have not
for ourselves? or where can we think she will stop in the career of
vice, who sets out without fear? These arguments I should use even to
women, who pay no regard to religion and morality, and have no rule of
conduct but the opinion of others: but with you, whose principles are
those of virtue and Christianity, who are sensible of, and respect,
your duty, who know and follow other rules than those of public
opinion, your first honour is to stand excused by your own conscience,
and that is the most important.
Would you know where you are wrong in this whole affair? It is, I say
again, in being ashamed of entertaining a sentiment which you have
only to declare, to render it perfectly innocent: but, with all your
vivacity, no creature in the world is more timid. You affect
pleasantry only to shew your courage, your poor heart trembling all
the while for fear. In pretending to ridicule your passion, you do
exactly like the children, who sing in the dark because they are
afraid. O my dear friend, reflect on what you yourself have often
said; it is a false shame which leads to real disgrace, and virtue
never blushes at any thing but what is criminal. Is love in itself a
crime? does it not, on the contrary, consist of the most refined as
well as the most pleasing of all inclinations? is not its end laudable
and virtuous? does it ever enter into base and vulgar minds? does it
not animate only the great and noble? does it not ennoble their
sentiments? does it not raise them even above themselves? alas! if to
be prudent and virtuous we must be insensible to love, among whom
could virtue find its votaries on earth? among the refuse of nature
and the dregs of mankind.
Why then do you reproach yourself? have you not made choice of a
worthy man? is he not disengaged? are not you so too? does he not
deserve all your esteem? has he not the greatest regard for you? will
you not be even too happy in conferring happiness on a friend so
worthy of that name; paying, with your hand and heart, the debts long
ago contracted by your friend; and in doing him honour by raising him
to yourself, as a reward to unsuccessful, to persecuted merit.
I see what petty scruples still lie in your way. The receding from a
declared resolution, by taking a second husband; the exposing your
weakness to the world; the marrying a needy adventurer; for low minds,
always lavish of scandal, will doubtless so call him. These are the
reasons which make you rather ashamed of your passion than willing to
justify it; that make you desirous of stifling it in your bosom,
rather than render it legitimate. But pray does the shame lie in
marrying the man one loves, or in loving without marrying him? between
these lies your choice. The regard you owe to the deceased requires
you should respect his widow so much, as rather to give her a husband
than a gallant: and, if your youth obliges you to make choice of one
to supply his place, is it not paying a further regard to his memory,
to fix that choice upon the man he most often esteemed when living.
As to his inferiority in point of fortune, I shall perhaps only offend
you in replying to so frivolous an objection, when it is opposed to
good sense and virtue. I know of no debasing inequality, but that
which arises either from character or education. To whatever rank a
man of a mean disposition and low principle may rise, an alliance with
him will always be scandalous. But a man educated in the sentiments of
virtue and honour is equal to any other in the world, and may take
place in whatever rank he pleases. You know what were the sentiments
of your father, when your friend was proposed for me. His family is
reputable, tho’ obscure. He is every where deservedly esteemed. With
all this, was he the lowest of mankind, he would deserve your
consideration: for it is surely better to derogate from nobility than
virtue; and the wife of a mechanic is more reputable than the mistress
of a prince.
I have a glimpse of another kind of embarrassment, in the necessity
you lie under of making the first declaration: for, before he presumes
to aspire to you, it is necessary you should give him permission; this
is one of the circumstances justly attending an inequality of rank,
which often obliges the superior to make the most mortifying advances.
As to this difficulty, I can easily forgive you, and even confess it
would appear to me of real consequence, if I could not find out a
method to remove it. I hope you depend so far on me as to believe this
may be brought about without your being seen in it; and on my part, I
depend so much on my measures, that I shall undertake it with
assurance of success: for notwithstanding what you both formerly told
me of the difficulty of converting a friend into a lover, if I can
read that heart which I too long studied, I don’t believe that on this
occasion any great art will be necessary. I propose, therefore, to
charge myself with this negotiation, to the end that you may indulge
yourself in the pleasure of his return, without reserve, regret,
danger, or scandal. Ah my dear cousin! how delighted shall I be to
unite for ever two hearts so well formed for each other, and which
have been long united in mine. May they still (if possible) be more
closely united! may we have but one heart amongst us! Yes, Clara, you
will serve your friend by indulging your love, and I shall be more
certain of my own sentiments, when I shall no longer make a
distinction between him and you.
But, if notwithstanding what I have alledged, you will not give into
this project, my advice is, at all events, to banish this dangerous
man; always to be dreaded by one or the other: for, be it as it may,
the education of our children is still less important to us than the
virtue of their mothers. I leave you to reflect, during your journey,
on what I have written. We will talk further about it on your return.
I send this letter directly to Geneva; lest, as you were to lie but
one night at Lausanne, it should not find you there. Pray bring me a
good account of that little republic. From the agreeable description,
I should think you happy in the opportunity of seeing it; if I could
set any store by pleasures, purchased with the absence of my friends.
I never loved grandeur, and at present I hate it, for having deprived
me so many years of your company. Neither you nor I, my dear, went to
buy our wedding cloaths at Geneva; and yet, however deserving your
brother may be, I much doubt whether your sister-in-law will be more
happy, with her Flanders lace and India silks, than we in our native
simplicity. I charge you, however, notwithstanding my ill-natured
reflections, to engage them to celebrate their nuptials at Clarens. My
father hath written to yours, and my husband to the bride’s mother, to
invite them hither. Their letters you will find inclosed: please to
deliver them, and enforce their invitations with your interest. This
is all I could do, in order to be present at the ceremony; for I
declare to you, I would not upon any account leave my family. Adieu.
Let me have a line from you, at least to let me know when I am to
expect you here. It is now the second day since you left me, and I
know not how I shall support two days more without you.
P. S. While I was writing this letter, Miss Harriot truly must give
herself the air of writing to her mamma too. As I always like children
should write their own thoughts, and not those which are dictated to
them, I indulged her curiosity; and let her write just what she
pleased, without altering a word. This makes the third letter
inclosed. I doubt, however, whether this is what you will look for in
casting your eye over the contents of the packet. But, for the other
letter, you need not look long, as you will not find it. It is
directed to you, at Clarens; and at Clarens only it ought to be read:
so, take your measures accordingly.
Letter CL. Harriot to her Mother.
Where are you then, mamma? They say at Geneva; which is such a long,
long way off that one must ride two days, all day long, to reach you:
surely, mamma, you don’t intend to go round the world? my little pappa
is set out this morning for Etange; my little grand pappa is gone a
hunting; my little mamma is gone into her closet to write; and there
is nobody with me but Pernette and the Frenchwoman. Indeed, mamma, I
don’t know how it is; but, since our good friend has left us, we are
all scattered about strangely. You began first, mamma; you soon began
to be tired, when you had nobody left to tease: but what is much worse
since you are gone, is, that my little mamma is not so good humour’d
as when you were here. My little boy is very well, but he does not
love you; because you did not dance him yesterday as you used to do.
As for me, I believe I should love you a little bit still, if you
would return quickly, that one might not be so dull. But, if you would
make it up with me quite, you must bring my little boy something that
would please him. To quiet him indeed, would not be very easy, you
would be puzzled to know what to do with him. O that our good friend
was but here now! for it is as he said, my fine fan is broke to
pieces, my blue skirt is torn all to pieces, my white frock is in
tatters; my mittens are no worth a farthing. Fare you well, mamma, I
must here end my letter; for my little mamma has finished hers, and is
coming out of her closet. I think her eyes are red, but I durst not
say so: in reading this, however, she will see I observed it. My good
mamma, you are certainly very naughty, to make my little mamma cry.
P. S. Give my love to my grand pappa, to my uncles, to my new aunt and
her mamma, and to every body: tell them I would kiss them all, and you
too, mamma; but that you are all so far of, I can’t reach you.
Letter CLI. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.
I cannot leave Lausanne without writing you a line, to acquaint you of
my safe arrival here; not however so chearfully disposed as I could
wish. I promised myself much pleasure in a journey, which you have
been too often tempted to take; but, in refusing to accompany me, you
have made it almost disagreeable; and how should it be otherwise?
when it is troublesome, I have all the trouble to myself, and when it
is tolerably agreeable, I regret your not being with me to partake of
the pleasure. I had nothing to say, it is true, against your reasons
for staying at home; but you must not think I was therefore satisfied
with them. If you do, indeed, my good cousin, you are mistaken; for
the very reason why I am dissatisfied is, that I have no right to be
so. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, to have always the best
of the argument, and to prevent your friend from having what she
likes, without leaving her one good reason to find fault with you. All
had gone to rack and ruin, no doubt, had you left your husband, your
family, and your little marmots in the lurch for one week; it had been
a wild scheme, to be sure; but I should have liked you a hundred times
the better for it: whereas, in aiming to be all perfection, you are
good for nothing at all, and are only sit to keep company with angels.
Notwithstanding our past disagreement, I could not help being moved at
the sight of my friends and relations; who, on their part, received me
with pleasure; or, at least, with a profusion of civilities. I can
give you no account of my brother, till I am better acquainted with
him. With a tolerable figure, he has a good deal of the formal air of
the country he comes from. He is serious, cold, and I think has a
surly haughtiness in his disposition, which makes me apprehensive for
his wife, that he will not prove so tractable a husband as ours; but
will take upon him a good deal of the lord and master.
My father was so delighted to see me, that he even left unfinished the
perusal of an account of a great battle which the French, as if to
verify the prediction of our friend, have lately gained in Flanders.
Thank heaven, he was not there! Can you conceive the intrepid Lord
B---- would stand to see his countrymen run away, or that he would
have joined them in their flight? No, never; he would sooner have
rushed a thousand times on death.
But, a propos of our friend,----our other friend hath not written for
some time. Was not yesterday the day for the courier to come from
Italy? If you receive any letters, I hope you will not forget I am a
party concerned in the news.
Adieu, my dear cousin; I must set out. I shall expect your letters at
Geneva; where we hope to arrive tomorrow by dinner time. As for the
rest, you may be assured, that, by some means or other, you shall be
at the wedding; and that, if you absolutely will not come to Lausanne,
I will come with my whole company to plunder Clarens, and drink up all
the wine that is to be found in the town.