Letter CLII. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar

Upon my word, my dear, you have read me a charming lecture! you keep

it up to a miracle! you seem to depend, however, too much on the

salutary effect of your sermons. Without pretending to judge whether

they would formerly have lull’d your preceptor to sleep, I can assure

you they do not put me to sleep at present; on the contrary, that

which you sent me yesterday was so far from affecting me with

drowsiness that it kept me awake all night. I bar, however, the

remarks of that Argus your husband, if he should see the letter. But I

will write in some order, and I protest to you, you had better burn

your fingers, than shew it him.

If I should be very methodical, and recapitulate with you article for

article, I should usurp your privilege; I had better, therefore, set

them down as they come into my head; to affect a little modesty also,

and not give you too much fair-play, I will not begin with our

travellers, or the courier from Italy. At the worst, if it should so

happen, I shall only have my letter to write over again, and to

reverse it, by putting the beginning at the latter end. I am

determined however to begin with the supposed Lady B----. I can assure

you, I am offended at the very title; nor shall I ever forgive St.

Preux for permitting her to take it, Lord B---- for conferring it on

her, or you for acknowledging it. Shall Eloisa Wolmar receive Lauretta

Pisana into her house! permit her to live with her! think of it,

child, again. Would not such a condescension in you be the most cruel

mortification to her? can you be ignorant that the air you breathe is

fatal to infamy? will the poor unfortunate dare to mix her breath with

yours? will she dare to approach you? She would be as much affected by

your presence as a creature possessed would be at the sacred relics in

the hand of the exorcist: your looks would make her sink into the

earth; the very sight of you would kill her.

Not that I despise the unhappy Laura; God forbid! on the contrary, I

admire and respect her, the more as her reformation is heroic and

extraordinary. But is it sufficient to authorise those mean

comparisons by which you debase yourself; as if in the indulgence of

the greatest weakness, there was not something in true love that is a

constant security to our person, and which made us tenacious of our

honour? but I comprehend and excuse you. You have but a confused view

of low and distant objects: you look down from your sublime and

elevated station upon the earth, and see no inequalities on its

surface. Your devout humility knows how to take an advantage even of

your virtue.

But what end will all this serve? will our natural sensations make the

less impression? will our self-love be less active? in spite of your

arguments you feel a repugnance at this match: you tax your sensations

with pride; you would strive against them and attribute them to

prejudice. But tell me, my dear, how long has the scandal attendant on

vice consisted in mere opinion? what friendship do you think can

possibly subsist between you and a woman, before whom, one cannot

mention chastity, or virtue, without making her burst into tears of

shame, without renewing her sorrows, without even insulting her

penitence? believe me, my dear, we may respect Laura, but we ought not

to see her; to avoid her is the regard which modest women owe to her

merit: it would be cruel to make her suffer in our company.

I will go farther, you say your heart tells you, this marriage ought

not to take place. Is not this as much as to tell you it will not.

Your friend says nothing about it in his letter! in the letter which

he wrote to me! and yet you say that letter is a very long one----and

then comes the discourse between you and your husband----that husband

of yours is a slyboots, and ye are a couple of cheats thus to trick me

out of the news ye have heard. But then your husband’s sentiments!----

methinks his sentiments were not so necessary; particularly for you

who have seen the letter, nor indeed were they for me, who have not

seen it: for I am more certain of the conduct of your friend from my

own sentiments, than from all the wisdom of philosophy.

See there now!----did I not tell you so? that intruder will be

thrusting himself in, no body knows how. For fear he should come

again, however, as we are now got into his chapter, let us go through

it, that it may be over, and we may have nothing to do with him again.

Let us not bewilder ourselves with conjectures, had you not been

Eloisa, had not your friend been your lover, I know not what business

he would now have had with you, nor what I should have had to do with

him. All I know is, that, if my ill fears had so ordered it that he

had first made love to me, it had been all over with his poor head;

for, whether I am a fool or not, I should certainly have made him one.

But what signifies what I might have been? let us come to what I am.

Attached by inclination to you, from our earliest infancy, my heart

has been in a manner absorbed by yours; affectionate and susceptible

as I was, I of myself was incapable of love or sensibility. All my

sentiments came from you; you alone stood in the place of the whole

world, and I lived only to be your friend. Chaillot saw all this, and

founded on it the judgment she passed on me. In what particular, my

dear, have you found her mistaken?

You know I looked upon your friend as a brother: as the son of my

mother was the lover of my friend. Neither was it my reason, but my

heart that gave him this preference. I should have been even more

susceptible than I am, had I never experienced any other love. I

caressed you, in caressing the dearest part of yourself, and the

chearfulness which attended my embraces was a proof of their purity.

For doth a modest woman ever behave so to the man she loves? did you

behave thus to him? no, Eloisa, love in a female heart is cautious and

timid; reserve and modesty are all its advances; it discloses by

endeavouring to hide itself, and whenever it confers the favour of its

caresses, it well knows how to set a value upon them. Friendship is

prodigal, but love is avaricious and sparing.

I confess indeed, that too intimate connections at his age and mine,

are dangerous; but, with both our hearts engaged by the same object,

we were so accustomed to place it between us, that, without

annihilating you at least, it was impossible for us to come together.

Even that familiarity, so dangerous on every other occasion, was then

my security. Our sentiments depend on our ideas, and when these have

once taken a certain turn, they are not easily perverted. We had

talked together too much in one strain, to begin upon another; we had

advanced too far to return back the way we came: love is jealous of

its prerogative, and will make its own progress; it does not chuse

that friendship should meet it half way. In short, I am still of the

same opinion, that criminal caresses never take place between those

that have been long used to the endearing embraces of innocence. In

aid of my sentiments, came the man destined by heaven to constitute

the momentary happiness of my life. You know, cousin, he was young,

well made, honest, complaisant and solicitous to please; it is true,

he was not so great a master in love as your friend; but it was me

that he loved: and, when the heart is free, the passion which is

addressed to ourselves, hath always in it something contagious. I

returned his affections therefore, with all that remained of mine, and

his share was such as left him no room to complain of his choice. With

all this, what had I to apprehend. I will even go so far as to confess

that the prerogatives of the husband, joined to the duties of a wife,

relaxed for a moment the ties of friendship; and that, after my change

of condition, giving myself up to the duties of my new station, I

became a more affectionate wife than I was a friend: but, in returning

to you, I have brought back two hearts instead of one, and have not

since forgot that I alone am charged with that double obligation.

What, my dear friend, shall I say farther? at the return of our old

preceptor, I had, as it were, a new acquaintance to cultivate:

methought I looked upon him with very different eyes; my heart

fluttered as he saluted me, in a manner I had never felt before; and

the more pleasure that emotion gave me, the more it made me afraid. I

was alarmed at a sentiment which seemed criminal, and which perhaps

would not have existed had it not been innocent. I too plainly

perceived that he was not, nor could be any longer your lover; I was

too sensible that his heart was disengaged, and that mine was so too.

You know the rest, my dear cousin; my fears, my scruples were, I see,

as well known to you as to myself. My unexperienced heart, was so

intimidated by sensations so new to it, that I even reproached myself

for the earnest desire I felt to rejoin you; as if that desire had not

been the same before the return of our friend. I was uneasy that he

should be in the very place where I myself most inclined to be, and

believe I should not have been so much displeased to find myself less

desirous of it, as at conceiving that it was not entirely on your

account. At length, however, I returned to you, and began to recover

my confidence. I was less ashamed of my weakness after having

confessed it to you. I was even less ashamed of it in your company: I

thought myself protected in turn, and ceased to be afraid of myself. I

resolved, agreeable to your advice, not to change my conduct towards

him. Certainly a greater reserve would have been a kind of

declaration, and I was but too likely to let slip involuntary ones, to

induce me to make any directly. I continued, therefore, to trifle with

him through bashfulness, and to treat him familiarly through modesty:

but perhaps all this, not being so natural as formerly, was not

attended with the same propriety, nor exerted to the same degree. From

being a trifler, I turned a downright fool; and what perhaps increased

my assurance was, I found I could be so with impunity. Whether it was

your example that inspired me, or whether it be that Eloisa refines

every thing that approaches her, I found myself perfectly tranquil,

while nothing remained of my first emotions, but the most pleasing,

yet peaceful sensations, which required nothing more than the

tranquillity I possessed.

Yes, my dear friend, I am as susceptible and affectionate as you; but

I am so in a different manner. Perhaps, with more lively passions, I

am less able to govern them; and that very chearfulness, which has

been so fatal to the innocence of others has preserved mine. Not that

it has been always easy, I confess; any more than it is to remain a

widow at my years, and not be sometimes sensible that the daytime

constitutes but one half of our lives. Nay, notwithstanding the grave

face you put on the matter, I imagine your case does not differ in

that greatly from mine. Mirth and pleasantry may then afford no

unseasonable relief; and perhaps be a better preservative than graver

lessons. How many times, in the stillness of the night, when the heart

is all open to itself, have I driven impertinent thoughts out of my

mind, by studying tricks for the next day! how many times have I not

averted the danger of a private conversation by an extravagant fancy!

there is always, my dear, when one is weak, a time wherein gaiety

becomes serious; but that time will not come to me.

These are at least my sentiments of the matter, and what I am not

ashamed to confess in answer to you. I readily confirm all that I said

in the elysium, as to the growing passion I perceived, and the

happiness I had enjoyed during the winter. I indulged myself freely in

the pleasing reflections of being always in company with the person I

loved, while I desired nothing farther; and, if that opportunity had

still subsisted, I should have coveted no other. My chearfulness was

the effect of contentment, and not of artifice. I turned the pleasure

of conversing with him into drollery, and perceived that, in

contenting myself with laughing, I was not paving the way for future

sorrow.

I could not indeed help thinking sometimes, that my continual playing

upon him gave him less real displeasure than he affected. The cunning

creature was not angry at being offended, and if he was a long time

before he could be brought to temper, it was only, that he might enjoy

the pleasure of being intreated. Again, I in my turn have frequently

laid hold of such occasions to express a real tenderness for him,

appearing all the while to make a jest of him: so that you would have

been puzzled to say which was the most of a child. One day, I remember

that you was absent, he was playing at chess with your husband, while

I and the little Frenchwoman were diverting ourselves at shuttlecock

in the same room; I gave her the signal, and kept my eye on our

philosopher; who, I found by the boldness of his looks and the

readiness of his moves, had the best of the game. As the table was

small, the chessboard hung over its edge, I watched my opportunity,

therefore, and without seeming to design it, gave the board a knock

with a back stroke of my racquet, and overturned the whole game on the

floor. You never in your life law a man in such a passion: he was even

so enraged that, when I gave him his choice of a kiss, or a box in the

ear by way of penance, he sullenly turned away from me as I presented

him my cheek. I asked pardon, but to no purpose: he was inflexible,

and I doubt not that he would lave left me on my knees, had I

condescended to kneel for it. I put an end to his resentment, however,

by another offence which made him forget the former, and we were

better friends than ever.

I could never have extricated myself so well by any other means; and I

once perceived that, if our play had become serious, it might have

proved too much so. This was one evening when he played with us that

simple and affecting duo of Leo’s _Vado a morir ben mio_. You sung

indeed with indifference enough: but I did not; for just as we came to

the most pathetic part of the song, he leaned forward, and as my hand

lay upon the harpsichord, imprinted on it a kiss, whose impression I

felt at my heart. I am not very well acquainted with the ardent kisses

of love; but this I can say, that mere friendship, not even ours, ever

gave or received any thing like that. After such moments, what is the

consequence of reflecting on them in solitude, and of bearing him

constantly in memory? for my part, I was so much affected at the time,

that I sung out of tune and put the music out. We went to dancing, I

made the philosopher dance; we eat little or nothing; sat up very

late; and, though I went to bed weary, I only dosed till morning.

I have therefore very good reason for not laying any restraint on my

humour, or changing my manners. The time that will make such an

alteration necessary is so near, that it is not worth while to

anticipate. The time to be prudish and reserved will come but too

soon. While I am in my twenties, therefore, I shall make use of my

privilege; for when once turned of thirty, people are no longer wild

without being ridiculous; and your find-fault of a husband hath

assurance enough to tell me already that I shall be allowed but six

months longer to dress a salad with my fingers. Patience! to retort

his sarcasm, however, I tell him I will dress it for him in that

manner for these six years to come, and if I do, I protest to you he

shall eat it;----but to return from my ramble. If we have not the

absolute command over our sentiments, we have at least some over our

conduct. I could, without doubt, have requested of heaven a heart more

at ease; but may I be able to my last hour to plead at its dread

tribunal, a life as innocent as that which I passed this winter! in

fact, I have nothing in the least to reproach myself with, respecting

the only man in whose power it might be to make me criminal. It is not

quite the same, my dear, since his departure: being accustomed to

think for him in his absence, I think of him every hour in the day,

and, to confess the truth, find him more dangerous in idea than in

person. When he is absent, I am over head and ears in love; when

present, I am only whimsical. Let him return, and I shall be cured of

all my fears. The chagrin his absence gives me, however, is not a

little aggravated by my uneasiness at his dream. If you have placed

all to the account of love, therefore you are mistaken; friendship has

had part in my uneasiness. After the departure of our friends your

looks were pale and changed; I expected you every moment to fall sick.

Not that I am credulous: I am only fearful. I know very well that a

bad dream does not necessarily produce a sinister event; but I am

always afraid lest such an event should succeed it. Not one night’s

rest could I get for that unlucky dream, till I saw you recover your

former bloom. Could I have suspected the effects his anxiety would

have had on me, without knowing any thing of it, I would certainly

have given every thing I had in the world that he should have shewn

himself when he came back so much like a fool from Villeneuve.

At length, however, my fears vanished with your suspicious looks. Your

health and appetite having a greater effect on me than your

pleasantries. The arguments these sustained at table, against my

apprehensions, in time dissipated them. To increase our happiness our

friend is on his return, and I am in every respect delighted. His

return, so far from alarming me, gives me confidence; and as soon as

we see him again, I shall fear nothing for your life, nor my repose.

In the mean time be careful, dear cousin, of my friend; and be under

no apprehensions for yours; she will take care of herself, I will

engage for her. And yet I have still a pain at my heart----I feel an

oppression which I cannot account for. Ah my dear! to think that we

may one day part for ever! that one may survive the other! how unhappy

will she be on whom that lot shall fall! She will either remain little

worthy to live, or lifeless before her death.

You will ask me, to what purpose is all this vain lamentation? you

will say, fie on these ridiculous terrors! instead of talking of death

let us chuse a more entertaining topic, and talk about your marriage.

Your husband has indeed long entertained such a notion, and perhaps if

he had never spoken of it to me, it would never have come into my

head. I have since thought of it now and then, but always with

disdain. It would be absolutely making an old woman of me; for, if I

should have any children by a second marriage, I should certainly

conceit myself the grandmother of those of the first. You are

certainly very good to take upon yourself so readily to spare the

blushes of your friend, and to look upon your taking that trouble as

an instance of your charitable benevolence. For my own part,

nevertheless, I can see very well that all the reasons, founded on

your obliging solicitude, are not equal to the least of mine against a

second marriage.

To be serious, I am not mean-spirited enough to number among those

reasons any reluctance I should have to break an engagement rashly

made with myself, nor the fear of being censured for doing my duty,

nor an inequality in point of fortune in a circumstance where that

person reaps the greatest honour to whom the other would be obliged

for his: but, without repeating what I have so often told you

concerning my case of independency and natural aversion to the

marriage yoke, I will abide by only one objection, and this I draw

from those sacred dictates which nobody in the world pays a greater

regard to than yourself. Remove this obstacle, cousin, and I give up

the point. Amidst all those airs of mirth and drollery, which give you

so much alarm, my conscience is perfectly easy. The remembrance of my

husband excites not a blush; I even take pleasure to think him a

witness of my innocence; for why should I be afraid to do that, now he

is dead, which I used to do when he was living? but will this be the

case, Eloisa, if I should violate those sacred engagements which

united us; if I should swear to another that everlasting love, which I

have so often swore to him; if my divided heart should rob his memory

of what it bestowed on his successor, and be incapable without

offending one to discharge the obligations it owes the other? will not

that form, now so pleasing to my imagination, fill me with horror and

affright? will it not be ever present to poison my delight? and will

not his remembrance, which now constitutes the happiness of my life,

be my future torment? with what face can you advise me to take a

second husband, after having vowed never to do the like yourself, as

if the same reasons which you give me were not as applicable to

yourself in the same circumstances? they were friends, you say and

loved each other. So much the worse. With what indignation will not

his shade behold a man who was dear to him, usurp his rights, and

seduce his wife from her fidelity? in short, though it were true that

I owed no obligation to the deceased, should I owe none to the dear

pledge of his love? and can I believe he would ever have chosen me,

had he foreseen that I should ever have exposed his only child to see

herself undistinguished among the children of another? another word,

and I have done: who told you, pray, that all the obstacles between us

arise from me? In answering for him, have you not rather consulted

your will than your power? Or, were you certain of his consent, do you

make no scruple to offer me a heart exhausted by a former passion? do

you think that mine ought to be content with it, and that I might be

happy with a man I could not make so? think better of it, my dear

cousin. Not requiring a greater return of love than I feel, I should

not be satisfied with less, and I am too virtuous a woman to think the

pleasing my husband a matter of indifference. What security have you

then for the completion of your hopes? Is the pleasure he may take in

my company, which may be only the effect of friendship; is that

transitory delight, which at his age may arise only from the

difference of sex; Is this, I say, a sufficient foundation? If such

pleasure had produced any lasting sentiment, is it to be thought he

would have been so profoundly silent, not only to me, but to you, and

even to your husband; by whom an eclairissement of that nature could

not fail of being favourably received.

Has he ever opened his lips on this head to any one? in all the

private conversations I have had with him, he talked of no body but

you. In those which you have had, did he ever say anything of me? how

can I imagine that, if he had concealed a secret of this kind in his

breast, I should not have perceived him to be under some constraint,

or that it would not, by some indiscretion or other, have escaped him?

nay, since his departure, which of us does he most frequently mention

in his letters? which of us is the subject of his dreams? I admire

that you should think me so tender and susceptible, and should not at

the same time suppose my heart would suggest all this. But I see

through your device, my sweet friend; it is only to authorise your

pretensions to reprisals, that you charge me with having formerly

saved my heart at the expense of yours. But I am not so to be made the

dupe of your subtlety. And so here is an end of my confession; which I

have made, not to contradict, but to set you right; having nothing

farther to say on this head, than to acquaint you with my resolution.

You now know my heart as well, if not better, than myself. My honour,

my happiness are equally dear to you as to myself; and, in the present

tranquillity of your passions, you will be the best able to judge of

the means to secure both the one and the other. Take my conduct

therefore under your direction. I submit it entirely to you. Let us

return to our natural state, and reciprocally change our employment;

we shall both do the better for it: do you govern, and you shall find

me tractable: let it be your place to direct what I should do, and it

shall be mine to follow your directions.

Take my heart, and inclose it up in yours; what business have

inseparables for two? but to return to our travellers; though, to say

truth, I have already said so much about one, that I hardly dare speak

a word about the other, for fear you should remark too great a

difference in my stile, and that even my friendship for the generous

Englishman should betray too much regard for the amiable Swiss.

Besides, what can I say about letters I have not seen? you ought at

least to send me that of Lord B----. But you durst not send it without

the other. ’Tis very well. You might however have done better. Well,

recommend me to your duennas of twenty: they are infinitely more

tractable than those of thirty.

I must revenge myself, however, by informing you of the effect of your

fine reserve. It has only made me imagine the letter in question, that

letter which breathes such a----only a hundred times more tender

than it really is. Out of spite, I take pleasure in conceiving it

filled with soft expressions which cannot be in it; so that if I am

not passionately admired, I shall make you suffer for it. After all, I

cannot see with what face you can talk to me of the Italian post. You

prove in your letter that I was not in the wrong to wait for it, but

for not having waited long enough. Had I stayed but one poor quarter

of an hour longer, I should have met the packet, have laid hold of it

first, and read it at my ease. It had then been my turn to make a

merit of giving it you. But, since the grapes are too sour, you may

keep the letters. I have two others which I would not change for them

were they better worth reading than I imagine they are. There is that

of Harriot, I can assure you, even exceeds your own; nor have either

you or I, in all our lives, ever wrote any thing so pretty. And yet

you give yourself airs forsooth of treating this prodigy as a little

impertinent. Upon my word I suspect that to arise from mere envy; and,

since I have discovered in her this new talent, I purpose, before you

spoil her writing as you have done her speech, to establish between

her apartment and mine an Italian post, from whence I will have no

pilfering of packets.

Farewell, my dear friend, you will find inclosed the answers to your

letters, which will give you no mean idea of my interest here. I would

write to you something about this country and its inhabitants; but it

is high time to put an end to this volume of a letter. You have

besides quite perplexed me with your strange fancies. As we have five

or six days longer to stay here, and I shall have time to give another

look at what I have already seen, you will be no loser by the delay;

and you may depend on my transmitting you another volume as big as

this, before my departure.

Letter CLIII. Lord B---- to Mr. Wolmar.

No! my dear Wolmar, you were not mistaken: St. Preux is to be depended

on; but I am not; and I have paid dear for the experience that hath

convinced me of it. Without his assistance I should have been a dupe

to the very proof to which I put his fidelity. You know that, to

satisfy his notions of gratitude; and divert his mind with new

objects, I pretended that my journey to Italy was of greater

importance than it really was. To bid a final adieu to the attachments

of my youth, and bring back a friend perfectly cured of his, were, the

fruits I promised myself from the voyage. I informed you that his

dream, at Villeneuve, gave me some uneasiness for him. That dream made

me even suspect the motives of his transport, on being told that you

had chosen him preceptor for your children, and that he should pass

the remainder of his life with you. ‘The better’ to observe the

effusions of his heart, I had at first removed all difficulties, by

declaring my intention of settling also in your part of the world; and

thus I prevented any of those objections his friendship might have

made on account of leaving me. A change in any resolutions, however,

made me soon alter my tale.

He had not seen the marchioness thrice, before we were both agreed in

our opinion of her. Unfortunate woman! possessed of noble qualities,

but without virtue! her ardent, sincere passion, at first affected me,

and nourished mine; but her passion was tinged with the blackness of

her soul, and inspired me in the end with horror. When he had seen

Laura, and knew her disposition; her beauty, her wit and unexampled

attachment, I formed a resolution to make use of her to acquire a

perfect knowledge of the situation of St. Preux. If I marry Laura,

said I to him, it is not my intention to carry her to London, where

she may be known; but to a place, where virtue is respected in

whomsoever it is found: you will there discharge your duty of

preceptor, and we shall still continue to live together. If I do not

marry her, it is time for me, however, to think of settling. You know

my house in Oxfordshire, and will make your choice, either to take

upon you the education of Mr. Wolmar’s children, or to accompany me in

my retirement. To this, he made me just such an answer as I expected;

but I had a mind to observe his conduct. If, in order to spend his

time at Clarens, he had promoted a marriage which he ought to have

opposed, or on the contrary, preferred the honour of his friend to his

own happiness; in either case, I say, the experiment answered my end,

and I knew what to think of the situation of his heart.

On trial, I found him to be such as I wished; firmly resolved against

the project I pretended to have formed, and ready with all his

arguments to oppose it; but I was continually in her company, and was

moved by her tenderness and affliction. My heart, totally disengaged

from the marchioness, began to fix itself on her rival, by this

constant intercourse. The sentiments of Laura increased the attachment

she had before inspired; and I began to be ashamed of sacrificing to

that prejudice I despised, the esteem which I was so well convinced

was due to her merit; I began even to be in doubt, whether I had not

laid myself under some obligation to do that merit justice, by the

hopes I had given her, if not in words, at least by my actions. Though

I never promised her any thing, yet to have kept her in suspense and

expectation for nothing, would be to deceive her; and I could not help

thinking such a deception extremely cruel. In short, annexing a kind

of duty to my inclination, and consulting happiness more than

reputation, I attempted to reconcile my passion to reason, and

resolved to carry my pretended scheme as far as it would go, and even

to execute it in reality, if I could not recede without injustice.

After some time, however, I began to be more uneasy on account of St.

Preux, as he did not appear to act the part he had undertaken with

that zeal I expected. Indeed he opposed my professed design of

marriage, but took little pains to check my growing inclination;

speaking to me of Laura in such a strain of encomium as, at the same

time that he appeared to dissuade me from marrying her, added fuel to

the flame by increasing my affection. This inconsistency gave me some

alarm; I did not think him so steady as before. He seemed shy of

directly opposing my sentiments, gave way to my arguments, was fearful

of giving offence, and indeed seemed to have lost all that intrepidity

in doing his duty, which the true passion for it inspires. Some other

observations which I made also, increased my distrust. I found out

that he visited Laura unknown to me; and that, by their frequent

signs, there was a secret understanding between them. On her part, the

prospect of being united to the man she loved seemed to give her no

pleasure; I observed in her the same degree of tenderness indeed, but

that tenderness was no longer mixed with joy at my approach; a gloomy

sadness perpetually clouding her features. Nay, sometimes in the

tenderest part of our conversations, I have caught her casting a side

glance on St. Preux; on which a tear would often steal silently down

her check, which she endeavoured to conceal from me. In short, they

carried the matter so far, that I was at last greatly perplexed. What

could I think? it is impossible, said I to myself, that I can all this

while have been cherishing a serpent in my bosom? how far have I not

reason to extend my suspicions, and return those he formerly

entertained of me? weak and unhappy as we are, our misfortunes are

generally of our own seeking! Why do we complain that bad men torment

us, while the good are so ingenious at tormenting each other! All this

operated but to induce me to come to a determination. For, though I

was ignorant of the bottom of their intrigue, I saw the heart of Laura

was still the same; and that proof of her affection endeared her to me

the more. I proposed to come to an explanation with her before I put

an end to the affair; but I was desirous of putting it off till the

last moment, in order to get all the light I could possibly

beforehand. As for St. Preux, I was resolved to convince myself, to

convince him, and in short to come at the truth of the matter before I

took any step in regard to him; for it was easy to suppose that an

infallible rupture must happen, and I was unwilling to place a good

disposition and a reputation of twenty years standing, in the balance

against mere suspicions.

The marchioness was not ignorant of what passed; having her spies in

the convent where Laura resides, who informed her of the report of her

marriage. Nothing more was necessary to excite her rage. She wrote me

threatening letters; nay; she went farther; but, as it was not the

first time she had done so, and we were on our guard, her attempts

were fruitless. I had only the pleasure to see that our friend did not

spare himself on this occasion nor make any scruple to expose his own

life to save that of his friend.

Overcome by the transports of her passion, the marchioness fell sick,

and was soon past recovery; putting at once an end to her misfortunes

and her guilt. [94] I could not help being afflicted to hear of her

illness, and sent doctor Eswin to give her all the assistance in his

power, as a physician. St. Preux went also to visit her in my behalf;

but she would neither see one nor the other. She would not even bear

to hear me named during her illness, and inveighed against me with the

most horrid imprecations every time I was mentioned. I was grieved at

heart for her situation, and felt my wounds ready to bleed afresh;

reason however supported my spirits and resolution, but I should have

been one of the worst of men to think of marriage, while a woman, so

dear to me, lay in that extremity. In the mean time our friend,

fearing I should not be able to resist the strong inclination I had to

see her, proposed a journey to Naples; to which I consented.

The second day after our arrival there, he came into my chamber with a

fixed and grave countenance, holding a letter in his hand, which he

seemed to have just received. I started up, and cried out, The

marchioness is dead! would to God, said he, coldly, she were! it were

better not to exist, than to exist only to do evil; but it is not of

her I bring you news; tho’ what I bring concerns you nearly; be

pleased, my lord, to give me an uninterrupted hearing. I was silent,

and thus he began.

In honouring me with the sacred name of friend, you taught me how to

deserve it. I have acquitted myself of the charge you entrusted with

me, and, seeing you ready to forget yourself, have ventured to assist

your memory. I saw you unable to break one connection but by entering

into another; both equally unworthy of you. Had an unequal marriage

been the only point in question, I should only have reminded you, that

you was a peer of England, and advised you either to renounce all

pretensions to public honour, or to respect public opinion. But a

marriage so scandalous! can you? no, my lord, you will not make so

unworthy a choice. It is not enough that your wife should be virtuous,

her reputation should be unstained. Believe me, a wife for Lord

B---- is not easily to be found. Read that, my lord, and see what I

have done.

He then gave me a letter. It was from Laura. I opened it with emotion

and read as follows.

My Lord,

“Love at length prevailed, and you were willing to marry me: but I am

content. Your friend has pointed out my duty, and I perform it

without regret. In dishonouring you, I should have lived unhappy; in

leaving your honour unstained, methinks I partake of it. The sacrifice

of my felicity to a duty so severe, makes me forget even the shame of

my youth. Farewell! from this moment I am no longer in your power or

my own. Farewell, my lord, for ever! pursue me not in my retreat, to

despair; but: hear my last request. Confer not on any other woman,

that honour I could not accept. There was but one heart in the world

made for yours, and it was that of”

_Laura_.

The agitation of mind I was in, on reading this letter, prevented me

from speaking. He took the advantage of my silence, to tell me that,

after my departure, she had taken the veil in the convent where she

boarded; that the court of Rome, being informed she was going to be

married to a Lutheran, had given orders to prevent his seeing her; and

confessed to me frankly, that he had taken all these measures in

concert with herself. I did not oppose your designs, continued he,

with all the power I might; fearing your return to the marchioness,

and being desirous of combating your old passion by that which you

entertained for Laura. In seeing you run greater lengths than I

intended, I applied to your understanding: but, having from my own

experience but too just reason to distrust the power of argument, I

sounded the heart of Laura; and, finding in it all that generosity

which is inseparable from true love, I prevailed on her to make this

sacrifice. The assurance of being no longer the object of your

contempt, inspired her with a fortitude which renders her the more

worthy of your esteem. She has done her duty, you must now do yours.

Then eagerly embracing and pressing me to his heart, “I read, says he,

in our common destiny, those laws which heaven dictates to both, and

requires us to obey. The empire of love is at an end, and that of

friendship begins: my heart attends only to its sacred call; it knows

no other tie than that which unites me to you. Fix on whatever place

of residence you please, Clarens, Oxford, London, Paris, or Rome; it

is equal to me, so we but live together. Go whither you will, seek an

asylum wherever you think fit, I will follow you throughout the world:

for I solemnly protest, in the face of the living God, that I will

never leave you till death.”

I was greatly affected at the zeal and affection of this young man;

his eyes sparkling with pleasure on this effusion of his heart. I

forgot at once both the marchioness and Laura. Is there indeed any

thing in the world to be regretted, while one preserves so dear a

friend? Indeed, I was now fully convinced, by the part he so readily

took on this occasion, that he was entirely cured of his ancient

passion; and that the pains you had taken, were not thrown away upon

him. In short, I could not doubt, by the solemn engagement he had thus

voluntarily made, that his attachment to me was truly sincere; and

that his virtue had entirely got the better of his inclinations. I can

therefore bring him back with confidence. Yes, my dear Wolmar, he is

worthy to educate youth; and what is more, of being received into your

house.

A few days after, I received an account of the death of the

marchioness; at which I was but little affected, as she had indeed

been long dead in respect to me. I had hitherto regarded marriage as a

debt, which every man contracts at the time of his birth, with his

country and mankind; for which reason, I had resolved to marry, the

less out of inclination than duty; but I am now of another opinion.

The obligation to marriage, I now conceive, is not so universal; but

that it depends on the rank and situation which every man holds in

life. Celibacy is, doubtless, wrong in the common people, such as

manufacturers, husbandmen, and others, who are really useful and

necessary to the state. But for those superior orders of men, who

compose the legislature and the magistracy, to which every other

aspires, and which are always sufficiently supplied, it is both lawful

and expedient. For were the rich all obliged to marry, the increase of

number among those subjects which are a dead weight on the state,

would only tend to its depopulation. Mankind will always find masters

enough, and England will sooner want labourers than peers.

I think myself at full liberty, therefore, in the rank to which I was

born, to indulge my own inclination in this respect. At my age, it is

too late to think of repairing the shocks my heart hath sustained from

love. I shall devote my future hours therefore to friendship, the

pleasures of which I can no where cultivate so well as at Clarens. I

accept, therefore, your obliging offers, on such conditions, as my

fortune ought to add to yours, that it may not be useless to me.

Besides, after the engagement St. Preux hath entered into, I know no

other method of detaining him with you, but by residing with you

myself; and if ever he grows tired or troublesome, it will be

sufficient for me to leave you, to make him follow. The only

embarrassment I shall in this case lie under, respects my customary

voyages to England; for, tho’ I have no longer any interest in the

house of peers, yet while I am one of the number, I think it necessary

I should continue to do my duty as such. But I have a faithful friend

among my brother peers, whom I can empower to answer for me in

ordinary cases; and on extraordinary occasions, wherein I think it my

duty to go over in person, I can take my pupil along with me; and even

he, his pupils with him, when they grow a little bigger and you can

prevail on yourself to trust them with us. Such voyages cannot fail of

being useful to them, and will not be so very long as to make their

absence afflicting to their mother.

I have not shewn this letter to St. Preux, nor, do I desire you should

shew every part of it to the ladies: it is proper that my scheme to

sound the heart of our friend, should be known only to you and me. I

would not have you conceal anything from them, however, that may do

honour to this worthy youth, even tho’ it should be discovered at my

expense: but I must here take my leave.

I have sent the designs and drawings for my pavilion, for you to

reform, alter, and amend, as you please; but I would have you to

execute them immediately if possible. I would have struck out the

music room; for I have now lost almost all pretensions to taste, and

am careless of amusement: at the request of St. Preux, however, I have

left it, as he proposes now and then to exercise your children there.

You will receive also some few books, to add to your library. But what

novelty will you find in books? No, my dear Wolmar, you only want to

understand that of nature, to be the wisest of men.

Letter CLIV. Answer.

I was impatient, my dear B----, to come to the end of your adventures.

It seemed very strange to me, that, after having so long resisted the

force of your inclinations, you had waited only for a friend to assist

you to give way to them: tho’, to say truth, we find ourselves often

more weak when supported by others, than when we rely solely on our

own strength. I confess, however, I was greatly alarmed by your last

letter, when you told me your marriage with Laura was a thing

absolutely determined. Not but that, in spite of this assurance, I

still entertained some doubts of the event; and, if my suspicions had

been disappointed, I would never have seen St. Preux again. As it is,

you have both acted as I flattered myself you would, and have so fully

justified the good opinion I had of you, that I shall be delighted

whenever you think proper to return, and settle here agreeable to the

design we had planned. Come, ye uncommon friends! come to increase and

partake of the happiness we here enjoy. However flattering the hopes

of those who believe in a future state, for my part, I had rather

enjoy the present in their company; nay, I perceive you are both more

agreeable to me with the tenets you possess, than you would be if

unhappy enough to think as I do.

As to St. Preux, you know what were my sentiments of him at your

departure; there was no need to make any experiment on his heart to

settle my judgment concerning him. My proof had been before made, and

I thought I knew him as well as it was possible for one man to know

another. I had, besides, more than one reason to place a confidence in

him; and was more secure of him than he was of himself. For tho’ he

seems to have followed your example in renouncing matrimony, you will

perhaps find reason here to prevail on him to change his system. But I

will explain myself farther on this head when I see you.

With respect to yourself, I think your sentiments on celibacy quite

new and refined. They may, for ought I know, be judicious also, when

applied to political institutions, intended to balance and keep in

equilibrium the relative powers of states; but I am in doubt, whether

they are not more subtle than solid, when applied to dispense with the

obligations that individuals lie under to the laws of nature. It seems

to me that life is a blessing we receive on condition of transmitting

it to our successors; a kind of tenure which ought to pass from

generation to generation; and that every one who had a father, is

indispensably obliged to become one. Such has been hitherto your

opinion also; it was one of your motives for going to Italy: but I

know from whence you derive your new system of philosophy; there is an

argument in Laura’s letter, which your heart knows not how to

invalidate.

Our sprightly cousin has been for these eight or ten days past at

Geneva, with her relations, on family affairs: but we daily expect her

return. I have told my wife as much as was expedient she should know

of your letter. We had learnt of Mr. Miol, that your marriage was

broken off; but she was ignorant of the part St. Preux had in that

event: and you may be assured it will give her great pleasure to be

informed of all he has done to merit your beneficence, and justify

your esteem. I have shewn her the plan and designs for your pavilion,

in which she thinks there is much taste. We propose to make some

little alterations, however, as the ground requires; which, as they

will make your lodging the more convenient, we doubt not you will

approve.

We wait, nevertheless, for the sanction of Clara, before we resolve;

for, without her, you know there is nothing to be done here. In the

meantime I have set the people to work, and hope to have the masonry

pretty forward before winter.

I am obliged to you for your books; but I no longer read those I am

master of, and it is too late in life for me to begin to study those I

do not understand. I am, however, not quite so ignorant as you would

make me. The only volume of nature’s works which I read, is the heart

of man; of my abilities for comprehending which, my friendship for you

is a sufficient proof.

Letter CLV. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.

My stay here, my dear cousin, gives me a world of anxieties; the worst

of all which is, that the agreeableness of the place would induce me

to stay longer. The city is delightful, its inhabitants hospitable,

and their manners courteous; while liberty, which I love of all

things, seems to have taken refuge amongst them. The more I know of

this little state, the more I find an attachment to one’s country

agreeable; and pity those who, pretending to call themselves of this

or that country, have no attachment to any. For my part, I perceive

that, if I had been born in this, I should have had truly a Roman

soul. As it is, I dare not, however, pretend to say that

_Rome is no more at Rome, but where I dwell._

For I am afraid you will be malicious enough, to think the contrary.

But why need we talk always about Rome, and Rome? the subject of this

letter shall be Geneva. I shall say nothing about the face of the

country, it is much like ours, except that it is less mountainous, and

more rural. I shall also say nothing about the government: my good

father will, doubtless, give you enough of it; as he is employed here

all day long, in the fulness of his heart, talking politics with the

magistrates; and I find him not a little mortified that the gazette so

seldom makes mention of Geneva. You may judge of the tediousness of

their conversation, by the length of my letters: for, when I am

wearied with their discourse, I leave them, and, in order to divert

myself am tiresome to you. All I remember of their long conferences

is, that they hold in high esteem the great good sense which prevails

in this city. When we regard indeed the mutual action and reaction of

all parts of the state, which afford a reciprocal balance to each

other, it is not to be doubted that there are greater abilities

employed in the government of this little republic than in that of

some great kingdoms, where every thing supports itself by its own

proper strength; and the reins of administration may be thrown into

the hands of a blockhead, without any danger to the constitution. I

can assure you, this is not the case here. I never hear any body talk

to my father about the famous ministers of great courts, without

thinking of the wretched musician who thundered away upon our great

organ at Lausanne, and thought himself a prodigious able hand because

he made a great noise. The people here have only a little spinner, but

in general they make good harmony, though the instrument be now and

then a little out of tune.

Neither shall I say any thing about,----but with telling you what I

shall not say, I shall never have done. To begin then with one thing,

that I may sooner come to a conclusion. Of all people in the world

those of Geneva are the most easily known and characterised. Their

manners, and even their vices, are mixed with a certain frankness

peculiar to themselves. They are conscious of their natural goodness

of heart, and that makes them not afraid to appear such as they are.

They have generosity, sense and penetration; but they are apt to love

money too well; a fault which I attribute to their situation and

circumstances, which make it so necessary; the territory of this state

not producing a sufficient nourishment for its inhabitants. Hence it

happens that, the natives of Geneva, who are scattered up and down

Europe to make their fortunes, copy the airs of foreigners; and,

having adopted the vices of the countries where they have lived, bring

them home in triumph with their wealth. [95] Thus the luxury of other

nations makes them despise the simplicity of their own; its spirit and

liberty appear ignoble, and they forge themselves chains of gold, not

as marks of slavery, but as ornaments they are proud of.

But what have I to do with these confounded politics? indeed here I am

stunned with them, and have them constantly rung in my ears. I hear

nothing else talked of; unless when my father is absent, which never

happens except when the post arrives. It is ourselves, my dear,

nevertheless, that infect every place we go to; for, as to the

conversation of the people, it is generally useful and agreeable;

indeed there is little to be learned even from books, which may not

here be acquired by conversation. The manners of the English have

reached even so far as this country; and the men, living more separate

from the women than in ours, contract among themselves a graver turn,

and have more solidity in their discourse. This advantage is attended;

nevertheless, with an inconvenience that is very soon experienced.

They are extremely prolix, formal, proverbial, and argumentative.

Instead of writing like Frenchmen, as they speak, they, on the

contrary, speak as they write. They declaim instead of talking; and

one thinks they are always going to support a thesis. They divide

their discourse into chapters and sections, and take the same method

in their conversations as they do in their books. They speak as if

they were reading, strictly observing etymological distinctions, and

pronouncing their words exactly as they are spelt: in short, their

conversations consist of harangues; and they prattle as if they were

preaching.

But what is the most singular is, that, with this dogmatical and

frigid air in their discourse, they are lively, impetuous, and betray

strong passions; nay, they would express themselves well enough upon

sentimental subjects, if they were not too particular in words, or

knew how to address the heart. But their periods and their commas are

insupportable; and they describe so composedly the most violent

passions, that, when they have done, one looks about one to see who is

affected.

In the mean time, I must confess I am bribed a little to think well of

their hearts, and to believe they are not altogether void of taste.

For you must know, as a secret, that a very pretty gentleman for a

husband, and, as they say, very rich, hath honoured me with his

regards; and I have more gratitude and politeness than to call in

question what he has told me. Had he but come eighteen months sooner,

what pleasure should I have taken in having a sovereign for my slave,

and in turning the head of a noble lord! but at present, mine is not

clear enough to make that sport agreeable.

But to return to that taste for reading which makes the people of

Geneva think. It extends to all ranks and degrees amongst them, and is

of advantage to all. The French read a great deal; but they read only

new books; or rather they run them over, less for the sake of knowing

what they contain, than to have it to say they have read them. On the

contrary, the readers at Geneva peruse only books of merit; they read

and digest what they read; making it their business to understand, not

to criticize upon, them. Criticisms and the choice of books are made

at Paris; while choice books are almost the only ones that are read at

Geneva. By this means, their reading has less variety and is more

profitable. The women, on their part, employ a good deal of their time

also in reading; [96] and their conversation is affected by it, but in

a different manner. The fine ladies are affected and set up for wits

here, as well as with us. Nay, the petty citizens themselves learn

from their books a kind of methodical chit-chat, a choice of words

which one is surprized to hear from them, as we are sometimes with the

prattle of forward children. They must unite all the good sense of the

men, all the sprightliness of the women, and all the wit common to

both; or the former will appear a little pedantic, and the latter

prudish.

As I was looking out of my window yesterday, I overheard two

tradesmens daughters, both very pretty, talking together in a manner

sprightly enough to attract my attention. I listened, and heard one of

them propose to the other, laughing, to write a journal of their

transactions. “Yes,” replied the other immediately, “a journal of a

morning and a comment at night.” What say you, cousin? I know not if

this be the stile of tradesmens daughters; but I know one must be

taken up greatly indeed, not to be able, during the whole day, to make

more than a comment on what has passed. I fancy this lass had read the

Arabian nights entertainments.

Thus, with a stile a little elevated, the women of Geneva are lively

and satirical; and one sees here the effect of the nobler passions, as

much as in any city in the world. Even in the simplicity of their

dress there is taste; they are graceful also in their manners, and

agreeable in conversation. As the men are less gallant than

affectionate, the women are less coquettish than tender; their

susceptibility gives, even to the most virtuous among them, an

agreeable and refined turn, which reaches the heart, and thence

deduces all its refinement. So long as the ladies of Geneva preserve

their own manners, they will be the most amiable women in Europe; but

they are in danger of being soon all Frenchified, and then Frenchwomen

will be more agreeable than they.

Thus every thing goes to ruin, when manners grow corrupted. Even taste

depends on morals, and disappears with them; giving way to affect and

pompous pretensions, that have no other foundation than fashion. True

wit also lies nearly under the same circumstances. Is it not the

modesty of our sex that obliges us to make use of address to resist

the arts of men? and, if they are reduced to make use of artifice to

excite our attention, have we less occasion for ingenuity to seem not

to understand them? is it not the men who set our tongues and wits at

liberty? who make us so keen at repartee, and oblige us to turn their

persons and pretensions into ridicule? you may say what you will, but

I maintain it that a certain coquettish air and malicious raillery,

confounds a gallant much more than silence or contempt. What pleasure

have I not taken in seeing a discontented Celadon, blush, stammer and

lose himself at every word; while the shafts of ridicule, less flaming

but more pointed than those of love, flew about him like hail; in

seeing him shot thorough and thorough with icicles, whose coldness

added to the smart of the wounds! even you yourself, who never loved

to give pain, do you believe your mild and ingenuous behaviour, your

timid, gentle looks conceal less roguery and art than my hoydening?

Upon my word, my dear, I much doubt, with all your hypocritical airs,

if an account were taken of all the lovers you and I have made fools

of, whether yours would not be the longer list. I cannot help laughing

every time I think of that poor Constans, who came to me in such a

passion to reproach you with having too great a regard for him. She is

so obliging to me, says he, that I know not what to complain of, and

declines my pretensions with so much good sense, that I am ashamed of

finding myself so unable to reply to her arguments; in short she is so

much my friend, that I find myself incapable of supporting the

character of her lover.

But to return to my subject. I believe there is no place in the world

where married people agree better, and are better managers, than in

this city: here a domestic life is peaceful and agreeable; the

husbands are in general obliging, and the wives almost Eloisas. Here

your system really exists. The two sexes employ and amuse themselves

so differently that they are never tired with each others customs and

company, but meet again with redoubled pleasure. This heightens the

enjoyment of the wise; abstinence from what we delight in, is a tenet

of your philosophy; it is indeed the epicurism of reason.

But, unhappily, this ancient modesty begins a little to decline. The

sexes begin to associate more frequently, they approach in person and

their hearts recede. It is here as with us, every thing is a mixture

of good and bad, but in different proportions. The virtues of the

natives of this country are of its own production; their vices are

exotic. They are great travellers, and easily adopt the customs and

manners of other nations; they speak other languages with facility,

and learn without difficulty their proper accent, nevertheless they

have a disagreeable drawling tone in the pronunciation of their own;

particularly among the women, who travel but little. More humbled by

their insignificance, than proud of their liberty, they seem among

foreigners to be ashamed of their country, and are therefore in a

hurry, as one may say, to naturalise themselves in that where they

happen to reside; and perhaps the character they have of being

avaricious and selfish, contributes not a little to this false shame.

It would be better, without doubt, to wipe off the stain by a

disinterested example, than to scandalize their fellow citizens by

being ashamed of their country. But they despise the place of their

nativity, even while they render it estimable; and are still more in

the wrong not to give their city the honour of their own personal

merit.

And yet, however avaricious they may be, they are not accused of

amassing fortunes by low and servile means: they seldom attach

themselves to the great, or dance attendance at courts; personal

slavery being as odious to them as that of the community. Pliant and

flexible as Alcibiades, they are equally impatient of servitude; and,

though they adopt the customs of other nations, they imitate the

people without being slaves to the prince. They are chiefly employed

in trade, because that is the surest road to wealth, consistent with

liberty.

And this great object of their wishes makes them often bury the

talents with which they are prodigally endowed by nature. This brings

me back to the beginning of my letter. They have ingenuity and

courage, are lively and penetrating, nor is there any thing virtuous

or great which surpasses their comprehension and abilities. But, more

passionately fond of money than of honour, in order to live in

abundance they die in obscurity, and the only example they leave to

their children, is the love of those treasures which for their sakes

they have amassed.

I learn all this from the natives themselves; for they speak of their

own characters very impartially.

For my part, I know not what they may be abroad, but at home they are

an agreeable people: and I know but one way to quit Geneva without

regret. Do you know, cousin, what this is? you may affect as much

ignorance and humility as you please; if you should say you have not

already guessed, you certainly would tell a fib. The day after

tomorrow our jovial company will embark in a pretty little ship,

fitted out for the occasion: for we chuse to return by water on

account of the pleasantness of the season and that we may be all

together. We purpose to pass the first night at Morges, to be the next

day at Lausanne, on account of the marriage ceremony, and the day

following to be at----you know where. When you see at a distance the

flags flying, the torches flaming, and hear the cannon roar; I charge

you skid about the house like a mad thing, and call the whole family

to arms! to arms! the enemy! the enemy is coming!

P. S. Although the distribution of the apartments incontestably

belongs to me as housekeeper, I will give it up to you on this

occasion; insisting only that my father be placed in those of Lord

B---- on account of his charts and maps; with which I desire it may

be compleatly hung from the ceiling to the floor.

Letter CLVI. From Mrs. Wolmar.

How delightful are my sensations in beginning this letter! it is the

first time in my life that I ever wrote to you without fear or shame!

I am proud of the friendship which now subsists between us, as it is

the fruit of an unparallel’d conquest over a fatal passion: a passion

which may sometimes be overcome, but is very rarely refined into

friendship. To relinquish that which was once dear to us when honour

requires it, may be effected by the efforts of ordinary minds; but to

have been what we once were to each other, and to become what we now

are, this is a triumph indeed. The motive for ceasing to love may

possibly be a vicious one; but that which converts the most tender

passion into as sincere a friendship cannot be equivocal: it must be

virtuous. But should we ever have arrived at this of ourselves? never,

never, my good friend; it had been rashness to attempt it. To avoid

each other was the first article of our duty, and which nothing should

have prevented us from performing. We might without doubt have

continued our mutual esteem; but we must have ceased to write, or to

converse. All thoughts of each other must have been suppressed, and

the greatest regard we could have reciprocally shewn, had been to

break off all correspondence.

Instead of that, let us consider our present situation; can there be

on earth a more agreeable one, and do we not reap a thousand times a

day the reward of our self-denial? to see, to love each other, to be

sensible of our bliss, to pass our days together in fraternal intimacy

and peaceful innocence; to think of each other without remorse, to

speak without blushing; to do honour to that attachment for which we

have been so often reproached; this is the point at which we are at

last arrived. O my friend! how far in the career of honour have we

already run! let us resolve to persevere, and finish our race as we

have begun.

To whom are we indebted for such extraordinary happiness? you cannot

be ignorant: you know it well. I have seen your susceptible heart

overflow with gratitude at the goodness of the best of men, to whom

both you and I have been so greatly obliged: a goodness that does not

lay us under fresh obligations, but only renders those more dear which

were before sacred. The only way to acknowledge his favours is to

merit them; for the only value he sets on them consists in their

emolument to us. Let us then reward our benefactor by our virtue; for

this is all he requires, and therefore all we owe him. He will be

satisfied with us and with himself, in having restored us to our

reason.

But permit me to lay before you a picture of your future situation,

that you may yourself examine it and see if there be any thing in it

to make you apprehensive of danger: Yes, worthy youth, if you respect

the cause of virtue, attend with a chaste ear to the counsels of your

friend. I tremble to enter upon a subject in which I am sorry to

engage; but how shall I be silent without betraying my friend? will it

not be too late to warn you of the danger when you are already

entangled in the snare? Yes, my friend, I am the only person in the

world who is intimate enough with you to present it to your view. Have

I not a right to talk to you as a sister, as a mother?

Your career, you tell me, is finished; if so, its end is premature.

Though your first passion be extinguished, your sensibility still

remains; and your heart is the more to be suspected, as its only cause

of restraint no longer exists. A young man, of great ardor and

susceptibility resolves to live continent and chaste; he knows, he

feels, he has a thousand times said, that fortitude of mind which is

productive of every virtue, depends on the purity of sentiment which

supports it. As love preserved him from vice in his youth, his good

sense must secure him in manhood; however severe may be the duty

enjoined him, he knows there is a pleasure arising from it, that will

compensate its rigour; and, though it be necessary to enter the

conflict when conquest is in view, can he do less now out of piety to

God than he did before out of regard to a mistress? such I imagine is

your way of reasoning, and such the maxims you adopt for your future

conduct: for you have always despised those persons who, content with

outward appearances, have one doctrine for theory and another for

practice, and who lay upon others a burthen of moral duties which they

themselves are unwilling to bear.

But what kind of life has such a prudent, virtuous man made choice of,

in order to comply with those rules he has prescribed? less a

philosopher than a man of probity and a Christian, he has not surely

taken his vanity for a guide: he certainly knows that it is much

easier to avoid temptations, than to withstand them; does he therefore

avoid all dangerous opportunities? does he shun those objects which

are most likely to move his passions? has he that humble diffidence of

himself which is the best security to virtue? quite the contrary; he

does not hesitate rashly to rush on danger. At thirty years of age, he

is going to seclude himself from the world, in company with women of

his own age; one of which was once too dear to him for him ever to

banish the dangerous idea of their former intimacy from his mind;

another of whom has lived with him in great familiarity, and a third

is attached to him by all those ties which obligations conferred

excite in grateful minds. He is going to expose himself to every thing

that can renew those passions which are but imperfectly extinguished;

he is going to entangle himself in those snares which he ought, of all

others, to avoid. There is not one circumstance attending his

situation which ought not to make him distrust his own strength, nor

one which will not render him for ever contemptible should he be weak

enough to be off his guard for a moment. Where then is that great

fortitude of mind, in which he presumes to place such confidence? in

what instance has it hitherto appeared that he can be answerable for

it, for the future? did he acquire it at Paris, in the house of the

colonel’s lady? or was he influenced by it last summer at Meillerie?

has it been his security during the winter, against the charms of

another object, or this spring against the terrifying apprehensions of

a dream? by the slender assistance it once afforded him, is there any

reason to suppose it will always bring him off victorious? he may know

when his duty requires how to combat the passions of a friend; but

will he be as capable of combating his own? Alas! let him learn from

the best half of his life to think modestly of the other.

A state of violence and constraint may be supported for a while. Six

months, for instance, a year, is nothing; fix any certain time and we

may presume to hold out. But when that state is to last as long as we

live, where is the fortitude that can support itself under it? who can

sustain a constant state of self-denial? O my friend! a life of

pleasure is short, but a life of virtue is exceeding long. We must be

incessantly on our guard. The instant of enjoyment is soon passed, and

never more returns; that of doing evil passes away too; but as

constantly returns, and is ever present. Forget ourselves for a

moment, and we are undone! is it in such a state of danger and trial,

that our days can pass away in happiness and tranquillity, or is it

for such as have once escaped the danger to expose themselves again to

like hazards? what future occasions may not arise as hazardous as

those you have escaped, and what is worse, equally unforeseen? do you

think the monuments of danger exist only at Meillerie? they are in

every place where we are; we carry them about with us: yes, you know

too well that a susceptible mind interests the whole universe in its

passion, and that every object here will excite our former ideas and

remind us of our former sensations.

I believe, however, I am presumptuous enough to believe, that will

never happen to me; and my heart is ready enough to answer for yours.

But, though it may be above meanness, is that easy heart of yours

above weakness? and am I the only person here it will cost you pains

to _respect_? forget not, St. Preux, that all who are dear to me are

intitled to be respected as myself; reflect that you are continually

to bear the innocent play of an amiable woman; think of the eternal

disgrace you will deservedly fall into, if your heart should go astray

for a moment, and you should harbour any designs on her you have so

much reason to honour.

I would have your duty, your word and your ancient friendship restrain

you; the obstacles which virtue throws in your way may serve to

discourage idle hopes; and, by the help of your reason, you may

suppress your fruitless wishes: but would you thence be freed from the

influence of sense and the snares of imagination? obliged to respect

us both and to forget our sex, you will be liable to temptation from

our servants, and might perhaps think yourself justified by the

condescension: but would you be in reality less culpable? or can the

difference of rank change the nature of a crime? on the contrary, you

would debase yourself the more, as the means you might employ would be

more ignoble. But is it possible that you should be guilty of such

means! no, perish the base man, who would bargain for an heart, and

make love a mercenary passion! such men are the cause of all the

crimes which are committed by debauchery: for she who is once bought

will be ever after to be sold: and amidst the shame into which she is

inevitably plunged, who may most properly be said to be the author of

her misery, the brutal wretch who insults her in a brothel, or her

seducer who shewed her the way thither, by first paying a price for

her favours?

I will add another consideration which, if I am not mistaken, will

affect you. You have been witness of the pains I have taken to

establish order and decency in my family. Tranquility and modesty,

happiness and innocence prevail throughout the whole. Think, my

friend, of yourself, of me, of what we were, of what we are, and what

we ought to be. Shall I have it one day to say, in regretting my lost

labour, it is to you I owe the disorder of my house?

Let us, if it be necessary, go farther, and sacrifice even modesty to

a true regard for virtue. Man is not made for a life of celibacy, and

it is very difficult in a state so contrary to that of nature, not to

fall into some public or private irregularity. For how shall a man be

always on his guard against an intestine enemy? Look upon the rash

votaries of other countries, who enter into a solemn vow, not to be

men. To punish them for their presumption, heaven abandons them to

their own weakness: they call themselves saints, for entering into

engagements which necessarily make them sinners; their continence is

only pretended, and, for affecting to set themselves above the duties

of humanity, they debase themselves below it. It is easy to stand upon

punctilio, and affect a nice observance of laws which are kept only in

appearance; [97] but a truly virtuous man cannot but perceive that his

essential duties are sufficient without extending them to works of

supererogation.

It is, my dear St. Preux, the true humility of a Christian, always to

think his duty too much for his strength; apply this rule, and you

will be sensible that a situation which might only alarm another man,

ought to make you tremble. The less you are afraid, the more reason

you have to fear, and if you are not in some degree deterred by the

severity of your duty, you can have little hopes of being able to

discharge it.

Such are the perils that threaten you here. I know that you will never

deliberately venture to do ill; and the only evils you have cause to

apprehend are those which you cannot foresee. I do not however bid you

draw your conclusions solely from my reasoning; but recommend it to

your mature consideration. If you can answer me in a manner

satisfactory to yourself, I shall be satisfied; if you can rely upon

yourself, I too shall rely upon you. Tell me that you have overcome

all the foibles of humanity, that you are an angel, and I will receive

you with open arms.

But is it possible for you, whilst a man, to lead a life of continual

self-denial and mortification? to have always the most severe duties

to perform! to be constantly on your guard with those whom you so

sincerely love! no, no, my amiable friend, happy is he who in this

life can make one single sacrifice to virtue. I have one in view,

worthy of a man who has struggled and suffered in its cause. If I do

not presume too far, the happiness I have ventured to design for you,

will repay every obligation of my heart, and be even greater than you

would have enjoyed, had providence favoured our first inclinations. As

I cannot make you an angel myself, I would unite you to one who would

be the guardian of your heart, who will refine it, reanimate it to

virtue, and under whose auspices you may securely live with us in this

peaceful retreat of angelic innocence. You will not, I conceive, be

under much difficulty to guess who it is I mean, as it is an object

which has already got footing in the heart which it will one day

entirely possess, if my project succeeds.

I foresee all the difficulties attending it, without being

discouraged, as the design is virtuous, I know the influence I have

over my fair friend, and think I shall not abuse it by exerting my

power in your favour. But you are acquainted with her resolutions, and

before I attempt to alter them I ought to be well assured of your

sentiments, that while I am endeavouring to prevail on her to permit

your addresses, I may be able to answer for your love and gratitude:

for if the inequality which fortune has made between you deprives you

of the privilege of making such a proposal yourself, it is still more

improper that this privilege should be granted before we know how you

will receive it. I am not unacquainted with your delicacy, and know

that if you have any objections to make, they will respect her rather

than yourself. But banish your idle scruples. Do you think you can be

more tenacious of my friend’s reputation than I am? no, however dear

you are to me, you need not be apprehensive lest I should prefer your

interest to her honour. But as I value the esteem of people of sense,

so I despise the prejudices and inconsiderate censures of the

multitude, who are ever led by the false glare of things, and are

strangers to real virtue. Were the difference in point of fortune

between you a hundred times greater than it is, there is no rank in

life to which great talents and good behaviour have not a right to

aspire: and what pretensions can a woman have to disdain to make that

man her husband, whom she is proud to number among her friends? You

know the sentiments of us both in these matters. A false modesty and

the fear of censure, lead to more bad actions than good ones; for

virtue never blushes at any thing but vice.

As to yourself, that pride which I have some time remarked in you

cannot be exerted with greater impropriety than on this occasion; and

it would be a kind of ingratitude in you to receive from her,

reluctantly, one favour more. Besides, however nice and difficult you

may be in this point, you must own it is more agreeable, and has a

much better look, for a man to be indebted for his fortune to his wife

than to a friend; as he becomes a protector of the one, and is

protected by the other and as nothing can be more true than, that a

virtuous man cannot have a better friend than his wife.

If after all, if there remain in the bottom of your heart any

repugnance to enter into new love engagements, you cannot too speedily

suppress them, both for your own honour and my repose: for I shall

never be satisfied with either you or myself till you really become

what you ought to be, and take pleasure in what your duty requires.

Ah! my friend, ought I not to be less apprehensive of such a

repugnance to new engagements, than of inclinations too relative to

the old? what have I not done with regard to you, to discharge my

duty? I have even exceeded my promises. Do I not even give you an

Eloisa? will you not possess the better half of myself, and be still

dearer to the other? with what pleasure shall I not indulge myself,

after such a connection, in my attachment to you! yes, accomplish to

her those vows you made to me, and let your heart fulfil with her all

our former engagements. May it, if possible, give to hers all it owes

to mine. O St. Preux! to her I transfer that ancient debt. Remember it

is not easily to be discharged.

Such, my friend is the scheme I have projected to reunite you to us

without danger; in giving you the same place in our family which you

already hold in our hearts, attached by the most dear and sacred

connections, we shall live together, sisters and brothers; you no

longer your own enemy nor ours. The warmest sentiments when legitimate

are not dangerous. When we are no longer under the necessity of

suppressing them, they cannot excite our apprehensions. So far indeed

from endeavouring to suppress sentiments so innocent and delightful,

we should make them at once both our pleasure and our duty. We should

then love each other with the purest affection, and should enjoy the

united charms of friendship, love and innocence. And, if in executing

the charge you have taken upon yourself, heaven should recompense the

care you take of our children, by blessing you with children of your

own, you will then know from experience how to estimate the service

you have done us. Endowed with the greatest blessings of which human

nature is capable, you will learn to support with pleasure the

agreeable burthen of a life useful to your friends and relations; you

will, in short, perceive that to be true which the vain philosophy of

the vicious could never believe; that happiness is even in this world

the reward of the virtuous.

Reflect at leisure on my proposal, not however to determine whether it

suits you; I require not your answer on that point; but whether it is

proper for Mrs. Orbe, and whether you can make her as happy as she

ought to make you. You know in what manner she has discharged her duty

in every station of her sex. Judge by what she is, what she has a

right to expect. She is as capable of love as Eloisa, and should be

loved in the same degree. If you think you can deserve her, speak; my

friendship will try to effect such an union, and from hers, flatters

itself with success. But, if my hopes are deceived in you, you are at

least a man of honour and probity, and are not unacquainted with her

delicacy; you would not covet happiness at the expense of her

felicity: let your heart be worthy of her, or let the offer of it

never be made.

Once more, I say, consult your own heart; consider well of your answer

before you send it. In matters relative to the happiness of one’s

whole life, common prudence will not permit us to determine without

great deliberation: but, in an affair where our whole soul, our

happiness both here and hereafter is at stake, even to deliberate

lightly would be a crime. Call to your aid, therefore, my good friend,

all the dictates of true wisdom; nor will I be ashamed to put you in

mind of those which are most essential. You don’t want religion: I am

afraid however, you do not draw from it all the advantage which your

conduct might receive from its precepts; but that your philosophical

pride elevates you above true Christian simplicity: in particular,

your notions of prayer are by no means consistent with mine. In your

opinion, that act of humiliation is of no use to us. God having

implanted in every man’s conscience all that is necessary to direct

him aright, has afterwards left him to himself, a free agent, to act

as he pleases. But you well know this is not the doctrine of St. Paul,

nor that which is professed in our church. We are free agents, it is

true, but we are by nature ignorant, weak and prone to evil: of whom

then shall we acquire strength and knowledge, but of the source of all

power and wisdom? and how shall we obtain them if we are not humble

enough to ask? take care, my friend, that to the sublime ideas you

entertain of the supreme Being, human pride doth not annex the abject

notions, which belong only to man. Can you think the deity wants such

arts as are necessary to human understanding, or that he lies under

the necessity of generalising his ideas to comprehend them the more

readily? according to your notions of things, providence would be

under an embarrassment to take care of individuals. You seem to be

afraid that, constant attention to a diversity of objects must perplex

and fatigue infinite wisdom, and to think that it can act better by

general than particular laws; doubtless because this seems easier for

the Almighty. The deity is highly obliged to such great philosophers

for furnishing him with convenient means of action, to ease him of his

labour. But why should we ask any thing of him? Say you: is he not

acquainted with our wants? Is he not a father that provides for his

children? do we know better than he what is needful for us, or are we

more desirous of happiness than he is that we should be happy?

This, my dear St. Preux, is all sophistry. The greatest of our wants,

even the only one we have no remedy for, is that of being insensible

of them; and the first step to relief is the knowledge of our

necessities. To be wise we must be humble; in the sensibility of our

weakness we become strong. Thus justice is united to clemency, thus

grace and liberty triumph together.

Slaves by our weakness, we are set free by prayer: for it depends on

us to seek and obtain favour; but the power to do this, depends not on

ourselves.

Learn then not always to depend on your own sagacity on difficult

occasions; but on that Being whose omnipotence is equal to his wisdom,

and who knows how to direct us in every thing aright. The greatest

defect in human wisdom, even in that which has only virtue for its

object, is a too great confidence, which makes us judge by the present

of the future, and of our whole lives from the experience of a single

moment. We perceive ourselves resolute one instant, and therefore

conclude we shall always be so. Puffed up with that pride, which is

nevertheless mortified by daily experience, we think we are under no

danger of falling into a snare which we have once escaped. The modest

language of true fortitude is, _I had resolution on this or that

occasion_; but he who boasts of his present security knows not how

weak he may prove on the next trial; and, relying on his borrowed

strength as if it was his own, deserves to feel the want of it when he

stands in most need of assistance. How vain are all our projects, how

absurd our reasonings in the eyes of that Being, who is not confined

to time or space! man is so weak as to disregard things which are

placed at a distance from him: he sees only the objects which

immediately surround him; changes his notions of things as the point

of sight is changed from whence he views them. We judge of the future

from what agrees with us now, without knowing how far that which

pleases to day may be disagreeable tomorrow: we depend on ourselves,

as if we were always the same, and yet are changing every day. Who can

tell if they shall always desire what they now wish for? if they shall

be tomorrow what they are to day, if external objects and even a

change in the constitution of the body may not vary the modification

of their minds, and if we may not be made miserable by the very means

we have concerted for our happiness? shew me the fixed and certain

rule of human wisdom, and I will take it for my guide. But if the best

lesson it can teach us is, to distrust our own strength, let us have

recourse to that superior wisdom which cannot deceive us, and follow

those dictates which cannot lead us astray. It is that wisdom I

implore to enlighten my understanding to advise you; do you implore

the same to direct your resolutions? Whatever these be, I well know

you will take no step which does not at present appear honourable and

just: but this is not enough, it is necessary you should take such as

will be always so; and of the means to do this, neither you nor I are

of ourselves competent judges.

Letter CLVII. Answer.

From Eloisa! a letter from her after seven years silence! yes it is

her writing. I see, I feel it: can my eyes be a stranger to characters

which my heart can never forget? and do you still remember my name? do

you still know how to write it? does not your hand tremble as your pen

forms the letters? Ah Eloisa! whither have you hurried my wandering

thoughts? the form, the fold, the seal, the superscription of your

letter call to my mind those very different epistles which love used

to dictate. In this the heart and hand seem to be in opposition to

each other. Ought the same hand writing to be employed in committing

to paper sentiments so very different?

You will be apt to judge that my thinking so much of your former

letters, too evidently confirms what you have suggested in your last.

But you are mistaken. I plainly perceive that I am changed, and that

you are no longer the same; and what proves it to me the most is that

except your beauty and goodness, every thing I see in you now is a new

subject of admiration. This remark may anticipate your assurance. I

rely not on my own strength, but on the sentiment which makes it

unnecessary. Inspired with every thing which I ought to honour in her

whom I have ceased to adore, I know into what degree of respect my

former homage ought to be converted. Penetrated with the most lively

gratitude, it is true, I love you as much as ever; but I esteem and

honour you most for the recovery of my reason.

Ever since the discerning and judicious Wolmar has discovered my real

sentiments, I have acquired a better knowledge of myself, and am less

alarmed at my weakness. Let it deceive my imagination as it will, the

delusion will be still agreeable; it is sufficient that it can no

longer offend you, and that my ideal errors serve in the end to

preserve me from real danger.

Believe me, Eloisa, there are impressions which neither time,

circumstance, nor reason can efface. The wound may heal, but the scar

will remain, an honorable mark that preserves the heart from any

other wound. Love and inconstancy are incompatible; when a lover is

fickle he ceases to be a lover. For my part, I am no longer a lover;

but, in ceasing to adore you as such, I remain under your protection.

I am no longer apprehensive of danger from you, but then you prevent

my apprehensions from others. No, respectable Eloisa, you shall never

see in me any other than a friend to your person and a lover only of

your virtues: but our love, our first, our matchless love shall never

be rooted out of my heart. The remembrance of the flower of my age

shall never be thus tarnished: for, were I to live whole centuries,

those happy hours of my youth will never return, nor be banished from

my memory. We may, it is true, be no longer the same; but I shall

never forget what we have been.

Let us come now to your cousin. I cannot help confessing, my dear

friend, that since I have no longer dared to contemplate your charms,

I have become more sensible to hers. What eyes could be perpetually

straying from beauty to beauty without fixing their admiration on

either? mine have lately gazed on hers perhaps with too much pleasure;

and I must own that her charms, before imprinted on my heart, have

during my absence made a deeper impression. The sanctuary of my heart

is shut up; but her image is in the temple. I gradually become to her

what I might have been at first, had I never beheld you; and it was in

your power only to make me sensible of the difference between what I

feel for her and the love I had for you. My senses, released from that

terrible passion, embrace the delightful sentiments of friendship. But

must love be the result of this union? Ah Eloisa! what difference!

where is the enthusiasm? the adoration? where are those divine

transports, those distractions, a hundred times more sublime, more

delightful, more forcible than reason itself? a slight warmth, a

momentary delirium, seize me, affect me a while and then vanish. In

your cousin and me I see two friends who have a tender regard for each

other and confess it. But have lovers a _regard_ for each other? no,

_you_, and _I_ are two words prohibited in the lover’s language. Two

lovers are not two persons, but one.

Is my heart then really at ease? how can it be so? she is charming,

she is both your friend and mine: I am attached to her by gratitude,

and think of her in the most delightful moments of reflection. How

many obligations are hence conferred on a susceptible mind, and how is

it possible to separate the tenderest sentiments from those to which

she has such an undoubted right! Alas! it is decreed that between you

and her, my heart will never enjoy one peaceful moment!

O women, women! dear and fatal objects! whom nature has made beautiful

for our torment, who punish us when we brave your power, who pursue

when we dread your charms; whose love and hate are equally

destructive; and whom we can neither approach nor fly with impunity!

beauty, charm, sympathy! inconceivable Being, or chimera! source of

pain and pleasure! beauty more terrible to mortals than the element to

which the birth of your Goddess is ascribed: it is you who create

those tempests which are so destructive to mankind. How, dearly,

Eloisa! how dearly, Clara! do I purchase your cruel friendship!

I have lived in a tempest and it is you who have always raised it: but

how different are the agitations which you separately excite!

different as the waves of the lake of Geneva from those of the main

ocean. The first are short and quick, and by their constant agitation

are often fatal to the small barks that ride without making way on

their surface: but on the ocean, calm and mild in appearance, we find

ourselves mounted aloft and softly borne forward to a vast distance on

waves, whose motions are slow and almost imperceptible. We think we

scarce move from the place, and arrive at the farthest parts of the

earth.

Such is in fact the difference between the effects which your charms

and hers have on my heart. That first unequalled passion, which

determined the destiny of my life, and which nothing could conquer

but itself, had its birth before I was sensible of its generation; it

hurried me on before I knew where I was, and involved me in

irrevocable ruin before I believed myself led astray. While the wind

was fair, my labouring bark was every moment alternately roaring into

the clouds and plunging into the deep: but I am now becalmed and know

no longer where I am. On the contrary, I see, I feel too well how much

her presence affects me, and conceive my danger greater than it really

is. I experience some slight raptures, which are no sooner felt than

gone. I am one moment transported with passion and the next peaceful

and calm: in vain is the vessel beaten about by the waves, while there

is no wind to fill its sails: my heart, contented with her real

charms, does not exaggerate them: she appears more beautiful to my

eyes than to my imagination; and I am more afraid of her when present

than absent. Your charms have, on the contrary, had always a very

different effect; but at Clarens I alternately experience both.

Since I left it, indeed, the image of our cousin presents itself

sometimes more powerfully to my imagination. Unhappily, however, it

never appears alone: it affects me not with love, but with

disquietude.

These are in reality my sentiments with regard both to the one and the

other. All the rest of your sex are nothing to me; the pangs I have so

long suffered have banished them entirely from my remembrance;

_E fornito ’l mio tempo a mezzo gli anni._

Adversity has supplied the place of fortitude, to enable me to conquer

nature and triumph over temptation. People in distress have few

desires, you have taught me to vanquish by resisting them. An unhappy

passion is an instrument of wisdom. My heart is become, if I may so

express myself, the organ of all my wants, for when that is at ease I

want nothing. Let not you or your cousin disturb its tranquillity, and

it will for the future be always at ease.

In this situation, what have I to fear from my self? and by what cruel

precaution would you rob me of happiness, in order to prevent my being

exposed to lose it? how capricious is it to have made me fight and

conquer, to rob me afterwards of the reward of my victory? do you not

condemn those who brave unnecessary danger? why then did you recall me

at so great a hazard, to run so many risks? or, why would you banish

me when I am so worthy to remain? Ought you to have permitted your

husband to take the trouble he has done for nothing? why did you not

prevent his taking the pains which you were determined to render

fruitless? why did you not say to him, _leave the poor Wretch at the

other end of the world, or I shall certainly transport him again?_

alas! the more afraid you are of me the sooner you ought to recall me

home. It is not in your presence I am in danger, but in your absence;

and I dread the power of your charms only where you are not. When the

formidable Eloisa pursues me, I fly for refuge to Mrs. Wolmar, and I

am secure. Whither shall I fly if you deprive me of the asylum I find

in her? all times and places are dangerous while she is absent; for in

every place I find either Clara or Eloisa. In reflecting on the time

past, in meditating on the present, the one and the other alternately

agitate my heart, and thus my restless imagination becomes tranquil

only in your presence, and it is with you only I find security against

myself. How shall I explain to you the change I perceive in

approaching you? you have always exerted the same sovereign power; but

its effects are now different from what they were: in suppressing the

transports you once inspired, your empire is more noble and sublime; a

peaceful serenity has succeeded to the storm of the passions: my

heart, modelled by yours, loves in the same manner and becomes

tranquil by your example. But in this transitory repose I enjoy only a

short truce with the passions; and, though I am exalted to the

perfection of angels in your presence, I no sooner forsake you than I

fall into my native meanness. Yes, Eloisa, I am apt sometimes to think

I have two souls, and that the good one is deposited in your hands.

Ah! why do you seek to separate me from it?

But you are fearful of the consequences of youthful desires,

extinguished only by trouble and adversity. You are afraid for the

young women who are in your house and under your protection. You are

afraid of that which the prudent Wolmar was not afraid of. How

mortifying to me are such apprehensions! do you then esteem your

friend less than the meanest of your servants? I can, however, forgive

your thinking ill of me; but never your not paying yourself that

respect which is so justly your due. No, Eloisa, the flame with which

I once burnt has purified my heart; and I am no longer actuated like

other men. After what I have been, should I so debase myself though

but for a moment, I would hide myself in the remotest corner of the

earth, and should never think myself too far removed from Eloisa.

What! could I disturb that peaceful order and domestic tranquillity,

in which I take so much pleasure? could I sully that sweet retreat of

innocence and peace, wherein I have dwelt with so much honour? could I

be so base as----no, the most debauched, the most abandoned, of men

would be affected with so charming a picture. He could not fail of

being enamoured with virtue in this asylum. So far from carrying

thither his licentious manners, he would betake himself thither to

cast them off. Could I then, Eloisa, be capable of what you insinuate?

and that under your own eyes? no, my dear friend, open your doors to

me without scruple; your mansion is to me the temple of virtue; its

sacred image strikes me in every part of it, and binds me to its

service. I am not indeed an angel; but I shall dwell in the habitation

of angels, and will imitate their example. Those who would not wish to

resemble them, will never seek their company.