I replied, too much readiness denoted too little reflection; and not
fortitude sufficient to fulfil such conditions.
Fortitude could never fail him, having me not only for an example but a
reward. Again he repeated, without my promise, my sacred promise, he
really and seriously feared distraction! That this was weakness he was
ready to allow: but if it were true, and true it was, should I want
love, I yet had too much benevolence not to desire to avert
consequences which, beyond all others, are horrible to imagination.
He has surely very considerable knowledge of the human heart; for his
tone and manner produced all the effect he intended. I had foreseen the
probability of such a request, though not all the urgency with which it
was made, and had argued the question of right and wrong. My conclusion
had been that such a promise, with certain provisos, was a duty; and
accordingly I gave it; stipulating power to retract, should experience
teach us that our minds and principles could not assimilate.
At first he was not satisfied. Intreaties the most importunate that
language could supply were repeated, that I should make no such
exceptions. They were impossibilities; needless, but tormenting.
Finding however that I was resolved, he softened into acquiescence,
thanked me with all the transports which might be expected from him,
and kissed my hand. He would not have been so satisfied, had I not very
seriously repulsed the encroaching freedoms which I had lately found
him assuming; since which he is become more guarded.
What latent inconsistency is there, Louisa, in my conduct, which can
incite the alarms to which I feel myself subject? The moment I had made
the promise I shuddered; and, while acting from the strongest sense of
duty, and the most ardent desire of doing good, I felt as if the act
were reprehensible and unjust.--It is the words of Frank that are the
cause: on them my mind dwells, and painfully repeats them, as if in a
delirium: like a singing in the ear, the tolling of death-bells, or the
burthen of some tragic ditty, which memory, in its own despite, harps
upon, and mutters to itself!--'_He is certain that I act from mistaken
principles!--To the end of time he shall persist in thinking me his by
right!_'
There must be something amiss, something feeble in my mind, since the
decision of reason cannot defend me from the awe which this surely too
hasty, too positive assertion inspires! It haunts my very dreams!
Clifton left me; and, being gone, I went into the parlour. Frank was
there. He had a book in his hand, and tears in his eyes. I never beheld
a look more melancholy. Capable as he is of resisting the cowardice of
self-complaint and gloom, still there are moments, I perceive, in which
he can yield; and, sighing over others woes, can cast a retrospective
glance on self. He had been reading the Julia of Rousseau. The picture
given by St. Preux of his feelings had awakened sympathy too strong to
be resisted.
We fell into conversation. I wished to turn his thoughts into a more
cheerful channel; but my own partook too much of the same medium, not
to assimilate themselves in part to his languor.
You seem pensive, Frank. What is the subject of your meditations?
The sorrows of St. Preux, madam.
Then you are among the rocks of Meillerie? Or standing a partaker of
the danger of Julia on the dreadful precipice?
No, madam. The divine Julia is dead!--[Had you heard the sigh he gave,
Louisa--!] I am at a passage which I suspect to be still more sublime.
I am sure it is equally heart-rending.
Ay!--Which is that?
It is Clara, at the table of Wolmar; where the child, with such
simplicity, conjures up the infantine but almost perfect semblance of
the dead. If ever laughter inspired the horrors of distraction, it was
the laugh of Clara!
It is a wonderful passage. But I find you were rather contemplating the
sorrows of the friend than of the lover.
Pardon me, madam. I was considering, since the friend was thus on the
very brink of despair, what must be the force of mind which could
preserve the lover.
Friendship and love, in such minds, are the same.
Perhaps so, madam.
Can there be any doubt?
When the lover and the friend are united, the heart is reluctant to own
its feelings can be equalled.
Ought you not to avoid such a book, Frank; at least for the present?
If it led me into error; otherwise not. I think I know what were the
author's mistakes; and he not only teaches but impresses, rivets,
volumes of truth in my mind.
The recollection of what had just passed with Clifton forced itself
upon me, Louisa; it made me desirous of putting a question to Frank on
the subject, and I asked--
What is your opinion of promises?