Madame de Volanges _to the_ Marchioness de Merteuil.
A few days ago you applied to me, my charming friend, for advice and
consolation; it is now my turn, and I am to make the same request you
made to me for myself. I am really in great affliction, and fear I have
not taken the proper steps to avoid my present sorrow.
My uneasiness is on account of my daughter. Since our departure, I
observed she was always dejected and melancholy; that I expected, and
assumed a severity of behaviour which I judged necessary; flattering
myself, that absence and dissipation would soon banish an affection,
which I viewed as a childish error, rather than a deep-rooted passion;
but I am disappointed in my expectations, and observe she gives way
more and more to a dangerous dejection. I am seriously alarmed for
her health. These few days past, particularly, there is a visible
alteration in her; and yesterday she affected me very much, and alarmed
us all.
The strongest proof I have of her being sensibly affected, is because
I find that awe she always stood in of me is greatly diminished.
Yesterday morning, on my only asking her if she was indisposed, she
flung herself in my arms, saying, she was very unhappy, and sobbed
and cried piteously. You can’t conceive my grief; my eyes filled
immediately; I had scarcely time to turn about, to prevent her seeing
me. Fortunately, I had the prudence not to ask her any questions,
and she did not venture to say any thing more; nevertheless, I am
confident it is this unhappy passion disturbs her.
What resolution to take, if it should last, I know not. Shall I be the
cause of my child’s unhappiness? Shall the most delicate sensations of
the mind, tenderness and constancy, be employed against her? Is this
the duty of a mother? Were I even to stifle the natural inclination
that induces us to seek our children’s happiness; should I call that
weakness, which I am persuaded is the first, the most sacred duty?
Should I force her inclinations, am I not answerable for the dreadful
consequences that may ensue? What abuse of my maternal authority would
it not be to place my daughter between guilt and misery!
My dear friend, I will not imitate what I have so often condemned.
I was certainly authorised to choose for my daughter; in that, I
only assisted her with my experience: I did not mean to use it as
a right; I only fulfilled a duty, which I should have counteracted,
had I disposed of her in contempt of an inclination which I could not
prevent, the extent and duration of which neither she or I can foresee.
No; she shall never marry Gercourt and love Danceny; I will much rather
expose my authority than her virtue.
I am, then, of opinion, it will be the most prudent way to recall my
promise to M. de Gercourt. You have my reasons which, I think, stronger
than my promise. I will go farther; for as matters are circumstanced,
by fulfilling my engagement I should in reality violate it: for if I
am bound to keep my daughter’s secret from M. de Gercourt, I am also
bound not to abuse the ignorance I leave him in, and to act for him,
as I believe he would act himself, was he better informed. Should I,
then, injuriously deceive him, when he reposes his confidence in me,
and, whilst he honours me with the title of mother, deceive him in
the choice he makes for his children? Those reflections, so just in
themselves, and which I cannot withstand, give me more uneasiness than
I can express.
In contrast to the misfortunes I dread, I picture to myself my daughter
happy in the choice her heart has made, fulfilling her duties with
pleasure; my son-in-law, equally satisfied, daily congratulating
himself on his choice; each enjoying the other’s happiness, and both
uniting to augment mine. Should, then, the prospect of so charming
a futurity be sacrificed to vain motives? And what are those that
restrain me? Interest only. Where is, then, the advantage of my
daughter being born to a large fortune, if she is to be nevertheless
the slave to that fortune? I will allow, that M. de Gercourt is,
perhaps, a better match than I could have expected for my daughter;
I will even own, I was much pleased when he made her his choice: but
Danceny is of as good a family as he, and is nothing inferior to him
in personal accomplishments; he has, moreover, the advantage over M.
de Gercourt of loving and being beloved. He is not rich, it’s true;
but my daughter is rich enough for both. Ah! Why should I deprive
her the pleasure of making the fortune of the man she loves? Those
matches of convenience, as they are called, where certainly every
thing is convenient except inclination and disposition, are they not
the most fruitful source of those scandalous rumours which are become
so frequent? I would much rather defer matters a little. I shall have
an opportunity to study my daughter’s disposition, which as yet I am
a stranger to. I have resolution enough to give her some temporary
uneasiness, in order to make her enjoy some temporary happiness: but I
will not risk making her miserable for ever.
Thus, my dear friend, I have related to you my afflictions, on which I
beg your advice. Those severe subjects are a contrast to your amiable
gaiety, and seem not at all adapted to your age; but your good sense
outstrips your years. Your friendship will also aid your prudence; and
I am confident, both will gratify the maternal anxiety that implores
them.
Adieu, my dear friend! never doubt the sincerity of my sentiments.
_Castle of_ ——, _Oct._ 2, 17—.