There is not a line in your letter that does not chill the blood in my veins; and I can hardly be persuaded, after twenty times reading, that it is addressed to me. Who I? Can I have offended Eloisa? Can I have profaned her beauties? Can the idol of my soul, to whom every moment of my life I offer up my adorations, can she have been the object of my insults? No, I would have pierced this heart a thousand times before it should have formed so barbarous a design. Alas! you know but little of this heart that flies to prostrate itself at your feet; a heart anxious to contrive for thee a new species of homage, unknown to human beings. Ah! my Eloisa, you know that heart but little, if you accuse it of wanting towards you the ordinary respect which even a common lover entertains for his mistress. Is it possible I can have been impudent and brutal? I, who detest the language of immodesty, and never in my life entered into places where it is held! But that I should repeat such discourse to you; that I should aggravate your just indignation! Had I been the most abandoned of men, had I spent my youth in riot and debauchery, had even a taste for sensual and shameful pleasures found a place in the heart where you reside, tell me, Eloisa, my angel, tell me, how was it possible I could have betrayed before you that impudence, which no one can have but in the presence of those who are themselves abandoned enough to approve it. Ah, no! it is impossible. One look of yours had sealed my lips and corrected my heart. Love would have veiled my impetuous desires beneath the charms of your modesty; while in the sweet union of our souls their own delirium only would have led the senses astray. I appeal to your own testimony, if ever in the utmost extravagance of an unbounded passion, I ceased to revere its charming object. If I received the reward of my love, did I ever take an advantage of my happiness, to do violence to your bashfulness? If the trembling hand of an ardent but timid lover hath sometimes presumed too far, did he ever with brutal temerity profane your charms? If ever an indiscreet transport drew aside their veil, though but for a moment, was not that of modesty as soon substituted in its place? Unalterable as the chastity of your mind, the flame that glows in mine can never change. Is not the affecting and tender union of our souls sufficient to constitute our happiness? Does not in this alone consist all the happiness of our lives? Have we a wish to know, or taste of any other? And canst thou conceive that this enchantment can be broken? How was it possible for me to forget in a moment all regard to chastity, to our love, my honour, and that invincible reverence and respect which you must always inspire even in those by whom you are not adored? No; I cannot believe it. It was not I that offended you? I have not the least remembrance of it; and, were I but one instant culpable, can it be that my remorse should ever leave me? No, Eloisa, some demon, envious of happiness, too great for a mortal, has taken upon him my form to destroy my felicity.
Nevertheless, I abjure, I detest a crime which I must have committed, since you are my accuser, but in which my will had no part. How do I begin to abhor that fatal intemperance, which once seemed to me favourable to the effusions of the heart, and which has so cruelly deceived mine! I have bound myself, therefore, by a solemn and irrevocable vow, to renounce wine from this day, as a mortal poison. Never shall that fatal liquor again touch my lips, bereave me of my senses, or involve me in guilt to which my heart is a stranger. If I ever break this solemn vow, may the powers of love inflict on me the punishment I deserve! May the image of Eloisa that instant forsake my heart, and abandon it for ever to indifference and despair!
But, think not I mean to expiate my crime by so slight a mortification. There is a precaution and not a punishment. It is from you I expect that which I deserve; nay, I beg it of you to console my affliction. Let offended love avenge itself and be appeased to punish without hating me, and I will suffer without murmuring. Be just and severe; it is necessary, and I must submit; but if you would not deprive me of life, you must not deprive me of your heart.
Letter LII. From Eloisa.
What! my friend renounce his bottle for his mistress! This is indeed a sacrifice! I defy any one to find me a man in the four cantons more deeply in love than your-self. Not but there may be found some young frenchified petit-maîtres among us that drink water through affectation; but you are the first Swiss that ever love made a water- drinker, and ought to stand as an example for ever in the lover’s chronicle of your country. I have even been informed of your abstinent behaviour, and have been much edified to hear that, being to sup last night with M. de Vueillerans, you saw six bottles go round after supper without touching a drop; and that you spared your water as little as your companions did their wine. This state of self-denial and penitence, however, must have lasted already three days, and in three days you must have abstained from wine at least for six meals. Now to the abstinence for six meals, observed through fidelity, may be added six others, through fear, six through shame, six through habit, and six more through obstinacy. How many motives might be found to prolong this mortifying abstinence, of which love alone will have all the credit? But can love condescend to pride itself in merit, to which it hath no just pretensions?
This idle raillery may possibly be as disagreeable to you, as your stuff the other night was to me: it is time, therefore, to stop its career. You are naturally of a serious turn, and I have perceived ere now that a tedious scene of trifling hath heated you as much as a long walk usually does a fat man; but I take nearly the same vengeance of you as Henry the fourth took of the duke of Maine: your sovereign also will imitate the clemency of that best of kings. In like manner, I am afraid lest, by virtue of your contrition and excuses, you should in the end make a merit of a fault so fully repaired; I will therefore forget it immediately, lest by deferring my forgiveness too long it should become rather an act of ingratitude than generosity.
With regard to your resolution of renouncing your bottle for ever; it has not so much weight with me as perhaps you may imagine; strong passions think nothing of these trifling sacrifices, and love will not be satisfied with gallantry. There is besides more of address sometimes than resolution, in making for the present moment an advantage of an uncertain futurity, and in reaping before hand the credit of an eternal abstinence, which may be renounced at pleasure. But, my good friend, is the abuse of every thing that is agreeable to the senses inseparable from the enjoyment of it? Is drunkenness necessarily attached to the taste of wine? and is philosophy so cruel or so useless, as to offer no other expedient to prevent the immoderate use of agreeable things than that of giving them up entirely?
If you keep true to your engagement, you deprive yourself of an innocent pleasure, and endanger your health in changing your manner of living: on the other hand, if you break it, you commit a double offence against love; and even your honour will stand impeached. I will make use therefore on this occasion of my privilege; and do not only release you from the observance of a vow, which is null and void, as being made without my consent; but do absolutely forbid you to observe it beyond the term I am going to prescribe. On Tuesday next my Lord B---- is to give us a concert. At the collation I will send you a cup about half full of a pure and wholesome nectar; which it is my will and pleasure that you drink off in my presence, after having made, in a few drops, an expiatory libation to the graces. My penitent is permitted afterwards to return to the sober use of wine, tempered with the chrystal of the fountain; or as your honest Plutarch has it, moderating the ardors of Bacchus by a communication with the nymphs.
But to our concert on Tuesday; that blunderer Regianino has got it into his head that I am already able to sing an Italian air, and even a duo with him. He is desirous that I should try it with you; in order to shew his two scholars together; but there are certain tender passages in it dangerous to sing before a mother, when the heart is of the party: it would be better therefore to defer this trial of our skill to the first concert we have at our cousin’s. I attribute the facility with which I have acquired a taste for the Italian music to that which my brother gave me for their poetry; and for which I have been so well prepared by you, that I perceive easily the cadence of the verse: and, if may believe Regianino, have already a tolerable notion of the true accent. I now begin every lesson by reading some passages of Tasso, or some scene of Metastasio; after this, he makes me repeat and accompany the recitative, so that I seem to continue reading or speaking all the while; which I am pretty certain could never be the case in the French music. After this I practise, in regular time, the expression of true and equal tones; an exercise which the noise I had been accustomed to, rendered difficult enough. At length we pass on to the air, wherein he demonstrates that the justness and flexibility of the voice, the pathetic expression, the force and beauty of every part, are naturally affected by the sweetness of the melody and precision of the measure; insomuch that what appeared at first the most difficult to learn need hardly be taught me. The nature of the music is so well adapted to the sound of the language, and of so refined a modulation, that one need only hear the bass and know how to speak, to decypher the melody. In the Italian music all the passions have distinct and strong expressions: directly contrary to the drawling, disagreeable tones of the French, it is always sweet and easy, while at the same time lively and affecting; its smallest efforts produce the greatest effects. In short, I find that this music elevates the soul without tearing the lungs, which is just the music I want. On Tuesday then, my dear friend, my preceptor, my penitent, my apostle, alas! what are you not to me? Ah! why should there be only one title wanting!
P. S. Do you know there is some talk of such another agreeable party on the water, as we made two years ago, in company with poor Chaillot? How modest was then my subtle preceptor! How he trembled when he handed me out of the boat? Ah! the hypocrite! He is greatly changed.
Letter LIII. From Eloisa.
Thus every thing conspires to disconcert our schemes, every thing disappoints our hopes, every thing betrays a passion which heaven ought to sanctify! And are we always to be the sport of fortune, the unhappy victims of delusive expectation? Shall we still pant in pursuit of pleasure without ever attaining it? Those nuptials, which we so impatiently expected, were first to have been celebrated at Clarens; but the bad weather opposed it, and the ceremony was performed in town: however we had still some hopes of a private interview; but we were so closely beset by officious importunity, that it was impossible for us both to escape at the same instant. At last a favourable opportunity offers, but we are again disappointed by the cruelest of mothers, and that which ought to have been the moment of our felicity went near to have proved our destruction. Nevertheless, I am so far from being abashed by these numberless obstacles, that they serve but to inflame my resolution. I know not by what new powers I am animated, but I feel an intrepidity of soul to which I have been hitherto ignorant; and if you are inspired with the same spirit this evening, this very evening I will perform my promises, and discharge at once all the obligations of love.
Weigh this affair maturely, and consider well at what rate you estimate your life; for the expedient I am going to propose may probably lead us to the grave. If thou art afraid, read no farther; but if thy heart shrinks no more at the point of a sword than formerly at the precipice of Meillerie, mine shares the danger and hesitates no longer. Be attentive.
Bab, who generally lies in my chamber, has been ill there three days, and though I offered to attend her, she is removed in spite of me; but as she is now somewhat better, possibly to-morrow she may return. The stairs, which lead to my mother’s apartment and mine, are at some distance from the room where they sup, and, at that hour, the rest of the house, except the kitchen, is entirely uninhabited. The darkness of the night will then favour your progress through the streets without the least risk of being observed, and you are not unacquainted with the house.
I believe I have said enough to be understood. Come this afternoon to Fanny’s; I will there explain the rest, and give the necessary instructions: but if that should be impossible, you will find them in writing, in the old place, to which I consign this letter. The subject is too important to be trusted with any person living.
O! I see the violent palpitation of thy heart! How I feel thy transports! No, no, my charming friend, we will not quit this short existence without having, for a moment, tasted happiness. Yet remember that the fatal moment is environed with the horrors of death! That the way to bliss is extremely hazardous, its duration full of perils, and your retreat beyond measure dangerous; that if we are discovered, we are inevitably lost, and that to prevent it fortune must be uncommonly indulgent. Let us not deceive ourselves: I know my father too well to doubt that he would not instantly pierce your heart, or that even I should not be the first victim to his revenge; for certainly he would shew me no mercy, nor indeed can you imagine that I would lead you into dangers to which I myself were not exposed.
Remember also that you are not to have the least dependence on your courage; it will not bear a thought: I even charge you very expressly, to come entirely unarmed; so that your intrepidity will avail you nothing. If we are surprized; I am resolved to throw myself into thy arms, to grasp thee to my heart, and thus to receive the mortal blow, that they may part us no more; so shall my exit be the happiest moment of my life.
Yet I hope a milder fate awaits us; it surely is our due, and fortune must at last grow weary of her injustice. Come then, soul of my heart, life of my life, come and be re-united to thyself. Come, under the auspices of love, and receive the reward of thy obedience and thy sacrifices. O come and confess, even in the bosom of pleasure, that from the union of hearts, proceed its greatest delights.
Letter LIV. To Eloisa.
Am I then arrived?----how my heart flutters, in entering this asylum of love! Yes, Eloisa, I am now in your closet: I am in the sanctuary of my soul’s adored. The torch of love lighted my steps, and I passed through the house unperceived----Delightful mansion! happy place! once the scene of tenderness and infant love suppressed! These conscious walls have seen my growing, my successful passion, and will now a second time behold it crowned with bliss: witness of my eternal constancy, be witness also of my happiness, and conceal for ever the transports of the most faithful and most fortunate of men.
How charming is this place of concealment! Every thing around me serves to inflame the ardour of my passion. O Eloisa, this delightful spot is full of thee, and my desires are kindled by every footstep of thine. Every sense is at once intoxicated with imaginary bliss. An almost imperceptible sweetness, more exquisite than the scent of the rose, and more volatile than that of the Iris, exhales from every part. I fancy I hear the delightful sound of your voice. Every part of your scattered dress presents to my glowing imagination the charms it has concealed. That light head dress, which is adorned by those bright locks it affects to hide, that simple elegant dishabille, which displays so well the taste of the wearer; those pretty slippers that fit so easily on your little feet; these stays, which encircle and embrace your slender----Heavens, what a charming shape! how the top of the stomacher is waved in two gentle curves? luxurious sight! the whalebone has yielded to their impression----delicious impression! let me devour it with kisses! O Gods! how shall I be able to bear? Ah! methinks I feel already a tender heart beat softly under my happy hand; Eloisa, my charming Eloisa, I see, I feel thee at every pore. We now breathe the same air. How thy delay inflames and torments me! My impatience is insupportable. O, come, Eloisa, fly to my arms, or I am undone! How fortunate it was to find pen, ink and paper! By expressing what I feel, I moderate my extasy, and give a turn to my transports by attempting to describe them.
Ha! I hear a noise----Should it be her inhuman father? I do not think myself a coward----but death would terrify me just now. My despair would be equal to the ardour which consumes me. Grant me, good heaven! but one more hour to live, and I resign the remainder of my life to thy utmost rigour. What impatience! what fears! what cruel palpitation! Ah! the door opens! It is she, it is Eloisa! I see her enter the chamber and lock the door. My heart, my feeble heart, sinks under its agitation. Let me recover myself, and gather strength to support the bliss that overwhelms me!
Letter LV. To Eloisa.
O let us die, my sweet friend! let us die, thou best beloved of my heart! How shall we hereafter support an insipid life, whose pleasures we have already exhausted? Tell me, if you can, what I experienced last night? give me an idea of a whole life spent in the same manner, or let me quit an existence which has nothing left that can equal the pleasures I have tasted.
I had tasted bliss, and formed a conception of happiness. But, alas! I had only dreamt of true pleasure, and conceived only the happiness of a child! My senses deceived my unrefined heart; I sought supreme delight in their gratification; and I find that the end of sensual pleasures is but the beginning of mine. O thou choice master piece of nature’s works! divine Eloisa! to the ecstatic possession of whom all the transports of the most ardent passion hardly suffice! Yet it is not those transports I regret the most. Ah! no: deny me, if it must be so, those intoxicating favours, for the enjoyment of which I would nevertheless die a thousand deaths, but restore me all the bliss which does not depend on them, and it will abundantly exceed them. Restore me that intimate connection of souls, which you first taught me to know, and have so well instructed me to taste. Restore to me that delightful languor, accomplished by the mutual effusions of the heart. Restore to me that enchanting slumber that lulled me in your breast! Restore to me the yet more delicious moments when I awake, those interrupted sighs, those melting tears, those kisses slowly, sweetly impressed in voluptuous languishment; let me hear those soft, those tender complaints, amidst whose gentle murmurs you pressed so close those hearts which were made for each other.
Tell me, Eloisa, you, who ought from your own sensibility to judge so well of mine, do you think I ever tasted real love before? My feelings, are greatly changed, since yesterday; they seem to have taken a less impetuous turn; but more agreeable, more tender, and more delightful. Do you remember that whole hour we spent, in calmly talking over the circumstances of our love, and of the fearful consequences of what might happen hereafter, by which the present moment was made the more interesting? That short hour in which a slight apprehension of future sorrow rendered our conversation the more affecting? I was tranquil, and yet was near my Eloisa. I adored her, but my desires were calm. I did not even think of any other felicity than to perceive your face close to mine, to feel your breath on my cheek, and your arm about my neck. What a pleasing tranquillity prevailed over all my senses! How refined, how lasting, how constant the delight! The mind possessed all the pleasure of enjoyment, not momentary, but durable. What a difference is there between the impetuous sallies of appetite, and a situation so calm and delightful! It is the first time I have experienced it in your presence; and judge of the extraordinary change it has effected. That hour I shall ever think the happiest of my life, as it is the only one which I could wish should have been prolonged to eternity. Tell me then, Eloisa, did I not love you before, or have I ceased to love you since?
If I cease to love you! What a doubt is that? Do I cease to exist or does my life not depend more on the heart of Eloisa than my own? I feel, I feel you are a thousand times more dear to me than ever; and I find myself enabled, from the slumber of my desires, to love you more tenderly than before. My sentiments, it is true, are less passionate, but they are more affectionate, and are of different kinds: without loosing any thing of their force, they are multiplied; the mildness of friendship moderates the extravagance of love; and I can hardly conceive any kind of attachment which does not unite me to you. O my charming mistress! my wife! my sister! my friend! By what name shall I express what I feel, after having exhausted all those which are dear to the heart of man?
Let me now confess a suspicion which, to my shame and mortification, I have entertained; it is that you are more capable of love than myself. Yes, my Eloisa, it is on you that my life, my being depends: I revere you with all the faculties of my soul; but yours contains more of love. I see, I feel, that love hath penetrated deeper into your heart than mine. It is that which animates your charms, which prevails in your discourse, which gives to your eyes that penetrating sweetness, to your voice such moving accents: it is that which your presence alone imperceptibly communicates to the hearts of others, the tender emotions of your own. Alas! How far am I from such an independent state of love! I seek the enjoyment, and you the love, of the beloved object: I am transported, and you enamoured; not all my transports are equal to your languishing softness; and it is in such sensations as yours, only that supreme felicity consists. It is but since yesterday that I have known such refined pleasure. You have left me something of that inconceivable charm peculiar to yourself; and I am persuaded that your sweet breath hath inspired me with a new soul. Haste then, I conjure you, to compleat the work you have begun. Take from me all that remains of mine, and give me a soul entirely yours. No, angelic beauty, celestial mind, no sentiments but such as yours can do honour to your charms. You alone are worthy to inspire a perfect passion; you alone are capable of feeling it. Ah! give me your heart, my Eloisa, that I may love you as you deserve?
Letter LVI. From Clara to Eloisa.
I have a piece of information for my dear cousin, in which she will find herself a little interested. Last night there happened an affair between your friend and Lord B---- which may possibly become serious. Thus it was, as I had it from Mr. Orbe, who was present, and who gave me the following account this morning.
Having supped with his Lordship, and entertained themselves for a couple of hours with their music, they sat down to chat and drink punch. Your friend drank only one single glass mixt with water. The other two were not quite so sober; for though Mr. Orbe declares he was not touched, I intend to give him my opinion of that matter some other time. You naturally became the subject of their conversation; for you know this Englishman can talk of no body else. Your friend, who did not much relish his Lordship’s discourse, seemed so little obliged to him for his confidence, that at last, my Lord, slushed with liquor, and piqued at the coldness of his manner, dared to tell him, in complaining of your indifference, that it was not so general as might be imagined, and that those who were silent had less reason to complain. You know your friend’s impetuosity: he instantly took fire, repeated the words with great warmth and insult, which drew upon him the lie, and, they both flew to their swords. Lord B----, who was half seas over, in running gave his ancle a sudden twist which obliged him to stagger to a chair. His leg began immediately to swell, and this more effectually appeased their wrath than all Mr. Orbe’s interposition. But as he continued attentive to what past, he observed your friend, in going out, approach his Lordship, and heard him whisper: As soon as you are able to walk, you will let me know it, or shall take care to inform myself----You need not give yourself that trouble, said the other with a contemptuous smile, you shall know it time enough----We shall see, returned your friend, and left the room. Mr. Orbe when he delivers this letter, will tell you more particularly. It is your prudence that must suggest the means of stifling this unlucky affair. In the mean time, the bearer waits your commands, and you may depend on his secrecy.
Pardon me, my dear, my friendship forces me to speak: I am terribly apprehensive on your account. Your attachment can never continue long concealed in this small town; it is indeed a miraculous piece of good fortune, considering it is now two years since it begun, that you are not already the public talk of the place. But it will very soon happen, if you are not extremely cautious. I am convinced your character would long since have suffered, if you had been less generally beloved; but the people are so universally prejudiced in your favour, that no one dares to speak ill of you for fear of being discredited and despised. Nevertheless every thing must have an end; and must I fear that your mystery draws near its period; I have great reason to apprehend that Lord B----’s suspicions proceed from some disagreeable tales he has heard. Let me intreat you to think seriously of this affair. The watch-man has been heard to say, that, some time ago, he saw your friend come out of your house at five o’clock in the morning. Fortunately he himself had early intelligence of this report and found means to silence the fellow; but what signifies such silence? It will serve only to confirm the reports that will be privately whispered to all the world. Besides, your mother’s suspicions are daily increasing. You remember her frequent hints. She has several times spoke to me in such bitter terms, that if she did not dread the violence of your father’s temper, I am certain she would already have opened her mind to him; but she is conscious that the blame would fall chiefly on herself.
It is impossible I should repeat it too often; think of your safety before it be too late. Prevent those growing suspicions, which nothing but his absence can dispel: and indeed, to be sincere with you, under what pretext can he be supposed to continue here? Possibly in a few weeks more his removal may be to no purpose. If the least circumstance should reach your father’s ear, you will have cause to tremble at the indignation of an old officer, so tenacious of the honour of his family, and at the petulance of a violent youth. But we must first endeavour to terminate the affair with Lord B----, for it were in vain to attempt to persuade your friend to decamp, till that is in some shape accomplished.
Letter LVII. From Eloisa.
I have been informed, my friend, of what has passed between you and my Lord B----; and from a perfect knowledge of the fact, I have a mind to discuss the affair, and give you my opinion of the conduct you ought to observe on this occasion, agreeable to the sentiments you profess, and of which I suppose you do not make only an idle parade.
I do not concern myself whether you are skilled in fencing, nor whether you think yourself capable of contending with a man who is famous all over Europe for his superior dexterity in that art, having fought five or six times in his life, and always killed, wounded, or disarmed his man. I know that in such a case as yours, people consult not their skill, but their courage; and that the fashionable method to be revenged of a man who has insulted you, is to let him run you through the body. But let us pace over this wise maxim; you will tell me that your honour and mine are dearer to you than life. This, therefore, is the principle on which we must reason.
To begin with what immediately concerns yourself. Can you ever make it appear in what respect you were personally offended by a conversation that related solely to me? We shall see presently whether you ought on such an occasion to take my cause upon yourself: in the mean time, you cannot but allow that the quarrel was quite foreign to your own honour in particular, unless you are to take the suspicion of being beloved by me as an affront. I must own you have been insulted; but then it was after having begun the quarrel yourself by an atrocious affront; and, as I have had frequent opportunities, from the many military people in our family, of hearing these horrible questions debated, I am not to learn that one outrage committed in return to another does not annul the first, and that he who receives the first insult is the only person offended. It is the same in this case, as in a rencounter, where the aggressor is only in fault: he who wounds and kills another in his own defence, is not considered as being guilty of murder.
To come now to myself; we will agree that I was insulted by the conversation of my Lord B----, although he said no more of me than he might justify. Do you know what you are about in defending my cause with so much warmth and indiscretion? You aggravate his insults; you prove he was in the right; you sacrifice my honour to the false punctilios of yours, and defame your mistress to gain at most the reputation of a good swords-man. Pray tell me what affinity there is between your manner of justifying me and my real justification? Do you think that to engage in my behalf with so much heat is any great proof that there are no connections between us? And that it is sufficient to shew your courage to convince the world you are not my lover? Be assured, my Lord B----’s insinuations are less injurious to me than your conduct. It is you alone who take upon yourself, by this bustle to publish and confirm them. He may, perhaps, turn aside the point of your sword in conflict; but never will my reputation, nor perhaps my being, survive the mortal blow you meditate.
These reasons are too solid to admit of a reply; but I foresee you will oppose custom to reason; you will tell me there is a fatality in some things which hurries us away in spite of ourselves; that we can, in no case whatever, bear the lie; and that, when an affair is gone a certain length, it is impossible to avoid fighting or infamy. We will examine into the validity of this argument.
Do not you remember a distinction you once made, on an important occasion, between real and apparent honour? Under which of these classes shall we rank that in question? For my part, I cannot see that it will even admit of a doubt. What comparison is there between the glory of cutting another’s throat, and the testimony of a good conscience? And of what importance is the idle opinion of the world, set in competition with true honour, whose foundation is rooted in the heart? Can we be deprived of virtues we really possess by false aspersions of calumny? Does the insult of a drunken man prove such insults deserved? Or does the honour of the virtuous and prudent lie at the mercy of the first brute he meets? Will you tell me that fighting a duel shews a man to have courage, and that this is sufficient to efface the dishonour, and prevent the reproach, due to all other vices? I would ask you, what kind of honour can dictate such a decision? Or what arguments justify it? On such principles a knave need only fight, to cease to be a knave; the assertions of a liar become true when they are maintained at the point of the sword; and, if you were even accused of killing a man, you have only to kill a second, to prove the accusation false. Thus virtue, vice, honour, infamy, truth, and falsehood, all derive their existence from the event of a duel: a gallery of small arms is the only court of justice; there is no other law than violence, no other argument than murder: all the reparation due to the insulted, is to kill them, and every offence is equally washed away by the blood of the offender or the offended. If wolves themselves could reason, would they entertain maxims more inhuman than these? Judge yourself, from the situation you are in, whether I exaggerate their absurdity? What is it you resent? That the lie has been given you on an occasion wherein you actually asserted a falsehood. Do you think to destroy the truth, by killing him you would punish for having told it? Do you consider that, in risking the success of a duel, you call heaven to witness the truth of a lie, and impiously bid the supreme disposer of events to support the cause of injustice, and give the triumph to falsehood? Does not such absurdity shock you? Does not such impiety make you shudder? Good God! what a wretched sense of honour is that, which is less afraid of vice than reproach; and will not permit that another should give us the lie, which our own hearts had given us before?
Do you, who would have every one profit by their reading, make use of yours: see if you can find one instance of a challenge being given, when the world abounded with heroes? Did the most valiant men of antiquity ever think of revenging private injuries by personal combat? Did Caesar send a challenge to Cato, or Pompey to Caesar, for their many reciprocal affronts? Or was the greatest warrior of Greece disgraced, because he put up the threats of being cudgelled? Manners, I know, change with the times; but are they all equally commendable? Or is it unreasonable to enquire whether those of any times are agreeable to the dictates of true honour? This is not of a fickle or changeable nature: true honour does not depend on time, place or prejudice; it can neither be annihilated nor generated anew; but has its constant source in the heart of the virtuous man, and in the unalterable rules of his conduct. If the most enlightened, the most brave, the most virtuous people upon earth had no duels, I will venture to declare it not an institution of honour, but a horrid and savage custom worthy its barbarous origin. It remains for you to determine whether, when his own life or that of another is in question, a man of real honour is to be governed by the mode of the times, or if it be not a greater instance of his courage to despise than follow it. What do you think he would do in places where a contrary custom prevails? At Messina or Naples he would not challenge his man, but wait for him at the corner of a street, and stab him in the back. This is called bravery in those countries, where honour consists in killing your enemy, and not in being killed by him yourself. Beware then of confounding the sacred name of honour with that barbarous prejudice, which subjects every virtue to the decision of the sword, and is only adapted to make men daring villains! Will it be said this custom may be made use of as a supplement to the rules of probity? Wherever probity prevails, is not such a supplement useless? And what shall be said to the man who exposes his life, in order to be exempted from being virtuous? Do you not see that the crimes, which shame and a sense of honour have not prevented, are screened and multiplied by a false shame and the fear of reproach? It is this fear which makes men hypocrites and liars: it is this which makes them embrue their hands in the blood of their friends, for an indiscreet word, which should have been forgotten, for a merited reproach too severe to be borne. It is this which transforms the abused and fearful maid into an infernal fury: It is this which arms the hand of the mother against the tender fruit of----I shudder at the horrible idea, and give thanks at least to that being who searcheth the heart, that he hath banished far from mine a sense of that horrid honour, which inspires nothing but wickedness, and makes humanity tremble.
Look into yourself, therefore, and consider whether it be permitted you to make a deliberate attempt on the life of a man, and expose yours to satisfy a barbarous and fatal notion, which has no foundation in reason or nature. Consider whether the sad reflection of the blood spilt on such occasions can cease to cry out for vengeance on him who has spilt it. Do you know any crime equal to wilful murder? If humanity also be the basis of every virtue, what must be thought of the man, whose blood-thirsty and depraved disposition prompts him to seek the life of his fellow-creature? Do you remember what you have yourself said to me, against entering into foreign service? Have you forgot that a good citizen owes his life to his country, and has not a right to dispose of it, without the permission of its laws, and much less in direct opposition to them? O my friend, if you have a sincere regard for virtue, learn to pursue it in its own way, and not in the ways of the world. I will own some slight inconvenience may arise from it; but is the word virtue no more to you than an empty sound? and will you practise it only when it costs you no trouble? I will ask, however, in what will such inconvenience consist? In the whispers of a set of idle or wicked people, who seek only to amuse themselves with the misfortunes of others, and to have always some new tale to propagate. A pretty motive, truly, to engage men to cut each other’s throats! If the philosopher and man of sense regulate their behaviour, on the most important occasions of life, by the idle talk of the multitude, to what purpose is all their parade of study, if they are at last no better than the vulgar? Dare you not sacrifice your resentment to duty, to esteem, to friendship, for fear it should be said you are afraid of death? Weigh well these circumstances, my good friend, and I am convinced you will find more cowardice in the fear of that reproach than in the fear of death. The braggard, the coward, would, at all hazards, pass for brave men.
Ma verace valor, ben che negletto, E’ di se stesso a fe freggio assai chiaro.
He, who affects to meet death without fear, is a liar. All men fear to die; it is a law with all sensible Beings, without which every species of mortals would soon be destroyed. This fear is the simple emotion of nature, and that not in itself indifferent, but just and conformable to the order of things. All that renders it shameful, or blameable, is, that it may sometimes prevent us from well doing, and the proper discharge of our duty. If cowardice were to no obstacle to virtue, it would never be vicious. Whoever is more attached to life than his duty, I own, cannot be truly virtuous; but can you, who pique yourself on your judgment, explain to me what sort of merit there is in braving death in order to be guilty of a crime?
What though it be true, that a man is despised who refuses to fight; which contempt is most to be feared, that of others for doing well, or that of ourselves for having acted ill? Believe me, he, who has a proper esteem for himself, is little sensible to the unjust reproach cast on him by others, and is only afraid of deserving it. Probity and virtue depend not on the opinion of the world, but on the nature of things; and though all mankind should approve of the action you are about, it would not be less shameful in itself. But it is a false notion, that to refrain from it, though a virtuous motive, would be bringing yourself into contempt. The virtuous man, whose whole life is irreproachable, and who never betrayed any marks of cowardice, will refuse to stain his hands with blood, and will be only the more respected for such refusal. Always ready to serve his country, to protect the weak, to discharge his duty on the most dangerous occasions, and to defend in every just and reasonable cause whatever is dear to him, at the hazard of his life, he displays throughout the whole of his conduct that unshaken fortitude, which is inseparable from true courage. Animated by the testimony of a good conscience, he appears undaunted; and neither flies from, nor seeks, his enemy. It is easily observed that he fears less to die than to act basely; that he dreads the crime, but not the danger. If at any time the mean prejudices of the world raise a clamour against him, the conduct of his whole life is his testimony, and every action is approved by a behaviour so uniformly irreproachable.
But do you know what makes this moderation so painful to the generality of men? It is the difficulty of supporting it with propriety. It is the necessity they lie under of never impeaching it by an unworthy action: for if the fear of doing ill does not restrain men in one case, why should it in another, where that restraint may be attributed to a more natural motive? Hence, it is plain, it does not proceed from virtue, but cowardice; and it is with justice that such scruples are laughed at, as appear only in cases of danger. Have you not observed that persons, captious and ready to affront others, are, for the most part, bad men, who, for fear of having the contempt in which they are universally held publicly exposed, endeavour to screen, by some honourable quarrels, the infamy of their lives? Is it for you to imitate such wretches as these? Let us set aside men of a military profession, who fell their blood for pay, and who, unwilling to be degraded from their rank, calculate from their interest what they owe to their honour, and know to a shilling the value of their lives. Let us, my friend, leave these gentlemen to their fighting. Nothing is less honourable than that honour about which they make such a noise; and which is nothing more than an absurd custom, a false imitation of virtue, which prides itself in the greatest crimes. Your honour is not in the power of another: it depends on yourself, and not on the opinion of the world; its defence is neither in the sword nor the buckler, but in a life of integrity and virtue; a proof of greater courage than to brave death in a duel.----
On these principles you may reconcile the encomiums I have always bestowed on true valour, with the contempt I have as constantly expressed for the base pretenders to magnanimity. I admire men of spirit, and hate cowards; I would break with a pusillanimous lover, who should betray the want of a proper resolution in cases of danger, and think with all the rest of my sex, that the ardours of true courage heighten those of love. But, I would have such courage exerted only on lawful occasions, and not an idle parade made of it when it is unnecessary, as if there was some fear of not having it ready when it should be called for. There are cowards who will make one effort to exert their courage, that they may have a pretence to avoid danger the rest of their lives. True courage is more constant and less impetuous; it is always what it ought to be, and wants neither the spur nor the rein; the man of real magnanimity carries it always about him; in fighting he exerts it against his enemy; in company against back-biting and falsehood, and on a sick bed against the attacks of pain and the horrors of death. That fortitude of mind which inspires true courage is always exerted; it places virtue out of the reach of events, and does not consist in braving danger, but in not fearing it. Such, my friend, is the merit of that courage I have often commended, and which I would admire in you. All other pretences to bravery are wild, extravagant, and brutal; it is even cowardice to submit to them; and I despise as much the man who runs himself into needless danger, as him who turns his back on what he ought to encounter.
If I am not much mistaken, I have now made it clear, that, in this your quarrel with Lord B----, your own honour is not at all concerned; that you are going to compromise mine by drawing your sword to avenge it; that such conduct is neither just, reasonable, nor lawful; that it by no means agrees with the sentiments you profess, but belongs only to bad men, who make use of their courage as a supplement to virtues they do not possess, or to officers that fight not for honour but interest; that there is more true courage in despising than adopting it, that the inconveniences to which you expose yourself by rejecting it are inseparable from the practice of our duty, and are more apparent than real; in fine, that men who are the most ready to recur to the sword, are always those of the most suspicious characters. From all which I conclude, that you cannot either give or accept a challenge on this occasion, without giving up at once the cause of reason, virtue, honour, and Eloisa. Canvas my arguments as you please, heap sophism on sophism, as you will, it will be always found that a man of true courage is not a coward, and that a man of virtue cannot be without honour. And I think I have demonstrated as clearly that a man of true courage despises, and a man of virtue abhors, duelling.
I thought proper, my friend, in so serious and important an affair, to speak to you only in the plain language of reason, and to represent things simply as they are. If I would have described them as they appear to me, and engaged the passions and humanity in the cause, I should have addressed you in a different stile. You know that my father had the misfortune, in his youth, to kill his antagonist in a duel: that antagonist was his friend; they fought with regret, but were obliged to it by that absurd notion of a point of honour. That fatal blow which deprived the one of life, robbed the other of his piece of mind for ever. From that time has the most cruel remorse incessantly preyed on his heart; he is often heard to sigh and weep in private: his imagination still represents to him the fatal steel pushed by his cruel hand into the breast of the man he loved; his slumbers are disturbed by the appearances of his pale and bleeding friend: he looks with terror on the mortal wound; he endeavours to stop the blood that flows from it; he is seized with horror, and cries out, will this corpse never cease pursuing me? It is five years since he lost the only support of his name, and hope of his family; since when, he has reproached himself with his death, as a just judgment from heaven, which avenged on him the loss of that unhappy father, whom he deprived of an only son.
I must confess that all this, added to my natural aversion to cruelty, fills me with such horror at duels, that I regard them as instances of the lowest degree of brutality into which mankind can possibly descend. I look upon those, who go chearfully to a duel, in no other light than as wild beasts going to tear each other to pieces; and, if there remains the least sentiment of humanity within them, I think the murdered less to be pitied than the murderer. Observe those men who are accustomed to this horrid practice; they only brave remorse by stifling the voice of nature; they grow by degrees cruel and insensible; they sport with the lives of others, and their punishment for having turned a deaf ear to humanity, is to lose at length every sense of it. How shocking must be such a situation? Is it possible you can desire to be like them? No, you were never made for such a state of detestable brutality: be careful of the first step that leads to it; your mind is yet undepraved and innocent: begin not to debase it, at the hazard of your life, by an attempt that has no virtue, a crime that has no temptation, and a point of honour founded only on absurdity.
I have said nothing to you of your Eloisa; she will be a gainer, no doubt, by leaving your heart to speak for her. One word, only one word, and I leave her to you. You have sometimes honoured me with the endearing name of wife; perhaps I ought at this time to bear that of mother. Will you leave me a widow before we are legally united?
P. S. I make use of an authority in this letter, which no prudent man ever resisted. If you refuse to submit to it, I have nothing farther to say to you: but think of it well before hand. Take a week’s time for reflection, and to meditate on this important subject. It is not for any particular reason I demand this delay, but for my own pleasure. Remember, I make use only on this occasion of a right; which you yourself have given me over you, and which extends at least to what I now require.
Letter LVIII. From Eloisa to Lord B----.
I have no intention in writing to your Lordship, to accuse or complain of you; since you are pleased to affront me, I must certainly be the offender, though I may be ignorant of my offence. Would any gentleman seek to dishonour a reputable family without a cause? Surely no: therefore satisfy your revenge, if you believe it just. This letter will furnish you with an easy method of ruining an unhappy girl, who can never forgive herself for having offended you, and who commits to your discretion that honour which you intend to blast. Yes, my Lord, your imputations were just: I have a lover, whom I sincerely love; my heart, my person, are entirely his, and death only can dissolve our union. This lover is the very man whom you honour with your friendship, and he deserves it, because he loves you and is virtuous. Nevertheless, he must perish by your hand. Offended honour, I know, can be appeased only by a human sacrifice. I know that his own courage will prove his destruction. I am convinced, that in a combat in which you have so little to fear, his intrepid heart will impatiently rush upon the point of your sword. I have endeavoured to restrain his inconsiderate ardour, by the power of reason; but alas! even whilst I was writing, I was conscious of the inutility of my arguments: What opinion soever I may have of his virtue, I do not believe it so sublime as to detach him from a false point of honour. You may safely anticipate the pleasure you will have in piercing the heart of your friend: but be assured, barbarous man, that you shall never enjoy that of being witness to my tears and my despair. No, I swear by that sacred flame which fills my whole heart, that I will not survive, one single day, the man for whom alone I breathe! Yes, Sir, you will reap the glory of having, in one instant, sent to the grave two unhappy lovers, whose offence was not intentional, and by whom you were honoured and esteemed.
I have heard, my Lord, that you have a great soul and a feeling heart: if these will allow you the peaceful enjoyment of your revenge, heaven grant, when I am no more, that they may inspire you with some compassion for my poor, disconsolate parents, whose grief for their only child will endure for ever.
Letter LIX. From Mr. Orbe to Eloisa.
I snatch the first moment, my dear cousin, in obedience to your commands, to render an account of my proceedings. I am this instant returned from my visit to Lord B---- who is not yet able to walk without a support. I gave him your letter, which he opened with impatience. He shewed some emotion whilst he was reading; he paused; read it a second time, and the agitation of his mind was then more apparent. When he had done, these were his words: You know, Sir, that affairs of honour have their fixt rules which cannot be dispensed with. You were a witness to what passed in this. It must be regularly determined. Chuse two of your friends, and give yourself the trouble to return with them hither to-morrow morning, and you shall then know my resolution. I urged the impropriety of making others acquainted with an affair which had happened among ourselves. To which he hastily replied: I know what ought to be done, and shall act properly. Bring your two friends, or I have nothing to say to you. I then took my leave and have ever since racked my brain ineffectually to penetrate into his design. Be it as it will, I shall see you this evening, and to-morrow shall act as you may advise. If you think it proper that I should wait on his lordship with my attendants, I will take care to chuse such as may be depended on, at all events.
Letter LX. To Eloisa.
Lay aside your fears, my gentle Eloisa; and from the following recital of what has happened, know and partake of the sentiments of your friend.
I was so full of indignation when I received your letter, that I could hardly read it with the attention it deserved. I should have made fine work in attempting to refuse it: I was then too rash and inconsiderate. You may be in the right, said I to myself, but I will never be persuaded to put up an affront injurious to my Eloisa.---- Though I were to lose you, and even die in a wrong cause, I will never suffer any one to shew you less respect than is your due; but, whilst I have life, you shall be revered by all that approach you, even as my own heart reveres you. I did not hesitate, however, on the week’s delay you required: the accident which had happened to Lord B----, and my vow of obedience concurred, in rendering it necessary. In the mean time, being resolved agreeable to your commands to employ that interval in meditating on the subject of your letter, I read it over again and again, and am reflecting on it continually; not with a view, however, to change my design, but to justify it.
I had it in my hand this morning, perusing again, with some uneasiness of mind, those too sensible and judicious arguments that made against me, when somebody knocked at the door of my chamber. It was opened, and immediately entered Lord B----, without his sword, leaning on his cane; he was followed by three gentlemen, one of whom I observed to be Mr. Orbe. Surprized at a visit so unexpected, I waited silently for the consequence; when my Lord requested of me a moment’s audience and begged leave to say, and do, as he pleased without interruption. You must, says he, give me your express permission: the presence of these gentlemen, who are your friends, will excuse you from any supposed indiscretion. I promised without hesitation not to interrupt him; when, to my great astonishment, his Lordship immediately fell upon his knee. Surprized at seeing him in such an attitude, I would have raised him up; but, after putting me in mind of my promise, he proceeded in the following words. “I am come, Sir, to make an open retraction of the abuse, which, when in liquor, I uttered in your company. The injustice of such behaviour renders it more injurious to me than to you; and therefore I ought publicly to disavow it. I submit to whatever punishment you please to inflict on me, and shall not think my honour re-established till my fault is repaired. Then, grant me the pardon I ask, on what conditions you think fit, and restore me your friendship.” My Lord, returned I, I have the truest sense of your generosity and greatness of mind, and take a pleasure in distinguishing between the discourse which your heart dictates, and that which may escape you when you are not yourself: let that in question be for ever forgotten, I immediately raised him, and, falling into my arms, he cordially embraced me. Then, turning about to the company, “Gentlemen, said he, I thank you for your complaisance. Men of honour, like you,” added he, with a bold air and resolute tone of voice, “know that he who thus repairs the injury he has done, will not submit to an injury from any man. You may publish what you have seen.” He then invited all of us to sup with him this evening, and the gentlemen left us. We were no sooner alone, than his lordship embraced me again, in a more tender and friendly manner; then, taking me by the hand, and seating himself down by me, happy man! said he, may you long enjoy the felicity you deserve! The heart of Eloisa is yours, may you be both.----What do you mean, my Lord? said I, interrupting him; have you lost your senses? No, returned he, smiling, but I was very near losing them, and it had perhaps been all over with me, if she who took them away, had not restored them. He then gave me a letter that I was surprized to see written by a hand, which never before wrote to any man but myself. What emotions did I feel in its perusal. I traced the passion of an incomparable woman who would make a sacrifice of herself to save her lover; and I discovered Eloisa. But when I came to the passage, wherein she protests she would never survive the most fortunate of men, how did I not shudder at the dangers I had escaped! I could not help complaining that I was loved too well, and my fears convinced me you are mortal. Ah! restore me that courage of which you have deprived me! I had enough to set death at defiance, when it threatened only myself, but I shrunk when my better half was in danger.
While I was indulging myself in these cruel reflections, I paid little attention to his lordship’s discourse; till I heard the name of Eloisa. His conversation gave me pleasure as it did not excite my jealousy. He seemed extremely to regret his having disturbed our mutual passion and your repose; he respects you indeed beyond any other woman in the world; and, being ashamed to excuse himself to you, begged me to receive his apology in your name, and to prevail on you to accept it. “I consider you, says he, as her representative, and cannot humble myself too much to one she loves; being incapable, without having compromised the affair, to address myself personally to her, or even mention her name to you.” He frankly confessed to me he had entertained for you those sentiments, which every one must do who looks too intensely on Eloisa; but that his was rather a tender admiration than love; that he had formed neither hope nor pretension: but had given up all thoughts of either, on hearing of our connections; and that the injurious discourse which escaped him was the effect of liquor, and not of jealousy. He talked of love like a philosopher, who thinks his mind superior to the passions; but, for my part, I am mistaken if he has not already felt a passion, which will prevent any other from taking deep root in his breast. He mistakes a weakness of heart for the effect of reason; but I know that to love Eloisa, and be willing to renounce her, is not among the virtues of human nature.
He desired me to give him the history of our amour, and an account of the causes which prevented our happiness. I thought that, after the explicitness of your letter, a partial confidence might be dangerous and unreasonable. I made it therefore compleat, and he listened to me with an attention that convinced me of his sincerity. More than once I saw the tears come into his eyes, while his heart seemed most tenderly affected: above all, I observed the powerful impressions which the triumphs of virtue made on his mind; and I please myself in having raised up for Claud Anet a new protector, no less zealous than your father. When I had done, there are neither incidents nor adventures, said he, in what you have related; and yet the catastrophe of a Romance could not equally affect me; so well is a want of variety atoned for by sentiments; and of striking actions supplied by instances of a virtuous behaviour. Yours are such extraordinary minds that they are not to be guided by common rules: your happiness is not to be attained in the same manner, nor is it of the same species with that of others. They seek power and pre-eminence; you require only tenderness and tranquillity. There is blended with your affections a virtuous emulation, that elevates both; and you would be less deserving of each other if you were not mutually in love. But love, he presumed to say, will one day lose its power (forgive him, Eloisa, that blasphemous expression, spoken in the ignorance of his heart) the power of love, said he, will one day be lost, while that of virtue will remain. Oh my Eloisa! may our virtues but subsist as long as our love! Heaven will require no more.
In fine, I found that the philosophical inflexibility of his nation had no influence over the natural humanity of this honest Englishman; but that his heart was really interested in our difficulties. If wealth and credit can be useful to us, I believe we have some reason to depend on his service. But alas! how shall credit or riches operate to make us happy?
This interview, in which we did not count the hours, lasted till dinner time; I ordered a pullet for dinner, after which we continued our discourse. Among other topics, we fell upon the step his lordship had taken, with regard to myself in the morning; on which I could not help expressing my surprize at a procedure so solemn and uncommon. But, repeating the reasons he had already given me, he added, that to give a partial satisfaction was unworthy a man of courage: that he ought to make a compleat one or none at all; lest he should only debase himself without making any reparation; and lest a concession made involuntarily, and with an ill grace, should be attributed to fear. Besides, continued he, my reputation is established; I can do you justice without incurring the suspicion of cowardice; but you, who are young and just beginning the world, ought to clear yourself so well of the first affair you are engaged in as to tempt no one to involve you in a second. The world is full of those artful cowards, who are upon the catch, as one may say, to taste their man; that is, to find out some greater coward than themselves to shew their valour upon. I would save a man of honour, like you, the trouble of chastising such scoundrels; I had rather, if they want a lesson, that they should take it of me than you: for one quarrel, more or less, on the hands of a man, who has already had many, signifies nothing; whereas it is a kind of disgrace to have had but one, and the lover of Eloisa should be exempt from it.
This is, in abstract, my long conversation with Lord B----; of which I thought proper to give you an account, that you might prescribe the manner in which I ought to behave to him.
As you ought now to be composed, chase from your mind, I conjure you, those dreadful apprehensions which have found a place there for some days past. Think of the care you should take in the uncertainty of your present condition. O should you soon give me life in a third being! Should a charming pledge----Too flattering hope! Dost thou come again to deceive me? I wish! I fear! I am lost in perplexity! Oh! Thou dearest charmer of my heart, let us live but to love, and let heaven dispose of us, as it may?
P. S. I forgot to tell you that my Lord offered me your letter, and that I made no difficulty of taking it; thinking it improper that it should remain in the hands of a third person. I will return it you the first time I see you: for, as to myself, I have no occasion for it; it is deeply engraven in my heart.
Letter LXI. From Eloisa.
Bring my Lord B---- hither to-morrow, that I may throw myself at his feet, as he has done at yours. What greatness of mind! What generosity! Oh how little, do we seem, compared to him! Preserve so inestimable a friend as you would the apple of your eye. Perhaps he would be less valuable, were he of a more even temper; was there ever a man without some vices who had great virtues?
A thousand distresses of various kinds had sunk my spirits to the lowest ebb; but your letter has rekindled my extinguished hopes. In dissipating my fears, it has rendered my anxiety the more supportable. I feel now I have strength enough to bear up under it. You live, you love me; neither your own nor the blood of your friend has been spilt, and your honour is secured; I am not then compleatly miserable.
Fail not to meet me to-morrow. I never had so much reason for seeing you, nor so little hope of having that pleasure long. Farewell, my dear friend, instead of saying let us live but to love, you should have said alas! let us love that we may live.
Letter LXII. From Clara.
Must I be always, my dear cousin, under the necessity of performing the most disagreeable offices of friendship? Must I always, in the bitterness of my own heart, be giving affliction to yours, by cruel intelligence? Our sentiments, alas! are the same, and you are sensible I can give no new uneasiness to you which I have not first experienced myself. O that I could but conceal your misfortune without increasing it! or that a friendship like ours were not as binding as love! How readily might I throw off that chagrin I am now obliged to communicate. Last night, when the concert was over, and your mother and you were gone home, in company with your friend and Mr. Orbe, our two fathers and my Lord B---- were left to talk politics together; the disagreeableness of the subject, of which indeed I am quite surfeited, soon made me retire to my own chamber. In about half an hour, I heard the name of your friend repeated with some vehemence; on which I found the conversation had changed its subject, and therefore listened to it with some attention; when I gathered, by what followed, that his lordship had ventured to propose a match between you and your friend, whom he frankly called his, and on whom, as such, he offered to make a suitable settlement. Your father rejected the proposal with disdain, and upon that the conversation began to grow warm. “I must tell you sir, said my lord, that, notwithstanding your prejudices, he is of all men the most worthy of her, and perhaps the most likely to make her happy. He has received from nature every gift that is independent of the world; and has embellished them by all those talents, which depended on himself. He is young, tall, well-made, and ingenious: he has the advantages of education, sense, manners, and courage; he has a fine genius and a sound mind; what then does he require to make him worthy of your daughter? Is it a fortune? He shall have one. A third part of my own will make him the richest man of this country; nay, I will give him, if it be necessary, the half. Does he want a title? Ridiculous prerogative, in a country where nobility is more troublesome than useful! But, doubt it not, he is noble: not that his nobility is made out in writing upon an old parchment, but it is engraven in indelible characters on his heart. In a word if you prefer the dictates of reason and sense to groundless prejudices, and if you love your daughter better than empty titles, you will give her to him.”
On this your father expressed himself in a violent passion: he treated the proposal as absurd and ridiculous. How! my lord! said he, is it possible a man of honour, as you are, can entertain such a thought, that the last surviving branch of an illustrious family should go to lose and degrade its name, in that of nobody knows who; a fellow without home, and reduced to subsist upon charity. Hold, sir, interrupted my lord, you are speaking of my friend; consider that I must take upon myself every injury done him in my company, and that such language as is injurious to a man of honour, is more so to him who makes use of it. Such fellows are more respectable than all the country squires in Europe; and I defy you to point out a more honourable way to fortune, than by excepting the debts of esteem, and the gifts of friendship. If my friend does not trace his descent, as you do, from a long and doubtful succession of ancestors, he will lay the foundation, and be the honour of his own house, as the first of your ancestors did that of yours. Can you think yourself dishonoured by your alliance to the head of your family, without falling under the contempt you have for him? How many great families would sink again into oblivion, if we respected only those which descended from truly respectable originals? Judge of the past by the present; for two or three honest citizens ennobled by virtuous means, a thousand knaves find every day the way to aggrandize themselves and families. But to what end serves that nobility, of which their descendants are so proud, unless it be to prove the injustice and infamy of their ancestors? [12] There are, I must confess, a great number of bad men among the common people; but the odds are always twenty to one against a gentleman, that he is descended from a rascal. Let us, if you will, set aside descent, and compare only merit and utility. You have borne arms in the service and pay of a foreign prince; his father fought without pay in the service of his country. If you have well served, you have been well paid; and, whatever honour you may have acquired by arms, a hundred plebeians may have acquired still more.
In what consists the honour then, continued my lord, of that nobility of which you are so tenacious? How does it affect the glory of one’s country or the good of mankind? A mortal enemy to liberty and the laws, what did it ever produce in most of those countries where it has flourished, but the rod of tyranny and the oppression of the people? Will you presume to boast, in a republic, of a rank that is destructive to virtue and humanity? Of a rank that makes its boast of slavery, and wherein men blush to be men? Read the annals of your own country; what have any of the nobility merited of her? Were any of her deliverers nobles? The Fursts, the Tills, the Stauffachers, were they gentlemen? What then is that absurd honour, about which you make so much noise?
Think, my dear, what I suffered to hear this respectable man thus injure, by an ill-concerted application, the cause of that friend whom he endeavoured to serve. Your father, being irritated by so many galling, though general invectives, strove to retort them by personal ones. He told his lordship plainly, that never any man of his condition talked in the manner he had done. Trouble not yourself to plead another’s cause, added he roughly, honourable as you are, I doubt much if you could make your own good, on the subject in question. You demand my daughter for your pretended friend, without knowing whether you are yourself an equal match for her; and I know enough of the English nobility to entertain, from your discourse, a very indifferent opinion of yours.
To this his lordship answered; whatever you may think of me, sir, I should be very sorry to be able to give no other proof of my merit than the name of a man who died five hundred years ago. If you know the nobility of England, you know that it is the least prejudiced, best informed, most sensible, and bravest of all Europe; after which it is needless to ask whether it be the most ancient; for, when we talk of what is, we never mind what was. We are not, it is true, the slaves, but the friends of a prince; not the oppressors of a people, but their leaders. The guardians of liberty, the pillars of our country, and the support of the throne, we maintain an equilibrium between the people and the king. Our first regards are due to the nation, our second to him that governs: we consult not his will, but his just prerogative. Supreme judges in the house of peers, and sometimes legislators, we render equal justice to the king and people, and suffer no one to say God and my sword, but only God and my right.
Such, sir, continued he, is that respectable nobility with which you are unacquainted; as ancient as any other, but more proud of its merit than of its ancestors. I am one, not the lowest in rank of that illustrious order, and believe, whatever be your pretensions, that I am your equal in every respect. I have a sister unmarried; she is young, amiable, rich and in no wise inferior to Eloisa, except in those qualities which with you pass for nothing. Now, sir, if after being enamoured with your daughter, it were possible for any one to change the object of his affections and admire another, I should think it an honour to accept the man for my brother, though he had nothing, whom I propose to you for a son with half my estate.
I knew matters would be only aggravated by your father’s reply; and, though I was struck with admiration at my Lord B----’s generosity, I saw plainly that he would totally ruin the negotiation he had undertaken. I went in, therefore, to prevent things from going farther. My entrance broke up the conversation, and immediately after they coldly took leave of each other, and parted. As to my father, he behaved very well in the dispute. At first he seconded the proposal; but, finding that yours would hear nothing of it, he took the side of his brother-in-law, and, by taking proper opportunities to moderate the contest, prevented them from going beyond those bounds they would certainly have trespassed, had they been alone. After their departure, he related to me what had happened; and, as I foresaw where his discourse would end, I readily told him, that things being in such a situation, it would be improper the person in question should see you so often here; and that it would be better for him not to come hither at all, if such an intimation would not be putting a kind of affront on Mr. Orbe, his friend; but that I should desire him to bring Lord B---- less frequently for the future. This, my dear, was the best I could do to prevent our door being entirely shut against him.
But this is not all. The crisis in which you stand at present obliges me to return to my former advice. The affair between my Lord B---- and your friend has made all the noise in town, which was natural to expect. For, though Mr. Orbe has kept the original cause of their quarrel a secret, the circumstances are too public, to suffer it to lie concealed. Every one has suspicions, makes conjectures, and some go so far as to name Eloisa. The report of the watch was not so totally suppressed but it is remembered; and you are not ignorant that, in the eye of the world, a bare suspicion of the truth is looked upon as evidence. All that I can say for your consolation is, that in general your choice is approved, and every body thinks with pleasure on the union of so charming a couple. This confirms me in the opinion that your friend has behaved himself well in this country, and is not less beloved than yourself. But what is the public voice to your inflexible father? All this talk has already reached, or will come to his ear; and I tremble to think of the effect it may produce, if you do not speedily take some measures to prevent his anger. You must expect from him an explanation terrible to yourself, and perhaps still worse for your friend. Not that I think, at his age, he will condescend to challenge a young man he thinks unworthy his sword: but the influence he has in the town will furnish him, if he has a mind to it, with a thousand means to stir up a party against him; and it is to be feared that his passion will be too ready to excite him to do it.
On my knees, therefore, I conjure you, my dear friend, to think on the dangers that surround you, and the terrible risk you run; which increases every moment. You have been extremely fortunate to escape hitherto, in the midst of such hazards; but, while it is yet time, I beg of you to let the veil of prudence be thrown over the secret of your amours; and not to push your fortune farther; lest it should involve in your misfortunes the man who has been the cause of them. Believe me, my dear, the future is uncertain, a thousand accidents may happen unexpectedly, in your favour; but, for the present, I have said and repeat it more earnestly, send away your friend, or you are undone.
Letter LXIII. From Eloisa to Clara.
All that you foresaw, my dear, is come to pass. Last night, about an hour after we got home, my father entered my mother’s apartment, his eyes sparkling and his countenance inflamed with anger; in a word, so irritated as I never saw him before. I found immediately that he had either just left a quarrel, or was seeking occasion to begin one; and my guilty conscience made me tremble for the consequence.
He began by exclaiming violently, but in general terms, against such mothers as indiscreetly invite to their houses young fellows without family or fortune, whose acquaintance only brings shame and scandal on those who cultivate it. Finding this not sufficient to draw an answer from an intimidated woman, he brought up particularly, as an example, what had passed in our own house, since she had introduced a pretended wit, an empty chatterer, more fit to debauch the mind of a modest young woman than to instruct her in any thing that is good.
My mother, who now saw she should get little by holding her tongue, took him up at the word debauch, and asked what he had ever seen in the conduct, or knew of the character of the person he spoke of, to authorize such base suspicions. I did not conceive, she added, that genius and merit were to be excluded from society. To whom, pray, would you have your house open, if fine talents and good behaviour have no pretensions to admittance? To our equals, Madam, he replied in a fury; to such as might repair the honour of a daughter if they should injure it. No, sir, said she, but rather to people of virtue who cannot injure it. Know, Madam, that the presumption of soliciting an alliance with my family, without a title to that honour, is highly injurious. So far from thinking it injurious, returned my mother, I think it, on the contrary, the highest mark of esteem: but, I know not that the person you exclaim against has made any such pretensions. He has done it, Madam, and will do worse, if I do not take proper care to prevent him; but, for the future, I shall take upon myself the charge you have executed so ill.
On this began a dangerous altercation between them; by which I found they were both ignorant of those reports, which you say have been spread about the town. During this time your unworthy cousin could, nevertheless, have wished herself buried a hundred feet in the earth. Think of the best and most abused of mothers lavishing encomiums on her guilty daughter, and praising her for all those virtues she has lost, in the most respectful, or rather to me the most mortifying terms. Think of an angry father, profuse of injurious expressions; and yet in the height of his indignation, not letting one escape him in the least reflecting on the prudence of her, who, torn by remorse and humbled with shame, could hardly support his presence.
O the inconceivable torture of a bleeding heart, reproaching itself with unsuspected crimes! How depressing and insupportable is the burthen of unmerited praise, and of an esteem of which the heart is conscious it is unworthy! I was indeed so terribly oppressed, that, in order to free myself from so cruel a situation, I was just going, if the impetuosity of his temper would have given me time, to confess all. But he was so enraged as to repeat over and over a hundred times the same things, and to change the subject every moment. He took notice of my looks, cast down, and affrighted, in consequence of my remorse; and if he did not construe them into those of my guilt he did into looks of my love; but, to shame me the more, he abused the object of it in terms so odious and contemptible that, in spite of all my endeavours, I could not let him proceed without interruption. I know not whence my dear, I had so much courage, or how I came so far to trespass the bounds of modesty and duty: but, if I ventured to break for a moment that respectful silence they dictate, I suffered for it, as you will see, very severely. For Heaven’s sake, my dear father, said I, be pacified: never could your daughter be in danger from a man deserving such abuse. I had scarce spoken, when, as if he had felt himself reproved by what I said, or that his passion wanted only a pretext for extremities, he flew upon your poor friend, and for the first time in my life I received from him a box on the ear: nor was this all but, giving himself up entirely to his passion, he proceeded to beat me without mercy, notwithstanding my mother threw herself in between us, to screen me from his blows, and, received many of those which were intended for me. At length, in running back to avoid them, my foot slipt, and I fell down with my face against the foot of a table.
Here ended the triumph of passion, and begun that of nature. My fall, the sight of my blood, my tears, and those of my mother greatly affected him. He raised me up with an air of affliction and solicitude; and, having placed me in a chair, they both eagerly enquired where I was hurt. I had received only a slight bruise on my forehead, and bled only at the nose. I saw nevertheless, by the alteration in the air and voice of my father, that he was displeased at what he had done. He was not, however, immediately reconciled to me; paternal authority did not permit so abrupt a change; but he apologized with many tender excuses to my mother; and I saw plainly, by the looks he cast on me, to whom half of his apologies were indirectly addressed. Surely, my dear, these is no confusion so affecting as that of a tender father, who thinks himself to blame in his treatment of a child.
Supper being ready, it was ordered to be put back that I might have time to compose myself; and my father, unwilling the servants should see any thing of my disorder, went himself for a glass of water; while my mother was bathing the contusion on my forehead. Ah, my dear how I pitied her! already in a very ill and languishing state of health, how gladly would she have been excused from being witness to such a scene! How little less did she stand in need of assistance than I!
At supper my father did not speak to me, but I could see his silence was the effect of shame, and not of disdain: he pretended to find every thing extremely good, in order to bid my mother help me to it; and, what touched me the most sensibly was, that he took all occasions to call me his daughter, and not Eloisa, as is customary with him.
After supper the evening was so cold that my mother ordered a fire in her chamber; she placing herself on one fire and my father on the other. I went to take a chair, to sit down in the middle; when, laying hold of my gown and drawing me gently to him, he placed me on his knee, without speaking a word. This was done so immediately, and by a sort of involuntarily impulse, that he seemed to be almost sorry for it a moment afterwards. But I was on his knee, and he could not well push me from him again, and, what added to his apparent condescension, he was obliged to support me with his arms in that attitude. All this passion in a kind of reluctant silence; but I perceived him, every now and then, ready to give me an involuntary embrace, which however he resisted, at the same time endeavouring to stifle a sigh, which came from the bottom of his heart. A certain false shame prevented his paternal arms from clasping me with that tenderness he too, plainly felt; a certain gravity, he was ashamed to depart from, a confusion he durst not overcome, occasioned between a father and his daughter the same charming embarrassment, as love and modesty cause between lovers; in the mean while a most affectionate mother, transported with pleasure, secretly enjoyed the delightful sight. I saw, I felt it all, and could no longer support a scene of such melting tenderness. I pretended to slip down; and, to save myself, threw my arm round my father’s neck, laying my face close to his venerable cheek, which I pressed with repeated kisses and bathed with my tears. At the same time, by those which flowed plentifully from his eyes, I could perceive him greatly relieved; while my mother, embraced us both and partook of our transports. How sweet; how peaceful is innocence! which alone was wanting to make this the most delightful moment of my life.
This morning, lassitude and the pain I felt from my fall having kept me in bed later than usual, my father came into my chamber before I was up; when, asking kindly after my health, he sat down by the side of my bed; and, taking one of my hands into his, he condescended so far as to kiss it several times, calling me at the same time his dear daughter, and expressing his sorrow for his resentment. I told him I should think myself but too happy to suffer as much every day to have the pleasure he then gave me in return; and that the severest treatment I could receive from him would be fully recompensed, by the smallest instance of his kindness.
Then putting on a more serious air, he resumed the subject of yesterday, and signified his pleasure in civil but positive terms. You know, says he, the husband I designed for you: I intimated to you my intentions concerning him on my arrival, and shall never change them, on that head. As to the man whom Lord B---- spoke of, though I shall not dispute the merit every body allows him, I know not whether he has of himself conceived the ridiculous hopes of being allied to me, or if it has been instilled into him by others; but, be assured, that, had I even no other person in view, and he was in possession of all the guineas in England, I would never accept him for my son-in-law. I forbid you, therefore, either to see or speak to him as long as you live, and that as well for the sake of his honour as your own. I never indeed felt any great regard for him: but I now mortally hate him for the outrages he has been the occasion of my committing, and shall never forgive him the violence I have been guilty of.
Having said this, he rose and left me, without waiting for my answer, and with the same air of severity, which he had just reproached himself for assuming before. Ah, my dear cousin, what an infernal monster is prejudice, that depraves the best hearts, and puts the voice of nature every moment to silence!
Thus ended the explanation you predicted, and of which I could not comprehend the reason till your letter informed me. I cannot well tell what revolution it has occasioned in my mind; but I find myself ever since greatly altered. I seem to look back with more regret to that happy time, when I lived content and tranquil with my family friends around me; and that the sense of my error increases with that of the blessings of which it has deprived me. Tell me, my severe monitor, tell me if you dare be so cruel, are the joyful hours of love all gone and fled? And will they never more return? Do you perceive, alas, how gloomy and horrible is that sad apprehension? And yet my father’s commands are positive; the danger of my lover is certain. Think, my dear Clara, on the result of such opposite emotions, destroying the effects of each other in my heart. A kind of stupidity has taken possession of me, which makes me almost insensible, and leaves me neither the use of my passions nor my reason. The present moment, you tell me, is critical; I know, I feel it is: and yet I was never more incapable to conduct myself than now. I have sat down more than twenty times to write to my lover: but I am ready to sink at every line. I have no resource, my dear friend, but in you. Let me prevail on you then to think, to speak, to act, for me. I put myself into your hands: whatever step you think proper to take, I hereby confirm before hand every thing you do; I commit to your friendship that sad authority over a lover which I have bought so dear. Divide me for ever from myself. Kill me, if I must die; but do not force me to plunge the dagger in my own breast. O my good angel! my protectress! what an employment do I engage you in! Can you have the courage to go through it? Can you find means to soften its severity? It is not my heart alone you will rend to pieces. You know, Clara, yes, you know, how sincerely I am beloved; that I have not even the consolation of being the most to be pitied. Let my heart, I beseech you, speak from your lips, and let yours sympathize with the tender compassion of love. Comfort the poor unfortunate youth, tell him, ah, tell him, again and again----do you not think so, my dear friend? Do you not think that, in spite of prepossessions and prejudice, in spite of all obstacles and crosses, Heaven has made us for each other? Yes, tell him so, I am sure of it, we are destined to be happy. It is impossible for me to lose sight of that prospect: it is impossible for me to give up that delightful hope. Tell him, therefore, not to be too much afflicted; not to give way to despair. You need not trouble yourself to exact a promise of eternal love and fidelity; and still less to make him a needless promise of mine. Is not the assurance of both firmly rooted in our hearts? Do we not feel that we are indivisible, and that we have but one mind between us? Tell him only to hope, and that though fortune persecutes us, he may place his confidence in love; which I am certain, my cousin, will in some way or other compensate for the evils it makes us suffer; as I am that, however heaven may dispose of us, we shall not live long from each other.
P.S. After I had written the above, I went into my mother’s apartment, but found myself so ill that I was obliged to return, and lie down on the bed. I even perceived----alas, I am afraid----indeed, my dear, I am afraid, the fall I had last night will be of a much worse consequence than I imagined. If so, all is over with me; all my hopes are vanished at once.
Letter LXIV. Clara to Mr. Orbe.
My father has this morning related to me the conversation he had yesterday with you. I perceive with pleasure that your expectations of what you are pleased to call your happiness, are not without foundation: you know I hope that it will prove mine too. Esteem and friendship are already in your possession, and all of that more tender sentiment of which my heart is capable is also yours. Yet be not deceived: as woman, I am a kind of monster; by whatsoever strange whim of nature it happens I know not, but this I know, that my friendship is more powerful than my love. When I tell you that my Eloisa is dearer to me than yourself, you only laugh at, me; and yet nothing can be more certain. Eloisa is so sensible of this, that she is more jealous for you than you are for yourself, and whilst you are contented, she is upbraiding me, that I do not love you sufficiently. I am even so strongly interested in every thing which concerns her, that her lover and you hold nearly the same place in my heart, though in a different manner. What I feel for him is friendship only; but it is violent: for you, I think, I perceive something of a certain passion called love; but then it is tranquil. Now, though this might appear sufficiently equivocal to disturb the repose of a jealous mind, I do not believe it will cause much uneasiness in you.
How far, alas, are those two poor souls from that tranquillity which we dare presume to enjoy! and how ill does this contentment become us, whilst our friends are in despair! It is decreed, they must part, and perhaps this may be the very instant of their eternal separation. Who knows but their mutual dejection, with which we reproached them at the concert, might be a foreboding that it was the last time they would ever meet? To this hour your friend is ignorant of his destiny. In the security of his heart he still enjoys the felicity of which he is already deprived. In the very instant of despair he tastes, in idea, the shadow of happiness, and like one who is on the brink of sudden death, the poor wretch dreams of existence unapprehensive of his fate. O heavens! it is from me he is to receive the sad sentence. O friendship divine! the idol of my soul! arm me, I beseech thee, with thy sacred cruelty. Inspire me with barbarous resolution, and enable me to perform this sad duty with becoming magnanimity!
I depend on your assistance, and I should expect it even if you loved me less; for I know your tender heart: it will have no need of the zeal of love when humanity pleads. You will engage our friend to come to me to-morrow morning; but be sure not to mention a syllable of the affair. To day I must not be interrupted. I shall pass the afternoon with Eloisa. Endeavour to find Lord B----, and bring him with you about eight o’clock this evening, that we may come to some determination concerning the departure of this unhappy man, and endeavour to prevent his despair.
I have great confidence in his resolution added to our precautions, and I have still greater dependence on his passion for Eloisa: her will, the danger of her life and honour, are motives which he cannot resist. Be it as it will, you may be assured that I shall not dream of marriage till Eloisa has recovered her peace of mind. I will not stain the matrimonial knot with the tears of my friend, so that if you really love me, your interest will second your generosity, and it becomes your own affair rather than that of another.
Letter LXV. Clara to Eloisa.
All is over; and in spite of her indiscretion my Eloisa is in safety. Her secrets are buried in silence. She is still loved and cherished in the midst of her friends and relations, possessing every one’s esteem, and a reputation without blemish. Consider, my friend, and tremble for the dangers which, through motives of love or shame, through fear of doing too little or too much, you have run. Learn hence, too fond or too fearful girl, never more to attempt to reconcile sentiments so incompatible; and thank heaven that, through a happiness peculiar to yourself, you have escaped the evils that threatened you.
I would spare your sorrowing heart the particulars of your lover’s cruel and necessary departure. But you desired to know them; I promised you should, and will keep my word with that sincerity which ever subsisted between us. Read on then, my dear and unhappy friend; read on, but exert your courage and maintain your resolution.
The plan I had concerted, and of which I advised you yesterday, was punctually followed in every particular. On my return home, I found here Mr. Orbe and my Lord B----; with whom I immediately begun, by declaring to the latter how much we were both affected by his heroic generosity. I then gave them urgent reasons for the immediate departure of your friend, and told them the difficulties I foresaw in bringing it about. His Lordship was perfectly sensible that it was necessary, and expressed much sorrow for the effects of his imprudent zeal. They both agreed it was proper to hasten the separation determined, and to lay hold of the first moment of consent, to prevent any new irresolution: and to snatch him from the danger of delay. I would have engaged Mr. Orbe to make the necessary preparations, unknown to your friend; but his Lordship, regarding this affair as his own, insisted on taking charge of it. He accordingly promised me that his chaise would be ready at eleven o’clock this morning, adding that he would carry him off under some other pretext, and accompany him as far as it might be necessary; opening the matter to him at leisure. This expedient however did not appear to me sufficiently open and sincere, nor would I consent to expose him, at a distance, to the first effects of a despair, which might more easily escape the eyes of Lord B---- than mine. For the same reason I did not close with his Lordship’s proposal of speaking himself to him, and prevailing on him to depart. I foresaw, that negotiation would be a delicate affair, and I was unwilling to trust any body with it but myself; knowing much better how to manage his sensibility, and also that there is always a harshness in the arguments of the men which a woman best knows how to soften. I conceived nevertheless that my Lord might be of use in preparing the way for an eclairissement; being sensible of the effects which the discourse of a man of sense might have over a virtuous mind; and what force the persuasions of a friend might give to the arguments of the philosopher.
I engaged Lord B----, therefore, to pass the evening with him, and, without saying any thing directly of his situation, to endeavour to dispose his mind insensibly to a stoical resolution. You, my Lord, who are so well acquainted with Epictetus, says I, have now an opportunity of making some real use of him. Distinguish carefully between real and apparent good, between that which depends on ourselves and what is dependent on others. Demonstrate to him that, whatever threatens us from without, the cause of evil is within us; and that the wise man, being always on his guard, has his happiness ever in his own power. I understood by his Lordship’s answer that this stroke of irony, which could not offend him, served to excite his zeal, and that he counted much on sending his friend the next day well prepared. This indeed was the most I expected; for in reality, I place no great dependence, any more than yourself, on all that verbose philosophy. And yet I am persuaded a virtuous man must always feel some kind of shame, in changing at night the opinions he embraced in the morning, and in denying in his heart the next day what his reason dictated for truth the preceding night.
Mr. Orbe was desirous of being of their party, and passing the evening with them; but to this I objected; as his presence might only disturb or lay a restraint on the conversation. The interest I have in him, does not prevent me from seeing he is not a match for the other two. The masculine turn of thinking in men of strong minds gives a peculiar idiom to their discourse, and makes them converse in a language to which Mr. Orbe is a stranger. In taking leave of them, I bethought me of the effects of his Lordship’s drinking punch; and, fearing he might when in liquor anticipate my design, I laughingly hinted as much to him: to which he answered, I might be assured he would indulge himself in such habits only when it could be of no ill effect; but that he was no slave to custom; that the interview intended concerned Eloisa’s honour, the fortune and perhaps the life of a man, and that man his friend. I shall drink my punch, continued he, as usual, lest it should give our conversation an air of reserve and preparation; but that punch shall be mere lemonade; and, as he drinks none, he will not perceive it. Don’t you think it, my dear, a great mortification to have contracted habits that make such precautions as these necessary?
I passed the night in great agitation of mind, not altogether on your account. The innocent pleasures of our early youth, the agreeableness of our long intimacy, and the closer connections that have subsisted between us for a year past, on account of the difficulty he met with in seeing you; all this filled me with the most disagreeable apprehensions of your separation. I perceived I was going to lose, with the half of you, a part of my own existence. Awake and restless I lay counting the clock, and when the morning dawned, I shuddered to think it was the dawn of that day which might fix the destiny of my friend. I spent the early part of the morning in meditating on my intended discourse, and in reflecting on the impressions it might make. At length the hour drew nigh, and my expected visitor entered. He appeared much troubled, and hastily asked me after you; for he had heard, the day after your severe treatment from your father, that you was ill, which was yesterday confirmed by my Lord B----, and that you had kept your bed ever since. To avoid entering into particulars on this subject, I told him I had left you better last night, and that he would know more by the return of Hans whom I had sent to you. My precaution was to no purpose, he went on asking me a hundred questions, to which, as they only tended to lead me from my purpose, I made short answers, and took upon me to interrogate him in my turn.
I begun by endeavouring to found his disposition of mind, and found him grave, methodical, and reasonable. Thank heaven, said I to myself, my philosopher is well prepared. Nothing remained therefore but to put him to the trial. It is an usual custom to open bad news by degrees; but the knowledge I had of the furious imagination of your friend, which at half a word’s speaking carries him often into the most passionate extremes, determined me to take a contrary method; as I thought it better to overwhelm him at once, and administer comfort to him afterwards, than needlessly to multiply his griefs and give him a thousand pains instead of one. Assuming, therefore, a more serious tone, and looking at him very attentively; have you ever experienced, my friend, said I, what the fortitude of a great mind is capable of? Do you think it possible for a man to renounce the object he truly loves? I had scarce spoke before he started up like a madman; and, clasping his hands together, struck them against his forehead, crying out, I understand you, Eloisa is dead! my Eloisa is dead! repeated he in a tone of despair and horror that made me tremble. I see through your vain circumspection, your useless cautions, that only render my tortures more lingering and cruel. Frightened as I was by so sudden a transport, I soon entered into the cause; the news he had heard of your illness, the lecture which Lord B---- had read him, our appointed meeting this morning, my evading his questions and those I put to him, were all so many collateral circumstances combining to give him a false alarm. I saw plainly also what use I might have made of his mistake, by leaving him in it a few minutes, but I could not be cruel enough to do it. The thoughts of the death of the person one loves is so shocking, that any other whatever is comparatively agreeable; I hastened accordingly to make the advantage of it. Perhaps, said I, you will never see her again, yet she is alive and still loves you. If Eloisa were dead, what could Clara have to say? Be thankful to heaven that, unfortunate as you are, you do not feel all those evils which might have overwhelmed you. He was so surprized, so struck, so bewildered that, having made him sit down, again, I had leisure to acquaint him with what it was necessary for him to know. At the same time I represented the generous behaviour of Lord B---- in the most amiable light, in order to divert his grief by exciting, in his honest mind, the gentler emotions of gratitude. You see, continued I, the present state of affairs. Eloisa is on the brink of destruction, just ready to see herself exposed to public disgrace, by the resentment of her family, by the violence of an enraged father, and by her own despair. The danger increases every moment, and, whether in her own or in the hand of a father, the poignard is every instant of her life within an inch of her heart. There remains but one way to prevent these misfortunes, and that depends entirely on you. The fate of Eloisa is in your hands. See if you have the fortitude to save her from ruin, by leaving her, since she is no longer permitted to see you, or whether you had rather stay to be the author and witness of her dishonour? After having done every thing for you, she puts your heart to the trial to see what you can do for her. It is astonishing that she bears up under her distresses. You are anxious for her life; know then that her life, her honour, her all depends on you.
He heard me without interruption; and no sooner perfectly comprehended me, than that wild gesture, that furious look, that frightful air, which he had put on just before, immediately disappeared. A gloomy veil of sorrow and consternation spread itself over his features, while his mournful eyes and bewildered countenance betrayed the sadness of his heart. In this situation he could hardly open his lips to make me an answer. Must I then go? said he in a peculiar tone; it is well, I will go. Have I not lived long enough? No, returned I, not so, you should still live for her who loves you. Have you forgot that her life is dependant on yours? Why then should our lives be separated? cried he; there was a time. It is not yet too late.----
I affected not to understand the last words, and was endeavouring to comfort him with some hopes, which I could see his heart rejected, when Hans returned with the good news of your health. In the joy he felt at this, he cried out, My Eloisa lives,----let her live, and if possible be happy. I will never disturb her repose, I will only bid her adieu----and, if it must be so, will leave her for ever.
You surely know, said I, that you are not permitted to see her. You have already bidden farewell, and are parted. Consider, therefore, you will be more at ease when you are at a greater distance, and will have at least the consolation to think you have secured, by your departure, the peace and reputation of her you love. Fly then this hour, this moment; nor let so great a sacrifice be made too slow. Haste, lest even your delay should cause the ruin of her to whose security you have devoted yourself. What! said he in a kind of fury, shall I depart without seeing her? Not see her again! We will both perish if it must be so. I know she will not think much to die with me. But I will see her, whatever may be the consequence; I will lay both my heart and life at her feet before I am thus torn from myself.----It was not difficult for me to shew the absurdity and cruelty of such a project. But the exclamation of, Shall I see her no more! repeated in the most doleful accents, seemed to demand of me some consolation. Why, said I to him, do you make your misfortunes worse than they really are? Why do you give up hopes which Eloisa herself entertains? Can you believe she would think of thus parting with you, if she conceived you were not to meet again? No, my friend, you ought to know the heart of Eloisa better. You ought to know how much she prefers her love to her life. I fear, alas! too much I fear (this I confess I have added) she will soon prefer it to every thing. Believe me, Eloisa lives in hopes, since she consents to live: believe me the cautions which her prudence dictates, regard yourself more than you are aware of; and that she is more careful of herself on your account than her own. I then took out your last letter; and, shewing him what were the hopes of a fond deluded girl, animated his, by the gentle warmth of her tender expressions. These few lines seemed to distil a salutary balsam into his envenomed heart. His looks softened, the tears rose into his eyes, and I had the satisfaction of seeing a sorrowful tenderness succeed by degrees to his former despair; but your last words, so moving, so heart-felt, we shall not live long asunder, made him burst into a flood of tears. No, Eloisa, my dear Eloisa! said he, raising his voice and kissing the letter, no, we shall not live long asunder. Heaven will either join our hands in this world, or unite our hearts in those eternal mansions where there is no more separation. He was now in the temper of mind, I wished to have him; his former, sullen sorrow gave me much uneasiness. I should not have permitted him to depart in that disposition; but, as soon as I saw him weep and heard your endearing name come from his lips with so much tenderness, I was no longer in apprehensions for his life; for nothing is less tender than despair. The soft emotions of his heart now dictated an objection which I did not foresee. He spoke to me of the condition in which you lately suspected yourself to be; protesting he would rather die a thousand deaths than abandon you to those perils that threatened you. I took care to say nothing about the accident of your fall; telling him only that your expectations had been disappointed, and that there were no hopes of that kind. To which he answered with a deep sigh, there will remain then no living monument of my happiness; it is gone, and---- Here his heart seemed too full for expression.
After this, it remained only for me to execute the latter part of your commission; and for which I did not think, after the intimacy in which you lived, that any preparation or apology was necessary. I mildly reproached him, therefore, for the little care he had taken of his affairs; telling him that you feared it would be long before he would be more careful, and that in the mean time you commanded him to take care of himself for your sake, and to that end to accept of that small present which I had to make him from you. He seemed neither offended at the offer, nor to make a merit of the acceptance; telling me only that you well knew nothing could come from you that he should not receive with transport; but that your precaution was superfluous: a little house, which he had sold at Grandson, the remains of his small patrimony, having furnished him with more money than he ever had at any one time in his life. Besides, added he, I possess some talents from which I can always draw a subsistence. I shall be happy to find, in the exercise of them, some diversion from my misfortunes; and, since I have seen the use to which Eloisa puts her superfluities, I regard it as a treasure sacred to the widow and the orphan, whom humanity will never permit me to neglect. I reminded him of his former journey to the Valois, your letter, and the preciseness of your orders. The same reasons, said I, now subsist----The same! interrupted he, in an angry tone. The penalty of my refusal then, was never to see her more; if she will permit me now to stay, I will use it on those conditions. If I obey, why does she punish me? If I do not, what can she do worse than banish me?----The same reasons! repeated he, with some impatience. Our union then was just commenced; it is now at an end; and I part from her perhaps for ever; there is no longer any connection between us, we are going to be torn asunder. He pronounced these last words with such an oppression of heart that I trembled with the apprehensions of his relapsing into that disposition of mind, out of which I had taken so much pains to extricate him. I affected therefore an air of gaiety, and told him with a smile, that he was a child, and that I would be his tutor, as he stood greatly in need of one. I will take charge of this, said I; and, that we may dispose of it properly in the business we shall engage in together, I insist upon knowing particularly the state of your affairs. I endeavoured thus to direct his melancholy ideas by that of a familiar correspondence to be kept up in his absence; and he, whose simplicity only sought to lay hold of every twig, as one may say, that grew near to you, came easily into my design. We accordingly settled the address of our letters; and, as the talking about these regulations was agreeable to him, I prolonged our discourse on this subject till Mr. Orbe arrived; who, on his entrance, made a signal to me that every thing was ready. Your friend, who easily understood what was meant, then desired leave to write to you; but I would not permit him. I saw that an excess of tenderness might overcome him, and that after he had got half way through his letter, we might find it impossible to prevail on him to depart. Delays, said I, are dangerous; make haste to go; and, when you are arrived at the end of your first stage, you may write more at your ease. In saying this, I made a sign to Mr. Orbe, advanced towards him with a heavy heart, and took leave. How he left me I know not, my tears preventing my sight; my head began also to turn round, and it was high time my part was ended.
A moment afterwards, however, I heard them go hastily down stairs; on which I went to the stair-head to look after them. There I saw your friend, in all his extravagance, throw himself on his knees, in the middle of the stairs, and kiss the steps; while Mr. Orbe had much to do to raise him from the cold stones, which he pressed with his lips, and to which he clung with his hands, sighing most bitterly. For my part, I retired, that I might not expose myself to the servants.