Under these groundless apprehensions, which her natural timidity inspired, she conceived she could take no better precaution than always to have a witness to our conversation, whose presence could not fail of being respected; and to call in, as a third person, the awful and upright judge, who searches the heart, and is privy to the most secret actions of men. Thus, committing herself to the immediate protection of the divinity, I found the deity always between us. What criminal desire could ever assail such a safeguard? my heart grew refined by her zeal, and I partook of her virtue.
Thus, the gravest topics of discourse took up almost all our private conferences in the absence of her husband; and since his return, we have resumed them frequently in his presence. He attends to our conversation, as if he was not at all concerned; and, without despising our endeavours, sometimes advises us in our method of argument. It is this which makes me despair of success; for had he less sincerity, one might attack that vicious faculty of the mind that nourishes his infidelity; but, if we are to convince him by dint of reasoning, where shall we find information that has escaped his knowledge, or arguments that have eluded his sagacity? For my part, when I have undertaken to dispute with him, I have found that all mine had been before exhausted to no purpose by Eloisa; and that my reasoning fell far short of that pathetic eloquence which dictated by the heart, flowed in persuasive accents from her tongue. I fear, my lord, we shall never make a convert of this man. He is too frigid, not immoral; his passions are not to be moved; sensibility, that innate proof of the truth of religion, is wanting; and the want of this alone is enough to invalidate all others.
Notwithstanding Eloisa’s care to disguise her uneasiness from him, he knows and partakes of it; his discernment will not permit him to be imposed on. His own chagrin therefore, on account of hers, is but too apparent. Hence he has been tempted several times, she told me, to affect a change of sentiments; and, for the sake of Eloisa’s peace, to adopt tenets he could not in fact believe: but his soul was above the meanness of hypocrisy. This dissimulation, instead of imposing on Eloisa, would only have afforded a new cause of sorrow. That sincerity, that frankness, that union of hearts, which now comfort them under their afflictions, would then have no more subsisted between them. Was it by making himself less worthy her esteem that he could hope to calm her fears? No, instead therefore of deceiving her, he tells her sincerely his thoughts; but this he does in a manner so simple and unaffected, so little disdainful of received opinions, so unlike that ironical, contemptuous behaviour of free-thinkers, that such melancholy confessions are extremely afflicting. As she cannot, however, inspire her husband with that faith and hope, with which she herself is animated, she studies with the more assiduity to indulge him, in all those transient pleasures to which his happiness is confined. Alas! says she weeping, if the poor unfortunate has his heaven in this life, let us make it, at, least, as agreeable to him as possible! [86]
That veil of sorrow, which this difference in opinion throws over their union, gives a farther proof of the irresistible ascendant of Eloisa, in the consolation with which that affliction is tempered, and which perhaps no other person in the world would be able to apply. All their altercations, all their disputes, on this important point, so far from giving rise to ill nature, contempt, or anger, generally end in some affecting scene which the more endears them to each other.
Our conversation falling yesterday upon the same subject, as it frequently does when we three are by ourselves, we were led into a dispute concerning the origin of evil; in which I endeavoured to prove, that no absolute or general evil existed in the system of nature; but that even particular and relative evils were much less in reality, than in appearance; and that, on the whole, they were more than recompensed by our particular and relative good. As an example of this, I appealed to Mr. Wolmar himself, and, penetrated with a sense of the happiness of his situation, I described it so justly, and in such agreeable colours, that he seemed himself affected with the description. “Such,” says he, interrupting me, “are the delusive arguments of Eloisa: she always substitutes sentiment in the place of reason, and argues so affectingly, that I cannot help embracing her at every reply: Was it not her philosophical preceptor,” added he, smiling, “that taught her this manner of reasoning?” Two months before, this piece of pleasantry would have cruelly disconcerted me; but my first embarrassment was now over, and I joined in the laugh: nor did Eloisa, tho’ she blush’d a little, appear any more embarrassed than myself. We continued the dispute. Wolmar, not contending about the quantity of evil, contented himself with observing that whether little or much, evil still existed; and thence inferred the want either of power, wisdom, or goodness, in the first cause. I, on my part, stove to deduce the origin of physical evil from the properties of matter, and of moral evil from the free agency of man. I advanced, that nothing was impossible to the deity, except the creation of substances as perfect and exempt from evil as himself. We were in the heat of our dispute when I perceived Eloisa had left us. “Can you guess whither she is gone?” said her husband, seeing me look around for her. “I suppose,” said I, “to give some orders in her family.” “No,” replied he, “she would not have left us at this time for that. Business of that kind is, I know not how, transacted without my ever seeing her interfere.” “Then she is gone to the nursery?” “No; her children are not more at her heart, than my conversion.” “Well then,” said I, “I know not what she is gone about; but I am well assured she is employed in some useful concern.” “Still less,” said he coldly; “come, come along; you shall see if I guess right.”
He then stept softly along the room, and I followed him in the same manner: when, coming to the door of Eloisa’s closet, and finding it shut, he threw it suddenly open. Oh! my lord! what a sight did this present us! Eloisa on her knees, her hands lifted up to heaven, and her face bathed in tears! She rose up precipitately, wiping her eyes, hiding her face, and trying to escape us: never did I see so affecting a confusion. Her husband did not give her time to get away; but ran to her, in a kind of transport. “Ah, my dear!” said he, embracing her, “even the fervency of your prayers betrays the weakness of your cause: what prevents their efficacy? if your desires were heard, they would presently be granted.” “I doubt not,” said she, with a devout confidence, “but they will be granted; how soon or late, I leave to heaven. Could I obtain it, at the expense of my life, I should lay it down with pleasure, and think the last the best employed of all my days.”
Come, my lord, leave those scenes of destruction you are now engaged in, and act a nobler part. Can a philosopher prefer the honour of destroying mankind, to the virtue of endeavouring to save them? [87]
Letter CXLII. To Lord B——.
What! my lord, after being absent a whole campaign, must you take a journey to Paris? Have you then entirely forgotten Clarens, and its inhabitants? Are we less dear to you than my lord H——? or, are you more necessary to that friend, than to those who expect you here? you oblige us to oppose our wishes to yours, and make me in particular lament, that I have not interest enough at the court of France, to prevent your obtaining the passports you wait for. But, no matter; go, visit your worthy countryman. In spite of you both, we will be revenged of you for the preference given him; for, whatever pleasure you may enjoy in his company, I know that, when you come to be with us, you will regret the time you staid away.
On receiving your letter, I at first suspected you were charged with some secret commission. If peace were in view, where could be found a more worthy mediator? But when do kings put their confidence in men of worth? Dare they listen to the truth? do they know how to respect true merit? No, my dear Lord B——, you are not made for a minister of state; and I think too well of you to imagine, if you had not been born a peer, you would ever have risen to that dignity. Come, come, my friend, you will be better at Clarens, than at court. What an agreeable winter shall we pass together, if the hope of seeing you here does not deceive me! our happiness is every day preparing, by the arrival of one or other of those privileged minds, who are so dear to each other, so worthy of each other’s esteem, and who seem only to wait for you to be able to live without all the rest of the world. On hearing what a lucky accident brought hither the baron’s adversary, you foresaw the consequences of that rencounter; it has really fallen out as you foretold. That old litigant, tho’ almost as obstinate and inflexible as his opponent, could not resist the ascendant we got over him. After seeing and conversing with Eloisa, he began to be ashamed of contending with her father; and on leaving her, set out for Bern, in so favourable a disposition, that we hear an accommodation is far advanced, and from the baron’s last letter expect his return home in a few days. This you will already have been told by Mr. Wolmar: but probably you do not yet know that Mrs. Orbe, having settled her affairs, arrived here on Thursday last, and resides entirely at the house of her friend. As I knew beforehand the day of her arrival, I set out to meet her, unknown to Mrs. Wolmar, whom she had a mind to surprize: we met on this side Lutry and returned together.
I think I never saw her so sprightly and agreeable; but unequal, absent, giving little attention to any thing, and seldom replying; talking by fits and starts; in a word, given up entirely to that restlessness which is natural to us, when just on the point of obtaining what we have long ardently desired. One would have thought, every minute, that she was afraid of being obliged to return. Her journey, tho’ so long deferred, was undertaken so precipitately, that it almost turned the heads of both mistress and domestics. A whimsical disorder appeared throughout the whole of her little baggage. If her woman imagined, as she did every now and then, that she had left something behind, Clara as constantly assured her she had put it into the seat of the coach where, upon farther enquiry, it was not to be found.
As she was unwilling Eloisa should hear the rattling of her coach, she got out in the avenue before we came to the gate; and, skudding across the courtyard like a sylph, ran upstairs with so much precipitation that she was obliged to stop and take breath on the first landing place, before she could get up the next flight. Mr. Wolmar came out to meet her, but she was in too much hurry to speak to him. On opening the door of Eloisa’s apartment, I saw her sitting near the window, with the little Harriot on her knee. Clara had prepared for her a fine compliment, in her way, a compound of affection and pleasantry; but, on setting her foot over the threshold, compliment and pleasantry were all forgotten; she flew forward to embrace her friend with a transport impossible to be described, crying out ah! my dear, dear cousin! Harriot, seeing her mother, fled to meet her, and crying out Mamma, Mamma, ran with so much force against her, that the poor child fell backwards on the floor. The effect of the sudden appearance of Clara, the fall of Harriot, the joy, the apprehensions, that seized upon Eloisa at that instant, made her give a violent shriek, and faint away. Clara was going to lift up the child when she saw her friend turn pale, which made her hesitate whom to assist; till, seeing me take up Harriot, she flew to the relief of Eloisa; but, in endeavouring to recover her, sunk down likewise in a swoon by the side of her friend.
The child, seeing them both without motion, made such loud lamentations as soon brought the little Frenchwoman into the room; the one clung about her mother, the other ran to her mistress. For my part, I was so struck, so affected, that I stalked about the room without knowing what I did: venting broken exclamations, and making involuntary motions to no purpose. Wolmar himself, the unsusceptible Wolmar, seemed affected. But where is the heart of iron whom such a scene of sensibility would not affect? where is the unfortunate mortal from whom such a scene of tenderness would not have extorted tears? Instead of running to Eloisa, this fortunate husband threw himself on a settee, to enjoy the delightful scene. “Be not afraid,” says he, seeing our uneasiness. “In these accidents nature only is exhausted for a moment, to recover itself with new vigour; they are never dangerous. Let me prevail on you not to interrupt the pleasure I take in this transporting sight, but partake it with me. How ravishingly delightful must it be to you? I never tasted any thing like it, and am yet the most unhappy of all here.”
You may judge, my lord, by the first moment of their meeting, the consequences of the reunion of these charming friends. It has excited throughout the whole house a sound of gladness, a tumultuous joy, that has not yet subsided. Eloisa was in such an agitation as I never saw her in before; it was impossible for her to think of any thing all that day, but to gaze on her new visitor, and load her with fresh caresses. No body even thought of the saloon of Apollo; there was no occasion for thinking of it when every place gave equal pleasure. We were hardly, even the next day, composed enough to think of making an entertainment on the occasion. Had it not been for Wolmar, every thing would have gone wrong. In the mean time, every one was dressed in the best manner. No other care was admitted, than what tended to amusement. The entertainment was not grand, but extremely joyous; throughout the whole there reigned a pleasing confusion and disorder, which was its greatest embellishment.
The morning was spent in putting Mrs. Orbe in possession of her employment of intendant or housekeeper, and she betrayed the same eagerness to enter into her office, as a child does after a new plaything; at which we were highly diverted. In entering the saloon at dinner, both cousins were agreeably surprized to see on every side, their names in cypher, artificially formed with flowers. Eloisa guessed in an instant to whom she was obliged for that piece of ingenuity, and embraced me in a transport of joy. Clara, contrary to former custom, hesitated to follow her example; till Wolmar reprimanding her, she blushed, and embraced me. Her sweet confusion, which I observed but too plainly, had an effect on me which I cannot describe; but I could not feel myself in her arms without emotion.
After dinner, a fine collation was set out in the gynaeceum, or women’s apartment; where for once Mr. Wolmar and I were admitted, and were entertained agreeably. In the evening all the house, now increased by three persons, assembled to dance. Clara seemed ornamented by the hands of the Graces, never having appeared to so much advantage as on that day. She danced, she chatted, she laugh’d, she gave orders, she was capable of every thing. Having protested she would tire me out, she danced down five or six country dances in a breath; and then reproached me for footing it with the gravity of a philosopher. I, on the other hand, told her she danc’d like a fairy; that she was full as mischievous, and that she would not let me rest night nor day. You shall see to the contrary, says she, here’s that will set you to sleep presently: with that she started up, and led down another dance.
She was really indefatigable; but it was otherwise with Eloisa: she could hardly support herself; her knees trembled, as she danced; she was too much affected, to be chearful. One might observe a tear of joy every now and then trickle from her eyes; she regarded her cousin with a kind of delicious transport; took a pleasure in conceiving herself the guest for whom the entertainment was made, and looked fondly upon Clara as the mistress of the house who entertained her.
After supper, I play’d off the fireworks I brought from China, which had a pretty effect. We sat up great part of the night. At length it became time to break up: Mrs. Orbe was tired, or had danced enough to be so; and Eloisa was desirous she should not sit up too late.
After this we became insensibly tranquil, and good order took place. Clara, giddy and inconsiderate as she seems, knows how to check her sallies, and put on an air of authority, when she pleases. She has, besides great good sense, an exquisite discernment, the penetration of Wolmar, and the goodness of Eloisa; and tho’ extremely liberal, has a good deal of discretion in her generosity: for, tho’ left so young a widow, and charged with the care of a daughter, the fortunes of both increase in her hands; so that there is no reason to apprehend the house will, under her direction, be less prudently governed than before. In the mean time, Eloisa has the satisfaction of devoting herself entirely to an occupation more agreeable to her taste; that is, the education of her children: and I doubt not but Harriot will profit greatly by one of her mothers having relieved the other. I say her mothers, because by the manner in which they both behave to her, it is difficult to distinguish which is really so; so that some strangers, who arrived here to day, are still, or appear to be, in doubt about it. In fact, they both call her Harriot, or my child, indifferently. She calls the one her Mamma, and the other her little Mamma: she has the same love for both, and pays them equal obedience. If the ladies are asked whose child it is, each answers it is hers: if Harriot be questioned, she says that she has two mothers; so that it is no wonder that people are puzzled. The most discerning, however, think her the child of Eloisa; Harriot, whose father was of a fair complexion, being fair like her, and something resembling her in features. A greater maternal tenderness appears also in the soft regards of Eloisa, than in the sprightlier looks of Clara. The child puts on also a more respectful air, and is more reserved in her behaviour before the former. She places herself involuntarily oftener on the side of Eloisa, because she most frequently talks to her. It must be confessed all appearances are in favour of our little mamma; and I perceive the deception is so agreeable to the two cousins, that it may be sometimes perhaps intended.
In a fortnight, my lord, nothing will be wanting here but your presence; and when you are arrived, I shall have a very bad opinion of that man, who should be tempted to ransack the world for a virtue, or a pleasure, which may not be found in this house.
Letter CXLIII. To Lord B——.
For these three days past I have attempted every evening successively to write to you; but found myself, through the fatigue of the day, too sleepy to effect my purpose at night, and in the morning I am again called upon early to my employment. A pleasing tranquillity, more intoxicating than wine, takes possession of my senses; and I cannot without regret bear a moment’s avocation from the new and agreeable amusements I find here.
I cannot indeed conceive that any place would be disagreeable to me in such company; but do you know why Clarens in itself is agreeable? it is that here I find myself actually in the country, which I could hardly ever say before. The inhabitants of cities know not how to enjoy the country; they know not what it is to be there; and, even when they are there, know not what to do with themselves. They are ignorant of all rustic business and amusements; they despise them; they seem at home as if they were in a foreign country, and I am not at all surprized that they are displeased with it. Among the country people, we should live as they do, or not associate with them at all.
The Parisians, who imagine they go into the country, mistake the thing; they carry Paris along with them. They are attended with their singers, their wits, their authors, and their parasites. Cards, music, and plays, engross all their attention; [88] their tables are spread in the same manner as at Paris; they sit down to their meals at the same hours; are served with the same dishes, and in the same pomp: in a word, they do just the same things in the country as they did in town, where, for that reason, it had been better they had stayed; for, however opulent they are, or careful to omit nothing they are accustomed to, they always find something wanting, and perceive the impossibility of carrying Paris altogether along with them. Thus, that variety they are so fond of eludes their search; they are acquainted only with one manner of living, and are therefore a continual burthen to themselves. To me every rural employment affords something agreeable; nor is there any so painful and laborious as to excite our compassion for the labourer. As the object of both public and private utility, husbandry is peculiarly interesting; and, as it was the first employment of man in his state of innocence, it fills the mind with the most pleasing sensations, and affects us with the agreeable ideas of the golden age. The imagination cannot help being warmed by the prospects of seedtime and harvest: If we look around us, and see the fields covered with hay makers, and with flocks of sheep scattered at a distance, one is sensibly affected with a pleasure arising one knows not how. The voice of nature thus sometimes softens our savage hearts, and, though its dictates are too often fruitless, it is so agreeable that we never hear it without pleasure.
I must confess, that the misery which appears on the face of some countries, where the taxes devour the produce of the earth, the eager avarice of a greedy collector, the inflexible rigour of an inhuman master, take away much of the beauty of the prospect. To see the poor jaded cattle ready to expire under the whip; to see the unhappy peasants themselves emaciated with fasting, clothed in rags, groaning with fatigue, and hardly secured from the inclemencies of the weather by their wretched huts; these are deplorable sights, and it makes one almost blush to be a man when one thinks how the very vitals of such poor objects are drained to satisfy their cruel masters. But what pleasure is it, on the other hand, to see the prudent and humane proprietors, in milder governments, make the cultivation of their lands the instrument of their benevolence, their recreation, their pleasures! to see them with open hands distribute the bounties of providence! to see their servants, their cattle, and every creature about them, fatten on the abundance that flows from their barns, their cellars and granaries! to see them surrounded with peace and plenty, and make, of the employment that enriches them, a continual entertainment! How is it possible for one to be inattentive to the agreeable illusions which such objects present? we forget the age we live in, and the vices of our cotemporaries, and are transported in imagination to the time of the patriarchs; we are desirous to set one’s own hands to work; to join in the rustic employment, and partake of the happiness annexed to it. Oh! how delightful were the days of love and innocence, when the women were affectionate and modest, the men simple and content! such were the days when a lover did not regret fourteen years of servitude to obtain his mistress. Fair daughter of Laban! keeper of thy father’s flocks, how amiable must thou have been! how irresistible thy charms! No, never doth beauty exert its power so much as when in the midst of rural scenes and rustic simplicity. Here is the real seat of its empire; here she sits on her throne, surrounded by the graces; adorned by whose lands, she captivates all beholders. Excuse this rhapsody, my lord; I return now to my subject.
For this month past the autumnal heats have been preparing a favourable vintage, which the first has already induced us to begin; [89] the parched leaves falling off the vines, and exposing to view the clustered grapes, whose juicy ripeness invites the hands of the gatherers. Vines loaded with this salutary fruit, which heaven bestows on the unfortunate as a cure for all their woes; the sound of the casks, tubs, and tons, which they are hooping anew on every side, the songs of the gatherers with which the vintage re-echoes; the continual trotting backwards and forwards of those who carry the grapes to the press, the harsh sound of the rustic instruments that animate the people to work; the agreeable and affecting picture of a general good humour, which seems to be extended at that time over the face of the whole earth; add to these the fog, which the sun exhales in a morning and draws up like the curtain of theatre, to display so delightful a scene; all conspire to give it the air of an entertainment; and that an entertainment which is the more pleasing on reflection, that it is the only one in which mankind have art enough to join utility with delight.
Mr. Wolmar, who has one of the best vineyards in the country, has made all the necessary preparations for his vintage. His backs, his winepress, his cellar, his casks, are all ready for that delicious liquor for which they are designed. Mrs. Wolmar herself takes charge of the crop; the choice of the labourers, and the order and distribution of the several parts of the work falling to her share. Mrs. Orbe takes care of all entertainments, and of the payment of the day-labourers agreeable to the police established here; the laws of which are never infringed or broken. As to my part, I am set to inspect the press and enforce the directions of Eloisa, who cannot bear the steam of the backs; and Clara did not fail to recommend me to this employ, as it was so well adapted to a toper. Thus every one having an allotted task, we are all up early in the morning, and are assembled to go to the vineyard. Mrs. Orbe, who never thinks herself sufficiently employed, undertaking further to observe and rate those that are idle; in doing which I can safely say, with respect to me at least, that she acquits herself with a malicious assiduity. As to the old baron, while we are all employed, he walks out with his gun, and comes, every now and then, to take me from my work, to go with him a thrush-shooting; and I am taxed by my companions with being secretly engaged to him. So that by degrees I lose my old name of philosopher and get that of an idler; appellations which in reality are not so very different. You see, by what I have told you of the baron, that we are quite reconciled, and that Wolmar has reason to be content with his second experiment. [90] Shall I hate the father of my friend? no, were I his son, I could not respect him more than I do. In fact, I know not any man more sincere, more open, more generous, or more honourable in every respect than this old gentleman. But the extravagance of his notions and prejudices is odd enough. Since he is certain I cannot be united to his family, he is extremely civil; and, provided I be not his son-in-law, he will readily give up every thing, and allow me a superiority to himself. The only thing I cannot forgive him, is, that when we are alone, he will some time rally the pretended philosopher on his former lectures. His pleasantry on this head hurts me, and I am always vexed at it; but he turns my resentment into ridicule, and says, Come along, let us go bring down a thrush or two; we have carried this argument far enough. And then he calls out, as we go out of doors; here, Clara, Clara! provide a good supper for your master; I am going to get him an appetite. Notwithstanding his age, also, I can assure you, he brushes among the vines with his gun, with as much activity as myself, and is incomparably a better marksman. I have some satisfaction, however, in that he dares not drop a word before his daughter; the little scholar prescribing no less to her father than to her preceptor. But to return to our vintage.
It is now a week since we have been employed in this agreeable occupation, yet we have hardly done half our work. Besides the wines intended for sale and for common use, which are only simply tho’ carefully made, our benevolent fairy makes others of a more exquisite flavour for us drinkers; I myself assisting in the magical operations.
We make wines of all countries from the grapes of one vineyard: to make one sort, she orders the stalks of the bunches to be twisted when the grape is ripe, and lets them dry by the heat of the sun upon the stock; for another, she has the grapes picked and stoned before they are put into the press; Again, for a third sort, she has the red grapes gathered before sunrising, and carefully conveyed to the press, fresh with their bloom and covered with the morning dew, to make white wine. She makes a sweet wine, by putting into the casks must, reduced to a syrup by evaporation; a dry wine, by checking its fermentation; a bitter cordial by steeping wormwood; [91] and a muscadel wine, with the help of simples. All those different wines have their peculiar methods of preparation; every one of which is simple and wholesome. And thus an industrious economy makes up for a diversity of soils, and unites twenty climates in one. You cannot conceive with what assiduity, with what alacrity, all our business is done. We sing and laugh all day long, without the least interruption to our work. We live altogether in the greatest familiarity; are all treated on a footing, and yet no one forgets himself. The ladies put on none of their airs, the countrywomen are decent, the men droll, but never rude. Those are the most caressed who sing the best songs, tell the best stories, or hit off the best joke. Our good understanding even gives rise to pleasant bickerings between us, and our mutual raillery is exerted only to shew how far we can bear with good temper each others severity. There is no returning home to play the gentle folks; we stay all the day long in the vineyard; Eloisa having caused a lodge to be built there, whither we retreat to warm ourselves when cold, or to shelter us from the rain. We dine with the peasants, and at their hour, as well as work with them. We eat their soup, a little coarse indeed, but very good, and seasoned with excellent herbs. We laugh not at their downright behaviour and rustic compliments; but, in order to free them from constraint, give into their own ways without affectation. This complacence on our side, also, is not lost upon them; they are sensible of it; and, seeing that we are so ready to go out of our way for them, are more willing to go on in their own for us. At dinner the children are brought from the house, and pass the rest of the day in the vineyard. How rejoiced are the peasants to see them! then, taking them up in their sturdy arms, they bless them, and wish heaven may prolong their days to resemble their parents, and make them in like manner a blessing to their country. When I think that the most of these men have born arms, and understand the use of the sword and musket, as well as the management of the hoe and pruning-knife, in seeing Eloisa so loved and respected by them, and herself and children received with such affecting acclamations, I cannot help calling to mind the virtuous and illustrious Agrippina, shewing her son to the troops of Germanicus. Incomparable Eloisa! who exercises in the simplicity of private life, the despotic power of wisdom and beneficence; your person a dear and sacred trust deposited in the hands of your country-men, every one of whom would defend and protect you at the hazard of his own life; it is yours to live more securely, more honourably, in the midst of a whole people who love you, than monarchs surrounded with guards.
In the evening, we all return home chearfully together; the workpeople being lodged and boarded with us all the time of the vintage; and even on Sundays after the evening service, we assemble and dance together till supper time. On the other days of the week, also, we remain altogether, after we are returned home, except the baron, who, eating no suppers, goes to bed early, and Eloisa, who with her children stays with him till his bedtime. Thus, from the time we take upon ourselves the business of the vintage till we quit it, we never once mix the city and country life together. These Saturnalia are much more agreeable and discreet than those of the Romans. The constraint they affected was too preposterous to improve either the master or the slave; but the peaceful equality which prevails here, re-establishes the order of nature, is productive of instruction to some, of consolation to others, and of a friendly connection between all. [92] Our assembly room is an old hall with a great chimney and a good fire in it. On the mantlepiece are lighted up three lamps, made by Mr. Wolmar’s orders, of tin, just to catch the smoke and reflect the light. To prevent giving rise to envy, every thing is carefully avoided that might in the eyes of these poor people, appear more costly than what they meet with at home; no other mark of opulence being displayed than the choice of the best of common things, and a little more profusion in their distribution. Supper is served upon two long tables; where the pomp and luxury of entertainments is amply supplied by good humour and plenty. Every one sits down to table, master, labourers, and servants; every one without distinction gets up to help himself, without exception or preference; the whole repast ending in gratitude and festivity. All drink at their discretion, subject to no other rules than those of decency and sobriety. The presence of superiors, whom they so truly respect, keeps the workpeople within bounds; yet lays no restraint on their ease and chearfulness. And should any one happen to forget himself and give offence, the company is not disturbed by reprimands, the offender being dismissed the next day, without farther notice.
Thus, do I take advantage of the pleasures of the country and the season. I resume the freedom of living after the manner of the country, and to drink pure wine pretty often; but I drink none that is not poured out by the hands of one or other of the two cousins; who take upon them to measure my thirst by the strength of my head, and to manage my reason as they think proper; nor does any one know better how to manage it, or has like them the art to give or take it away from me at pleasure. When the fatigue of the day, or the length and festivity of the repast, add to the strength of the liquor, I indulge myself without restraint in the sallies it inspires. They are no longer such as I need suppress, even in the presence of the sagacious Wolmar. I am no longer afraid his penetrating eye should see into the bottom of my heart; and, when a tender idea arises in my memory, one look from Clara dissipates it; one look of Eloisa makes me blush for my weakness.
After supper, we sit up an hour or two to peel hemp; every one singing a song in turn. Sometimes the women sing all together, or one sings alone, and the rest join in chorus to the burthen of the song. Most of their songs are old tales, set to no very agreeable tunes. There is, not withstanding something antique and affecting, which on the whole is very pleasing. The words are generally very simple, unaffected, and often very sorrowful: they are, nevertheless, diverting. Clara cannot forbear smiling, Eloisa blushing, and myself from giving a sigh, when the same turns and expressions are repeated in these songs, which have heretofore been made use of between us. On those occasions, as I look upon them, the remembrance of times past rushes upon my mind: I am seized with a trembling, an insupportable burthen oppresses my heart, and leaves so deep an impression of sorrow that I can hardly shake it off. I find, nevertheless, in these evenings a sort of pleasure which I cannot describe, and which is nevertheless very great.
The union of people of different conditions, the simplicity of their occupation, the idea of ease, concord and tranquillity, the peaceful sensation it awakes in the soul; these altogether have something affecting that disposes every one to make choice of the most interesting songs. The concert of female voices is also not without its charms. For my part, I am convinced, that of all kinds of harmony there is none so agreeable as singing in unison; and that we only require a variety of concords, because our taste is depraved. Does not harmony in fact exist in every single note? What then can we add to it, without changing the proportions which nature has established in the relation of harmonious sounds.
Nature has done every thing in the best manner, but we would do better, and so spoil all.
There is as great an emulation among us about the work of the evening, as about that of the day; and a piece of roguery I was guilty of yesterday, brought me into a little disgrace. As I am not the most expert at hemp-peeling, and am sometimes absent in thought, I begun to be tired with always being pointed at for doing the least work. I shovelled the stalks with my feet therefore from my next neighbours, to enlarge my own heap; but that inexorable Mrs. Orbe, perceiving it; made a sign to Eloisa, who, detecting me in the fact, reprimanded me severely. Come, come, says she, aloud, I’ll have no injustice done here, though in jest; it is thus, people accustom themselves to cheating, and prove rogues in good earnest, and then, what is worse, make a jest of it.
In this manner we pass our evenings. When it is near bedtime, Mrs. Wolmar stands up, and says, Come, now let us to our fireworks. On which, every one takes up his bundle of hemp-stalks, the honourable proofs of his labour, which are carried in triumph into the middle of the courtyard, and there laid as trophies in a heap, and set on fire. Everyone, however, has not indiscriminately this honour; but those to whom Eloisa adjudges it, by giving the torch to him or her, who has done most work that evening; and when this happens to be herself, she does it with her own hands, without more to do. This ceremony is accompanied with acclamations and clapping of hands. The stalks soon burn up in a blaze, which ascends to the clouds; a real bonfire, about which we laugh and sing, till it is out. After this, the whole company are served with liquor, and every one drinks to the health of the conqueror, and goes to bed, content with a day past in labour, chearfulness and innocence, which he would willingly begin again the next day, the next after that, and every day, to the last of his life.
Letter CXLIV. To Mr. WOLMAR.
Enjoy, my dear Wolmar, the fruits of your labour. Receive the acknowledgements of a heart, which you have taken so much pains to render worthy of being offered to your acceptance. Never did any man undertake so arduous a task; never did any one attempt what you have executed; nor did ever a susceptible and grateful mind, feel more than that with which you have inspired me. Mine had lost its force, its vigour, its very being; but you have restored them all; I was dead to virtue, to happiness, and owe to you that moral life, to which you have raised me. O my benefactor! my father! in giving myself up entirely to you, I can only offer, as to the deity, the gifts I have received at your hands.
Must I confess to you my weakness and my fears? Hitherto I have always distrusted myself. It is not a week ago that I blushed for the weakness of my heart, and thought all our pains had been lost. That cruel and discouraging moment, however, thanks to heaven and you, is past, never to return. I do not think myself cured, only because you tell me so, but because I feel it: I stand no longer in need of your answering for me, who have put me in a state to answer for myself. It was necessary for me to be absent from you and Eloisa, to know what I should be without your support. It is at a distance from her abode, that I learn not to be afraid to approach her.
As I write the particulars of our journey to Mrs. Orbe, I shall not repeat them here; I am not unwilling you should know my foibles; but I have not the courage to tell you of them. It is, my dear Wolmar, my last fault. I feel myself so far already from being liable to commit the like again, that I cannot think of it without disdain; and yet it is so little a while since, that I cannot acknowledge it without shame. You, who can so readily forgive my errors, will doubtless forgive the shame which attends my repentance.
Nothing is now wanting to compleat my happiness. My Lord B—— has told me all. Shall I then, my dear friend, be devoted entirely to you? shall I educate your children? shall the eldest of the three be preceptor to the rest? with what ardour have I not desired it? The hope of being thought worthy of such employment has redoubled my assiduity to second your paternal care and instructions.
How often have I not expressed my earnestness, in this particular, to Eloisa! with what pleasure have I not interpreted the discourse of both of you, in my favour! but although she was convinced of my zeal for your service, and seemed to approve of its object, she never entered so explicitly into my designs as to encourage me to speak more openly. I was sensible I ought rather to merit that honour than ask for it. I expected of you and her that proof of your confidence and esteem. I have not been deceived in my expectation, nor shall you, my dear friends, believe me, be deceived in yours.
You know that, in the course of our conversation on the education of your children, I have thrown together upon paper some of those sentiments which such conversation furnished me with, and which you approved. Since my departure, some new reflections have suggested themselves on the same subject: I have reduced the whole into a kind of system, which, when I have properly digested, I shall communicate to you for your examination. I do not think, however, I shall be able to make it fit for your inspection till after our arrival at Rome. My system begins, or finishes, that of Eloisa; or rather, it is nothing more than a connection and illustration of hers; for it consists only in rules to prevent the natural disposition from being spoiled, in subjecting it to the laws and customs of society.
I have recovered my reason by your care: my heart is again sound and at liberty: I see myself beloved by all whose love I could wish to possess: futurity presents me with an agreeable prospect. With all this, my situation should surely be delightful; but it is decreed, my soul shalt never enjoy tranquillity. As the end of our journey approaches, I see the crisis of the fate of my illustrious friend: it is I, who, so to speak, ought to decide it. Cannot I at least do that once for him which he has so often done for me? cannot I nobly discharge the greatest and most important duty of my life? My dear Wolmar, I retain all your lessons in my heart; but, to make them useful, why don’t I possess your sagacity? Ah could I but one day see Lord B—— happy! could I, agreeable to your projects, see us but all assembled together, never to part again! could I entertain a wish for any thing on earth besides! Yes one, the accomplishment of which depends not on you, nor me, nor on any other person in the world; but on him who has a reward in store for the virtues of Eloisa, and, keeps a secret register of your good actions.
Letter CXLV. To Mrs. Orbe.
Where are you, my charming cousin? where is the amiable confident of that feeble heart, which is, on so many accounts, yours; and which you have so often comforted in despair? come, and let me lay open to you the confession of its last error. Is it not always your province to purify it by confession and pardon? is there a fault which it can reproach itself with after it hath confessed it to you? No, it is no longer the same; and its regeneration is owing to you: you have given me a new heart, which now offers you its first services: but I shall not think myself quite free from that which I quit, till I have deposited it in your hands.
The moment of my life in which I had most reason to be contented with myself was that in which I left you. Recovered of my errors, I looked upon that instant as the tardy era of my return to my duty. I begun it therefore, by paying off part of that immense debt I owed to friendship, in leaving so delightful an abode to follow a benefactor, a philosopher, who, pretending to stand in need of my services, put the success of his to the proof. The more disagreeable my departure, the more I piqued myself, on making so great a sacrifice. After having spent half my time in nourishing an unhappy passion, I consecrated the other half to justify it, and to render, by my virtues a more worthy homage to her, who so long received that of my heart. I proudly contemplated the first of my days in which I had neither given occasion for my own blushes, for yours, for hers, nor for those of any one who was dear to me. My Lord B——, being apprehensive of a sorrowful parting, was for our setting out early, without taking a formal leave; but, though hardly any body was stirring in the house, we could not elude your friendly vigilance. Your door half open and your woman on the watch; your coming out to meet us, and our going in and finding a table set out and tea made ready, all these circumstances brought to my mind those of former times; and, comparing my present departure with that which came to my remembrance, I found myself so very differently disposed to what I was on the former occasion, that I rejoiced to think, Lord B——, was a witness of that difference, and hoped to make him forget at Milan the shameful scene of Besancon. I never found myself so resolute before; I prided myself in displaying my temper before you, behaving with more fortitude than you had ever seen in me; and gloried, in parting, to think I had appeared before you such as I was going ever afterwards to be. This idea added to my courage; I supported my spirits by your esteem; and perhaps should have left you without weeping, if a tear, trickling down your cheek, had not drawn a sympathetic drop from my eyes.
I left you with a heart fully sensible of its obligations, and particularly penetrated with such as your friendship has laid me under; resolved to employ the rest of my life in deserving them. My Lord B——, taking me to task for my past follies, laid before me no very agreeable picture; and I knew by the just severity with which he censured my foibles, that he was little afraid of imitating them. He pretended, nevertheless, to be apprehensive of it; and spoke to me with some uneasiness of his journey to Rome, and the unworthy attachments which, in spite of himself, led him thither: but I saw plainly that he exaggerated his own dangers, to engage my attention the more to him, and draw it off from those to which I was myself exposed. Just as we got into Velleneuve, one of our servants, who was but badly mounted, was thrown off his horse, and got a small contusion on his head: on which his master had him bled, and determined to stay there that night. We accordingly dined early, and afterwards took horses and went to Bex, to see the silt manufactury; where, at my lord’s desire, who had some particular reason for requesting it, I took a sketch of the building and works, so that we did not return to Velleneuve till night. After supper we chatted a good while over our punch, and went to bed pretty late. It was in this conversation he informed me of the charge intended to be committed to my care, and what measures had been taken to bring it about. You may judge of the effect this piece of information had upon me; a conversation of this nature did not incline me to sleep. It was at length, however, time to retire.
As I entered the chamber appointed for me, I immediately recollected it to be the same in which I had formerly slept, on my journey to Sion. The view of it made an impression on me, which would be very difficult for me to describe. I was struck with such lively ideas of what I then was, that I imagined myself again in the same situation, though ten years of my life had passed away in the interval, and all my troubles had been forgotten. But alas! that reflection was but of a short duration, and the next moment oppressed me with the weight of my former afflictions. How mortifying were the recollections that succeeded to my first reverie! what dreadful comparisons suggested themselves to my mind! ye pleasures of early youth; ye exquisite delights of a first passion, O why, said I, doth your remembrance wound a heart already too much oppressed with griefs? thrice happy were those days! days now no more, in which I loved and was beloved again; in which I gave myself up in peaceful innocence, to the transports of a mutual passion; in which I drank its intoxicating draughts, and all my faculties were lost in the rapture, the extasy, the delirium of love. On the rocks of Meillerie, in the midst of frost and snow, with the frightful precipices before my eyes, was there a being in the creation so happy as I? and yet I then wept! I then thought myself unfortunate! sorrow even then ventured to approach my heart! what therefore should I be now, when I have possessed all that my soul held dear, and lost it for ever? I deserve my misfortune, for having been so little sensible of my happiness!——did I weep then?——didst thou weep? unfortunate wretch!——thou shall weep no more——thou hast no right to weep.——Why is she not dead? said I, in a transport of rage, yes, I should then be less unhappy; I could then indulge myself in my griefs: I should embrace her cold tomb with pleasure: my affliction should be worthy of her: I might then say, She hears my cries, she sees my tears, she is moved by my groans, she approves and accepts of my homage.——I should then, at least, have cherished the hope of being united to her again.——But she lives and is happy in the possession of another.——She lives, and her life is my death; her happiness is my torment; and heaven, having taken her from me, deprives me even of the mournful pleasure of regretting her loss——she lives, but not for me: she lives for my despair, who am an hundred times farther from her than if she were no more.
I went to bed under those tormenting reflections; they accompanied me in my sleep and disturbed it with terrible apprehensions. The most poignant afflictions, sorrow, and death composed my dreams; and all the evils I ever felt, represented themselves to my imagination in a thousand new forms, to torment me over again. One vision in particular, and that the most cruel of all, still pursued me; and though the confused apparitions of various phantoms, several times appeared and vanished, they all ended in the following.
Methought I saw the departed mother of your friend on her deathbed, and her daughter on her knees before her, bathed in tears, kissing her hands and receiving her last breath. This scene, which you once described to me, and which will never be effaced from my memory, was represented in striking colours before me. O my dear mother, said Eloisa, in accents that chilled my very soul, she who is indebted to you for her life, deprives you of yours! Alas! take back what you gave me; for without you it will be only a life of sorrow. My child, answered her languishing mother, God is just, and his will must be obeyed——you will be a mother in your turn, and——she could say no more——On this methought, I went forward to look upon her; but she was vanished, and Eloisa lay in her place; I saw her plainly and perfectly knew her, though her face was covered with a veil. I gave a shriek, and ran to take off the veil; but, methought after many attempts to lay hold of it I could not reach it, but tormented myself with vain endeavours to grasp what, though it covered her face, appeared to be impalpable. Upon which, methought, she addressed me in a faint voice, and said, Friend, be composed, the awful veil that is spread over me, is too sacred to be removed. At these words I struggled, made a new effort, and awoke; when I found myself in my bed, harassed with fright and fatigue, my face covered with big drops of sweat, and drowned in tears.
My fears being a little dissipated, I went to sleep again; again the same dream put me into the same agitations: I awoke again and went to sleep the third time, when the same mournful scene still presented itself, the same appearance of death, and always the same impenetrable veil, eluding my grasp, and hiding from me the dying object which it covered.
On waking from this last dream, my terror was so great, that I could not overcome it, though quite awake. I threw myself out of bed, without well knowing what I did, and wandered up and down my chamber, like a child in the dark, imagining myself beset with phantoms, and still fancying in my ears, the sound of that voice, whose plaintive notes I never heard without emotion. The dawn of day beginning to cast some light upon the objects in my chamber, served only to transform them, agreeable to my troubled imagination. My fright increased, and at length entirely deprived me of reason. Having with some difficulty found the door, I ran out of my room, bolted into that of Lord B—— and, drawing open his curtains, threw myself down upon his bed almost breathless, crying out, She is gone——she is gone——I shall never see her more.——His lordship started out of his sleep, and flew to his sword, imagining himself attacked by robbers. But he presently perceived who it was; and I soon after recollected myself: this was the second time of my life that I had appeared before him in such confusion.
He made me sit down and compose myself; and as soon as he had learnt the cause of my fright, endeavoured to turn it into ridicule; but, seeing me too deeply affected with it, and that the impression it had made was not to be easily effaced, he changed his tune. For shame, says he with an air of severity, you neither deserve my friendship nor esteem: had I taken a quarter of the pains with one of my footmen which I have done with you, I had made a man of him: but you are fit for nothing. It is indeed, my lord, answered I, too true. I had nothing good in me but what came from her, whom now I shall see no more; and am therefore good for nothing. At this he smiled, and embraced me. Come, come, says he, endeavour to compose yourself; tomorrow you will be a reasonable creature. He then changed the conversation and proposed to set out. The horses were accordingly ordered to be put to. In getting into the chaise, my lord whispered something to the postilion, who immediately drove off.
We travelled for some time without speaking. I was so taken up with my last night’s dream, that I heard and saw nothing; not even observing that the lake, which, the day before, was on my right hand, was now on my left. The rattling of the chaise upon the pavement, however, at length awoke me out of my lethargy; I looked up, and to my great surprise, found we were returned to Clarens. About a furlong from the gate, my lord ordered us to be set down; and, taking me aside, you see, my design, said he; it has no need of further explanation: go thou visionary mortal, continued he, pressing my hand between his, go and see her again. Happy is exposing your follies only to your friends, make haste, and I will wait for you here; but be sure you do not return, till you have removed that fatal veil which is woven in your brain.
What could I say? I left him without making any answer, and, trembling as I advanced, slowly approached the house. What a part, said I to myself, am I going to act here? how dare I shew myself? what pretext have I for this unexpected return? with what face can I plead my ridiculous terrors, and support the contemptuous looks of the generous Wolmar? In short, the nearer I drew to the house, the more childish my fears seemed to me, aid the more contemptible my extravagant behaviour: my mind, however, still misgave me, and I went on, tho’ every step more slowly, till I came just to the court-yard; when I heard the door of the elysium just open and shut again. Seeing nobody come out, I made a tour round the aviary keeping as close to it as possible; I then listened, and could hear you conversing together; but, tho’ I could not distinguish a word you said, I thought I perceived something in the sound of your voice so languishing and tender, that I could not hear it without emotion; and in Eloisa’s a sweet and affectionate accent, not only such as is usual to her, but so mild and peaceful as to convince me all was well.
This restored me to my senses at once, and woke me in good earnest from my dream. I perceived myself immediately so altered that I laughed at my ridiculous fears; and, while I reflected that only a hedge and a few shrubs prevented me from seeing her alive and in good health, whom I imagined I should never see again, I renounced for ever my fearful and chimerical apprehensions; and determined, without more ado; to return without even seeing her. You may believe me, Clara, when I protest to you that I not only did not see her, but went back, proud of not having been so weak as to push my credulity to the end, and of having at least done so much credit to myself, as not to have it said of a friend of Lord B——’s, that he could not get the better of a dream.
This, my dear cousin, is what I had to tell you, and is the last confession I have to make. The other particulars of our journey are not at all interesting; let it suffice, therefore, to assure you, that not only his lordship has been very well satisfied with me since, but that I am still more so with myself, who am more sensible of my cure than he can be. For fear of giving him any needless distrust, I concealed from him my not having actually seen you. When he asked me if the veil was drawn aside, I answered without hesitation in the affirmative; and we have not mentioned it since. Yes, cousin, the veil is drawn aside for ever; that veil which has so long hoodwinked my reason. All my unruly passions are extinguished. I see and respect my duty. You are both dearer to me than ever, but my heart knows no difference between you; nor feels the least inclination to separate the inseparables.
We arrived the day before yesterday at Milan, and the day after tomorrow we shall leave it. In about a week we hope to be at Rome, and expect to find letters from you on our arrival. How tedious will seem the time before I shall see those two surprising persons who have so long troubled the repose of the greatest of minds! O Eloisa! O Clara! no woman that is not equal to you, is worthy of such a man!
Letter CXLVI. From Mrs. Orbe.
We all waited impatiently to hear from you, so that you will easily guess how much pleasure your letters gave our little community; but what you will hardly imagine is, that they should give me less than any other person in the house. They all were pleased that you had happily passed the Alps; for my part, I had no pleasure in reflecting that the Alps were between us.
With respect to the particulars of your return, we have said nothing of them to the baron; besides I skipped over some of your soliloquies, in reading your letter before every body. Mr. Wolmar is so ingenuous, as only to laugh at you; but Eloisa could not recollect the last moments of her dying mother, without shedding fresh tears. Your letter had no other effect upon her than reviving her affliction.
As to myself, I will confess to you, my dear preceptor, that I am no longer surprized to see you in continual astonishment at yourself; always committing some new folly, and always repenting of it: you have long passed your life in self-reproach over night, and in applauding yourself in the morning.
I will freely acknowledge to you, also, that the great effort of your courage, in turning back when so near us, just as wise as you came, does not appear to me so extraordinary as it may to you. There seems to me more vanity in it, than prudence; and, I believe, upon the whole, I should have liked a little less fortitude with more discretion. From such a manner of running away, may not one ask, to what purpose you came? you were ashamed to shew your self, and it is of your being afraid to shew your self that you ought in fact to be ashamed. As if the pleasure of seeing your friends were not an ample recompense for the petty chagrin their raillery might give you. Ought you not to have thought yourself happy in the opportunity of diverting us with your bewildered looks? as I could not laugh at you then, however, I will laugh at you now; tho’ I lose half the pleasure in not seeing your confusion.
Unhappily there is something worse than all this; which is, that I have caught your fears, without having your means of dispelling them. That dream of yours has something in it so horrible, that I am at once terrified and afflicted with it, in spite of all I can do. In reading your letter I am apt to blame your agitation; after I have read it, I blame your security. It is impossible to see a sufficient reason for your being so much affected, and at the same time for your becoming tranquil. It is very strange, that your fearful apprehensions should prevail till the very moment in which you might have been satisfied, and that you should stop there. Another step, a motion, a word had done the business. You were alarmed without reason, and composed again without cause: but you have infected me with a terror which you no longer feel; and it appears, that, if you have given an instance once in your life of your fortitude, it has been at my expense. Since the receipt of your fatal letter, my heart is constantly oppressed. I cannot approach Eloisa, without trembling at the thoughts of losing her. I think every now and then I see a deadly paleness over-spread her countenance; and this morning, as I embraced her, tears burst involuntarily from me, and poured down my cheeks. O, that veil! that veil! There is something so prophetic in it, that it troubles me every time I think of it. No, I cannot forgive you for not removing it, when you had it in your power, and fear I shall never have a moment’s peace of mind till I see you again in company with her. You must own, that, after having talked so long of philosophy, you have here given a very unreasonable proof of yours. Dream again, and come and see your friends; it were better for you to do this and be a visionary mortal, than to run away from them and be a philosopher.
It appears by a letter of Lord B——’s to Mr. Wolmar, that he thinks seriously of coming to settle with us. As soon as he is determined, and his heart has made its choice, may you both return steadfast and happy! This is the constant prayer of our little community, and above all that of your friend,
Clara Orbe.
P. S. If you really heard nothing of our conversation in the elysium, it is perhaps so much the better for you; for you know me to be vigilant enough to see some people without their seeing me, and severe enough to verify the proverb, that listeners seldom, hear any good of themselves.
Letter CXLVII. From Mr. Wolmar.
As I write to Lord B——, and explain myself so fully with respect to you, I have hardly any thing more to say at present than to refer you to his letter. Yours would perhaps require of me a return of civilities; but these I had rather make in actions than in words. To make you one of my family, to treat you as my brother, my friend; to make her you loved your sister; to put into your hands a paternal authority over my children; to invest you with my privileges, after having robbed you of yours; these are the compliments I have to make you. If, on your part, you justify my conduct, it will be sufficient praise. I have endeavoured to honour you with my esteem; it is yours to honour me by your merit. Let no other encomiums pass between us.
So far am I from being surprized at seeing you affected with a dream, that I see no very good reason for your reproaching yourself for being so. One dream more or less seems to be of no importance in such systematical gentlemen as yourself, whose very principles are visionary.
What I reproach you for, is less the effect of your dream, than the species of it; and that for a reason very different, perhaps, from what you may imagine. A certain tyrant once condemned a man to death for dreaming that he had stabbed him. Recollect the reason he gave for that sentence, and make the application. What! you are going to determine the fate of your friend, and you are thinking of your old amours! Had it not been for the conversation of the preceding evening, I should never forgive you that dream. Think in the daytime of what you are going to do at Rome, and you will dream less at night of what is doing at Vevey.
The little Frenchwoman is sick, which keeps Mrs. Wolmar so constantly employed that she has not time to write to you. Some body, however, will willingly take upon themselves that agreeable talk. Happy youth! to whose happiness every thing conspires! the rewards of virtue all await your merit. As to that of my good will, trouble no one with it; it is from you only I expect it.
Letter CXLVIII. To Mr. Wolmar.
Let this letter be kept to ourselves. Let the errors of the best of men be for ever buried in profound secrecy. In what a dangerous task have I engaged! O my sensible and generous friend! why do I not retain your counsel in my memory, as I do your benevolence at my heart! never did I before stand in more need of your prudence, nor did ever the apprehensions of falling short of it so much embarrass the little I have. Ah! what is become of your paternal advice, your instruction, your knowledge? what will become of me without you? Yes, I would give up every flattering prospect in life to have you here, in this critical moment, though but for one week.
I have been deceived in all my conjectures: I have as yet done nothing but blunder. I was afraid only of the marchioness. After having seen her and been struck with admiration at her beauty and address, I applied myself, with all my might, to wean the affections of her noble lover from so attracting an object. Charmed with the thoughts of bringing him over to the side where I thought there was no danger, I launched out in the praise of Laura, and spoke of her with the esteem and admiration with which she had inspired me: in weakening his stronger attachment for her rival, I hoped, by degrees, entirely to destroy both. My lord easily gave in to my design; and, exceeding even the bounds of complaisance, perhaps to punish my importunities, by alarming me on the other side, affected a much greater warmth of passion for Laura than he really felt. But what shall I say to him now? the ardour of his passion remains without any affectation. His heart, exhausted by so many trials, was left in a state of weakness of which she has taken the advantage. It would be difficult indeed for any man long to affect a passion for her, which he did not feel. In fact, it is impossible to look upon this lovely unfortunate, without being struck by her air and figure; a certain cast of languor and depression, which constantly shades her charming features, in damping the vivacity of her looks, renders them but the more affecting; and as the sun darts its rays through the passing clouds, so do her eyes cast the more piercing looks through the clouds of grief that obscure their lustre. Her very dejection has all the grace of modesty; in seeing, one pities her; in hearing, one respects her. In short, I can avow, in justification of my friend, that I know only two men in the world, who could see and converse with her without danger.
Oh Wolmar! he is lost to reason. I see, and feel it; I own it to you with bitterness of heart. I tremble to think how far his extravagant passion may make him forget himself and his duty. I tremble lest that intrepid love of virtue, which makes him despise the opinion of the world, should hurry him into the other extreme, and lead him to trespass even the sacred laws of decorum and decency. Shall my Lord B—— contract such a marriage? can you think it——under the eve of his friend too! who sees, who suffers it! and who lies under infinite obligations to him! no, he shall rip open my breast, and tear out my heart with his own hand, ere he shall thus abuse it.
But what shall I do! how shall I behave myself? you know his impetuosity of temper. Argument will avail nothing; and his discourse of late, has only increased my apprehensions for him. At first, I affected not to understand him, and reasoned indirectly in general maxims; he in turn affected not to understand me. If I endeavour to touch him a little more to the quick, he answers sententiously, and imagines he has refuted me. If I reply and enforce my argument, he flies into a passion, and talks in a manner so unfriendly, that a real friend knows not how to answer him. You may believe that, on this occasion, I am neither timid nor bashful; when we are doing our duty, we are too apt to be proud and tenacious; but pride has nothing to do here; it is necessary I should succeed; and unsuccessful attempts will only prejudice better means. I hardly dare enter with him into any argument, for I every day experience the truth of what you told me, that he is a better reasoner than I, and that the way to win him to my party is not to irritate him by dispute.
Besides, he looks, a little cold upon me at present. Appearances would make one apt to think he is uneasy at my importunity. How this weakness debases a man in so many respects superior to the rest of mankind! the great, the sublime Lord B——, stands in awe of his friend, his creature, his pupil! it even seems by some words he has let fall concerning the choice of his residence if he does not marry, that he has a mind to try my fidelity by opposing it to my interest. He well knows I ought not, neither can I leave him. No, I will do my duty and follow my benefactor. If I were base and mean, what should I gain by my perfidy? Eloisa and her generous husband would not trust the education of their children to one who hath betrayed his friend. You have often told me, that the inferior passions are not easily converted from their pursuit; but that the superior ones may be armed against themselves. I imagined, I might be able to make use of that maxim in the present case. In fact, the motives of compassion, of a contempt for the prejudices of the world, of habit, of every thing that determines my Lord B—— on this occasion, are of that inferior nature and elude all my attacks: whereas true love is inseparable from generosity, and by that one always has some hold of him. I have attempted that indirect method, and despair not of success. It may seem cruel; and, to say truth, I have not done it without some repugnance: all circumstances, however considered, I conceive I am doing service even to Laura herself. What would she do in the rank to which she might be raised by marriage, but expose her former ignominy? but, how great may she not be in remaining what she is! If I know any thing of that extraordinary young lady, she is better formed to enjoy the sacrifice she has made, than the rank she ought to refuse. If this resource fails me, there remains one more in the magistracy, on the account of their difference of religion; but this method shall not be taken, till I am reduced to the last extremity, and have tried every other in vain. Whatever may happen, I shall spare nothing to prevent so unworthy and disgraceful an alliance. Believe me, my dear Wolmar, I shall be tenacious of your esteem to the latest hour of my life, and whatever my lord may write to you, whatever you may have said, depend on it, cost what it will, while this heart beats within my breast, Lauretta Pisana shall not be Lady B——.
If you approve of my measures, this letter needs no answer; if you think me in any wise mistaken, oblige me with your instructions. But be expeditious, for there is not a moment to lose. I shall have my letter directed by a strange hand: do the same by your answer. After having read what I have written, please, also, to burn my letter, and be silent as to its contents. This is the first, and the only secret I ever desired you to conceal from my two cousins: and if I had dared to consider more in my own judgement, you yourself should have known nothing of it. [93]