Part 21
You, amiable Madam, are happy in having a father, who doth not presume to judge better than yourself of the means of your own happiness. It is not, however, from his greater sagacity, perhaps, nor from his superior tenderness, that he leaves you thus mistress of your own choice: but what signifies the cause if the effect be the same? Or whether, in the liberty he allows you his indolence supplies the place of his reason? Far from abusing that liberty, the choice you have made, at twenty years of age, must meet with the approbation of the most discreet parent. Your heart, taken up by a friendship without example, had little room for love. You have yet substituted in its place every thing that can supply the want of passion; and, though less a lover than a friend, if you should not happen to prove the fondest wife, you will be certainly the most virtuous; that union, which prudence dictated, will increase with age and end but with life. The impulse of the heart is more blind, but it is more irresistible; and the way to ruin is to lay one’s self under the cruel necessity of opposing it. Happy are those whom love unites as prudence dictates, who have no obstacles to surmount, nor difficulties to encounter! Such would be our friends, were it not for the unreasonable prejudice of an obstinate father. And such, notwithstanding, may they be yet, if one of them be well advised. By yours and Eloisa’s example, we may be equally convinced that it belongs only to the parties themselves to judge how far they will be reciprocally agreeable. If love be not predominant, prudence only directs the choice, as in your case; if passion prevail, nature has already determined it, as in Eloisa’s. So sacred also is the law of nature, that no human being is permitted to transgress it, or can transgress it with impunity; nor can any consideration of rank or fortune abrogate it, without involving mankind in guilt and misfortune.
Though the winter be pretty far advanced and I am obliged to go to Rome, I shall not leave our friend till I have brought him to such a consistency of temper that I may safely trust him with himself. I shall be tender of him, as well on his own account, as because you have entrusted him to my care. If I cannot make him happy, I will endeavour at least to make him prudent; and to prevail on him to bear the evils of humanity like a man. I purpose to spend a fortnight with him here; in which time I hope to hear from you and Eloisa; and that you will both assist me in binding up the wounds of a broken heart, as yet unaffected by the voice of reason, unless it speak in the language of the passions.
Inclosed is a letter for your friend. I beg you will not trust it to a messenger, but give it her with your own hands.
Fragments, Annexed to the Preceding Letter.
Why was I not permitted to see you before my departure? You were afraid our parting would be fatal! Tender Eloisa! Be comforted----I am well----I am at ease----I live----I think of you----I think of the time when I was dear to you----My heart is a little oppressed----The chaise has made me giddy----My spirits are quite sunk----I cannot write much to-day; tomorrow, perhaps, I shall be able to----or I shall have no more occasion----
Whither do these horses hurry me so fast? Where is this man, who calls himself my friend, going to carry me? Is it from Eloisa? Is it by her order that I am dispatched so precipitately away? Mistaken Eloisa!---- How rapidly does the chaise move! Whence come I? Where am I going? Why all this expedition? Are ye afraid, ye persecutors, that I should not fly fast enough to ruin? O friendship! O love! is this your contrivance? Are these your favours?----
Have you consulted your heart in driving me from you so suddenly? Are you capable, tell me Eloisa, are you capable of renouncing me for ever? No, that tender heart still loves me, I know it does----In spite of fortune, in spite of itself, it will love me for ever.----I see it, you have permitted yourself to be persuaded [14]----What lasting repentance are you preparing for yourself!----Alas! it will be too late----how! forget me! I did not know your heart!----Oh consider yourself, consider me, consider----hear me: it is yet time enough---- ’twas cruel to banish me: I fly from you swifter than the wind.---- Say but the word, but one word, and I return quicker than lightening. Say but one word, and we will be united for ever. We ought to be---- We will be----Alas! I complain to the winds----I am going again----I am going to live and die far from Eloisa----Live I did I say? It is impossible.----
Letter LXVIII. Lord B---- to Eloisa.
Your cousin will give you information concerning your friend. I imagine, also, he has written to you himself, by the post. First satisfy your impatience on that head, that you may afterwards peruse this letter with composure; for, I give you previous notice, the subject of it demands your attention. I know mankind; I have lived a long time in a few years, and have acquired experience at my own cost; the progress of the passions having been my road to philosophy. But of all the extraordinary things that have come within the compass of my observation, I never saw any thing equal to you and your lover. It is not that either the one or the other has any peculiar characteristic, whereby you might at first be known and distinguished, and through the want of which yours might well enough be mistaken, by a superficial observer, for minds of a common and ordinary cast. You are eminently distinguished, however, by this very difficulty of distinguishing you, and in that the features of a common model, some one of which is wanting in every individual, are all equally perfect in you. Thus every printed copy that comes from the press has its peculiar defects, which distinguish it from the rest of its kind; and if there should happen to come one quite perfect, however beautiful it might appear at first sight, it must be accurately examined to know its perfection. The first time I saw your lover, I was struck as with something new; my good opinion of him increasing daily in proportion as I found cause. With regard to yourself, it was quite otherwise; and the sentiments you inspired were such as I mistook for those of love. The impression you made on me, however, did not arise so much from a difference of sex, as from a characteristical perfection of which the heart cannot be insensible, though love were out of the question. I can see what you would be, though without your friend; but I cannot pretend to say what he would prove without you. Many men may resemble him, but there is but one Eloisa in the world. After doing you an injury, which I shall never forgive myself, your letter soon convinced me of the nature of my sentiments concerning you. I found I was not jealous, and consequently not in love. I saw that you were too amiable for me; that you deserved the first fruits of the heart, and that mine was unworthy of you.
From that moment, I took an interest in your mutual happiness, which will never abate; and, imagining it in my power to remove every obstacle to your bliss, I made an indiscreet application to your father; the bad success of which is one motive to animate my zeal in your favour. Indulge me so far as to hear me, and perhaps I may yet repair the mischief I have occasioned. Examine your heart, Eloisa, and see if it be possible for you to extinguish the flame with which it burns. There was a time, perhaps, when you could have stopt its progress; but, if Eloisa fell from a state of innocence, how will she resist after her fall? How will she be able to withstand the power of love triumphing over her weakness, and armed with the dangerous weapons of her past pleasures. Let not your heart impose on itself; but renounce the fallacious presumption that seduces you: you are undone, if you are still to combat with love: you will be debased and vanquished, while a sense of your debasement will by degrees stifle all your virtues. Love has insinuated itself too far into your mind, for you ever to drive it thence. It has eaten its way, has penetrated into its inmost recesses, like a corrosive menstruum, whose impressions you will never be able to efface, without destroying at the same time all that virtuous sensibility you received from the hands of nature: root out love from your mind, and you will have nothing left in it truly estimable. Incapable of changing the condition of your heart, what then remains for you to do? Nothing sure but to render your union legitimate. To this end, I will propose to you the only method that now offers. Make use of it, while it is yet time, and add to innocence and virtue, the exercise of that good sense with which heaven has endowed you.
I have a pretty considerable estate in Yorkshire, which has been long in our family, and was the seat of my ancestors. The mansion-house is old, but in good condition and convenient; the country about is solitary, but pleasant, and variegated. The river Ouse, which runs through the park, presents at once a charming prospect to the view, and affords a commodious transport for all kinds of necessaries. The income of the estate is sufficient for the reputable maintenance of the master, and might be doubled in its value, if under his immediate inspection. Hateful prepossession and blind prejudices harbour not in that delightful country; the peaceful inhabitant of which preserves the ancient manners, whose simplicity presents to you a picture of the Valois, such as it is described by the affecting touches of your lover’s pen. This estate, Eloisa, is yours, if you will deign to accept it, and reside there with your friend. There may you see accomplished all those tender wishes with which he concludes the letter I have just hinted at.
Come, amiable and faithful pair! The choicest pattern of true lovers! come, and take possession of a spot, destined for the asylum of love and innocence. Come, and, in the face of God and man, confirm the gentle ties by which you are united. Come, and let your example do honour to a country where your virtues will be revered, and where the people, bred up in innocence and simplicity, will be proud to imitate them. May you enjoy in that peaceful retirement, and with the same sentiments that united you, the happiness of souls truly refined! May your chaste embraces be crowned with offspring resembling yourselves! may you see your days lengthened to an honourable old age, and peacefully end them in the arms of your children and may our posterity, in relating the story of your union, affectingly repeat, _Here was the asylum of innocence, this was the refuge of the two lovers._
Your destiny, Eloisa, is in your own power. Weigh maturely the proposal I make to you, and examine only the main point; for, as to the rest, I shall take upon myself to settle every thing with your friend, and make firm and irrevocable the engagement into which I am willing to enter. I shall take charge also for the security of your departure, and the care of your person, till your arrival. There you may be immediately married without difficulty: for with us a girl that is marriageable has no need of any one’s consent to dispose of herself as she pleases. Our laws contradict not those of nature; and although there sometimes result from their agreement some slight inconveniencies, they are nothing compared to those it prevents. I have left at Vevey my Valet-de-chambre, a man of probity and courage, as well as discreet, and of approved fidelity. You may easily concert matters with him, either by word of mouth, or by letter, with the assistance of Regianino, without the latter’s knowing any thing of the affair. When every thing is ready, we will set out to meet you, and you shall not quit your father’s house but under the conduct and protection of your husband.
I now leave you to think of my proposal: but give me leave to say again, beware of the consequences of prejudice, and those false scruples, which too often, under the pretext of honour, conduct us to vice. I foresee what will happen to you if you reject my offers. The tyranny of an obstinate father will plunge you into an abyss, you will not be aware of till after your fall. Your gentleness of disposition degenerates sometimes into timidity: you will fall a sacrifice to the chimerical distinction of rank; [15] you will be forced into an engagement which your heart will abhor. The world may approve your conduct, but your heart will daily give the lie to public opinion; you will be honoured and yet contemptible in your own opinion. How much better is it to pass your life in obscurity and virtue?
P. S. Being in doubt concerning your resolution, I write to you, unknown to your friend; lest a refusal on your part should ruin at once the expectations I have formed of the good effects my care and advice may have upon his mind.
Letter LXIX. Eloisa to Clara.
Oh, my dear! in what trouble did you leave me last night! and what a night did I pass in reflecting on the contents of that fatal letter! No, never did so powerful a temptation assail my heart; never did I experience the like agitation of mind; nor was ever more at a loss to compose it. Hitherto reason has darted some ray of light to direct my steps; on every embarrassing occasion I have been able to discern the most virtuous part, and immediately to embrace it. But now, debased and overcome, my resolution does nothing but fluctuate between contending passions: my weak heart has now no other choice than its foibles; and so deplorable is my blindness that, if I even chose for the best, my choice is not directed by virtue, and therefore I feel no less remorse than if I had done ill. You know who my father designs for my husband: you know, also, to whom the indissoluble bond of love has united me: would I be virtuous, filial obedience and plighted vows impose on me contradictory obligations. Shall I follow the inclinations of my heart?----Shall I pay a greater regard to a lover than to a parent? In listening to the voice of either love or nature, I cannot avoid driving the one or the other to despair. In sacrificing myself to my duty, I must either way be guilty of a crime, and which ever party I take, I must die criminal, and unhappy.
Ah, my dear friend! you, who have been my constant and only resource, who have saved me so often from death and despair, O, think of my present horrible state of mind; for never were your kind offices of consolation more necessary. You know I have listened to your advice, that I have followed your counsel: you have seen how far, at the expense of my happiness, I have paid a deference to the voice of friendship. Take pity on me, then, in the trouble you have brought upon me. As you have begun, continue to assist me; sustain my drooping spirits, and think for her who can no longer think for herself, but through you. You can read this heart that loves you, you know it better than I; learn then my difficulties, and chuse in my stead, since I have no longer the power to will, nor the reason to chuse for myself.
Read over the letter of that generous Englishman; read it, my dear, again, and again. Are you not affected by the charming picture he has drawn of that happiness which love, peace, and virtue have yet in store for your friend? How ravishing that union of souls! What inexpressible delight it affords, even in the midst of remorse. Heavens! how would my heart rejoice in conjugal felicity? And is innocence and happiness yet in my power? May I hope to expire with love and joy, in the embraces of a beloved husband amidst the dear pledges of his tenderness! Shall I hesitate then a moment, and not fly to repair my faults in the arms of him who seduced me to commit them? Why do I delay to become a virtuous and chaste mother of an endearing family?----Oh that my parents could but see me thus raised out of my degeneracy! That they might but see how well I would acquit myself, in my turn, of those sacred duties they have discharged towards me!---- And yours! ungrateful, unnatural daughter, (might they not say) who shall discharge yours to them, when you are so ready to forget them? Is it, by plunging a dagger into the heart of your own mother, that you prepare to become a mother yourself? Can she, who dishonours her own family, teach her children to respect theirs? Go, unworthy object of the blind fondness of your doting parents! Abandon them to their grief for having ever given you birth; load their old age with infamy, and bring their grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.----Go, and enjoy, if thou canst, a happiness purchased at such a price.
Good God! what horrors surround me! shall I fly by stealth from my native country, dishonour my family, abandon at once father, mother, friends, relations, and even you, my dear Clara; you my gentle friend, so well beloved of my heart; you, who from our earliest infancy have hardly ever been absent from me a day; shall I leave you, lose you, never see you more?----Ah! no. May never----How wretched, how cruelly afflicted is your unhappy friend! She sees before her variety of evils; and nothing remains to yield her consolation. But my mind wanders----so many conflicts surpass my strength and perplex my reason: I lose at once my fortitude and understanding. I have no hope but in you alone. Advise me; chuse for me; or leave me to perish in perplexity and despair.
Letter LXX. Answer to the Preceding.
There is too just cause, my dear Eloisa, for your perplexity: I foresaw, but could not prevent it: I feel, but cannot remove it: nay, what is still worse in your unhappy situation, there is no one that can extricate you but yourself. Were prudence only required, friendship might possibly relieve your agitated mind; were it only necessary to chuse the good from the evil, mistaken passion might be over-ruled by disinterested advice. But in your case, whatever side you take, nature both authorizes and condemns you; reason, at the same time, commends and blames you; duty is silent or contradicts itself; the consequences are equally to be dreaded on one part or the other: in the mean while you can neither safely chuse nor remain undetermined; you have only evils to take your choice of, and your heart is the only proper judge which of them it can best support. I own, the importance of the deliberation frightens, and extremely afflicts me. Whatever destiny you prefer, it will be still unworthy of you; and, as I can neither point out your duty, nor conduct you in the road to happiness, I have not the courage to decide for you. This is the first refusal you ever met with from your friend; and I feel, by the pain it costs me, that it will be the last: but I should betray your confidence should I take upon me to direct you in an affair, about which prudence itself is silent; and in which your best and only guide is your own inclination.
Blame me not wrongfully, Eloisa, nor condemn me too soon. I know there are friends so circumspect that, not to expose themselves to consequences, they refuse to give their advice on difficult occasions, and by that reserve increase but the danger of those they should serve. Think me not one of those; you will see presently if this heart, sincerely yours, is capable of such timid precautions: permit me therefore, instead of advising you in your affairs, to mention a little of my own.
Have you never observed, my dear, how much every one who knows you is attached to your person?----That a father or mother should be fond of an only daughter, is not at all surprizing; that an amorous youth should be inflamed by a lovely object is also as little extraordinary; but that, at an age of sedateness and maturity, a man of so cold a disposition as Mr. Wolmar should be so taken with you at first sight; that a whole family should be unanimous to idolize you; that you should be as much the darling of a man so little affectionate as my father, and perhaps more so than any of his own children; that friends, acquaintance, domestics, neighbours, that the inhabitants of a whole town, should unanimously join in admiring and respecting you; this, my dear, is a concurrence of circumstances more extraordinary; and which could not have happened, did you not possess something peculiarly engaging. Do you know, Eloisa, what this something is? It is neither your beauty, your wit, your affability, nor any thing that is understood by the talent of pleasing: but it is that tenderness of heart, that sweetness of disposition, that has no equal; it is the talent of loving others, my dear, that makes you so universally beloved. Every other charm may be withstood, but benevolence is irresistible; and there is no method so sure to obtain the love of others as that of having an affection for them. There are a thousand women more beautiful; many are as agreeable; but you alone possess, with all that is agreeable, that seducing charm, which not only pleases, but affects, and ravishes every heart. It is easily perceived that yours requests only to be accepted, and the delightful sympathy it pants after flies to reward it in turn.