Part 22

You see, for instance, with surprize, the incredible affection Lord B---- has for your friend; you see his zeal for your happiness; you receive with admiration his generous offers; you attribute them to his virtue only. My dear cousin, you are mistaken. God forbid I should extenuate his Lordship’s beneficence, or undervalue his greatness of soul. But, believe me, his zeal, disinterested as it is, would be less fervent if under the same circumstances he had to do with different people. It is the irresistible ascendant you and your friend have over him that, without his perceiving it, determines his resolution, and makes him do that out of affection, which he imagines proceeds only from motives of generosity. This is what always will be effected by minds of a certain temper. They transform, in a manner, every other into their own likeness; having a sphere of activity wherein nothing can resist their power. It is impossible to know without imitating them, while from their own sublime elevation they attract all that are about them. It is for this reason, my dear, that neither you nor your friend will perhaps ever know mankind; for you will rather see them such as you model them, than such as they are in themselves. You will lead the way for all those among whom you live; others will either imitate or leave you; and perhaps you will meet with nothing in the world similar to what you have hitherto seen.

Let us come now to myself; to me whom the tie of consanguinity, a similarity of age, and, above all, a perfect conformity of taste, and humour, with a very opposite temperament, have united to you from your infancy.

_Congiunti eran gl’ alberghi, Ma più congiunti i cori: Conforme era l’ etate, Ma l’ pensier più conforme._

What think you has been the effect of that captivating influence, which is felt by every one that approaches you, on her who has been intimate with you from her childhood? Can you think there subsists between us, but an ordinary connection? Do not my eyes communicate their sparkling joy in meeting yours? Do you not perceive in my heart the pleasure of partaking your pains, and lamenting with you? Can I forget that, in the first transports of a growing passion, my friendship was never disagreeable; and that the complaints of your lover could never prevail on you to send me from you, or prevent me from being a witness to your weakness? This, my Eloisa, was a critical juncture. I am sensible how great a sacrifice you made to modesty, in making me acquainted with an error I happily escaped. Never should I have been your confident had I been but half your friend: no, our souls felt themselves too intimately united for any thing ever to part them.

What is it that makes the friendships of women, I mean of those who are capable of love, so lukewarm and short lived? It is the interests of love; it is the empire of beauty; it is the jealousy of conquest. Now, if anything of that kind could have divided us, we should have been already divided. But, were my heart less insensible to love, were I even ignorant that your affections are so deeply rooted as to end but with life; your lover is my friend, my brother; whoever knew the ties of a sincere friendship broken by those of love? As for Mr. Orbe, he may be long enough proud of your good opinion, before it will give me the least uneasiness; nor have I any stronger inclination to keep him by violence, than you have to take him from me. Would to heaven I could cure you of your passion at the expense of his! Though I keep him with pleasure, I should with greater pleasure resign him.

With regard to my person, I may make what pretensions I please to beauty; you will not set yourself in competition with me; for I am sure it will never enter into your head to desire to know which of us is the handsomest. I must confess, I have not been altogether so indifferent on this head; but know how to give place to your superiority, without the least mortification. Methinks I am rather proud than jealous of it; for as the charms of your features are such as would not become mine, I think myself handsome in your beauty, amiable in your graces, and adorned with your talents; thus I pride myself in your perfections, and admire myself the most in you. I shall never chuse, however, to give pain on my own account being sufficiently handsome in myself, for any use I have for beauty. Any thing more is needless; and it requires not much humility to yield the superiority to you.

You are doubtless impatient to know, to what purpose is all this preamble. It is to this. I cannot give you the advice you request, I have given you my reasons for it, but, notwithstanding this, the choice you shall make for yourself will at the same time be that of your friend; for, whatever be your fortune, I am resolved to accompany you and partake of it. If you go, I follow you. If you say, so do I. I have formed a determined and unalterable resolution. It is my duty, nor shall any thing prevent me. My fatal indulgence to your passion has been your ruin: your destiny ought therefore to be mine; and, as we have been inseparable from our cradles, we ought to be so to the grave.----I foresee you will think this an absurd project; it is, however, at bottom, a more discreet one, perhaps, than you may imagine: I have not the same motives for doubt and irresolution as you have. In the first place, as to my family; if I leave an easy father, I leave an indifferent one, who permits his children to do just as they please, more through neglect than indulgence: for you know he interests himself much more in the affairs of Europe than in his own, and that his daughter is much less the object of his concern than the Pragmatic Sanction. I am besides not like you, an only child, and shall be hardly missed from among those that remain.

It is true, I leave a treaty of marriage just on the point of being brought to a conclusion. _Manco-male,_ my dear, it is the affair of Mr. Orbe, if he loves me, to console himself for the disappointment. For my part, although I esteem his character, I am not without affection for his person, and regret in his loss a very honest man, he is nothing to me in comparison to Eloisa. Tell me, is the soul of any sex? I really cannot perceive in mine. I may have my fancies, but very little of love. A husband might be useful to me; but he would never be any thing to me but a husband; and that a girl who is not ugly, may find every where. But take care, my dear cousin, although I do not hesitate, I do not say that you ought not; nor would I insinuate that you should resolve to do what I am resolved to imitate. There is a wide difference between you and me; and your duty is much severer than mine. You know that an unparalleled affection for you possesses my heart, and almost stifles every other sentiment. From my infancy I have been attached to you by an habitual and irresistible impulse; so that I perfectly love no one else; and if I have some few ties of nature and gratitude to break through, I shall be encouraged to do it by your example. I shall say to myself, I have but imitated Eloisa, and shall think myself justified.

Billet. Eloisa to Clara.

I understand you, my dear Clara, and thank you. For once, at least, I will do my duty; and shall not be totally unworthy of your friendship.

Letter LXXI. Eloisa to Lord B----.

Your lordship’s last letter has affected me in the highest degree with admiration and gratitude; nor will my friend, who is honoured with your protection, be less so, when he knows the obligations you would have conferred on us. The unhappy, alas! only know the value of benevolent minds. We had before but too many reasons to acknowledge that of yours, whose heroic virtue will never be forgotten, tho’ after this it cannot again surprize us.

How fortunate should I think myself to live under the auspices of so generous a friend, and to reap from your benevolence that happiness which fortune has denied me. But I see, my Lord, I see, with despair, your good designs will be frustrated; my cruel destiny will counteract your friendship; and the delightful prospect of the blessings you offer to my acceptance, serves only to render their loss more sensible. You offer a secure and agreeable retreat to two persecuted lovers; you would render their passion legitimate, their union sacred; and I know that, under your protection, I could easily elude the pursuits of my irritated relations. This would compleat our love, but would it insure our felicity? Ah! no: if you would have Eloisa contented and happy, give her an asylum yet more secure, an asylum from shame and repentance. You anticipate our wants; and by an unparalleled generosity, deprive yourself of your own fortune to bestow it on us. More wealthy, more honoured by your benevolence than my own patrimony, I may recover every thing I have lost, and you will condescend to supply the place of a father. Ah, my Lord, shall I be worthy of another father when I abandon him whom nature gave me?

This is the source of the reproaches my wounded conscience makes me, and of those secret pangs that rend my heart.

I do not inquire whether I have a right to dispose of myself contrary to the will of those who gave me birth; but whether I can do it without involving them in a mortal affliction; whether I can abandon them without bringing them to despair; whether alas! I have a right to take away their life who gave me mine? How long has the virtuous mind taken upon itself thus to balance the rights of consanguinity and laws of nature? Since when has the feeling heart presumed thus nicely to distinguish the bounds of filial gratitude? Is it not a crime to proceed in questioning our duty to its very utmost limits? Will any one so scrupulously enquire into its extent, unless they are tempted to go beyond it? Shall I cruelly abandon those by whom I live and breathe, those who so tenderly preserve the life and being they gave me; those who have no hope, no pleasure, but in me? A father near sixty years of age! A mother weak and languishing? I their only child! Shall I leave them without help in the solitude and troubles of old age; at a time when I should exercise towards them that tender solicitude they have lavished on me? Shall I involve their latter days in shame and sorrow? Will not my troubled conscience incessantly upbraid me, and represent my despairing parents breathing out their last in curses on the ungrateful daughter that forsook and dishonoured them? No, my Lord, virtue, whose paths I have forsaken, may in turn abandon me, and no longer actuate my heart, but this horrible idea will supply its dictates; will follow, will torment me, every hour of my life, and make me miserable, in the midst of happiness. In a word, if I am doomed to be unhappy the rest of my days, I will run the risque of every other remorse; but this is too horrible for me to support. I confess, I cannot invalidate your arguments. I have but too great an inclination to think them just: but my Lord, you are unmarried, don’t you think a man ought to be a father himself to advise the children of others? As to me, I am determined what to do: my parents will make me unhappy, I know they will: but it will be less hard for me to support my own misery than the thought of having been the cause of theirs; for which reason I will never forsake my father’s house. Be gone then, ye sweet and flattering illusions! Ideas of so desirable a felicity! Go, vanish like a dream; for such I will ever think ye. And you, too generous friend, lay aside your agreeable designs, and let their remembrance only remain in the bottom of a heart, too grateful ever to forget them. If our misfortunes, however, are not too great to discourage your noble mind; if your generosity is not totally exhausted, there is yet a way to exercise it with reputation, and he whom you honour under the name of friend may under your care be deserving of it. Judge not of him by the situation in which you now see him; his extravagance is not the effect of pusillanimity, but of an ambitious and susceptible disposition, making head against adversity. There is often more insensibility than fortitude in apparent moderation: common men know nothing of violent sorrow, nor do great passions ever break out in weak minds. He possesses all that energy of sentiment which is the characteristic of a noble soul; and which is alas! the cause of my present despair. Your Lordship may indeed believe me, had he been only a _common_ person, Eloisa, had not been undone.

No, my Lord, that secret prepossession in his favour, which was followed by your manifest esteem, did not deceive you. He is worthy of all you did for him before you were acquainted with his merit; and you will do more for him, if possible, as you know him better. Yes, be your Lordship his comforter, his patron, his friend, his father; it is both for your own sake and his I conjure you to this; he will justify your confidence, he will honour your benefactions, he will practise your precepts, he will imitate your virtues, and will learn your wisdom. Ah! my Lord! if he should become, in your hands, what he is capable of being, you will have reason to be proud of your charge.----

Letter LXXII. From Eloisa.

And do you too, my dear friend! my only hope! do you come to wound afresh my heart, oppressed already with a load of sorrow! I was prepared to bear the shocks of adversity; long has my foreboding heart announced their coming; and I should have supported them with patience: but you, for whom I suffer! insupportable! I am struck with horror to see my sorrows aggravated by one who ought to alleviate them. What tender consolations did not I promise myself to receive from you? But all are vanished with your fortitude! How often have I not flattered myself that your magnanimity would strengthen my weakness; that your deserts would efface my error; and your elevated virtues raise up my debased mind! How many times have I not dried up my tears, saying to myself, I suffer for him, it is true, but he is worthy; I am culpable, but he is virtuous; I have a thousand troubles, but his constancy supports me; in his love I find a recompense for all my cares. Vain imagination! on the first trial thou hast deceived me! Where is now that sublime passion which could elevate your sentiments, and display your virtues? What is become of these high-boasted maxims? Your imitation of great examples? Where is that philosopher whom adversity could not shake, yet falls before the first accident that parts him from his mistress? How shall I hereafter excuse my ill conduct to myself, when in him that reduced me, I see a man without courage, effeminate, one whose weak mind sinks under the first reverse of fortune, and absurdly renounces his reason the moment he has occasion to make use of it? Good God! that in my present state of humiliation I should be reduced to blush for my choice, as much as for my weakness.

Reflect a little----think how far you forget yourself; can your wandering and impatient mind stoop so low as to be guilty of cruelty? Do you presume to reproach me? Do you complain of me?----complain of Eloisa? Barbarous man!----How comes it that remorse did not hold your hand? Why did not the most endearing proofs of the tenderest passion that ever existed, deprive you of the power to insult me? How despicable must be your heart, if it can doubt of the fidelity of mine!----But no, you do not, you cannot doubt it, I defy your utmost impatience to do this; nay even at this instant, while I express my abhorrence of your injustice, you must see, too plainly, the cause of the first emotion of anger I ever felt in my life.

Was it you that asked me whether I had not ruined myself by my inconsiderate confidence, and if my designs had not succeeded? How would you not blush for such cruel insinuations, if you knew the fond hopes that reduced me, if you knew the projects I had formed for our mutual happiness, and how they are now vanished with all my comforts. I dare flatter myself still, you will one day know better, and your remorse amply revenge your reproaches. You know my father’s prohibition; you are not ignorant of the public talk; I foresaw the consequences, I had them represented to you by my cousin: you were as sensible of them as we, and for our mutual preservation it was necessary to submit to a separation.

I therefore drove you away, as you injuriously term it. But for whose sake was I induced to this? Have you no delicacy? Ungrateful man! It was for the sake of an heart insensible of its own worth, and that would rather die a thousand deaths than see me rendered infamous. Tell me, what would become of you if I were given up to shame? Do you think you could support my dishonour? Come, cruel as you are, if you think so; come, and receive the sacrifice of my reputation with the same fortitude as I will offer it up. Come back, nor fear to be disclaimed by her to whom you were always dear. I am ready to declare, in the face of heaven and earth, the engagements of our mutual passion; I am ready boldly to declare you my lover, and to expire in your arms with affection and shame. I had rather the whole world should know my tenderness than that you should one moment doubt it: the shafts of ignominy wound not so deep as your reproaches.

I conjure you, let us for ever put an end to these reciprocal complaints; they are to me intolerable. Good heavens! how can those who love each other, delight in quarreling; and lose, in tormenting each other, those moments in which they stand in need of mutual consolation? No, my friend, what end does it serve to effect a disagreement, which does not subsist? Let us complain of fortune, but not of love. Never did it form a more perfect, a more lasting, union; our souls are too intimately blended ever to be separated; nor can we live a-part from each other, but as two parts of one being. How is it then, that you only feel your own griefs? Why do you not sympathize with those of your friend? Why do you not perceive in your breast the heart-felt sighs of hers? Alas! they are more affecting than your impassioned ravings! If you partook of my sufferings, you would even more severely feel them than your own.

You say your situation is deplorable! Think of Eloisa’s, and lament only for her. Consider, in our common misfortune, the different state of your sex and mine, and judge which is most deplorable. Affected by violent passions, to pretend to be insensible; a prey to a thousand griefs, to be obliged to appear chearful and content; to have a serene countenance with an agitated mind; to speak always contrary to one’s thoughts; to disguise all we feel; to be deceitful through obligation, and to speak untruth through modesty; such is the habitual situation of every young woman of my age. Thus we pass the prime of our youth under the tyranny of decorum, which is at length aggravated by that of our parents, in forcing us into an unsuitable marriage. In vain, however, would men lay a restraint on the inclinations; the heart gives law to itself; it eludes the shackles of slavery, and bestows itself at its own pleasure.

Clogged with a yoke of iron, which heaven does not impose on us, they unite the body without the soul; the person and the inclinations are separately engaged, and an unhappy victim is forced into guilt, by obliging her to enter into a sacred engagement, which she wants, in one respect or other, an essential power to fulfill. Are there not some young women more discreet? Alas! I know there are. There are those that have never loved? Peace be with them! They have withstood that fatal passion! I would also have resisted it. They are more virtuous! Do they love virtue better than I? Had it not been for you, for you alone, I had ever loved it. Is it then true that I love virtue no longer?----Is it you that have ruined me, and is it I who must console you? But what will become of me? The consolation of friendship is weak where that of love is wanting! Who then can give me comfort in my affliction? With what a dreadful situation am I threatened? I who, for having committed a crime, see myself ready to be plunged into a new scene of guilt, by entering into an abhorred, and perhaps inevitable, marriage! Where shall I find tears sufficient to mourn my guilt and lament my lover, if I yield? On the other hand, how shall I find resolution, in my present depression of mind, to resist? Methinks, I see already the fury of an incensed father! I feel myself already moved by the cries of nature, I feel my heart-strings torn by the pangs of love. Deprived of thee, I am without resource, without support, without hope; the past is disgraceful, the present afflicting, and the future terrible. I thought I had done every thing for our happiness, but we are only made more miserable, by preparing the way for a more cruel separation. Our fleeting pleasure is past, while the remorse it occasioned remains, and the shame which overwhelms me is without alleviation.