Part 5
By _we_ you know who I mean: for my part, Chaillot used always to say, that my giddiness would be my security in the place of reason, that I should never have sense enough to be in love, and that I was too constantly foolish to be guilty of a great folly. My dear Eloisa, be careful of yourself! the better she thought of your understanding, the more she was apprehensive of your heart. Nevertheless, let not your courage sink. Your prudence and your honour, I am certain, will exert their utmost, and I assure you, on my part, that friendship shall do every thing in its power. If we are too knowing for our years, yet our manners have been hitherto spotless and irreproachable. Believe me, my dear, there are many girls, who though they may have more simplicity, have less virtue than ourselves: we know what virtue means, and are virtuous by choice; and that seems to me the most secure.
And yet, from what you have told me, I shall not enjoy a moment’s repose till we meet; for if you are really afraid, your danger is not entirely chimerical. It is true, the means of preservation are very obvious. One word to your mother, and the thing is done: but I understand you; the expedient is too conclusive: you would willingly be assured of not being vanquished, without losing the honour of having sustained the combat. Alas! my poor cousin----if there was the least glimmering----Baron D'Etange consent to give his daughter, his only child, to the son of an inconsiderable tradesman, without fortune! Dost thou presume to hope he will?----or what dost thou hope? what would’st thou have? poor Eloisa!----Fear nothing however on my account. Your friend will keep your secret. Many people might think it more honest to reveal it, perhaps they are right. For my part, who am no great casuist, I have no notion of that honesty, which is incompatible with confidence, faith, and friendship. I imagine that every relation, every age, have their peculiar maxims, duties, and virtues; but what might be prudence in another, in me would be perfidy; and that to confound these things, would more probably make us wicked than wise and happy. If your love be weak, we will overcome it; but if it be extreme, violent measures may produce a tragical catastrophe, and friendship will attempt nothing for which it cannot be answerable. After all, I flatter myself that I shall have little reason to complain of your conduct when I have you once under my eye. You shall see what it is to have a duenna of eighteen!
You know, my dear girl, that I am not absent upon pleasure; and really the country is not so agreeable in the spring as you imagine: one suffers at this time both heat and cold; for the trees afford us no shade, and in the house it is too cold to live without fire. My father too, in the midst of his building, begins to perceive that the gazette comes later hither than to town; so that we all wish to return, and I hope to embrace thee in a few days. But what causes my inquietude is, that a few days make I know not what number of hours, many of which are destined to the philosopher: to the philosopher, cousin! you understand me. Think, O think, that the clock strikes those hours entirely for him!
Do not blush, my dear girl, nor drop thy eyes, nor look grave; thy features will not suffer it. Thou knowest I never, in my life, could weep without laughing, and yet I have not less sensibility than other people: I do not feel our separation less severely, nor am less afflicted with the loss of poor Chaillot. Her family I am resolved never to abandon, and I sincerely thank my kind friend for her promise to assist me: but to let slip an opportunity of doing good, were to be no more thyself. I confess the good creature was rather too talkative, free enough on certain occasions, a little indiscreet with young girls, and that she was fond of old stories and times past. So that I do not so much regret the qualities of her mind, though among some bad ones, many of them were excellent: the loss which I chiefly deplore is the goodness of her heart, and that mixture of maternal and sisterly affection, which made her inexpressibly dear to me. My mother I scarce knew; I am indeed loved by my father, as much as is possible for him to love; your amiable brother is no more; and I very seldom see my own. Thus am I left desolate, like an orphan. You are my only consolation. Yes, my Eloisa lives, and I will weep no more!
P. S. For fear of accident, I shall direct this letter to our preceptor.
Letter VIII. [6] To Eloisa.
O, my fair Eloisa, what a strange capricious deity is Love! My present felicity seems far to exceed my most sanguine expectations, and yet I am discontented. You love me, you confess your passion, and yet I sigh. My presumptuous heart dares to wish still farther, though all my wishes are gratified. I am punished with its wild imaginations; they render me unhappy in the very bosom of felicity. Do not, however, believe that I have forgotten the laws you have imposed, or lost the power of obedience: no, but I am displeased to find the observance of those laws irksome to me alone; that you, who not long ago, was all imbecility, are now become so great a heroine; and that you are so excessively careful to prevent every proof of my integrity.
How you are changed, and _you_ alone, within these two months! Where is now your languor, your disgust, your dejected look? The graces have again resumed their post; your charms are all returned; the new-blown rose is not more fresh and blooming; you have recovered your vivacity and wit; you banter, even with me, as formerly; but what hurts me more than all this, is that you swear eternal fidelity with as much gaiety and good humour as if it were something droll, or indifferent.
O, my fair inconstant! is this characteristic of an ungovernable passion? If you were, in any degree, at war with your inclinations, would not the constraint throw a damp upon your enjoyments? O how infinitely more amiable you were, when less beautiful! How do I regret that pathetic paleness, that precious assurance of a lover’s happiness, and hate the indiscretion of that health which you have recovered at the expense of my repose! Yes, I could be much better satisfied with your indisposition, than with that air of content, those sparkling eyes, that blooming complexion, which conspire to insult me. Have you already forgot the time when you were glad to sue for mercy? Eloisa, Eloisa! the violent tempest hath been very suddenly allayed.
But what vexes me most, is that, after having committed yourself entirely to my honour, you should seem apprehensive and mistrustful where there is no danger. Is it thus I am rewarded for my discretion? Does my inviolable respect deserve to be thus affronted? Your father’s absence is so far from giving you more liberty, that it is now almost impossible to catch you alone. Your _constant_ cousin never leaves you a moment. I find we are insensibly returning to our former circumspection, with this difference only that what was then irksome to you is now become matter of amusement.
What recompense can I expect for the purity of my adoration, if not your esteem? And to what purpose have I abstained even from the least indulgence, if it produces no gratitude? In short, I am weary of suffering ineffectually, and of living in a state of continued self- denial, without being allowed the merit of it. I cannot bear to be despised whilst you are growing every day more beautiful. Why am I to gaze eternally at those delicious fruits which my lips dare not touch? Must I relinquish all hope, without the satisfaction of a voluntary sacrifice? No, since you depend no longer upon my honour, it stands released from its vain engagement; your own precautions are sufficient. You are ungrateful, and I am too scrupulous; but for the future I am resolved not to reject the happiness which fortune, in spite of you, may throw in my way. Be it as it will, I find that I have taken upon me a charge that is above my capacity. Eloisa, you are once more your own guardian. I must resign the deposit which I cannot preserve without being tempted to a breach of faith, and which you yourself are able to secure with less difficulty than you were pleased to imagine.
I speak seriously; depend upon your own strength, else banish me, or in other words, deprive me of existence. The promise I made, was rash and inconsiderate; and I am amazed how I have been able to keep it so long. I confess it ought to remain for ever inviolable; but of that I now perceive the impossibility. He who wantonly exposes his virtue to such severe trials, deserves to fall. Believe me, fairest among women! by him who desired life only on your account, you will always be honoured and respected; but reason may forsake me, and my intoxicated senses may hint the perpetration of a crime, which, in my cooler hours, I should abhor. I am however happy in the reflection that I have not hitherto abused your confidence. Two whole months have I triumphed over myself; but I am intitled to the reward due to as many ages of torment.
Letter IX. From Eloisa.
I comprehend you: the pleasures of vice, and the reward of virtue, would just constitute the felicity you wish to enjoy. Are these your morals? Truly, my good friend, your generosity had a short duration. Is it possible that it could be entirely the effect of art? There is something droll, however, in complaining of my health. Was it that you hoped to see it entirely destroyed by my ridiculous passion, and expected to have me at your feet, imploring your pity to save my life? or did you treat me with respect whilst I continued frightful, with an intention to retract your promise as soon as I should, in any degree, become an object of desire? I see nothing so vastly meritorious in such a sacrifice.
With equal justice, you are pleased to reproach me for the care I have lately taken to prevent those painful combats with yourself, when in reality you ought to deem it an obligation. You then retract your engagement, on account of its being too burthensome a duty; so that in the same breath, you complain of having too much trouble, and of not having enough. Recollect yourself a little, and endeavour to be more uniform, that your pretended sufferings may have a less frivolous appearance: or perhaps it would be more advisable to put off that dissimulation which is inconsistent with your character. Say what you will, your heart is much better satisfied with mine than you would have me think. Ungrateful man! you are but too well acquainted with its feelings. Even your own letter contradicts you by the gaiety of its stile; you would not have so much wit if you had less tranquility. But, enough of vain reproach to you: let me now reproach myself; it will probably be with more reason.
The content and serenity with which I have been blest of late, is inconsistent with my former declaration, and I confess you have cause to be surprized at the contrast. You were then a witness to my despair, and you now behold in me too much tranquility; hence you pronounce me inconstant and capricious. Be not, my good friend, too severe in your judgment. This heart of mine cannot be known in one day. Have patience, and, in time, you may probably discover it to be not unworthy your regard.
Unless you were sensible how much I was shocked when I first detected my heart in its passion for you, it is impossible to form any idea of what I suffered. The maxims I imbibed in my education were so extremely severe, that love, however pure, seemed highly criminal. I was taught to believe, that a young girl of sensibility was ruined the moment she suffered a tender expression to pass her lips: my disordered imagination confounded the crime with the confession of my love, and I had conceived so terrible an idea of the first step, that I saw little or no interval between that and the last. An extreme diffidence of myself increased the alarm; the struggles of modesty appeared to be those of virtue; and the uneasiness of silence seemed the importunity of desire. The moment I had spoke I concluded myself lost beyond redemption; and yet I must have spoken, or have parted with you for ever. Thus, unable to disguise my sentiments, I endeavoured to excite your generosity, and depending rather upon you than on myself, I chose to engage your honour in my defence, as I could have little reliance on a resource of which I believed myself already deprived.
I soon discovered my error: I had scarce opened my mind when I found myself much easier; the instant I received your answer I became perfectly calm; and two months experience has informed me that my too tender heart hath need of love, but that my senses can rest satisfied without a lover. Now judge, you who are a lover of virtue, what joy I must have felt at this discovery. Emerged from the profound ignominy into which my fears had plunged me, I now taste the delicious pleasure of a guiltless passion: it constitutes all my happiness; it hath influenced my temper and my health, I can conceive no paradise on earth equal to the union of love and innocence.
I feared you no longer; and when I endeavoured to avoid being alone with you, it was rather for your sake than my own. Your eyes, your sighs betrayed more transport than prudence; but though _you_ had forgotten the bounds you yourself prescribed, _I_ should not.
Alas, my friend, I wish I could communicate to you that tranquility of soul which I now enjoy! Would it were in my power to teach you to be contented and happy! What fear, what shame can imbitter our felicity? In the bosom of love we might talk of virtue without a blush.
_E v’ è il piacer con l’ onestade accanto._
And yet a strange foreboding whispers to my heart, that these are the only days of happiness allotted us by heaven. Our future prospect presents nothing to my view, but absence, anxiety, dangers and difficulties. The least change in our present situation must necessarily be for the worse. Were we even united for ever, I am not certain whether our happiness would not be destroyed by its excess; the moment of possession is a dangerous crisis.
I conjure thee, my kind, my only friend, endeavour to calm the turbulence of those vain desires which are always followed by regret, repentance and sorrow. Let us peaceably enjoy our present felicity. You have a pleasure in giving me instruction, and you know, but too well, with what delight I listen to be instructed. Let your lessons be yet more frequent, that we may be as little asunder as decency will allow. Our absent moments shall be employed in writing to each other, and thus none of the precious time will pass in vain, which one day possibly we might give the world to recall. Would to heaven, that our present happiness might end only with our lives! To improve one’s understanding, to adorn one’s mind, to indulge one’s heart: can there possibly be any addition to our felicity?
Letter X. To Eloisa.
How entirely was my Eloisa in the right when she said that I did not yet know her sufficiently! I constantly flatter myself that I have discovered every excellence of her soul, when new beauties daily meet my observation. What woman, but yourself, could ever unite virtue and tenderness so as to add new charms to both? In spite of myself I am forced to admire and approve that prudence which deprives me of all comfort, and there is something so excessively engaging in the manner of imposing your prohibitions, that I almost receive them with delight.
I am every day more positive, that there is no happiness equal to that of being beloved by Eloisa; and so entirely am I of this opinion that I would not prefer even the person of Eloisa to the possession of her heart. But why this bitter alternative? Can things be incompatible which are united in nature? Our time, you say, is precious; let us enjoy our good fortune without troubling its pure stream with our impatience. Be it so: but shall we, because we are moderately happy, reject supreme felicity? Is not all that time lost which might have been better employed? If it were possible to live a thousand years in one quarter of an hour, what purpose would it answer to tell over the tedious number of days when they were past?
Your opinion of our present situation is very just; I am convinced I ought to be happy, and yet I am much the reverse. The dictates of wisdom may continue to flow from your lips, but the voice of nature is stronger than yours: and how can we avoid listening to her, when she speaks the language of our own hearts? Of all sublunary things, I know of nothing, except yourself, which deserves a moment’s attention. Without you, nature would have no allurements: her empire is in your charms, and there she is irresistible.
Your heart, divine Eloisa, feels none of this. You are content to ravish our senses, and are not at war with your own. It should seem that your soul is too sublime for human passions, and that you have not only the beauty but the purity of angels: a purity which murmuring I revere, and to which I would gladly aspire. But, no: I am condemned to creep upon the earth, and to behold Eloisa a constellation in the heavens. O may you continue to be happy though I am wretched; enjoy your virtues; and perdition catch the vile mortal who shall ever attempt to tarnish one of them! Yes, my Eloisa, be happy, and I will endeavour to forget my own misery, in the recollection of your bliss. If I know my heart, my love is as spotless as its adorable object. The passions which your charms have inflamed, are extinguished by the purity of your soul; I dare not disturb its serenity. Whenever I am tempted to take the least liberty, I find myself restrained rather by the dread of interrupting your peace of mind, than by the fear of offending. In my pursuit of happiness, I have considered only in what degree it might affect my Eloisa; and finding it incompatible with hers, I can be wretched without repining.
With what inexplicable, jarring, sentiments you have inspired me! I am at once submissive and daring, mild and impetuous. Your looks inflame my heart with love, and when I hear your voice I am captivated with the charms of innocence. If ever I presume to indulge a wishful idea, it is in your absence. Your image in my mind is the only object of my passionate adoration.
And yet I languish and consume away; my blood is all on fire, and every attempt to damp the flame serves but to increase its fervour. Still I have cause to think myself very happy; and so I do. Surely I have little reason to complain, when I would not change my situation with the greatest monarch on earth. But yet some sad fiend torments me whose pursuits it is impossible to elude. Methinks I would not die, and yet I am daily expiring; for you only I wish to live, and you alone are the cause of my death.
Letter XI. From Eloisa.
My attachment to my dear friend grows every day stronger; your absence becomes insupportable, and I have no relief but in my pen. Thus my love keeps pace with yours; for I judge of your passion by your real fear of offending: your former fears were only feigned, with an intent to advance your cause. It is an easy matter to distinguish the dictates of an afflicted heart from the phrenzy of a heated imagination, and I see a thousand times more affection in your present constraint than in your former delirium. I know also that your situation, confined as it is, is not entirely bereft of pleasure. A sincere lover must be very happy in making frequent sacrifices to a grateful mistress, when he is assured that not one of them will be forgotten, but that she will treasure the remembrance in her heart.
But who knows whether, presuming on my sensibility, this may not be a deeper, and therefore a more dangerous plot than the former? O, no! the supposition was unjust; you certainly cannot mean to deceive me. And yet prudence tells me to be more suspicious of compassion than even of love; for I find myself more affected by your respect than by all your transport: so that, as you are grown more honest, you are become in proportion more formidable.
In the overflowing of my heart I will tell you a truth, of which your own feelings cannot fail to convince you: it is, that in spite of fortune, parents, and of ourselves, our fates are united for ever, and we can be only happy or miserable together. Our souls, if I may use the expression, touch in all points, and we feel an entire coherence: correct me if I speak unphilosophically. Our destiny may part us, but cannot disunite us. Henceforward our pains and pleasures must be mutual; and, like the magnets, of which I have heard you speak, that have the same motion though in different places, we should have the same sensations at the two extremities of the world.
Banish, therefore, the vain hope, if you ever entertained it, of exclusive happiness to be purchased at the expense of mine. Do not flatter yourself with the idle prospect of felicity founded upon Eloisa’s dishonour, or imagine that you could behold my ignominy and my tears, without horror. Believe me, my dear friend, I know your heart better than yourself. A passion so tender and so true, cannot possibly excite an impure wish; but we are so attached, that if we were on the brink of perdition it would be impossible for us to fall singly; of my ruin yours is the inevitable consequence.