Part 7

Letter XVII. Reply.

Your letter excites my compassion; it is the only senseless thing you have ever written.

I affront your honour! I would rather sacrifice my life. Do you believe it possible that I should mean to injure your honour? Ingrate! Too well thou knowest that for thy sake I had almost sacrificed my own. But tell me what is this honour which I have offended? Ask thy groveling heart, thy indelicate soul. How despicable art thou if thou hast no honour but that which is unknown to Eloisa! Shall those whose hearts are one, scruple to share their possessions? Shall he who calls himself mine refuse my gifts? Since when is it become dishonourable to receive from those we love? But the man is despised whose wants exceed his fortune. Despised! by whom? By those abject souls who place their honour in their wealth, and estimate their virtue by their weight of gold. But is this the honour of a good man? Is virtue less honourable because it is poor?

Undoubtedly there are presents which a man of honour ought not to accept; but I must tell you, those are equally dishonourable to the person by whom they are offered; and that what may be given with honour, it cannot be dishonourable to receive: now my heart is so far from reproaching me with what I did, that it glories in the motive. Nothing can be more despicable than a man whose love and assiduities are bought, except the woman by whom they are purchased. But where two hearts are united, it is so reasonable and just that their fortunes should be in common, that if I have reserved more than my share, I think myself indebted to you for the overplus. If the favours of love are rejected, how shall our hearts express their gratitude?

But, lest you should imagine that in my design to supply your wants I was inattentive to my own, I will give you an indisputable proof of the contrary. Know then, that the purse which I now return contains double the sum it held before, and that I could have redoubled it if I had pleased. My father gives me a certain allowance, moderate indeed, but which my mother’s kindness renders it unnecessary for me to touch. As to my lace and embroidery, they are the produce of my own industry. It is true, I was not always so rich; but, I know not how, my attention to a certain fatal passion has of late made me neglect a thousand little expensive superfluities; which is another reason why I should dispose of it in this manner: it is but just that you should be humbled as a punishment for the evil you have caused, and that love should expiate the crimes he occasions.

But to the point. You say your honour will not suffer you to accept my gift. If this be true, I have nothing more to say, and am entirely of opinion that you cannot be too positive in this respect. If therefore you can prove this to be the case, I desire it may be done clearly, incontestably, and without evasion; for you know I hate all appearance of sophistry. You may then return the purse; I will receive it without complaining, and you shall hear no more of this affair.

You will be pleased, however, to remember, that I neither like false honour, nor people who are affectedly punctilious. If you return the box without a justification, or if your justification be not satisfactory, we must meet no more. Think of this. Adieu.

Letter XVIII. To Eloisa.

I received your present, I departed without taking leave, and am now a considerable distance from you. Am I sufficiently obedient? Is your tyranny satisfied?

I can give you no account of my journey; for I remember nothing more than that I was three days in travelling twenty leagues. Every step I took seemed to tear my soul from my body, and thus to anticipate the pain of death. I intended to have given you a description of the country through which I passed. Vain project! I beheld nothing but you, and can describe nothing but Eloisa. The repeated emotions of my heart threw me into a continued distraction; I imagined myself to be where I was not; I had hardly sense enough left to ask or follow my road, and I am arrived at Sion without ever leaving Vevey.

Thus I have discovered the secret of eluding your cruelty, and of seeing you without disobeying your command. No, Eloisa, with all your rigour, it is not in your power to separate me from you entirely. I have dragged into exile but the most inconsiderable part of myself; my soul must remain with you for ever: with impunity, it explores your beauty, dwells in rapture upon every charm; and I am happier in despite of you than I ever was by your permission.

Unfortunately, I have here some people to visit and some necessary business to transact. I am least wretched in solitude, where I can employ all my thoughts upon Eloisa, and transport myself to her in imagination. Every employment which calls off my attention, is become insupportable. I will hurry over my affairs, that I may be soon at liberty to wander through the solitary wilds of this delightful country. Since I must not live with you, I will shun all society with mankind.

Letter XIX. To Eloisa.

I am now detained here only by your order. Those five days have been more than sufficient to finish my own concerns, if things may be so called in which the heart has no interest: so that now you have no pretence to prolong my exile, unless with design to torment me.

I begin to be very uneasy about the fate of my first letter. It was written and sent by the post immediately upon my arrival, and the direction was exactly copied from that which you transmitted me: I sent you mine with equal care; so that if you had answered me punctually, I must have received your letter before now. Yet this letter does not appear, and there is no possible fatality which I have not supposed to be the cause of its delay. O Eloisa, how many unforeseen accidents may have happened in the space of one week, to dissolve the most perfect union that ever existed! I shudder to think that there are a thousand means to make me miserable, and only one by which I can possibly be happy. Eloisa, is it that I am forgotten! God forbid! that were to be miserable indeed. I am prepared for any other misfortune; but all the powers of my soul sicken at the bare idea of that.

O no! it cannot be: I am convinced my fears are groundless, and yet my apprehensions continue. The bitterness of my misfortunes increases daily; and as if real evils were not sufficient to depress my soul, my fears supply me with imaginary ones to add weight to the others. At first my grief was much more tolerable. The trouble of a sudden departure, and the journey itself were some sort of dissipation! but this peaceful solitude assembles all my woes. Like a wounded soldier, I felt but little pain till after I had retired from the field.

How often have I laughed at a lover, in romance, bemoaning the absence of his mistress! Little did I imagine that your absence would ever be so intolerable to me! I am now sensible how improper it is for a mind at rest to judge of other men’s passions; and how foolish, to ridicule the sensations we have never felt. I must confess, however, I have great consolation in reflecting that I suffer by your command. The sufferings which you are pleased to ordain, are much less painful than if they were inflicted by the hand of fortune; if they give you any satisfaction, I should be sorry not to have suffered; they are the pledges of their reward; I know you too well to believe you would exercise barbarity for its own sake.

If your design be to put me to the proof, I will murmur no more. It is but just that you should know whether I am constant, endued with patience, docility, and, in short, worthy of the bliss you design me. Gods! if this be your idea, I shall complain that I have not suffered half enough. Ah, Eloisa! for heaven’s sake, support the flattering expectation in my heart, and invent, if you can, some torment better proportioned to the reward.

Letter XX. From Eloisa.

I received both your letters at once, and I perceive, by your anxiety in the second, concerning the fate of the other, that when imagination takes the lead of reason, the latter is not always in haste to follow, but suffers her, sometimes, to proceed alone. Did you suppose, when you reached Sion, that the post waited only for your letter, that it would be delivered to me the instant of his arrival here, and that my answer would be favoured with equal dispatch? No, no, my good friend, things do not always go on so swimmingly. Your two epistles came both together; because the post happened not to set out till after he had received the second. It requires some time to distribute the letters; my agent has not always an immediate opportunity of meeting me alone, and the post from hence does not return the day after his arrival: so that, all things calculated, it must be at least a week before we can receive an answer one from the other. This I have explained to you with design, once for all, to satisfy your impatience. Whilst you are exclaiming against fortune and my negligence, you see that I have been busied in obtaining the information necessary to insure our correspondence, and prevent your anxiety. Which of us hath been best employed, I leave to your own decision.

Let us, my dear friend, talk no more of pain; rather partake the joy I feel at the return of my kind father, after a tedious absence of eight months. He arrived on Thursday evening, since which happy moment I have thought of nobody else. [7] O thou, whom, next to the Author of my being, I love more than all the world! why must thy letters, thy complainings affect my soul, and interrupt the first transports of a reunited happy family?

You expect to monopolize my whole attention. But tell me, could you love a girl, whose passion for her lover could extinguish all affection for her parents? Would you, because you are uneasy, have me insensible to the endearments of a kind father? No, my worthy friend, you must not imbitter my innocent joy by your unjust reproaches. You, who have so much sensibility, can surely conceive the sacred pleasures of being prest to the throbbing heart of a tender parent. Do you think that in those delightful moments it is possible to divide one’s affection?

_Sol che son figlia io mi rammento adesso._

Yet you are not to imagine I can forget you. Do we ever forget what we really love? No, the more lively impressions of a moment have no power to efface the other. I was not unaffected with your departure hence, and shall not be displeased to see you return. But----be patient like me, because you must, without asking any other reason. Be assured that I will recall you as soon as it is in my power; and remember, that those who complain loudest of absence, do not always suffer most.

Letter XXI. To Eloisa.

How was I tormented in receiving the letter which I so impatiently expected! I waited at the post-house. The mail was scarce opened before I gave in my name, and begun to importune the man. He told me there was a letter for me; my heart leaped; I asked for it with great impatience, and at last received it. O Eloisa! how I rejoiced to behold the well-known hand! A thousand times would I have kissed the precious characters, but I wanted resolution to press the letter to my lips, or to open it before so many witnesses. Immediately I retired, my knees trembled; I scarce knew my way; I broke the seal the moment I had past the first turning; I run over, or rather devoured, the dear lines, till I came to that part which so movingly speaks your tenderness and affection for your venerable father; I wept; I was observed; I then retired to a place of greater privacy, and there mingled my joyful tears with yours. With transport I embraced your happy father, though I hardly remember him. The voice of nature reminded me of my own, and I shed fresh tears to his memory.

O incomparable Eloisa! what can you possibly learn of me? It is from you only can be learnt every thing that is great and good, and especially that divine union of nature, love, and virtue, which never existed but in you. Every virtuous affection is distinguished in your heart by a sensibility so peculiar to yourself, that, for the better regulation of my own, as my actions are already submitted to your will, I perceive, my sentiments also must be determined by yours.

Yet what a difference there is between your situation and mine! I do not mean as to rank or fortune; sincere affection, and dignity of soul, want none of these. But you are surrounded by a number of kind friends who adore you; a tender mother, and a father who loves you as his only hope; a friend and cousin who seem to breathe only for your sake: you are the ornament and oracle of an entire family, the boast and admiration of a whole town; these, all these divide your sensibility, and what remains for love is but a small part in comparison of that which is ravished from you by duty, nature and friendship. But I, alas! Eloisa, a wanderer without a family, and almost without country, have no one but you upon earth, and am possessed of nothing, save my love. Be not, therefore, surprized, though your heart may have more sensibility, that mine should know better how to love; and that you, who excel me in every thing else, must yield to me in this respect.

You need not, however, be apprehensive lest I should indiscreetly trouble you with my complaints. No, I will not interrupt your joy, because it adds to your felicity, and is in its nature laudable. Imagination shall represent the pathetic scene; and, since I have no happiness of my own, I will endeavour to enjoy yours.

Whatever may be your reasons for prolonging my absence, I believe them just; but though I knew them to be otherwise, what would that avail? Have I not promised implicit obedience? Can I suffer more in being silent, than in parting from you? But remember, Eloisa, your soul now directs two separate bodies, and that the one she animates by choice will continue the most faithful.

_--------Nodo piu forte: Fabricato da noi, non dalla forte._

No, Eloisa, you shall hear no repining. Till you are pleased to recall me from exile, I will try to deceive the tedious hours in exploring the mountains of Valais, whilst they are yet practicable. I am of opinion that this unfrequented country deserves the attention of speculative curiosity, and that it wants nothing to excite admiration, but a skilful spectator. Perhaps my excursion may give rise to a few observations, that may not be entirely undeserving your perusal. To amuse a fine lady one should describe a witty and polite nation; but, I know, my Eloisa will have more pleasure in a picture where simplicity of manners and rural happiness are the principal objects.

Letter XXII. From Eloisa.

At last, the ice is broken: you have been mentioned. Notwithstanding your poor opinion of my learning, it was sufficient to surprize my father; nor was he less pleased with my progress in music and drawing: Indeed, to the great astonishment of my mother, who was prejudiced by your scandal, [8] he was satisfied with my improvement in every thing, except heraldry, which he thinks I have neglected. But all this could not be acquired without a master: I told him mine, enumerating at the same time all the sciences he proposed to teach me, except one. He remembers to have seen you several times on his last journey, and does not appear to retain any impression to your disadvantage.

He then enquired about your fortune; he was told, it was not great: Your birth? he was answered, _honest_. This word _honest_ sounds very equivocal in the ears of nobility; it excited some suspicions, which were confirmed in the explanation. As soon as he was informed that your birth was not noble, he asked, what you had been paid per month. My mother replied, that you had not only refused to accept a stipend, but that you had even rejected every present she had offered. This pride of yours served but to inflame his own: who indeed could bear the thought of being obliged to a poor _plebeian_? Therefore it was determined, that a stipend should be offered, and that, in case you refused it, notwithstanding your merit, you should be dismissed. Such, my friend, is the result of a conversation held concerning my most honoured master, during which his very humble scholar was not entirely at ease. I thought I could not be in too great a hurry to give you this information, that you might have sufficient time to consider it maturely. When you have come to a resolution, do not fail to let me know it; for it is a matter entirely within your own province, and beyond my jurisdiction.

I am not much pleased with your intended excursion to the mountains: not that I think it will prove an unentertaining dissipation, or that your narrative will not give me pleasure; but I am fearful lest you may not be able to support the fatigue. Besides, the season is already too far advanced. The hills will soon be covered with snow, and you may possibly suffer as much from cold as fatigue. If you should fall sick in that distant country, I should be inconsolable. Come therefore, my dear friend, come nearer to your Eloisa: it is not yet time to return to Vevey; but I would have you less rudely situated, and so as to facilitate our correspondence. I leave the choice of place to yourself; only take care that it be kept secret from the people here, and be discreet without being mysterious. I know you will be prudent for your own sake, but doubly so for mine.

Adieu. I am forced to break off. You know I am obliged to be very cautious. But this is not all: my father has brought with him a venerable stranger, his old friend, who once saved his life in a battle. Judge then of the reception he deserves! To-morrow he leaves us, and we are impatient to procure him every sort of entertainment that will best express our gratitude to such a benefactor. I am called, and must finish. Once more, adieu.

Letter XXIII. To Eloisa.

I have employed scarce eight days in surveying a country that would require some years. But, besides that I was driven off by the snow, I chose to be before the post, who brings me, I hope, a letter from Eloisa. In the mean time I begin this, and shall afterwards, if it be necessary, write another in answer to that which I shall receive.

I do not intend to give you an account of my journey in this letter; you shall see my remarks when we meet; they would take up too much of our precious correspondence. For the present, it will be sufficient to acquaint you with the situation of my heart: it is but just to render you an account of that which is entirely yours.

I set out, dejected with my own sufferings, but consoled with your joy; which held me suspended in a state of languor that is not disagreeable to true sensibility. Under the conduct of a very honest guide, I crawled up the towering hills through many a rugged unfrequented path. Often would I muse, and then, at once, some unexpected object caught my attention. One moment I beheld stupendous rocks hanging ruinous over my head; the next, I was enveloped in a drizling cloud, which arose from a vast cascade that dashing thundered against the rocks below my feet; on one side, a perpetual torrent opened to my view a yawning abyss, which my eyes could hardly fathom with safety; sometimes I was lost in the obscurity of a hanging wood, and then was agreeably astonished with the sudden opening of a flowery plain. A surprising mixture of wild, and cultivated, nature, points out the hand of man, where one would imagine man had never penetrated. Here you behold a horrid cavern, and there a human habitation; vineyards where one would expect nothing but brambles; delicious fruit among barren rocks, and corn fields in the midst of cliffs and precipices.

But it is not labour only that renders this strange country so wonderfully contrasted; for here nature seems to have a singular pleasure in acing contradictory to herself, so different does she appear in the same place, in different aspects. Towards the east, the flowers of spring; to the south; the fruits of autumn; and northwards the ice of winter. She unites all the seasons in the same instant, every climate in the same place, different soils on the same land, and with a harmony elsewhere unknown, joins the produces of the plains to those of the highest Alps. Add to these, the illusions of vision, the tops of the mountains variously the illumined, the harmonious mixture of light and shade, and their different effects in the morning and the evening as I travelled; you may then form some idea of the scenes which engaged my attention, and which seemed to change, as I past, as on an enchanted theatre; for the prospect of mountains being almost perpendicular to the horizon, strikes the eye at the same instant, and more powerfully, than that of a plane, where the objects are seen obliquely and half concealed behind each other.

To this pleasing variety of scenes I attributed the serenity of my mind during my first day’s journey. I wondered to find that inanimate beings should over-rule our most violent passions, and despised the impotence of philosophy for having less power over the soul than a succession of lifeless objects. But finding that my tranquility continued during the night, and even increased with the following day, I began to believe it followed from some other source, which I had not yet discovered. That day I reached the lower mountains, and passing over their rugged tops, at last ascended the highest summit I could possibly attain. Having walked a while in the clouds, I came to a place of greater serenity, whence one may peacefully observe the thunder and the form gathering below: ah! too flattering picture of human wisdom, of which the original never existed, except in those sublime regions whence the emblem is taken.