Part 80
I can give you no account of what passed for some hours afterwards; being ignorant of what befell myself during that time. As soon as I was a little recovered from my first surprise, I enquired after Mrs. Orbe; and learnt that the servants were obliged to carry her into her own chamber, where at last they were forced to confine her to prevent her returning into that of Eloisa; which she had several times done, throwing herself on the body, embracing, chasing, and kissing it in a kind of phrenzy, and exclaiming aloud in a thousand passionate expressions of fruitless despair.
On entering her apartment, I found her absolutely frantic, neither seeing nor minding any thing, knowing nobody, but running about the room, and wringing her hands, sometimes muttering in a hollow voice some extravagant words, and at others sending forth such terrible shrieks as to make one shudder with horror. On the feet of the bed sat her woman, frightened out of her wits, not daring to breathe or stir, but seeking to hide herself and trembling every limb. In fact the convulsions, which at this time agitated the unhappy Clara, had something in them most terrifying. I made a sign that her woman should retire; fearing lest a single word of consolation, untimely offered, might have put her into an actual fury.
I did not attempt therefore to speak to her; as she could neither have listened to or understood me; but observing after some time that her strength was quite exhausted with fatigue, I placed her on a settee; then sitting down by her and holding her hands, I ordered the children to be brought in and called them round her. Unhappily the first she took notice of was him that was the innocent cause of her friend’s death. The sight of him I could see made her tremble; her countenance changed, she turned away her looks from him in a kind of horror, and struggled to get her hands loose to push him from her. I called him then to me. Unfortunate boy, said I, for having been too dear to the one, you are become hateful to the other: it is plain their hearts were not in every thing alike. She was extremely angry at what I said, and retorted it severely; it had nevertheless its effect in the impression it made on her. For she immediately took the child up in her arms, and attempted to kiss him, but could not, and set him down again immediately. She did not even look upon him with the same pleasure as on the other, and I am very glad it is not this boy which is intended for her daughter.
Ye susceptible minds! what would you have done in my situation? ye would have acted like Mrs. Orbe. After having taken care of the children, and of Clara, and given the necessary orders about the funeral, it was necessary for me to take my horse and be the sorrowful messenger of the heavy tidings to an unhappy father. I found him still in pain from his hurt, as well as greatly uneasy and troubled about the accident which had befallen his daughter. I left him overwhelmed with sorrow: with the sorrow of the aged, which breaks not out into external appearances, which excites neither transport nor exclamation, but preys inwardly and fatally on the heart. That he will never overcome his grief I am certain, and I can plainly foresee the last stroke that is wanting to compleat the misfortune of his friend. The next day I made all possible haste, in order to be at home early, and pay the last honours to the worthiest of women: but all was not yet over. She must be made to revive, to afflict me with the loss of her a second time.
As I drew near my house, I saw one of my people come running out to meet me, who cried out from as far as he could be heard; sir, sir, make haste, make haste, my mistress is not dead. I could not comprehend what he meant; but made all the haste I could, and found the courtyard full of people, crying for joy and calling out aloud for blessings on Mrs. Wolmar. I asked the reason of all this; every one was transported with joy, but no body could give me a reasonable answer; for as to my own people their heads were absolutely turned. I made the best of my way therefore to Eloisa’s apartment, where I found more than twenty persons on their knees round the bed, with their eyes attentively fixed on the corpse, which, to my great surprise, I saw dressed out and lying on the bed: my heart fluttered, and I examined into her situation. But alas! she was dead and cold! This moment of false hope, so soon and so cruelly extinguished, was the most afflicting moment of my whole life. I am not apt to be choleric, but I found myself on this occasion extremely angry, and resolved to come at the bottom of this extravagant scene. But all was so disguised, so altered, so changed; that I had the greatest difficulty in the world to come at the truth. At length, however, I unravelled the mystery, and thus it was. My father-in-law, being alarmed at the accident he had heard, and thinking he could spare his valet de chambre, had sent him over before my arrival to learn the situation of his daughter. This old servant, being fatigued with riding on horseback, had taken a boat, and, crossing the lake in the night, arrived at Clarens the very morning of the day in which I returned. On his arrival he saw the universal consternation the house was in; and, learning the cause, went sobbing up to Eloisa’s apartment; where, throwing himself on his knees by the bedside, he wept and contemplated the features of his departed mistress. Then giving vent to his sorrows, he cried out, ah! my good mistress! ah! why did it not please God to take me instead of you! me, that am old, that have no connections, that can be of no more service on the face of the earth! but to take you, in the flower of youth, the pride of your family, the blessing of your house, the hope of the unfortunate, alas! was I present at your birth, thus to behold you dead!----
In the midst of these and such like exclamations, which flowed from the goodness and sincerity of his heart, the weak old man, who kept his eyes still fixed on the corpse, imagined he saw it move: having once taken this into his head, he imagined farther that Eloisa turned her eyes, looked at him and made a sign to him with her head. Upon this he rose up in great transport and ran up and down the house, crying out his mistress was not dead, that she knew him, and that he was sure she was living and would recover. This was sufficient to call every body together, the servants, the neighbours, and the poor, who before made the air resound with their lamentations, now all as loudly cried out in transport; she is not dead! she lives! she lives! the noise spread and increased; the common people, all fond of the marvellous, readily propagated the news: every one easily believed what he wished might be true, and sought to give others pleasure by countenancing the general credulity. So that, in a short time, the deceased was reported not only to have made a motion with her head, but to have walked about, to have conversed, &c. more than twenty witnesses having had ocular proofs of circumstances that never happened or existed. No sooner were they possessed with the notion of her being alive, but a thousand efforts were made to restore her; they pressed in crowds about her bed, spoke to her, threw spirits in her face, felt for her pulse, and did every thing their foolish apprehensions suggested to recover her; till her women justly offended at seeing the body of her mistress surrounded by a number of men, got every body turned out of the room and soon convinced themselves how egregiously they had been deceived. Incapable, however, of resolving to put end to so agreeable an error, or perhaps still hoping for some miraculous event, they clothed the body with care, and though her wardrobe was left to them, they did not spare the richest apparel. After which laying her out on the bed, and leaving the curtains open, they returned to their tears amidst the public rejoicings of the multitude.
I arrived in the height of this phrenzy, but when I became acquainted with the cause, found it impossible to bring the crowd to reason; and that if I had shut up my doors and had ordered the immediate burial of the corpse, it might have occasioned some disturbance; or that I should have passed, at least, for a paricide of a husband who had buried his wife alive, and should have been held in detestation by the whole country. I resolved therefore to defer the funeral. After six and thirty hours however, I found by the extreme heat of the weather, the corpse began to change, and, though the face preserved its features and sweetness, there seemed even there some signs of alteration. I mentioned it to Mrs. Orbe, who sat in a continued stupor, at the head of the bed. Not that she was so happy as to be the dupe of so gross a delusion; but she pretended to be so, that she might continue in the chamber, and indulge her sorrows.
She understood my design, and silently withdrew. In a moment after, however, she returned, bringing in her hand that veil of gold tissue embroidered with pearls, which you brought her from the Indies: [108] when, coming up to the bed, she kissed the veil, and spreading it over the face of her deceased friend, she cried out with a shrill voice, “Accursed be that sacrilegious hand which shall presume to lift up this veil! accursed be that impious eye which shall dare to look on this disfigured face!” this action and imprecation had such an effect on the spectators, that, as if by a sudden inspiration, it was repeated by one and all from every quarter. Such an impression indeed did it make on our servants and the people in general, that the deceased being put into the coffin, dressed as she was, and with the greatest caution, was carried away and buried in the same attire, without any person daring to touch the veil that covered her face. [109]
Those are certainly the most unhappy who, beside the supporting their own sorrows, are under the necessity of consoling others. Yet this is my task with my father-in-law, with Mrs. Orbe, with friends, with relations, with my neighbours, and with my own houshold. I could yet support it well enough with all but my old friend and Mrs. Orbe: but you must be a witness to the affliction of the latter to judge how much it adds to mine. So far from taking my endeavours to comfort her in good part, she even reproaches me for them; my solicitude offends her, and the coldness of my affliction but aggravates hers; she would have my grief be as bitter and extravagant as hers, her barbarous affliction would gladly see the whole world in despair. Every thing she says, every thing she does looks like madness; I am obliged therefore to put up with every thing, and am resolved not to be offended. In serving her who was beloved by Eloisa, I conceive I do a greater honour to her memory than by fruitless tears and lamentations.
You will be able to judge, from one instance, of the rest of her behaviour. I thought I had gained my point, by engaging her to take care of herself, in order to be able to discharge those duties which her dying friend had imposed on her. Reduced very low by convulsions, abstinence and want of rest, she seemed at length resolved to attempt her usual method of living, and to come to table in the dining-room. The first time, however, I ordered the children to dine in the nursery, being unwilling to run the hazard of this essay in their presence: violent passions of every kind, being one of the most dangerous objects that can be shewn to children. For the passions when excessive have always something puerile and diverting to young minds, by which they are seduced to admire what they ought to dread.
On entering the dining-room, she cast her eye on the table and saw covers laid for two persons only; at which she flung herself into the first chair that stood next her, refusing to come to table. I imagined I knew the reason, and ordered a third plate to be set on the table, at the place where her cousin used generally to sit. She then permitted me to lead her to her seat without reluctance, placing herself with great caution, and disposing her gown as if she was afraid to incommode the empty chair. On putting the first spoonful of soup to her mouth, however, she withdrew it, and asked, with a peevish air, what business that plate had there when no body made use of it? I answered, she was in the right, and had it taken away. She then strove to eat, but could get nothing down; by degrees her stomach swelled, her breath grew short, and all at once she started up and returned to her own chamber, without saying a word, or hearing any thing that I said to her, obstinately refusing every thing but tea all that day.
The next day I had the same task to begin again. I now conceived the best way to bring her to reason was to humour her, and to endeavour to soften her despair by more tender sentiments. You know how much her daughter resembles Mrs. Wolmar; that she took a pleasure in heightening that resemblance, by dressing her in the same manner, having brought several cloaths for her from Geneva, in which she used to dress her like Eloisa. I ordered Harriot therefore to be dressed, as much in imitation of Eloisa as possible, and, after having given her lesson, placed her at table where Eloisa used to sit; three covers being laid as the day before.
Clara immediately comprehended my design, and was affected, giving me a tender and obliging look. This was the first time she seemed sensible of my assiduity, and I promised myself success from the expedient.
Harriot, proud to represent her little mamma, played her part extremely well; so well indeed that I observed the servants in waiting shed tears. She nevertheless always gave the name of mamma to her mother, and addressed her with proper respect. At length, encouraged by success and my approbation, she ventured to put her hand to the soup-spoon and cried, _Clara, my dear, do you chuse any of this?_ the gesture, tone and manner, in which she spoke this, were so exactly like those of Eloisa, that it made her mother tremble. A moment after, however, she burst into a fit of laughter, and, offering her plate, replied; yes child give me a little, you are a charming creature. She then began to eat with an eagerness that surprized me. Looking at her with some attention, I saw something wild in her eyes, and a greater impatience in her action and manner than usual. I prevented her therefore from eating any more, and ’twas well I did so; for, an hour after she was taken extremely ill with a violent surfeit, which, had she continued to eat more, might have been fatal. From this time I resolved to try no more projects of this kind, as they might affect her imagination too much. Sorrow is more easily cured than madness; I thought it better therefore to let her suffer under the one a little longer, than run the hazard of driving her into the other.
This is the situation, my friend, in which we are at present. Since the baron’s return, indeed, Clara goes up every morning to his apartment, whether I am at home or abroad; where they generally pass an hour or two together. She begins also, to take a little more notice of the children. One of them has been sick; this accident has made her sensible that she has still something to lose, and has animated her zeal to the discharge of her duty. Yet, with all this, she is not yet sufficiently sorrowful; her tears have not yet begun to flow; we wait for you to draw them forth, for you to dry them up again. You cannot but understand me. Think of the last advice of Eloisa: it was indeed first suggested by me, and I now think it more than ever prudent and useful. Come and be reunited to all that remains of Eloisa. Her father, her friend, her husband, her children, all expect you, all desire your company, which cannot fail of being universally useful.
In a word, without farther explanations, come, partake and cure us of our sorrows; I shall perhaps be more obliged to you than to any other man in the world.
Letter CLXII. From Eloisa.
_This letter was inclosed in the preceding._
Our projects are at an end. Circumstances, my good friend, are changed: let us bear it without murmuring; it is the will of consummate wisdom. We pleased ourselves with the thoughts of being reunited; such a reunion was not good for us. The goodness of Providence has prevented it, without doubt to prevent our misery.
Long have I indulged myself in the salutary delusion, that my passion was extinguished; the delusion is now vanished, when it can be no longer useful. You imagined me cured of my love; I thought so too. Let us thank heaven that the deception hath lasted as long as it could be of service to us. In vain, alas! I endeavoured to stifle that passion which inspired me with life; it was impossible, it was interwoven with my heart-strings. It now expands itself, when it is no longer to be dreaded; it supports me now my strength fails me; it chears my soul even in death. O my friend! I can now make this confession without fear or shame; this involuntary sentiment has been of no prejudice to my virtue, it has never sullied my innocence; I have done my duty in all things which were in my power. If my heart was yours, it was my punishment, and not my crime. My virtue is unblemished, and my love has left behind it no remorse.
I glory in my past life: but who could have answered for my future years? perhaps were I to live another day I should be culpable! what then might I not have been during whole years spent in your company? what dangers have I not run without knowing it? and to how much greater was I going to be exposed? every trial has indeed been made; but trials may be too often repeated. Have I not lived long enough to be happy and virtuous? in taking me hence, heaven deprives me of nothing which I ought to regret. I go, my friend, at a most favourable moment; satisfied with you and myself, I depart in peace.
I foresee, I feel your affliction; I know too well you will be left to mourn; the thoughts of your sorrow cause my greatest uneasiness: but reflect on the consolation I leave with you. The obligations left you to discharge on the part of her who was so dear to you, ought to make it your duty to take care of yourself for her sake. You are left in charge with her better half. You will lose no more of Eloisa than you have long been deprived of. Her better part remains with you. Come and join her family, in the midst of whom Eloisa’s heart will still be found. Let every one that was dear to her unite to give her a new being. Your business, your pleasures, your friendship shall be her own work. The bonds of your union shall give her new life, nor will she totally expire but with the last of her friends.
Think there remains for you another Eloisa, and forget not what you owe her. You are both going to lose the half of yourselves; unite therefore to preserve the other. The only method that remains for you to survive me, is to supply my place in my family and with my children. Oh that I could but invent still stronger bonds to unite those who are so dear to me! but reflect how much you are indebted to each other, and let that reflection strengthen your mutual attachment. Your former objections, against entering into such an engagement, will now become arguments for it. How can either of you ever speak of me without melting into tenderness? No, Eloisa and Clara shall for the future be so united together in your thoughts, that it shall not be in the power of your heart to separate them. Hers will share in every thing yours has felt for her friend; she will become both the confident and object of your passion. You will be happy in the enjoyment of that Eloisa who survives, without being unfaithful to her you shall have lost; and after so many disappointments and misfortunes, shall, before the age of life and love is past, burn with a lawful flame, and possess the happiness of an innocent passion.
Secured by this chaste union, you will be at liberty to employ your thoughts entirely on the discharge of those duties which I have recommended; after which you need never be at a loss to account for the good you have done on earth. You know there exists also a man worthy of an honour, to which he durst not aspire: you know him to have been your deliverer, as well as the husband of your friend. Left alone, without connections in this life, without expectations from futurity, without joy, without comfort, without hope, he will soon be the most unfortunate of men. You owe to him the same pains he has taken with you, and you know the way to render them successful. Remember the instructions of my former letter. Pass your days with him. Let no one that loved me forsake him. As he restored your taste for virtue, so shew him the object and the value of it. Be you truly a Christian, to engage him to be one too; the success of the attempt is more probable than perhaps you imagine. He has done his duty, I will do mine, and you must hereafter do yours. God is just and my confidence in him will not deceive me.