If you had been kind enough to have staid with us as long as we desired, you would have had the pleasure of embracing your friend before your departure. He came hither the day before yesterday, and wanted to visit you to day; but the fatigue of his journey confines him to his room, and this morning he was let blood. Besides, I was fully determined, in order to punish you, not to let him go so soon; and unless you will come hither, I promise you that it will be a long time before you shall see him. You know it would be very improper to let him see theinseparablesasunder.
In truth, Clara, I cannot tell what idle apprehensions bewitched my mind with respect to his coming hither, and I am ashamed to have opposed it with such obstinacy. As much as I dreaded the sight of him, I should now be sorry not to have seen him, for his presence has banished those fears which yet disturbed me, and which, by fixing my attention constantly on him, might at length have given me just cause of uneasiness. I am so far from being apprehensive of the affection I feel for him, that I believe I should mistrust myself more was he less dear to me; but I love him as tenderly as ever, though my love is of a different nature. It is by comparing my present sensations with those which his presence formerly occasioned, that I derive my security, and the difference of such opposite sentiments is perceived in proportion to their vivacity.
With regard to him, though I knew him at the first glance, he nevertheless appeared to be greatly altered; and what I should formerly have thought impossible, he seems, in many respects, to be changed for the better. On the first day, he discovered many symptoms of perplexity, and it was with great difficulty that I concealed mine from him. But it was not long before he recovered that free deportment and openness of manner which becomes his character. I had always seen him timid and bashful; the fear of offending me, and perhaps the secret shame of acting a part unbecoming a man of honour, gave him an air of meanness and servility before me, which you have more than once very justly ridiculed. Instead of the submission of a slave, at present he has the respectful behaviour of a friend, who knows how to honour the object of his esteem. He now communicates his sentiments with freedom and honesty; he is not afraid lest his severe maxims of virtue should clash with his interest; he is not apprehensive of injuring himself or affecting me, by praising what is commendable in itself, and one may perceive in all that he says the confidence of an honest man, who can depend upon himself, and who derives that approbation from his own conscience, which he formerly sought for only in my looks. I find also that experience has cured him of that dogmatical and peremptory air which men are apt to contract in their closets; that he is less forward to judge of mankind, since he has observed them more; that he is less ready to establish general propositions, since he has seen so many exceptions; and that in general, the love of truth has banished the spirit of system: so that he is become less brilliant, but more rational; and one receives much more information from him, now that he does not affect to be so wise.
His figure likewise is altered, but nevertheless not for the worse; his countenance is more open; his deportment more stately; he has contracted a kind of martial air in his travels, which becomes him the better, as the lively and spirited gesture he used to express when he was in earnest, is now turned into a more grave and sober demeanour. He is a seaman, whose appearance is cold and phlegmatic, but whose discourse is fiery and impetuous. Though he is turned of thirty, he has the look of a young man, and joins all the spirit of youth to the dignity of manhood. His complexion is entirely altered; he is as black as a Negro, and very much marked with the small-pox. My dear, I must own the truth; I am uneasy whenever I view those marks, and I catch myself looking at them very often in spite of me.
I think I can discover that if I am curious in examining him, he is not less attentive in viewing me. After so long an absence, it is natural to contemplate each other with a kind of curiosity; but if this curiosity may be thought to retain any thing of our former eagerness, yet what difference is there in the manner as well as the motive of it! If our looks do not meet so often, we nevertheless view each other with more freedom. We seem to examine each other alternately by a kind of tacit agreement. Each perceives, as it were, when it is the other's turn, and looks a different way to give the other an opportunity. Though free from the emotions I formerly felt, yet how is it possible to behold with indifference one who inspired the tenderest passion, and who, to this hour, is the object of the purest affection? Who knows whether self-love does not endeavour to justify past errors? Who knows whether, though no longer blinded by passion, we do not both flatter ourselves by secretly approving our former choice? Be it as it may, I repeat it without a blush, that I feel a most tender affection for him, which will endure to the end of my life. I am so far from reproaching myself for harbouring these sentiments, that I think they deserve applause; I should blush not to perceive them, and consider it as a defect in my character, and the symptom of a bad disposition. With respect to him, I dare believe, that next to virtue, he loves me beyond any thing in the world. I perceive that he thinks himself honoured by my esteem; I in my turn will regard his in the same light, and will merit its continuance. Ah! if you saw with what tenderness he caresses my children; if you knew what pleasure he takes in talking of you, you would find, Clara, that I am still dear to him.
What increases my confidence in the opinion we both entertain of him, is that Mr. Wolmar joins with us, and since he has seen him, believes, from his own observation, all that we have reported to his advantage. He has talked of him much these two evenings past, congratulating himself on account of the measures he has taken, and rallying me for my opposition. No, said he yesterday, we will not suffer so worthy a man to mistrust himself; we will teach him to have more confidence in his own virtue, and perhaps we may one day or other reap the fruits of our present endeavours with more advantage than you imagine. For the present, I must tell you that I am pleased with his character, and that I esteem him particularly for one circumstance which he little suspects, that is, the reserve with which he behaves towards me. The less friendship he expresses for me, the more he makes me his friend; I cannot tell you how much I dreaded lest he should lme with caresses. This was the first trial I prepared for him, there is yet another by which I intend to prove him; and after that I shall cease all farther examination. As to the circumstance you mentioned, said I, it only proves the frankness of his disposition; for he would never resolve to put on a pliant and submissive air before my father, though it was so much his interest, and I so often intreated him to do it. I saw with concern that his behaviour deprived him of the only resource, and yet could not dislike him for not being able to play the hypocrite on any occasion. The case is very different, replied my husband: there is a natural antipathy between your father and him, founded on the opposition of their sentiments. With regard to myself, who have no symptoms or prejudices, I am certain that he can have no natural aversion to me. No one can hate me; a man without passions cannot inspire any one with an aversion towards him: but I deprived him of the object of his wishes, which he will not readily forgive. He will however conceive the stronger affection for me, when he is perfectly convinced that the injury I have done him does not prevent me from looking upon him with an eye of kindness. If he caressed me now, he would be a hypocrite; if he never caresses me, he will be a monster.
Such, my dear Clara, is the situation we are in, and I begin to think that heaven will bless the integrity of our hearts, and the kind intentions of my husband. But I am too kind to you in entering into all these details; you do not deserve that I should take such pleasure in conversing with you; but I am determined to tell you no more, and if you desire farther information, you must come hitherto receive it.
P. S. I must acquaint you nevertheless with what has passed with respect to the subject of this letter. You know with what indulgence Mr. Wolmar received the late confession which our friend's unexpected return obliged me to make. You saw with what tenderness he endeavoured to dry up my tears, and dispel my shame. Whether, as you reasonably conjectured, I told him nothing new, or whether he was really affected by a proceeding which nothing but sincere repentance could dictate, he has not only continued to live with me as before, but he even seems to have increased his attention, his confidence, and esteem, as if he meant, by his kindness, to repay the confusion which my confession cost me. My dear Clara, you know my heart; judge then what an impression such a conduct must make!
As soon as I found that he was determined to let our old friend come hither, I resolved on my part, to take the best precautions I could contrive against myself: which was to chuse my husband himself for my confident; to hold no particular conversation, which I did not communicate to him, and to write no letter which I did not shew to him. I even made it a part of my duty to write every letter as if it was not intended for his inspection, and afterwards to shew it to him. You will find an article in this which was penned on this principle; if while I was writing, I could not forbear thinking that he might read it, yet my conscience bears witness that I did not alter a single word on that account; but when I shewed him my letter, he bantered me, and had not the civility to read it.
I confess that I was somewhat piqued at his refusal; as if he had doubted my honour. My emotion did not escape his notice, and this most open and generous man soon removed my apprehensions. Confess, said he, that you have said less concerning me than usual in that letter. I owned it; was it decent to say much of him, when I intended to shew him what I had written? Well, he replied with a smile, I had rather that you would talk of me more, and not know what you say of me. Afterwards, he continued, in a more serious tone; Marriage, said he, is too grave and solemn a state to admit of that free communication which tender friendship allows. The latter connection often happily contributes to moderate the rigour of the former; and it may be reasonable in some cases for a virtuous and discreet woman to seek for that comfort, intelligence, and advice from a faithful confident, which it might not be proper for her to desire of her husband. Though nothing passes between you but what you would chuse to communicate, yet take care not to make it a duty, lest that duty should become a restraint upon you, and your correspondence grow less agreeable by being more diffusive. Believe me, the open-hearted sincerity of friendship is restrained by the presence of a witness, whoever it be. There are a thousand secrets of which three friends ought to participate; but which cannot be communicated but between two. You may impart the same things to your friend and to your husband, but you do not relate them in the same manner; and if you will confound these distinctions, the consequence will be, that your letters will be addressed more to me than to her, and that you will not be free from restraint either with one or the other. It is as much for my own interest as for yours, that I urge these reasons. Do not you perceive that you are already, with good reason, apprehensive of the indelicacy of praising me to my face? Why will you deprive yourself of the pleasure of acquainting your friend how tenderly you love your husband, and me of the satisfaction of supposing that in your most private intercourses, you take delight in speaking well of me? Eloisa! Eloisa! he added, pressing my hand, and looking at me with tenderness, why will you demean yourself by taking precautions so unworthy of you, and will you never learn to make a true estimate of your own worth?
My dear friend, it is impossible to tell you how this incomparable man behaves to me: I no longer blush in his presence. Spite of my frailty, he lifts me above myself, and by dint of reposing confidence in me, he teaches me to deserve it.
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