The courier from Italy seemed only to wait for your departure, for his own arrival; as if to punish you for having staid only for him. Not that I myself made the pretty discovery of the cause of your loitering: it was my husband who observed, that after the horses had been put to at eight o'clock, you deferred your departure till eleven; not out of regard to us, but for a reason easy to be guessed at; from your asking twenty times, if it was ten o'clock, because the post generally goes by at that time.
Yes, my dear cousin, you are caught; you cannot deny it. In spite of the prophetic Chaillot, her Clara, so wild, or rather so discreet, has not been so to the end. You are caught in the same toils from which you took so much pains to extricate your friend, and have not been able to preserve that liberty yourself, to which you restored me. It is my turn to laugh now. Ah my dear friend, one ought to have your talents to know how to laugh like you, and give even to raillery the affecting turn and appearance of kindness. Besides, what a difference in our situation! with what face can I divert myself with an evil, of which I am the cause, and from which you have taken upon yourself, to free me. There is not a sentiment in your breast that does not awake a sense of gratitude in mine, even your weakness being in you the effect of virtue. It is this which consoles and diverts me. My errors are to be lamented; but one may laugh at the false modesty which makes you blush at a passion as innocent as yourself.
But to return to your Italian courier, and leave moralizing for a while. This courier then, who has been so long in coming, you will ask what he has brought us. Nothing but good news of our friends, and a letter as big as a packet for you. O ho! I see you smile and take breath now. As the letter is sent you, however, you will doubtless wait patiently to know what it contains. It may yet nevertheless be of some estimation, even though it did not come when expected; for it breathes such a——but I will only write news to you, and I dare say what I was going to say is none.
With that letter is come another from Lord B——, to my husband, with a great many compliments also for us. This contains some real news, which is so much the more unexpected, as the first was silent on the subject. Our friends at Rome were to set out the next day for Naples, where Lord B—— has some business; and from whence they are to go to see mount Vesuvius.——Can you conceive, my dear, that such a sight can be entertaining? but on their return to Rome, think, Clara, guess what may happen.——Lord B—— is on the point of being married——not, I thank heaven, to that unworthy marchioness, who he tells us on the contrary, is much indisposed. To whom then?——To Laura, the amiable Laura, who——yet, what a marriage! Our friend says not a word about it. Immediately after the marriage, they will all three set out and come thither, to take their future measures. What they are to be, my husband has not told me; but he expects that St. Preux will stay with us.
I must confess to you his silence gives me some little uneasiness; I cannot see clearly through it. I think I see an odd peculiarity of circumstances and contest of human passions absolutely unintelligible. I cannot see how so good a man should contract so lasting an affection for so bad a woman as the marchioness, or indeed, how a woman of such a violent and cruel temper could entertain so ardent a love, if one may so call her guilty passion for a man of so different a disposition. Neither can I imagine, how a young creature, so generous, affectionate and disinterested as Laura, could be able to support her first dissoluteness of manners; how that flattering and deceitful tenderness of heart, which misleads our sex, should recover her; how love, which is the ruin of so many modest women, should make her chaste.
Will Lady B——then come hither? hither, my dear Clara! what do you think of it? after all, what a prodigy must that astonishing woman be, who, ruined by a dissolute and abandoned education, was reclaimed by her tenderness of heart, and whom love hath conducted to virtue! ought any one to admire her more than I, who have acted quite contrary; who was led astray by inclination, when every thing else conspired to conduct me in the paths of virtue. I sunk not so low it is true; but have I raised myself like her? have I avoided so many snares, and made such sacrifices as she has made? from the lowest ignominy she has risen to the highest degree of honour, and is a thousand times more respectable than if she had never fallen. She has sense and virtue: what needs she more to resemble us? if it be impossible for a woman to repair the errors of her youth, what right have I to more indulgence than she? with whom can I hope to stand excused, and to what respect can I pretend, if I refuse to respect her.
And yet, though my reason tells me this, my heart speaks against it; and, without being able to tell why, I cannot think it right that Lord B—— should contract such a marriage, and that his friend should be concerned in the affair. Such is the force of prejudice! so difficult is it to shake off the yoke of public opinion! which, nevertheless, generally induces us to be unjust: the past good is effaced by the present evil; but, is the past evil ever effaced by any present good?
I hinted to my husband my uneasiness, as to the conduct of St. Preux in this affair. He seems, said I, to be ashamed to speak of it to my cousin: I know he is incapable of baseness, but he is too easy, and may have too much indulgence for the foibles of a friend. No, answered he, he has done what he ought, and I know will continue to do so; this is all I am at liberty to tell you at present of the matter; but St. Preux is honest, and I will engage for him, you will be satisfied with his conduct.——It is impossible, Clara, that Wolmar can deceive me, or St. Preux him. So positive an assurance therefore fully satisfied me; and made me suspect my scruples to be the effect of a fallen delicacy, and that if I was less vain and more equitable, I should find Laura more deserving the rank of Lady B——.
But to take leave of her for the present, and return to ourselves. Don't you perceive too well, in reading this letter, that our friends are likely to return sooner than we expected? and is not your heart a little affected by it? does it not flutter, and beat quicker than ordinary? that heart too susceptible, and too nearly akin to mine? is it not apprehensive of the danger of living familiarly with a beloved object? to see him every day? to sleep under the same roof? and if my errors did not lessen me in your esteem, does not my example give you reason to fear for yourself? In your younger years, how many apprehensions for my safety did not your good sense and friendship suggest, which a blind passion made me despise! It is now, my dear friend, my turn to be apprehensive for you, and I have the better claim to your regard; as what I have to offer is founded on sad experience. Attend to me then, ere it be too late; lest, having past half your life in lamenting my errors, you should pass the other in lamenting your own. Above all things, place not too great a confidence in your gaiety of temper, which, though it may be a security to those who have nothing to fear, generally betrays those who are in real danger. You, my dear Clara, once laughed at love, but that was because you were a stranger to the passion, and not having felt its power, you thought yourself above its attacks. Love is avenged, and laughs in its turn at you. Learn to distrust its deceitful mirth, lest it should one day cost you an equal portion of grief. It is time, my dear friend, to lay you open to yourself; for hitherto you have not taken that interesting view: you are mistaken in your own character, and know not how to set a just value upon yourself. You consider in the opinion of Chaillot; who, because of your vivacity of disposition; judged you to be little susceptible of heart; but a heart like yours was beyond her talents to penetrate. Chaillot was incapable of knowing you, nor does any person in the world know you truly but myself. I have left you in your mistake so long as it could be of service to you, but at present it may be hurtful, and therefore it is necessary to undeceive you.
You are lively, and imagine yourself to have but little sensibility. How much, alas! are you deceived: your vivacity itself proves evidently the contrary. Is it not always exerted on sentimental subjects? does not even your pleasantry come from the heart? your raillery is a greater proof of your affection than the compliments of others; you smile, but your smiles penetrate our hearts; you laugh, but your laughter draws from us the tears of affection; and I have remarked, that among those who are indifferent to you, you are always serious.
If you really were no other than you pretend to be, tell me, what motive could have so forcibly united us? where had been those bonds of unparalleled friendship that now subsists between us? By what miracle should such an attachment give the preference to a heart so little capable of it? can she who lived but for her friend, be incapable of love? she who would have left father, husband, relations, and country to have followed her? what have I done in comparison of this! I, who have confessedly a susceptible heart, and permitted myself to love; yet, with all my sensibility, have hardly been able to return your friendship! these contradictions have instilled into your head as whimsical an idea of your own character as such a giddy brain can conceive; which is, to conceit yourself at once the warmest friend and the coldest lover. Incapable of disowning these gentle ties with which you perceived you were bound, you thought yourself incapable of being fettered by any other. You thought nothing in the world could affect you but Eloisa; as if those hearts which are by nature susceptible, could be affected but by one object, and as if, because you loved no other than me, I could be the proper object of your affection. You pleasantly asked me once, if souls were of a different sex. No, my dear, the soul is of no sex; but its affections make that distinction, and you begin to be too sensible of it. Because the first lover that offered himself did not affect you, you immediately concluded no other could; because you was not in love with your suitor, you concluded you could never be in love with any one. When he became your husband, however, you loved him, and that with so ardent an affection, that it injured even the intimacy with your friend: that heart, so little susceptible, as you pretend, could annex to love as tender a supplement to satisfy the fond desires of a worthy man.
Ah my poor cousin! it is your task for the future to resolve your own doubts, and if it be true,
Ch'un freddo amante è mal sicuro amica.
I am greatly afraid I have at present one reason more than ever I had to rely upon you. But to go on with what I had to say to you on this subject.
I suspect that you were in love much sooner than you perhaps imagine; or at least, that the same inclination which ruined me would have reduced you, had I not been first caught in the snare. Can you conceive a sentiment so natural and agreeable, could be so tardy in its birth? can you conceive that at our age, we could either of us live in a familiarity with an amiable young man without danger, or that the conformity so general in our taste and inclination, should not extend to this particular? No, my dear, you, I am certain, would have loved him, if I had not loved him first. Less weak, though not less susceptible, you might have been more prudent than I, without being more happy. But what inclination could have prevailed in your generous mind, over the horror you would have felt at the infidelity of betraying your friend! it was our friendship that saved you from the snares of love: you respected my lover with the same friendship, and thus redeemed your heart at the expense of mine.
These conjectures are not so void of foundation as you may imagine; and had I a mind to recollect those times which I could wish to forget, it would not be difficult for me to trace even in the care you imagined you took only in my concerns, a farther care, still more interesting, in those of the object of my affection. Not daring to love him yourself, you encouraged me to do it; you thought each of us necessary to the happiness of the other, and therefore, that heart, which has not its equal in the world, loved us both the more tenderly. Be assured, that had it not been for your own weakness, you would not have been so indulgent to me; but you would have reproached yourself for a just severity towards me, with an imputation of jealousy. You were conscious of having no right to contend with a passion in me, which ought nevertheless to have been subdued; and, being more fearful of betraying your friend than of not acting discreetly, you thought, in offering up your own happiness to ours, you had made a sufficient sacrifice to virtue.
This, my dear Clara, is your history; thus hath your despotic friendship laid me under the necessity of being obliged to you for my shame, and of thanking you for my errors. Think not, however, that I would imitate you in this. I am no more disposed to follow your example than you mine; and as you have no reason to fear falling into my errors, I have no longer, thank heaven! the same reasons for granting you indulgence. What better use can I make of that virtue to which you restored me, than to make it instrumental in the preservation of yours?
Let me therefore give you my farther advice on the present occasion. The long absence of our preceptor has not softened your regard for him. Your being left again at liberty, and his return, have given rise to opportunity, which love hath been ingenious enough to improve. It is not a new sentiment produced in your heart; it is only one which, long concealed there, has at length seized this occasion to discover itself. Proud enough to avow it to yourself, you are perhaps impatient to confess it to me. That confession might seem to you almost necessary to make it quite innocent; in becoming a crime in your friend it ceased to be one in you, and perhaps you only gave yourself up to the passion you so many years contended with the more effectually to cure your friend.
I was sensible, my dear, of all this; and was little alarmed at a passion which I saw would be my own protection, and on account of which you have nothing to reproach yourself. The winter we passed together in peace and friendship, gave me yet more hopes of you; for I saw that so far from losing your vivacity, you seemed to have improved it. I frequently observed you affectionate, earnest, attentive; but frank in your professions, ingenuous even in your raillery, unreserved and open, and in your liveliest sallies, the picture of innocence.
Since our conversation in theelysium, I have not so much reason to be satisfied with you. I find you frequently sad and pensive. You take as much pleasure in being alone as with your friend: you have not changed your language, but your accent; you are more cautious in your pleasantry; you don't mention him so often; one would think you were in constant fear lest he should overhear you; and it is easy to see by your uneasiness that you wanted to hear from him, much oftener than you confessed.
I tremble, my good cousin, lest you should not be sensible of the worst of your disorder, and that the shaft has pierced deeper than you seem to be aware of. Probe your heart, my dear, to the bottom; and then tell me, again I repeat it, tell me if the most prudent woman does not run a risk by being long in the company of a beloved object; tell me if the confidence which ruined me can be entirely harmless to you; you are both at liberty; this is the very circumstance that makes opportunity dangerous. In a mind truly virtuous, there is no weakness will get the better of conscience, and I agree with you, that one has always fortitude enough to avoid committing a wilful crime: but alas! what is a constant protection against human weakness? Reflect however, on consequences; think on the effects of shame. We must pay a due respect to ourselves, if we expect to receive it from others; for how can we flatter ourselves, that others will pay to us what we have not for ourselves? or where can we think she will stop in the career of vice, who sets out without fear? These arguments I should use even to women, who pay no regard to religion and morality, and have no rule of conduct but the opinion of others: but with you, whose principles are those of virtue and Christianity, who are sensible of, and respect, your duty, who know and follow other rules than those of public opinion, your first honour is to stand excused by your own conscience, and that is the most important.
Would you know where you are wrong in this whole affair? It is, I say again, in being ashamed of entertaining a sentiment which you have only to declare, to render it perfectly innocent: but, with all your vivacity, no creature in the world is more timid. You affect pleasantry only to shew your courage, your poor heart trembling all the while for fear. In pretending to ridicule your passion, you do exactly like the children, who sing in the dark because they are afraid. O my dear friend, reflect on what you yourself have often said; it is a false shame which leads to real disgrace, and virtue never blushes at any thing but what is criminal. Is love in itself a crime? does it not, on the contrary, consist of the most refined as well as the most pleasing of all inclinations? is not its end laudable and virtuous? does it ever enter into base and vulgar minds? does it not animate only the great and noble? does it not ennoble their sentiments? does it not raise them even above themselves? alas! if to be prudent and virtuous we must be insensible to love, among whom could virtue find its votaries on earth? among the refuse of nature and the dregs of mankind.
Why then do you reproach yourself? have you not made choice of a worthy man? is he not disengaged? are not you so too? does he not deserve all your esteem? has he not the greatest regard for you? will you not be even too happy in conferring happiness on a friend so worthy of that name; paying, with your hand and heart, the debts long ago contracted by your friend; and in doing him honour by raising him to yourself, as a reward to unsuccessful, to persecuted merit.
I see what petty scruples still lie in your way. The receding from a declared resolution, by taking a second husband; the exposing your weakness to the world; the marrying a needy adventurer; for low minds, always lavish of scandal, will doubtless so call him. These are the reasons which make you rather ashamed of your passion than willing to justify it; that make you desirous of stifling it in your bosom, rather than render it legitimate. But pray does the shame lie in marrying the man one loves, or in loving without marrying him? between these lies your choice. The regard you owe to the deceased requires you should respect his widow so much, as rather to give her a husband than a gallant: and, if your youth obliges you to make choice of one to supply his place, is it not paying a further regard to his memory, to fix that choice upon the man he most often esteemed when living.
As to his inferiority in point of fortune, I shall perhaps only offend you in replying to so frivolous an objection, when it is opposed to good sense and virtue. I know of no debasing inequality, but that which arises either from character or education. To whatever rank a man of a mean disposition and low principle may rise, an alliance with him will always be scandalous. But a man educated in the sentiments of virtue and honour is equal to any other in the world, and may take place in whatever rank he pleases. You know what were the sentiments of your father, when your friend was proposed for me. His family is reputable, tho' obscure. He is every where deservedly esteemed. With all this, was he the lowest of mankind, he would deserve your consideration: for it is surely better to derogate from nobility than virtue; and the wife of a mechanic is more reputable than the mistress of a prince.
I have a glimpse of another kind of embarrassment, in the necessity you lie under of making the first declaration: for, before he presumes to aspire to you, it is necessary you should give him permission; this is one of the circumstances justly attending an inequality of rank, which often obliges the superior to make the most mortifying advances.
As to this difficulty, I can easily forgive you, and even confess it would appear to me of real consequence, if I could not find out a method to remove it. I hope you depend so far on me as to believe this may be brought about without your being seen in it; and on my part, I depend so much on my measures, that I shall undertake it with assurance of success: for notwithstanding what you both formerly told me of the difficulty of converting a friend into a lover, if I can read that heart which I too long studied, I don't believe that on this occasion any great art will be necessary. I propose, therefore, to charge myself with this negotiation, to the end that you may indulge yourself in the pleasure of his return, without reserve, regret, danger, or scandal. Ah my dear cousin! how delighted shall I be to unite for ever two hearts so well formed for each other, and which have been long united in mine. May they still (if possible) be more closely united! may we have but one heart amongst us! Yes, Clara, you will serve your friend by indulging your love, and I shall be more certain of my own sentiments, when I shall no longer make a distinction between him and you.
But, if notwithstanding what I have alledged, you will not give into this project, my advice is, at all events, to banish this dangerous man; always to be dreaded by one or the other: for, be it as it may, the education of our children is still less important to us than the virtue of their mothers. I leave you to reflect, during your journey, on what I have written. We will talk further about it on your return.
I send this letter directly to Geneva; lest, as you were to lie but one night at Lausanne, it should not find you there. Pray bring me a good account of that little republic. From the agreeable description, I should think you happy in the opportunity of seeing it; if I could set any store by pleasures, purchased with the absence of my friends. I never loved grandeur, and at present I hate it, for having deprived me so many years of your company. Neither you nor I, my dear, went to buy our wedding cloaths at Geneva; and yet, however deserving your brother may be, I much doubt whether your sister-in-law will be more happy, with her Flanders lace and India silks, than we in our native simplicity. I charge you, however, notwithstanding my ill-natured reflections, to engage them to celebrate their nuptials at Clarens. My father hath written to yours, and my husband to the bride's mother, to invite them hither. Their letters you will find inclosed: please to deliver them, and enforce their invitations with your interest. This is all I could do, in order to be present at the ceremony; for I declare to you, I would not upon any account leave my family. Adieu. Let me have a line from you, at least to let me know when I am to expect you here. It is now the second day since you left me, and I know not how I shall support two days more without you.
P. S. While I was writing this letter, Miss Harriot truly must give herself the air of writing to her mamma too. As I always like children should write their own thoughts, and not those which are dictated to them, I indulged her curiosity; and let her write just what she pleased, without altering a word. This makes the third letter inclosed. I doubt, however, whether this is what you will look for in casting your eye over the contents of the packet. But, for the other letter, you need not look long, as you will not find it. It is directed to you, at Clarens; and at Clarens only it ought to be read: so, take your measures accordingly.
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