wander and fall undesignedly upon me; your bloom fades; an unusual paleness overspreads your cheeks; your gaiety forsakes you; you seem oppressed with grief and the unalterable sweetness of your disposition alone enables you to preserve the shadow of your good humour.
Whether it be sensibility, whether it be disdain, whether it be compassion for my sufferings, I see you are deeply affected. I fear to augment your distress, and I am more unhappy on this account, than flattered with the hope it might possibly occasion; for, if I know myself, your felicity is infinitely dearer to me than my own.
I now begin to be sensible that I judged very erroneously of the feelings of my heart, and, too late, I perceive, that what I at first took for a fleeting phrenzy, is but too inseparably interwoven with my future destiny. It is your late melancholy that has made the increasing progress of my malady apparent. The lustre of your eyes, the delicate glow of your complexion, your excellent understanding, and all the enchantment of your former vivacity, could not have affected me half so much as your present manifest dejection. Be assured, divine maid, if it were possible for you to feel the intolerable flame, which your last eight pensive days of languor and discontent have kindled in my soul, you yourself would shudder at the misery you have caused. But there is now no remedy: my despair whispers, that nothing but the cold tomb will extinguish the raging fire within my breast.
Be it so: he that cannot command felicity may at least deserve it. You may possibly be obliged to honour with your esteem the man whom you did not deign to answer. I am young, and may, perchance, one day, merit the regard of which I am now unworthy. In the mean time, it is necessary that I should restore to you that repose which I have lost for ever, and of which you are, by my presence, in spite of myself, deprived. It is but just that I alone should suffer, since I alone am guilty. Adieu, too, too charming Eloisa! Resume your tranquillity, and be again happy. Tomorrow I am gone for ever. But be assured, that my violent, spotless passion for you, will end only with my life; that my heart, full of so divine an object, will never debase itself by admitting a second impression; that it will divide all its future homage between you and virtue, and that no other flame shall ever profane the altar where Eloisa was adored.
Billet I. From Eloisa.
Be not too positive in your opinion that your absence is become necessary. A virtuous heart will overcome its folly, or be silent, and so might, perhaps, in time----But you----you may stay.
Answer.
I was a long time silent; your cold indifference forced me to speak at last. Virtue may possibly get the better of folly, but who can bear to be despised by one they love? I must be gone.
Billet II. From Eloisa.
No, Sir; after what you have seemed to feel; after what you have dared to tell me; a man, such as you feign yourself, will not fly; he will do more.
Answer.
I have feigned nothing except the _moderate_ passion of a heart filled with despair. To-morrow you shall be satisfied; and notwithstanding all you can say, the effort will be less painful than to fly from you.
Billet III. From Eloisa.
Foolish youth! if my life be dear to thee, do not dare to attempt thy own. I am beset, and can neither speak nor write to you till tomorrow. Wait.
Letter IV. From Eloisa.
Must I then, at last, confess, the fatal, the ill-disguised, secret!
How often have I sworn that it should never burst from my heart but with my life! Thy danger wrests it from me. It is gone, and my honour is lost for ever. Alas, I have but too religiously performed my vow; can there be a death more cruel than to survive one’s honour?
What shall I say, how shall I break the painful silence? or rather, have I not said all, and am I not already too well understood? Alas!
thou hast seen too much not to divine the rest; Imperceptibly deluded into the snare of the seducer, I see, without being able to avoid it, the horrid precipice before me. Artful man! It is not thy passion, but mine, that excites thy presumption. Thou observest the distraction of my soul; thou availest thyself of it to accomplish my ruin, and now that thou hast rendered me despicable, my greatest misfortune is, that I am forced to behold thee also in a despicable light. Ungrateful wretch! In return for my esteem, thou hast ruined me. Had I supposed thy heart capable of exulting, believe me, thou hadst never enjoyed this triumph.
Well thou knowest, and it will increase thy remorse, that there was not in my soul one vicious inclination. My virtue and innocence were inexpressibly dear to me, and I pleased myself with the hopes of cherishing them in a life of industrious simplicity. But to what purpose my endeavour, since heaven rejects my offering? The very first day we met, I imbibed the poison which now infects my senses and my reason; I felt it instantly, and thy eyes, thy sentiments, thy discourse, thy guilty pen, daily increase its malignity.
I have neglected nothing to stop the progress of this fatal passion.
Sensible of my own weakness, how gladly would I have evaded the attack; but the eagerness of thy pursuit hath baffled my precaution. A thousand times I have resolved to cast myself at the feet of those who gave me being; a thousand times I have determined to open to them my guilty heart: but they can form no judgment of its condition; they would apply but common remedies to a desperate disease; my mother is weak and without authority; I know the inflexible severity of my father, and I should bring down ruin and dishonour upon myself, my family, and thee. My friend is absent, my brother is no more.
I have not a protector in the world to save me from the persecution of my enemy. In vain I implore the assistance of heaven; heaven is deaf to the prayers of irresolution. Every thing conspires to increase my anxiety; every circumstance combines to abandon me to myself, or rather cruelly to deliver me up to thee; all nature seems thy accomplice; my efforts are vain, I adore thee in spite of myself. And shall that heart which, in its full vigour, was unable to resist, shall it only half surrender? Shall a heart which knows no dissimulation attempt to conceal the poor remains of its weakness? No, the first step was the most difficult, and the only one which I ought never to have taken. Shall I now pretend to stop at the rest? No, that first false step plunged me into the abyss, and my degree of misery is entirely in thy power.
Such is my horrid situation, that I am forced to turn to the author of my misfortunes, and implore his protection against himself. I might, I know I might, have deferred this confession of my despair; I might, for some time longer, have disguised my shameful weakness, and by yielding gradually, have imposed upon myself. Vain dissimulation!
which could only have flattered my pride, but could not save my virtue: away, away! I see but too plainly whither my first error tends, and shall not endeavour to prepare for, but to escape, perdition.
Well then, if thou art not the very lowest of mankind, if the least spark of virtue lives within thy soul, if it retains any vestige of those sentiments of honour which seemed to penetrate thy heart, thou canst not possibly be so vile as to take any unjust advantage of a confession forced from me by a fatal distraction of my senses. No, I know thee well; thou wilt support my weakness, thou wilt become my safeguard, thou wilt defend my person against my own heart. Thy virtue is the last refuge of my innocence; my honour dares confide in thine, for thou canst not preserve one without the other. Ah! let thy generous soul preserve them both, and, at leas, for thy own sake, be merciful.
Good God! am I thus sufficiently humbled? I write to thee on my knees; I bathe my paper with my tears; I pay to thee my timorous homage: and yet thou art not to believe me ignorant that it was in my power to have reversed the scene; and that, with a little art, which would have rendered me despicable in my own eyes, I might have been obeyed and worshipped. Take the frivolous empire, I relinquish it to my friend, but leave me, ah! leave me my innocence. I had rather live thy slave and preserve my virtue, than purchase thy disobedience at the price of my honour. Shouldst thou deign to hear me, what gratitude mayest thou not claim from her who will owe to thee the recovery of her reason?
How charming must be the tender union of two souls unacquainted with guilt! Thy vanquished passions will prove the source of happiness, and thy pleasures will be worthy of heaven itself.
I hope, nay I am confident, that the man to whom I have given my whole heart will not belie my opinion of his generosity; but I flatter myself also, if he is mean enough to take the least unseemly advantage of my weakness, that contempt and indignation will restore my senses, and that I am not yet sunk so low as to fear a lover for whom I should have reason to blush. Thou shalt be virtuous, or be despised; I will be respected, or be myself again; it is the only hope I have left, preferable to the hope of death.
Letter V. To Eloisa.
Celestial powers! I possessed a soul capable of affliction, O inspire me with one that can bear felicity! Divine love! spirit of my existence, O support me! for I sink down opprest with extasy. How inexpressible are the charms of virtue! How invincible the power of a beloved object! fortune, pleasure, transport, how poignant your impression! O how shall I withstand the rapid torrent of bliss which overflows my heart! and how dispel the apprehensions of a timorous maid? Eloisa----no! my Eloisa on her knees! My Eloisa weep!----Shall she, to whom the universe should bend, supplicate the man who adores her, to be careful of her honour, and to preserve his own? Were it possible for me to be out of humour with you, I should be a little angry at your fears; they are disgraceful to us both. Learn, thou chaste and heavenly beauty, to know better the nature of thy empire.
If I adore thy charming person, is it not for the purity of that soul by which it is animated, and which bears such ineffable marks of its divine origin? You tremble with apprehension: good God! what hath she to fear, who stamps with reverence and honour every sentiment she inspires? Is there a man upon earth who could be vile enough to offer the least insult to such virtue?
Permit, O permit me, to enjoy the unexpected happiness of being beloved----beloved by such----Ye princes of the world, I now look down upon your grandeur. Let me read a thousand and a thousand times, that enchanting epistle, where thy tender sentiments are painted in such strong and glowing colours; where I observe with transport, notwithstanding the violent agitation of thy soul, that even the most lively passions of a noble heart never lose sight of virtue. What monster, after having read that affecting letter, could take advantage of your generous confession, and attempt a crime which must infallibly make him wretched and despicable even to himself. No, my dearest Eloisa, there can be nothing to fear from a friend, a lover, who must ever be incapable of deceiving you. Though I should entirely have lost my reason, though the discomposure of my senses should hourly increase, your person will always appear to me, not only the most beautiful, but the most sacred deposit with which mortal was ever instructed. My passion, like its object, is unalterably pure. The horrid idea of incest does not shock me more than the thought of polluting your heavenly charms with a sacrilegious touch: you are not more inviolably safe with your own parent than with your lover. If ever that happy lover should in your presence forget himself but for a moment----O ’tis impossible. When I am no longer in love with virtue, my love for my Eloisa must expire: on my first offence, withdraw your affection and cast me off for ever.
By the purity of our mutual tenderness, therefore, I conjure you, banish all your suspicion. Why should your fear exceed the passions of your lover! To what greater felicity can I aspire, when that with which I am blest, is already more than I am well able to support? We are both young, and in love unexperienced, it is true: but is that honour which conducts us, a deceitful guide? can that experience be needful which is acquired only from vice? I am strangely deceived, if the principles of rectitude are not rooted in the bottom of my heart.
In truth, my Eloisa, I am no vile seducer, as, in your despair, you were pleased to call me; but am artless and of great sensibility, easily discovering my feelings, but feeling nothing at which I ought to blush. To say all in one word, my love for Eloisa is not greater than my abhorrence of the crime. I am even doubtful, whether the love which you inspire be not in its nature incompatible with vice; whether a corrupt heart could possibly feel its influence. As for me, the more I love you, the more exalted are my sentiments. Can there be any degree of virtue, however unattainable for its own sake, to which I would not aspire to become more worthy of my Eloisa?
Letter VI. Eloisa To Clara.
Is my dear cousin resolved to spend her whole life in bewailing her poor Chaillot, and will she forget the living because of the dead? I sympathize in your grief, and think it just, but shall it therefore be eternal? Since the death of your mother, she was assiduously careful of your education; she was your friend rather than your governess. She loved you with great tenderness, and me for your sake; her instructions were all intended to enrich our hearts with principles of honour and virtue. All this I know, my dear, and acknowledge it with gratitude; but confess with me also, that in some respects she acted very imprudently; that she often indiscreetly told us things with which we had no concern; that she entertained us eternally with maxims of gallantry, her own juvenile adventures, the management of amours; and that to avoid the snares of men, though she might tell us not to give ear to their protestations, yet she certainly instructed us in many things with which there was no necessity for young girls to be made acquainted. Reflect therefore upon her death as a misfortune, not without some consolation. To girls of our age, her lessons grew dangerous, and who knows but heaven may have taken her from us the very moment in which her removal became necessary to our future happiness. Remember the salutary advice you gave me when I was deprived of the best of brothers. Was Chaillot dearer to you? Is your loss greater than mine?
Return, my dear, she has no longer any occasion for you. Alas! whilst you are wasting your time in superfluous affliction, may not your absence be productive of greater evils? Why are you not afraid, who know the beatings of my heart, to abandon your friend to misfortunes which your presence might prevent. O Clara! strange things have happened since your departure. You will tremble to hear the danger to which I have been exposed by my imprudence. Thank heaven, I hope I have now nothing to fear: but unhappily I am as it were at the mercy of another. You alone can restore me to myself: haste therefore to my assistance. So long as your attendance was of service to poor Chaillot, I was silent; I should even have been the first to exhort you to such an act of benevolence. Now that she is no more, her family are become the objects of your charity: of this obligation we could better acquit ourselves, if we were together, and your gratitude might be discharged without neglecting your friend.
Since my father took his leave of us we have resumed our former manner of living. My mother leaves me less frequently alone; not that she has any suspicion. Her visits employ more time than would be proper for me to spare from my little studies, and in her absence Bab fills her place but negligently. Now though I do not think my good mother sufficiently watchful, I cannot resolve to tell her so. I would willingly provide for my own safety, without losing her esteem, and you alone are capable of managing this matter. Return then, my dear Clara, prithee return. I regret every lesson at which you are not present, and am fearful of becoming too learned. Our preceptor is not only a man of great merit, but of exemplary virtue, and therefore more dangerous. I am too well satisfied with him to be so with myself. For girls of our age, it is always safer to be two than one, be the man ever so virtuous.
Letter VII. Answer.
I understand, and tremble for you: not that I think your danger so great as your imagination would suggest. Your fears make me less apprehensive for the present; but I am terrified with the thought of what may hereafter happen: should you be unable to conquer your passion, what will become of you! Alas, poor Chaillot, how often has she foretold, that your first sigh would mark your fortune. Ah!
Eloisa, so young, and thy destiny already accomplished? Much I fear we shall find the want of that sensible woman whom, in your opinion, we have lost for our advantage. Sure I am, it would be advantageous for us to fall into still safer hands; but she has made us too knowing to be governed by another, yet not sufficiently so to govern ourselves: she only was able to shield us from the danger to which, by her indiscretion, we are exposed. She was extremely communicative, and, considering our age, we ourselves seem to have thought pretty deeply.
The ardent and tender friendship which hath united us, almost from our cradles, expanded our hearts, and ripened them into sensibility perhaps a little premature. We are not ignorant of the passions, as to their symptoms and effects; the art of suppressing them seems to be all we want. Heaven grant that our young philosopher may know this art better than we.
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 selfdenial, 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.
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