endeavour to forget my own misery, in the recollection of your bliss.
If I know my heart, my love is as spotless as its adorable object. The passions which your charms have inflamed, are extinguished by the purity of your soul; I dare not disturb its serenity. Whenever I am tempted to take the least liberty, I find myself restrained rather by the dread of interrupting your peace of mind, than by the fear of offending. In my pursuit of happiness, I have considered only in what degree it might affect my Eloisa; and finding it incompatible with hers, I can be wretched without repining.
With what inexplicable, jarring, sentiments you have inspired me! I am at once submissive and daring, mild and impetuous. Your looks inflame my heart with love, and when I hear your voice I am captivated with the charms of innocence. If ever I presume to indulge a wishful idea, it is in your absence. Your image in my mind is the only object of my passionate adoration.
And yet I languish and consume away; my blood is all on fire, and every attempt to damp the flame serves but to increase its fervour.
Still I have cause to think myself very happy; and so I do. Surely I have little reason to complain, when I would not change my situation with the greatest monarch on earth. But yet some sad fiend torments me whose pursuits it is impossible to elude. Methinks I would not die, and yet I am daily expiring; for you only I wish to live, and you alone are the cause of my death.
Letter XI. From Eloisa.
My attachment to my dear friend grows every day stronger; your absence becomes insupportable, and I have no relief but in my pen. Thus my love keeps pace with yours; for I judge of your passion by your real fear of offending: your former fears were only feigned, with an intent to advance your cause. It is an easy matter to distinguish the dictates of an afflicted heart from the phrenzy of a heated imagination, and I see a thousand times more affection in your present constraint than in your former delirium. I know also that your situation, confined as it is, is not entirely bereft of pleasure. A sincere lover must be very happy in making frequent sacrifices to a grateful mistress, when he is assured that not one of them will be forgotten, but that she will treasure the remembrance in her heart.
But who knows whether, presuming on my sensibility, this may not be a deeper, and therefore a more dangerous plot than the former? O, no!
the supposition was unjust; you certainly cannot mean to deceive me.
And yet prudence tells me to be more suspicious of compassion than even of love; for I find myself more affected by your respect than by all your transport: so that, as you are grown more honest, you are become in proportion more formidable.
In the overflowing of my heart I will tell you a truth, of which your own feelings cannot fail to convince you: it is, that in spite of fortune, parents, and of ourselves, our fates are united for ever, and we can be only happy or miserable together. Our souls, if I may use the expression, touch in all points, and we feel an entire coherence: correct me if I speak unphilosophically. Our destiny may part us, but cannot disunite us. Henceforward our pains and pleasures must be mutual; and, like the magnets, of which I have heard you speak, that have the same motion though in different places, we should have the same sensations at the two extremities of the world.
Banish, therefore, the vain hope, if you ever entertained it, of exclusive happiness to be purchased at the expense of mine. Do not flatter yourself with the idle prospect of felicity founded upon Eloisa’s dishonour, or imagine that you could behold my ignominy and my tears, without horror. Believe me, my dear friend, I know your heart better than yourself. A passion so tender and so true, cannot possibly excite an impure wish; but we are so attached, that if we were on the brink of perdition it would be impossible for us to fall singly; of my ruin yours is the inevitable consequence.
I should be glad to convince you how necessary it is for us both that I should be entrusted with the care of our destiny. Can you doubt that you are as dear to me as myself, or that I can enjoy any happiness exclusive of yours? No, my dear friend, our interest is exactly the same, but I have rather more at stake, and have therefore more reason to be watchful. I own I am youngest; but did you never observe that if reason be generally weaker and sooner apt to decay in our sex, it also comes more early to maturity than in yours? as in vegetation the most feeble plants arrive at their perfection and dissolution in the least time. We find ourselves, from our first conception of things, instructed with so valuable a treasure, that our dread of consequences soon unfolds our judgment, and an early sense of our danger excites our vigilance.
In short, the more I reflect upon our situation, the more I am convinced that love and reason join in my request: suffer yourself then to be lead by the gentle deity; for though he is blind, he is not without a guide.
I am not quite certain that this language of my heart will be perfectly intelligible to yours, or that my letter will be read with the same emotion with which it was written: nor am I convinced that particular objects will ever appear to us in the same light; but certain I am, that the advice of either which tends least towards separate happiness, is that which we ought to follow.
Letter XII. To Eloisa.
O my Eloisa, how pathetic is the language of nature! How plainly do I perceive in your last letter, the serenity of innocence and the solicitude of love! Your sentiments are exprest without art or trouble, and convey a more delicious sensation to the mind, than all the refined periods of studied elocution. Your reasons are incontrovertible, but urged with such an air of simplicity, that they seem less cogent at first than they really are; and your manner of expressing the sublimest sentiments is so natural and easy, that without reflection one is apt to mistake them for common opinions.
Yes, my Eloisa, the care of our destiny shall be entirely yours: not because it is your right, but as your duty, and as a piece of justice I expect from your reason, for the injury you have done to mine. From this moment to the end of my life, I resign myself to your will; dispose of me as of one who hath no interest of his own, and whose existence hath no connection but with you. Doubt not that I will fly from my resolution, be the terms you impose ever so rigorous; for though I myself should profit nothing by my obedience, if it adds but one jot to your felicity, I am sufficiently rewarded. Therefore I relinquish to you without reserve, the entire care of our common happiness; secure but your own and I will be satisfied. As for me, who can neither forget you a single moment, nor think of you without forbidden emotion, I will now give my whole attention to the employment you were pleased to assign me.
It is now just a year since we began our studies, and hitherto they have been directed partly by chance, rather with a design to consult your taste than to improve it. Besides, our hearts were too much fluttered to leave us the perfect use of our senses. Our eyes wandered from the book, and our lips pronounced words, without any ideas. I remember, your arch cousin, whose mind was unengaged, used frequently to reproach us with want of conception; she seemed delighted to leave us behind, and soon grew more knowing than her preceptor. Now though we have sometimes smiled at her pretensions, she is really the only one of the three who retains any part of our reading.
But to retrieve, in some degree, the time we have lost, (Ah! Eloisa, was ever time more happily spent?) I have formed a kind of plan, which may possibly, by the advantage of method, in some measure, compensate our neglect. I send it you inclosed; we will read it together; at present I shall only make a few general observations on the subject.
If, my charming friend, we were inclined to parade with our learning, and to study for the world rather than for ourselves, my system would be a bad one; for it tends only to extract a little from a vast multiplicity of things, and from a large library to select a small number of books.
Science, in general, may be considered as a coin of great value, but of use to the possessor, only in as much as it is communicated to others; it is valuable but as a commodity in traffic. Take from the learned the pleasure of being heard, and their love of knowledge would vanish. They do not study to obtain wisdom, but the reputation of it: philosophy would have no charms if the philosopher had no admirers.
For our parts, who have no design but to improve our minds, it will be most advisable, to read little and think much; or, which is better, frequently to talk over the subjects on which we have been reading. I am of opinion, when once the understanding is a little developed by reflection, it is better to reason for ourselves than to depend upon books for the discovery of truth; for by that means it will make a much stronger impression; whilst on the contrary, by taking things for granted, we view objects by halves and in a borrowed light. We are born rich, says Montaigne, and yet our whole education consists in borrowing. We are taught to accumulate continually, and, like true misers, we chuse rather to use the wealth of other men, than break into our own store.
I confess there are many people whom the method I propose would not suit, who ought to _read much_ and _think little_, because every borrowed reflection is better than any thing they could have produced.
But I recommend the contrary to you, who improve upon every book you read. Let us therefore mutually communicate our ideas; I will relate the opinions of others, then you shall tell me yours upon the same subject, and thus shall I frequently gather more instruction from our lecture than yourself.
The more we contract our circle, the more necessary it is to be circumspect in the choice of our authors. The grand error of young students, as I told you before, is a too implicit dependence upon books, and too much diffidence in their own capacity; without reflecting that they are much less liable to be misled by their own reason, than by the sophistry of systematical writers. If we would but consult our own feelings, we should easily distinguish _virtue_ and _beauty_: we do not want to be taught either of these; but examples of extreme virtue, and superlative beauty are less common, and these are therefore more difficult to be understood. Our vanity leads us to mistake our own peculiar imbecility for that of nature, and to think those qualities chimerical which we do not perceive within ourselves; idleness and vice rest upon pretended impossibility, and men of little genius conclude that things which are uncommon have no existence.
These errors we must endeavour to eradicate, and by using ourselves to contemplate grand objects, destroy the notion of their impossibility: thus, by degrees, our emulation is roused by example, our taste refines, and every thing indifferent becomes intolerable.
But let us not have recourse to books for principles which may be found within ourselves. What have we to do with the idle disputes of philosophers, concerning virtue and happiness? Let us rather employ that time in being virtuous and happy, which others waste in fruitless enquiries after the means: let us rather imitate great examples, than busy ourselves with systems and opinions.
I always believed, that virtue was in reality active beauty; or at least that they were intimately connected, and sprung from the same source in nature. From this idea it follows, that wisdom and taste are to be improved by the same means, and that a mind truly sensible of the charms of virtue, must receive an equal impression from every other kind of beauty. Yet accurate and refined perceptions are to be acquired only by habit; and hence it is, that we see a painter, in viewing a fine prospect or a good picture, in raptures at certain objects, which a common observer would not even have seen. How many real impressions do we perceive, which we cannot account for? How many _Je-ne-sais-quois_ frequently occur, which taste only can determine?
Taste is, in some degree, the microscope of judgment; it brings small objects to our view, and its operations begin where those of judgment end. How then shall we proceed in its cultivation? By exercising our sight as well as feeling, and by judging of the beautiful from inspection, as we judge of virtue from sensation. I am persuaded there may be some hearts upon which the first sight, even of Eloisa, would make no impression.
For this reason, my lovely scholar, I limit your studies to books of taste and manners. For this reason, changing my precepts into examples, I shall give you no other definitions of virtue than the pictures of virtuous men; nor other rules for writing well, than books which are well written.
Be not surprized that I have thus contracted the circle of your studies; it will certainly render them more useful: I am convinced, by daily experience, that all instruction which tends not to improve the mind, is not worth your attention. We will diminish the languages, except the Italian, which you understand and admire. We will discard our elements of algebra and geometry. We would even quit our philosophy were it not for the utility of its terms. We will, for ever, renounce modern history, except that of our own country, and that only on account of our liberty, and the ancient simplicity of our manners: for let nobody persuade you that the history of one’s own country is the most interesting; it is false. The history of some countries will not even bear reading. The most interesting history is, that which furnishes the most examples, manners, and characters; in a word, the most instruction. We are told that we possess all these in as great a degree as the ancients; but turn to their histories and you will be convinced that this is also a mistake.
There are people whose faces are so unmeaning, that the best painter cannot catch their likeness, and there are governments so uncharacteristic as to want no historian; but able historians will never be wanting where there is matter deserving the pen of a good writer. In short, they tell us that men are alike in all ages, that their virtues and vices are the same, and that we admire the ancients only because they are ancients. This is also false: in former times great effects were produced by trifling causes, but in our days it is just the reverse. The ancients were cotemporary with their historians, and yet we have learnt to admire them: should posterity ever admire our modern historians, they certainly will not have grounded their opinion upon ours.
Out of regard to our _constant_ companion, I consent to a few volumes of belles lettres, which I should not have recommended to you. Except Petrarch, Tasso, Metastasio, and the best French theatrical authors, I leave you none of those amorous poets, which are the common amusement of your sex. The most inspired of them all cannot teach us to love?
Ah, Eloisa, we are better instructed by our own hearts! The phrases borrowed from books are cold and insipid to us who speak the language of our souls. It is a kind of reading which cramps the imagination, enervates the mind, and dims its original brightness. On the contrary, real love influences all our sentiments, and animates them with new vigour.
Letter XIII. From Eloisa.
I told you we were happy, and nothing proves it more than the uneasiness we feel upon the least change in our situation: if it were not true, why should two days separation give us so much pain? I say _us_, for I know my friend shares my impatience; he feels my uneasiness, and is unhappy upon his own account; but to tell me this were now superfluous.
We have been in the country since last night only; the hour is not yet come in which I should see you if I were in town; and yet this distance makes me already find your absence almost insupportable. If you had not prohibited geometry, I should say, that my inquietude increases in a compound ratio of the intervals of time and space; so sensible am I that the pain of absence is increased by distance. I have brought with me your letter, and your plan of study, for my meditation; I have read the first already twice over, and own I was a good deal affected with the conclusion. I perceive, my dear friend, that your passion deserves the name of real love, because you still preserve your sense of honour, and are capable of sacrificing every thing to virtue. To delude a woman in the disguise of her preceptor is surely, of all the wiles of seduction, the most unpardonable; and he must have very little resource in himself, who would attempt to move his mistress by the assistance of romance. If you had availed yourself of philosophy to forward your designs, or if you had endeavoured to establish maxims favourable to your interest, those very methods of deceit would soon have undeceived me; but you have more honesty, and are therefore more dangerous. From the first moment I perceived in my heart the least spark of love, and the desire of a lasting attachment, I petitioned heaven to unite me to a man whose soul was amiable rather than his person; for well I knew that the charms of the mind were least liable to disgust, and that probity and honour adorn every sentiment of the heart. I chose with propriety, and therefore, like Solomon, I have obtained, not only what I asked for, but also what I did not ask. I look upon this as a good omen, and I do not despair but I shall, one day, have it in my power to make my dear friend as happy as he deserves. We have indeed many obstacles to surmount, and the expedients are slow, doubtful and difficult. I dare not flatter myself too much; be assured, however, that nothing shall be forgotten which the united efforts of love and patience can accomplish. Mean while, continue to humour my mother, and prepare yourself for the return of my father, who at last retires, after thirty years services. You must learn to endure the haughtiness of a hasty old gentleman, jealous of his honour, who will love you without flattering, and esteem you without many professions.
I broke off here to take a ramble in the neighbouring woods. You, my amiable friend, you were my companion, or rather I carried thee in my heart. I sought those paths which I imagined we should have trod, and marked the shades which seemed worthy to receive us. The delightful solitude of the groves seemed to heighten our sensibility, and the woods themselves appeared to receive additional beauty from the presence of two such faithful lovers.
Amidst the natural bowers of this charming place, there is one still more beautiful than the rest, with which I am most delighted, and where, for that reason, I intend to surprize you. It must not be said that I want generosity to reward your constant respect. I would convince you, in spite of vulgar opinions, that voluntary favours are more valuable than those obtained by importunity. But lest the strength of your imagination should lead you too far, I must inform you, that we will not visit these pleasant bowers without my _constant companion_.
Now I have mentioned my cousin, I am determined, if it does not displease you, that you shall accompany her hither on Monday next. You must not fail to be with her at ten o’clock. My mother’s chaise will be there about that time; you shall spend the whole day with us, and we will return all together the next day after dinner.
I had wrote so far when I bethought myself, that I have not the same opportunity here, for the conveyance of my letter, as in town. I once had an inclination to send you one of your books by Gustin the gardener’s son, and to inclose my letter in the cover. But, as there is a possibility that you may not be aware of this contrivance, it would be unpardonably imprudent to risk our all on so precarious a bottom. I must therefore be contented to signify the intended rendezvous on Monday by a billet, and I will myself give you this letter. Besides, I was a little apprehensive lest you might comment too freely on the mystery of the bower.
Letter XIV. To Eloisa.
Ah! Eloisa, Eloisa! what have you done? You meant to requite me, and you are the cause of my ruin. I am intoxicated, or rather, I am mad.
My brains are turned, all my senses are disordered by this fatal kiss.
You designed to alleviate my pain; but you have cruelly increased my torment. The poison I have imbibed from your lips will destroy me, my blood boils within my veins; I shall die, and your pity will but hasten my death.
O immortal remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting moment! Never, never to be effaced so long as Eloisa lives within my soul; till my heart is deprived of all sensation thou wilt continue to be the happiness and torment of my life!
Alas! I possessed an apparent tranquility; resigned myself entirely to your supreme will, and never murmured at the fate you condescended to overrule. I had conquered the impetuous sallies of my imagination; I disguised my looks, and put a lock upon my heart; I but half expressed my desires, and was as content as possible. Thus your billet found me, and I flew to your cousin; we arrived at Clarens, my heart beat quick at the sight of my beloved Eloisa; her sweet voice caused a strange emotion; I became almost transported, and it was lucky for me that your cousin was present to engage your mother’s attention. We rambled in the garden, dined comfortably, you found an opportunity, unperceived, to give me your charming letter, which I durst not open before this formidable witness; the sun began to decline, and we hastened to the woods for the benefit of shade. Alas! I was quite happy, and I did not even conceive a state of greater bliss.
As we approached the bower, I perceived, not without a secret emotion, your significant winks, your mutual smiles, and the increasing glow in thy charming cheeks. Soon as we entered, I was surprized to see your cousin approach me, and with an affected air of humility, ask me for a kiss. Without comprehending the mystery, I complied with her request; and, charming as she is, I never could have had a more convincing proof of the insipidity of those sensations which proceed not from the heart. But what became of me a moment after, when I felt----My hands touch, pressed to mine, and myself within her arms? Quicker than lightening a sudden fire darted through my soul. I seemed all over sensible of the ravishing condescension, and my heart sunk down oppressed with insupportable delight; when all at once, I perceived your colour change, your eyes close; you leant upon your cousin, and fainted away. Fear extinguished all my joy, and my happiness vanished like a shadow.
I scarce know any thing that has past since that fatal moment. The impression it has made on my heart will never be effaced. A favour?----it is an extreme torment----No, keep thy kisses, I cannot bear them----They are too penetrating, too painful----they distract me. I am no more myself, and you appear to me no more the same object.
You seem not as formerly chiding and severe; but methinks I see and feel thee lovely and tender as at that happy instant when I pressed thee to my bosom. O Eloisa! whatever may be the consequence of my ungovernable passion, use me as severely as you please, I cannot exist in my present condition, and I perceive I must at last expire at your feet----or in your arms.
Letter XV. From Eloisa.
It is necessary, my dear friend, that we should part for some time: I ask it as the first proof of that obedience you have so often promised. If I am urgent in my request, you may be assured I have good reason for it: indeed I have, and you are too well convinced that I must to be able to take this resolution; for your part, you will be satisfied, since it is my desire.
You have long talked of taking a journey into Valais. I wish you would determine to go before the approach of winter. Autumn, in this country, still wears a mild and serene aspect; but you see the tops of the mountains are already white, and six weeks later you should not have my consent to take such a rough journey. Resolve therefore to set out to-morrow: you will write to me by the direction which I shall send, and you will give me yours when you arrive at Sion.
You would never acquaint me with the situation of your affairs; but you are not in your own country; your fortune I know is small, and I am persuaded you must diminish it here, where you stay only upon my account. I look upon myself therefore as your purse-bearer, and send you a small matter in the little box, which you must not open before the bearer. I will not anticipate difficulties, and I have too great an esteem for you to believe you capable of making any on this occasion.
I beg you will not return without my permission, and also that you will take no leave of us. You may write to my mother or me, merely to inform us, that some unforeseen business requires your presence, that you are obliged to depart immediately; and you may, if you please, send me some directions concerning my studies, until you return. You must be careful to avoid the least appearance of mystery. Adieu, my dear friend, and forget not that you take with you the heart and soul of Eloisa.
Letter XVI. Answer.
Every line of your terrible letter made me shudder. But I will obey you; I have promised, and it is my duty: yes, you shall be obeyed. But you cannot conceive, no, barbarous Eloisa, you will never comprehend how this cruel sacrifice affects my heart. There wanted not the trial in the bower to increase my sensibility. It was a merciless refinement of inhumanity, and I now defy you to make me more miserable.
I return your box unopened. To add ignominy to cruelty is too much; you are indeed the mistress of my fate, but not of my honour, I will myself preserve this sacred deposit; alas! it is the only treasure I have left! and I will never part with it so long as I live.
Letter XVII. Reply.
Your letter excites my compassion; it is the only senseless thing you have ever written.
I affront your honour! I would rather sacrifice my life. Do you believe it possible that I should mean to injure your honour? Ingrate!
Too well thou knowest that for thy sake I had almost sacrificed my own. But tell me what is this honour which I have offended? Ask thy groveling heart, thy indelicate soul. How despicable art thou if thou hast no honour but that which is unknown to Eloisa! Shall those whose hearts are one, scruple to share their possessions? Shall he who calls himself mine refuse my gifts? Since when is it become dishonourable to receive from those we love? But the man is despised whose wants exceed his fortune. Despised! by whom? By those abject souls who place their honour in their wealth, and estimate their virtue by their weight of gold. But is this the honour of a good man? Is virtue less honourable because it is poor?
Undoubtedly there are presents which a man of honour ought not to accept; but I must tell you, those are equally dishonourable to the person by whom they are offered; and that what may be given with honour, it cannot be dishonourable to receive: now my heart is so far from reproaching me with what I did, that it glories in the motive.
Nothing can be more despicable than a man whose love and assiduities are bought, except the woman by whom they are purchased. But where two hearts are united, it is so reasonable and just that their fortunes should be in common, that if I have reserved more than my share, I think myself indebted to you for the overplus. If the favours of love are rejected, how shall our hearts express their gratitude?
But, lest you should imagine that in my design to supply your wants I was inattentive to my own, I will give you an indisputable proof of the contrary. Know then, that the purse which I now return contains double the sum it held before, and that I could have redoubled it if I had pleased. My father gives me a certain allowance, moderate indeed, but which my mother’s kindness renders it unnecessary for me to touch.
As to my lace and embroidery, they are the produce of my own industry.
It is true, I was not always so rich; but, I know not how, my attention to a certain fatal passion has of late made me neglect a thousand little expensive superfluities; which is another reason why I should dispose of it in this manner: it is but just that you should be humbled as a punishment for the evil you have caused, and that love should expiate the crimes he occasions.
But to the point. You say your honour will not suffer you to accept my gift. If this be true, I have nothing more to say, and am entirely of opinion that you cannot be too positive in this respect. If therefore you can prove this to be the case, I desire it may be done clearly, incontestably, and without evasion; for you know I hate all appearance of sophistry. You may then return the purse; I will receive it without complaining, and you shall hear no more of this affair.
You will be pleased, however, to remember, that I neither like false honour, nor people who are affectedly punctilious. If you return the box without a justification, or if your justification be not satisfactory, we must meet no more. Think of this. Adieu.
Letter XVIII. To Eloisa.
I received your present, I departed without taking leave, and am now a considerable distance from you. Am I sufficiently obedient? Is your tyranny satisfied?
I can give you no account of my journey; for I remember nothing more than that I was three days in travelling twenty leagues. Every step I took seemed to tear my soul from my body, and thus to anticipate the pain of death. I intended to have given you a description of the country through which I passed. Vain project! I beheld nothing but you, and can describe nothing but Eloisa. The repeated emotions of my heart threw me into a continued distraction; I imagined myself to be where I was not; I had hardly sense enough left to ask or follow my road, and I am arrived at Sion without ever leaving Vevey.
Thus I have discovered the secret of eluding your cruelty, and of seeing you without disobeying your command. No, Eloisa, with all your rigour, it is not in your power to separate me from you entirely. I have dragged into exile but the most inconsiderable part of myself; my soul must remain with you for ever: with impunity, it explores your beauty, dwells in rapture upon every charm; and I am happier in despite of you than I ever was by your permission.
Unfortunately, I have here some people to visit and some necessary business to transact. I am least wretched in solitude, where I can employ all my thoughts upon Eloisa, and transport myself to her in imagination. Every employment which calls off my attention, is become insupportable. I will hurry over my affairs, that I may be soon at liberty to wander through the solitary wilds of this delightful country. Since I must not live with you, I will shun all society with mankind.
Letter XIX. To Eloisa.
I am now detained here only by your order. Those five days have been more than sufficient to finish my own concerns, if things may be so called in which the heart has no interest: so that now you have no pretence to prolong my exile, unless with design to torment me.
I begin to be very uneasy about the fate of my first letter. It was written and sent by the post immediately upon my arrival, and the direction was exactly copied from that which you transmitted me: I sent you mine with equal care; so that if you had answered me punctually, I must have received your letter before now. Yet this letter does not appear, and there is no possible fatality which I have not supposed to be the cause of its delay. O Eloisa, how many unforeseen accidents may have happened in the space of one week, to dissolve the most perfect union that ever existed! I shudder to think that there are a thousand means to make me miserable, and only one by which I can possibly be happy. Eloisa, is it that I am forgotten! God forbid! that were to be miserable indeed. I am prepared for any other misfortune; but all the powers of my soul sicken at the bare idea of that.
O no! it cannot be: I am convinced my fears are groundless, and yet my apprehensions continue. The bitterness of my misfortunes increases daily; and as if real evils were not sufficient to depress my soul, my fears supply me with imaginary ones to add weight to the others. At first my grief was much more tolerable. The trouble of a sudden departure, and the journey itself were some sort of dissipation! but this peaceful solitude assembles all my woes. Like a wounded soldier, I felt but little pain till after I had retired from the field.
How often have I laughed at a lover, in romance, bemoaning the absence of his mistress! Little did I imagine that your absence would ever be so intolerable to me! I am now sensible how improper it is for a mind at rest to judge of other men’s passions; and how foolish, to ridicule the sensations we have never felt. I must confess, however, I have great consolation in reflecting that I suffer by your command. The sufferings which you are pleased to ordain, are much less painful than if they were inflicted by the hand of fortune; if they give you any satisfaction, I should be sorry not to have suffered; they are the pledges of their reward; I know you too well to believe you would exercise barbarity for its own sake.
If your design be to put me to the proof, I will murmur no more. It is but just that you should know whether I am constant, endued with patience, docility, and, in short, worthy of the bliss you design me.
Gods! if this be your idea, I shall complain that I have not suffered half enough. Ah, Eloisa! for heaven’s sake, support the flattering expectation in my heart, and invent, if you can, some torment better proportioned to the reward.
Letter XX. From Eloisa.
I received both your letters at once, and I perceive, by your anxiety in the second, concerning the fate of the other, that when imagination takes the lead of reason, the latter is not always in haste to follow, but suffers her, sometimes, to proceed alone. Did you suppose, when you reached Sion, that the post waited only for your letter, that it would be delivered to me the instant of his arrival here, and that my answer would be favoured with equal dispatch? No, no, my good friend, things do not always go on so swimmingly. Your two epistles came both together; because the post happened not to set out till after he had received the second. It requires some time to distribute the letters; my agent has not always an immediate opportunity of meeting me alone, and the post from hence does not return the day after his arrival: so that, all things calculated, it must be at least a week before we can receive an answer one from the other. This I have explained to you with design, once for all, to satisfy your impatience. Whilst you are