on his head: on which his master had him bled, and determined to stay there that night. We accordingly dined early, and afterwards took horses and went to Bex, to see the silt manufactury; where, at my lord’s desire, who had some particular reason for requesting it, I took a sketch of the building and works, so that we did not return to Velleneuve till night. After supper we chatted a good while over our punch, and went to bed pretty late. It was in this conversation he informed me of the charge intended to be committed to my care, and what measures had been taken to bring it about. You may judge of the effect this piece of information had upon me; a conversation of this nature did not incline me to sleep. It was at length, however, time to retire.
As I entered the chamber appointed for me, I immediately recollected it to be the same in which I had formerly slept, on my journey to Sion. The view of it made an impression on me, which would be very difficult for me to describe. I was struck with such lively ideas of what I then was, that I imagined myself again in the same situation, though ten years of my life had passed away in the interval, and all my troubles had been forgotten. But alas! that reflection was but of a short duration, and the next moment oppressed me with the weight of my former afflictions. How mortifying were the recollections that succeeded to my first reverie! what dreadful comparisons suggested themselves to my mind! ye pleasures of early youth; ye exquisite delights of a first passion, O why, said I, doth your remembrance wound a heart already too much oppressed with griefs? thrice happy were those days! days now no more, in which I loved and was beloved again; in which I gave myself up in peaceful innocence, to the transports of a mutual passion; in which I drank its intoxicating draughts, and all my faculties were lost in the rapture, the extasy, the delirium of love. On the rocks of Meillerie, in the midst of frost and snow, with the frightful precipices before my eyes, was there a being in the creation so happy as I? and yet I then wept! I then thought myself unfortunate! sorrow even then ventured to approach my heart! what therefore should I be now, when I have possessed all that my soul held dear, and lost it for ever? I deserve my misfortune, for having been so little sensible of my happiness!----did I weep then?
----didst thou weep? unfortunate wretch!----thou shall weep no more ----thou hast no right to weep.----Why is she not dead? said I, in a transport of rage, yes, I should then be less unhappy; I could then indulge myself in my griefs: I should embrace her cold tomb with pleasure: my affliction should be worthy of her: I might then say, She hears my cries, she sees my tears, she is moved by my groans, she approves and accepts of my homage.----I should then, at least, have cherished the hope of being united to her again.----But she lives and is happy in the possession of another.----She lives, and her life is my death; her happiness is my torment; and heaven, having taken her from me, deprives me even of the mournful pleasure of regretting her loss----she lives, but not for me: she lives for my despair, who am an hundred times farther from her than if she were no more.
I went to bed under those tormenting reflections; they accompanied me in my sleep and disturbed it with terrible apprehensions. The most poignant afflictions, sorrow, and death composed my dreams; and all the evils I ever felt, represented themselves to my imagination in a thousand new forms, to torment me over again. One vision in particular, and that the most cruel of all, still pursued me; and though the confused apparitions of various phantoms, several times appeared and vanished, they all ended in the following.
Methought I saw the departed mother of your friend on her deathbed, and her daughter on her knees before her, bathed in tears, kissing her hands and receiving her last breath. This scene, which you once described to me, and which will never be effaced from my memory, was represented in striking colours before me. O my dear mother, said Eloisa, in accents that chilled my very soul, she who is indebted to you for her life, deprives you of yours! Alas! take back what you gave me; for without you it will be only a life of sorrow. My child, answered her languishing mother, God is just, and his will must be obeyed----you will be a mother in your turn, and----she could say no more----On this methought, I went forward to look upon her; but she was vanished, and Eloisa lay in her place; I saw her plainly and perfectly knew her, though her face was covered with a veil. I gave a shriek, and ran to take off the veil; but, methought after many attempts to lay hold of it I could not reach it, but tormented myself with vain endeavours to grasp what, though it covered her face, appeared to be impalpable. Upon which, methought, she addressed me in a faint voice, and said, Friend, be composed, the awful veil that is spread over me, is too sacred to be removed. At these words I struggled, made a new effort, and awoke; when I found myself in my bed, harassed with fright and fatigue, my face covered with big drops of sweat, and drowned in tears.
My fears being a little dissipated, I went to sleep again; again the same dream put me into the same agitations: I awoke again and went to sleep the third time, when the same mournful scene still presented itself, the same appearance of death, and always the same impenetrable veil, eluding my grasp, and hiding from me the dying object which it covered.
On waking from this last dream, my terror was so great, that I could not overcome it, though quite awake. I threw myself out of bed, without well knowing what I did, and wandered up and down my chamber, like a child in the dark, imagining myself beset with phantoms, and still fancying in my ears, the sound of that voice, whose plaintive notes I never heard without emotion. The dawn of day beginning to cast some light upon the objects in my chamber, served only to transform them, agreeable to my troubled imagination. My fright increased, and at length entirely deprived me of reason. Having with some difficulty found the door, I ran out of my room, bolted into that of Lord B---- and, drawing open his curtains, threw myself down upon his bed almost breathless, crying out, She is gone----she is gone----I shall never see her more.----His lordship started out of his sleep, and flew to his sword, imagining himself attacked by robbers. But he presently perceived who it was; and I soon after recollected myself: this was the second time of my life that I had appeared before him in such confusion.
He made me sit down and compose myself; and as soon as he had learnt the cause of my fright, endeavoured to turn it into ridicule; but, seeing me too deeply affected with it, and that the impression it had made was not to be easily effaced, he changed his tune. For shame, says he with an air of severity, you neither deserve my friendship nor esteem: had I taken a quarter of the pains with one of my footmen which I have done with you, I had made a man of him: but you are fit for nothing. It is indeed, my lord, answered I, too true. I had nothing good in me but what came from her, whom now I shall see no more; and am therefore good for nothing. At this he smiled, and embraced me. Come, come, says he, endeavour to compose yourself; tomorrow you will be a reasonable creature. He then changed the conversation and proposed to set out. The horses were accordingly ordered to be put to. In getting into the chaise, my lord whispered something to the postilion, who immediately drove off.
We travelled for some time without speaking. I was so taken up with my last night’s dream, that I heard and saw nothing; not even observing that the lake, which, the day before, was on my right hand, was now on my left. The rattling of the chaise upon the pavement, however, at length awoke me out of my lethargy; I looked up, and to my great surprise, found we were returned to Clarens. About a furlong from the gate, my lord ordered us to be set down; and, taking me aside, you see, my design, said he; it has no need of further explanation: go thou visionary mortal, continued he, pressing my hand between his, go and see her again. Happy is exposing your follies only to your friends, make haste, and I will wait for you here; but be sure you do not return, till you have removed that fatal veil which is woven in your brain.
What could I say? I left him without making any answer, and, trembling as I advanced, slowly approached the house. What a part, said I to myself, am I going to act here? how dare I shew myself? what pretext have I for this unexpected return? with what face can I plead my ridiculous terrors, and support the contemptuous looks of the generous Wolmar? In short, the nearer I drew to the house, the more childish my fears seemed to me, aid the more contemptible my extravagant behaviour: my mind, however, still misgave me, and I went on, tho’ every step more slowly, till I came just to the court-yard; when I heard the door of the elysium just open and shut again. Seeing nobody come out, I made a tour round the aviary keeping as close to it as possible; I then listened, and could hear you conversing together; but, tho’ I could not distinguish a word you said, I thought I perceived something in the sound of your voice so languishing and tender, that I could not hear it without emotion; and in Eloisa’s a sweet and affectionate accent, not only such as is usual to her, but so mild and peaceful as to convince me all was well.
This restored me to my senses at once, and woke me in good earnest from my dream. I perceived myself immediately so altered that I laughed at my ridiculous fears; and, while I reflected that only a hedge and a few shrubs prevented me from seeing her alive and in good health, whom I imagined I should never see again, I renounced for ever my fearful and chimerical apprehensions; and determined, without more ado; to return without even seeing her. You may believe me, Clara, when I protest to you that I not only did not see her, but went back, proud of not having been so weak as to push my credulity to the end, and of having at least done so much credit to myself, as not to have it said of a friend of Lord B----’s, that he could not get the better of a dream.
This, my dear cousin, is what I had to tell you, and is the last confession I have to make. The other particulars of our journey are not at all interesting; let it suffice, therefore, to assure you, that not only his lordship has been very well satisfied with me since, but that I am still more so with myself, who am more sensible of my cure than he can be. For fear of giving him any needless distrust, I concealed from him my not having actually seen you. When he asked me if the veil was drawn aside, I answered without hesitation in the affirmative; and we have not mentioned it since. Yes, cousin, the veil is drawn aside for ever; that veil which has so long hoodwinked my reason. All my unruly passions are extinguished. I see and respect my duty. You are both dearer to me than ever, but my heart knows no difference between you; nor feels the least inclination to separate the inseparables.
We arrived the day before yesterday at Milan, and the day after tomorrow we shall leave it. In about a week we hope to be at Rome, and expect to find letters from you on our arrival. How tedious will seem the time before I shall see those two surprising persons who have so long troubled the repose of the greatest of minds! O Eloisa! O Clara!
no woman that is not equal to you, is worthy of such a man!
Letter CXLVI. From Mrs. Orbe.
We all waited impatiently to hear from you, so that you will easily guess how much pleasure your letters gave our little community; but what you will hardly imagine is, that they should give me less than any other person in the house. They all were pleased that you had happily passed the Alps; for my part, I had no pleasure in reflecting that the Alps were between us.
With respect to the particulars of your return, we have said nothing of them to the baron; besides I skipped over some of your soliloquies, in reading your letter before every body. Mr. Wolmar is so ingenuous, as only to laugh at you; but Eloisa could not recollect the last moments of her dying mother, without shedding fresh tears. Your letter had no other effect upon her than reviving her affliction.
As to myself, I will confess to you, my dear preceptor, that I am no longer surprized to see you in continual astonishment at yourself; always committing some new folly, and always repenting of it: you have long passed your life in self-reproach over night, and in applauding yourself in the morning.
I will freely acknowledge to you, also, that the great effort of your courage, in turning back when so near us, just as wise as you came, does not appear to me so extraordinary as it may to you. There seems to me more vanity in it, than prudence; and, I believe, upon the whole, I should have liked a little less fortitude with more discretion. From such a manner of running away, may not one ask, to what purpose you came? you were ashamed to shew your self, and it is of your being afraid to shew your self that you ought in fact to be ashamed. As if the pleasure of seeing your friends were not an ample recompense for the petty chagrin their raillery might give you. Ought you not to have thought yourself happy in the opportunity of diverting us with your bewildered looks? as I could not laugh at you then, however, I will laugh at you now; tho’ I lose half the pleasure in not seeing your confusion.
Unhappily there is something worse than all this; which is, that I have caught your fears, without having your means of dispelling them.
That dream of yours has something in it so horrible, that I am at once terrified and afflicted with it, in spite of all I can do. In reading your letter I am apt to blame your agitation; after I have read it, I blame your security. It is impossible to see a sufficient reason for your being so much affected, and at the same time for your becoming tranquil. It is very strange, that your fearful apprehensions should prevail till the very moment in which you might have been satisfied, and that you should stop there. Another step, a motion, a word had done the business. You were alarmed without reason, and composed again without cause: but you have infected me with a terror which you no longer feel; and it appears, that, if you have given an instance once in your life of your fortitude, it has been at my expense. Since the receipt of your fatal letter, my heart is constantly oppressed. I cannot approach Eloisa, without trembling at the thoughts of losing her. I think every now and then I see a deadly paleness over-spread her countenance; and this morning, as I embraced her, tears burst involuntarily from me, and poured down my cheeks. O, that veil! that veil! There is something so prophetic in it, that it troubles me every time I think of it. No, I cannot forgive you for not removing it, when you had it in your power, and fear I shall never have a moment’s peace of mind till I see you again in company with her. You must own, that, after having talked so long of philosophy, you have here given a very unreasonable proof of yours. Dream again, and come and see your friends; it were better for you to do this and be a _visionary mortal_, than to run away from them and be a philosopher.
It appears by a letter of Lord B----’s to Mr. Wolmar, that he thinks seriously of coming to settle with us. As soon as he is determined, and his heart has made its choice, may you both return steadfast and happy! This is the constant prayer of our little community, and above all that of your friend, Clara Orbe.
P. S. If you really heard nothing of our conversation in the elysium, it is perhaps so much the better for you; for you know me to be vigilant enough to see some people without their seeing me, and severe enough to verify the proverb, that _listeners seldom, hear any good of themselves_.
Letter CXLVII. From Mr. Wolmar.
As I write to Lord B----, and explain myself so fully with respect to you, I have hardly any thing more to say at present than to refer you to his letter. Yours would perhaps require of me a return of civilities; but these I had rather make in actions than in words. To make you one of my family, to treat you as my brother, my friend; to make her you loved your sister; to put into your hands a paternal authority over my children; to invest you with my privileges, after having robbed you of yours; these are the compliments I have to make you. If, on your part, you justify my conduct, it will be sufficient praise. I have endeavoured to honour you with my esteem; it is yours to honour me by your merit. Let no other encomiums pass between us.
So far am I from being surprized at seeing you affected with a dream, that I see no very good reason for your reproaching yourself for being so. One dream more or less seems to be of no importance in such systematical gentlemen as yourself, whose very principles are visionary.
What I reproach you for, is less the effect of your dream, than the species of it; and that for a reason very different, perhaps, from what you may imagine. A certain tyrant once condemned a man to death for dreaming that he had stabbed him. Recollect the reason he gave for that sentence, and make the application. What! you are going to determine the fate of your friend, and you are thinking of your old amours! Had it not been for the conversation of the preceding evening, I should never forgive you that dream. Think in the daytime of what you are going to do at Rome, and you will dream less at night of what is doing at Vevey.
The little Frenchwoman is sick, which keeps Mrs. Wolmar so constantly employed that she has not time to write to you. Some body, however, will willingly take upon themselves that agreeable talk. Happy youth!
to whose happiness every thing conspires! the rewards of virtue all await your merit. As to that of my good will, trouble no one with it; it is from you only I expect it.
Letter CXLVIII. To Mr. Wolmar.
Let this letter be kept to ourselves. Let the errors of the best of men be for ever buried in profound secrecy. In what a dangerous task have I engaged! O my sensible and generous friend! why do I not retain your counsel in my memory, as I do your benevolence at my heart! never did I before stand in more need of your prudence, nor did ever the apprehensions of falling short of it so much embarrass the little I have. Ah! what is become of your paternal advice, your instruction, your knowledge? what will become of me without you? Yes, I would give up every flattering prospect in life to have you here, in this critical moment, though but for one week.
I have been deceived in all my conjectures: I have as yet done nothing but blunder. I was afraid only of the marchioness. After having seen her and been struck with admiration at her beauty and address, I applied myself, with all my might, to wean the affections of her noble lover from so attracting an object. Charmed with the thoughts of bringing him over to the side where I thought there was no danger, I launched out in the praise of Laura, and spoke of her with the esteem and admiration with which she had inspired me: in weakening his stronger attachment for her rival, I hoped, by degrees, entirely to destroy both. My lord easily gave in to my design; and, exceeding even the bounds of complaisance, perhaps to punish my importunities, by alarming me on the other side, affected a much greater warmth of passion for Laura than he really felt. But what shall I say to him now? the ardour of his passion remains without any affectation. His heart, exhausted by so many trials, was left in a state of weakness of which she has taken the advantage. It would be difficult indeed for any man long to affect a passion for her, which he did not feel. In fact, it is impossible to look upon this lovely unfortunate, without being struck by her air and figure; a certain cast of languor and depression, which constantly shades her charming features, in damping the vivacity of her looks, renders them but the more affecting; and as the sun darts its rays through the passing clouds, so do her eyes cast the more piercing looks through the clouds of grief that obscure their lustre. Her very dejection has all the grace of modesty; in seeing, one pities her; in hearing, one respects her. In short, I can avow, in justification of my friend, that I know only two men in the world, who could see and converse with her without danger.
Oh Wolmar! he is lost to reason. I see, and feel it; I own it to you with bitterness of heart. I tremble to think how far his extravagant passion may make him forget himself and his duty. I tremble lest that intrepid love of virtue, which makes him despise the opinion of the world, should hurry him into the other extreme, and lead him to trespass even the sacred laws of decorum and decency. Shall my Lord B---- contract such a marriage? can you think it----under the eve of his friend too! who sees, who suffers it! and who lies under infinite obligations to him! no, he shall rip open my breast, and tear out my heart with his own hand, ere he shall thus abuse it.
But what shall I do! how shall I behave myself? you know his impetuosity of temper. Argument will avail nothing; and his discourse of late, has only increased my apprehensions for him. At first, I affected not to understand him, and reasoned indirectly in general maxims; he in turn affected not to understand me. If I endeavour to touch him a little more to the quick, he answers sententiously, and imagines he has refuted me. If I reply and enforce my argument, he flies into a passion, and talks in a manner so unfriendly, that a real friend knows not how to answer him. You may believe that, on this occasion, I am neither timid nor bashful; when we are doing our duty, we are too apt to be proud and tenacious; but pride has nothing to do here; it is necessary I should succeed; and unsuccessful attempts will only prejudice better means. I hardly dare enter with him into any argument, for I every day experience the truth of what you told me, that he is a better reasoner than I, and that the way to win him to my party is not to irritate him by dispute.
Besides, he looks, a little cold upon me at present. Appearances would make one apt to think he is uneasy at my importunity. How this weakness debases a man in so many respects superior to the rest of mankind! the great, the sublime Lord B----, stands in awe of his friend, his creature, his pupil! it even seems by some words he has let fall concerning the choice of his residence if he does not marry, that he has a mind to try my fidelity by opposing it to my interest.
He well knows I ought not, neither can I leave him. No, I will do my duty and follow my benefactor. If I were base and mean, what should I gain by my perfidy? Eloisa and her generous husband would not trust the education of their children to one who hath betrayed his friend.
You have often told me, that the inferior passions are not easily converted from their pursuit; but that the superior ones may be armed against themselves. I imagined, I might be able to make use of that maxim in the present case. In fact, the motives of compassion, of a contempt for the prejudices of the world, of habit, of every thing that determines my Lord B---- on this occasion, are of that inferior nature and elude all my attacks: whereas true love is inseparable from generosity, and by that one always has some hold of him. I have attempted that indirect method, and despair not of success. It may seem cruel; and, to say truth, I have not done it without some repugnance: all circumstances, however considered, I conceive I am doing service even to Laura herself. What would she do in the rank to which she might be raised by marriage, but expose her former ignominy?
but, how great may she not be in remaining what she is! If I know any thing of that extraordinary young lady, she is better formed to enjoy the sacrifice she has made, than the rank she ought to refuse. If this resource fails me, there remains one more in the magistracy, on the account of their difference of religion; but this method shall not be taken, till I am reduced to the last extremity, and have tried every other in vain. Whatever may happen, I shall spare nothing to prevent so unworthy and disgraceful an alliance. Believe me, my dear Wolmar, I shall be tenacious of your esteem to the latest hour of my life, and whatever my lord may write to you, whatever you may have said, depend on it, cost what it will, while this heart beats within my breast, Lauretta Pisana shall not be Lady B----.
If you approve of my measures, this letter needs no answer; if you think me in any wise mistaken, oblige me with your instructions. But be expeditious, for there is not a moment to lose. I shall have my letter directed by a strange hand: do the same by your answer. After having read what I have written, please, also, to burn my letter, and be silent as to its contents. This is the first, and the only secret I ever desired you to conceal from my two cousins: and if I had dared to consider more in my own judgement, you yourself should have known nothing of it. [93] Letter CXLIX. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe 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;