yet, with all my sensibility, have hardly been able to return your friendship! these contradictions have instilled into your head as whimsical an idea of your own character as such a giddy brain can conceive; which is, to conceit yourself at once the warmest friend and the coldest lover. Incapable of disowning these gentle ties with which you perceived you were bound, you thought yourself incapable of being fettered by any other. You thought nothing in the world could affect you but Eloisa; as if those hearts which are by nature susceptible, could be affected but by one object, and as if, because you loved no other than me, I could be the proper object of your affection. You pleasantly asked me once, if souls were of a different sex. No, my dear, the soul is of no sex; but its affections make that distinction, and you begin to be too sensible of it. Because the first lover that offered himself did not affect you, you immediately concluded no other could; because you was not in love with your suitor, you concluded you could never be in love with any one. When he became your husband, however, you loved him, and that with so ardent an affection, that it injured even the intimacy with your friend: that heart, so little susceptible, as you pretend, could annex to love as tender a supplement to satisfy the fond desires of a worthy man.
Ah my poor cousin! it is your task for the future to resolve your own doubts, and if it be true, _Ch’un freddo amante è mal sicuro amica._ I am greatly afraid I have at present one reason more than ever I had to rely upon you. But to go on with what I had to say to you on this subject.
I suspect that you were in love much sooner than you perhaps imagine; or at least, that the same inclination which ruined me would have reduced you, had I not been first caught in the snare. Can you conceive a sentiment so natural and agreeable, could be so tardy in its birth? can you conceive that at our age, we could either of us live in a familiarity with an amiable young man without danger, or that the conformity so general in our taste and inclination, should not extend to this particular? No, my dear, you, I am certain, would have loved him, if I had not loved him first. Less weak, though not less susceptible, you might have been more prudent than I, without being more happy. But what inclination could have prevailed in your generous mind, over the horror you would have felt at the infidelity of betraying your friend! it was our friendship that saved you from the snares of love: you respected my lover with the same friendship, and thus redeemed your heart at the expense of mine.
These conjectures are not so void of foundation as you may imagine; and had I a mind to recollect those times which I could wish to forget, it would not be difficult for me to trace even in the care you imagined you took only in my concerns, a farther care, still more interesting, in those of the object of my affection. Not daring to love him yourself, you encouraged me to do it; you thought each of us necessary to the happiness of the other, and therefore, that heart, which has not its equal in the world, loved us both the more tenderly.
Be assured, that had it not been for your own weakness, you would not have been so indulgent to me; but you would have reproached yourself for a just severity towards me, with an imputation of jealousy. You were conscious of having no right to contend with a passion in me, which ought nevertheless to have been subdued; and, being more fearful of betraying your friend than of not acting discreetly, you thought, in offering up your own happiness to ours, you had made a sufficient sacrifice to virtue.
This, my dear Clara, is your history; thus hath your despotic friendship laid me under the necessity of being obliged to you for my shame, and of thanking you for my errors. Think not, however, that I would imitate you in this. I am no more disposed to follow your example than you mine; and as you have no reason to fear falling into my errors, I have no longer, thank heaven! the same reasons for granting you indulgence. What better use can I make of that virtue to which you restored me, than to make it instrumental in the preservation of yours?
Let me therefore give you my farther advice on the present occasion.
The long absence of our preceptor has not softened your regard for him. Your being left again at liberty, and his return, have given rise to opportunity, which love hath been ingenious enough to improve. It is not a new sentiment produced in your heart; it is only one which, long concealed there, has at length seized this occasion to discover itself. Proud enough to avow it to yourself, you are perhaps impatient to confess it to me. That confession might seem to you almost necessary to make it quite innocent; in becoming a crime in your friend it ceased to be one in you, and perhaps you only gave yourself up to the passion you so many years contended with the more effectually to cure your friend.
I was sensible, my dear, of all this; and was little alarmed at a passion which I saw would be my own protection, and on account of which you have nothing to reproach yourself. The winter we passed together in peace and friendship, gave me yet more hopes of you; for I saw that so far from losing your vivacity, you seemed to have improved it. I frequently observed you affectionate, earnest, attentive; but frank in your professions, ingenuous even in your raillery, unreserved and open, and in your liveliest sallies, the picture of innocence.
Since our conversation in the _elysium_, I have not so much reason to be satisfied with you. I find you frequently sad and pensive. You take as much pleasure in being alone as with your friend: you have not changed your language, but your accent; you are more cautious in your pleasantry; you don’t mention him so often; one would think you were in constant fear lest he should overhear you; and it is easy to see by your uneasiness that you wanted to hear from him, much oftener than you confessed.
I tremble, my good cousin, lest you should not be sensible of the worst of your disorder, and that the shaft has pierced deeper than you seem to be aware of. Probe your heart, my dear, to the bottom; and then tell me, again I repeat it, tell me if the most prudent woman does not run a risk by being long in the company of a beloved object; tell me if the confidence which ruined me can be entirely harmless to you; you are both at liberty; this is the very circumstance that makes opportunity dangerous. In a mind truly virtuous, there is no weakness will get the better of conscience, and I agree with you, that one has always fortitude enough to avoid committing a wilful crime: but alas!
what is a constant protection against human weakness? Reflect however, on consequences; think on the effects of shame. We must pay a due respect to ourselves, if we expect to receive it from others; for how can we flatter ourselves, that others will pay to us what we have not for ourselves? or where can we think she will stop in the career of vice, who sets out without fear? These arguments I should use even to women, who pay no regard to religion and morality, and have no rule of conduct but the opinion of others: but with you, whose principles are those of virtue and Christianity, who are sensible of, and respect, your duty, who know and follow other rules than those of public opinion, your first honour is to stand excused by your own conscience, and that is the most important.
Would you know where you are wrong in this whole affair? It is, I say again, in being ashamed of entertaining a sentiment which you have only to declare, to render it perfectly innocent: but, with all your vivacity, no creature in the world is more timid. You affect pleasantry only to shew your courage, your poor heart trembling all the while for fear. In pretending to ridicule your passion, you do exactly like the children, who sing in the dark because they are afraid. O my dear friend, reflect on what you yourself have often said; it is a false shame which leads to real disgrace, and virtue never blushes at any thing but what is criminal. Is love in itself a crime? does it not, on the contrary, consist of the most refined as well as the most pleasing of all inclinations? is not its end laudable and virtuous? does it ever enter into base and vulgar minds? does it not animate only the great and noble? does it not ennoble their sentiments? does it not raise them even above themselves? alas! if to be prudent and virtuous we must be insensible to love, among whom could virtue find its votaries on earth? among the refuse of nature and the dregs of mankind.
Why then do you reproach yourself? have you not made choice of a worthy man? is he not disengaged? are not you so too? does he not deserve all your esteem? has he not the greatest regard for you? will you not be even too happy in conferring happiness on a friend so worthy of that name; paying, with your hand and heart, the debts long ago contracted by your friend; and in doing him honour by raising him to yourself, as a reward to unsuccessful, to persecuted merit.
I see what petty scruples still lie in your way. The receding from a declared resolution, by taking a second husband; the exposing your weakness to the world; the marrying a needy adventurer; for low minds, always lavish of scandal, will doubtless so call him. These are the reasons which make you rather ashamed of your passion than willing to justify it; that make you desirous of stifling it in your bosom, rather than render it legitimate. But pray does the shame lie in marrying the man one loves, or in loving without marrying him? between these lies your choice. The regard you owe to the deceased requires you should respect his widow so much, as rather to give her a husband than a gallant: and, if your youth obliges you to make choice of one to supply his place, is it not paying a further regard to his memory, to fix that choice upon the man he most often esteemed when living.
As to his inferiority in point of fortune, I shall perhaps only offend you in replying to so frivolous an objection, when it is opposed to good sense and virtue. I know of no debasing inequality, but that which arises either from character or education. To whatever rank a man of a mean disposition and low principle may rise, an alliance with him will always be scandalous. But a man educated in the sentiments of virtue and honour is equal to any other in the world, and may take place in whatever rank he pleases. You know what were the sentiments of your father, when your friend was proposed for me. His family is reputable, tho’ obscure. He is every where deservedly esteemed. With all this, was he the lowest of mankind, he would deserve your consideration: for it is surely better to derogate from nobility than virtue; and the wife of a mechanic is more reputable than the mistress of a prince.
I have a glimpse of another kind of embarrassment, in the necessity you lie under of making the first declaration: for, before he presumes to aspire to you, it is necessary you should give him permission; this is one of the circumstances justly attending an inequality of rank, which often obliges the superior to make the most mortifying advances.
As to this difficulty, I can easily forgive you, and even confess it would appear to me of real consequence, if I could not find out a method to remove it. I hope you depend so far on me as to believe this may be brought about without your being seen in it; and on my part, I depend so much on my measures, that I shall undertake it with assurance of success: for notwithstanding what you both formerly told me of the difficulty of converting a friend into a lover, if I can read that heart which I too long studied, I don’t believe that on this occasion any great art will be necessary. I propose, therefore, to charge myself with this negotiation, to the end that you may indulge yourself in the pleasure of his return, without reserve, regret, danger, or scandal. Ah my dear cousin! how delighted shall I be to unite for ever two hearts so well formed for each other, and which have been long united in mine. May they still (if possible) be more closely united! may we have but one heart amongst us! Yes, Clara, you will serve your friend by indulging your love, and I shall be more certain of my own sentiments, when I shall no longer make a distinction between him and you.
But, if notwithstanding what I have alledged, you will not give into this project, my advice is, at all events, to banish this dangerous man; always to be dreaded by one or the other: for, be it as it may, the education of our children is still less important to us than the virtue of their mothers. I leave you to reflect, during your journey, on what I have written. We will talk further about it on your return.
I send this letter directly to Geneva; lest, as you were to lie but one night at Lausanne, it should not find you there. Pray bring me a good account of that little republic. From the agreeable description, I should think you happy in the opportunity of seeing it; if I could set any store by pleasures, purchased with the absence of my friends.
I never loved grandeur, and at present I hate it, for having deprived me so many years of your company. Neither you nor I, my dear, went to buy our wedding cloaths at Geneva; and yet, however deserving your brother may be, I much doubt whether your sister-in-law will be more happy, with her Flanders lace and India silks, than we in our native simplicity. I charge you, however, notwithstanding my ill-natured reflections, to engage them to celebrate their nuptials at Clarens. My father hath written to yours, and my husband to the bride’s mother, to invite them hither. Their letters you will find inclosed: please to deliver them, and enforce their invitations with your interest. This is all I could do, in order to be present at the ceremony; for I declare to you, I would not upon any account leave my family. Adieu.
Let me have a line from you, at least to let me know when I am to expect you here. It is now the second day since you left me, and I know not how I shall support two days more without you.
P. S. While I was writing this letter, Miss Harriot truly must give herself the air of writing to her mamma too. As I always like children should write their own thoughts, and not those which are dictated to them, I indulged her curiosity; and let her write just what she pleased, without altering a word. This makes the third letter inclosed. I doubt, however, whether this is what you will look for in casting your eye over the contents of the packet. But, for the other letter, you need not look long, as you will not find it. It is directed to you, at Clarens; and at Clarens only it ought to be read: so, take your measures accordingly.
Letter CL. Harriot to her Mother.
Where are you then, mamma? They say at Geneva; which is such a long, long way off that one must ride two days, all day long, to reach you: surely, mamma, you don’t intend to go round the world? my little pappa is set out this morning for Etange; my little grand pappa is gone a hunting; my little mamma is gone into her closet to write; and there is nobody with me but Pernette and the Frenchwoman. Indeed, mamma, I don’t know how it is; but, since our good friend has left us, we are all scattered about strangely. You began first, mamma; you soon began to be tired, when you had nobody left to tease: but what is much worse since you are gone, is, that my little mamma is not so good humour’d as when you were here. My little boy is very well, but he does not love you; because you did not dance him yesterday as you used to do.
As for me, I believe I should love you a little bit still, if you would return quickly, that one might not be so dull. But, if you would make it up with me quite, you must bring my little boy something that would please him. To quiet him indeed, would not be very easy, you would be puzzled to know what to do with him. O that our good friend was but here now! for it is as he said, my fine fan is broke to pieces, my blue skirt is torn all to pieces, my white frock is in tatters; my mittens are no worth a farthing. Fare you well, mamma, I must here end my letter; for my little mamma has finished hers, and is coming out of her closet. I think her eyes are red, but I durst not say so: in reading this, however, she will see I observed it. My good mamma, you are certainly very naughty, to make my little mamma cry.
P. S. Give my love to my grand pappa, to my uncles, to my new aunt and her mamma, and to every body: tell them I would kiss them all, and you too, mamma; but that you are all so far of, I can’t reach you.
Letter CLI. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.
I cannot leave Lausanne without writing you a line, to acquaint you of my safe arrival here; not however so chearfully disposed as I could wish. I promised myself much pleasure in a journey, which you have been too often tempted to take; but, in refusing to accompany me, you have made it almost disagreeable; and how should it be otherwise?
when it is troublesome, I have all the trouble to myself, and when it is tolerably agreeable, I regret your not being with me to partake of the pleasure. I had nothing to say, it is true, against your reasons for staying at home; but you must not think I was therefore satisfied with them. If you do, indeed, my good cousin, you are mistaken; for the very reason why I am dissatisfied is, that I have no right to be so. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, to have always the best of the argument, and to prevent your friend from having what she likes, without leaving her one good reason to find fault with you. All had gone to rack and ruin, no doubt, had you left your husband, your family, and your little marmots in the lurch for one week; it had been a wild scheme, to be sure; but I should have liked you a hundred times the better for it: whereas, in aiming to be all perfection, you are good for nothing at all, and are only sit to keep company with angels.
Notwithstanding our past disagreement, I could not help being moved at the sight of my friends and relations; who, on their part, received me with pleasure; or, at least, with a profusion of civilities. I can give you no account of my brother, till I am better acquainted with him. With a tolerable figure, he has a good deal of the formal air of the country he comes from. He is serious, cold, and I think has a surly haughtiness in his disposition, which makes me apprehensive for his wife, that he will not prove so tractable a husband as ours; but will take upon him a good deal of the lord and master.
My father was so delighted to see me, that he even left unfinished the perusal of an account of a great battle which the French, as if to verify the prediction of our friend, have lately gained in Flanders.
Thank heaven, he was not there! Can you conceive the intrepid Lord B---- would stand to see his countrymen run away, or that he would have joined them in their flight? No, never; he would sooner have rushed a thousand times on death.
But, a propos of our friend,----our other friend hath not written for some time. Was not yesterday the day for the courier to come from Italy? If you receive any letters, I hope you will not forget I am a party concerned in the news.
Adieu, my dear cousin; I must set out. I shall expect your letters at Geneva; where we hope to arrive tomorrow by dinner time. As for the rest, you may be assured, that, by some means or other, you shall be at the wedding; and that, if you absolutely will not come to Lausanne, I will come with my whole company to plunder Clarens, and drink up all the wine that is to be found in the town.
Letter CLII. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar Upon my word, my dear, you have read me a charming lecture! you keep it up to a miracle! you seem to depend, however, too much on the salutary effect of your sermons. Without pretending to judge whether they would formerly have lull’d your preceptor to sleep, I can assure you they do not put me to sleep at present; on the contrary, that which you sent me yesterday was so far from affecting me with drowsiness that it kept me awake all night. I bar, however, the remarks of that Argus your husband, if he should see the letter. But I will write in some order, and I protest to you, you had better burn your fingers, than shew it him.
If I should be very methodical, and recapitulate with you article for article, I should usurp your privilege; I had better, therefore, set them down as they come into my head; to affect a little modesty also, and not give you too much fair-play, I will not begin with our travellers, or the courier from Italy. At the worst, if it should so happen, I shall only have my letter to write over again, and to reverse it, by putting the beginning at the latter end. I am determined however to begin with the supposed Lady B----. I can assure you, I am offended at the very title; nor shall I ever forgive St.
Preux for permitting her to take it, Lord B---- for conferring it on her, or you for acknowledging it. Shall Eloisa Wolmar receive Lauretta Pisana into her house! permit her to live with her! think of it, child, again. Would not such a condescension in you be the most cruel mortification to her? can you be ignorant that the air you breathe is fatal to infamy? will the poor unfortunate dare to mix her breath with yours? will she dare to approach you? She would be as much affected by your presence as a creature possessed would be at the sacred relics in the hand of the exorcist: your looks would make her sink into the earth; the very sight of you would kill her.
Not that I despise the unhappy Laura; God forbid! on the contrary, I admire and respect her, the more as her reformation is heroic and extraordinary. But is it sufficient to authorise those mean comparisons by which you debase yourself; as if in the indulgence of the greatest weakness, there was not something in true love that is a constant security to our person, and which made us tenacious of our honour? but I comprehend and excuse you. You have but a confused view of low and distant objects: you look down from your sublime and elevated station upon the earth, and see no inequalities on its surface. Your devout humility knows how to take an advantage even of your virtue.
But what end will all this serve? will our natural sensations make the less impression? will our self-love be less active? in spite of your arguments you feel a repugnance at this match: you tax your sensations with pride; you would strive against them and attribute them to prejudice. But tell me, my dear, how long has the scandal attendant on vice consisted in mere opinion? what friendship do you think can possibly subsist between you and a woman, before whom, one cannot mention chastity, or virtue, without making her burst into tears of shame, without renewing her sorrows, without even insulting her penitence? believe me, my dear, we may respect Laura, but we ought not to see her; to avoid her is the regard which modest women owe to her merit: it would be cruel to make her suffer in our company.
I will go farther, you say your heart tells you, this marriage ought not to take place. Is not this as much as to tell you it will not.
Your friend says nothing about it in his letter! in the letter which he wrote to me! and yet you say that letter is a very long one----and then comes the discourse between you and your husband----that husband of yours is a slyboots, and ye are a couple of cheats thus to trick me out of the news ye have heard. But then your husband’s sentiments!---- methinks his sentiments were not so necessary; particularly for you who have seen the letter, nor indeed were they for me, who have not seen it: for I am more certain of the conduct of your friend from my own sentiments, than from all the wisdom of philosophy.
See there now!----did I not tell you so? that intruder will be thrusting himself in, no body knows how. For fear he should come again, however, as we are now got into his chapter, let us go through it, that it may be over, and we may have nothing to do with him again.
Let us not bewilder ourselves with conjectures, had you not been Eloisa, had not your friend been your lover, I know not what business he would now have had with you, nor what I should have had to do with him. All I know is, that, if my ill fears had so ordered it that he had first made love to me, it had been all over with his poor head; for, whether I am a fool or not, I should certainly have made him one.
But what signifies what I might have been? let us come to what I am.
Attached by inclination to you, from our earliest infancy, my heart has been in a manner absorbed by yours; affectionate and susceptible as I was, I of myself was incapable of love or sensibility. All my sentiments came from you; you alone stood in the place of the whole world, and I lived only to be your friend. Chaillot saw all this, and founded on it the judgment she passed on me. In what particular, my dear, have you found her mistaken?
You know I looked upon your friend as a brother: as the son of my mother was the lover of my friend. Neither was it my reason, but my heart that gave him this preference. I should have been even more susceptible than I am, had I never experienced any other love. I caressed you, in caressing the dearest part of yourself, and the chearfulness which attended my embraces was a proof of their purity.
For doth a modest woman ever behave so to the man she loves? did you behave thus to him? no, Eloisa, love in a female heart is cautious and timid; reserve and modesty are all its advances; it discloses by endeavouring to hide itself, and whenever it confers the favour of its caresses, it well knows how to set a value upon them. Friendship is prodigal, but love is avaricious and sparing.
I confess indeed, that too intimate connections at his age and mine, are dangerous; but, with both our hearts engaged by the same object, we were so accustomed to place it between us, that, without annihilating you at least, it was impossible for us to come together.
Even that familiarity, so dangerous on every other occasion, was then my security. Our sentiments depend on our ideas, and when these have once taken a certain turn, they are not easily perverted. We had talked together too much in one strain, to begin upon another; we had advanced too far to return back the way we came: love is jealous of its prerogative, and will make its own progress; it does not chuse that friendship should meet it half way. In short, I am still of the same opinion, that criminal caresses never take place between those that have been long used to the endearing embraces of innocence. In aid of my sentiments, came the man destined by heaven to constitute the momentary happiness of my life. You know, cousin, he was young, well made, honest, complaisant and solicitous to please; it is true, he was not so great a master in love as your friend; but it was me that he loved: and, when the heart is free, the passion which is addressed to ourselves, hath always in it something contagious. I returned his affections therefore, with all that remained of mine, and his share was such as left him no room to complain of his choice. With all this, what had I to apprehend. I will even go so far as to confess that the prerogatives of the husband, joined to the duties of a wife, relaxed for a moment the ties of friendship; and that, after my change of condition, giving myself up to the duties of my new station, I became a more affectionate wife than I was a friend: but, in returning to you, I have brought back two hearts instead of one, and have not since forgot that I alone am charged with that double obligation.
What, my dear friend, shall I say farther? at the return of our old preceptor, I had, as it were, a new acquaintance to cultivate: methought I looked upon him with very different eyes; my heart fluttered as he saluted me, in a manner I had never felt before; and the more pleasure that emotion gave me, the more it made me afraid. I was alarmed at a sentiment which seemed criminal, and which perhaps would not have existed had it not been innocent. I too plainly perceived that he was not, nor could be any longer your lover; I was too sensible that his heart was disengaged, and that mine was so too.
You know the rest, my dear cousin; my fears, my scruples were, I see, as well known to you as to myself. My unexperienced heart, was so intimidated by sensations so new to it, that I even reproached myself for the earnest desire I felt to rejoin you; as if that desire had not been the same before the return of our friend. I was uneasy that he should be in the very place where I myself most inclined to be, and believe I should not have been so much displeased to find myself less desirous of it, as at conceiving that it was not entirely on your account. At length, however, I returned to you, and began to recover my confidence. I was less ashamed of my weakness after having confessed it to you. I was even less ashamed of it in your company: I thought myself protected in turn, and ceased to be afraid of myself. I resolved, agreeable to your advice, not to change my conduct towards him. Certainly a greater reserve would have been a kind of declaration, and I was but too likely to let slip involuntary ones, to induce me to make any directly. I continued, therefore, to trifle with him through bashfulness, and to treat him familiarly through modesty: but perhaps all this, not being so natural as formerly, was not attended with the same propriety, nor exerted to the same degree. From being a trifler, I turned a downright fool; and what perhaps increased my assurance was, I found I could be so with impunity. Whether it was your example that inspired me, or whether it be that Eloisa refines every thing that approaches her, I found myself perfectly tranquil, while nothing remained of my first emotions, but the most pleasing, yet peaceful sensations, which required nothing more than the tranquillity I possessed.
Yes, my dear friend, I am as susceptible and affectionate as you; but I am so in a different manner. Perhaps, with more lively passions, I am less able to govern them; and that very chearfulness, which has been so fatal to the innocence of others has preserved mine. Not that it has been always easy, I confess; any more than it is to remain a widow at my years, and not be sometimes sensible that the daytime constitutes but one half of our lives. Nay, notwithstanding the grave face you put on the matter, I imagine your case does not differ in that greatly from mine. Mirth and pleasantry may then afford no unseasonable relief; and perhaps be a better preservative than graver lessons. How many times, in the stillness of the night, when the heart is all open to itself, have I driven impertinent thoughts out of my mind, by studying tricks for the next day! how many times have I not averted the danger of a private conversation by an extravagant fancy!
there is always, my dear, when one is weak, a time wherein gaiety becomes serious; but that time will not come to me.
These are at least my sentiments of the matter, and what I am not ashamed to confess in answer to you. I readily confirm all that I said in the elysium, as to the growing passion I perceived, and the happiness I had enjoyed during the winter. I indulged myself freely in the pleasing reflections of being always in company with the person I loved, while I desired nothing farther; and, if that opportunity had still subsisted, I should have coveted no other. My chearfulness was the effect of contentment, and not of artifice. I turned the pleasure of conversing with him into drollery, and perceived that, in contenting myself with laughing, I was not paving the way for future sorrow.
I could not indeed help thinking sometimes, that my continual playing upon him gave him less real displeasure than he affected. The cunning creature was not angry at being offended, and if he was a long time before he could be brought to temper, it was only, that he might enjoy the pleasure of being intreated. Again, I in my turn have frequently laid hold of such occasions to express a real tenderness for him, appearing all the while to make a jest of him: so that you would have been puzzled to say which was the most of a child. One day, I remember that you was absent, he was playing at chess with your husband, while I and the little Frenchwoman were diverting ourselves at shuttlecock in the same room; I gave her the signal, and kept my eye on our philosopher; who, I found by the boldness of his looks and the readiness of his moves, had the best of the game. As the table was small, the chessboard hung over its edge, I watched my opportunity, therefore, and without seeming to design it, gave the board a knock with a back stroke of my racquet, and overturned the whole game on the floor. You never in your life law a man in such a passion: he was even so enraged that, when I gave him his choice of a kiss, or a box in the ear by way of penance, he sullenly turned away from me as I presented him my cheek. I asked pardon, but to no purpose: he was inflexible, and I doubt not that he would lave left me on my knees, had I condescended to kneel for it. I put an end to his resentment, however, by another offence which made him forget the former, and we were better friends than ever.
I could never have extricated myself so well by any other means; and I once perceived that, if our play had become serious, it might have proved too much so. This was one evening when he played with us that simple and affecting duo of Leo’s _Vado a morir ben mio_. You sung indeed with indifference enough: but I did not; for just as we came to the most pathetic part of the song, he leaned forward, and as my hand lay upon the harpsichord, imprinted on it a kiss, whose impression I felt at my heart. I am not very well acquainted with the ardent kisses of love; but this I can say, that mere friendship, not even ours, ever gave or received any thing like that. After such moments, what is the consequence of reflecting on them in solitude, and of bearing him constantly in memory? for my part, I was so much affected at the time, that I sung out of tune and put the music out. We went to dancing, I made the philosopher dance; we eat little or nothing; sat up very late; and, though I went to bed weary, I only dosed till morning.
I have therefore very good reason for not laying any restraint on my humour, or changing my manners. The time that will make such an alteration necessary is so near, that it is not worth while to anticipate. The time to be prudish and reserved will come but too soon. While I am in my twenties, therefore, I shall make use of my privilege; for when once turned of thirty, people are no longer wild without being ridiculous; and your find-fault of a husband hath assurance enough to tell me already that I shall be allowed but six