voice, which instead of softening the tones, renders them more intolerably noisy; nay they are even so unfortunate in their pretensions, that they suffer the very harmony they expect to escape them; for in order to render it more compleat, they sacrifice all choice, they no longer distinguish the powers and effects of particular tones, their compositions are overcharged, they have spoilt their ears, and are become insensible to every thing but noise: so that, in their opinion, the finest voice is that which roars the loudest. Having no original stile or taste of their own, they have always followed us heavily and at a great distance, and since their, or rather our Lulli, who imitated the operas which were then quite common in Italy, we have beheld them, thirty or forty years behind us, copying, mutilating and spoiling our ancient compositions, just as other nations do by their fashions. Whenever they boast of their _chansons_, they pronounce their own condemnation; for if they could express the passions, they would not set wit to music: but because their music is entirely incapable of any expression, it is better adapted to _chansons_ than operas, and ours is more fit for the latter because it is extremely pathetic.
He then repeated a few Italian scenes without singing, made me sensible of the harmony between the music and the words in the recitative, between the sentiment and the music in the airs, and in general the energy which was added to the expression by the exact measure and the proper choice of chords. In short, after joining to my knowledge of the Italian, the most perfect idea in my power of the oratorial and pathetic emphasis, namely the art of speaking to the ear and to the heart in an inarticulate language, I sat down and gave my whole attention to this enchanting music, and, by the emotions I felt, soon perceived that there is a power in the art infinitely beyond what I imagined. It is impossible to describe the voluptuous sensation which imperceptibly stole upon me. It was not an unmeaning succession of sounds, as in our musical recitals. Every phrase imprest my brain with some new image, or conveyed a fresh sensation to my heart. The pleasure did not stop at the ear; it penetrated my soul. The performance, without any extraordinary effort, seemed to flow with charming facility; and the performers appeared to be all animated by one soul. The singer, who was quite master of his voice, expressed, with ease, all that the music and the words required. Upon the whole, I was extremely happy to find myself relieved from those heavy cadences, those terrible efforts of the voice, that continual combat between the air and the measure which in our music so seldom agree, and which is not less fatiguing to the audience than the musician.
But when, after a succession of agreeable airs, they struck into those grand pieces of expression, which, as they paint, excite the more violent passions, I every moment lost the idea of music, song, imitation; and imagined I heard the real voice of grief, rage, despair. Sometimes methought I saw a weeping disconsolate mother, a lover betrayed, a furious tyrant, and the sympathy was frequently so powerful that I could hardly keep my seat. I was thus affected, because I now fully conceived the ideas of the composer, and therefore his judicious combination of sounds acted upon me with all its force.
No, Eloisa, it is impossible to feel those impressions by halves; they are excessive or not at all; one is either entirely insensible or raised to an immoderate degree of enthusiasm: either it is an unintelligible noise, or an impetuosity of sensation that hurries you along, and which the soul cannot possibly resist.
Yet I had one cause of regret throughout the whole: it was, that any other than my Eloisa should form sounds that were capable of giving me pleasure, and to hear the most tender expressions of love from the mouth of a wretched eunuch. O my lovely Eloisa! can there be any kind of sensibility that belongs not to us? Who is there that can feel and express better than we, all that can possibly be exprest or felt by a soul melting into tenderness and love? Where are those who in softer and more pathetic accents could pronounce the _Cor mio_, the _Idolo amato_? Ah! what energy would our hearts add to the expression, if together we should ever sing one of those charming duets which draw such delicious tears from one’s eyes! I conjure you to taste this Italian music as soon as possible, either at home or with your cousin.
Lord B---- will order his people to attend when and where you shall think proper. With your exquisite sensibility, and more knowledge than I had of the Italian declamation, one single essay will raise you to a degree of enthusiasm at least equal to mine. Let me also persuade you to take a few lessons of this virtuoso: I have begun with him this morning. His manner of instruction is simple, clear, and consists more in example than precept. I already perceive that the principal requisite is to feel and mark the _time_, to observe the proper emphasis, and instead of swelling every note, to sustain an equality of tone; in short to refine the voice from all that French bellowing, that it may become more just, expressive and flexible. Yours, which is naturally so soft and sweet will be easily reformed, and your sensibility will soon instruct you in that vivacity and expression, which is the soul of Italian music.
_E ’l cantar che nell’ animo si sente._ Leave then, for ever leave, that tedious and lamentable French singsong, which bears more resemblance to the cries of the cholic than the transports of the passion; and learn to breathe those divine sounds inspired by sensation, which only are worthy of your voice, worthy of your heart, and which never fail to charm and fire the soul.
Letter XLIX. From Eloisa.
You know, my dear friend, that I write to you by stealth, and in continual apprehension of a surprize. Therefore, as it is impossible for me to write long letters, I must confine myself to those parts of yours which more especially require answering, or to supply what was left unsaid in our conversations, which, alas, are no less clandestine than our interchange of letters: at least I shall observe this method to day; your mentioning Lord B---- will make me neglect the rest.
And so you are afraid to lose me, yet you talk to me of singing!
surely this were sufficient cause for a quarrel between two people who were less acquainted. No, no, you are not jealous it is evident: nor indeed will I be so; for I have dived into your heart, and perceive that which another might mistake for indifference, to be absolute confidence. O what a charming security is that which springs from the sensibility of a perfect union! Hence it is, I know, that from your own heart you derive your good opinion of mine; and hence it is you are so entirely justified, that I should doubt your affection, if you were more alarmed.
I neither know nor care whether Lord B---- has any other regard for me than all men have for girls of my age. But of what consequence are his sentiments of the matter? Mine and my father’s are the only proper subjects of enquiry and these are both the same as they were with regard to the two pretended pretenders, of whom you say you will say nothing. If his exclusion and theirs will add to your repose, rest satisfied. How much soever we might think ourselves honoured in the addresses of a man of his Lordship’s rank, never, with her own or her father’s consent, would Eloisa D’Etange become Lady B----. Of this you may be very certain: not that you are hence to conclude that he was ever thought of in that light. I am positive you are the first person who supposed that he has the least inclination for me. But be that as it will, I know my father’s sentiments as well as if he had already declared them. Surely this is sufficient to calm your fears; at least it is as much as it concerns you to know. The rest is matter of mere curiosity, and you know I have resolved that it shall not be satisfied. You may reproach me as you please with reserve, and pretend that our concerns and our interest are the same. If I had always been reserved, it would now have been less important. Had it not been for my indiscretion in repeating to you some of my fathers words, you would never have retired to Meillerie, you would never have written the letter which was the cause of my ruin, I should still have possessed my innocence, and might yet have aspired to happiness. Judge then, by my sufferings for one indiscretion, how I ought to dread the commission of another! You are too violent to have any prudence. You could with less difficulty conquer your passions than disguise them.
The least suspicion would set you mad, and the most trivial circumstance would confirm all your suspicions. Our secrets would be legible in your face, and your impetuous zeal would frustrate all my hopes. Leave therefore to me the cares of love, and do you preserve its pleasures only. You surely have no reason to complain with this division: acquiesce, and be convinced that all you can possibly contribute to the advancement of our felicity, is, not to interrupt it.
But, alas! what avail my precautions now? Is it for me to be cautious how I step, who am already fallen headlong down the precipice, or to prevent the evils with which I am already oppressed? Ah wretched girl!
is it for thee to talk of felicity? Was ever happiness compatible with shame and remorse? Cruel, cruel fate! neither to be able to bear nor to repent of my crime; to be beset by a thousand terrors, deluded by a thousand hopes, and not even to enjoy the horrible tranquility of despair. The question is not now of virtue and resolution, but of fortune and prudence. My present business is not to extinguish a flame which ought never to expire, but to render it innocent, or to die guilty. Consider my situation, my friend, and then see whether you dare depend upon my zeal.
Letter L. From Eloisa.
I refused to explain to you, before we parted yesterday, the cause of that uneasiness you remarked in me, because you were not in a condition to bear reproof. In spite, however, of my aversion to explanations, I think I ought to do it now, to acquit myself of the promise I then made you.
I know not whether you may remember your last night’s unaccountable discourse and strange behaviour; for my part, I shall remember them too long for your honour or my repose; indeed they have hurt me too much to be easily forgotten. Similar expressions have sometimes reached my ears from the street; but I never thought they could come from the lips of any worthy man. Of this however I am certain, there are no such in the lover’s dictionary, and nothing was farther from my thoughts than that they should ever pass between you and me. Good heaven! what kind of love must yours be, thus to season its delights!
It is true, you were flushed with wine, and I perceive how much one must over-look in a country where such excess is permitted. It is for this reason I speak to you on the subject; for you may be assured that, had you treated me in the same manner when perfectly sober, it should have been the last opportunity you should ever have had.
But what alarms me most on your account is, that the conduct of men in liquor is often no other than the image of what passes in their hearts at other times. Shall I believe that, in a condition which disguises nothing, you discovered yourself to be what you really are? What will become of me if you think this morning as you did last night? Sooner than be liable to such insults, I had rather extinguish so gross a passion, and lose for ever a lover who, knowing so little how to respect his mistress, deserves so little of her esteem.
Is it possible that you who should delight in virtuous sentiments, should have fallen into that cruel error, and have adopted the notion, that a lover once made happy need no longer pay any regard to decorum, and that those have no title to respect whose cruelty is no longer to be feared. Alas, had you always thought thus, your power would have been less dreadful, and I should have been less unhappy. But mistake not, my friend; nothing is so pernicious to true lovers as the prejudices of the world; so many talk of love and so few know what it is, that most people mistake its pure and gentle laws for the vile maxims of an abject commerce, which, soon satiated, has recourse to the monsters of imagination, and, in order to support itself, sinks into depravity.
Possibly I may be mistaken; but it seems to me that true love is the chastest of all human connections; and that the sacred flame of love should purify our natural inclinations, by concentring them in one object. It is love that secures us from temptation, and makes the whole sex indifferent, except the beloved individual.
To a woman indifferent to love, every man is the same, and all are men; but to her whose heart is truly susceptible of that refined passion, there is no other man in the world but her lover. What do I say? Is a lover no more than a man? He is a being far superior! There exists not a man in the creation with her who truly loves: her lover is more, and all others are less; they live for each other, and are the only beings of their species. They have no desires; they love. The heart is not led by, but leads, the senses, and throws over their errors the veil of delight. There is nothing obscene but in lewdness and its gross language. Real love, always modest, seizes not impudently its favours, but steals them with timidity. Secrecy, silence, and a timorous bashfulness heighten and conceal its delicious transports; its flame purifies all its caresses, while decency and chastity attend even its most sensual pleasures. It is love alone that knows how to gratify the desires without trespassing on modesty. Tell me, you who once knew what true pleasures were, how can a cynic impudence be consistent with their enjoyment? Will it not deprive that enjoyment of all its sweetness? Will it not deface that image of perfection that represents the beloved object? Believe me, my friend, lewdness and love can never dwell together; they are incompatible. On the heart depends the true happiness of those who love; and where love is absent, nothing can supply its place.
But, supposing you were so unhappy as to be pleased with such immodest discourse, how could you prevail on yourself to make sure of it so indifferently, and address her who was so dear to you, in a manner in which a virtuous man certainly ought to be ignorant? Since when is it become delightful to afflict the object one loves? and how barbarous is that pleasure which delights in tormenting others? I have not forgotten that I have forfeited the right I had to be respected: but if I should ever forget it, is it you that ought to remind of it? Does it belong to the author of my crime to aggravate my punishment? Ought he not rather to administer comfort? All the world may have reason to despise me, but you have none. It is to you I owe the mortifying situation to which I am reduced; and surely the tears I have shed for my weakness call upon you to alleviate my sorrow, I am neither nice nor prudish. Alas, I am but too far from it; I have not been even discreet. You know too well, ungrateful as you are, that my susceptible heart can refuse nothing to love. But, whatever I may yield to love, I will make no concessions to any thing else; and you have instructed me too well in its language to be able to substitute one so different in its room. No terms of abuse, not even blows could have insulted me more than such demonstrations of kindness. Either renounce Eloisa, or continue to merit her esteem. I have already told you I know no love without modesty; and, how much soever it may cost me to give up yours, it will cost me still more to keep it at so dear a price.
I have yet much to say on this subject; but I must here close my letter, and defer it to another opportunity. In the mean time, pray observe one effect of your mistaken maxims regarding the immoderate use of wine. I am very sensible your heart is not to blame; but you have deeply wounded mine; and, without knowing what you did, afflicted a mind too easily alarmed, and to which nothing is indifferent that comes from you.
Letter LI.
There is not a line in your letter that does not chill the blood in my veins; and I can hardly be persuaded, after twenty times reading, that it is addressed to me. Who I? Can I have offended Eloisa? Can I have profaned her beauties? Can the idol of my soul, to whom every moment of my life I offer up my adorations, can she have been the object of my insults? No, I would have pierced this heart a thousand times before it should have formed so barbarous a design. Alas! you know but little of this heart that flies to prostrate itself at your feet; a heart anxious to contrive for thee a new species of homage, unknown to human beings. Ah! my Eloisa, you know that heart but little, if you accuse it of wanting towards you the ordinary respect which even a common lover entertains for his mistress. Is it possible I can have been impudent and brutal? I, who detest the language of immodesty, and never in my life entered into places where it is held! But that I should repeat such discourse to you; that I should aggravate your just indignation! Had I been the most abandoned of men, had I spent my youth in riot and debauchery, had even a taste for sensual and shameful pleasures found a place in the heart where you reside, tell me, Eloisa, my angel, tell me, how was it possible I could have betrayed before you that impudence, which no one can have but in the presence of those who are themselves abandoned enough to approve it.
Ah, no! it is impossible. One look of yours had sealed my lips and corrected my heart. Love would have veiled my impetuous desires beneath the charms of your modesty; while in the sweet union of our souls their own delirium only would have led the senses astray. I appeal to your own testimony, if ever in the utmost extravagance of an unbounded passion, I ceased to revere its charming object. If I received the reward of my love, did I ever take an advantage of my happiness, to do violence to your bashfulness? If the trembling hand of an ardent but timid lover hath sometimes presumed too far, did he ever with brutal temerity profane your charms? If ever an indiscreet transport drew aside their veil, though but for a moment, was not that of modesty as soon substituted in its place? Unalterable as the chastity of your mind, the flame that glows in mine can never change.
Is not the affecting and tender union of our souls sufficient to constitute our happiness? Does not in this alone consist all the happiness of our lives? Have we a wish to know, or taste of any other?
And canst thou conceive that this enchantment can be broken? How was it possible for me to forget in a moment all regard to chastity, to our love, my honour, and that invincible reverence and respect which you must always inspire even in those by whom you are not adored? No; I cannot believe it. It was not I that offended you? I have not the least remembrance of it; and, were I but one instant culpable, can it be that my remorse should ever leave me? No, Eloisa, some demon, envious of happiness, too great for a mortal, has taken upon him my form to destroy my felicity.
Nevertheless, I abjure, I detest a crime which I must have committed, since you are my accuser, but in which my will had no part. How do I begin to abhor that fatal intemperance, which once seemed to me favourable to the effusions of the heart, and which has so cruelly deceived mine! I have bound myself, therefore, by a solemn and irrevocable vow, to renounce wine from this day, as a mortal poison.
Never shall that fatal liquor again touch my lips, bereave me of my senses, or involve me in guilt to which my heart is a stranger. If I ever break this solemn vow, may the powers of love inflict on me the punishment I deserve! May the image of Eloisa that instant forsake my heart, and abandon it for ever to indifference and despair!
But, think not I mean to expiate my crime by so slight a mortification. There is a precaution and not a punishment. It is from you I expect that which I deserve; nay, I beg it of you to console my affliction. Let offended love avenge itself and be appeased to punish without hating me, and I will suffer without murmuring. Be just and severe; it is necessary, and I must submit; but if you would not deprive me of life, you must not deprive me of your heart.
Letter LII. From Eloisa.
What! my friend renounce his bottle for his mistress! This is indeed a sacrifice! I defy any one to find me a man in the four cantons more deeply in love than your-self. Not but there may be found some young frenchified petit-maîtres among us that drink water through affectation; but you are the first Swiss that ever love made a waterdrinker, and ought to stand as an example for ever in the lover’s chronicle of your country. I have even been informed of your abstinent behaviour, and have been much edified to hear that, being to sup last night with M. de Vueillerans, you saw six bottles go round after supper without touching a drop; and that you spared your water as little as your companions did their wine. This state of self-denial and penitence, however, must have lasted already three days, and in three days you must have abstained from wine at least for six meals.
Now to the abstinence for six meals, observed through fidelity, may be added six others, through fear, six through shame, six through habit, and six more through obstinacy. How many motives might be found to prolong this mortifying abstinence, of which love alone will have all the credit? But can love condescend to pride itself in merit, to which it hath no just pretensions?
This idle raillery may possibly be as disagreeable to you, as your stuff the other night was to me: it is time, therefore, to stop its career. You are naturally of a serious turn, and I have perceived ere now that a tedious scene of trifling hath heated you as much as a long walk usually does a fat man; but I take nearly the same vengeance of you as Henry the fourth took of the duke of Maine: your sovereign also will imitate the clemency of that best of kings. In like manner, I am afraid lest, by virtue of your contrition and excuses, you should in the end make a merit of a fault so fully repaired; I will therefore forget it immediately, lest by deferring my forgiveness too long it should become rather an act of ingratitude than generosity.
With regard to your resolution of renouncing your bottle for ever; it has not so much weight with me as perhaps you may imagine; strong passions think nothing of these trifling sacrifices, and love will not be satisfied with gallantry. There is besides more of address sometimes than resolution, in making for the present moment an advantage of an uncertain futurity, and in reaping before hand the credit of an eternal abstinence, which may be renounced at pleasure.
But, my good friend, is the abuse of every thing that is agreeable to the senses inseparable from the enjoyment of it? Is drunkenness necessarily attached to the taste of wine? and is philosophy so cruel or so useless, as to offer no other expedient to prevent the immoderate use of agreeable things than that of giving them up entirely?
If you keep true to your engagement, you deprive yourself of an innocent pleasure, and endanger your health in changing your manner of living: on the other hand, if you break it, you commit a double offence against love; and even your honour will stand impeached. I will make use therefore on this occasion of my privilege; and do not only release you from the observance of a vow, which is null and void, as being made without my consent; but do absolutely forbid you to observe it beyond the term I am going to prescribe. On Tuesday next my Lord B---- is to give us a concert. At the collation I will send you a cup about half full of a pure and wholesome nectar; which it is my will and pleasure that you drink off in my presence, after having made, in a few drops, an expiatory libation to the graces. My penitent is permitted afterwards to return to the sober use of wine, tempered with the chrystal of the fountain; or as your honest Plutarch has it, moderating the ardors of Bacchus by a communication with the nymphs.
But to our concert on Tuesday; that blunderer Regianino has got it into his head that I am already able to sing an Italian air, and even a duo with him. He is desirous that I should try it with you; in order to shew his two scholars together; but there are certain tender passages in it dangerous to sing before a mother, when the heart is of the party: it would be better therefore to defer this trial of our skill to the first concert we have at our cousin’s. I attribute the facility with which I have acquired a taste for the Italian music to that which my brother gave me for their poetry; and for which I have been so well prepared by you, that I perceive easily the cadence of the verse: and, if may believe Regianino, have already a tolerable notion of the true _accent_. I now begin every lesson by reading some passages of Tasso, or some scene of Metastasio; after this, he makes me repeat and accompany the recitative, so that I seem to continue reading or speaking all the while; which I am pretty certain could never be the case in the French music. After this I practise, in regular time, the expression of true and equal tones; an exercise which the noise I had been accustomed to, rendered difficult enough.
At length we pass on to the air, wherein he demonstrates that the justness and flexibility of the voice, the pathetic expression, the force and beauty of every part, are naturally affected by the sweetness of the melody and precision of the measure; insomuch that what appeared at first the most difficult to learn need hardly be taught me. The nature of the music is so well adapted to the sound of the language, and of so refined a modulation, that one need only hear the bass and know how to speak, to decypher the melody. In the Italian music all the passions have distinct and strong expressions: directly contrary to the drawling, disagreeable tones of the French, it is always sweet and easy, while at the same time lively and affecting; its smallest efforts produce the greatest effects. In short, I find that this music elevates the soul without tearing the lungs, which is just the music I want. On Tuesday then, my dear friend, my preceptor, my penitent, my apostle, alas! what are you not to me? Ah! why should there be only one title wanting!
P. S. Do you know there is some talk of such another agreeable party on the water, as we made two years ago, in company with poor Chaillot?
How modest was then my subtle preceptor! How he trembled when he handed me out of the boat? Ah! the hypocrite! He is greatly changed.
Letter LIII. From Eloisa.
Thus every thing conspires to disconcert our schemes, every thing disappoints our hopes, every thing betrays a passion which heaven ought to sanctify! And are we always to be the sport of fortune, the unhappy victims of delusive expectation? Shall we still pant in pursuit of pleasure without ever attaining it? Those nuptials, which we so impatiently expected, were first to have been celebrated at Clarens; but the bad weather opposed it, and the ceremony was performed in town: however we had still some hopes of a private interview; but we were so closely beset by officious importunity, that it was impossible for us both to escape at the same instant. At last a favourable opportunity offers, but we are again disappointed by the cruelest of mothers, and that which ought to have been the moment of our felicity went near to have proved our destruction. Nevertheless, I am so far from being abashed by these numberless obstacles, that they serve but to inflame my resolution. I know not by what new powers I am animated, but I feel an intrepidity of soul to which I have been hitherto ignorant; and if you are inspired with the same spirit this evening, this very evening I will perform my promises, and discharge at once all the obligations of love.
Weigh this affair maturely, and consider well at what rate you estimate your life; for the expedient I am going to propose may probably lead us to the grave. If thou art afraid, read no farther; but if thy heart shrinks no more at the point of a sword than formerly at the precipice of Meillerie, mine shares the danger and hesitates no longer. Be attentive.
Bab, who generally lies in my chamber, has been ill there three days, and though I offered to attend her, she is removed in spite of me; but as she is now somewhat better, possibly to-morrow she may return. The stairs, which lead to my mother’s apartment and mine, are at some distance from the room where they sup, and, at that hour, the rest of the house, except the kitchen, is entirely uninhabited. The darkness of the night will then favour your progress through the streets without the least risk of being observed, and you are not unacquainted with the house.
I believe I have said enough to be understood. Come this afternoon to Fanny’s; I will there explain the rest, and give the necessary instructions: but if that should be impossible, you will find them in writing, in the old place, to which I consign this letter. The subject is too important to be trusted with any person living.
O! I see the violent palpitation of thy heart! How I feel thy transports! No, no, my charming friend, we will not quit this short existence without having, for a moment, tasted happiness. Yet remember that the fatal moment is environed with the horrors of death! That the way to bliss is extremely hazardous, its duration full of perils, and your retreat beyond measure dangerous; that if we are discovered, we are inevitably lost, and that to prevent it fortune must be uncommonly indulgent. Let us not deceive ourselves: I know my father too well to doubt that he would not instantly pierce your heart, or that even I should not be the first victim to his revenge; for certainly he would shew me no mercy, nor indeed can you imagine that I would lead you into dangers to which I myself were not exposed.
Remember also that you are not to have the least dependence on your courage; it will not bear a thought: I even charge you very expressly, to come entirely unarmed; so that your intrepidity will avail you nothing. If we are surprized; I am resolved to throw myself into thy arms, to grasp thee to my heart, and thus to receive the mortal blow, that they may part us no more; so shall my exit be the happiest moment of my life.
Yet I hope a milder fate awaits us; it surely is our due, and fortune must at last grow weary of her injustice. Come then, soul of my heart, life of my life, come and be re-united to thyself. Come, under the auspices of love, and receive the reward of thy obedience and thy sacrifices. O come and confess, even in the bosom of pleasure, that from the union of hearts, proceed its greatest delights.
Letter LIV. To Eloisa.
Am I then arrived?----how my heart flutters, in entering this asylum of love! Yes, Eloisa, I am now in your closet: I am in the sanctuary of my soul’s adored. The torch of love lighted my steps, and I passed through the house unperceived----Delightful mansion! happy place!
once the scene of tenderness and infant love suppressed! These conscious walls have seen my growing, my successful passion, and will now a second time behold it crowned with bliss: witness of my eternal constancy, be witness also of my happiness, and conceal for ever the transports of the most faithful and most fortunate of men.
How charming is this place of concealment! Every thing around me serves to inflame the ardour of my passion. O Eloisa, this delightful spot is full of thee, and my desires are kindled by every footstep of thine. Every sense is at once intoxicated with imaginary bliss. An almost imperceptible sweetness, more exquisite than the scent of the rose, and more volatile than that of the Iris, exhales from every part. I fancy I hear the delightful sound of your voice. Every part of your scattered dress presents to my glowing imagination the charms it has concealed. That light head dress, which is adorned by those bright locks it affects to hide, that simple elegant dishabille, which displays so well the taste of the wearer; those pretty slippers that fit so easily on your little feet; these stays, which encircle and embrace your slender----Heavens, what a charming shape! how the top of the stomacher is waved in two gentle curves? luxurious sight! the whalebone has yielded to their impression----delicious impression!
let me devour it with kisses! O Gods! how shall I be able to bear? Ah!
methinks I feel already a tender heart beat softly under my happy hand; Eloisa, my charming Eloisa, I see, I feel thee at every pore. We now breathe the same air. How thy delay inflames and torments me! My impatience is insupportable. O, come, Eloisa, fly to my arms, or I am undone! How fortunate it was to find pen, ink and paper! By expressing what I feel, I moderate my extasy, and give a turn to my transports by attempting to describe them.
Ha! I hear a noise----Should it be her inhuman father? I do not think myself a coward----but death would terrify me just now. My despair would be equal to the ardour which consumes me. Grant me, good heaven! but one more hour to live, and I resign the remainder of my life to thy utmost rigour. What impatience! what fears! what cruel palpitation! Ah! the door opens! It is she, it is Eloisa! I see her enter the chamber and lock the door. My heart, my feeble heart, sinks under its agitation. Let me recover myself, and gather strength to support the bliss that overwhelms me!
Letter LV. To Eloisa.
O let us die, my sweet friend! let us die, thou best beloved of my heart! How shall we hereafter support an insipid life, whose pleasures we have already exhausted? Tell me, if you can, what I experienced last night? give me an idea of a whole life spent in the same manner, or let me quit an existence which has nothing left that can equal the pleasures I have tasted.
I had tasted bliss, and formed a conception of happiness. But, alas! I had only dreamt of true pleasure, and conceived only the happiness of a child! My senses deceived my unrefined heart; I sought supreme delight in their gratification; and I find that the end of sensual pleasures is but the beginning of mine. O thou choice master piece of nature’s works! divine Eloisa! to the ecstatic possession of whom all the transports of the most ardent passion hardly suffice! Yet it is