Chapter CLXII: Letter CLXI: From Mr. Wolmar (2)

She expressed her gratitude to heaven in that it had been pleased to give her a susceptible and benevolent heart, a sound understanding and an agreeable person; in that it had been pleased to give her birth in a land of liberty, and not in a country of slaves; that she came of an honourable family and not of an ignoble or criminal race; that she was born to a moderate fortune, and not either to the superfluous riches of the great, which corrupt the mind, or to the indigence of the poor, which debases it. She felicitated herself that she was born of parents, both of them good and virtuous, replete with justice and honour, and who, tempering the faults of each other, had formed her judgment on theirs, without subjecting her to their foibles or prejudices. She boasted the advantages, she had enjoyed, of being educated in a rational and holy religion; which, so far from debasing, elevates and ennobles mankind; which, neither favouring impiety nor fanaticism, permits its professors to make use, at the same time, both of faith and reason, to be at once both devout and humane.

Then, pressing the hand of Clara, which she constantly held in hers, and looking at her with the most affecting tenderness, all these blessings, said she, I have enjoyed in common with others; but this one----this, heaven reserved for me alone: I am a woman, and yet have known a true friend. Heaven gave us birth at the same time; it gave us a similarity of inclinations which has subsisted to this hour: it formed our hearts one for the other; it united us in the cradle; I have been blest with her friendship during my life, and her kind hand will close my eyes in death. Find another example like this in the world, and I have no longer any thing to boast. What prudent advice hath she not given me? from what perils hath she not saved me? under what afflictions hath she not comforted me? what should I indeed have been without her? what should I not have been, had I listened more attentively to her counsel?

Clara, instead of replying, leaned her head on the breast of her friend, and would have stifled her sighs by her tears: but it was impossible. Eloisa embraced her with the most cordial affection, and for a long time a scene of tearless silence succeeded.

When they recovered themselves, Eloisa continued her discourse. These blessings, said she, were mixed, with their inconveniences; such is the lot of humanity! My heart was made for love; difficult as to personal merit, but indifferent to that of opinion, it was morally impossible that my father’s prejudices should ever agree with my inclinations. My heart required a lover of its own peculiar choice. Such a one offered himself, I made choice of him, or rather heaven so directed my choice, that though a slave to passion, I should not be abandoned to the horrors of my guilt, and that the love of virtue should still keep possession of my heart, even after I was criminal. He made use of the specious insinuating language of virtue, by which a thousand base men daily seduce our sex; but perhaps he only of all mankind, was sincere. Did I then know his heart? ah! no. I then knew no more of him than his professions, and yet I was seduced. I did that through despair which others have done through wantonness: I even threw myself, as my father reproached me, into his arms; and yet he loved and respected me: by that respect alone I began to know him truly. Every man capable of such behaviour must have a noble soul. Then, I might safely have trusted him; but I had done that before, and afterwards ventured to trust in my own strength, and so was deceived.

She then went on, to lavish encomiums on the merit of this unhappy lover; I will not say she did him more than justice, but the pleasure she took in it was very obvious. She even praised him at her own expense, and by endeavouring to be just to him, was unjust to herself. She went even so far as to maintain that he held adultery in greater horror than she did; forgetting that he himself had disproved any such suggestion.

All the other incidents of her life were related in the same spirit. The behaviour of Lord B----, her husband, her children, your return, our friendship, every thing was set in the most favourable light. She recapitulated even her misfortunes with pleasure, as accidents which had prevented greater misfortunes. She lost her mother at a time when that loss was peculiarly felt; but if heaven had been pleased to spare her, a disturbance, fatal to the peace of her family might have been the consequence. The assistance of her mother, feeble as it was, would have been sufficient to strengthen her resolution to resist the will of her father, whence family discord and scandal would have arisen, perhaps some disaster or dishonour, and perhaps still worse if her brother had lived. She had married a man, against her own inclination, whom she did not love; and yet she maintained, that she could not have been so happy with any other man, not even with the object of her passion. The death of Mr. Orbe had deprived her of a friend in the husband, but had restored to her a more amiable one in the wife. She even went so far as to include her uneasiness, her pains, in the number of blessings, as they had served to prevent her heart from being hardened against the sufferings of others. It is unknown, said she, the delight of bemoaning our own misfortunes or those of others. A susceptible mind finds a contentment in itself, independent of fortune. How deeply have I not sighed! how bitterly have I not wept! and yet, were I to pass my life again, the evil I have committed would be all that I would wish retrenched; that which I have suffered would be again agreeable. These, St. Preux, were her own words; when you have read her letter, they will perhaps seem more intelligible.

Thus, continued she, you see to what felicity I was arrived. I enjoyed a considerable share of happiness, and had still more in view. The increasing prosperity of my family, the virtuous education of my children, all that I held dear in the world assembled, or ready to be assembled around me. The time present and the future equally flattering, enjoyment and hope united to compleat my happiness. Thus raised to the pinnacle of earthly bliss, I could not but descend; as it came before it was expected, it would have taken its flight while I was delighted in the thoughts of its duration. What could Providence have done to have sustained me on the summit of felicity? a permanent situation is not the lot of mankind? no, when we have acquired every thing, we must lose something, though it were from no other cause than that the pleasure of enjoyment diminishes by possession. My father is already in the decline of life; my children of an age when life is very uncertain: how many losses might not hereafter assist me, without my having it in my power to repair, or console myself under, one! A mother’s affection constantly increases, whilst the tenderness of her offspring diminishes in proportion as they are absent, or reside at a distance from her. Mine, as they grow up, would be taken from me: they would live in the great world, and might neglect me. You intend to send one of them to Russia; how many tears would not his departure and absence cost me! all by degrees would be detached from me, and I should have nothing to supply their loss. How often should I find myself not in the situation in which I now am going to leave you! and after all, I must still die. Die perhaps the last of you all, alone and forsaken! the longer one lives, the more desirous we are of living, even when our enjoyments are at an end: hence I might survive till life became a burthen, and yet should fear to die; ’tis the ordinary consequence of old age. Instead of that, my last moments are now agreeable, and I have strength to resign myself to death, if death it may be called to leave behind us what we love. No, my friends, my children, think not that I shall leave you; I will remain with you; in leaving you thus united, my heart, my soul, will still reside among you. You will see me continually among you; you will perceive me perpetually near you----the time will also come when we shall be united again; nor shall the virtuous Wolmar himself escape me. My return to God speaks peace to my soul, and sweetens the bitter moment that approaches; it promises me for you also the same felicity. I have been happy, I am still happy, and am going to be so for ever; my happiness is determined, beyond the power of fortune, to all eternity.

Just then the minister entered. Eloisa was truly the object of his respect and esteem; nobody knowing better than he the liveliness and sincerity of her belief. He was but too much affected with the conversation he had held with her the day before, and above all with the serenity and fortitude he had observed in her. He had often seen persons die with ostentation, but never with such calmness. Perhaps also to the interest he took in her situation was added a little curiosity to see whether such her uncommon serenity would last to the end. Eloisa had no occasion to change the subject of discourse to render it more agreeable to the character of our visitor. As her conversation when in health was never on frivolous topics, so now she continued, on her sickbed, to talk over with the same tranquillity, such subjects as she thought most interesting to herself and her friends; speaking indifferently on matters by no means indifferent in themselves.

Thus, following the chain of her ideas relative to her notions of remaining with her friends, the discourse turned on the situation of the soul separated from the body: when she took occasion to admire the simplicity of such persons, who promised on their deathbeds to come back to their friends, and bring them news of the other world. This, continued she, is just as reasonable, as the stories of ghosts and apparitions, that are said to commit a thousand disorders, and torment credulous good women; as if departed spirits had lungs to scold and hands to fight with. [105] How is it possible for a pure spirit to act upon a soul inclosed in a body, and which, by virtue of its union with such body can perceive nothing but by means of the corporeal organs? this is not to be conceived. I must confess, however, I see nothing absurd in supposing that the soul when delivered from the body, should return, wander about, or perhaps reside near the persons of such as were dear to it in life: not indeed to inform them of its existence; it has no means of communicating such information; neither can it act on us, or perceive what we act, for want of the organs of sense necessary to that end; but methinks it might become acquainted with our thoughts and perceptions, by an immediate communication similar to that by which the Deity is privy to all our thoughts, and by which we reciprocally read the thoughts of each other, in coming face to face: [106] for, added she, turning to the minister, of what use can the senses be when there is nothing for them to do? the supreme Being is neither seen nor understood; he only makes himself felt, he speaks neither to the eyes nor the ears, but only to the heart.

I understood, by the answer of the pastor and from some signs which passed between them, that the resurrection of the body had been one of the points on which they had formerly disputed. I perceived also that I now began to give more attention to the articles of Eloisa’s religion, where her faith seemed to approach the bounds of reason.

She seemed to take so much pleasure in these notions that, had she not been predetermined to abide by her former opinions, it had been cruelty to endeavour to invalidate one that seemed so agreeable to her in her present condition. What an additional pleasure, said she, have I not an hundred times taken, in doing a good action, in the imagination that my good mother was present, and that she knew the heart and approved the intentions of her daughter! there is something so comfortable in the thoughts of living under the eyes of those who were dear to us, that with respect to ourselves, they can hardly be said to be deceased. You may judge whether Clara’s hand was not frequently pressed during this discourse.

The minister had replied hitherto with a good deal of complacency and moderation; he took care, however, not to forget his profession for a moment, but opposed her sentiments on the business of another life. He told her the immensity, glory and other attributes of God, would be the only objects which the souls of the blessed would be employed in contemplating: that such sublime contemplation, would efface every other idea, that we should see nothing, that we should remember nothing, even in heaven, but that after so ravishing a prospect, every thing earthly would be lost in oblivion.

That may well be, returned Eloisa; there is such an immense distance between the lowness of our thoughts and the divine essence, that we cannot judge what effect it may have on us, when we are in a situation to contemplate its beauty. But, as I have hitherto been able to reason only from my ideas, I must confess that I leave some persons so dear to me, that it would grieve me much to think I should never remember them more. One part of my happiness, say I, will consist in the testimony of a good conscience; I shall certainly remember then how I have acted on earth: if I remember this, I cannot forget those persons who were dear to me; who must be still so: to see [107] them no more then will be a pain to me, and pain enters not into the mansions of the blest. But if, after all, I am mistaken, says she, smiling, a mistake for a day or two will be soon at an end. I shall know, sir, in a short time, more on this subject than even yourself. In the mean time, this I am well assured of, that so long as I remember that I have lived on earth, so long shall I esteem those I loved there, among whom my worthy pastor will not have the lowest place.

In this manner passed the conversation all that day, during which Eloisa appeared to have more ease, more hope and assurance than ever, seeming, in the opinion of the minister, to enjoy a foretaste of that happiness she was going to partake among the blessed. Never did she appear more tender, more amiable, in a word, more herself than at this time; always sensible, sentimental, possessing the fortitude of the philosopher and the mildness of a Christian. Nothing of affectation, nothing assuming or sententious escaped her; her expression always dictated by her sentiments with the greatest simplicity of heart. If sometimes she stifled the complaints which her sufferings might have drawn from her, it was not through affectation of a stoical intrepidity; but to prevent those who were about her from being afflicted; and when the pangs of approaching death triumphed over her strength, she strove not to hide her sufferings, but permitted us to comfort her; and when she recovered from them a little, comforted us in her turn. In the intervals of her pain, she was chearful, but her chearfulness was extremely affecting; a smile sitting frequently on the lip while the eye ran over with tears. To what purpose is that terror which permits us not to enjoy what we are going speedily to lose? Eloisa was even more pleasing, more amiable than when in health; and the last day of her life was the most glorious of all.

Towards the evening she had another fit which, though not so severe as that in the morning, would not permit us to leave the children long with her. She, remarked, however, that Harriot looked changed, and though we accounted for it by saying she wept much and eat little, she said no, her illness was in the blood.

Finding herself better, she would have us sup in her own chamber; the doctor being still with her. Fanny also, whom we always used to send for when we chose she should dine or sup at our table, came up unsent for; which Eloisa perceiving, she smiled and said, yes, child, come, you shall sup with me tonight; you may have your husband longer than you will have your mistress. Then turning to me, she said, I shall have no need to recommend Claud Anet to your protection. No, replied I, whosoever you have honoured with your benevolence needs no other recommendation to me.

Eloisa, finding she could bear the light, had the table brought near the bed, and what is hardly to be conceived of one in her situation, she had an appetite. The physician who saw no danger in gratifying her, offered her a bit of chicken; which she refused, but desired a bit of fish, which she eat with a little bread, and said it was very good. While she was eating, you should have seen the looks of Mrs. Orbe; you should have seen, I say, for it is impossible to describe them. What she eat was so far from doing her harm, that she seemed the better for it during the remainder of the repast. She was even in such good humour as to take upon her to complain that we had been so long without wine. Bring, says she, a bottle of Spanish wine for these gentlemen. By the looks of the physician, she saw he expected to taste some genuine Spanish wine, and casting her eyes at Clara, smiled at the conceit. In the mean time Clara, without giving attention to that circumstance, looked with extreme concern, sometimes at Eloisa, and then on Fanny, of whom her eyes seemed to say, or ask something, which I could not understand.

The wine did not come so soon as was expected; the valet de chambre, who was entrusted with the key of the cellar, having taken it away through mistake. On enquiry, indeed, it was found that the provision intended for one day had lasted five, and that the key was gone without any body’s perceiving the want of it, notwithstanding the family had sat up several nights. The physician was amazed, and for my part, at a loss whether I should attribute this forgetfulness to the concern or the sobriety of the servants, I was ashamed to make use of ordinary precautions with such domestics, and therefore ordered the door of the cellar to be broke open, and that for the future every one might drink at their discretion.

At length a bottle was brought us, and the wine proved excellent; when the patient having a mind to taste it, desired some mixed with water; on which the doctor gave her a glass, and ordered her to drink it unmixed. Clara and Fanny now cast their eyes more frequently at each other, but with looks timid and constrained, as if they were fearful of saying too much.

Her fasting, weakness, and ordinary way of living made the wine have a great effect on Eloisa. She perceived it, and said she was intoxicated. After having deferred it so long, said she, it was hardly worth while to begin to make me tipsy now, for a drunken woman is a most odious sight. In fact she began to prattle sensibly however as usual, but with more vivacity than before. It was astonishing, nevertheless, that her colour was not heighten’d: her eyes sparkled only with a fire moderated by the languor of her illness; and excepting her paleness she looked to be in full health. Clara’s emotion became now extremely visible. She cast a timid look alternately on Eloisa, on me, on Fanny, and above all on the physician; these were all expressive of so many interrogatories which she was desirous but fearful to make. One would have thought every moment that she was going to speak, but that the fear of a disagreeable reply prevented her: indeed her disquietude appeared at length so great that it seemed oppressive.

Fanny, encouraged by all these signs and willing to relieve her, attempted to speak, but with a trembling voice, faltering out that her mistress seemed to have been in less pain to ay----that her last convulsion was not so strong as the preceding----that the evening seemed----and there she stopped. Clara, who trembled like a leaf while Fanny was speaking, now fixed her eyes on the physician, listening with all her attention and hardly venturing to breathe lest she should not perfectly understand what he was going to say.

A man must have been stupid not to have guessed the meaning of all this. Du Boffon got up, felt the pulse of the patient, and said, here is neither intoxication nor fever; the pulse promises well. Clara rose up in a moment, and, addressing the doctor with the utmost impatience, would have interrogated him more particularly, but her speech failed her. How sir! said she----the pulse! the fever! she could say no more; but her eyes sparkled with impatience, and not a muscle in her face but indicated the most disquieting curiosity.

The doctor, however, made no answer, but took up the patient’s hand again, examined her eyes and her tongue, and having stood silent a while, said, I understand you, madam; but it is impossible for me to say any thing positively at present, only this, that if the patient is in the same situation at this hour tomorrow morning I will answer for her life. The words had scarce dropt from his lips before Clara, rushing forward quick as lightening, overturned two chairs and almost the table to get at him, when she clung round his neck and kissed him a hundred times, sobbing and bathing his face with her tears. With the same impetuosity she took a ring of value from her finger, and put it forcibly on his, crying out, as well as she could, quite out of breath, O sir! if you do but restore her to us, it is not one life only you will be so happy as to save.

Eloisa saw and heard this, which greatly affected her; looking on her friend, therefore, she thus broke out in a sorrowful and moving tone, cruel Clara! how you make me regret the loss of life! are you resolved to make me die in despair? must you be a second time prepared? these few words were like a clap of thunder; they immediately extinguished her transports, but could not quite stifle her rekindled hopes.

The doctor’s reply to Mrs. Orbe was immediately known throughout the house, and the honest domestics already conceited their mistress half restored. They unanimously resolved, therefore, to make the doctor a present, on her recovery, to which each contributed three months wages, and the money was immediately put into the hands of Fanny; some borrowing of the others what they wanted to make up their quota of the sum. This agreement was made with so much eagerness and haste, that Eloisa heard in her bed the noise of their acclamations. Think, my friend, what an effect this must have had on the heart of a woman, who felt herself dying. She made a sign to me to come near, and whispered in my ear; see how they make me drink to the very bottom that bitter yet sweet cup of sensibility!

When it was time to retire, Mrs. Orbe, who still partook of her cousin’s bed, called her women, to sit up that night to relieve Fanny: the latter however objected to the proposal, and seemingly with greater earnestness than she would have done, had not her husband been come. Mrs. Orbe persisted notwithstanding in her design, and both of them passed the night together in the closet. I sat up in the next chamber, but the hopes which the domestics entertained had so animated their zeal, that neither persuasions nor threats could prevail on one of them to go to bed that night. Thus the whole house sat up all night under so much impatience, that there was not one of the family who would not have gladly given a whole year of his life to have had it nine o’clock in the morning.

I frequently heard them walking in her chamber, during the night, which did not disturb me; but toward the morning when things seem’d more quiet and still, I was alarmed at a low, indistinct noise that seemed to come from Eloisa’s room. I listened and thought I could now distinguish the groans of a person in extremity. I ran into the room, threw open the curtain, and there----O St. Preux! there I saw them both, those amiable friends, motionless, locked in each other’s embrace, the one fainted away and the other expiring. I cried out, and hastened to prevent or receive her last sigh; but it was too late; Eloisa was no more.

I can give you no account of what passed for some hours afterwards; being ignorant of what befell myself during that time. As soon as I was a little recovered from my first surprise, I enquired after Mrs. Orbe; and learnt that the servants were obliged to carry her into her own chamber, where at last they were forced to confine her to prevent her returning into that of Eloisa; which she had several times done, throwing herself on the body, embracing, chasing, and kissing it in a kind of phrenzy, and exclaiming aloud in a thousand passionate expressions of fruitless despair.

On entering her apartment, I found her absolutely frantic, neither seeing nor minding any thing, knowing nobody, but running about the room, and wringing her hands, sometimes muttering in a hollow voice some extravagant words, and at others sending forth such terrible shrieks as to make one shudder with horror. On the feet of the bed sat her woman, frightened out of her wits, not daring to breathe or stir, but seeking to hide herself and trembling every limb. In fact the convulsions, which at this time agitated the unhappy Clara, had something in them most terrifying. I made a sign that her woman should retire; fearing lest a single word of consolation, untimely offered, might have put her into an actual fury.

I did not attempt therefore to speak to her; as she could neither have listened to or understood me; but observing after some time that her strength was quite exhausted with fatigue, I placed her on a settee; then sitting down by her and holding her hands, I ordered the children to be brought in and called them round her. Unhappily the first she took notice of was him that was the innocent cause of her friend’s death. The sight of him I could see made her tremble; her countenance changed, she turned away her looks from him in a kind of horror, and struggled to get her hands loose to push him from her. I called him then to me. Unfortunate boy, said I, for having been too dear to the one, you are become hateful to the other: it is plain their hearts were not in every thing alike. She was extremely angry at what I said, and retorted it severely; it had nevertheless its effect in the impression it made on her. For she immediately took the child up in her arms, and attempted to kiss him, but could not, and set him down again immediately. She did not even look upon him with the same pleasure as on the other, and I am very glad it is not this boy which is intended for her daughter.

Ye susceptible minds! what would you have done in my situation? ye would have acted like Mrs. Orbe. After having taken care of the children, and of Clara, and given the necessary orders about the funeral, it was necessary for me to take my horse and be the sorrowful messenger of the heavy tidings to an unhappy father. I found him still in pain from his hurt, as well as greatly uneasy and troubled about the accident which had befallen his daughter. I left him overwhelmed with sorrow: with the sorrow of the aged, which breaks not out into external appearances, which excites neither transport nor exclamation, but preys inwardly and fatally on the heart. That he will never overcome his grief I am certain, and I can plainly foresee the last stroke that is wanting to compleat the misfortune of his friend. The next day I made all possible haste, in order to be at home early, and pay the last honours to the worthiest of women: but all was not yet over. She must be made to revive, to afflict me with the loss of her a second time.

As I drew near my house, I saw one of my people come running out to meet me, who cried out from as far as he could be heard; sir, sir, make haste, make haste, my mistress is not dead. I could not comprehend what he meant; but made all the haste I could, and found the courtyard full of people, crying for joy and calling out aloud for blessings on Mrs. Wolmar. I asked the reason of all this; every one was transported with joy, but no body could give me a reasonable answer; for as to my own people their heads were absolutely turned. I made the best of my way therefore to Eloisa’s apartment, where I found more than twenty persons on their knees round the bed, with their eyes attentively fixed on the corpse, which, to my great surprise, I saw dressed out and lying on the bed: my heart fluttered, and I examined into her situation. But alas! she was dead and cold! This moment of false hope, so soon and so cruelly extinguished, was the most afflicting moment of my whole life. I am not apt to be choleric, but I found myself on this occasion extremely angry, and resolved to come at the bottom of this extravagant scene. But all was so disguised, so altered, so changed; that I had the greatest difficulty in the world to come at the truth. At length, however, I unravelled the mystery, and thus it was. My father-in-law, being alarmed at the accident he had heard, and thinking he could spare his valet de chambre, had sent him over before my arrival to learn the situation of his daughter. This old servant, being fatigued with riding on horseback, had taken a boat, and, crossing the lake in the night, arrived at Clarens the very morning of the day in which I returned. On his arrival he saw the universal consternation the house was in; and, learning the cause, went sobbing up to Eloisa’s apartment; where, throwing himself on his knees by the bedside, he wept and contemplated the features of his departed mistress. Then giving vent to his sorrows, he cried out, ah! my good mistress! ah! why did it not please God to take me instead of you! me, that am old, that have no connections, that can be of no more service on the face of the earth! but to take you, in the flower of youth, the pride of your family, the blessing of your house, the hope of the unfortunate, alas! was I present at your birth, thus to behold you dead!----

In the midst of these and such like exclamations, which flowed from the goodness and sincerity of his heart, the weak old man, who kept his eyes still fixed on the corpse, imagined he saw it move: having once taken this into his head, he imagined farther that Eloisa turned her eyes, looked at him and made a sign to him with her head. Upon this he rose up in great transport and ran up and down the house, crying out his mistress was not dead, that she knew him, and that he was sure she was living and would recover. This was sufficient to call every body together, the servants, the neighbours, and the poor, who before made the air resound with their lamentations, now all as loudly cried out in transport; she is not dead! she lives! she lives! the noise spread and increased; the common people, all fond of the marvellous, readily propagated the news: every one easily believed what he wished might be true, and sought to give others pleasure by countenancing the general credulity. So that, in a short time, the deceased was reported not only to have made a motion with her head, but to have walked about, to have conversed, &c. more than twenty witnesses having had ocular proofs of circumstances that never happened or existed. No sooner were they possessed with the notion of her being alive, but a thousand efforts were made to restore her; they pressed in crowds about her bed, spoke to her, threw spirits in her face, felt for her pulse, and did every thing their foolish apprehensions suggested to recover her; till her women justly offended at seeing the body of her mistress surrounded by a number of men, got every body turned out of the room and soon convinced themselves how egregiously they had been deceived. Incapable, however, of resolving to put end to so agreeable an error, or perhaps still hoping for some miraculous event, they clothed the body with care, and though her wardrobe was left to them, they did not spare the richest apparel. After which laying her out on the bed, and leaving the curtains open, they returned to their tears amidst the public rejoicings of the multitude.

I arrived in the height of this phrenzy, but when I became acquainted with the cause, found it impossible to bring the crowd to reason; and that if I had shut up my doors and had ordered the immediate burial of the corpse, it might have occasioned some disturbance; or that I should have passed, at least, for a paricide of a husband who had buried his wife alive, and should have been held in detestation by the whole country. I resolved therefore to defer the funeral. After six and thirty hours however, I found by the extreme heat of the weather, the corpse began to change, and, though the face preserved its features and sweetness, there seemed even there some signs of alteration. I mentioned it to Mrs. Orbe, who sat in a continued stupor, at the head of the bed. Not that she was so happy as to be the dupe of so gross a delusion; but she pretended to be so, that she might continue in the chamber, and indulge her sorrows.

She understood my design, and silently withdrew. In a moment after, however, she returned, bringing in her hand that veil of gold tissue embroidered with pearls, which you brought her from the Indies: [108] when, coming up to the bed, she kissed the veil, and spreading it over the face of her deceased friend, she cried out with a shrill voice, “Accursed be that sacrilegious hand which shall presume to lift up this veil! accursed be that impious eye which shall dare to look on this disfigured face!” this action and imprecation had such an effect on the spectators, that, as if by a sudden inspiration, it was repeated by one and all from every quarter. Such an impression indeed did it make on our servants and the people in general, that the deceased being put into the coffin, dressed as she was, and with the greatest caution, was carried away and buried in the same attire, without any person daring to touch the veil that covered her face. [109]

Those are certainly the most unhappy who, beside the supporting their own sorrows, are under the necessity of consoling others. Yet this is my task with my father-in-law, with Mrs. Orbe, with friends, with relations, with my neighbours, and with my own houshold. I could yet support it well enough with all but my old friend and Mrs. Orbe: but you must be a witness to the affliction of the latter to judge how much it adds to mine. So far from taking my endeavours to comfort her in good part, she even reproaches me for them; my solicitude offends her, and the coldness of my affliction but aggravates hers; she would have my grief be as bitter and extravagant as hers, her barbarous affliction would gladly see the whole world in despair. Every thing she says, every thing she does looks like madness; I am obliged therefore to put up with every thing, and am resolved not to be offended. In serving her who was beloved by Eloisa, I conceive I do a greater honour to her memory than by fruitless tears and lamentations.

You will be able to judge, from one instance, of the rest of her behaviour. I thought I had gained my point, by engaging her to take care of herself, in order to be able to discharge those duties which her dying friend had imposed on her. Reduced very low by convulsions, abstinence and want of rest, she seemed at length resolved to attempt her usual method of living, and to come to table in the dining-room. The first time, however, I ordered the children to dine in the nursery, being unwilling to run the hazard of this essay in their presence: violent passions of every kind, being one of the most dangerous objects that can be shewn to children. For the passions when excessive have always something puerile and diverting to young minds, by which they are seduced to admire what they ought to dread.

On entering the dining-room, she cast her eye on the table and saw covers laid for two persons only; at which she flung herself into the first chair that stood next her, refusing to come to table. I imagined I knew the reason, and ordered a third plate to be set on the table, at the place where her cousin used generally to sit. She then permitted me to lead her to her seat without reluctance, placing herself with great caution, and disposing her gown as if she was afraid to incommode the empty chair. On putting the first spoonful of soup to her mouth, however, she withdrew it, and asked, with a peevish air, what business that plate had there when no body made use of it? I answered, she was in the right, and had it taken away. She then strove to eat, but could get nothing down; by degrees her stomach swelled, her breath grew short, and all at once she started up and returned to her own chamber, without saying a word, or hearing any thing that I said to her, obstinately refusing every thing but tea all that day.

The next day I had the same task to begin again. I now conceived the best way to bring her to reason was to humour her, and to endeavour to soften her despair by more tender sentiments. You know how much her daughter resembles Mrs. Wolmar; that she took a pleasure in heightening that resemblance, by dressing her in the same manner, having brought several cloaths for her from Geneva, in which she used to dress her like Eloisa. I ordered Harriot therefore to be dressed, as much in imitation of Eloisa as possible, and, after having given her lesson, placed her at table where Eloisa used to sit; three covers being laid as the day before.

Clara immediately comprehended my design, and was affected, giving me a tender and obliging look. This was the first time she seemed sensible of my assiduity, and I promised myself success from the expedient.

Harriot, proud to represent her little mamma, played her part extremely well; so well indeed that I observed the servants in waiting shed tears. She nevertheless always gave the name of mamma to her mother, and addressed her with proper respect. At length, encouraged by success and my approbation, she ventured to put her hand to the soup-spoon and cried, _Clara, my dear, do you chuse any of this?_ the gesture, tone and manner, in which she spoke this, were so exactly like those of Eloisa, that it made her mother tremble. A moment after, however, she burst into a fit of laughter, and, offering her plate, replied; yes child give me a little, you are a charming creature. She then began to eat with an eagerness that surprized me. Looking at her with some attention, I saw something wild in her eyes, and a greater impatience in her action and manner than usual. I prevented her therefore from eating any more, and ’twas well I did so; for, an hour after she was taken extremely ill with a violent surfeit, which, had she continued to eat more, might have been fatal. From this time I resolved to try no more projects of this kind, as they might affect her imagination too much. Sorrow is more easily cured than madness; I thought it better therefore to let her suffer under the one a little longer, than run the hazard of driving her into the other.

This is the situation, my friend, in which we are at present. Since the baron’s return, indeed, Clara goes up every morning to his apartment, whether I am at home or abroad; where they generally pass an hour or two together. She begins also, to take a little more notice of the children. One of them has been sick; this accident has made her sensible that she has still something to lose, and has animated her zeal to the discharge of her duty. Yet, with all this, she is not yet sufficiently sorrowful; her tears have not yet begun to flow; we wait for you to draw them forth, for you to dry them up again. You cannot but understand me. Think of the last advice of Eloisa: it was indeed first suggested by me, and I now think it more than ever prudent and useful. Come and be reunited to all that remains of Eloisa. Her father, her friend, her husband, her children, all expect you, all desire your company, which cannot fail of being universally useful.

In a word, without farther explanations, come, partake and cure us of our sorrows; I shall perhaps be more obliged to you than to any other man in the world.