Letter LXIV. Clara to Mr. Orbe.
My father has this morning related to me the conversation he had yesterday with you. I perceive with pleasure that your expectations of what you are pleased to call your happiness, are not without foundation: you know I hope that it will prove mine too. Esteem and friendship are already in your possession, and all of that more tender sentiment of which my heart is capable is also yours. Yet be not deceived: as woman, I am a kind of monster; by whatsoever strange whim of nature it happens I know not, but this I know, that my friendship is more powerful than my love. When I tell you that my Eloisa is dearer to me than yourself, you only laugh at, me; and yet nothing can be more certain. Eloisa is so sensible of this, that she is more jealous for you than you are for yourself, and whilst you are contented, she is upbraiding me, that I do not love you sufficiently. I am even so strongly interested in every thing which concerns her, that her lover and you hold nearly the same place in my heart, though in a different manner. What I feel for him is friendship only; but it is violent: for you, I think, I perceive something of a certain passion called love; but then it is tranquil. Now, though this might appear sufficiently equivocal to disturb the repose of a jealous mind, I do not believe it will cause much uneasiness in you.
How far, alas, are those two poor souls from that tranquillity which we dare presume to enjoy! and how ill does this contentment become us, whilst our friends are in despair! It is decreed, they must part, and perhaps this may be the very instant of their eternal separation. Who knows but their mutual dejection, with which we reproached them at the concert, might be a foreboding that it was the last time they would ever meet? To this hour your friend is ignorant of his destiny. In the security of his heart he still enjoys the felicity of which he is already deprived. In the very instant of despair he tastes, in idea, the shadow of happiness, and like one who is on the brink of sudden death, the poor wretch dreams of existence unapprehensive of his fate. O heavens! it is from me he is to receive the sad sentence. O friendship divine! the idol of my soul! arm me, I beseech thee, with thy sacred cruelty. Inspire me with barbarous resolution, and enable me to perform this sad duty with becoming magnanimity!
I depend on your assistance, and I should expect it even if you loved me less; for I know your tender heart: it will have no need of the zeal of love when humanity pleads. You will engage our friend to come to me to-morrow morning; but be sure not to mention a syllable of the affair. To day I must not be interrupted. I shall pass the afternoon with Eloisa. Endeavour to find Lord B----, and bring him with you about eight o’clock this evening, that we may come to some determination concerning the departure of this unhappy man, and endeavour to prevent his despair.
I have great confidence in his resolution added to our precautions, and I have still greater dependence on his passion for Eloisa: her will, the danger of her life and honour, are motives which he cannot resist. Be it as it will, you may be assured that I shall not dream of marriage till Eloisa has recovered her peace of mind. I will not stain the matrimonial knot with the tears of my friend, so that if you really love me, your interest will second your generosity, and it becomes your own affair rather than that of another.
Letter LXV. Clara to Eloisa.
All is over; and in spite of her indiscretion my Eloisa is in safety. Her secrets are buried in silence. She is still loved and cherished in the midst of her friends and relations, possessing every one’s esteem, and a reputation without blemish. Consider, my friend, and tremble for the dangers which, through motives of love or shame, through fear of doing too little or too much, you have run. Learn hence, too fond or too fearful girl, never more to attempt to reconcile sentiments so incompatible; and thank heaven that, through a happiness peculiar to yourself, you have escaped the evils that threatened you.
I would spare your sorrowing heart the particulars of your lover’s cruel and necessary departure. But you desired to know them; I promised you should, and will keep my word with that sincerity which ever subsisted between us. Read on then, my dear and unhappy friend; read on, but exert your courage and maintain your resolution.
The plan I had concerted, and of which I advised you yesterday, was punctually followed in every particular. On my return home, I found here Mr. Orbe and my Lord B----; with whom I immediately begun, by declaring to the latter how much we were both affected by his heroic generosity. I then gave them urgent reasons for the immediate departure of your friend, and told them the difficulties I foresaw in bringing it about. His Lordship was perfectly sensible that it was necessary, and expressed much sorrow for the effects of his imprudent zeal. They both agreed it was proper to hasten the separation determined, and to lay hold of the first moment of consent, to prevent any new irresolution: and to snatch him from the danger of delay. I would have engaged Mr. Orbe to make the necessary preparations, unknown to your friend; but his Lordship, regarding this affair as his own, insisted on taking charge of it. He accordingly promised me that his chaise would be ready at eleven o’clock this morning, adding that he would carry him off under some other pretext, and accompany him as far as it might be necessary; opening the matter to him at leisure. This expedient however did not appear to me sufficiently open and sincere, nor would I consent to expose him, at a distance, to the first effects of a despair, which might more easily escape the eyes of Lord B---- than mine. For the same reason I did not close with his Lordship’s proposal of speaking himself to him, and prevailing on him to depart. I foresaw, that negotiation would be a delicate affair, and I was unwilling to trust any body with it but myself; knowing much better how to manage his sensibility, and also that there is always a harshness in the arguments of the men which a woman best knows how to soften. I conceived nevertheless that my Lord might be of use in preparing the way for an eclairissement; being sensible of the effects which the discourse of a man of sense might have over a virtuous mind; and what force the persuasions of a friend might give to the arguments of the philosopher.
I engaged Lord B----, therefore, to pass the evening with him, and, without saying any thing directly of his situation, to endeavour to dispose his mind insensibly to a stoical resolution. You, my Lord, who are so well acquainted with Epictetus, says I, have now an opportunity of making some real use of him. Distinguish carefully between real and apparent good, between that which depends on ourselves and what is dependent on others. Demonstrate to him that, whatever threatens us from without, the cause of evil is within us; and that the wise man, being always on his guard, has his happiness ever in his own power. I understood by his Lordship’s answer that this stroke of irony, which could not offend him, served to excite his zeal, and that he counted much on sending his friend the next day well prepared. This indeed was the most I expected; for in reality, I place no great dependence, any more than yourself, on all that verbose philosophy. And yet I am persuaded a virtuous man must always feel some kind of shame, in changing at night the opinions he embraced in the morning, and in denying in his heart the next day what his reason dictated for truth the preceding night.
Mr. Orbe was desirous of being of their party, and passing the evening with them; but to this I objected; as his presence might only disturb or lay a restraint on the conversation. The interest I have in him, does not prevent me from seeing he is not a match for the other two. The masculine turn of thinking in men of strong minds gives a peculiar idiom to their discourse, and makes them converse in a language to which Mr. Orbe is a stranger. In taking leave of them, I bethought me of the effects of his Lordship’s drinking punch; and, fearing he might when in liquor anticipate my design, I laughingly hinted as much to him: to which he answered, I might be assured he would indulge himself in such habits only when it could be of no ill effect; but that he was no slave to custom; that the interview intended concerned Eloisa’s honour, the fortune and perhaps the life of a man, and that man his friend. I shall drink my punch, continued he, as usual, lest it should give our conversation an air of reserve and preparation; but that punch shall be mere lemonade; and, as he drinks none, he will not perceive it. Don’t you think it, my dear, a great mortification to have contracted habits that make such precautions as these necessary?
I passed the night in great agitation of mind, not altogether on your account. The innocent pleasures of our early youth, the agreeableness of our long intimacy, and the closer connections that have subsisted between us for a year past, on account of the difficulty he met with in seeing you; all this filled me with the most disagreeable apprehensions of your separation. I perceived I was going to lose, with the half of you, a part of my own existence. Awake and restless I lay counting the clock, and when the morning dawned, I shuddered to think it was the dawn of that day which might fix the destiny of my friend. I spent the early part of the morning in meditating on my intended discourse, and in reflecting on the impressions it might make. At length the hour drew nigh, and my expected visitor entered. He appeared much troubled, and hastily asked me after you; for he had heard, the day after your severe treatment from your father, that you was ill, which was yesterday confirmed by my Lord B----, and that you had kept your bed ever since. To avoid entering into particulars on this subject, I told him I had left you better last night, and that he would know more by the return of Hans whom I had sent to you. My precaution was to no purpose, he went on asking me a hundred questions, to which, as they only tended to lead me from my purpose, I made short answers, and took upon me to interrogate him in my turn.