I was unwilling to interrupt the first transports of your grief: my writing to you would but have aggravated your sorrow, as I was no better qualified to relate than you to read our sad tale. At present, possibly, such a relation may not be disagreeable to both. As nothing remains but the remembrance of her, my heart takes a delight in recalling every token of that remembrance to my mind. You will have some consolation in shedding tears to her memory; but of that grand relief of the unfortunate I am constitutionally deprived, and am therefore more unhappy than you.
It is not, however, of her illness, but of herself, I would write. Another might have thrown herself into the water to save her child. Such an accident, her fever, her death are natural; and may be common to other mortals: but the employment of her last moments, her conversation, her sentiments, her fortitude, all these are peculiar to Eloisa. She was no less singular in the hour of death than she had been during the whole course of her life; and as I was the sole witness to many particulars, you can learn them from me alone.
You already know that her fright, her agitation, the fall, and the water she had imbibed, thew her into fainting fits, from which she did not recover till after she was brought home. On being carried into the house, she asked again for the child; the child was brought; and, seeing him walk about and return her caresses, she became apparently easy, and consented to take a little rest. Her sleep was but short, and as the physician was not yet come, she made us sit round on the bed; that is, Fanny, her cousin and me. She talked to us about her children, of the great diligence and care which her plan of education required, and of the danger of a moment’s neglect. Without making her illness of any great importance, she foresaw, she said, that it would prevent her for some time from discharging her part of that duty, and charged us to divide it amongst us.
She enlarged on her own projects, on yours, on the most proper means to carry them into execution; on the observations she had made as to what would promote or injure them; and, in a word, on every thing which might enable us to supply her place, in the discharge of the duties of a mother, so long as she might be prevented from it herself. I thought so much precaution unnecessary for one who imagined she should be prevented from exercising such employment only for a few days: but what added to my apprehensions was to hear her enter into a long and particular charge respecting Harriot. As to her sons, she contented herself with what concerned their education in the earliest infancy, as if relying on another for the care of their youth.
But in speaking of Harriot, she went farther, extending her remarks even to her coming-of-age; and, being sensible that nothing could supply the place of those reflections which her own experience dictated, she gave us a clear: and methodical abstract of the plan of education she had laid down, recommending it to the mother in the most lively and affecting manner.
All these exhortations, respecting the education of young persons and the duty of mothers, mixt with frequent applications to herself, could not fail to render the conversation extremely interesting: I saw indeed that it affected her too much. In the mean time, her cousin held one of her hands, pressing it every now and then to her lips, and bathing it with tears, at every reply: Fanny was not less moved; and as for Eloisa herself, I observed the big tears swell out of her eyes and steal down her cheeks; but she was afraid to let us see she wept, lest it should alarm us. But I then saw, that she knew her life was drawing towards its final period. My only hope was that her fears might deceive her, and represent the danger greater than it really was. Unhappily, however, I knew her too well to build much upon such a deception. I endeavoured several times to stop her, and at last begged of her not to waste her spirits by talking so much at once on a subject which might be continued at our leisure. Ah! my dear, replied she, don’t you know that nothing hurts a woman so much as silence? and, since I find myself a little feverish, I may as well employ my discourse about useful matters as prattle away the time about trifles.
The arrival of the physician put the whole house into a confusion, which it is impossible to describe. All the domestics were gathered about the door of the chamber, where they waited with their arms folded and anxious looks, to know his opinion of their mistress’s situation, as if their own destiny were depending. This sight threw poor Mrs. Orbe into such an agony of grief, that I began to be afraid for her senses. Under different pretences, therefore, I dismissed them, that their presence might no longer affect her. The physician gave us indeed a little hope, but in such vague terms that it served to convince me there was none. Eloisa was also reserved on account of her cousin. When the doctor left the chamber I followed him, which Clara was also going to do; but Eloisa detained her, and gave me a wink which I understood, and therefore immediately told the physician, that if there were any real danger he should as carefully conceal it from Mrs. Orbe as from the patient, lest her despair should render her incapable of attending her friend. He told me the case was indeed dangerous, but that four and twenty hours being hardly elapsed since the accident, it required more time to form a certain judgment; that the succeeding night might determine the fate of the patient; but that he could not positively pronounce any thing till the third day. Fanny alone was by, on his saying this, on whom we prevailed with some difficulty to stifle her emotions, and agreed upon what was proper to tell Mrs. Orbe and the rest of the family.
Toward the evening, Eloisa prevailed with her cousin, who had sat up with her the preceding night, and was desirous of continuing her vigilance, to go to bed for some hours. In the mean time, the patient being informed that she was to be bled in the foot, and that the physician was prescribing for her, she sent for him to her bedside and addressed him thus.
“Mr. Bouffon, when it is necessary to flatter a timid patient as to the danger of his case, the precaution is humane, and I approve of it; but it is a piece of cruelty to lavish equally on all, the disagreeable remedies which to many may be superfluous. Prescribe for me every thing that you think will be really useful, and I will punctually follow your prescriptions. But as to those of mere experiment, I beg you will excuse me: it is my body and not my mind which is disordered; and I am not afraid to end my days, but to misspend those which remain. The last moments of life are too precious to be thrown away. If you cannot prolong mine, therefore, I beg you will at least not shorten them, by preventing me from employing them as I ought. Either recover me entirely, or leave me; I can die alone.” Thus, my friend, did this woman, so mild and timid on ordinary occasions, know how to exert herself in a resolute and serious manner at this important crisis.
The night was cruel and decisive. Suffocation, oppression, fainting, her skin dry and burning. An ardent fever tormented her, during the continuance of which she was heard frequently to call out Marcellin, as if to prevent his running into the water, and to pronounce also another name, formerly repeated on a like occasion. The next day the physician told me plainly, that he did not think she could live three days. I alone was made privy to this afflicting piece of information, and the most terrible hour of my life was that wherein I kept it a secret in my breast, without knowing what use to make of it. I strayed out alone into the garden, musing on the measures I ought to take; not without many afflicting reflections on the misfortune of being reduced in the last stage of life to that solitude, of which I was sufficiently tired, even before I had experienced a more agreeable one.
I had promised Eloisa the night before, to tell her faithfully the opinion of the physician, and she had engaged me by every prevailing argument to keep my word. I felt that engagement on my conscience: but what to do, I was greatly at a loss! Shall I, said I to myself, in order to discharge an useless and chimerical duty, afflict her soul with the news, and lengthen the pangs of death? to tell her the hour of her dissolution, is it not in fact to anticipate the fatal moment? in so short an interval what will become of the desires, the hopes, the elements of life? shall I kill my Eloisa?
Thus meditating on what I should do, I walked on with long and hasty strides, and in an agitation of mind I had never before experienced. It was not in my power to shake off the painful anxiety; it remained an insupportable weight on my spirits. At length I was determined by a sudden thought.
For whose sake, said I, do I deliberate? for hers, or for mine? on whose principles do I reason? is it on her system or my own? What demonstration have I of the truth? In support of her system she also has nothing but opinion; but that opinion carries with it the force of evidence, and is in her eyes a demonstration. What right have I, in a matter which relates chiefly to her, to prefer my opinion, which I acknowledge to be doubtful, to hers which she thinks demonstrated? let us compare the consequences of both. According to hers, her disposition in the last hour of her life will decide her fate to all eternity. According to mine, all that I can do for her will be a matter of indifference in three days. According to my system, she will be then insensible to every thing: but if she be in the right, what a difference will there be! eternal happiness or misery! Perhaps----that word is terrible----wretch! risk thy own soul and not hers.
This was the first doubt I ever had concerning that scepticism you have so often attacked; but it was not the last. This doubt however freed me from the other. I immediately resolved; and for fear my mind should change, ran directly to Eloisa’s chamber; where, after dismissing every body from their attendance, I sat down by her bedside. I did not make use of those trifling precautions which are necessary with little minds. I was indeed for some time silent; but she looked at me and seemed to read my thoughts. Then, holding out her hand, do you think, said she, you bring me news? no, my dear friend, I know it already; the cold hand of death is upon me; we must part for ever.
She proceeded, and continued with me a long conversation, of which I may one day give you an account; and during which she engraved her testament on my heart. If I had indeed been ignorant of her disposition before, her temper of mind at this time would sufficiently have informed me.
She asked me, if her danger was known in the house. I told her, every one was greatly apprehensive; but that they knew nothing for certain; and that the physician had acquainted me only with his opinion. On this she conjured me carefully to keep it a secret for the remainder of the day. Clara, continued she, will not be able to support this stroke, unless it comes from my hand. I shall take upon me that affecting office tonight. It is chiefly for this reason that I desired to have the advice of a physician, that I might not subject her unnecessarily, and merely on my own suggestions to so cruel a trial. Take care that she may know nothing of it before the time, or you will certainly risk the loss of a friend, and your children that of a mother.
She then asked me after her father. I owned that I had sent an express to him: but took care to conceal from her, that the messenger, instead of contenting himself with delivering my letter, as I had ordered him, blundered out a story, from which my old friend, falsely collecting that his daughter was drowned, fell down stairs in a swoon and hurt himself; so that he kept his bed at Blonay. The hopes of seeing her father, affected her very sensibly, and the certainty I had of the vanity of such hope, had no small share in my uneasiness.
The paroxysms of the preceding night had rendered her extremely weak: nor did this long conversation at all increase her strength. In this feeble situation, therefore, she strove to get a little sleep in the day time; nor did I know, till two days after, that she did not sleep the whole time. The family continued in great anxiety; every one waiting in mournful silence for each other to remove their uneasiness, yet, without daring to ask any questions for fear of being told more than they wished to know. If there were any good news, they said to themselves, every one would be eager enough to tell it; and the bad we shall know but too soon. In this terrible suspense they were satisfied so long as they heard of no alteration for the worse. Amidst this dreadful silence, Mrs. Orbe only was active and talkative. As soon as she came out of Eloisa’s chamber, instead of going to rest, she ran up and down the house, asking what the doctor said to the one, and to the other. She had sat up all the preceding night, and could not be ignorant of what she had seen; but she strove even to impose on herself and to distrust the evidence of her senses. Those she interrogated always giving her favourable answers, encouraged her to ask others, which she continued to do with such an air of solicitude and poignant distress, that whoever had known the truth could not have been prevailed upon to tell it her.
In the presence of Eloisa she concealed her anxiety, and indeed the affecting object which she had before her eyes was sufficiently afflicting to suppress her vivacity. She was above all things solicitous to hide her fears from Eloisa; but she could very ill conceal them. Her trouble even appeared in her affectation to hide it. Eloisa, on her part also, spared no pains to deceive her cousin, as to the true state of her case. Without making light of her illness, she affected to speak of it as a thing that was already past, seeming uneasy only at the time necessary to restore her. How greatly did I suffer to see them mutually striving to comfort each other, while I knew that neither of them entertained that hope in their own breasts, with which each endeavoured to inspire the other.
Mrs. Orbe had sat up the two preceding nights and had not been undressed for three days. Eloisa proposed, therefore, that she should retire to her own bed: but she refused. Well, then, said Eloisa, let a little bed be made up for you in my chamber; if, added she, as if she had just thought of it, you will not take part of mine? come, my dear, says she, what say you? I am not worse, and, if you have no objection you shall sleep with me. This proposal was accepted. For my part, they turned me out of the room, and really I stood in need of rest.
I rose early the next morning; and, being anxious for what might have passed in the night, as soon as I heard them stirring, I went into her chamber. From the situation in which Mrs. Orbe appeared the preceding evening, I expected to find her extremely agitated. In entering the room, however, I saw her sitting on the settee, spiritless and pale, or rather of a livid complexion: her eyes heavy and dead; yet, she appeared calm and tranquil, but spoke little; as for Eloisa, she appeared less feeble than over night; the tone of her voice was strong, and her gesture animated; she seemed indeed to have borrowed the vivacity of her cousin. I could easily perceive, however, that this promising appearance was in a great measure the effect of her fever; but I remarked also in her looks that something had given her a secret joy which contributed to it not a little; but of which I could not discover the cause. The physician confirmed his former opinion, the patient continued also in the same sentiments, and there remained no hope.
Being obliged to leave her for some time, I observed, in coming again into her apartment, that every thing appeared in great order. She had caused flower-pots to be placed on the chimney piece; her curtains were half open and tied back; the air of the room was changed, a grateful odour every where diffusing itself, so that no one would have taken it for the bed chamber of the sick. The same taste and elegance appeared also in her deshabille; all which gave her rather the air of a woman of quality, waiting to receive company, than of a country lady who was preparing for her last moments. She saw my surprise, smiled at it, and guessing my sentiments was going to speak to me, when the children were brought into the room. These now engaged her attention; and you may judge whether, finding herself ready to part from them for ever, her caresses were cold or moderate. I even took notice that she turned oftener, and with more warmth, to him who was the cause of her death, as if he was become more dear to her on that account.
These embraces, sighs and transports were all mysterious to the poor children. They loved her indeed tenderly; but it was with that tenderness peculiar to their age. They comprehended nothing of her condition, of the repetition of her caresses, of her regret at never seeing them more: as they saw us sorrowful and affected, they wept; but knew nothing more. We may teach children to repeat the word death; but we cannot give them any idea of it: they neither fear it for themselves or others; they fear to suffer pain, but not to die. When the excess of pain drew complaints from their poor mother, they pierced the air with their cries; but when we talked to them of losing her, they seemed stupid and comprehended nothing. Harriot alone, being a little older than the others, and of a sex in which understanding and sentiment appear earlier than in the other, seemed troubled and frightened to see her little mamma in bed, whom she used always to see stirring about with her children. I remember that, on this occasion, Eloisa made a reflection quite in character, on the ridiculous vanity of Vespasian, who kept his bed so long as he was able to do any thing, and rose when he could do no more. I know not, says she, if it be necessary that an emperor should die out of his bed? but this I know that the mother of a family should never take to her bed, unless to die.
After having wept over the children, and taken every one of them apart, particularly Harriot, whom she kept sometime, and who lamented and sobbed grievously. She called them all three together; gave them her blessing, and, pointing to Mrs. Orbe, go, my children, said she, go, and throw yourselves at the feet of your mother: this is she whom Providence has given you, depriving you of nothing in taking me. Immediately they all ran to her, threw themselves on their knees, and, laying hold of her hands, called her their good mamma, their second mother. Clara stooped forward to embrace them, but strove in vain to speak; she could only utter a few broken and imperfect exclamations, amidst sighs and sobs that stifled her voice. Judge if Eloisa was not moved! the scene indeed became too affecting: for which reason I interrupted it.
As soon as it was over, we sat down again round the bed; and, though the vivacity of Eloisa was a little suppressed by the foregoing scene, she preserved the same air of content in her looks; she talked on every subject with all that attention and regard which bespeaks a mind at ease; nothing escaped her; she was as intent on the conversation as if she had nothing else to think of. She proposed that we should dine in her chamber, that she might have as much of our company as possible for the short time she had to live: you may believe this proposal was not on our part rejected.
The dinner was served up without noise, confusion or disorder, but with as much regularity as if it had been in the Apollo. Fanny and the children dined with us. Eloisa, taking notice that every one wanted an appetite, had the art to prevail on us to eat of almost every thing; one time by pretending to instruct the cook, at another by asking whether she might not venture to taste this or that, and then by recommending it to us to take care of our health, without which we should not be capable of doing her the service her illness required. In short, no mistress of a family, however solicitous to do the honours of her house, could in full health have shewn, even to strangers, more obliging, or more amiable marks of her kindness, than those which dying Eloisa expressed for her family. Nothing of what I expected happened, nothing of what really happened ever entered my head. In short I was lost in astonishment.
After dinner, word was brought up that the clergyman was come. He came as a friend to the family, as he often favoured us with a visit. Though I had not sent for him, as Eloisa did not request it, I must confess to you, I was pleased to hear he was come, and imagine the most zealous believer could not on the same occasion have welcomed him with greater pleasure. His presence indeed promised the removal of many of my doubts, and some relief from my perplexity.
You will recollect the motives for my telling her of her approaching end. By the effect which, according to my notions, such a shocking piece of information should have had on her, how could I conceive that which it really had? how could I imagine that a woman, so devout as not to pass a day, when in health, without meditation, who made the exercise of prayer her delight and amusement, should at such a time as this, when she had but two days to live; when she was just ready to appear before her awful judge, instead of making peace with God and her conscience, amuse herself in ornamenting her chamber, chatting with her friends, and diverting them at their meals, without ever dropping a word concerning God’s grace, or her own salvation? what could I think of her, and her real sentiments? how could I reconcile her conduct with the notions I had entertained of her piety? how could I reconcile the use she made of her last moments to what she had said to the physician, of their great importance? all this appeared to me an inexplicable enigma; for though I did not expect to find her practising all the hypocritical airs of the devotees, it seemed to me, however, high time to think of what she judged of so much importance, and that it should suffer no delay. If one is devout amidst the noise and hurry of life, how can one be otherwise at the moment we are going to quit it, and when there remains no longer time to think of another?
These reflections led me farther than I thought I ever should proceed. I began to be uneasy lest my opinions, indiscreetly maintained, might at length have gained too much upon her belief. I had not adopted hers, and yet I was not willing that she should have renounced them. Had I been sick, I should certainly have died in my own way of thinking, but I was desirous that she should die also in hers. These contradictory notions will appear to you very extravagant; I myself do not find them very reasonable: they were, however, such as really suggested themselves, at that time. I do not undertake to justify, I only relate them.
At length the time drew near, when my doubts were to be cleared up: for it was easy to see that, sooner or later, the minister would turn the conversation on the object of his duty; and though Eloisa had been capable of disguising her sentiments, it would be too difficult for her to do it in such a manner that a person, attentive and prepossessed as I was, should not see through the disguise.
It soon after happened as I expected. To pass over, however, the commonplace compliments with which this worthy clergyman introduced the subject, as well as the affecting manner in which he represented the happiness of crowning a well-spent life by a Christian exit; he added, that he had indeed remembered her to have maintained opinions, on some points, different from those of the church, or such as may be most reasonably deduced from the sacred writings; but that, as she had never persisted in defending them, he hoped she would die, as she had lived, in the communion of the faithful, and acquiesce in all the particulars of their common confession.
As Eloisa’s answer removed at once all my doubts, and differed a good deal from the commonplace discourses on such occasions, I shall give it you almost word for word; for I listened to it very attentively, and committed it to paper immediately after.
“Permit me, sir, said she, to begin by thanking you for all the care you have taken to conduct me in the paths of virtue and Christianity, and for that complacency with which you have borne with my errors when I have gone astray. Filled with a due respect for your zeal, as well as gratitude for all your goodness, I declare with pleasure that it is to you I am indebted for all my good resolutions, and that you have always directed me to do what was right, and to believe what was true.
“I have lived and I die in the protestant communion, whose maxims are deduced from scripture and reason; concerning which my heart hath always confirmed what my lips uttered; and though I may not have had always that docility in regard to your precepts which perhaps I ought, it has arisen from my aversion to all kind of hypocrisy: that which I could not believe, I never could profess; I have always sincerely sought what was most conformable to truth, and the glory of my Creator. I may have been deceived in my research; I have not the vanity to think I have always been in the right. I may, indeed, have been constantly in the wrong; but my intention has been invariably good. This was as much as was in my own power. If God did not vouchsafe to enlighten my understanding farther, he is too merciful and just to demand of me an account of what he has not committed to my care.
“This, sir, is all I think necessary to say on the opinions I profess. As to the rest, let my present situation answer for me. With my head distracted by illness and subjected to the delirium of a fever, is it now a proper time to endeavour to reason better than I did when in health? when my understanding was unimpaired and as sound as I received it from my Maker,----if I was deceived then, am I less subject to be so now? and in my present weakness, does it depend on me to believe otherwise than I did when in full health and strength of body and mind? It is our reason which determines our belief, but mine has lost its best faculties; what dependence then could be made on the opinions I should now adopt without it? what now remains for me to do, is to appeal to what I believed before; for the uprightness of my intention is the same, though I have lost my judgment. If I am in an error, I am sorry for and detest it; and this is sufficient to set my heart at ease as to my belief.
“With respect to my preparation for death; that, sir, is made; badly indeed I own, but it is done in the best manner I could; and at least much better than I can do it now. I endeavoured to discharge that important part of my duty before I became incapable of it. I prayed in health;----when I was strong, I struggled with divine grace for favour; at present, now I am weak, I am resigned, and rely upon it. The best prayers of the sick, are patience and resignation. The preparation of death, is a good life; I know of no other. While I conversed with you, while I meditated by myself, while I endeavoured to discharge the duties which Providence ordained for me; it was then I was preparing myself for death: for meeting my God and judge at my last hour. It was then I adored him with all my faculties and powers; what more can I now do, when I have lost them? is my languid soul in a condition to raise itself to the Almighty? this remnant of a half extinguished life, absorbed in pain, is it worthy of being offered up to God? no, sir, he leaves it me to employ it for those he taught me to love, and from whom it is his sovereign will that I should now depart: I am going to leave them to go to him, it is therefore with them I should now concern myself; I shall soon have nothing to do but with him alone: the last pleasure I take on earth shall be in doing my last duty; is not that to serve him, and do his will; to discharge all those duties which humanity enjoins me before I throw it off entirely? what have I to do to calm troubles which I have not? my conscience is not troubled: if sometimes it has accused me, it has done it more when I was in health than at present. It tells me now that God is more merciful than I am criminal; and my confidence increases as I find I approach nearer to him. I do not present him with an imperfect, tardy, or forced repentance, which, dictated by fear, can never be truly sincere, and is only a snare by which the false penitent is deceived. I do not present him with the service of the remnant and latter end of my days, full of pain and sorrow, a prey to sickness, grief, anxiety, death; and which I would not dedicate to his service till I could do nothing else. No, I present before him my whole life, full indeed of errors and faults, but exempt from the remorse of the impious, and the crimes of the wicked.
“To what punishment can a just God condemn me? the reprobate, it is said, hate him. Must he not first make me not love him? no, I fear not to be found one of that number. O thou great eternal being! supreme intelligence! source of life and happiness! creator! preserver! father! lord of nature! God powerful and good, of whose existence I never doubted for a moment and under whose eye I have always delighted to live! I know, I rejoice that I am going to appear before thy throne. In a few days my soul, delivered from its earthly tabernacle, shall begin to pay thee more worthily that immortal homage which will constitute my happiness to all eternity. I look upon what I shall be, till that moment comes, as nothing. My body, indeed, still lives; but my intellectual life is at an end. I am at the end of my career, and am already judged from what is past. To suffer, to die, is all that I have now to do: and this is nature’s work. I have endeavoured to live in such a manner as to have no occasion to concern myself at death, and now it approaches, I see it without fear. Those who sleep on the bosom of a father, are in no fear of being awaked.”
This discourse, begun in a grave and slow voice, and ending in a more elevated and animated tone, made on everyone present, myself not excepted, an impression the more lively, as the eyes of her who pronounced it seemed to sparkle with a supernatural fire; rays of light seemed to encircle her brow; and, if there be any thing in this world which deserves the name of celestial, it was certainly the face of Eloisa, while she was thus speaking.
The minister himself was transported at what he heard; and, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, good God! said he, behold the worship that truly honours thee! deign to render it propitious; for how seldom do mortals offer thee the like! Madam, continued he, turning to Eloisa and approaching her bed, I thought to have instructed you, but have myself been instructed. I have nothing farther to say. You have that true faith, which knows how to love God. Bear with you that precious repose and testimony of a good conscience, and believe me it will not deceive you. I have seen many Christians in your situation, but never before saw any thing like this. What a difference between such a peaceful end, and that of those terrified sinners, who implore heaven with vain and idle prayers unworthy to be heard. Your death, madam, is as exemplary as your life: you have lived to exercise your charity to mankind, and die a martyr to maternal tenderness. Whether it please God to restore you to us, to serve us as an example, or whether he is pleased to call you to himself to crown your virtue with its due reward, may we all so long as we survive, live like you, and in the end follow your example in death; we shall then be certain of happiness in another life.
He offered now to take his leave; but Eloisa prevailed on him to stay. You are one of my friends, said she to him, and one of those I take the greatest pleasure to see; it is for those my last moments are so precious. We are going to part for too long a time, to part so soon now. He was well pleased to stay, and I went out and left them.
At my return, I found the conversation continued still on the same subject; but in a less interesting manner. The minister complained much of that false notion, which makes religion only of use to persons on their deathbed, and represents its ministers as men of ill omen. We are looked upon, says he, in common rather as the messengers of sorrow and death, than of the glad tidings of life and salvation: and that because, from the convenient opinion of the world that a quarter of an hour’s repentance is sufficient to efface fifty years of guilt, we are only welcome at such a time. We must be clothed in a mourning habit and affect a morose air, in short nothing is spared to render us dismal and terrifying. It is yet worse, in other religious professions. A dying roman-catholic is surrounded by objects the most terrifying, and is pestered with ceremonies that in a manner bury him alive. By the pains they take to keep the devils from him, he imagines he sees his chamber full of them; he dies a hundred times with fear before he expires, and it is in this state of horror the church delights to plunge the dying sinner, in order to make the greater advantage of his purse.
Thank God, said Eloisa, that we were not brought up in those venal religions, which murder people to inherit their wealth, and who, selling heaven to the rich, would extend even to the other world that unjust inequality which prevails in this. I do not at all doubt that such mournful ideas encourage infidelity, and create a natural aversion for that species of worship, which adopts them. I hope, continued she, looking steadfastly at me, that he who may educate our children will adopt very different maxims: and that he will not represent religion to them as a mournful exercise, by continually setting before them the prospect of death. If they learn once but to live well, they will of themselves know how to die.
In the continuation of this discourse, which became less affecting and more interrupted than I shall tell you, I fully comprehended the maxims of Eloisa, and the conduct at which I had been surprized. It appeared that, perceiving her situation quite desperate, she contrived only to remove that useless and mournful appearance which the fear of most persons when dying makes them put on. This she did either to divert our affliction, or to banish from her own view a spectacle so moving, and at the same time unnecessary. Death, said she, is of itself sufficiently painful! why must it be rendered hideous? the care which others throw away in endeavouring to prolong their lives, I will employ to enjoy mine to the last moment. Shall I make an hospital of my apartment, a scene of disgust and trouble, when my last care will be to assemble in it all those who are most dear to me? If I suffer the air to stagnate, I must banish my children or expose their health to danger. If I put on a frightful dress and appearance myself, I shall be known no longer; I shall be no longer the same person you will all remember to have loved, and will be able to bear me no more. I shall, even alive, have the frightful spectacle of horror before me, which I shall be to my friends when I am dead. Instead of this, I have discovered the art to extend my life without prolonging it. I exist, I love, am loved, and live till the last breath forsakes me. The moment of death is nothing: the natural evil is a trifle; and I have overcome all those of opinion.
This and a good deal of similar discourse passed between the patient, the minister, sometimes the doctor, Fanny, and me. Mrs. Orbe was present all the while but never joined in the conversation. Attentive to the wants of her friend, she was very assiduous to serve her, when she wanted any assistance; the rest of the time she remained immoveable and almost inanimate; she kept looking at her without speaking, and without understanding any thing of what was said.
As to myself; fearing that Eloisa would talk too much for her strength, I took the opportunity of the minister and physician’s talking to each other aside, to tell her, in her ear, that she talked a great deal for a sick person, and reasoned very profoundly for one who conceived herself incapable of reasoning. Yes, replied she, very low, I talk too much for a person that is sick, but not for one that is dying; I shall very soon have nothing more to say. With respect to argument, I reason no more now; I have done with it. I have often reflected on my last illness; I am now to profit by my reflection. I am no longer capable of reflecting nor resolving; I am now only able to talk of what I have before thought of, and to practice what I have formerly resolved.
The remainder of the day passed away in nearly the same tranquillity, and almost in the same manner as if no sick person was in the house. Eloisa, just as in full health, calm and resigned, talked with the same good sense and the same spirit; putting on, now and then, an air of serenity approaching even to sprightliness. In short, I continued to observe a certain appearance of joy in her eyes, which increased my uneasiness, and concerning which I was determined to come to an explanation.
I delayed it no longer than the same evening: when, seeing I had an inclination to be left alone with her, she told me I had prevented her, for that she had something to say to me. It is very well, replied I, but as I intimated my intention first, give me leave first to explain myself.
Then sitting down by her and looking at her attentively, my Eloisa, said I, my dear Eloisa, you have wounded my very soul. Yes, continued I, seeing her look upon me with some surprise, I have penetrated your sentiments; you are glad to die, you rejoice to leave me. Reflect on my behaviour to you since we have lived together: have I ever deserved on your part so cruel a desire? at that instant she clasped both my hands in hers, and with a voice that thrilled my soul, who? I! said she, I glad to leave you! Is it thus you penetrate my sentiments? Have you so soon forgot our conversation of yesterday? at least, interrupted I, you die content----I have seen----I see it. Hold, said she, it is indeed true, I die content; but it is content to die, as I have lived, worthy the name of your wife. Ask of me no more, for I can tell you no more: but here, continued she, taking a folded paper from under her pillow, here is what will unfold to you the mystery. This paper was a letter which I saw was directed to you. I give it to you open, added she, giving it into my hands, that after having read it you will determine within yourself, either to send or suppress it, according as you think best. I desire, however, you will not read it till I am no more; and I am certain you will grant that request.
This letter, my dear St. Preux, you will find inclosed. She who wrote it I well know is dead; but I can hardly bring myself to believe that she no longer exists.
She questioned me afterwards, expressing great uneasiness, about her father. Is it possible, said she, that he should know his daughter to be in danger and she not hear from him! has any misfortune happened to him? or has he ceased to love me? can it be that my father, so tender a father, should thus abandon his child? that he should let me die without seeing him; without receiving his last blessing; without embracing him in my last moments. Good God! how bitterly will he reproach himself, when he comes to find that he will see me no more! ----this reflection so extremely afflicted her, that I judged she would be less affected to know her father was ill than to suspect his indifference. I therefore determined to acquaint her with the truth, and in fact found her more easy than under her first suspicions. The thoughts of never seeing him again, however, much affected her. Alas! said she, what will become of him when I am gone? shall he live to survive his whole family! what a life of solitude will his be? It is impossible he should long survive! at this moment nature resumed its empire, and the horrors of approaching death were extremely perceptible. She sighed, clasped her hands, lifted up her eyes to heaven; and, I saw plainly, endeavoured to pray, with all that difficulty which she before observed, always attended the prayers of the sick.
When it was over, she turned to me, and, complaining that she felt herself very weak; told me, she foresaw this would be the last time we should have an opportunity of conversing together. I conjure you, therefore, continued she, by our sacred union, in the name of those dear infants the pledges of our love, harbour no longer such unjust suspicions of your wife. Can I rejoice to leave you? you, the business of whose life it has been to instruct and make me happy! you, who, of all the men in the world, were the most capable to make me so; you, with whom only perhaps I could have lived within the bounds of discretion and virtue! no! believe me, if I could set any value upon life, it would be that I might spend it with you.----These words, pronounced with great tenderness, affected me to that degree, that as I pressed her hands frequently with my lips I found them wet with my tears. I never before thought my eyes made for weeping. These tears were the first I ever shed since my birth, and shall be the last till the hour of my death. After having wept the last for Eloisa, there is nothing left on earth that can draw from me a tear.
This was a day of great fatigue for poor Eloisa. Her preparation of Mrs. Orbe in the preceding night, her interview with the children in the morning, that with the minister in the afternoon, together with the above conversation with me in the evening had quite exhausted her. She betook herself to rest, and slept better that night than on the preceding, whether on account of her lassitude, or that in fact her fever and paroxysms were less violent.
Early the next morning, word was brought me that a stranger, very indifferently dressed, desired very earnestly to speak particularly to Eloisa: and though he was informed of her situation, he still continued his importunity, saying, his business related to an act of great charity, that he knew Mrs. Wolmar very well, and that while she had life remaining, she would take pleasure in exerting her benevolence. As Eloisa had established it as an inviolable rule that no person, particularly such as appeared to be in distress, should be turned away, the servants brought me word of the man and his request: on which I ordered him in. His appearance was mean to the greatest degree, being clothed almost in rags, and having in his air and manner all the symptoms of indigence. I did not observe, however, any thing further either in his looks or discourse to make me suspicious of him; though he still persisted in his resolution of telling his business to none but Eloisa. I told him that if it related to any remedy he might be possessed of, to save her life, I would give him all the recompense he might expect from her, without troubling her in her present extremity. No, sir, replied he, poor as I am, I desire not your money. I demand only what belongs to me, what I esteem beyond all the treasures on earth, what I have lost by my own folly, and what Mrs. Wolmar alone, to whom I owe it, can a second time restore.
This discourse, though unintelligible, determined me, however, what to do. A designing knave might indeed have said as much, but he could never have said it in the same manner. He required that none of the servants should be present, a precaution which seemed mysterious and strange; I indulged him, and introduced him to Eloisa. He had said that he was known to Mrs. Orbe; he passed by her, however, without her taking notice of him, at which I was a little surprized. Eloisa recollected him immediately. Their meeting was extremely affecting. Clara, hearing a noise, came forward, and soon remembered her old acquaintance, nor without some tokens of joy: but these were soon checked by her affliction. One sentiment only engrossed her attention, and her heart was insensible to every thing else.
It is needless, I imagine, to tell you who this person was; a thousand ideas will rise up in your memory and suggest it. But whilst Eloisa was comforting him, however, she was seized with a violent stoppage of her breath, and became so ill that we thought she was going to expire. To prevent any further surprise or distraction, at a time when her relief only was to be thought on, I put the man into the closet, and bid him lock himself in. Fanny was then called up, and after some time Eloisa recovered from her fit; when, looking round and seeing us all in a consternation about her, she said, never mind, children, this is only an essay; it is nothing like so painful as one would think.
All was soon tranquil again; but the alarm was so great that I quite forgot the man in the closet, till Eloisa whispered me to know what was become of him. This was not, however, till dinner was served up and we were all sat down to table. I would have gone into the closet to speak to him, but he had locked the door on the inside as I had directed him; I was obliged, therefore, to have patience till after dinner.
During our repast, du Boffon, who dined with us, speaking of a young widow who was going to marry again, made some reflections on the misfortunes of widows in general; to which, I replied, the fortune of those was still harder who were widows while their husbands were living. That, indeed, sir, answered Fanny, who saw this discourse was directed to her, is too true, especially if such husbands are beloved. The conversation then turned upon hers; and, as she always spoke of him very affectionately, it was natural for her to do so now, at a time when the loss of her benefactress threatened to make that of her husband still more severe. This indeed she did in the most affecting terms, commending the natural goodness of his disposition, lamenting the bad examples by which he had been reduced, and so sincerely regretting his loss that, being sufficiently disposed before to sorrow, she burst out into a flood of tears. At this instant the closet door flew open, and the poor man, rushing out, threw himself at her feet, embraced her knees and mingled his tears with hers. She was holding a glass in her hand, which immediately fell to the ground; while the poor creature was so affected with joy and surprise that she had fallen into a fit, had not proper care been instantly taken to prevent it.
What followed is easily imagined. It was known in a moment over the whole house that Claud Anet was come. The husband of our good Fanny! what a festival! he was hardly got out of the chamber before he was stripped of his tatters and dressed in a decent manner. Had each of the servants had but two shirts a piece, Anet would soon have had as many as them all. They had indeed so far prevented me that, when I went out with a design to get him equipped, I was obliged to make use of my authority to make them take back the cloaths they had furnished him.
In the mean time Fanny would not leave her mistress. In order, however, to give her an opportunity of an hour or two’s conversation with her husband, we pretended the children wanted to take an airing, and sent them both to take care of them.
This scene did not disturb Eloisa so much as the preceding ones. There was nothing in it disagreeable, and it rather did her good than harm. Clara and I passed the afternoon with her by ourselves, and had two hours of calm uninterrupted conversation, which she rendered the most agreeable and interesting of any we had ever experienced in our lives.
She opened it with some observations on the affecting scene we had just beheld, and which recalled strongly to her mind the times of her early youth. Then, following the order of events, she made a short recapitulation of the incidents of her life, with a view to shew that, taking it for all in all, she had been fortunate and happy; that she had risen, gradually to the highest pinnacle of earthly happiness, and that the accident, which now cut her off in the middle of her days, seemed in all appearance, according to the natural course of things, to mark the point of separation between the good and evil of mortal life.
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. 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: 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 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: 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.
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.
