Eloisa · Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Letter CLXI. From Mr. Wolmar.
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.
In the midst of these and such like exclamations, which flowed from the goodness and sincerity of his heart, the weak old man, who kept his eyes still fixed on the corpse, imagined he saw it move: having once taken this into his head, he imagined farther that Eloisa turned her eyes, looked at him and made a sign to him with her head. Upon this he rose up in great transport and ran up and down the house, crying out his mistress was not dead, that she knew him, and that he was sure she was living and would recover. This was sufficient to call every body together, the servants, the neighbours, and the poor, who before made the air resound with their lamentations, now all as loudly cried out in transport; she is not dead! she lives! she lives! the noise spread and increased; the common people, all fond of the marvellous, readily propagated the news: every one easily believed what he wished might be true, and sought to give others pleasure by countenancing the general credulity.
So that, in a short time, the deceased was reported not only to have made a motion with her head, but to have walked about, to have conversed, &c. more than twenty witnesses having had ocular proofs of circumstances that never happened or existed. No sooner were they possessed with the notion of her being alive, but a thousand efforts were made to restore her; they pressed in crowds about her bed, spoke to her, threw spirits in her face, felt for her pulse, and did every thing their foolish apprehensions suggested to recover her; till her women justly offended at seeing the body of her mistress surrounded by a number of men, got every body turned out of the room and soon convinced themselves how egregiously they had been deceived. Incapable, however, of resolving to put end to so agreeable an error, or perhaps still hoping for some miraculous event, they clothed the body with care, and though her wardrobe was left to them, they did not spare the richest apparel. After which laying her out on the bed, and leaving the curtains open, they returned to their tears amidst the public rejoicings of the multitude.
I arrived in the height of this phrenzy, but when I became acquainted with the cause, found it impossible to bring the crowd to reason; and that if I had shut up my doors and had ordered the immediate burial of the corpse, it might have occasioned some disturbance; or that I should have passed, at least, for a paricide of a husband who had buried his wife alive, and should have been held in detestation by the whole country. I resolved therefore to defer the funeral. After six and thirty hours however, I found by the extreme heat of the weather, the corpse began to change, and, though the face preserved its features and sweetness, there seemed even there some signs of alteration. I mentioned it to Mrs. Orbe, who sat in a continued stupor, at the head of the bed. Not that she was so happy as to be the dupe of so gross a delusion; but she pretended to be so, that she might continue in the chamber, and indulge her sorrows.
She understood my design, and silently withdrew. In a moment after, however, she returned, bringing in her hand that veil of gold tissue embroidered with pearls, which you brought her from the Indies: [108] when, coming up to the bed, she kissed the veil, and spreading it over the face of her deceased friend, she cried out with a shrill voice, “Accursed be that sacrilegious hand which shall presume to lift up this veil! accursed be that impious eye which shall dare to look on this disfigured face!” this action and imprecation had such an effect on the spectators, that, as if by a sudden inspiration, it was repeated by one and all from every quarter. Such an impression indeed did it make on our servants and the people in general, that the deceased being put into the coffin, dressed as she was, and with the greatest caution, was carried away and buried in the same attire, without any person daring to touch the veil that covered her face. [109]
Those are certainly the most unhappy who, beside the supporting their own sorrows, are under the necessity of consoling others. Yet this is my task with my father-in-law, with Mrs. Orbe, with friends, with relations, with my neighbours, and with my own houshold. I could yet support it well enough with all but my old friend and Mrs. Orbe: but you must be a witness to the affliction of the latter to judge how much it adds to mine. So far from taking my endeavours to comfort her in good part, she even reproaches me for them; my solicitude offends her, and the coldness of my affliction but aggravates hers; she would have my grief be as bitter and extravagant as hers, her barbarous affliction would gladly see the whole world in despair. Every thing she says, every thing she does looks like madness; I am obliged therefore to put up with every thing, and am resolved not to be offended. In serving her who was beloved by Eloisa, I conceive I do a greater honour to her memory than by fruitless tears and lamentations.
You will be able to judge, from one instance, of the rest of her behaviour. I thought I had gained my point, by engaging her to take care of herself, in order to be able to discharge those duties which her dying friend had imposed on her. Reduced very low by convulsions, abstinence and want of rest, she seemed at length resolved to attempt her usual method of living, and to come to table in the dining-room. The first time, however, I ordered the children to dine in the nursery, being unwilling to run the hazard of this essay in their presence: violent passions of every kind, being one of the most dangerous objects that can be shewn to children. For the passions when excessive have always something puerile and diverting to young minds, by which they are seduced to admire what they ought to dread.
On entering the dining-room, she cast her eye on the table and saw covers laid for two persons only; at which she flung herself into the first chair that stood next her, refusing to come to table. I imagined I knew the reason, and ordered a third plate to be set on the table, at the place where her cousin used generally to sit. She then permitted me to lead her to her seat without reluctance, placing herself with great caution, and disposing her gown as if she was afraid to incommode the empty chair. On putting the first spoonful of soup to her mouth, however, she withdrew it, and asked, with a peevish air, what business that plate had there when no body made use of it? I answered, she was in the right, and had it taken away. She then strove to eat, but could get nothing down; by degrees her stomach swelled, her breath grew short, and all at once she started up and returned to her own chamber, without saying a word, or hearing any thing that I said to her, obstinately refusing every thing but tea all that day. The next day I had the same task to begin again. I now conceived the best way to bring her to reason was to humour her, and to endeavour to soften her despair by more tender sentiments. You know how much her daughter resembles Mrs. Wolmar; that she took a pleasure in heightening that resemblance, by dressing her in the same manner, having brought several cloaths for her from Geneva, in which she used to dress her like Eloisa. I ordered Harriot therefore to be dressed, as much in imitation of Eloisa as possible, and, after having given her lesson, placed her at table where Eloisa used to sit; three covers being laid as the day before.
Clara immediately comprehended my design, and was affected, giving me a tender and obliging look. This was the first time she seemed sensible of my assiduity, and I promised myself success from the expedient. Harriot, proud to represent her little mamma, played her part extremely well; so well indeed that I observed the servants in waiting shed tears. She nevertheless always gave the name of mamma to her mother, and addressed her with proper respect. At length, encouraged by success and my approbation, she ventured to put her hand to the soup-spoon and cried, _Clara, my dear, do you chuse any of this?_ the gesture, tone and manner, in which she spoke this, were so exactly like those of Eloisa, that it made her mother tremble. A moment after, however, she burst into a fit of laughter, and, offering her plate, replied; yes child give me a little, you are a charming creature. She then began to eat with an eagerness that surprized me. Looking at her with some attention, I saw something wild in her eyes, and a greater impatience in her action and manner than usual. I prevented her therefore from eating any more, and ’twas well I did so; for, an hour after she was taken extremely ill with a violent surfeit, which, had she continued to eat more, might have been fatal. From this time I resolved to try no more projects of this kind, as they might affect her imagination too much. Sorrow is more easily cured than madness; I thought it better therefore to let her suffer under the one a little longer, than run the hazard of driving her into the other.
This is the situation, my friend, in which we are at present. Since the baron’s return, indeed, Clara goes up every morning to his apartment, whether I am at home or abroad; where they generally pass an hour or two together. She begins also, to take a little more notice of the children. One of them has been sick; this accident has made her sensible that she has still something to lose, and has animated her zeal to the discharge of her duty. Yet, with all this, she is not yet sufficiently sorrowful; her tears have not yet begun to flow; we wait for you to draw them forth, for you to dry them up again. You cannot but understand me. Think of the last advice of Eloisa: it was indeed first suggested by me, and I now think it more than ever prudent and useful. Come and be reunited to all that remains of Eloisa. Her father, her friend, her husband, her children, all expect you, all desire your company, which cannot fail of being universally useful. In a word, without farther explanations, come, partake and cure us of our sorrows; I shall perhaps be more obliged to you than to any other man in the world.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.