<미리 보기>
I must fly from you, madam, in truth I must. I am to blame for continuing with you so long, or rather, I ought never to have beheld you. But, situated as I am, what can I do? How shall I determine? You have promised me your friendship; consider my perplexity, and give me your advice.
You are sensible that I became one of your family in consequence of an invitation from your mother. Believing me possessed of some little knowledge, she thought that I might be of service in the education of her beloved daughter, in a situation where proper masters were not to be obtained. Proud to be instrumental in adding a few embellishments to one of nature’s most beautiful compositions, I dared to engage in the perilous task, unmindful of the danger, or, at least, unapprehensive of the consequence. I will not tell you that I begin to suffer for my presumption. I hope I shall never so far forget myself as to say any thing which you ought not to hear, or fail in that respect which is due to your virtue, rather than to your birth or personal charms. If I must suffer, I have the consolation, at least, that I suffer alone. I can enjoy no happiness at the expense of yours.
And yet I see you and converse with you every day of my life, and am but too sensible that you innocently aggravate a misfortune which you cannot pity, and of which you ought to be ignorant. It is true, I know what prudence would dictate, in a case like this, where there is no hope; and I should certainly follow her advice if I could reconcile it with my notions of probity. How can I with decency quit a family into which I was so kindly invited, where I have received so many obligations, and where, by the tenderest of mothers, I am thought of some utility to a daughter whom she loves more than all the world? How can I resolve to deprive this affectionate parent of the pleasure she proposes to herself in, one day, surprizing her husband with your progress in the knowledge of things of which he must naturally suppose you ignorant? Shall I impolitely quit the house without taking leave of her? Shall I declare to her the cause of my retreat, and would not she even have reason to be offended with this confession from a man whose inferior birth and fortune must for ever remain insuperable bars to his happiness?
There seems but one method to extricate me from this embarrassment: the hand which involved me in it must also relieve me. As you are the cause of my offence, you must inflict my punishment: out of compassion, at least, deign to banish me from your presence. Shew my letter to your parents; let your doors be shut against me; spurn me from you in what manner you please; from you I can bear any thing; but of my own accord I have no power to fly from you.
Spurn me from you! fly your presence! why? Why should it be a crime to be sensible of merit, and to love that which we cannot fail to honour? No, charming Eloisa; your beauty might have dazzled my eyes, but it never would have misled my heart, had it not been animated with something yet more powerful. It is that captivating union between a lively sensibility and invariable sweetness of disposition; it is that tender feeling for the distresses of your fellow creatures; it is that amazing justness of sentiment, and that exquisite taste which derive their excellence from the purity of your soul; they are, in short, your mental charms much more than those of your person, which I adore. I confess it may be possible to imagine beauties still more transcendently perfect; but more amiable, and more deserving the heart of a wise and virtuous man,??no, no, Eloisa, it is impossible.
I am sometimes inclined to flatter myself that, as in the parity of our years, and similitude of taste, there is also a secret sympathy in our affections. We are both so young that our nature can hitherto have received no false bias from any thing adventitious, and all our inclinations seem to coincide. Before we have imbibed the uniform prejudices of the world, our general perceptions seem uniform; and why dare I not suppose the same concord in our hearts, which in our judgment is so strikingly apparent? Sometimes it happens that our eyes meet; involuntary sighs betray our feelings, tears steal from??O! my Eloisa! if this unison of soul should be a divine impulse??if heaven should have destined us??all the power on earth??Ah pardon me! I am bewildered: I have mistaken a vain wish for hope: the ardour of my desires gave to their imaginary object a solidity which did not exist. I foresee with horror the torments which my heart is preparing for itself. I do not seek to flatter my misfortune; if it were in my power I would avoid it. You may judge of the purity of my sentiments by the favour I ask. Destroy, if possible, the source of the poison that both supports and kills me. I am determined to effect my cure or my death, and I therefore implore your rigorous injunction, as a lover would supplicate your compassion.