I have been so long accustomed to make you the confident of all the secrets of my soul, that it is not in my power to discontinue so agreeable a correspondence. In the most important occurrences of life I long to disclose my heart to you. Open yours, my beloved friend, to receive what I communicate; treasure up in your mind the long discourse of friendship, which, though it sometimes renders the speaker too diffusive, always makes the friendly hearer patient.
Attached to the fortune of a husband, or rather to the will of a parent, by an indissoluble tie, I enter upon a new state of life, which death alone can terminate: let us for a moment cast our eyes on that which I have quitted; the recollection of former times cannot be painful to us. Perhaps it will afford some lessons, which will teach me how to make a proper use of the time to come: perhaps it will open some lights which may serve to explain those particulars of my conduct, which always appeared mysterious in your eyes. At least, by reflecting in what relation we lately stood to each other, our hearts will become more sensible of the reciprocal duties, from which death alone can release us.
It is now near six years since I first saw you. You was young, genteel, and agreeable. I had seen others more comely, and more engaging; but no one ever excited the least emotion within me, and my heart surrendered itself to you[41]on the first interview. I imagin'd that I saw, in your countenance, the traces of a soul which seemed the counterpart of mine. I thought that my senses only served as organs to more refined sentiments; and I loved in you, not so much what I saw, as what I imagined, I felt within myself. It is not two months since, that I still flattered myself I was not mistaken: blind Love, said I, was in the right; we were made for each other, if human events do not interrupt the affinity of nature; and if we are allowed to enjoy felicity in this life, we shall certainly be happy together.
These sentiments were reciprocal; I should have been deceived, had I entertained them alone. The love I felt, could not arise but from a mutual conformity and harmony of souls. We never love, unless we are beloved; at least our passion is short-lived. Those affections which meet with no return, and which are supposed to make so many wretched, are only founded on sensuality; if ever they penetrate the heart, it is by means of some false resemblance, and the mistake is quickly discovered. Sensual love cannot subsist without fruition, and dies with it: the sublimer passion cannot be satisfied without engaging the heart, and is as permanent as the analogy which gave it birth.[42]Such was ours from the beginning; and such, I hope, it will ever be to the end of our days. I perceived, I felt that I was beloved, and that I merited your affection. My lips were silent, my looks were constrained; but my heart explained itself: we quickly experienced I know not what, which renders silence eloquent, which gives utterance to the downcast eye, which occasions a kind of forward bashfulness which discovers the tumult of desire through the veil of timidity, and conveys ideas which it dares not express.
I perceived the situation of my heart, and gave myself over for lost, the first word you spoke. I found what pain your reserve cost you. I approved of the distance you observed, and admired you the more; I endeavoured to recompense you for such a necessary and painful silence, without prejudice to my innocence; I offered violence to my natural disposition; I imitated my cousin; I became, like her, arch and lively, to avoid too serious explanations, and to indulge a thousand tender caresses, under cover of that affected sprightliness. I took such pains to make your situation agreeable, that the apprehensions of a change increased your reserve. This scheme turned to my disadvantage: we generally suffer for assuming a borrowed character. Fool that I was! I accelerated my ruin, instead of preventing it; I employed poison as a palliative, and what should have induced you to preserve silence, was the occasion which tempted you to explain yourself. In vain did I attempt, by an affected indifference, to keep you at a distance in our private interviews; that very constraint betrayed me: you wrote. Instead of committing your first letter to the fire, or delivering it to my mother, I ventured to open it. That was my original crime, and all the rest was a necessary consequence of that first fault. I endeavoured to avoid answering those fatal letters, which I could not forbear reading. This violent struggle affected my health. I saw the abyss in which I was going to plunge. I looked upon myself with horror, and could not resolve to endure your absence. I fell into a kind of despair; I had rather that you had ceased to live, than not to live to me: I even went so far as to wish, and to desire your death. Heaven knew my heart; these efforts may make amends for some failings.
Finding you disposed to implicit obedience, I was determined to speak. Chaillot had given me some instructions, which made me too sensible of the danger of avowing my passion. But love, which extorted the confession, taught me to elude its consequence. You was my last resort; I had such an entire confidence in you, that I furnished you with arms against my weakness; such was my opinion of your integrity, that I trusted you would preserve me from myself, and I did you no more than justice. When I found the respect you paid to so valuable a trust, I perceived that my passion had not blinded me in my opinion of those virtues with which I supposed you endowed. I resigned myself with greater security, as I imagined that we should both of us be contented with a sentimental affection. As I discovered nothing at the bottom of my heart but sentiments of honour, I tasted without reserve the charms of such a delightful intimacy. Alas! I did not perceive that my disorder grew inveterate from inattention, and that habit was still more dangerous than love. Being sensibly affected by your reserve, I thought I might relax mine without any risk; in the innocence of my desires, I hoped to lead you to the heights of virtue, by the tender caresses of friendship. But the grove at Clarens soon convinced me that I trusted myself too far, and that we ought not to grant the least indulgence to the senses, where prudence forbids us to gratify them to the full. One moment, one single moment, fired me with a desire which nothing could extinguish; and if my will yet resisted, my heart was from that time corrupted.
You partook of my distraction; your letter made me tremble. The danger was double: to preserve me from you and from myself, it was necessary to banish you. This was the last effort of expiring virtue; but by your flight, you made your conquest sure, and when I saw you no more, the languor your absence occasioned, deprived me of the little strength I had left to resist you.
When my father quitted the service, he brought M. Wolmar home with him. His life which he owed to him, and an intimacy of twenty years, rendered this friend so dear, that he could never part from him. M. Wolmar was advanced in years, and tho' of high birth, he had met with no woman who had fixed his affections. My father mentioned me to him, as to a man whom he wished to call his son: he was desirous to see me, and it was with this intent that they came together. It was my fate to be agreeable to him, who was never susceptible of any impression before. They entered into secret engagements, and M. Wolmar, who had some affairs to settle in one of the northern courts, where his family and fortune were, desired time, and took leave upon their mutual engagement. After his departure, my father acquainted my mother and me, that he designed him for my husband; and commanded me, with a tone which cut off all reply from my timidity, to prepare myself to receive his hand. My mother, who too plainly perceived the inclinations of my heart, and who had a natural liking for you, made several attempts to shake my father's resolution; she durst not absolutely propose you, but she spoke of you in such terms as she hoped might make my father esteem you, and wish to be acquainted with you; but your rank in life made him insensible to all your accomplishments; and though he allowed, that high birth could not supply them, yet he maintained that birth alone could make them of any value.
The impossibility of being happy, fanned the flame which it ought to have extinguished. A flattering delusion had supported me under all my troubles; when that was gone, I had no strength to oppose them. While I had the least hope of being yours, I might have triumphed over my inclinations; it would have cost me less to have spent my whole life in resistance, than to renounce you for ever; and the very idea of an everlasting opposition, deprived me of fortitude to subdue my passion.
Grief and love preyed upon my heart; I fell into a state of dejection, which you might perceive in my letters: yours, which you wrote to me from Meillerie, compleatd my affliction; to the measure of my own troubles, was added the sense of your despair. Alas! the weakest mind is always destined to bear the troubles of both. The scheme you ventured to propose to me, put the finishing stroke to my perplexity. Misery seemed to be the infallible lot of my days, the inevitable choice which remained for me to make, was to add to it either my parents or your infelicity. I could not endure the horrible alternative; the power of nature has its bounds; such agitations overpowered my strength. I wished to be delivered from life. Heaven seemed to take pity of me; but cruel death spared me for my destruction. I saw you, I recovered, and was undone.
If my failings did not contribute to my felicity, I was not disappointed: I never considered them as the means to procure happiness. I perceived that my heart was formed for virtue, without which I could never be happy; I fell through weakness, not from error; I had not even blindness to plead in excuse for my frailty, I was bereaved of every hope; it was impossible for me to be otherwise than unfortunate. Innocence and love were equally requisite to my peace: as I could not preserve them both, and was witness to your distraction, I consulted your interest alone in the choice I made, and to save you, I ruined myself.
But it is not so easy, as many imagine to forsake virtue. She continues for some time, to torment those who abandon her, and her charms, which are the delight of refined souls, constitute the chief punishment of the wicked, who are condemned to be in love with her when they can no longer enjoy her. Guilty, yet not depraved, I could not escape the remorse which pursued me; honour was dear to me, even after it was gone; though my shame was secret, it was not less grievous; and though the whole world had been witness to it, I could not have been more sensibly affected. I comforted myself under my affliction, like one who having a wound, dreads a mortification; and who, by the sense of pain, is encouraged not to despair of a cure.
Nevertheless, my shameful state was insupportable. By endeavouring to stifle the reproach of guilt, without renouncing the crime, I experienced what every honest mind feels when it goes astray, and is fond of its mistake. A new delusion lent its aid to assuage the bitterness of repentance; I flattered myself, that my frailty would afford me the means of repairing my indiscretion, and I ventured to form a design of forcing my father to unite our hands. I depended on the first pledge of our love to close this delightful union. I prayed to heaven for offspring as the pledge of my return to virtue, and of our mutual happiness: I wished for it with as much earnestness as another, in my place, would have dreaded it. The tenderness of love, by its soft illusion, allayed the murmurs of my conscience; the effects I hoped to derive from my frailty inspired me with consolation, and this pleasing expectation was all the hope and comfort of my life.
Whenever I should discover evident symptoms of my pregnancy, I was determined to make a public declaration of my condition to Mr. Perret,[43]in the presence of the whole family. I am timorous, it is true; I was sensible how dear such a declaration would cost me, but honour itself inspired me with courage, and I chose rather to bear at once the confusion I deserved, than to nourish everlasting infamy at the bottom of my soul. I knew that my father would either doom me to death, or give me to my lover; this alternative had nothing in it terrible to my apprehension, and whatever might be the event, I concluded that this step would put an end to all my sufferings.
This, my dear friend, was the mystery which I concealed from you, and which you endeavoured to penetrate with such solicitous curiosity. A thousand reasons conspired to make me use this reserve with a man of your impetuosity, not to mention that it would have been imprudent to have furnished you with a new pretence for pressing your indiscreet and importunate application. It was above all things requisite to remove you during such a perilous situation, and I was very sensible that you would never have consented to leave me in such an extremity, had you known my danger.
Alas! I was once more deceived by such a flattering expectation. Heaven refused to favour designs which were conceived in wickedness. I did not deserve the honour of being a mother; my scheme was abortive, and I was even deprived of an opportunity of expiating my frailty, at the expense of my reputation. Disappointed in my hope, the indiscreet assignation which exposed your life to danger, was a rashness which my fond love coloured with this gentle palliation: I imputed the ill success of my wishes to myself, and my heart, misled by its desires, flattered itself that its eagerness to gratify them arose entirely from my anxiety to render them lawful hereafter.
At one time I thought my wishes accomplished: that mistake was the source of my most bitter affliction, and after nature had granted the petition of love, the stroke of destiny came with aggravated cruelty. You know the accident which destroyed my last hopes, together with the fruit of my love. That misfortune happened during our separation, as if heaven at that time intended to oppress me with all the evils I merited, and to separate me at once from every connection which might contribute to our union.
Your departure put an end to my delusion and to my pleasures; I discovered, but too late the chimeras which had imposed upon me. I perceived that I had fallen into a state truly despicable, and I felt myself compleatly wretched; which was the inevitable consequence of love without innocence, and hopeless desires which I could never extinguish. Tortured by a thousand fruitless griefs, I stifled reflections which were as painful as unprofitable; I no longer looked upon myself as worthy of consideration, and I devoted my life to solitude for you: I had no honour, but yours; no hope, but in your happiness, and the sentiments which you communicated were alone capable of affecting me.
Love did not make me blind to your faults, but it made those faults dear to me; and its delusion was so powerful, that, had you been more perfect, I should have loved you less. I was no stranger to your heart, to your impetuosity. I was sensible, that with more courage than I, you had less patience, and that the afflictions which oppressed my soul, would drive yours to despair. It was for this reason that I always carefully kept my father's promise a secret from you, and at our parting, taking advantage of Lord B——'s zeal for your interest, and with a view to make you more attentive to your own welfare, I flattered you with a hope which I myself did not entertain. Yet more; apprized of the danger which threatened us, I took the only precaution for our mutual security, and by a solemn engagement having made you, as much as possible, master of my will, I hoped to inspire you with confidence, and myself with fortitude, by mean of a promise which I never durst violate, and which might ensure your peace of mind. I own it was a needless obligation, and yet I should never have infringed it. Virtue is so essential to our souls, that when we have once abandoned that which is real, we presently fashion another after the same model, and we keep the more strongly attached to this substitute, because, perhaps, it is of our own election.
I need not tell you what perturbation I felt after your departure. The worst of my apprehensions was the dread of being forsaken. The place of your residence made me tremble. Your manner of living increased my terror. I imagined that I already saw you debased into a man of intrigue. An ignominy of this nature touched me more sensibly than all my afflictions; I had rather have seen you wretched than contemptible; after so many troubles to which I had been inured, your dishonour was the only one I could not support.
My apprehensions, which the stile of your letters confirmed, were quickly removed; and that by such means as would have made any other compleatly uneasy. I allude to the disorderly course of life into which you was seduced, and of which your ready and frank confession was, of all the proofs of your sincerity, that which affected me most sensibly. I knew you too well to be ignorant what such a confession must have cost you, even if I had been no longer dear to you. I perceived that love alone had triumphed over shame, and extorted it from you. I concluded that a heart so sincere, was incapable of disguised infidelity; I discovered less guilt in your failing, than merit in the confession; and calling to mind your former engagements, I was entirely cured of jealousy.
My worthy friend, my cure did not increase my felicity; for one torment less, a thousand others rose up incessantly, and I was never more sensible of the folly of seeking that repose in an unsettled mind, which nothing but prudence can bestow. I had for a long time secretly lamented the best of mothers, who insensibly wasted away with a fatal decay. Bab, whom the unhappy consequence of my misconduct obliged me to make my confident, betrayed me, and discovered our mutual love, and my frailty, to my mother. I had just received your letters from my cousin, when they were seized. The proofs were too convincing; grief deprived her of the little strength her illness had left her. I thought I should have expired at her feet with remorse. So far from consigning me to the death I merited, she concealed my shame, and was contented to bemoan my fall. Even you, who had so ungratefully abused her kindness, was not odious to her. I was witness to the effect which your letter produced on her tender and affectionate mind. Alas! she wished for your happiness and mine. She attempted more than once——but why should I recall a hope which is now for ever extinguished? heaven decreed it otherwise. She closed her melancholy days with the afflicting consideration of being unable to move a rigid husband, and of leaving a daughter behind her so little worthy of such a parent.
Oppressed with such a crude loss, my soul had no other strength than what it received from that impression; the voice of nature uttered groans which stifled the murmurs of love. I regarded the author of my troubles with a kind of horror. I endeavoured to stifle the detestable passion which had brought them upon me, and to renounce you for ever. This, no doubt, was what I ought to have done; had I not sufficient cause of lamentation the remainder of my days, without being in continual quest of new subjects of affliction? every thing seemed to favour my resolution. If melancholy softens the mind, deep affliction hardens it. The remembrance of my dying mother effaced your image; we were distant from each other; hope had entirely abandoned me; my incomparable friend was never more great or more deserving wholly to engross my heart. Her virtue, her discretion, her friendship, her tender caresses, seemed to have purified it; I thought I had forgotten you, and imagined myself cured. But it was too late; what I took for the indifference of extinguished love, was nothing but the heaviness of despair.
As a sick man who falls into a weak state when free from pain, is suddenly revived by more acute sensations, so I quickly perceived all my troubles renewed when my father acquainted me with Mr. Wolmar's approaching return. Invincible love then gave me incredible strength. For the first time I ventured to oppose my father to his face. I frankly protested that I could never like Mr. Wolmar; that I was determined to die single; that he was master of my life, but not of my affections, and that nothing could ever make me alter my resolution. I need not describe the rage he was in, nor the treatment I was obliged to endure. I was immoveable; my timidity once vanquished, carried me to the other extreme, and if my tone was less imperious than my father's, it was nevertheless equally resolute.
He found that I was determined, and that he should make no impression on me by dint of authority. For a minute I thought myself freed from his persecution. But what became of me, when on a sudden I saw the most rigid father softened into tears, and prostrate at my feet? without suffering me to rise, he embraced my knees, and fixing his streaming eyes on mine, he addressed himself to me in a plaintive voice, which still murmurs within me. O my child! have some respect for the grey hairs of your unhappy father; do not send me with sorrow to the grave, after her who bore thee. Ah! will you be the death of all your family?
Imagine my grief and astonishment. That attitude, that tone, that gesture, those words, that horrible idea, overpowered me to that degree, that I dropped half dead into his arms, and it was not till after repeated sobs, which for some time stifled utterance, that I was able to answer him in a faint and faltering voice. O my father! I was armed against your menaces, but I am not proof against your tears. You will be the death of your daughter.
We were both of us in such violent agitation that it was a long while before we could recover. In the mean time, recollecting his last words, I concluded that he was better informed of the particulars of my conduct than I had imagined, and being resolved to turn those circumstances of information against him, I was preparing, at the hazard of my life, to make a confession which I had too long deferred, when he hastily interrupted me, and as if he had foreseen and dreaded what I was going to declare, he spoke to me in the following terms.
"I know you have encouraged inclinations unworthy a girl of your birth. It is time to sacrifice to duty and honour a shameful passion which you shall never gratify but at the expense of my life. Attend to what your father's honour, and your own require of you, and then determine for yourself."
"Mr. Wolmar is of noble extraction, one who is distinguished by all the accomplishments requisite to maintain his dignity; one who enjoys the public esteem, and who deserves it. I am indebted to him for my life; and you are no stranger to the engagement I have concluded with him. You are farther to understand that on his return home to settle his concerns, he found himself involved by an unfortunate turn of affairs: he had lost the greatest part of his estate, and it was by singular good luck that he himself escaped from exile to Siberia: he is coming back with the melancholy wreck of his fortune, upon the strength or his friend's word, which never yet was forfeited. Tell me now, in what manner I shall receive him on his, return? shall I say to him? Sir, I promised you my daughter while you were in affluent circumstances, but now your fortune is ruined I must retract my word, for my daughter will never be yours. If I do not express my refusal in these words, it will be interpreted in this manner. To alledge your pre-engagement, will be considered as a pretence, or it will be imputed as an additional disgrace to me, and we shall pass, you for an abandoned girl, and I for a dishonest man, who has sacrificed his word and honour to forbid interest, and has added ingratitude to infidelity. My dear child, I have lived too long, now to close an unblemished life with infamy, and sixty years spent with honour are not to be prostituted in a quarter of an hour."
"You perceive therefore, continued he, how unreasonable is every objection which you can offer. Judge whether the giddy passion of youth, whether attachments which modesty disavows, are to be put in competition with the duty of a child, and the honour by which a parent stands bound. If the dispute was, which of us two should fall a victim to the happiness of the other, my tenderness would challenge the right of making that sacrifice to affection; but honour, my child, calls upon me, and that always determines the resolution of him whose blood you inherit."
I was not without a pertinent answer to these remonstrances; but my father's prejudices confirmed him in his principles, so different from mine, that reasons which appeared to me unanswerable, would not have had the least weight with him. Besides, not knowing whence he had gathered the intelligence he seemed to have gained with respect to my conduct, or how far his information extended; apprehending likewise by his eagerness to interrupt me, that he had formed his resolution with regard to the matter I was going to communicate, and above all, being restrained by a sense of shame which I could never subdue, I rather chose to avail myself of an excuse, which I thought would have greater weight, as it squared more with my father's peculiarity of thinking. I therefore made a frank declaration of the engagement I had made with you; I protested that I would never be false to my word, and that whatever was the consequence, I would never marry without your consent.
In truth, I was delighted to find that my scruples did not offend him; he reproached me severely for entering into such an engagement, but he made no objection to its validity. So exalted are ideas which a gentleman of honour naturally entertains with regard to the faith of engagements, and so sacred a thing does he esteem a promise! instead of attempting therefore to dispute the force of my obligation to you, he made me write a note, which he inclosed in a letter and sent away directly.[44]With what agitation did I expect your answer! how often did I wish that you might shew less delicacy than you ought! but I knew you too well, however, to doubt your compliance, and was sensible that the more painful you felt the sacrifice required of you, the readier you would be to undergo it. Your answer came, it was kept a secret from me during my illness; after my recovery, my fears were confirmed, and I was cut off from all farther excuses. At least, my father declared he would admit of no more, and the dreadful expression he had made use of gave him such an ascendency over my will that he made me swear never to say any thing to M. Wolmar which might make him averse from marrying me; for, he added, that will appear to him like a trick concerted between us, and at all events the marriage must be concluded.
You know, my dear friend, that my constitution, which is strong enough to endure fatigue and inclemency of weather, is not able to resist the violence of passion, and that too exquisite a sensibility is the source of all the evils which have afflicted my mind and body. Whether continued grief had tainted my blood, or whether nature took that opportunity to purify it from the fatal effects of fermentation, however it was, I found myself violently disordered at the end of our conversation. When I left my father's room, I endeavoured to write a line to you, but found myself so ill, that I was obliged to go to bed, from whence I hoped never to rise. You are too well acquainted with the rest. My imprudence led you to indiscretion. You came, I saw you, and thought that I had only beheld you in one of those dreams, which, during my delirium, so often presented your image before me. But when I found that you had really been there, that I had actually seen you, that being resolved to partake of my distemper which you could not cure, you had purposely caught the infection; I could no longer resist this last proof, and finding that the tenderness of your affection survived even hope itself, my love which I had taken such pains to smother, instantly broke through all restraint, and revived with more ardour than ever. I perceived that I was doomed to love in spite of myself; I was sensible that I must be guilty; that I could neither resist my father nor my love, and that I could never reconcile the rights of love and consanguinity, but at the expense of honour. Thus all my noble sentiments were utterly extinguished; all my faculties were altered; guilt was no longer horrible in my sight; I felt a thorough change within me; at length, the unruly transports of a passion, rendered impetuous by opposition, threw me into the most dismal dejection with which human nature was ever oppressed; I even dared to despair of virtue. Your letter, which was rather calculated to awaken remorse than to stifle it, put the finishing stroke to my distraction. My heart was so depraved, that my reason could not withstand the arguments of your plausible philosophy. Horrible ideas ventured to crowd into my mind, with which it had never been tainted before. My will still opposed them, but my imagination grew familiar with them, and if my soul did not harbour anticipated guilt, yet I was no longer mistress of that noble resolution which alone is capable of resisting temptation.
I am scarce able to proceed. Let me stop a while. Recall to your mind those days of innocence and felicity, when the lively and tender passion with which we were mutually animated, only served to refine our sentiments, when that holy ardour contributed to render modesty more lovely, and honour more amiable, when our very desires seemed kindled only that we might have the glory of subduing them, and of rendering ourselves more worthy of each other. Look over our first letters; reflect on those moments so fleeting and so little enjoyed, when love appeared to us arrayed in all the charms of virtue, and when we were too fond of each other to enter into any connections which she condemned.
What were we then, and what are we now? Two tender lovers spent a whole year together in painful silence; they scarce ventured to breathe a sigh, but their hearts understood each other; they thought their sufferings great, but, had they known it, they were happy. Their mutual silence was so intelligible, that at length they ventured to converse; but, satisfied with the power of triumphing over their inclinations, and with giving each other the glorious proofs of their victory, they passed another year in a reserve scarce less severe; they imparted their troubles to each other, and were happy. But these violent struggles were too painful to be supported long; one moment's weakness led them astray; they forgot themselves in their transports; but if they were no longer chaste, they were still constant; at least, heaven and nature authorized the ties which united them; at least virtue was still dear to them; they still loved and honoured her charms; they were less corrupted than debased. Though they were less worthy of felicity, they still continued happy.
What now are those affectionate lovers who glowed with so refined a passion, and were so sensible of the worth of honour? who can be acquainted with their condition, without sighing over them?——behold them a prey to guilt. Even the idea of defiling the marriage bed does not now strike them with horror——they meditate adultery!——how, is it possible that they can be the same pair? Are not their souls entirely altered? how could that lovely image which the wicked never behold, be effaced in the minds where it once shone so bright? are not they, who have once felt the charms of virtue, for ever after disgusted with vice? how many ages have passed to produce this astonishing alteration? what length of time could be capable of destroying so delightful a remembrance, and of extinguishing the true sense of happiness in those who had once enjoyed it? Ah! if the first step of irregularity moves with slow and painful pace, how easy and precipitate are those which follow! O, the illusion of passion! it is that which fascinates reason, betrays prudence, and new models nature, before we perceive the change. A single moment leads us astray; one step draws us out of the right path. From that time an irresistible propensity hurries us on to our ruin. From that time we fall into a gulph, and arise frightened to find ourselves oppressed with crimes, with a heart formed to virtue. My dear friend, let us drop the curtain. Can it be necessary to see the dangerous precipice it conceals from us, in order to avoid approaching it? I resume my narrative.
M. Wolmar arrived, and made no objection to the alteration in my features. My father pressed me. The mourning for my mother was just over, and my grief was proof against time. I could form no pretence to elude my promise; and was under a necessity of fulfilling it. I thought the day which was to separate me for ever from you and from myself, would have been the last of my life. I could have beheld the preparations for my funeral, with less horror than those for my marriage. The nearer the fatal moment drew, the less I found myself able to root out my first affections from my soul; my efforts rather served to inflame than to extinguish them. At length I gave over the fruitless struggle. At the very time that I was prepared to swear eternal constancy to another, my heart still vowed eternal love to thee, and I was carried to the temple as a polluted victim, which defiles the altar on which it is sacrificed.
When I came to the church, I felt, at my entrance, a kind of emotion which I had never experienced before. An inconceivable terror seized my mind in that solemn and august place which was full of the Being worshipped there. A sudden horror made me shiver. Trembling and ready to faint, it was with difficulty that I reached the altar. Far from being composed, I found my disorder increase during the ceremony, and every object I beheld struck me with terror. The gloomy light of the temple, the profound silence of the spectators, their decent and collected deportment, the train of all my relations, the awful look of my venerable father, all contributed to give the ceremony an air of solemnity which commanded my attention and reverence, and which made me tremble at the very thought of perjury. I imagined that I beheld the instrument of Providence, and that I heard the voice of heaven, in the minister who pronounced the holy liturgy with uncommon solemnity. The purity, the dignity, the sanctity of marriage, so forcibly expressed in the words of scripture, the chaste, the sublime duties it inculcates, and which are so important to the happiness, the order, the peace, the being of human nature, so agreeable in themselves to be observed; all conspired to make such an impression upon me, that I felt a thorough revolution within ne. An invisible power seemed suddenly to rectify the disorder of my affections, and to settle them according to the laws of duty and nature. The eternal and omnipresent Power, said I to myself, now reads the bottom of my soul; he compares my secret will with my verbal declaration: heaven and earth are witness to the solemn engagement I am going to contract; and they shall be witness of my fidelity in observing the obligation. What human duty can they regard, who dare to violate the first and most sacred of all?
A casual glance on Mr. and Mrs. Orbe, whom I saw opposite to each other, fixing their tender looks on me, affected me more powerfully than all the other objects around me. O most amiable and virtuous pair! though your love is less violent, are you therefore less closely attached to each other? duty and honour are the bonds which unite you; affectionate friends! faithful couple! you do not burn with that devouring flame which consumes the soul, but you love each other with a gentle and refined affection, which nourishes the mind, which prudence authorizes, and reason directs; you therefore enjoy more substantial felicity. Ah! that, in an union like yours, I could recover the same innocence, and attain the same happiness! if I have not like you deserved it, I will at least endeavour to make myself worthy of it by your example.
These sentiments renewed my hopes, and revived my courage. I considered the sacred tie I was preparing to form, as a new state which would purify my soul, and restore me to a just sense of my duty. When the minister asked me, whether I promised perfect obedience and fidelity to him whom I received for my husband, I made the promise not only with my lips but with my heart; and I will keep it inviolably till my death.
When we returned one, I sighed for an hour's solitude and recollection. I obtained it, not without difficulty; and however eager I was to make the best advantage of it, I nevertheless entered into self-examination with reluctance, being afraid lest I should discover that I had only been affected by some transitory impressions, and that at the bottom I should find myself as unworthy a wife, as I had been an indiscreet girl. The method of making the trial was sure, but dangerous; I began it by turning my thoughts on you. My heart bore witness that no tender recollection had profaned the solemn engagement I had lately made. I could not conceive, without astonishment, how your image could have forborne its obstinate intrusion, and have left me so long at rest, amidst so many occasions which might have recalled you to my mind; I should have mistrusted my insensibility and forgetfulness, as treacherous dependencies, which were too unnatural to be lasting. I found however that I was in no danger of delusion: I was sensible that I still loved you as much, if not more than ever; but I felt my affection for you without a blush. I found that I could venture to think of you, without forgetting that I was the wife of another. When a tacit self-confession reported how dear you was to me, my heart was affected, but my conscience and my senses were composed; and from that moment I perceived that my mind was changed in reality. What a torrent of pure joy then rushed into my soul! what tranquil sensations, so long effaced, then began to revive a heart which ignominy had stained, and to diffuse an unusual serenity through my whole frame! I felt as if I had been new born; and I fancied that I was entering into another life. O gentle and balmy virtue! I am regenerated for thee; thou alone canst make life dear to me; to thee alone I consecrate my being. Oh I have too fatally experienced the loss of thee, ever to abandon thee a second time.
In the rapture of so great, so sudden, so unexpected a change I ventured to reflect on the state I was in the preceding day: I trembled on thinking what a state of unworthy debasement I had been reduced by forgetting what I owed to myself; and I shuddered at all the dangers I had since my first step of deviation. What a happy revolution of mind enabled me to discover the horror of the crime which threw temptation before me; and how did the love of discretion revive within me! by what uncommon accident, said I, could I hope to be more faithful to love, than to honour, which I held in such high esteem? what good fortune would prevent your inconstancy or my own, from delivering me a prey to new attachments? how could I oppose to another lover, that resistance which the first had conquered, and that shame which had been accustomed to yield to inclination? should I pay more regard to the rights of extinguished love, than I did to the claim of virtue, while it maintained its full empire in my soul? what security could I have to love no other but you, except that inward assistance which deceives all lovers, who swear eternal constancy, and inconsiderately perjure themselves upon every change of their affections? thus one deviation from virtue would have led to another; and vice, grown habitual, would no longer have appeared horrible in my sight. Fallen from honour to infamy, without any hold to stop me; from a seduced virgin I should have become an abandoned woman, the scandal of my sex and the torment of my family. What has saved me from so natural a consequence of my first transgression? what checked me after my first guilty step? what has preserved my reputation, and the esteem of my beloved friends? what has placed me under the protection of a virtuous and discreet husband, whose character is amiable, whose person is agreeable, and who is full of that respect and affection for me, which I have so little deserved? what, in short, enables me to aspire after the character of a virtuous wife, and gives me courage to render myself worthy of that title? I see it, I feel it; it is the friendly hand which has conducted me thro' the paths of darkness, that now removes the veil of error from my eyes; and, in my own despite, restores me to myself. The gentle voice which incessantly murmured within me, now raised its tone, and thundered in my ears, at the very moment that I was near being lost for ever. The author of all truth would not allow me to quit his presence with the conscious guilt of detestable perjury; and preventing my crime by my remorse, he has shewn me the frightful abyss into which I was ready to fall. Eternal Providence! who dost make the insect crawl, and the heavens revolve, thou art watchful over the least of all thy works! thou hast recalled me to that virtue, which I was born to revere! deign therefore to receive, from a heart purified by thy goodness, that homage which thou alone hast rendered worthy thy acceptance.
That instant, being impressed with a lively sense of the danger I had escaped, and of the state of honour and security in which I was happily re-established, I prostrated myself on the ground, and lifting my suppliant hands to heaven, I invoked that Being enthroned on high, whole pleasure supports or destroys, by means of our own strength, that free-will he has bestowed. I eagerly, said I, embrace the professed good, of which Thou alone art the author. I will love the husband to whom thou hast attached me. I will be faithful, because it is the chief duty which unites private families and society in general. I will be chaste, because it is the parent virtue which nourishes all the rest. I will adhere to everything relative to the order of nature which thou hast established, and to the dictates of reason which I derive from thee. I recommend my heart to thy protection, and my desires to thy guidance. Render all my actions conformable to my steadfast will, which is ever thine, and never more permit momentary error to triumph over the settled choice of my life.
Having finished this short prayer, the first I ever made with true devotion, I found myself confirmed in virtuous resolutions; it seemed so easy and so agreeable to follow these dictates, that I clearly perceived where I must hereafter resort for that power to resist my inclinations, which I could not derive from myself. From this new discovery, I acquired fresh confidence, and lamented that fatal blindness, which had so long disguised it from me. I had never been devoid of religion, but perhaps I had better have been wholly so, than to have professed one which was external and mechanical; and which satisfied the conscience, without affecting the heart; one which was confined to set forms; and taught me to believe in God at stated hours, without thinking of him the remainder of my time. Scrupulously attendant on public worship, I nevertheless drew no advantage from it to assist me in the practice of my duty. Knowing that I was of good family, I indulged my inclinations, I was fond of speculation, and put my trust in reason. Not being able to reconcile the Spirit of the Gospel with the manners of the world, nor faith with works, I steered a middle course which satisfied the vanity of my wisdom; I had one set of maxims for speculation, and another for practice; I forgot in one place, the opinions I formed in another; I was devotee at church, and a philosopher at home: Alas! was nothing any where; my prayers were but words, my reasoning mere sophistry, and the only light I followed was the false glimmering of anignis fatuuswhich guided me to destruction.
I cannot describe to you how much this inward principle, which had escaped me till now, made me despise those which had so shamefully misled me. Tell me, I intreat you, what was the strongest reason in their support, and on what foundation did they rest? A favourable instinct directs me to good, some impetuous passion rises in opposition: it takes root in the same instant, and what must I do to destroy it? From a contemplation on the order of nature, I discover the beauty of virtue; and from its general utility, I derive its excellence. But what do these arguments avail, when they stand in competition to my private interest; and which in the end is of most consequence to me, to procure my own happiness at the expense of others, or to promote the felicity of others at the expense of my own happiness? if the dread of shame or punishment deter me from committing evil for the sake of my own private good, I have nothing more to do than to sin in secret; virtue then cannot upbraid me, and if I am detected, I shall be punished, as at Sparta, not on account of my crime, but because I had not ingenuity to conceal it. In short, admitting the character and the love of virtue to be imprinted in my heart by nature, it will serve me as a rule of conduct till its impressions are dead; but how shall I be sure always to preserve this inward effigies in its original purity, which has no model, among sublunary beings, to which it can be referred? Is it not evident, that irregular afflictions corrupt the judgement as well as the will, and that conscience changes, and in every age, in every people, in every individual, accommodates itself to inconstancy of opinion and diversity of prejudice.
Adore the supreme Being, my worthy and prudent friend; with one puff of breath you will be able to dissipate those chimeras of reason, which have a visionary appearance, and which fly like so many others, before immutable truth. Nothing exists but through him, who is self-existent. It is he who directs the tendency of justice, fixes the basis of virtue, and gives a recompense to a short life spent according to his will; it is he who proclaims aloud to the guilty that their secret crimes are detected, and gives assurance to the righteous in obscurity, that their virtues are not without a witness; it is he, it is his unalterable substance, that is the true model of those perfections, of which we all bear the image within us. It is in vain that our passions disfigure it; its traces which are allied to the infinite Being, ever present themselves to our reason, and serve to re-establish what error and imposture have perverted. These distinctions seem to me extremely natural; common sense is sufficient to point them out. Every thing which we cannot separate from the idea of divine essence, is God; all the rest is the work of men. It is by the contemplation of this divine model, that the soul becomes refined and exalted, that it learns to despise low desires, and to triumph over base inclinations. A heart impressed with these sublime truths, is superior to the mean passions of human nature; the idea of infinite grandeur subdues the pride of man; the delight of contemplation abstracts him from gross desires; and if the immense Being, who is the subject of his thoughts had no existence, it would nevertheless be of use to exercise his mind in such meditations, in order to make him more master of himself, more vigorous, more discreet, and more happy.
Do you require a particular instance of the vain subtleties framed by that self sufficient reason, which so vainly relies on its own strength? Let us coolly examine the arguments of those philosophers, those worthy advocates of a crime, which never yet reduced any whose minds were not previously corrupted. Might one not conclude that, by a direct attack of the most holy and most solemn of all contracts, these dangerous disputants were determined at one stroke to annihilate human society in general, which is founded on the faith of engagements? But let us consider, I beseech you, how they exculpate secret adultery? it is because, say they, no mischief arises from it; not even to the husband, who is ignorant of the wrong. But, can they be certain that he will always remain ignorant of the injury offered him? is it sufficient to authorise perjury and infidelity, that they do no wrong to others? is the mischief which the guilty do to themselves, not sufficient to create an abhorrence of guilt? is it no crime to be false to our word, to destroy, as far as we are able, the obligation of oaths, and the most inviolable contracts? is it no crime to take pains to render ourselves false, treacherous, and perjured? is it no crime to form attachments, which occasion you to desire the prejudice, and to wish the death of another? even the death of one whom we ought to love above others, and with whom we have sworn to live? is not that state in itself an evil, which is productive of a thousand consequential crimes? even good itself, if attended with so many mischiefs, would, for that reason only, be an evil.
Shall one of the parties pretend to innocence, who may chance to be disengaged, and have pledged his faith to no one? He is grossly mistaken. It is not only the interest of husband and wife, but it is the common benefit of mankind, that the purity of marriage be preserved unsullied. Whenever two persons are joined together by that solemn contract, all mankind enter into a tacit engagement to respect the sacred tie, and to honour the conjugal union; and this appears to be a powerful reason against clandestine marriages, which, as they express no public sign of such an union, expose innocent maids to the temptation of adulterous passion. The public are in some measure guarantees of a control which passes in their presence; and we may venture to say, that the honour of a modest woman is under the special protection of all good and worthy people. Whoever therefore dares to seduce her, sins; first because he has tempted her to sin, and that every one is an accomplice in those crimes which he persuades others to commit: in the next place, he sins directly himself, because he violates the public and sacred faith of matrimony, without which no order or regularity can subsist in society.
The crime, say they, is secret, consequently no injury can result from it to any one. If these philosophers believe the existence of a God and the immortality of the human soul, can they call that crime secret, which has for its witness the Being principally offended, and the only righteous judge? it is a strange kind of a secret, which is hid from all eyes, except those from which it is our interest most to conceal it! if they do not however admit of the omnipresence of the Divinity, yet how can they dare to affirm that they do injury to no one? how can they prove that it is a matter of indifference to a parent to educate heirs who are strangers to his blood; to be encumbered perhaps with more children than he would otherwise have had, and to be obliged to distribute his fortune among those pledges of his dishonour, without feeling for them any sensations of parental tenderness, and natural affection. If we suppose these philosophers to be materialists, we have then a stronger foundation for opposing their tenets by the gentle dictates of nature, which plead in every breath against the principles of a vain philosophy, which have never yet been controverted by sound reasoning. In short, if the body alone produces cogitation, and sentiment depends entirely on organization, will there not be a more strict analogy between two beings of the same blood; will they not have a more violent attachment to each other, will there not be a resemblance between their souls as well as their features, which is a most powerful motive to inspire mutual affection?
Is it doing no injury therefore, in your opinion, to destroy or disturb this natural union by the mixture of adulterate blood, and to pervert the principle of that mutual affection, which ought to cement all the members of one family? who would not shudder with horror at the thoughts of having one infant changed for another by a nurse? and is it a less crime to make such a change before the infant is born?
If I consider my own sex in particular, what mischiefs do I discover in this incontinency, which is supposed to do no injury! the debasement of a guilty woman, who, after the loss of her honour, soon forfeits all other virtues, is alone sufficient. What manifest symptoms convey to a tender husband the intelligence of that injury which they think to justify by secrecy! the loss of the wife's affection is sufficient proof. To what purpose will all her affected endeavours serve, but to manifest her indifference the more? can we impose upon the jealous eye of love by feigned caresses? and what torture must he feel, who is attached to a beloved object, whose hand embraces, while her heart rejects him! Admitting however that fortune should favour a conduct which she has so often betrayed, and to say nothing of the rashness of trusting our own affected innocence and another's peace to precautions which Providence often thinks proper to disconcert——yet what deceit, what falsehood, what imposture, is requisite to conceal a criminal commerce, to deceive a husband, to corrupt servants, and to impose upon the public! what a disgrace to the accomplices! what an example to children! what must become of their education amidst so much solicitude how to gratify a guilty passion with impunity! how is the peace of the family and the union of the heads of it to be maintained? what! in all these circumstances does the husband receive no injury? but who can make him recompense for a heart which should have been devoted to him? who can restore him the affections of a valuable woman? who can give him peace of mind, and conjugal confidence! who can cure him of his well-grounded suspicions? who can engage a father to trust the feelings of nature, when he embraces his child?
With regard to the pretended connections which may be formed in families by means of adultery and infidelity, it cannot be considered as a serious argument, but rather as an absurd and brutal mockery, which deserves no other answer than disdain and indignation. The treasons, the quarrels, the battles, the murders with which this irregularity has in all ages pestered the earth, are sufficient proofs how far the peace and union of mankind is to be promoted by attachments founded in guilt. If any social principle results from this vile and despicable commerce, it may be compared to that which unites a band of robbers, and which ought to be destroyed and annulled, in order to ensure the safety of lawful communities.
I have endeavoured to suppress the indignation which these principles excited in me, in order to discuss them with greater moderation. The more extravagant and ridiculous I find them, the more I am interested to refute them, in order to make myself ashamed of having listened to them with too little reserve. You see how ill they can endure the test of sound reason; but from whence can we derive the sacred dictates of reason, if not from him who is the source of all? and what shall we think of those who, in order to mislead mankind, pervert this heavenly ray, which he gave them as an unerring guide to virtue? Let us abandon this philosophy of words; let us distrust a fallacious virtue which undermines all other virtues, and attempts to vindicate every vice, to authorize the practice of every species of guilt. The surest method of discovering our duty is diligently to examine what is right, and we cannot long continue the examination, without recurring to the author of all goodness. This is what I have done, since I have taken pains to rectify my principals, and improve my reason: this is a task you will perform better than I, when you are disposed to pursue the same course. It is a comfort to me to reflect, that you have frequently nourished my mind with elevated notions of religion, and you whose heart disguised nothing from me, would not have talked to me in that strain, had your sentiments differed from your declaration. I recollect that conversations of this kind were ever delightful to us. We never found the presence of the supreme Being troublesome: it rather filled us with hope than terror: it never yet dismayed any but guilty souls; we were pleased to think that he was witness to our interviews, and we loved to exalt our minds to the contemplation of the deity. If we were now and then abased by shame, we reflected, that at least he was privy to our in most thoughts, and that idea renewed our tranquillity.
If this confidence led us astray, nevertheless the principle on which it was founded, is alone capable of reclaiming us to virtue. Is it not unworthy of a man to be always at variance with himself, to have one rule for his actions, another for his opinions, to think as if he was abstracted from matter, to act as if he was devoid of soul, and never to be capable of appropriating a single action of his life to his own entire self? for my own part, I think the principles of the ancients are sufficient to fortify us, when they are not confined to mere speculation. Weakness is incident to human nature, and the merciful Being who made man frail, will no doubt pardon his frailty; but guilt is a quality which belongs only to the wicked, and will not remain unpunished by the author of all justice. An infidel, who is otherwise well inclined, praises those virtues he admires; he acts from taste, not from choice. If all his desires happen to be regular, he indulges them without reserve. He would gratify them in the same manner, if they were irregular; for what should restrain him? But he who acknowledges and worships the common father of mankind, perceives that he is destined for nobler purposes. An ardent wish to fulfil the end of his being, animates his zeal; he follows a more certain rule of action than appetite; he knows how to do what is right at the expense of his inclinations, and to sacrifice the desires of his heart to the call of duty. Such, my dear friend, is the heroic sacrifice required of us both. The love which attached us would have proved the delight of our lives; it survived hope, it bid defiance to time and absence, it endured every kind of proof. So sincere a passion ought not ever to have decayed of itself; it was worthy to be sacrificed to virtue alone.
I must observe farther. All circumstances are altered between us, and your heart must accommodate itself to the change. The wife of Mr. Wolmar is not your former Eloisa; your change of sentiment, with regard to her, is unavoidable; and it depends upon your own choice to make the alteration redound to your honour, according to the election you make of vice or virtue. I recollect a passage in an author, whose authority you will not controvert. Love, says he, is destitute of its greatest charm, when it is abandoned by honour. To be sensible of its true value, it must warm the heart, and exalt us by raising the object of our desires. Take away the idea of perfection, and you deprive love of all its enthusiasm; banish esteem, and love is no more. How can a woman honour the man whom she ought to despise? how can he himself honour her, who has not scrupled to abandon herself to a vile seducer? thus they will soon entertain a mutual contempt for each other. Love, that celestial principle, will be debased into a shameful commerce between them. They will have lost their honour without attaining felicity.[4]This, my dear friend, is our lesson, penned by your own hand! Never were our hearts more agreeably attached, and never was honour so dear to us as in those happy days when this letter was written. Reflect then, how we should be misled at this time by a guilty passion, nourished at the expense of the most agreeable transports which can inspire the soul! The horror of vice which is so natural to us both, would soon extend to the partner of our guilt; we should entertain mutual hatred, for having loved each other indiscreetly, and remorse would quickly extinguish affection. Is it not better to refine a generous sentiment, in order to render it permanent? is it not better at least to preserve what we may grant with innocence? is not this preserving what is more delightful than all other enjoyments? yes, my dear and worthy friend, to keep our love inviolable, we must renounce each other. Let us forget all that has passed, and continue the lover of my soul. This idea is so agreeable that it compensates for every thing.
Thus have I drawn a faithful picture of my life, and given you a genuine detail of every inward sentiment. Be assured that I love you still. I am still attached to you with such a tender and lively affection, that any other than myself would be alarmed: but I feel a principle of a different kind within me, which secures me against any apprehensions from my attachment. I perceive that the nature of my affection is entirely altered, and in this respect, my past failings are the grounds of my present security; I know that scrupulous decorum and the parade of virtue might require more of me, and not be satisfied unless I utterly forgot you. But I have a more certain rule of conduct, and I will abide by it. I attend to the secret dictates of conscience; I find nothing there which reproaches me, and it never deceives those who consult it with sincerity. If this is not sufficient to justify me before the world, it is enough to restore me to composure of mind. How has this happy change been produced? I know not how. All I know is, that I wished for it most ardently. God alone has accomplished the rest. I am convinced that a mind once corrupted, will ever remain so, and will never recover of itself, unless some sudden revolution, some unexpected change of fortune and condition, entirely alters its connections. When all its habits are destroyed, and all its passions modified, by that thorough revolution, it sometimes resumes its primitive characters, and becomes like a new being recently formed by the hands of nature. Then the recollection of its former unworthiness may serve as a preservative against relapse. Yesterday we were base and abject; to-day we are vigorous and magnanimous. By thus making a close compassion between the two different states, we become more sensible of the value of that which we have recovered, and more attentive to support it.
My marriage has made me experience something like the change I endeavour to explain to you. This tie, which I dreaded so much, has extricated me from a slavery much more dreadful; and my husband becomes dearer to me, for having restored me to myself.
You and I were, however, too closely attached, for a change of this kind to destroy the unison between us. If you lose an affectionate mistress, you gain a faithful friend; and whatever we may have imagined in our state of delusion, I cannot believe that the alteration is to your prejudice. Let it, I conjure you, encourage you to take the same resolution that I have formed, to become hereafter more wise and virtuous, and to refine the lessons of philosophy, by the precepts of Christian morality. I shall never be thoroughly happy, unless you likewise enjoy happiness, and I am more convinced than ever, that there is no real felicity without virtue. If you sincerely love me, afford me the agreeable consolation to find that our hearts correspond in their return to virtue, as they unhappily agreed in their deviation from it.
I need not make any apology for the length of my epistle. Were you less dear to me, I should have shortened it. Before I conclude, I have one favour to request of you. M. Wolmar is a stranger to my past conduct; but a frank sincerity is part of the duty I owe to him; I should have made the confession a hundred times; you alone have restrained me. Though I am acquainted with M. Wolmar's discretion and moderation, yet to mention your name, is always to bring you in competition, and I would not do it without your consent. Can this request be disagreeable to you, and when I flatter myself to obtain your leave, do I depend too much on you or on myself? consider, I beseech you, that this reserve is inconsistent with innocence, that it grows every day more insupportable, and that I shall not enjoy a moment's rest till I receive your answer.
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