However, notwithstanding the faults of which you are the cause, that

integrity of heart, visible in your mutual affection, has given her

such an opinion of you, that she confides in the promise you have both

made, of discontinuing your correspondence, and has not taken any

precaution to have her daughter more closely watched: indeed, if

Eloisa makes an ill return to her confidence, she will no longer be

worthy of her affection. You would both deserve the severest

treatment, if you were capable of deceiving the best of mothers, and

of abusing her esteem.

I shall not endeavour to revive in your mind the hopes which I myself

do not entertain; but I would shew you, that the most honest, is also

the wisest part, and that if you have any resource left, it is in the

sacrifice which reason and honour require. Mother, relations, and

friends are now all for you, except the father, who will by this

method be gained over, if any thing can do it. Whatever imprecations

you may utter in the moment of despair, you have a hundred times

proved to us, that there is no path more sure of leading to happiness

than that of virtue. Therefore resume your courage, and be a man! be

yourself. If I am well acquainted with your heart, the most cruel

manner of losing Eloisa, would be by rendering yourself unworthy of

her.

Letter XCVIII. From Eloisa.

She is no more! my eyes have seen hers closed for ever; my lips have

received her last sigh; my name was the last word she pronounced; her

last look was fixed on me. No, ’twas not life she seemed to quit; too

little had I known how to render that valuable! From me alone she was

torn. She saw me without a guide, and void of hope, overwhelmed by my

misfortunes and my crime: to her, death was nothing; she grieved only

to leave her daughter in such a state of misery. She had but too much

reason. What had she to regret on earth? what could there be here

below, in her eye, worth the immortal prize of patience and virtue,

reserved for her in a better world? what had she to do on earth, but

to lament my shame? Oh! most incomparable woman! thou now dwellest in

the abode of glory and felicity! thou livest; whilst I, given up to

repentance and despair, deprived for ever of thy care, of thy counsel,

of thy sweet caresses, am dead to happiness, to peace, to innocence!

Nothing do I feel but thy loss; nothing do I see but my reproach: my

life is only pain and grief. Oh my dear, my tender mother alas, I am

more dead than thou art!

Good God! to whom do I shed these tears, and vent these sighs? the

cruel man who caused them, I make my confident! with him who has

rendered my life unhappy, I dare to deplore my misfortunes! yes, yes,

barbarous as you are, share the torments you have made me suffer. You,

for whom I have plunged the poignard into a mother’s bosom, tremble at

the misfortunes you have occasioned, and shudder with me at the horrid

act you have committed. To what eyes dare I presume to appear, as

despicable as I really am? before whom shall I degrade myself to the

bent of my remorse? to whom, but to the accomplice of my crime, can I

sufficiently make it known? it is my insupportable punishment, to have

no accuser but my own heart, and to see attributed to the goodness of

my disposition the impure tears that flow from a bitter repentance. I

saw, I trembling saw the poisonous sorrow put a period to the life of

my unhappy mother. In vain did her pity for me prevent her confessing

it; in vain she affected to attribute the progress of her illness to

the cause by which it was produced; in vain was my cousin induced to

talk in the same strain. Nothing could deceive a heart torn with

regret; and to my lasting torment, I shall carry to my tomb the

frightful idea of having shortened her life, to whom I am indebted for

my own.

O thou, whom heaven in its anger raised up to render me guilty and

unhappy, for the last time receive into thy bosom the tears thou hast

occasioned! I come not, as formerly, to share with thee the grief that

ought to be mutual. These are the sighs of a last adieu, which escape

from me in spite of myself. It is done: the empire of love is subdued

in a soul condemned wholly to despair. I will consecrate the rest of

my days to lamentation for the best of mothers. To her I will

sacrifice that passion which was the cause of her death: happy shall I

be, if the painful conquest be sufficient to expiate my guilt! Oh, if

her immortal mind penetrates into the bottom of my heart, she will

know that the sacrifice I make, is not entirely unworthy of her! Share

with me then an effort which you have rendered necessary. If you have

any remaining respect for the memory of an union, once so dear and

fatal, by that I conjure you to fly from me for ever; no more to write

to me; no more to exasperate my remorse; but suffer me to forget, if

possible, our former connection. May my eyes never behold you more! may

I never more hear your name pronounced! may the remembrance of you

never more agitate my mind! I dare still intreat, in the name of that

love which ought never to have existed, that to so many causes of

grief, you add not that of seeing my last request despised. Adieu then

for the last time, dear and only----Ah, fool that I am, adieu for ever!

Letter XCIX. To Mrs. Orbe.

At last the veil is rent; the long illusion is vanished; all my

flattering hopes are extinguished; nothing is left to feed the eternal

flame, but a bitter, yet pleasing remembrance, which supports my life,

and nourishes my torments with the vain recollection of a happiness

that is now no more.

Is it then true, that I have tasted supreme felicity? am I the same

being whose happiness was once so perfect? could any one be

susceptible of such torments, who was not doomed to eternal misery?

Can he who has enjoyed the blessings I have lost, be deprived of

felicity, and still exist? and can such contrary sensations affect the

same mind? O ye glorious and happy days, surely ye were immortal! ye

were too celestial ever to perish! your whole duration was one

continued extasy, by which ye were converged like eternity into a

single point. I knew neither of past nor future, and I tasted at once

the delights of a thousand ages. Alas! ye are vanished like a shadow!

that eternity of happiness was but an instant of my life. Time now

resumes his tardy pace, and slowly measures the sad remains of my

existence.

To render my distress still more insupportable, my increasing

affliction is cruelly aggravated by the loss of all that was dear to

me. It is possible, madam, that you have still some regard for me: but

you are busied by other cares, and employed in other duties. These my

complaints, to which you once listened with concern, are now

indiscreet. Eloisa! Eloisa herself discourages and abandons me. Gloomy

remorse has banished love for ever. All is changed with respect to me;

except the steadfastness of my own heart, which serves but to render

my fate still more dreadful.

But, to what purpose is it to say what I am, and what I ought to be?

Eloisa suffers! is it a time to think of myself? her sorrow adds

bitterness to mine. Yes, I had rather she would cease to love me, and

that she were happy----cease to love me!----can she----hope it?----

never, never! She has indeed forbid me to see or write to her. Alas!

she removes the comforter, but never can the torment! should the loss

of a tender mother deprive her of a still more tender friend? does she

think to alleviate her griefs, by multiplying her misfortune? O love!

can nature be revenged only at thy expense?

No, no; in vain she pretends to forget me. Can her tender heart ever

be separated from mine? do I not retain it in spite of herself? are

sensations like those we have experienced, to be forgotten; and can

they be remembered; without feeling them still? Triumphant love was

the bane of her felicity; and having conquered her passion, she will

only be the more deserving of pity. Her days will pass in sorrow,

tormented at once by vain regret, and vain desires, without being ever

able to fulfil the obligations either of love or virtue.

Do not however imagine, that in complaining of her errors, I cease to

respect them. After so many sacrifices, it is too late for me to begin

to disobey. Since she commands, it is sufficient; she shall hear of me

no more. Is my fate now sufficiently dreadful? renounce my Eloisa!

yes, but that’s not the chief cause of my despair; it is for her I

feel the keenest pangs; and her misfortunes render me more miserable

than my own. You, whom she loves more than all the world, and who next

to me, are best acquainted with her worth; you, my amiable friend, are

the only blessing she has left: a blessing so valuable as to render

the loss of all the rest supportable. Be you her recompense for the

comforts of which she is deprived, and for those also which she

rejects: let a sacred friendship supply at once the tenderness of a

parent, and a lover, by administering every consolation that may

contribute to her happiness. O let her be happy, if she can, how great

soever the purchase! may she soon recover the peace of mind of which

I, alas, have robbed her! I shall then be less sensible of the torment

to which I am doomed. Since in my own eyes I am nothing; since it is

my fate to pass my life in dying for her; let her regard me as already

dead; I am satisfied, if this idea will add to her tranquillity.

Heaven grant, that by your kindness she may be restored to her former

excellence, and her former happiness.

Unhappy daughter! alas, thy mother is no more! this is a loss that

cannot be repaired, and for which so long as she reproaches herself,

she can never be consoled. Her troubled conscience requires of her

this dear and tender mother; and thus the most dreadful remorse is

added to her affliction. O Eloisa! oughtest thou to feel these

terrible sensations? thou who wert a witness of the sickness and of

the last moments of that unfortunate parent! I intreat, I conjure you

to tell me, what I ought to believe? If I am guilty, tear my heart in

pieces: if our crimes were the cause of her death, we are two monsters

unworthy of existence, and it were a double crime to think of so fatal

an union: O, it were even a crime to live! But, no; I cannot believe

that so pure a flame could produce such black effects. Surely the

sentiments of love are too noble. Can heaven be unjust? and could she,

who sacrificed her happiness to the author of her life, ever deserve

to be the cause of her death?

Letter C. The Answer.

How can I cease to love you, when my esteem for you is daily

increasing? how can I stifle my affection, whilst you are growing

every day more worthy of my regard? No, my dear, my excellent friend;

what we were to each other in early life, we shall continue to be for

ever; and if our mutual attachment no longer increases, it is because

it cannot be increased. All the difference is, that I then loved you

as my brother, and that now I love you as my son; for tho’ we are both

younger than you, and were even your scholars, I now in some measure

consider you as ours. In teaching us to think, you have learnt of us

sensibility; and whatever your English philosopher may say, this

education is more valuable than the other; if it is reason that

constitutes the man, it is sensibility that conducts him.

Would you know why I have changed my conduct towards you? it is not,

believe me, because my heart is not still the same; but because your

situation is changed. I favoured your passion, while there remained a

single ray of hope; but since, by obstinately continuing to aspire to

Eloisa, you can only make her unhappy, to flatter your expectations

would be to injure you, I had even rather increase your discontent,

and thus render you less deserving of my compassion. When the

happiness of both becomes impossible, all that is left for a hopeless

lover, is to sacrifice his own to that of his beloved.

This, my generous friend, you have performed in the most painful

sacrifice that ever was made; but, by renouncing Eloisa, you will

purchase her repose, tho’ at the expense of your own.

I dare scarce repeat to you the ideas that occur to me on this

subject; but they are fraught with consolation, and that emboldens me.

In the first place, I believe, that true love, as well as virtue, has

this advantage, that it is rewarded by every sacrifice we make to it,

and that we in some measure enjoy the privations we impose on

ourselves, in the very idea of what they cost us, and of the motives

by which we were induced. You will be sensible that your love for

Eloisa was in proportion to her merit; and that will increase your

happiness. The exquisite self-love, which knows how to reap advantage

from painful virtue, will mingle its charm with that of love. You will

say to yourself, I know how to love, with a pleasure more durable and

more delicate than even possession itself would have afforded. The

latter wears out the passion by constant enjoyment; but the other

sails for ever; and you will still enjoy it even when you cease to

love.

Besides, if what Eloisa and you have so often told me be true, that

love is the most delightful sensation that can enter into the human

heart, every thing that prolongs and fixes it, even at the expense of

a thousand vexations, is still a blessing. If love is a desire, that

is increased by obstacles, as you still say, it ought never to be

satisfied; it is better to preserve it at any rate, than that it

should be extinguished in pleasure. Your passion, I confess, has stood

the proof of possession, of time, of absence, and of dangers of every

kind; it has conquered every obstacle, except the most powerful of

all, that of having nothing more to conquer, and of feeding only on

itself. The world has never seen the passion stand this proof; what

right have you then to hope, that yours would have stood the test?

Time which might have joined to the disgust of a long possession, the

progress of age, and the decline of beauty, seems by your separation

fixed and motionless in your favour; you will be always to each other

in the bloom of your years; you will incessantly see her, as she was

when you beheld her at parting, and your hearts, united even to the

grave, will prolong, by a charming illusion, your youth and your love.

Had you never been happy, you might have been tormented by

insurmountable inquietudes; your heart might have panted after a

felicity of which it was not unworthy; your warm imagination would

have incessantly required that which you have not obtained. But love

has no delights which you have not tasted, and to write like you, you

have exhausted in one year the pleasures of a whole life. Remember the

passionate letter you wrote after a rash interview. I read it with an

emotion I had never before experienced; it had no traces of the

permanent state of a truly tender heart, but was filled with the last

delirium of a mind inflamed with passion, and intoxicated with

pleasure. You yourself may judge that such transports are not to be

twice experienced in this life, and that death ought immediately to

succeed. This, my friend, was the summit of all, and whatever love or

fortune might have done for you, your passion and your felicity must

have declined. That instant was also the beginning of your disgrace,

and Eloisa was taken from you, at the moment when she could inspire no

new sensations, as if fate intended to secure your passion from being

exhausted, and to leave in the remembrance of your past pleasures, a

pleasure more sweet than all those you could now have enjoyed.

Comfort yourself then with the loss of a blessing that would certainly

have escaped you, and would besides have deprived you of that you now

possess. Happiness and love would have vanished at once; you have at

least preserved that passion, and we are not without pleasure, while

we continue to love. The idea of extinguished love is more terrifying

to a tender heart, than that of an unhappy flame; and to feel a

disgust for what we possess, is an hundred times worse than regretting

what is lost.

If the reproaches made you, by my afflicted cousin, on the death of

her mother, were well founded, the cruel remembrance would, I confess,

poison that of your love, which ought for ever to be destroyed by so

fatal an idea; but give no credit to her grief; it deceives her; or

rather the cause to which she would ascribe her sorrow, is only a

pretence to justify its excess. Her tender mind is always in fear that

her affliction is not sufficiently severe, and she feels a kind of

pleasure in adding bitterness to her distress; but she certainly

imposes on herself, she cannot be sincere.

Do you think she could support the dreadful remorse she would feel, if

she really believed she had shortened her mother’s life? no, no, my

friend, she would not then weep, she would have sunk with her into the

grave. The baronet D’Etange’s disease is well known; it was a dropsy

of the pericardium, which was incurable, and her life was despaired

of, even before she had discovered your correspondence. I own it

afflicted her much, but she had great consolation. How comfortable was

it to that tender mother to see, while she lamented the fault of her

daughter, by how many virtues it was counter-balanced, and to be

forced to admire the dignity of her soul, while she lamented the

weakness of nature? how pleasing to perceive with what affection she

loved her? such indefatigable zeal! such continual solicitude! such

grief at having offended her! what regret, what tears, what affecting

caresses, what unwearied sensibility! In the eyes of the daughter were

visible all the mother’s sufferings; it was she who served her in the

day, and watched her by night; it was from her hand that she received

every assistance: you would have thought her some other Eloisa, for

her natural delicacy disappeared, she was strong and robust, the most

painful services caused no fatigue, and the intrepidity of her soul

seemed to have created her a new body. She did every thing, yet

appeared to be unemployed; she was every where, and yet rarely left

her; she was perpetually on her knees by the bed, with her lips

pressed to her mother’s hand, bewailing her illness and her own

misfortunes, and confounding these two sensations, in order to

increase her affliction. I never saw any person enter my aunt’s

chamber, during the last days, without being moved even to tears, at

this most affecting spectacle, to behold two hearts more closely

uniting, at the very moment when they were to be torn asunder. It was

visible that their only cause of anguish was their separation, and

that to live or die would have been indifferent to either, could they

have remained, or departed together.

So far from adopting Eloisa’s gloomy ideas, assure yourself that every

thing that could be hoped for from human assistance and consolation,

have on her part concurred to retard the progress of her mother’s

disease, and that her tenderness and care have undoubtedly preserved

her longer with us, than she would otherwise have continued. My aunt

herself has told me a hundred times that her last days were the

sweetest of her life, and that the happiness of her daughter was the

only thing wanting to compleat her own.

If grief must be supposed in any degree to have hastened her

dissolution, it certainly sprang from another source. It is to her

husband it ought to be ascribed. Being naturally inconstant, he

lavished the fire of his youth on a thousand objects infinitely less

pleasing, than his virtuous wife; and when age brought him back to

her, he treated her with that inflexible severity with which faithless

husbands are accustomed to aggravate their faults. My poor cousin has

felt the effects of it. An high opinion of his nobility, and that

roughness of disposition which nothing can ever soften, have produced

your misfortunes and hers. Her mother, who had always a regard for

you, and who discovered Eloisa’s love when it was too violent to be

extinguished, had long secretly bemoaned the misfortune of not being

able to conquer either the inclinations of her daughter, or the

obstinacy of her husband, and of being the first cause of an evil

which she could not remedy. When your letters unexpectedly fell into

her hands, and she found how far you had misused her confidence, she

was afraid of losing all by endeavouring to save all, and to hazard

the life of her child in attempting to restore her honour. She several

times sounded her husband without success. She often resolved to

venture an entire confidence in him, and to shew him the full extent

of his duty; but she was always restrained by her timidity. She

hesitated while it was in her power, and when she would have told him,

she was no longer able to speak; her strength failed her, she carried

the fatal secret with her to the grave, and I who know this austerity,

without having the least idea how far it may be tempered by natural

affection, am satisfied, since Eloisa’s life is in no danger.

All this she knows; but you will ask, what I think of her apparent

remorse? in answer to which I must tell you, that Love is more

ingenuous than she. Overcome with grief for the loss of her mother,

she would willingly forget you, and yet in spite of herself, Love

disturbs her conscience in order to bring you to her memory. He

chuses that her tears should be connected with the object of her

passion, but she not daring to employ her thoughts directly on you, he

deceives her into it under the mask of repentance: thus he imposes on

her with so much art, that he is willing to increase her woes rather

than banish you from her thoughts. Your heart may perhaps be ignorant

of such subterfuges, but they are not the less natural; for though

your passion may be equal in degree, its nature in each of you is very

different. Yours is warm and violent, hers soft and tender; your

sensations are breathed forth with vehemence, but hers retort upon

herself, and pierce and poison her very inmost soul. Love animates and

supports your heart, whilst hers is oppressed and dejected with its

weight, all its springs are relaxed, her strength is gone, her courage

is extinguished, and her virtue has lost its power. Her heroic

faculties are not however annihilated but suspended: a momentary

crisis may restore them to their full vigour, or totally destroy their

existence. One step farther in this gloomy path and she is lost; but

if her incomparable soul should recover itself, she will be greater,

more heroic, more virtuous than ever, and there will be no danger of a

relapse. Learn then, in this perilous situation, to revere the object

of your love. Any thing that should come from you, though it were

against yourself, would at this time prove mortal. If you are

determined to persist, your triumph will be certain, but you will

never possess the same Eloisa.

Letter CI. From Lord B----.

I had some pretentions to your friendship, you were become serviceable

to me, and I was prepared to meet you. But what are my pretensions, my

necessities, or my eagerness to you? you have forgot me, you do not

even deign to write to me. I am not ignorant of your solitude, nor of

your secret design; you are weary of existence. Die then, weak youth:

yes die, thou daring yet cowardly mortal; but, in thy last moments,

remember that thou hast stung the soul of thy sincere friend with the

recollection having served an ungrateful man.

Letter CII. The Answer.

Yes, my kind friend, you may come. I was determined to taste no more

pleasure upon earth, but we will meet once more. You are wrong; it is

as impossible that you should meet with ingratitude as that I should

ever be ungrateful.

Billet. From Eloisa.

It is time to renounce the errors of youth, and to abandon an illusive

hope. I can never be yours. Restore to me that liberty of which my

father chuses to dispose; or compleat my misery by a refusal which

will ruin me for ever, without producing any advantage to yourself.

_Eloisa Etange._

Letter CIII. From the Baron D’Etange.

_In which the preceding billet was inclosed._

If there remains in the mind of a seducer the least sentiment of

honour or humanity, answer the billet of an unhappy girl, whose heart

you have corrupted, and who would no longer exist, if I could suppose

her to have carried the forgetfulness of herself any farther. I should

not indeed be much surprized if the same philosophy which taught her

to catch at the first man she saw, should also instruct her to

disobey her father. Think of this matter. I always chuse to proceed

with lenity and decency, when those methods are likely to succeed; but

because I act thus with you, you are not to suppose me ignorant in

what manner a gentleman should take revenge of those beneath him.

Letter CIV. The Answer.

Let me intreat you, Sir, to spare those vain menaces, and that unjust

reproach, which can neither terrify nor humble me. Between two persons

of the same age there can be no seducer but love, and you can have no

right to vilify a man whom your daughter honoured with her esteem.

What concessions do you expect, and from what authority are they

imposed? is it to the author of all my misfortunes that I must

sacrifice my remaining glimpse of hope? I will respect the father of

Eloisa; but let him deign to be mine if he expects obedience. No, Sir,

what opinion soever you may entertain of your proceedings, they will

not oblige me, for your sake, to relinquish such valuable and just

pretensions. As you are the sole cause of my misery, I owe you nothing

but hatred; your pretensions are without foundation. But Eloisa

commands: her I shall never disobey; therefore you have my consent.

Another may possess her, but I shall be more worthy.

If your daughter had deigned to consult me concerning the limits of

your authority, doubt not but I would have taught her to disregard

your unjust pretensions. How despotic soever may be the empire you

assume, my rights are infinitely more sacred. The chain by which we

are united marks the extent of paternal dominion, even in the

estimation of human laws, and whilst you appeal to the law of nature,

you yourself are trampling upon its institutions.

Do not alledge that delicate phantom honour, which you seem so

determined to vindicate; for here again you are the sole offender.

Respect Eloisa’s choice, and your honour is secure; for I honour you

in my heart, regardless of your insults. Notwithstanding all your

gothic maxims, one honest man was never dishonoured by his alliance

with another. If my presumption offends you, attempt my life; against

you I shall never defend it. As to the rest, I am little anxious to

know in what consists the honour of a gentleman; but with regard to

that of an honest man, I own, it concerns me, and therefore I shall

defend and preserve it pure and spotless to the end of my life.

Go, inhuman father, and meditate the destruction of your only child,

whilst she, full of duty and affection, stands ready to yield her

happiness a victim to prejudice and opinion: but be assured your own

remorse will one day severely revenge my injuries, and you will then

perceive, when it is too late, that your blind and unnatural hatred

was no more fatal to me than to yourself. That I shall be wretched, is

most certain; but if ever the just feelings of nature should emerge

from the bottom of your heart, how infinitely greater will be your

unhappiness in having sacrificed the only daughter of your bosom to a

mere phantom: a daughter who has no equal in beauty, merit or virtue,

and on whom indulgent heaven has bestowed every blessing, except a

kind father.

Billet.

_Inclosed in the foregoing._

I restore to Eloisa Etange the power to dispose of herself, and to

give her hand without consulting her heart.

_S. G._

Letter CV. From Eloisa.

I designed to give you a description of the scene which produced the

billet you have received; but my father took his measures so

skilfully, that it ended only the instant before the post went out.

His letter as certainly saved the mail as this will be too late; so

that your resolution will be taken, and your answer dispatched before

it can possibly reach you: therefore all detail would now be useless.

I have done my duty; you will do yours: but fate will overwhelm us,

and we are betrayed by honour. We are divided for ever! and to

increase my horror, I am going to be forced into the----O heavens! it

was once in my power to live in thine. Just God!----we must tremble

and be silent.

The pen falls from my hand. I have been of late much indisposed. This

morning’s affair has hurt me not a little----Oh, my head, my poor

heart! I feel, I feel, I shall faint----Will heaven have no mercy on

my sufferings?----I am no longer able to support myself----I will

retire to my bed, and console myself, in the hope of rising no more.

Adieu, my only love! adieu, for the last time, my dear, my tender

friend. Ah! I live no longer for thee! have I not then already ceased

to live?

Letter CVI. From Eloisa to Mrs. Orbe.

Can it be true, my dear, my cruel friend, that you have called me back

to life and sorrow? I saw the happy instant when I was going to be

again united to the tenderest of mothers; but thy inhuman kindness has

condemned me to bemoan her yet longer: when my desire to follow her

had almost snatched me from this earth, my unwillingness to leave thee

behind held me fast. If I am at all reconciled to life, it is from the

comfort of not having entirely escaped the hand of death. Thank

heaven! that beauty is no more for which my heart has paid so dearly.

The distemper from which I have risen has happily deprived me of it.

This circumstance I hope will abate the gross ardour of a man so

indelicate as to dare to marry me without my consent. When the only

thing which he admired no longer exists, surely he will be little

anxious about the rest. Without breach of promise to my father,

without injuring that friend whose life is in his power, I shall be

able to repulse this importunate wretch: my lips will be silent, but

my looks will speak for me. His disgust will defend me against his

tyranny, and he will find me too disagreeable to dare to make me

unhappy.

Ah, my dear cousin! you know a constant tender heart that would not be

so repulsed. His passion was not confined to outward form or charms of

person; it was me that he loved, and not my face; we were united in

every part of our being, and so long as Eloisa had remained, her

beauty might have fled, but love would for ever have continued. And

yet he could consent----ungrateful youth!----yet it was but just,

since I could ask it. Who would wish to retain by promise those who

could withdraw their heart? and did I attempt to withdraw mine?----

have I done it?----O heavens! why must every thing conspire to remind

me of times that are no more, and to increase a flame which ought to

be extinguished? In vain, Eloisa, are thy endeavours to tear the dear

image from thy heart: ’tis too firmly attached; thy heart itself would

first be torn in pieces, and all thy endeavours serve but to engrave

it the deeper.

May I venture to tell you a vision of my delirium during my fever,

which has continued to torment me ever since my recovery? Yes, learn

and pity the distraction of your unhappy friend, that you may thank

heaven for preserving your heart from the horrid passion by which it

is occasioned. During the most violent moment of my phrenzy, when my

fever was at the height, I thought I beheld the unhappy youth kneeling

by my bed-side: not such as when he charmed my senses during the short

period of my felicity; but pale, wild, and lost in despair. He took my

hand, not disgusted with its appearance, and fearless of the sad

infection, eagerly kissed and bathed it with his tears. I felt at the

sight of him that pleasing emotion which his unexpected appearance

used formerly to occasion. I endeavoured to dart towards him, but was

restrained. You tore him from me, and what affected me most was his

sighs and groans, which seemed to increase as he went farther from me.

It is impossible to describe the effect of this strange dream. My

fever was long and violent; I continued many days insensible; I have

seen him often in my phrenzy; but none of my dreams have left half the

impression on my memory which this last did: it is impossible to drive

it from my imagination. Methinks I see him every moment in that

attitude. His air, his dress, his manner, his sorrowful and tender

look, are continually before my eyes. His lips seem still to press my

hand; I feel it wet with his tears. His plaintive voice melts my

heart; now I behold him dragged far from me, whilst I endeavour in

vain to hold him fast. In short, the whole imaginary scene appears in

my mind more real than reality itself.

I deliberated long before I could resolve to tell you this. Shame kept

me silent when we were together; but the idea grows every day

stronger, and torments me to such a degree, that I can no longer

conceal my folly. Would that I were entirely a fool! why should I wish

to preserve that reason which serves only to make me wretched?

But to return to my dream. Rally me, my dear friend, if you will, for

my simplicity; but surely there is something mysterious in this

vision, which distinguishes it from common phrenzy. Can it be a

presage of his death? or is he already dead? and was it thus that

heaven deigned, for once to be my guide, and invite me to follow him

whom I was ordained to love? Alas! a summons to the grave would be the

greatest blessing I could receive.

To what purpose do I recall these vain maxims of philosophy which

amuse only those who have no feelings? they impose on me no longer,

and I cannot help despising them. I believe that spirits are

invisible; but is it impossible that, between two lovers so closely

united, there should be an immediate communication, independent of the

body and the senses? may not their mutual impressions be transmitted

through the brain?----Poor Eloisa, what extravagant ideas! how

credulous are we rendered by our passions! and how difficult it is for

a heart severely affected to relinquish its errors, even after

conviction!

Letter CVII. The Answer.

Ah, thou most unfortunate and tender girl! art thou then destined to

be unhappy? I try in vain to keep thee from sorrow, but thou dost seem

to court affliction; thy evil genius is more powerful than all my

endeavours. Do not however add chimerical apprehensions to so many

real causes of inquietude: and since my caution has been more

prejudicial than serviceable to you, let me free you from a mistake

which aggravates your misery; perhaps the melancholy truth will be

less tormenting. Know then that your dream, was not a dream; that it

was not the phantom of your friend which you beheld, but his real

person; and that the affecting scene, which is ever present to your

imagination, did actually pass in your room, on the day after your

disorder was at the crisis.

On the preceding day, I left you very late; and Mr. Orbe, who would

take me from you that night, was ready to depart; when on a sudden we

perceived that unhappy wretch, whose condition is truly deplorable,

enter hastily, and throw himself at our feet. He took post horses

immediately on the receipt of your last letter. By travelling day and

night, he performed the journey in three days, and never stopped till

the last stage; where he waited in order to enter the town under

favour of the night. I am ashamed to confess, that I was less eager

than Mr. Orbe to embrace him: without knowing the intent of his

journey, I foresaw the consequence. The bitter recollection of former

times, your danger and his, his manifest discomposure of mind, all

contributed to check so agreeable a surprize; and I was too powerfully

affected to salute him with eagerness. I nevertheless embraced him

with a heart-felt emotion in which he sympathized, and which

reciprocally displayed itself in a kind of mute grief, more eloquent

than tears and lamentations. The first words he uttered were----“How

does she? O, how is my Eloisa? am I to live or die?” I concluded from

thence, that he was informed of your illness, and upon the

supposition that he was likewise acquainted with the nature of it, I

spoke without any other precaution than that of extenuating the

danger. When he understood that it was the small-pox, he made dreadful

lamentation, and was taken suddenly ill. Fatigue and the want of

sleep, together with perturbation of mind, had so entirely overcome

him, that it was some time before we could bring him to himself. He

had scarce strength to speak; we persuaded him to take rest.

Nature being quite spent, he slept twelve hours successively, but with

so much agitation that such a sleep must rather impair than recruit

his strength. The next day gave birth to new perplexity: he was

absolutely determined to see you. I represented to him the danger

there was that his presence might occasion some fatal revolution in

your distemper. He proposed to wait till there was no risque; but his

stay itself was a terrible risque, of which I endeavoured to make him

sensible. He rudely interrupted me. “Cease, said he, with a tone of

indignation, your cruel eloquence: it is too much, to exert it for my

ruin. Do not hope to drive me from hence as you did when I was forced

into exile. I would travel a hundred times from the farthest extremity

of the world for one glance of my Eloisa: but I swear, added he with

vehemence, by the author of my being, that I will not stir till I have

seen her. We will try for once, whether I shall move you with

compassion, or you make me guilty of perjury.”

His resolution was fixed. Mr. Orbe was of opinion that we should

contrive some means to gratify him, that we might send him away before

his return was discovered: for he was only known to one person in the

house, of whose secrecy I was assured; and we called him by a feigned

name before the family. [39] I promised him that he should see you the

next night, upon condition that he staid but a minute, that he did not

utter a syllable, and that he departed the next morning before break

of day. To these conditions, I exacted his solemn promise; then I was

easy, I left my husband with him, and returned to you.

I found you much better, the irruption was quite compleat; and the

physician raised my courage, by giving me hope. I laid my plan

beforehand with Bab, and the increase of your fever, though a little

abated, leaving you still somewhat light-headed, I took that

opportunity to dismiss every body, and send my husband word to

introduce his guest, concluding that before the paroxysm of your

disorder was over, you would be less likely to recollect him. We had

all the difficulty in the world to get rid of your disconsolate

father, who was determined to sit up with you every night. At length

I told him with some warmth, that he would spare nobody the trouble

of watching, for that I was determined likewise to sit up with you,

and that he might be assured, though he was your father, his

tenderness for you was not more diligent than mine. He departed with

reluctance, and we remained by ourselves Mr. Orbe came about eleven,

and told me that he had left your friend in the street. I went in

search of him: I took him by the hand: he trembled like a leaf. As he

went through the anti-chamber, his strength failed him: he drew his

breath with difficulty, and was forced to sit down.

At length, having singled out some objects by the faint glimmering of

a distant light----yes, said he, with a deep sigh, I recollect these

apartments. Once in my life I traversed them----about the same hour

----with the same mysterious caution----I trembled as I do now----My

heart fluttered with the same emotion----O! rash creature that I was

----though but a poor mortal, I nevertheless dared to taste.----What

am I now going to behold in that same spot, where every thing

diffused a delight with which my soul was intoxicated? what am I

going to view, in that same object which inspired and shared my

transports?----the retinue of melancholy, the image of death,

afflicted virtue, and expiring beauty!

Dear cousin; I will spare thy tender heart the dismal detail of such

an affecting scene. He saw you, and was mute. He had promised to be

silent;----but such a silence! he fell upon his knees; he sobbed, and

kissed the curtains of your bed; he lifted up his hands and eyes; he

fetched deep and silent groans; he could scarce stifle his grief and

lamentations. Without seeing him, you accidentally put one of your

hands out of bed; he seized it with extravagant eagerness; the ardent

kisses he impressed on your sick hand, awaked you sooner than all the

noise and murmur which buzzed about you. I perceived that you

recollected him, and in spite of all his resistance and complaints, I

forced him from your chamber directly, hoping to elude the impression

of such a fleeting apparition, under the pretence of its being the

effect of your delirium. But finding that you took no notice of it, I

concluded that you had forgot it. I forbad Bab to mention it, and I am

persuaded she has kept her word. A needless caution which love has

disconcerted, and which has only served to aggravate the pain of a

recollection which it is too late to efface.

He departed as he had promised, and I made him swear not to stop in

the neighbourhood. But, my dear girl, this is not all; I must acquaint

you with another circumstance, of which likewise you cannot long

remain ignorant. Lord B---- passed by two days afterwards; he hastened

to overtake him; he joined him at Dijon, and found him ill. The

unlucky wretch had caught the small-pox. He kept it secret from me

that he had never had the distemper, and I introduced him without

precaution. As he could not cure your disorder, he was determined to

partake of it. When I recollect the eagerness with which he kissed

your hand, I make no doubt but he underwent inoculation purposely. It

is impossible to have been worse prepared to receive it; but it was

the inoculation of love, and it proved fortunate. The author of life

preserved the most tender lover that ever existed; he is recovered,

and according to my lord’s last letter, they are by this time actually

set out for Paris.

You see, my too lovely cousin, that you ought to banish those

melancholy terrors, which alarm you without reason. You have long

since renounced the person of your friend, and you find that his life

is safe. Think of nothing therefore, but how to preserve your own, and

how to make the promised sacrifice to paternal affection with becoming

grace. Cease to be the sport of vain hope, and to feed yourself with

chimeras. You are in great haste to be proud of your deformity; let me

advise you to be more humble; believe me you have yet too much reason

to be so. You have undergone a cruel infection, but it has spared your

face. What you take for seams, is nothing but a redness which will

quickly disappear. I was worse affected than you, yet nevertheless you

see I am tolerable. My angel, you will still be beautiful in spite of

yourself; and do you think that the enamoured Wolmar, who, in three

years absence, could not conquer a passion conceived in eight days, is

likely to be cured of it, when he has an opportunity of seeing you

every hour? Oh! if your only resource is the hope of being

disagreeable, how desperate is your condition!

Letter CVIII. From Eloisa.

It is too much. It is too much. O my friend! the victory is yours. I

am not proof against such powerful love; my resolution is exhausted.

My conscience affords me the consolatory testimony, that I have

exerted my utmost efforts. Heaven, I hope, will not call me to account

for more than it has bestowed upon me. This sorrowful heart which cost

you so dear, and which you have more than purchased, is yours without

reserve; it was attached to you the first moment my eyes beheld you;

and it will remain yours to my dying breath. You have too much

deserved it, ever to be in danger of losing it; and I am weary of

being the slave of a chimerical virtue, at the expense of justice.

Yes, thou most tender and generous lover, thy Eloisa will be ever

thine, will love thee ever: I must, I will, I ought. To you I resign

the empire which love has given you; a dominion of which nothing shall

ever deprive thee more. The deceitful voice which murmurs at the

bottom of my soul, whispers in vain: it shall no longer betray me.

What are the vain duties it prescribes, in opposition to a passion

which heaven itself inspire? is not the obligation which binds me to

you, the most solemn of all? is it not to you alone that I have given

an absolute promise? was not the first vow of my heart never to forget

you; and is not your insoluble attachment a fresh tie to secure my

constancy? ah! in the transports of love with which I once more

surrender my heart to thee, my only regret is, that I have struggled

against sentiments so agreeable and so natural. Nature, O gentle

nature, resume thy rights! I abjure the savage virtues which conspire

to thy destruction. Can the inclinations which you have inspired, be

more seductive, than a specious reason which has so often misled me?

O my dear friend, have some regard for the tenderness of my

inclinations; you are too much indebted to them, to abhor them; but

allow of a participation which nature and affection demands; let not

the rights of blood and friendship be totally extinguished by those of

love. Do not imagine that to follow you, I will ever quit my father’s

house. Do not hope that I will refuse to comply with the obligations

imposed on me by parental authority. The cruel loss of one of the

authors of my being, has taught me to be cautious how I afflict the

other. No, she whom he expects to be his only comfort hereafter, will

not increase the affliction of his soul, already oppressed with

disquietude: I will not destroy all that gave me life. No, no, I am

sensible of my crime, but cannot abhor it. Duty, honour, virtue, all

these considerations have lost their influence, but yet I am not a

monster; I am frail, but not unnatural. I am determined, I will not

grieve any of the object of my affection. Let a father, tenacious of

his word, and jealous of a vain prerogative, dispose of my hand

according to his promise, but let love alone dispose of my heart; let

my tears incessantly trickle down the bosom of my tenderest friend.

Let me be lost and wretched, but, if possible, let every one dear to

me, be happy and contented. On you three my existence depends, and may

your felicity make me forget my misery and despair.

Letter CIX. The Answer.

We revive my Eloisa; all the real sentiments of our souls resume their

wonted course. Nature has preserved our existence, and love has

restored us to life. Did you suppose, could you be rash enough to

imagine you could withdraw your affections from me? I am better

acquainted with your heart than yourself: that heart which heaven

destined to be mine! I find them united by one common thread, which

death alone can divide. Is it in our power to separate them, or ought

we even to attempt it? are they joined together by ties which man hath

formed, and which man can dissolve? No, no, my Eloisa! if cruel

destiny bars our claim to tender conjugal titles, yet nothing can

deprive us of the character of faithful lovers; that shall be the

comfort of our melancholy days, and we will carry it with us to the

grave.

Thus we recover life only to renew our sufferings, and the

consciousness of our existence is nothing more than a sense of

affliction. Unfortunate beings! how we are altered? how have we ceased

to be what we were formerly? where is that enchantment of supreme

felicity? where are those exquisite raptures which enlivened our

passion? nothing is left of us but our love; love alone remains, and

all its charms are eclipsed. O, thou dear and too dutiful girl, thou

fond fair one without resolution! all our misfortunes are derived from

thy errors. Alas! a heart of less purity would not have so fatally

misled thee! yes, the honour of thy heart has been our ruin, the

upright sentiments which fill thy breast, have banished discretion.

You would endeavour to reconcile filial tenderness with unconquerable

love; by attempting to gratify all your inclinations, you confound

instead of conciliating them, and your very virtue renders you guilty.

O Eloisa, how incredible is your power! by what strange magic do you

fascinate my reason! even while you endeavour to make me blush at our

passion, you have the art of appearing amiable in your very failings.

You force me to admire you, even while I partake of your remorse----

your remorse!----does it become you to feel remorse?----you, whom I

loved----you, whom I shall never cease to adore----can guilt ever

approach thy spotless heart?----O cruel Eloisa! if you mean to

restore the heart which belongs to me alone, return it to me such as

it was, when you first bestowed it.

What do you tell me?----will you venture to intimate----you, fall

into the arms of another?----shall another possess you?----will you

be no longer mine?----or, to compleat my horror, will you not be

solely mine?----I----shall I suffer such dreadful punishment----

shall I see you survive yourself?----no I had rather lose you

entirely, than share you with another.----Why has not heaven armed

me with courage equal to the rage which distracts me?----sooner than

_thy_ hand should debase itself by a fatal union which love abhors,

and honour condemns, I would interpose my own, and plunge a poignard

in thy breast. I would drain thy chaste heart of blood which

infidelity never tainted: with that spotless blood I would mix my

own, which burns in my veins with inextinguishable ardour; I would

fall in thy arms; I would yield my last breath on thy lips----I would

receive thine----How! Eloisa expiring! those lovely eyes closed by

the horrors of death!----that breast, the throne of love, mangled by

my hand, and pouring forth copious streams of blood and life!----No,

live and suffer, endure the punishment of my cowardice. No, I wish

thou wert no more, but my passion is not so violent as to stab thee.

O, that you did but know the state of my heart, which is ready to

burst with anguish! Never did it burn with so pure a flame. Never were

your innocence and virtue so dear to me. I am a lover, I know how to

prize an amiable object, I am sensible that I do: but I am no more

than man, and it is not within the compass of human power to renounce

supreme felicity. One night, one single night, has made a thorough

change in my soul. Preserve me, if thou canst, from that dangerous

recollection, and I am virtuous still. But that fatal night is sunk to

the bottom of my soul, and the remembrance of it will darken all the

rest of my days. O Eloisa, thou most adorable object! if we must be

wretched for ever, yet let us enjoy one hour of transport, and then

resign ourselves to eternal lamentations.

Listen to the man who loves you. Why should we alone affect to be

wiser than the rest of mankind, and pursue, with puerile simplicity,

those chimerical virtues, which all the world talks of, and no one

practises. What! shall we pretend to be greater moralists than the

crowd of philosophers which people London and Paris, who all laugh at

conjugal fidelity, and treat adultery as a jest? instances of this

nature are far from being scandalous; we are not at liberty even to

censure them, and people of spirit would laugh at a man who should

stifle the affections of his heart out of respect to matrimony. In

fact, say they, an injury which only consists in opinion, is no injury

while it remains secret. What injury does a husband receive from an

infidelity to which he is a stranger? by how many obliging

condescensions, does a woman compensate for her failings? [40] what

endearments she employs to prevent, and to remove his suspicions?

deprived of an imaginary good, he actually enjoys more real felicity,

and this supposed crime which makes such a noise, is but an additional

tie, which secures the peace of society.

O God forbid, thou dear partner of my soul, that I should wish to

preserve thy affections by such shameful maxims. I abhor them, though

I am not able to confute them, and my conscience is a better advocate

than my reason. Not that I pride myself upon a spirit which I detest,

or that I am fond of a virtue bought so dear: but I think it less

criminal to reproach myself with my failings, than to attempt to

vindicate them, and I consider an endeavour to stifle remorse, as the

strongest degree of guilt.

I know not what I write. I find my mind in a horrid state, much worse

than it was, even before I received your letter. The hope you tender

me, is gloomy and melancholy; it totally extinguishes that pure light,

which has so often been our guide; your charms are blasted, and yet

appear more affecting; I perceive that you are affectionate and

unhappy: my heart is overwhelmed with the tears which flow from your

eyes, and I vent bitter reproaches on myself for having presumed to

taste a happiness, which I can no longer enjoy, but at the hazard of

your peace.

Nevertheless I perceive that a secret ardour fires my soul, and

revives that courage which my remorse has subdued. Ah, lovely Eloisa,

do you know how many losses a love like mine can compensate for? do

you know how far a lover, who only breathes for you, can make your

life agreeable? are you sensible that it is for you alone I wish to

live, to move, to think? no, thou delicious source of my existence, I

will have no soul but thine, I will no longer be any thing but a part

of thy lovely self, and you will meet with such a kind reception in

the inmost recesses of my heart, that you will never perceive any

decay in your charms. Well, we shall be guilty, yet we will not be

wicked; we shall be guilty, yet we will be in love with virtue: so far

from attempting to palliate our failings, we will deplore them; we

will lament together; if possible, we will work our redemption, by

being good and benevolent. Eloisa! O Eloisa! what will you do? what

can you do? you can never disengage yourself from my heart: is it not

espoused to thine?

I have long since bid adieu to those vain prospects of fortune which

so palpably deluded me. I now solely confine my attention to the

duties I owe Lord B----; he will force me with him to England; he

imagines I can be of service to him there. Well, I will attend him.

But I will steal away once every year; I will come in secret to visit

you. If I cannot speak to you, at least I shall have the pleasure of

gazing on you; I may at least kiss your footsteps; one glance from

your eyes will support me ten months. When I am forced to return, and

retire from her I love, it will be some consolation to me, to count

the steps which will bring me back again. These frequent journeys will

be some amusement to your unhappy lover; when he sets out to visit

you, he will anticipate the pleasure of beholding you; the remembrance

of the transports he has felt, will enchant his imagination during his

absence; in spite of his cruel destiny, his melancholy time will not

be utterly lost; every year will be marked with some tincture of

pleasure, and the short-lived moments he passes near you, will be

multiplied during his whole life.

Letter CX. From Mrs. Orbe.

Your mistress is no more; but I have recovered my friend, and you too

have gained one, whose affection will more than recompense your loss.

Eloisa is married, and her merit is sufficient to make the gentleman

happy, who has blended his interest with hers. After so many

indiscretions, thank heaven which has preserved you both, her from

ignominy, and you from the regret of having dishonoured her. Reverence

her change of condition; do not write to her, she desires you will

not. Wait till she writes to you, which she will shortly do. Now is

the time to convince me that you merit that esteem I ever entertained

for you, and that your heart is susceptible of a pure and

disinterested friendship.

Letter CXI. From Eloisa.

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.