_The_ Presidente de Tourvel _to the_ Viscount de Valmont.
I much wish, Sir, this letter may not give you uneasiness; or, if it
should, I hope it will be alleviated by that which I confess I now
experience in writing to you. You should, I think, by this time be
sufficiently acquainted with my sentiments, to be assured I would not
willingly afflict you; and flatter myself, you are incapable of making
me for ever miserable. I beseech you, then, by the tender friendship I
have professed, and those softer sentiments, and more sincere than any
you have for me, let us no longer see one another. Leave me; and until
then, let us avoid particularly those dangerous conversations, when by
an unaccountable attraction I am lost in attending to what I ought not
to listen to, and forget what I intend to say.
When you joined company with me in the park yesterday, I fully intended
telling you what I am now about to write. What was the consequence? Why
to be totally engaged on a subject to which I ought never to listen:
your love. For heaven’s sake! depart from me. Fear not that absence
should alter my sentiments for you; for how can I possibly overcome
them, when I am no longer able to contend with them. You see I confess
my weakness, and I dread less to own it than I do to yield to it: but
the command I have lost over my mind, I will still preserve over my
actions; this I am determined on, were it at the expence of life.
Alas! the time is not very distant, that I imagined myself proof
against such temptations. I felicitated myself on it, I fear, too much;
I was, perhaps, too vain of it; and Heaven has punished, and cruelly
punished, that pride: but all-merciful, even in the hour in which it
strikes us, it warns me again before an utter fall; and I should be
doubly guilty, if, being sensible of my weakness, I should abandon my
prudence.
You have often told me, you would not desire a happiness purchased at
the expence of my tears. Let us no longer talk of happiness; let me, at
least, regain some degree of tranquillity.
In acceding to my request, what fresh claims will you not acquire
over my heart, and those founded upon virtue! How I shall enjoy my
gratitude! I shall owe to you the happiness of entertaining, without
any remorse, a sentiment of the most delicious kind. Now, on the
contrary, startled at my sentiments and my thoughts, I am equally
afraid of occupying my mind either with you or myself. The very idea
of you terrifies me. When I cannot fly from it, I combat it. I do not
banish it, but repulse it.
Is it not better for us to terminate this state of trouble and anxiety?
You, whose tender heart has even in the midst of errors remained the
friend of virtue, you will attend to my distressed situation; you will
not reject my prayer. A milder but as tender an attachment will succeed
these violent agitations. Then regaining my existence through your
beneficence, I will cherish that existence, and will say in the joy of
my heart, the calm I now feel I owe to my friend.
By submitting to some slight privations, which I do not impose upon
you, but entreat you to yield to, will you think a termination of my
sufferings too dearly purchased? Ah! if to render you happy, there was
only my own consent that I should be unhappy, you may rely on it, I
should not hesitate a moment: but to become criminal! no, my friend, I
shall prefer a thousand deaths.
Even now, assailed by shame, and on the eve of remorse, I dread all
others and myself equally. I blush when in any circle, and feel a
horror when in solitude. I no longer lead any but a life of grief. I
can only re-establish my tranquillity by your consent; my most laudable
resolutions are insufficient to afford me security. I have formed the
resolution I have just mentioned no longer than yesterday, and yet have
passed the last night in tears.
Behold your friend, her whom you love, confounded, and supplicating
you for the preservation of her repose and her innocence. Oh, heaven!
would she ever but through your means have been reduced to make such
humiliating entreaties! I, however, do not reproach you with any thing.
I feel too sensibly, from the experience of myself, how difficult it is
to resist so over-ruling a sentiment. A lamentation such as mine ought
not to be deemed a murmur. Do, from generosity what I do from duty; and
to all the sentiments you have inspired me with, I shall add that of
eternal gratitude. Adieu, adieu, Sir!
_From_ ——, _Sept._ 27, 17—.