Eloisa · Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Letter CXXXI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
I know that I need but desire my husband not to go at all, and he who never denied me any thing, will not refuse me so slight a favour. But I perceive, my dear, that he takes a pleasure in the confidence he reposes in me, and I am afraid of forfeiting some share of his esteem, if he should suppose that I have occasion for more reserve than he allows me. I know likewise, that I need but speak a word to St. Preux, and that he will accompany my husband without hesitation; but what will my husband think of the change, and can I take such a step without preserving an air of authority over St. Preux, which might seem to entitle him to some privileges in his turn? Besides, I am afraid, lest he should conclude from this precaution that I find it absolutely necessary, and this step which at first sight appears most easy, is the most dangerous perhaps at the bottom. Upon the whole however I am not ignorant that no consideration should be put in competition with a real danger, but does this danger exist in fact? This is the very doubt which you must resolve for me.
The more I examine the present state of my mind, the more I find to encourage me. My heart is spotless, my conscience calm, I have no symptoms of fear or uneasiness and with respect to every thing which passes within me, my sincerity before my husband costs me no trouble. Not but that certain involuntary recollections sometimes occasion tender emotions from which I had rather be exempt; but these recollections are so far from being produced by the sight of him who was the original cause of them, that they seem to be less frequent since his return, and however agreeable it is to me to see him, yet, I know not from what strange humour, it is more agreeable to me to think of him. In a word, I find that I do not even require the aid of virtue in order to be composed in his presence, and, exclusive of the horror of guilt, it would be very difficult to revive those sentiments which virtue has extinguished. But is it sufficient, my dear, that my heart encourages me, when reason ought to alarm me? I have forfeited the right of depending on my own strength. Who will answer that my confidence, even now, is not an illusion of vice? How shall I rely on those sentiments which have so often deceived me? Does not guilt always spring from that pride which prompts us to despise temptation; and when we defy those dangers which have occasioned our fall, does it not shew a disposition to yield again to temptation?
Weigh all these circumstances, my dear Clara, you will find that though they may be trifling in themselves, they are of sufficient importance to merit attention, when you consider the object they concern. Deliver me from the uncertainty into which they have thrown me. Shew me how I must behave in this critical conjuncture; for my past errors have affected my judgment, and rendered me diffident in deciding upon any thing. Whatever you may think of yourself, your mind, I am certain, is tranquil and composed; objects present themselves to you such as they are; but in mine, which is agitated like a troubled sea, they are confounded and disfigured. I no longer dare to depend upon any thing I see, or any thing I feel, and notwithstanding so many years repentance, I perceive, with concern, that the weight of past failings is a burthen we must bear to the end of our lives.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.