Letter Clxiii. From Mrs. Orbe.

I am glad to hear that you begin to be so well recovered, as to give us hopes of seeing you soon here. You must, my friend, endeavour to get the better of your weakness and try to pass the mountains before the winter prevents you. The air of this country, will agree with you; you will see here nothing but sorrow; and perhaps our common affliction will be the means of soothing yours. Mine stands greatly in need of your assistance; for I can neither weep, nor speak, nor make myself understood. Mr. Wolmar indeed, understands me, but he makes me no answer. The affliction of an unfortunate father also is buried within himself; nor can any thing be conceived more cruelly tormenting: he neither hears, sees, nor understands any thing. Age has no vent for its griefs. My children affect me without knowing how to be affected themselves. I am solitary in the midst of company; a mournful silence prevails around me; and in the stupidity of my affliction, I speak to nobody; having but just life enough in me to feel the horrors of death. O come, you who partake of my loss, come and partake of my griefs. Come cherish my heart with your sorrow. This is the only consolation I can hope for; the only pleasure I can taste.

But before you arrive, and inform me of your intentions relative to a project which I know has been mentioned to you, it is proper I should inform you first of mine. I am frank and ingenuous, and therefore will dissemble nothing. That I have loved you I confess: nay, perhaps I love you still, and shall always do so: but this I know not, nor desire to know. I am not ignorant that it is suspected, which I do not concern myself about. But what I have to say, and what you ought to observe, is this: that a man who was beloved by Eloisa, and could resolve to marry another woman, would, in my opinion, be so base and unworthy a creature, that I should think it a dishonour to call such a one my friend. And with respect to myself, I protest to you that the man, whoever he be, that shall presume to talk of love hereafter to me, shall never have a second opportunity as long as he lives.

Think then only on the employment that awaits you, on the duties imposed on you, and on her to whom you engaged to discharge them. Her children are growing up apace, her father is insensibly wasting, her husband is in continual agitation of mind: in vain he strives to think her annihilated; his heart rebels against his reason. He speaks of her, he speaks to her, and sighs. Methinks I see already the repeated wishes of Eloisa half accomplished, and that you may put a finishing hand to so great a work. What a motive is here to induce both you and Lord B---- to repair hither. It is becoming his noble mind that our misfortunes have not made him change his resolution.

Come then, dear and respectable friends, come and rejoin all that is left of Eloisa. Let us assemble all that was dear to her: let her spirit animate us, let her heart unite ours; let us live continually under her eye. I take a delight in conceiving that her amiable and susceptible spirit will leave its peaceful mansions to revisit ours; that it will take a pleasure in seeing its friends imitate her virtues, in hearing herself honoured by their acknowledgments, in seeing them kiss her tomb, and sigh at the repetition of her name. No, she has not yet forsaken these haunts which she used to make so delightful. They are still full of her. I see her in every object; I perceive her at every step; every hour of the day I hear her well- known voice. It was here she lived, here died, and here repose her ashes----As I go, twice a week, to the church, I cast my eye on the sad, revered spot----O beauty! is such thy last asylum!----sincerity! friendship! virtue! pleasure! innocence! all lie buried in her grave ----I feel myself drawn as it were involuntarily to her tomb----I shudder as I approach----I dread to violate the hallowed earth----I imagine that I feel it shake and tremble under my feet----that I hear a plaintive voice call me from the hollow tomb----Clara! where art thou? Clara! why dost thou not come to thy friend?----alas! her grave hath yet but half her ashes----it is impatient for the remainder of its prey----yet a little while, and it shall be satisfied!

Finis.

Transcriber’s Note

This e-book is based on the text of the second London edition of William Kenrick’s translation of Rousseau’s novel. The second London edition was printed for R. Griffiths, T. Becket, and P.A. De Hondt in 1761. I accessed this version of the text via Gale Cengage’s Eighteenth-Century Collections Online (ECCO) database. The document is used with their permission.

When preparing this edition for e-publication, I retained original spellings and only intervened in particular circumstances. These include silently regularizing spellings that shifted over the course of the text (i.e. D’Etange replaced D’ Etange and d’Etange; Valaisian replaced Valaisan, Valiasan, entire replaced a combination of entire and intire, phrenzy replaced a combination of phrensy, phrenzy, and frenzy, farewell replaced a combination of farewel and farewell, etc). In all instances, I used the spelling that was more frequently featured in the text. I also silently corrected obvious printer's errors, including misnumbered letters (i.e. two letters in a row mislabeled as letter CVI).

In the original text, em dashes vary significantly in length as was usual in eighteenth-century literature. This digital edition renders all em dashes as follows: ----

In the original text, ellipses vary significantly in length as was usual in eighteenth-century literature. This digital edition renders all ellipses s follows: ...

Rousseau frequently includes Italian and Latin quotes as well as occasional French turns of phrase. These are not translated in this edition. Stewart and Vaché’s modern translation of Rousseau’s original French text includes translations of most of these sources as well as excellent scholarly notes. See Julie, or the New Heloise, trans. Philip Stewart and Jean Vaché (University Press of New England, 1997).