Volume IV (continued 3)

Thus every thing goes to ruin, when manners grow corrupted. Even taste depends on morals, and disappears with them; giving way to affect and pompous pretensions, that have no other foundation than fashion. True wit also lies nearly under the same circumstances. Is it not the modesty of our sex that obliges us to make use of address to resist the arts of men? and, if they are reduced to make use of artifice to excite our attention, have we less occasion for ingenuity to seem not to understand them? is it not the men who set our tongues and wits at liberty? who make us so keen at repartee, and oblige us to turn their persons and pretensions into ridicule? you may say what you will, but I maintain it that a certain coquettish air and malicious raillery, confounds a gallant much more than silence or contempt. What pleasure have I not taken in seeing a discontented Celadon, blush, stammer and lose himself at every word; while the shafts of ridicule, less flaming but more pointed than those of love, flew about him like hail; in seeing him shot thorough and thorough with icicles, whose coldness added to the smart of the wounds! even you yourself, who never loved to give pain, do you believe your mild and ingenuous behaviour, your timid, gentle looks conceal less roguery and art than my hoydening? Upon my word, my dear, I much doubt, with all your hypocritical airs, if an account were taken of all the lovers you and I have made fools of, whether yours would not be the longer list. I cannot help laughing every time I think of that poor Constans, who came to me in such a passion to reproach you with having too great a regard for him. She is so obliging to me, says he, that I know not what to complain of, and declines my pretensions with so much good sense, that I am ashamed of finding myself so unable to reply to her arguments; in short she is so much my friend, that I find myself incapable of supporting the character of her lover.

But to return to my subject. I believe there is no place in the world where married people agree better, and are better managers, than in this city: here a domestic life is peaceful and agreeable; the husbands are in general obliging, and the wives almost Eloisas. Here your system really exists. The two sexes employ and amuse themselves so differently that they are never tired with each others customs and company, but meet again with redoubled pleasure. This heightens the enjoyment of the wise; abstinence from what we delight in, is a tenet of your philosophy; it is indeed the epicurism of reason.

But, unhappily, this ancient modesty begins a little to decline. The sexes begin to associate more frequently, they approach in person and their hearts recede. It is here as with us, every thing is a mixture of good and bad, but in different proportions. The virtues of the natives of this country are of its own production; their vices are exotic. They are great travellers, and easily adopt the customs and manners of other nations; they speak other languages with facility, and learn without difficulty their proper accent, nevertheless they have a disagreeable drawling tone in the pronunciation of their own; particularly among the women, who travel but little. More humbled by their insignificance, than proud of their liberty, they seem among foreigners to be ashamed of their country, and are therefore in a hurry, as one may say, to naturalise themselves in that where they happen to reside; and perhaps the character they have of being avaricious and selfish, contributes not a little to this false shame. It would be better, without doubt, to wipe off the stain by a disinterested example, than to scandalize their fellow citizens by being ashamed of their country. But they despise the place of their nativity, even while they render it estimable; and are still more in the wrong not to give their city the honour of their own personal merit.

And yet, however avaricious they may be, they are not accused of amassing fortunes by low and servile means: they seldom attach themselves to the great, or dance attendance at courts; personal slavery being as odious to them as that of the community. Pliant and flexible as Alcibiades, they are equally impatient of servitude; and, though they adopt the customs of other nations, they imitate the people without being slaves to the prince. They are chiefly employed in trade, because that is the surest road to wealth, consistent with liberty.

And this great object of their wishes makes them often bury the talents with which they are prodigally endowed by nature. This brings me back to the beginning of my letter. They have ingenuity and courage, are lively and penetrating, nor is there any thing virtuous or great which surpasses their comprehension and abilities. But, more passionately fond of money than of honour, in order to live in abundance they die in obscurity, and the only example they leave to their children, is the love of those treasures which for their sakes they have amassed.

I learn all this from the natives themselves; for they speak of their own characters very impartially.

For my part, I know not what they may be abroad, but at home they are an agreeable people: and I know but one way to quit Geneva without regret. Do you know, cousin, what this is? you may affect as much ignorance and humility as you please; if you should say you have not already guessed, you certainly would tell a fib. The day after tomorrow our jovial company will embark in a pretty little ship, fitted out for the occasion: for we chuse to return by water on account of the pleasantness of the season and that we may be all together. We purpose to pass the first night at Morges, to be the next day at Lausanne, on account of the marriage ceremony, and the day following to be at——you know where. When you see at a distance the flags flying, the torches flaming, and hear the cannon roar; I charge you skid about the house like a mad thing, and call the whole family to arms! to arms! the enemy! the enemy is coming!

P. S. Although the distribution of the apartments incontestably belongs to me as housekeeper, I will give it up to you on this occasion; insisting only that my father be placed in those of Lord B—— on account of his charts and maps; with which I desire it may be compleatly hung from the ceiling to the floor.

Letter CLVI. From Mrs. Wolmar.

How delightful are my sensations in beginning this letter! it is the first time in my life that I ever wrote to you without fear or shame! I am proud of the friendship which now subsists between us, as it is the fruit of an unparallel’d conquest over a fatal passion: a passion which may sometimes be overcome, but is very rarely refined into friendship. To relinquish that which was once dear to us when honour requires it, may be effected by the efforts of ordinary minds; but to have been what we once were to each other, and to become what we now are, this is a triumph indeed. The motive for ceasing to love may possibly be a vicious one; but that which converts the most tender passion into as sincere a friendship cannot be equivocal: it must be virtuous. But should we ever have arrived at this of ourselves? never, never, my good friend; it had been rashness to attempt it. To avoid each other was the first article of our duty, and which nothing should have prevented us from performing. We might without doubt have continued our mutual esteem; but we must have ceased to write, or to converse. All thoughts of each other must have been suppressed, and the greatest regard we could have reciprocally shewn, had been to break off all correspondence.

Instead of that, let us consider our present situation; can there be on earth a more agreeable one, and do we not reap a thousand times a day the reward of our self-denial? to see, to love each other, to be sensible of our bliss, to pass our days together in fraternal intimacy and peaceful innocence; to think of each other without remorse, to speak without blushing; to do honour to that attachment for which we have been so often reproached; this is the point at which we are at last arrived. O my friend! how far in the career of honour have we already run! let us resolve to persevere, and finish our race as we have begun.

To whom are we indebted for such extraordinary happiness? you cannot be ignorant: you know it well. I have seen your susceptible heart overflow with gratitude at the goodness of the best of men, to whom both you and I have been so greatly obliged: a goodness that does not lay us under fresh obligations, but only renders those more dear which were before sacred. The only way to acknowledge his favours is to merit them; for the only value he sets on them consists in their emolument to us. Let us then reward our benefactor by our virtue; for this is all he requires, and therefore all we owe him. He will be satisfied with us and with himself, in having restored us to our reason.

But permit me to lay before you a picture of your future situation, that you may yourself examine it and see if there be any thing in it to make you apprehensive of danger: Yes, worthy youth, if you respect the cause of virtue, attend with a chaste ear to the counsels of your friend. I tremble to enter upon a subject in which I am sorry to engage; but how shall I be silent without betraying my friend? will it not be too late to warn you of the danger when you are already entangled in the snare? Yes, my friend, I am the only person in the world who is intimate enough with you to present it to your view. Have I not a right to talk to you as a sister, as a mother?

Your career, you tell me, is finished; if so, its end is premature. Though your first passion be extinguished, your sensibility still remains; and your heart is the more to be suspected, as its only cause of restraint no longer exists. A young man, of great ardor and susceptibility resolves to live continent and chaste; he knows, he feels, he has a thousand times said, that fortitude of mind which is productive of every virtue, depends on the purity of sentiment which supports it. As love preserved him from vice in his youth, his good sense must secure him in manhood; however severe may be the duty enjoined him, he knows there is a pleasure arising from it, that will compensate its rigour; and, though it be necessary to enter the conflict when conquest is in view, can he do less now out of piety to God than he did before out of regard to a mistress? such I imagine is your way of reasoning, and such the maxims you adopt for your future conduct: for you have always despised those persons who, content withoutward appearances, have one doctrine for theory and another for practice, and who lay upon others a burthen of moral duties which they themselves are unwilling to bear.

But what kind of life has such a prudent, virtuous man made choice of, in order to comply with those rules he has prescribed? less a philosopher than a man of probity and a Christian, he has not surely taken his vanity for a guide: he certainly knows that it is much easier to avoid temptations, than to withstand them; does he therefore avoid all dangerous opportunities? does he shun those objects which are most likely to move his passions? has he that humble diffidence of himself which is the best security to virtue? quite the contrary; he does not hesitate rashly to rush on danger. At thirty years of age, he is going to seclude himself from the world, in company with women of his own age; one of which was once too dear to him for him ever to banish the dangerous idea of their former intimacy from his mind; another of whom has lived with him in great familiarity, and a third is attached to him by all those ties which obligations conferred excite in grateful minds. He is going to expose himself to every thing that can renew those passions which are but imperfectly extinguished; he is going to entangle himself in those snares which he ought, of all others, to avoid. There is not one circumstance attending his situation which ought not to make him distrust his own strength, nor one which will not render him for ever contemptible should he be weak enough to be off his guard for a moment. Where then is that great fortitude of mind, in which he presumes to place such confidence? in what instance has it hitherto appeared that he can be answerable for it, for the future? did he acquire it at Paris, in the house of the colonel’s lady? or was he influenced by it last summer at Meillerie? has it been his security during the winter, against the charms of another object, or this spring against the terrifying apprehensions of a dream? by the slender assistance it once afforded him, is there any reason to suppose it will always bring him off victorious? he may know when his duty requires how to combat the passions of a friend; but will he be as capable of combating his own? Alas! let him learn from the best half of his life to think modestly of the other.

A state of violence and constraint may be supported for a while. Six months, for instance, a year, is nothing; fix any certain time and we may presume to hold out. But when that state is to last as long as we live, where is the fortitude that can support itself under it? who can sustain a constant state of self-denial? O my friend! a life of pleasure is short, but a life of virtue is exceeding long. We must be incessantly on our guard. The instant of enjoyment is soon passed, and never more returns; that of doing evil passes away too; but as constantly returns, and is ever present. Forget ourselves for a moment, and we are undone! is it in such a state of danger and trial, that our days can pass away in happiness and tranquillity, or is it for such as have once escaped the danger to expose themselves again to like hazards? what future occasions may not arise as hazardous as those you have escaped, and what is worse, equally unforeseen? do you think the monuments of danger exist only at Meillerie? they are in every place where we are; we carry them about with us: yes, you know too well that a susceptible mind interests the whole universe in its passion, and that every object here will excite our former ideas and remind us of our former sensations.

I believe, however, I am presumptuous enough to believe, that will never happen to me; and my heart is ready enough to answer for yours. But, though it may be above meanness, is that easy heart of yours above weakness? and am I the only person here it will cost you pains to respect? forget not, St. Preux, that all who are dear to me are intitled to be respected as myself; reflect that you are continually to bear the innocent play of an amiable woman; think of the eternal disgrace you will deservedly fall into, if your heart should go astray for a moment, and you should harbour any designs on her you have so much reason to honour.

I would have your duty, your word and your ancient friendship restrain you; the obstacles which virtue throws in your way may serve to discourage idle hopes; and, by the help of your reason, you may suppress your fruitless wishes: but would you thence be freed from the influence of sense and the snares of imagination? obliged to respect us both and to forget our sex, you will be liable to temptation from our servants, and might perhaps think yourself justified by the condescension: but would you be in reality less culpable? or can the difference of rank change the nature of a crime? on the contrary, you would debase yourself the more, as the means you might employ would be more ignoble. But is it possible that you should be guilty of such means! no, perish the base man, who would bargain for an heart, and make love a mercenary passion! such men are the cause of all the crimes which are committed by debauchery: for she who is once bought will be ever after to be sold: and amidst the shame into which she is inevitably plunged, who may most properly be said to be the author of her misery, the brutal wretch who insults her in a brothel, or her seducer who shewed her the way thither, by first paying a price for her favours?

I will add another consideration which, if I am not mistaken, will affect you. You have been witness of the pains I have taken to establish order and decency in my family. Tranquility and modesty, happiness and innocence prevail throughout the whole. Think, my friend, of yourself, of me, of what we were, of what we are, and what we ought to be. Shall I have it one day to say, in regretting my lost labour, it is to you I owe the disorder of my house?

Let us, if it be necessary, go farther, and sacrifice even modesty to a true regard for virtue. Man is not made for a life of celibacy, and it is very difficult in a state so contrary to that of nature, not to fall into some public or private irregularity. For how shall a man be always on his guard against an intestine enemy? Look upon the rash votaries of other countries, who enter into a solemn vow, not to be men. To punish them for their presumption, heaven abandons them to their own weakness: they call themselves saints, for entering into engagements which necessarily make them sinners; their continence is only pretended, and, for affecting to set themselves above the duties of humanity, they debase themselves below it. It is easy to stand upon punctilio, and affect a nice observance of laws which are kept only in appearance; [97] but a truly virtuous man cannot but perceive that his essential duties are sufficient without extending them to works of supererogation.

It is, my dear St. Preux, the true humility of a Christian, always to think his duty too much for his strength; apply this rule, and you will be sensible that a situation which might only alarm another man, ought to make you tremble. The less you are afraid, the more reason you have to fear, and if you are not in some degree deterred by the severity of your duty, you can have little hopes of being able to discharge it.

Such are the perils that threaten you here. I know that you will never deliberately venture to do ill; and the only evils you have cause to apprehend are those which you cannot foresee. I do not however bid you draw your conclusions solely from my reasoning; but recommend it to your mature consideration. If you can answer me in a manner satisfactory to yourself, I shall be satisfied; if you can rely upon yourself, I too shall rely upon you. Tell me that you have overcome all the foibles of humanity, that you are an angel, and I will receive you with open arms.

But is it possible for you, whilst a man, to lead a life of continual self-denial and mortification? to have always the most severe duties to perform! to be constantly on your guard with those whom you so sincerely love! no, no, my amiable friend, happy is he who in this life can make one single sacrifice to virtue. I have one in view, worthy of a man who has struggled and suffered in its cause. If I do not presume too far, the happiness I have ventured to design for you, will repay every obligation of my heart, and be even greater than you would have enjoyed, had providence favoured our first inclinations. As I cannot make you an angel myself, I would unite you to one who would be the guardian of your heart, who will refine it, reanimate it to virtue, and under whose auspices you may securely live with us in this peaceful retreat of angelic innocence. You will not, I conceive, be under much difficulty to guess who it is I mean, as it is an object which has already got footing in the heart which it will one day entirely possess, if my project succeeds.

I foresee all the difficulties attending it, without being discouraged, as the design is virtuous, I know the influence I have over my fair friend, and think I shall not abuse it by exerting my power in your favour. But you are acquainted with her resolutions, and before I attempt to alter them I ought to be well assured of your sentiments, that while I am endeavouring to prevail on her to permit your addresses, I may be able to answer for your love and gratitude: for if the inequality which fortune has made between you deprives you of the privilege of making such a proposal yourself, it is still more improper that this privilege should be granted before we know how you will receive it. I am not unacquainted with your delicacy, and know that if you have any objections to make, they will respect her rather than yourself. But banish your idle scruples. Do you think you can be more tenacious of my friend’s reputation than I am? no, however dear you are to me, you need not be apprehensive lest I should prefer your interest to her honour. But as I value the esteem of people of sense, so I despise the prejudices and inconsiderate censures of the multitude, who are ever led by the false glare of things, and are strangers to real virtue. Were the difference in point of fortune between you a hundred times greater than it is, there is no rank in life to which great talents and good behaviour have not a right to aspire: and what pretensions can a woman have to disdain to make that man her husband, whom she is proud to number among her friends? You know the sentiments of us both in these matters. A false modesty and the fear of censure, lead to more bad actions than good ones; for virtue never blushes at any thing but vice.

As to yourself, that pride which I have some time remarked in you cannot be exerted with greater impropriety than on this occasion; and it would be a kind of ingratitude in you to receive from her, reluctantly, one favour more. Besides, however nice and difficult you may be in this point, you must own it is more agreeable, and has a much better look, for a man to be indebted for his fortune to his wife than to a friend; as he becomes a protector of the one, and is protected by the other and as nothing can be more true than, that a virtuous man cannot have a better friend than his wife.

If after all, if there remain in the bottom of your heart any repugnance to enter into new love engagements, you cannot too speedily suppress them, both for your own honour and my repose: for I shall never be satisfied with either you or myself till you really become what you ought to be, and take pleasure in what your duty requires. Ah! my friend, ought I not to be less apprehensive of such a repugnance to new engagements, than of inclinations too relative to the old? what have I not done with regard to you, to discharge my duty? I have even exceeded my promises. Do I not even give you an Eloisa? will you not possess the better half of myself, and be still dearer to the other? with what pleasure shall I not indulge myself, after such a connection, in my attachment to you! yes, accomplish to her those vows you made to me, and let your heart fulfil with her all our former engagements. May it, if possible, give to hers all it owes to mine. O St. Preux! to her I transfer that ancient debt. Remember it is not easily to be discharged.

Such, my friend is the scheme I have projected to reunite you to us without danger; in giving you the same place in our family which you already hold in our hearts, attached by the most dear and sacred connections, we shall live together, sisters and brothers; you no longer your own enemy nor ours. The warmest sentiments when legitimate are not dangerous. When we are no longer under the necessity of suppressing them, they cannot excite our apprehensions. So far indeed from endeavouring to suppress sentiments so innocent and delightful, we should make them at once both our pleasure and our duty. We should then love each other with the purest affection, and should enjoy the united charms of friendship, love and innocence. And, if in executing the charge you have taken upon yourself, heaven should recompense the care you take of our children, by blessing you with children of your own, you will then know from experience how to estimate the service you have done us. Endowed with the greatest blessings of which human nature is capable, you will learn to support with pleasure the agreeable burthen of a life useful to your friends and relations; you will, in short, perceive that to be true which the vain philosophy of the vicious could never believe; that happiness is even in this world the reward of the virtuous.

Reflect at leisure on my proposal, not however to determine whether it suits you; I require not your answer on that point; but whether it is proper for Mrs. Orbe, and whether you can make her as happy as she ought to make you. You know in what manner she has discharged her duty in every station of her sex. Judge by what she is, what she has a right to expect. She is as capable of love as Eloisa, and should be loved in the same degree. If you think you can deserve her, speak; my friendship will try to effect such an union, and from hers, flatters itself with success. But, if my hopes are deceived in you, you are at least a man of honour and probity, and are not unacquainted with her delicacy; you would not covet happiness at the expense of her felicity: let your heart be worthy of her, or let the offer of it never be made.

Once more, I say, consult your own heart; consider well of your answer before you send it. In matters relative to the happiness of one’s whole life, common prudence will not permit us to determine without great deliberation: but, in an affair where our whole soul, our happiness both here and hereafter is at stake, even to deliberate lightly would be a crime. Call to your aid, therefore, my good friend, all the dictates of true wisdom; nor will I be ashamed to put you in mind of those which are most essential. You don’t want religion: I am afraid however, you do not draw from it all the advantage which your conduct might receive from its precepts; but that your philosophical pride elevates you above true Christian simplicity: in particular, your notions of prayer are by no means consistent with mine. In your opinion, that act of humiliation is of no use to us. God having implanted in every man’s conscience all that is necessary to direct him aright, has afterwards left him to himself, a free agent, to act as he pleases. But you well know this is not the doctrine of St. Paul, nor that which is professed in our church. We are free agents, it is true, but we are by nature ignorant, weak and prone to evil: of whom then shall we acquire strength and knowledge, but of the source of all power and wisdom? and how shall we obtain them if we are not humble enough to ask? take care, my friend, that to the sublime ideas you entertain of the supreme Being, human pride doth not annex the abject notions, which belong only to man. Can you think the deity wants such arts as are necessary to human understanding, or that he lies under the necessity of generalising his ideas to comprehend them the more readily? according to your notions of things, providence would be under an embarrassment to take care of individuals. You seem to be afraid that, constant attention to a diversity of objects must perplex and fatigue infinite wisdom, and to think that it can act better by general than particular laws; doubtless because this seems easier for the Almighty. The deity is highly obliged to such great philosophers for furnishing him with convenient means of action, to ease him of his labour. But why should we ask any thing of him? Say you: is he not acquainted with our wants? Is he not a father that provides for his children? do we know better than he what is needful for us, or are we more desirous of happiness than he is that we should be happy?

This, my dear St. Preux, is all sophistry. The greatest of our wants, even the only one we have no remedy for, is that of being insensible of them; and the first step to relief is the knowledge of our necessities. To be wise we must be humble; in the sensibility of our weakness we become strong. Thus justice is united to clemency, thus grace and liberty triumph together.

Slaves by our weakness, we are set free by prayer: for it depends on us to seek and obtain favour; but the power to do this, depends not on ourselves.

Learn then not always to depend on your own sagacity on difficult occasions; but on that Being whose omnipotence is equal to his wisdom, and who knows how to direct us in every thing aright. The greatest defect in human wisdom, even in that which has only virtue for its object, is a too great confidence, which makes us judge by the present of the future, and of our whole lives from the experience of a single moment. We perceive ourselves resolute one instant, and therefore conclude we shall always be so. Puffed up with that pride, which is nevertheless mortified by daily experience, we think we are under no danger of falling into a snare which we have once escaped. The modest language of true fortitude is, I had resolution on this or that occasion; but he who boasts of his present security knows not how weak he may prove on the next trial; and, relying on his borrowed strength as if it was his own, deserves to feel the want of it when he stands in most need of assistance. How vain are all our projects, how absurd our reasonings in the eyes of that Being, who is not confined to time or space! man is so weak as to disregard things which are placed at a distance from him: he sees only the objects which immediately surround him; changes his notions of things as the point of sight is changed from whence he views them. We judge of the future from what agrees with us now, without knowing how far that which pleases to day may be disagreeable tomorrow: we depend on ourselves, as if we were always the same, and yet are changing every day. Who can tell if they shall always desire what they now wish for? if they shall be tomorrow what they are to day, if external objects and even a change in the constitution of the body may not vary the modification of their minds, and if we may not be made miserable by the very means we have concerted for our happiness? shew me the fixed and certain rule of human wisdom, and I will take it for my guide. But if the best lesson it can teach us is, to distrust our own strength, let us have recourse to that superior wisdom which cannot deceive us, and follow those dictates which cannot lead us astray. It is that wisdom I implore to enlighten my understanding to advise you; do you implore the same to direct your resolutions? Whatever these be, I well know you will take no step which does not at present appear honourable and just: but this is not enough, it is necessary you should take such as will be always so; and of the means to do this, neither you nor I are of ourselves competent judges.

Letter CLVII. Answer.

From Eloisa! a letter from her after seven years silence! yes it is her writing. I see, I feel it: can my eyes be a stranger to characters which my heart can never forget? and do you still remember my name? do you still know how to write it? does not your hand tremble as your pen forms the letters? Ah Eloisa! whither have you hurried my wandering thoughts? the form, the fold, the seal, the superscription of your letter call to my mind those very different epistles which love used to dictate. In this the heart and hand seem to be in opposition to each other. Ought the same hand writing to be employed in committing to paper sentiments so very different?

You will be apt to judge that my thinking so much of your former letters, too evidently confirms what you have suggested in your last. But you are mistaken. I plainly perceive that I am changed, and that you are no longer the same; and what proves it to me the most is that except your beauty and goodness, every thing I see in you now is a new subject of admiration. This remark may anticipate your assurance. I rely not on my own strength, but on the sentiment which makes it unnecessary. Inspired with every thing which I ought to honour in her whom I have ceased to adore, I know into what degree of respect my former homage ought to be converted. Penetrated with the most lively gratitude, it is true, I love you as much as ever; but I esteem and honour you most for the recovery of my reason.

Ever since the discerning and judicious Wolmar has discovered my real sentiments, I have acquired a better knowledge of myself, and am less alarmed at my weakness. Let it deceive my imagination as it will, the delusion will be still agreeable; it is sufficient that it can no longer offend you, and that my ideal errors serve in the end to preserve me from real danger.

Believe me, Eloisa, there are impressions which neither time, circumstance, nor reason can efface. The wound may heal, but the scar will remain, an honorable mark that preserves the heart from any other wound. Love and inconstancy are incompatible; when a lover is fickle he ceases to be a lover. For my part, I am no longer a lover; but, in ceasing to adore you as such, I remain under your protection. I am no longer apprehensive of danger from you, but then you prevent my apprehensions from others. No, respectable Eloisa, you shall never see in me any other than a friend to your person and a lover only of your virtues: but our love, our first, our matchless love shall never be rooted out of my heart. The remembrance of the flower of my age shall never be thus tarnished: for, were I to live whole centuries, those happy hours of my youth will never return, nor be banished from my memory. We may, it is true, be no longer the same; but I shall never forget what we have been.

Let us come now to your cousin. I cannot help confessing, my dear friend, that since I have no longer dared to contemplate your charms, I have become more sensible to hers. What eyes could be perpetually straying from beauty to beauty without fixing their admiration on either? mine have lately gazed on hers perhaps with too much pleasure; and I must own that her charms, before imprinted on my heart, have during my absence made a deeper impression. The sanctuary of my heart is shut up; but her image is in the temple. I gradually become to her what I might have been at first, had I never beheld you; and it was in your power only to make me sensible of the difference between what I feel for her and the love I had for you. My senses, released from that terrible passion, embrace the delightful sentiments of friendship. But must love be the result of this union? Ah Eloisa! what difference! where is the enthusiasm? the adoration? where are those divine transports, those distractions, a hundred times more sublime, more delightful, more forcible than reason itself? a slight warmth, a momentary delirium, seize me, affect me a while and then vanish. In your cousin and me I see two friends who have a tender regard for each other and confess it. But have lovers a regard for each other? no, you, and I are two words prohibited in the lover’s language. Two lovers are not two persons, but one.

Is my heart then really at ease? how can it be so? she is charming, she is both your friend and mine: I am attached to her by gratitude, and think of her in the most delightful moments of reflection. How many obligations are hence conferred on a susceptible mind, and how is it possible to separate the tenderest sentiments from those to which she has such an undoubted right! Alas! it is decreed that between you and her, my heart will never enjoy one peaceful moment!

O women, women! dear and fatal objects! whom nature has made beautiful for our torment, who punish us when we brave your power, who pursue when we dread your charms; whose love and hate are equally destructive; and whom we can neither approach nor fly with impunity! beauty, charm, sympathy! inconceivable Being, or chimera! source of pain and pleasure! beauty more terrible to mortals than the element to which the birth of your Goddess is ascribed: it is you who create those tempests which are so destructive to mankind. How, dearly, Eloisa! how dearly, Clara! do I purchase your cruel friendship!

I have lived in a tempest and it is you who have always raised it: but how different are the agitations which you separately excite! different as the waves of the lake of Geneva from those of the main ocean. The first are short and quick, and by their constant agitation are often fatal to the small barks that ride without making way on their surface: but on the ocean, calm and mild in appearance, we find ourselves mounted aloft and softly borne forward to a vast distance on waves, whose motions are slow and almost imperceptible. We think we scarce move from the place, and arrive at the farthest parts of the earth.

Such is in fact the difference between the effects which your charms and hers have on my heart. That first unequalled passion, which determined the destiny of my life, and which nothing could conquer but itself, had its birth before I was sensible of its generation; it hurried me on before I knew where I was, and involved me in irrevocable ruin before I believed myself led astray. While the wind was fair, my labouring bark was every moment alternately roaring into the clouds and plunging into the deep: but I am now becalmed and know no longer where I am. On the contrary, I see, I feel too well how much her presence affects me, and conceive my danger greater than it really is. I experience some slight raptures, which are no sooner felt than gone. I am one moment transported with passion and the next peaceful and calm: in vain is the vessel beaten about by the waves, while there is no wind to fill its sails: my heart, contented with her real charms, does not exaggerate them: she appears more beautiful to my eyes than to my imagination; and I am more afraid of her when present than absent. Your charms have, on the contrary, had always a very different effect; but at Clarens I alternately experience both.

Since I left it, indeed, the image of our cousin presents itself sometimes more powerfully to my imagination. Unhappily, however, it never appears alone: it affects me not with love, but with disquietude.

These are in reality my sentiments with regard both to the one and the other. All the rest of your sex are nothing to me; the pangs I have so long suffered have banished them entirely from my remembrance;

E fornito ’l mio tempo a mezzo gli anni.

Adversity has supplied the place of fortitude, to enable me to conquer nature and triumph over temptation. People in distress have few desires, you have taught me to vanquish by resisting them. An unhappy passion is an instrument of wisdom. My heart is become, if I may so express myself, the organ of all my wants, for when that is at ease I want nothing. Let not you or your cousin disturb its tranquillity, and it will for the future be always at ease.

In this situation, what have I to fear from my self? and by what cruel precaution would you rob me of happiness, in order to prevent my being exposed to lose it? how capricious is it to have made me fight and conquer, to rob me afterwards of the reward of my victory? do you not condemn those who brave unnecessary danger? why then did you recall me at so great a hazard, to run so many risks? or, why would you banish me when I am so worthy to remain? Ought you to have permitted your husband to take the trouble he has done for nothing? why did you not prevent his taking the pains which you were determined to render fruitless? why did you not say to him, leave the poor Wretch at the other end of the world, or I shall certainly transport him again? alas! the more afraid you are of me the sooner you ought to recall me home. It is not in your presence I am in danger, but in your absence; and I dread the power of your charms only where you are not. When the formidable Eloisa pursues me, I fly for refuge to Mrs. Wolmar, and I am secure. Whither shall I fly if you deprive me of the asylum I find in her? all times and places are dangerous while she is absent; for in every place I find either Clara or Eloisa. In reflecting on the time past, in meditating on the present, the one and the other alternately agitate my heart, and thus my restless imagination becomes tranquil only in your presence, and it is with you only I find security against myself. How shall I explain to you the change I perceive in approaching you? you have always exerted the same sovereign power; but its effects are now different from what they were: in suppressing the transports you once inspired, your empire is more noble and sublime; a peaceful serenity has succeeded to the storm of the passions: my heart, modelled by yours, loves in the same manner and becomes tranquil by your example. But in this transitory repose I enjoy only a short truce with the passions; and, though I am exalted to the perfection of angels in your presence, I no sooner forsake you than I fall into my native meanness. Yes, Eloisa, I am apt sometimes to think I have two souls, and that the good one is deposited in your hands. Ah! why do you seek to separate me from it?

But you are fearful of the consequences of youthful desires, extinguished only by trouble and adversity. You are afraid for the young women who are in your house and under your protection. You are afraid of that which the prudent Wolmar was not afraid of. How mortifying to me are such apprehensions! do you then esteem your friend less than the meanest of your servants? I can, however, forgive your thinking ill of me; but never your not paying yourself that respect which is so justly your due. No, Eloisa, the flame with which I once burnt has purified my heart; and I am no longer actuated like other men. After what I have been, should I so debase myself though but for a moment, I would hide myself in the remotest corner of the earth, and should never think myself too far removed from Eloisa.

What! could I disturb that peaceful order and domestic tranquillity, in which I take so much pleasure? could I sully that sweet retreat of innocence and peace, wherein I have dwelt with so much honour? could I be so base as——no, the most debauched, the most abandoned, of men would be affected with so charming a picture. He could not fail of being enamoured with virtue in this asylum. So far from carrying thither his licentious manners, he would betake himself thither to cast them off. Could I then, Eloisa, be capable of what you insinuate? and that under your own eyes? no, my dear friend, open your doors to me without scruple; your mansion is to me the temple of virtue; its sacred image strikes me in every part of it, and binds me to its service. I am not indeed an angel; but I shall dwell in the habitation of angels, and will imitate their example. Those who would not wish to resemble them, will never seek their company.

You see it is with difficulty I come to the chief object of your last letter; that which I should have first and most maturely considered, and which only should now engage my thoughts, if I could pretend to the happiness proposed to me. O Eloisa, benevolent and incomparable friend! in offering me thus your other half, the most valuable present in the universe next to yourself, you do more for me if possible than ever you have done before. A blind ungovernable passion might have prevailed on you to give me yourself; but to give me your friend is the sincerest proof of your esteem. From this moment I begin to think myself, indeed, a man of real merit, since I am thus distinguished. But how cruel, at the same time, is this proof of it. In accepting your offer I should bely my heart, and to deserve must refuse it. You know me, and may judge.

It is not enough that your charming cousin should engage my affections; I know she should be loved as you are. But will it, can it be? or does it depend on me to do her that justice, in this particular, which is her due? alas! if you intended ever to unite me to her, why did you not leave me a heart to give her; a heart which she might have inspired with new sentiments, and which in turn might have offered her the first fruits of love! I ought to have a heart at ease and at liberty, such as was that of the prudent and worthy Orbe, to love her only as he did. I ought to be as deserving as he was, in order to succeed him: otherwise the comparison between her former and present situation will only serve to render the latter less supportable, the cold and divided love of a second husband, so far from consoling her for the loss of the first, will but make her regret him the more. By her union with me, she will only convert a tender grateful friend into a common husband. What will she gain by such an exchange? She will be doubly a loser by it; her susceptible mind will severely feel its loss; and how shall I support a continual sadness, of which I am the cause, and which I cannot remove? in such a situation alas! her grief would be first fatal to me. No, Eloisa, I can never be happy at the expense of her ease. I love her too well to marry her.

Be happy! no, can I be happy without making her so? can either of the parties be separately happy or miserable in marriage? are not their pleasures and pains, common to both? and does not the chagrin which one gives to the other always rebound on the person who caused it? I should be made miserable by her afflictions, without being made happy by her goodness. Beauty, fortune, merit, love, all might conspire to ensure my felicity! but my heart, my froward heart, would counterwork them all; would poison the source of my delights, and make me miserable in the very midst of happiness.

In my present situation, I take pleasure in her company: but if I attempt to augment that pleasure by a closer union, I shall deprive myself of the most agreeable moments of my life. Her turn for humour and gaiety may give an amorous cast to her friendship, but this is only whilst there are witnesses to her favours. I may also feel too lively an emotion for her; but it is only when by your presence you have banished every tender sentiment for Eloisa. When she and I are by ourselves, it is you only who render our conversation agreeable. The more our attachment increases, the more we think on the source from which it sprung; the ties of friendship are drawn closer, and we love each other but to talk of you. Hence arise a thousand pleasing reflections, pleasing to Clara and more so to me, all which a closer union would infallibly destroy. Will not such reflections, in that case too delightful, be a kind of infidelity to her? and with what face can I make a beloved and respectable wife the confident of those infidelities of which my heart, in spite of me, would be guilty? this heart could no longer transfuse itself into hers. No longer daring to talk of you, I should soon forbear to speak at all. Honour and duty imposing on me a new reserve, would thus estrange from me the wife of my bosom, and I should have no longer a guide or a counsellor to direct my steps or correct my errors. Is this the homage she has a right to expect from me? is this that tribute of gratitude and tenderness which I ought to pay to her? is it thus that I am to make her and myself happy?

Is it possible that Eloisa, can have forgotten our mutual vows? for my part, I never can forget them. I have lost all, except my sincerity, and that I will preserve inviolate to my last hour. As I could not live for you, I will die unmarried. Nay, had I not already made such a promise to myself, I would do it now. For though it be a duty to marry, it is yet a more indispensable one not to make any person unhappy; and all the sentiments such a contract would now excite in me, would be mixed with the constant regret of that which I once vainly hoped for: a regret which would at once be my torment, and that of her who should be unfortunate enough to be my wife. I should require of her those days of bliss which I expected with you. How should I support the comparison! what woman in the world could bear that? ah, no, I could never endure the thoughts of being at once deprived of you, and destined to be the husband of another.

Seek not then, my dear friend, to shake those resolutions on which depends the repose of my life: seek not to recall me out of that state of annihilation into which I am fallen; lest, in bringing me back to a sense of my existence, my wounds should bleed afresh, and I should again sink under a load of misfortunes. Since my return I perceived how deeply I became interested in whatever concerned your charming friend; but I was not alarmed at it, as I knew the situation of my heart would never permit me to be too solicitous. Indeed I was not displeased with an emotion, which, while it added softness to the attachment I always had for Clara, would assist in diverting my thoughts from a more dangerous object, and enable me to support your presence with greater confidence. This emotion has something in it of the pleasure of love without any of its pains. The calm delight I take in seeing her is not disturbed by the restless desire of possessing her: contented to pass my whole life in the manner I passed the last winter, I find between you both that peaceful and agreeable situation, [98] which tempers the austerity of virtue and renders its lessons amiable. If a vain transport affects me for a moment, every thing conspires to suppress it; and I have too effectually vanquished those infinitely more impetuous and dangerous emotions to fear any that can assail me now. I honour your friend no less than I love her, and that is saying every thing. But should I consult only my own interest, the rights of the tenderest friendship are too valuable, to risk their loss, by endeavouring to extend them; and I need not even think of the respect which is her due to prevent my ever saying a single word in private conversation which would require interpretation, or which she ought not to understand. She may perhaps have sometimes remarked a little too much solicitude in my behaviour towards her but she has surely never observed in my heart any desire to express it. Such as I was for six months past, such would I be with regard to her, as long as I live. I know none who approach you, so perfect as she is; but were she even more perfect than yourself, I feel that after having been your lover I should never have become hers.

But before I conclude this letter, I must give you my opinion of yours. Yes, Eloisa, with all your prudence and virtue, I can discover in it the scruples of a timorous mind, which thinks it a duty to frighten itself; and conceives its security lies in being afraid. This extreme timidity is as dangerous as excessive confidence. In constantly representing to us imaginary monsters, it wastes our strength in combating chimeras; and by terrifying us without cause, makes us less on our guard against, as well as less capable of discerning, real dangers. Read over again, now and then, the letter which Lord B——, wrote to you last year, on the subject of your husband; you will find in it some good advice that may be of service to you in many respects. I do not discommend your devotion, it is affecting, amiable, and like yourself; it is such as even your husband should be pleased with. But take care lest timidity and precaution lead you to quietism, and lest by representing to yourself danger on every side, you are induced at length to confide in nothing. Don’t you know, my dear friend, that a state of virtue is a state of warfare. Let us employ our thoughts less on the dangers which threaten us, than on ourselves; that we may be always prepared to withstand temptation. If to run in the way of temptation is to deserve to fall, to shun it with too much solicitude is often to fly from the opportunities of discharging the noblest duties; it is not good to be always thinking of temptations, even with a view to avoid them. I shall never seek temptation: but, in whatever situation Providence may place me for the future, the eight months I passed at Clarens will be my security; nor shall I be afraid that any one will rob me of the prize you taught me to deserve. I shall never be weaker than I have been, nor shall ever have greater temptations to resist. I have left the bitterness of remorse and I have tasted the sweets of victory, after all which I need not hesitate a moment in making my choice; every circumstance of my past life, even my errors, being a security for my future behaviour.

I shall not pretend to enter with you into any new or profound disquisitions, concerning the order of the universe, and the government of those beings, of which it is composed: it will be sufficient for me to say, that in matters so far above human comprehension there is no other way of rightly judging of things invisible, but by induction from those which are visible; and that all analogy makes for those general laws which you seem to reject. The most rational ideas we can form of the supreme Being confirm this opinion: for, although omnipotence lies under no necessity of adopting methods to abridge his labour, it is nevertheless worthy of supreme wisdom to prefer the most simple modes of action, that there may be nothing useless either in cause or effect. In the formation of man he endowed him with all the necessary faculties to accomplish what should be required of him, and when we ask of him the power to do good, we ask nothing of him, but what he has already given us. He has given us understanding to know what is good, a heart to love [99] and liberty to make choice of it. Therefore, in these sublime gifts consists divine grace; and as we have all received it, we are all accountable for its effects.

I have heard, in my time, a good deal of arguments against the free agency of man, and despise all its sophistry. A casuist may take what pains he will to prove that I am no free agent, my innate sense of freedom constantly destroys his arguments: for whatever choice I make after deliberation, I feel plainly that it depended only on myself to have made the contrary. Indeed all the scholastic subtilties I have heard on this head are futile and frivolous; because they prove too much, are equally used to oppose truth and falsehood; and, whether man be a free agent or not, serve equally to prove one or the other. With these kind of reasoners, the Deity himself is not a free agent, and the word liberty is in fact a term of no meaning. They triumph, not in having solved the difficulty, but in having substituted a chimera in its room. They begin by supposing that every intelligent being is merely passive, and from that supposition deduce consequences to prove its inactivity: a very convenient method of argumentation truly! if they accuse their adversaries of reasoning in this manner, they do us injustice. We do not suppose ourselves free and active beings; we feel that we are so. It belongs to them to shew not only that this sentiment may deceive us, but that it really does so. [100] The bishop of Cloyne has demonstrated that, without any diversity in appearances, body or matter may have no absolute existence; but is this enough to induce us to affirm that it absolutely has no existence? In all this, the mere phenomenon would cost more trouble than the reality; and I will always hold by that which appears the most simple.

I don’t believe therefore, that after having provided in every shape for the wants of man in his formation, God interests himself in an extraordinary manner for one person more than another. Those who abuse the common aids of Providence are unworthy such assistance, and those who made good use of them have no occasion for any other. Such a partiality appears to me injurious to divine justice. You will say, this severe and discouraging doctrine may be deduced from the holy scripture. Be it so. Is it not my first duty to honour my Creator? In whatever veneration then I hold the sacred text, I hold its author in a still greater; and I could sooner be induced to believe the bible corrupted or unintelligible, than that God can be malevolent or unjust. St. Paul would not have the vessel say to the potter who formed it, why hast thou framed me thus? this is very well, if the potter should apply it only to such services as he constructed it to perform but if he should censure this vessel as being inadequate to the purpose for which it was constructed; has it not a right to ask, why hast thou made me thus?

But does it follow from hence that prayer is useless? God forbid that I should deprive myself of that resource. Every act of the understanding which raises us to God carries us above ourselves; in imploring his assistance we learn to experience it. It is not his immediate act that operates on us, it is we that improve ourselves by raising our thoughts in prayer to him. [101] All that we ask aright, he bestows; and, as you observe, we acquire strength in confessing our weakness. But if we abuse this ordinance and turn mystics, instead of raising ourselves to God, we are lost in our own wild imaginations; in seeking grace, we renounce reason; in order to obtain of heaven one blessing, we trample under foot another; and in obstinately persisting, that heaven should enlighten our hearts, we extinguish the light of our understandings. But who are we that should insist on the deity’s performing miracles, when we please, in our favour?

You know very well, there is no good thing that may not be carried into a blameable excess; even devotion itself, when it degenerates into the madness of enthusiasm. Yours is too pure ever to arrive at this excess; but you have reason to be on your guard against a less degree of it. I have heard you often censure the ecstasies of the pietists; but do you know from whence they arise? from allotting a longer time to prayer than is consistent with the weakness of human nature. Hence the spirits are exhausted, the imagination takes fire, they see visions, they become inspired and prophetical; nor is it then in the power of the understanding to stop the progress of fanaticism.

Now, you shut yourself frequently in your closet, and are constant in prayer. You do not indeed as yet converse with pietists, [102] but you read their books. Not that I ever censured your taste for the writings of the worthy Fenelon: but what have you to do with those of his disciple? You read Muralt. I indeed read him too: but I make choice of his letters, you of his divine instinct. But remark his end, lament the extravagant errors of that sensible man, and think of yourself. At present a pious, a true Christian, beware Eloisa of becoming a mere devotee.

I receive your counsel, my dear friend, with the docility of a child, and give you mine with the zeal of a father. Since virtue, instead of dissolving our attachments, has rendered them indissoluble, the same lessons may be of use to both, as the same interests connect us. Never shall our hearts speak to each other, never shall our eyes meet without presenting to both a respectable object which shall mutually elevate our sentiments, the perfection of the one reciprocally assisting the other.

But though our deliberations may be common to both, the conclusion is not; it is yours alone to decide. Cease not, then, you who have ever been mistress of my destiny, cease not to be so still. Weigh my arguments, and pronounce sentence: whatever you order me to do, I will submit to your direction, and will at least deserve the continuance of it. Should you think it improper for me to see you personally again, you will yet be always present to my mind, and preside over my actions. Should you deprive me of the honour of educating your offspring, you will not deprive me of the virtues which you have inspired. These are the offspring of your mind, which mine adopts as its own, and will never bear to have them torn from it.

Speak to me, Eloisa, freely. As I have now been explicit to what I think and feel on this occasion, tell me what I must do. You know how far my destiny is connected with that of my illustrious friend. I have not consulted him on this occasion; I have neither shewn him this letter nor yours. If he should know that you disapprove his project, or rather, that of your husband, he will reject it himself; and I am far from designing to deduce from thence any objection to your scruples; he only ought to be ignorant of them till you have finally determined. In the mean time, I shall find some means or other to delay our departure, in which, though they may surprize him a little, I know he will acquiesce. For my own part, I had rather never see you more, than to see you only just to bid you again adieu: and to live with you as a stranger, would be a state of mortification which I have not deserved.

Letter CLVIII. From Mrs. Wolmar.

How does your headstrong imagination affright and bewilder itself! and at what, pray? truly at the sincerest proofs of my friendship and esteem which you ever experienced: at the peaceful reflections which my solicitude for your real happiness inspired; at the most obliging, the most advantageous, and the most honourable proposal that was ever made you; at my desire, perhaps an indiscreet one, of uniting you by indissoluble ties to our family; at the desire of making a relation, a kinsman of an ingrate, who affects to believe I want to discard him as a friend. To remove your present uneasiness, you need only take what I write in the most natural sense the words will bear. But you have long delighted in tormenting yourself with false constructions. Your letters are like your life, sublime and mean, masterly and puerile. Ah, my dear philosopher! will you never cease to be a child?

Where, pray, have you learnt that I intended to impose on you new laws, to break with you, and send you back to the farthest part of the world? do you really find this to be the tenor of my letter? in anticipating the pleasure of living with you, I was fearful of those inconveniencies, which I conceived might possibly arise; therefore endeavoured to remove them, by making your fortune more equal to your merit and the regard I had for you. This is my whole crime; is there anything in it at which you have reason to be alarmed?

Indeed, my friend, you are in the wrong; for you are not ignorant how dear you are to me, and how easy it is for you to obtain your wish without seeking occasion to torment others or yourself.

You may be assured that, if your residence here is agreeable to you, it will be equally so to me; and that nothing Mr. Wolmar has done for me gives me greater satisfaction than the care he has taken to establish you in this house. I agree to it with pleasure, and know we shall be useful to each other. More ready to listen to good advice than to suggest it to ourselves, we have both occasion for a guide? who can be more sensible of the danger of going astray than he whose return has cost him so dear? what object can better represent that danger? after having broken through such connections as once subsisted between us, the remembrance of them should influence us to do nothing unworthy of the virtuous motives which induced us to break them. Yes, I shall always think myself obliged to make you the witness of every action of my life, and to communicate to you every sentiment with which my heart is inspired. Ah! my friend! I may be weak before the rest of the world, but I can answer for myself in your company.

It is in this delicacy, which always survives true love, and not in Mr. Wolmar’s subtle distinctions, that we are to look for the cause of that elevation of soul, that innate fortitude we experience. Such an explication is at least more natural, and does more honour to our hearts, than his, and has a greater tendency to encourage us to virtue, which alone is sufficient to give it the preference. Hence you may be assured, that, so far am I from being in such a whimsical disposition as you imagine, that I am just the reverse. In so much that, if the project of your returning to reside here must be given up, I shall esteem such an event as a great misfortune to you, to me, to my children, and even to my husband; on whose account alone you know I have many reasons for desiring your presence. But to speak only of my own particular inclination: you remember your first arrival. Did I shew less pleasure at seeing you than you felt in seeing me? has it ever appeared to you that your stay at Clarens gave me the least trouble or uneasiness? did you think I betrayed the least pleasure at your departure? must I go farther and speak to you with my usual freedom? I will frankly confess to you then, that the six last months we passed together were the happiest of my life, and that in that short space of time I tasted all the happiness of which my sensibility has furnished me the idea.

Never shall I forget one day, in particular, of the past winter, when, after having been reading the journal of your voyages and that of your friend’s adventures, we supped in the Apollo. It was then that, reflecting on the felicity with which Providence had blessed me in this world, I looked round and saw all my friends about me; my father, my husband, my children, my cousin, Lord B——, and you, without counting Fanny, who did not cast the least blemish on the scene. This little saloon, said I to myself, contains all that is dear to my heart, and perhaps all that is desirable in this world. I am here surrounded by everything that interests me. The whole universe to me is in this little spot. I enjoy at once the regard I have for my friends, that which they have for me, and that which they have for each other: their mutual goodwill either comes from or relates to me: I see nothing but what seems to extend my being, and nothing to divide it. I exist in a manner in all those who are about me: my imagination can extend no farther. I have nothing more to desire: to reflect and to be happy is with me the same thing; I live at once in all that I love, I am replete with happiness and satisfied with life: come death when thou wilt! I no longer dread thy power: the measure of my life is full, and I have nothing new to experience worth enjoyment. The greater pleasure I enjoyed in your company, the more agreeable is it to me to reflect on it, and the more disquietude also hath every thing given me that might disturb it. We will for a moment lay aside that timid morality and pretended devotion, with which you reproach me. You must confess at least that the social pleasures we tasted sprung from that openness of heart, by which every thought, every sentiment, of the one was communicated to the other, and from which every one, conscious of being what he ought, appeared such as he really was. Let us suppose now any secret intrigue, any connection necessary to be concealed, any motive of reserve and secrecy intruding on our harmony; that moment the reciprocal pleasure we felt in seeing each other would vanish. Shyness and restraint would ensue; we should no sooner meet together than we should wish to part; and at length circumspection and decorum would bring on distrust and distaste. It is impossible long to love those of whom we are afraid or suspicious. They soon become troublesome——Eloisa troublesome!——troublesome to her friend! no, no, that cannot be; there can be no evils in nature, but such as it is possible to support.

In thus freely telling you my scruples, I do not pretend, however, to make you change your resolutions; but to induce you to reconsider the motives on which they are founded; lest, in taking a step, all the consequences of which you may not foresee, you might have reason to repent at a time, when you will not dare retract it. As to Mr. Wolmar’s having no fears, it was not his place to fear, but yours. No one is so proper a judge of what is to be feared of you, as yourself. Consider the matter well then; and, if nothing is in reality to be feared, tell me so, and I shall think of it no more: for I know your sincerity, and never can distrust your intentions. Your heart may be capable of an accidental error; but can never be guilty of a premeditated crime, and this it is that makes the distinction between a weak man and a wicked one.

Besides, though my objections had really more weight than I am inclined to think they have, why must things be viewed in their most disadvantageous light. Surely there can be no necessity for such extreme precautionary measures. It cannot be requisite that you should break through all your projects, and fly from us for ever. Though a child in years, you are possessed of all the experience of age. The tranquillity of mind which succeeds the noble passion, is a sensation which increases by fruition. A susceptible heart may dread a state of repose, to which it has been unaccustomed; but a little time is sufficient to reconcile us to our peaceful situation, and in a little time more we give it the preference. For my part, I foresee the hour of your security to be nearer than you yourself imagine. Extremes, you know, never last long; you have loved too much not to become in time indifferent: the cinder which is cast from the furnace can never be lighted again, but before it becomes such the coal must be totally burnt out. Be vigilant but for a few years more, and you will then have nothing to fear, your acceptance of my proposal would at once have removed all danger; but, independent of that view, such an attachment has charms enough to be desired for its own sake; and if your delicacy prevents you from closing with my proposals, I have no need to be informed how much such a restraint must cost you. At the same time, however, I am afraid that the pretences which impose on your reason, are many of them frivolous: I am afraid, that in piquing yourself on the fulfilling of engagements which no longer exist, you only make a false shew of virtue, in a constancy, for which you are by no means to be commended, and which is at present entirely misplaced. I have already told you, that I think the observance of a rash and criminal vow is an additional crime. If yours were not so at first, it is become so now; and that is sufficient to annul it. The promise which no man ought to break, is that of being always a man of virtue and resolute in the discharge of his duty; to change when that is changed, is not levity, but constancy. And at all times as virtue requires you to do, and you will never break your word. But if there be among your scruples any solid objection, we will examine it at leisure. In the mean time, I am not very sorry that you did not embrace my scheme with the same avidity as I formed it; that my blunder, if it be one, may give you less pain. I had meditated this project during the absence of my cousin, with whom, however, I have since had some general conversation on the subject of a second marriage, and find her so averse to it, that, in spite of the regard which I know she has for you, I am afraid I must exert a greater authority than becomes me, to overcome her reluctance; for this is a point in which friendship ought to respect the bent of the inclinations.

I will own nevertheless that I still abide by my design; it would be so agreeable to us all, would so honourably extricate you from your present precarious situation in life; would so unite all our interests, and makes so natural an obligation of that friendship which is so delightful to all, that I cannot think of giving it up entirely. No, my friend, you can never be too nearly allied to me; it is not even enough that you might be my cousin; I could wish you were my brother.

Whatever may be the consequence of these notions, do more justice to my sentiments for you. Make use without reserve of my friendship, my confidence and my esteem. Remember I shall not prescribe any rules to you; nor do I think I have any reason to do it. Deny me not however the privilege of giving you advice, but imagine not I lay you under any commands. If you think you can securely reside at Clarens, come hither; stay here: you cannot give me greater pleasure. But, if you think a few years longer absence necessary to cure the suspicious remains of impetuous youth, write to me often in your absence; come and see us as often as you will, and let us cultivate a correspondence founded on the most cordial intimacy.

What pains will not such consolation alleviate? what absence will not be supportable under the pleasing hope of at last closing our days together! I will do yet more; I am ready to put one of my children under your care; I shall think him safer in your hands than my own; and, when you bring him back, I know not which of you will give me the greater pleasure by your return. On the other hand, if you become entirely reasonable, banish your chimerical notions, and are willing to deserve my cousin, come, pay her your best respects and make her happy. Come then, and surmount every obstacle that opposes your success and make a conquest of her heart: such assistance as my friendship can give shall not on my part be wanting. Come, and make each other happy, and nothing more will be wanting to render me compleatly so. But, whatever resolution you take, after having maturely considered the matter, speak confidently, and affront your friend no more by your groundless suspicions.

Let me not however, in thinking so much of you, forget myself. My turn to be heard must come at last; for you as with your friends in a dispute, as with your adversaries at chess; you defend yourself by attacking them. You excuse your being a philosopher by accusing me of being a devotee. I am then, in your opinion a devotee, or ready to become one: well be it so. Contemptible denominations never change the nature of things. If devotion is commendable, why am I to blame in being devout? But, perhaps that epithet is too low for you. The dignity of the philosopher disdains the worship of the vulgar: it would serve God in a more sublime manner, and raise even to heaven itself its pretensions and its pride. Poor philosophers!——but to return to myself.

I have, from my childhood, respected virtue, and have always cultivated my reason. I endeavoured to regulate my conduct by human understanding and sentiment, and have been ill conducted. Before you deprive me of the guide I have chosen, give me another on which I may depend. I thought myself as wise as other people, and yet a thousand others have lived more prudently than I; they must therefore have had resources which I had not. Why is it that I; knowing myself well born, have had reason to conceal my life and conversation from the world? why did I hate the sin which I committed even in spite of myself? I thought I knew my own strength, I relied on it, and was deceived. All the resistance which was in my own power, I think, I made; and yet I fell——how must those have done who have escaped? they must have had a better support.

From their example I was induced to seek the same support, and have found in it a peculiar advantage which I did not expect. During the reign of the passions, they themselves contribute to the continuance of the anxieties they at first occasion; they retain hope always by the tide of desire, and hence we are enabled to support the absence of felicity: If our expectations are disappointed, hope supplies its place; and the agreeable delusion lasts as long as the passion which gave it birth. Thus, in a situation of this kind, passion supports itself, and the very solicitude it causes is a chimerical pleasure which is substituted for real enjoyment. Nay more: those who have no desires must be very unhappy; they are deprived, if I may be allowed the expression, of all they possess. We enjoy less that which we obtain than that which we hope for, and are seldom happy but in expectation. In fact, man, made to desire every thing and obtain little, of boundless avarice yet narrow capacity, has received of heaven a consolatory aid, which brings to him in idea every thing he desires, displays it to his imagination, represents it to his view, and in one sense makes it his own; but to render such imaginary property still more flattering and agreeable, it is even modified to his passion. But this shadow vanishes the moment the real object appears; the imagination can no longer magnify that which we actually possess, the charms of illusion cease, where those of enjoyment begin. The world of fancy, therefore, the land of chimeras, is the only world worthy to be inhabited; and such is the inanity of human enjoyments that, except that Being which is self existent; there is nothing delightful but that which has no existence at all.

If this effect does not always follow in the particular objects of our passions, it is infallible in the common sentiment which includes the whole. To live without pain is incompatible with our state of mortality: it would be in fact to die. He who has every thing in his power, if a creature, must be miserable, as he would be deprived of the pleasure of desiring; than which every other want would be more supportable. [103]

This is indeed what I have in part experienced since my marriage and your return. Every thing around me gives me cause of content, and yet I am not contented. A secret languor steals into the bottom of my heart; I find it puffed up and void, as you formerly said was the case with yours; all my attachments are not sufficient to fill it. This disquietude I confess is strange: but it is nevertheless true. O my friend! I am indeed too happy: my happiness is a burthen to me. Can you think of a remedy for this disgust? for my part, I must own that a sentiment so unreasonable and so involuntary, has in a great measure diminished the value of life, and I cannot imagine what blessings it can bestow which I want, or with which I should be satisfied. Can any woman be more susceptible than I am? can she love her father, her husband, her children, her friends, her relations better than I do? can she be more generally beloved? can she lead a life more agreeable to her taste? or can she be more at liberty to exchange it for any other? can she enjoy better health? can she have more expedients to divert her, or stronger ties to bind her to the world? and yet notwithstanding all this, I am constantly uneasy: my heart yearns for something of which it is entirely ignorant.

Therefore finding nothing on this globe capable of giving it satisfaction, my desiring soul seeks an object in another world; in elevating itself to the source of sentiment and existence, its languor vanishes: it is reanimated, it acquires new strength and new life. It thence obtains a new existence, independent of corporeal passions, or rather it exists no longer in me, but in the immensity of the supreme Being; and, disencumbered for a while from its terrestrial shackles, returns to them again with patience, consoled with the expectation of futurity.

You smile at all this, my good friend; I understand you. I have indeed pronounced my own condemnation, having formerly censured the heart, which I now approve. To this I have only one word to answer; and that is, I then spoke without experience. I do not pretend to justify it in every shape. I don’t pretend to say, this visionary taste is prudent, I only say, it is a delightful supplement to that sense of happiness which in other things exhausts itself by enjoyment. If it be productive of evil, doubtless it ought to be rejected; if it deceives the heart by false pleasure, it ought also on that account to be rejected. But after all, which has the greater incentive to virtue, the philosopher with his sublime maxims, or the Christian with his humble simplicity? who is most happy even in this world, the sage with his profound understanding, or the enthusiast with his rapture of devotion? what business have I to think or imagine, when my faculties are all in a manner alienated? will you say intoxication has its pleasures? be it so, and be mine esteemed such if you will. Either leave me in this agreeable delirium, or shew me a more delightful situation.

I have condemned indeed the ecstasies of the mystics, and condemn them still, when they serve to detach us from our duty; and, by raising in us a disgust against an active life by the charms of contemplation, seduce us into that state of quietism which you imagine me so near; and from which I believe myself nevertheless to be as far distant as yourself. I know very well that to serve God is not to pass our lives on our knees in prayer; that it is to discharge on earth those obligations which our duty requires; it is to do, with a view to please him, every thing which the situation in which he hath placed us demands.

Il cor gradisce; E serve a lui chi’l suo dover compisce.

We ought first to perform the duties of our station, and then pray when we have time. This is the rule I have endeavoured to follow: I don’t make that self examination, with which you reproach me, a task, but a recreation. I don’t see why, among the pleasures that are within my reach, I should be forbidden the most affecting and the most innocent of all.

I have examined myself with more severity, since the receipt of your letter. I have enquired into the effects which that pious inclination, that so much displeases you, produces in my mind; and I can safely say, I see nothing that should give me reason to fear, at least so soon as you imagine, the evils of excessive and superfluous devotion.

In the first place, I have not so fervent a longing after this exercise as to give me pain when I am deprived of an opportunity, nor am I out of humour at every avocation from it. It never interrupts my thoughts in the business of the day, nor gives me any disgust or impatience in the discharge of my duty. If retirement be sometimes necessary, it is when I have felt some disagreeable emotion, and am better in my closet than elsewhere. It is there that, entering into the examination of myself, I recover my temper and ease. If any care troubles me, if any pain affects me, it is there I go and lay them down. Every pain, every trouble vanishes before a greater object. In reflecting on all the bounties of providence towards me, I am ashamed to be sensible of such trifling ills, and to forget its greater mercies. I require neither frequent nor long intervals of solitude. When I am affected by involuntary sadness, the shedding a few tears before him who is the comforter of hearts, relieves mine in an instant. My reflections are never bitter nor grievous; even my repentance is free from dread: my errors give me less cause of fear than of shame; I regret that I have committed them, but I feel no remorse, nor dread of their effects. The God I serve is a merciful Being; a Father, whose goodness only affects me, and surpasses all his other attributes. His power astonishes me; his immensity confounds my ideas; his justice——but he has made man weak; and though he be just, he is merciful. An avenging God is the God of the wicked. I can neither fear him on my own account, nor pray for his vengeance to be exerted against any other. It is the God of peace, the God of goodness whom I adore. I know, I feel, I am the work of his hands, and trust to see him at the last day such as he has manifested himself to my heart, during my life.

It is impossible for me to tell you how many pleasing ideas hence render my days agreeable, and give joy to my heart. In leaving my closet in such a disposition, I feel myself more light and gay. Every care vanishes, every embarrassment is removed; nothing rough or disagreeable appears; but all is smooth and flowing: every thing wears a pleasant countenance; it costs me no pains to be in good humour; I love those better whom I loved before, and am still more agreeable to them; even my husband is more pleased with the disposition which is the effect of such rational devotion. Devotion, he says, is the opium of the soul. When taken in small quantities, it enlivens, it animates, it supports it: a stronger dose lulls it to sleep, enrages or destroys it. I hope I shall never proceed to such extremes.

You see I am not so much offended at the title of devotee, as perhaps you intended; but then I do not value it at the rate you imagine: yet I would not have the term devotion applied to an affected external deportment, and to a sort of employment which dispenses with every other. Thus that Mrs. Guyon you mention, had in my opinion done better to have carefully discharged her duty as mistress of her family, to have educated her children in the Christian faith; and to have governed her servants prudently, than to compose books of devotion, dispute with bishops, and at last be imprisoned in the Bastille for her unintelligible reveries.

I approve just as little of that mystical and metaphorical language, which feeds the heart with chimeras, and in the place of spiritual love, substitutes sentiments too nearly allied to carnal affections, and too apt to excite them. The more susceptible the heart, or lively the imagination, the more we ought to be on our guard against those images by which they may be affected; for how can we see the relations of the mystical object if we do not at the same time see the sensual; and how can a modest woman have the assurance to contemplate those objects in her imagination, which she would blush to look on?

But what sets me most against these devotees by profession, is that affectation of manners which renders them insensible to humanity; that excessive pride which makes them look down with pity on the rest of mankind. If ever they condescend to stoop from their imaginary elevation to do an act of charity, it is always done in a manner extremely mortifying to the object: their pity is so cruel and insulting, their justice is so rigid, their charity so severe, their zeal so bitter, their contempt so much like hatred, that even the insensibility of the rest of the world is less cruel than their pity. Their love for heaven serves them as an excuse for loving nobody on earth; they have even no affection for one another; nor is there an instance of sincere friendship to be found among people of extreme devotion. The more detached they affect to be from the world, the more they expect from it; and one would think their devotion to God is exerted only that they may have a pretext to exercise his authority over the rest of his creatures.

I have such an aversion for all abuses of this kind as should naturally be my security: if nevertheless I am doomed to fall, it will not be voluntarily, and I hope, from the friendship of those who are about me, that it will not be without warning. I must own, I now think that it was possible for my former inquietude concerning my husband, to have effected such a change. Happily, the prudent letter of my Lord B——, to which you very reasonably refer me, together with his sensible and consolatory conversation, as well as yours, have entirely dissipated my fears and changed my principles. I now see plainly that an intolerant spirit must by degrees become obdurate. For what charity can be long preserved for those who we think must inevitably be damned? to love them would be to hate God for punishing them. To act then on principles of humanity, we must take upon ourselves to condemn actions only, and not men. Let us not assume the horrible function of devils. Let us not so lightly throw open the gates of hell for our fellow creatures. Alas! if all those are destined to be eternally miserable who deceive themselves, where is the mortal who can avoid it?