N. As to the reader being interested, his concern is universal, and
therefore next to none. Not one bad action; not one wicked man to make
us fear for the good. Events so natural, and so simple, that they
scarce deserve the name of events; no surprize; no dramatic artifice;
every thing happens just as it was expected. Is it worth while to
register such actions as every man may see any day of his life in his
own house or in that of his neighbour?
R. So that you would have common men, and _un_common events? Now I
should rather desire the contrary. You took it for a romance: it is
not a romance: but, as you said before, a collection of letters.
N. Which are no letters at all: this, I think, I said also. What an
epistolary stile! how full of bombast! What exclamations! What
preparation! How emphatical to express common ideas! What big words
and weak reasoning! Frequently neither sense, accuracy, art, energy,
nor depth. Sublime language and groveling thoughts. If your personages
are in nature, confess, at least, that their stile is unnatural.
R. I own that in the light in which you are pleased to view them, it
must appear so.
N. Do you suppose the public will not judge in the same manner; and
did you not ask my opinion?
R. I did, and I answer you with a design to have it more explicitly:
now it appears that you would be better pleased with letters written
on purpose to be printed.
N. Perhaps I might; at least I am of opinion that nothing should be
printed which is not fit for the press.
R. So that in books we should behold mankind only as they chuse to
appear.
N. Most certainly, as to the author; those whom he represents, such as
they are. But in these letters this is not the case. Not one strong
delineation; not a single personage strikingly characterized; no solid
observations; no knowledge of the world. What can be learnt in the
little sphere of two or three lovers or friends constantly employed in
matters only relative to themselves?
R. We may learn to love human nature, whilst in extensive society we
learn to hate mankind. Your judgment is severe; that of the public
ought to be still more so. Without complaining of injustice, I will
tell you, in my turn, in what light these letters appear to me; not so
much to excuse their defects, as to discover their source.
The perceptions of persons in retirement are very different from those
of people in the great world; their passions being differently
modified, are differently exprest; their imaginations constantly
imprest by the same objects, are more violently affected. The same
small number of images constantly return, mix with every idea, and
create those strange and false notions so remarkable in people who
spend their lives in solitude; but does it follow that their language
is energic? No; ’tis only extraordinary: it is in our conversation
with the world that we learn to speak with energy; first, because we
must speak differently and better than others, and then, being every
moment obliged to affirm what may not be believed, and to express
sentiments which we do not feel, we endeavour at a persuasive manner
which supplies the place of interior persuasion. Do you believe that
people of real sensibility express themselves with that vivacity,
energy, and ardor which you so much admire in our drama and romances?
No; true passion, full of itself, is rather diffusive than emphatical;
it does not even think of persuasion, as it never supposes that its
existence can be doubtful. In expressing its feelings it speaks rather
for the sake of its own ease, than to inform others. Love is painted
with more vivacity in large cities, but is it in the village
therefore less violent?
N. So that the weakness of the expression is a proof of the strength
of their passion.
R. Sometimes, at least, it is an indication of its reality. Read but a
love letter written by an author who endeavours to shine as a man of
wit; if he has any warmth in his brain, his words will set fire to
the paper; but the flame will spread no farther: you may be charmed,
and perhaps a little moved, but it will be a fleeting agitation which
will leave nothing except the remembrance of words. On the contrary, a
letter really dictated by love, written by a lover influenced by a
real passion, will be tame, diffuse, prolix, unconnected, and full of
repetitions: his heart overflowing with the same sentiment, constantly
returns to the same expressions, and like a natural fountain flows
continually without being exhausted. Nothing brilliant, nothing
remarkable; one remembers neither words nor phrases; there is nothing
to be admired, nothing striking: yet we are moved without knowing why.
Though we are not struck with strength of sentiment, we are touched
with its truth, and our hearts, in spite of us, sympathize with the
writer. But men of no sensibility, who know nothing more than the
flowery jargon of the passions, are ignorant of those beauties and
despise them.
N. I am all attention.
R. Very well. I say, that in real love letters, the thoughts are
common, yet the stile is not familiar. Love is nothing more than an
illusion; it creates for itself another universe; it is surrounded
with objects which have no existence but in imagination, and its
language is always figurative; but its figures are neither just nor
regular: its eloquence consists in its disorder, and when it reasons
least it is most convincing. Enthusiasm is the last degree of this
passion. When it is arrived at its greatest height, its object appears
in a state of perfection; it then becomes its idol; it is placed in
the heavens; and as the enthusiasm of devotion borrows the language of
love, the enthusiasm of love also borrows the language of devotion.
Its ideas present nothing but Paradise, angels, the virtue of saints,
and the delights of heaven. In such transport, surrounded by such
images, is it not natural to expect sublime language? Can it possibly
debase its ideas by vulgar expressions? Will it not on the contrary
raise its stile, and speak with adequate dignity? What then becomes of
your _epistolary stile?_ it would do mighty well, to be sure, in
writing to the object of one’s adoration: in that case they are not
letters, but hymns.
N. We shall see what the world will say.
R. No: rather see the winter on my head. There is an age for
experience, and another for recollection. Our sensibility may be
extinguished by time; but the soul which was once capable of that
sensibility remains. But to return to our letters: if you read them as
the work of an author who endeavours to please, or piques himself on
his writing, they are certainly detestable. But take them for what
they are, and judge of them in their kind. Two or three young people,
simple, if you will, but sensible, who mutually expressing the real
sentiments of their hearts, have no intention to display their wit.
They know and love each other too well for self-admiration to have any
influence among them. They are children, and therefore think like
children. They are not natives of France, how then can they be
supposed to write correctly? They lived in solitude, and therefore
could know but little of the world. Entirely filled with one single
sentiment, they are in a constant delirium, and yet presume to
philosophise. Would you have them know how to observe, to judge, and
to reflect? No: of these they are ignorant; but they are versed in the
art of love, and all their words and actions are connected with that
passion. Their ideas are extravagant, but is not the importance which
they give to these romantic notions more amusing than all the wit they
could have displayed. They speak of every thing; they are constantly
mistaken; they teach us nothing, except the knowledge of themselves;
but in making themselves known, they obtain our affection. Their
errors are more engaging than the wisdom of the wise. Their honest
hearts, even in their transgressions, bear still the prejudice of
virtue, always confident and always betrayed. Nothing answers their
expectations; every event serves to undeceive them. They are deaf to
the voice of discouraging truth: they find nothing correspond with
their own feelings, and therefore, detaching themselves from the rest
of the universe, they create, in their separate society, a little
world of their own, which presents an entire new scene.
N. I confess, that a young fellow of twenty, and girls of eighteen,
though not; uninstructed, ought not to talk like philosophers, even
though they may suppose themselves such. I own also, for this
distinction has not escaped me, that these girls became wives of
merit, and the young man a better observer. I make no comparison
between the beginning and the end of the work. The detail of domestic
occurrences may efface, in some measure, the faults of their younger
years: the chaste and sensible wife, the worthy matron, may obliterate
the remembrance of former weakness. But even this is a subject for
criticism: the conclusion of the work renders the beginning
reprehensible: one would imagine them to be two different books, which
ought not to be read by the same people. If you intended to exhibit
rational personages, why would you expose them before they were become
so? Our attention to the lessons of wisdom is destroyed by the child’s
play by which they are preceded: we are scandalized at the bad, before
the good can edify us. In short, the reader is offended and throws the
book aside in the very moment when it might become serviceable.
R. On the contrary, I am of opinion, that to those who are disgusted
with the beginning, the end would be entirely superstitious: and that
the beginning will be agreeable to those readers to whom the
conclusion can be useful. So that, those who do not read to the end
will have left nothing, because it was an improper book for them; and
those to whom it may be of service would never have read it, if it had
begun with more gravity. Our lessons can never be useful unless they
are so written as to catch the attention of those for whose benefit
they were calculated.
I may have changed the means, and not the object. When I endeavoured
to speak to _men_, I was not heard; perhaps in speaking to children I
shall gain more attention; and children would have no more relish for
naked reason, than for medicines ill disguised.
_Cosi all’ egro fanciul porgiamo aspersi
Di soave licor gl’orli del vaso;
Succhi amari ingannato in tanto ei beve,
E da l’ inganno suo vita riceve._
N. Here again I am afraid you are deceived: they will sip on the edge
of the vessel, but will not drink the liquor.
R. Be it so; it will not be my fault: I shall have done all in my
power to make it palatable. My young folks are amiable; but to love
them at thirty it is necessary to have known them when they were ten
years younger: One must have lived with them a long time to be pleased
with their company; and to taste their virtues, it is necessary we
should first have deplored their failings. Their letters are not
interesting at first; but we grow attached by degrees, and can neither
continue nor quit them. They are neither elegant, easy, rational,
sensible, nor eloquent; but there is sensibility which gradually
communicates itself to our hearts, and which at last is found to
supply the place of all the rest. It is a long romance, of which no
one part has power to move us, and yet the whole produces a proper
effect. At least, such were its effects upon me: pray were not you
touched in reading it?
N. No; yet I can easily conceive your being affected: if you are the
author, nothing can be more natural; and if not, I can still account
for it. A man of the world can have no taste for the extravagant
ideas, the affected pathos, and false reasoning of your good folks;
but they will suit a recluse, for the reason which you have given:
now, before you determine to publish the manuscript, you would do well
to remember that the world is not composed of hermits. All you can
expect is that your young gentleman will be taken for a Celadon, your
Lord B---- for a Don Quixote, your young damsels for two Astreas, and
that the world will laugh at them for a company of fools. But a
continued folly cannot be entertaining. A man should write like
Cervantes before he can expect to engage his reader to accompany him
through six volumes of nonsense.
R. The very reason which would make you suppress this work, will
induce me to print it.
N. What! the certainty of its not being read?
R. A little patience, and you will understand me. As to morals, I
believe that all kinds of reading are useless to people of the world:
first, because the number of new books which they run through, so
generally contradict each other, that their effect is reciprocally
destroyed. The few choice books which deserve a second perusal, are
equally ineffectual: for, if they are written in support of received
opinions, they are superfluous; and if in opposition, they are of no
use; they are too weak to break the chain which attaches the reader to
the vices of society. A man of the world may possibly, for a moment,
be led from his wonted path by the dictates of morality; but he will
find so many obstacles in the way, that he will speedily return to his
former course. I am persuaded there are few people, who have had a
tolerable education, that have not made this essay, at least once in
their lives; but, finding their efforts vain, they are discouraged
from any future attempt, and consider the morality of books as the
jargon of idleness. The farther we retreat from business, great
cities, and numerous societies, the more the obstacles to morality
diminish. There is a certain point of distance where these obstacles
cease to be insurmountable and there it is that books may be of use.
When we live in solitude, as we do not then read with a design to
display our reading, we are less anxious to change our books, and
bestow on them more reflection; and as their principles find less
opposition from without, their internal impression is more effectual.
In retirement, the want of occupation, obliges those who have no
resource in themselves, to have recourse to books of amusement.
Romances are more read in the provincial towns than at Paris, in towns
less than in the country, and there they make the deepest impression:
the reason is plain.
Now it happens unfortunately that the books which might amuse,
instruct, and console the people in retirement, who are unhappy only
in their own imagination, are generally calculated to make them still
more dissatisfied with their situation. People of rank and fashion are
the sole personages of all our romances. The refined taste of great
cities, court maxims, the splendour of luxury, and epicurean morality;
these are their precepts, these their lesson of instruction. The
colouring of their false virtues tarnishes their real ones. Polite
manners are substituted for real duties, fine sentiments for good
actions, and virtuous simplicity is deemed want of breeding.
What effect must such representations produce in the mind of a country
gentleman, in which his freedom and hospitality is turned into
ridicule, and the joy which he spreads through his neighbourhood is
pronounced to be a low and contemptible amusement? What influence must
they not have upon his wife, when she is taught, that the care of her
family is beneath a lady of her rank; and on his daughter,
who being instructed in the jargon and affectation of the city,
disdains for his clownish behaviour, the honest neighbour whom she
would otherwise have married. With one consent, ashamed of their
rusticity, and disgusted with their village, they leave their ancient
mansion, which soon becomes a ruin, to reside in the metropolis; where
the father, with his cross of St. Lewis, from a gentleman becomes a
sharper; the mother keeps a gaming house; the daughter amuses herself
with a circle of gamesters: and frequently all three, after having led
a life of infamy, die in misery and dishonour.
Authors, men of letters, and philosophers are constantly insinuating,
that in order to fulfil the duties of society, and to serve our fellow
creatures, it is necessary that we should live in great cities:
according to them, to fly from Paris, is to hate mankind; people in
the country are nobody in their eyes; to hear them talk, one would
imagine that where there are no pensions, academies, nor open tables,
there is no existence.
All our productions verge to the same goal. Tales, romances, comedies,
all are levelled at the country; all conspire to ridicule rustic
simplicity; they all display and extol the pleasures of the great
world; it is a shame not to know them; and not to enjoy them, a
misfortune. How many of those sharpers and prostitutes, with which
Paris is so amply provided, were first seduced by the expectations of
these imaginary pleasures? Thus prejudice and opinion contribute to
effect the political system by attracting the inhabitants of each
country to a single point of territory, leaving all the rest a desert:
thus nations are depopulated, that their capitals may flourish; and
this frivolous splendor with which fools are captivated, makes Europe
verge with celerity towards its ruin. The happiness of mankind
requires that we should endeavour to stop this torrent of pernicious
maxims. The employment of the clergy is to tell us that we must be
good and wise, without concerning themselves about the success of
their discourses; but a good citizen, who is really anxious to promote
virtue, should not only tell us to be good, but endeavour to make the
path agreeable which will lead us to happiness.
N. Pray, my good friend, take breath for a moment. I am no enemy to
useful designs; and I have been so attentive to your reasoning, that I
believe it will be in my power to continue your argument. You are
clearly of opinion, that to give to works of imagination the only
utility of which they are capable, they must have an effect
diametrically opposite to that which their authors generally propose;
they must combat every human institution, reduce all things to a state
of nature, make mankind in love with a life of peace and simplicity,
destroy their prejudices and opinions, inspire them with a taste for
true pleasure, keep them distant from each other, and instead of
exciting people to crowd into large cities, persuade them to spread
themselves all over the kingdom, that every part may be equally
enlivened. I also comprehend, that it is not your intention to create
a world of Arcadian shepherds, of illustrious peasants labouring on
their own acres and philosophising on the works of nature, nor any
other romantic beings which exist only in books; but to convince
mankind that in rural life there are many pleasures which they know
not how to enjoy; that these pleasures are neither so insipid nor so
gross as they imagine; that they are susceptible of taste and
delicacy; that a sensible man, who should retire with his family into
the country, and become his own farmer, might enjoy more rational
felicity, than in the midst of the amusements of a great city; that a
good housewife may be a most agreeable woman, that she may be as
graceful and as charming as any town coquet of them all; in short,
that the most tender sentiments of the heart will more effectually
animate society, than the artificial language of polite circles, where
the ill-natured laugh of satyr is the pitiful substitute of that real
mirth which no longer exists. Have I not hit the mark?
R. ’Tis the very thing; to which I will add but one reflection. We are
told that romances disturb the brain: I believe it true. In
continually displaying to the reader the ideal charms of a situation
very different from his own, he becomes dissatisfied, and makes an
imaginary exchange for that which he is taught to admire. Desiring to
be that which he is not, he soon believes himself actually
metamorphosed, and so becomes a fool. If, on the contrary, romances
were only to exhibit the pictures of real objects, of virtues and
pleasures within our reach, they would then make us wiser and better.
Books which are designed to be read in solitude, should be written in
the language of retirement: if they are meant to instruct, they should
make us in love with our situation; they should combat and destroy the
maxims of the great world, by shewing them to be false and despicable,
as they really are. Thus, Sir, a romance, if it be well written, or at
least if it be useful, must be hissed, damned, and despised by the
polite world, as being a mean, extravagant and ridiculous performance;
and thus what is folly in the eyes of the world is real wisdom.
N. Your conclusion is self-evident. It is impossible better to
anticipate your fall, nor to be better prepared to fall with dignity.
There remains but one difficulty. People in the country, you know,
take their cue from us. A book calculated for them must first pass the
censure of the town: if we think fit to damn it, its circulation is
entirely stopt. What do you say to that?
R. The answer is quite simple. You speak of _wits_ who reside in the
country; whilst I would be understood to mean real country folks. You
gentlemen who shine in the capital, have certain prepossessions of
which you must be cured: you imagine that you govern the taste of all
France, when in fact three fourths of the kingdom do not know that you
exist. The books which are damned at Paris often make the fortune of
country booksellers.
N. But why will you enrich them at the expense of ours?
R. Banter me as you please, I shall persist. Those who aspire to fame
must calculate their works for the meridian of Paris; but those who
write with a view to do good, must write for the country. How many
worthy people are there who pass their lives in cultivating a few
paternal acres, far distant from the metropolis, and who think
themselves exiled by the partiality of fortune? During the long winter
evenings, deprived of society, they pass the time in reading such
books of amusement as happen to fall into their hands. In their rustic
simplicity they do not pride themselves on their wit or learning; they
read for entertainment rather than instruction; books of morality and
philosophy are entirely unknown to them. As to your romances, they are
so far from being adapted to their situation, that they serve only to
render it insupportable. Their retreat is represented to be a desert,
so that whilst they afford a few hours amusement, they prepare for
them whole months of regret and discontent. Why may I not suppose
that, by some fortunate accident, this book, like many others of still
less merit, will fall into the hands of those inhabitants of the
fields, and that the pleasing picture of a life exactly resembling
theirs will render it more tolerable? I have great pleasure in the
idea of a married couple reading this novel together, imbibing fresh
courage to support their common labours, and perhaps new designs to
render them useful. How can they possibly contemplate the
representation of a happy family without attempting to imitate the
pleasing model? How can they be affected with the charms of conjugal
union, even where love is wanting, without increasing and confirming
their own attachment? In quitting their book, they will neither be
discontented with their situation, nor disgusted at their labour: on
the contrary, every object around them will assume a more delightful
aspect, their duties will seem ennobled, their taste for the pleasures
of nature will revive; her genuine sensations will be rekindled in
their hearts, and perceiving happiness within their reach, they will
learn to taste it as they ought: they will perform the same functions,
but with another soul; and what they did before as peasants only, they
will now transact as real patriarchs.
N. So far, you sail before the wind. Husbands, wives, matrons----but
with regard to young girls; d’ye say nothing of those?
R. No. A modest girl will never read books of love. If she should
complain of having been injured by the perusal of these volumes, she
is unjust: she has lost no virtue; for she had none to lose.
N. Prodigious! attend to this, all ye amorous writers; for thus ye are
all justified.
R. Provided they are justified by their own hearts and the object of
their writings.
N. And is that the case with you?
R. I am too proud to answer to that question; but Eloisa had a certain
rule by which she formed her judgment of books: [2] if you like it,
use it in judging of this. Authors have endeavoured to make the
reading of romances serviceable to youth. There never was a more idle
project. It is just setting fire to the house in order to employ the
engines. Having conceived this ridiculous idea, instead of directing
the moral of their writings towards its proper object, it is
constantly addressed to young girls, [3] without considering that
these have no share in the irregularities complained of. In general,
though their hearts may be corrupted, their conduct is blameless. They
obey their mothers in expectation of the time when it will be in their
power to imitate them. If the wives do their duty, be assured the
girls will not be wanting in theirs.
N. Observation is against you in this point. The whole sex seem to
require a time for libertinism, either in one state or the other. It is
a bad leaven, which must ferment soon or late. Among a civilized people
the girls are easy, and the wives difficult, of access; but where
mankind are less polite, it is just the reverse: the first consider
the crime only, the latter the scandal. The principal question is, how
to be left secured from the temptation: as to the crime it is of no
consideration.
R. If we were to judge by its consequences, one would be apt to be of
another opinion. But let us be just to the women: the cause of their
irregularities are less owing to themselves, than to our bad
institutions. The extreme inequality in the different members of the
same family must necessarily stifle the sentiments of nature. The
vices and misfortunes of children are owing chiefly to the father’s
unnatural despotism. A young wife, unsuitably espoused, and a victim
to the avarice or vanity of her parents, glories in effacing the
scandal of her former virtue by her present irregularities. If you
would remedy this evil, proceed to its source. Public manners can only
be reformed by beginning with private vices, which naturally arise
from parents. But our reformers never proceed in this manner. Your
cowardly authors preach only to the oppressed; and their morality can
have no effect, because they have not the art to address the most
powerful.
N. You, Sir, however run no risk of being accused of servility; but
may you not possibly be too sincere? In striking at the root of this
evil, may you not be the cause of more----
R. Evil? to whom? In times of epidemical contagion, when all are
infected from their infancy, would it be prudent to hinder the
distribution of salutary medicines under a pretence that they might do
harm to people in health? You and I, Sir, differ so widely on this
point, that if it were reasonable to expect that these letters can
meet with any success, I am persuaded they will do more good than a
better book.
N. Certainly your females are excellent preachers. I am pleased to see
you reconciled with the ladies; for I was really concerned when you
imposed silence on the sex. [4]
R. You are too severe; I must hold my tongue: I am neither so wise nor
so foolish as to be always in the right. Let us leave this bone for
the critics.
N. With all my heart, lest they should want one. But suppose you had
nothing to fear from any other quarter, how will you excuse to a
certain severe censor of the stage, those warm descriptions, and
impassioned sentiments, which are so frequent in those letters? Shew
me a scene in any of our theatrical pieces equal to that in the wood
at Clarens, or that of the dressing room. Read the letter on
theatrical amusements; read the whole collection. In short, be
confident, or renounce your former opinions. What would you have one
think?
R. I would have the critics be confident with themselves, and not
judge till they have thoroughly examined. Let me intreat you to read
once more with attention the parts you have mentioned; read again the
preface to _Narcisse_, and you will there find an answer to the
accusation of inconsistency. Those forward gentlemen who pretend to
discover that fault in the _Devin du Village_, will undoubtedly think
it much more glaring in this work. They will only act in character; but
you----
N. I recollect two passages. [5] You do not much esteem your
cotemporaries.
R. Sir, I am also their cotemporary! O why was I not born in an age in
which I ought to have burnt this collection!
N. Extravagant as usual! however, to a certain degree, your maxims are
just. For instance; if your Eloisa had been chaste from the beginning,
she would have afforded us less instruction; for to whom would she
have served as a model? In the most corrupt ages mankind are fond of
the most perfect lessons of morality: theory supplies the place of
practice, and at the small expense of a little leisure reading, they
satisfy the remnant of their taste for virtue.
R. Sublime authors, relax a little your perfect models, if you expect
that we should endeavour to imitate them. To what purpose do you vaunt
unspotted purity? rather shew us that which may be recovered, and
perhaps there are some who will attend to your instructions.
N. Your young hero has already made those reflections; but no matter,
you would be thought no less culpable in having shewn us what _is
done_, in order to shew what _ought to be done_. Besides, to inspire
the girls with love, and to make wives reserved, is overturning the
order of things, and recalling those trifling morals which are now
totally proscribed by philosophy. Say what you will, it is very
indecent, nay scandalous for a girl to be in love: nothing but a
husband can authorise a lover. It was certainly very impolitic to be
indulgent to the unmarried ladies, who are not allowed to read you,
and severe upon the married ones, by whom you are to be judged.
Believe me, if you were fearful of success, you may be quite easy: you
have taken sufficient care to avoid an affront of that nature. Be it
as it may, I shall not betray your confidence. I hope your imprudence
will not carry you too far. If you think you have written a useful
book, publish it; but by all means conceal your name.
R. Conceal my name! Will an honest man speak to the public from behind
a curtain? Will he dare to print what he does not dare to own? I am
the editor of this book, and I shall certainly fix my name in the
title page.
N. Your name in the title-page!
R. Yes, Sir, in the title-page.