though they may be trifling in themselves, they are of sufficient
importance to merit attention, when you consider the object they
concern. Deliver me from the uncertainty into which they have thrown
me. Shew me how I must behave in this critical conjuncture; for my
past errors have affected my judgment, and rendered me diffident in
deciding upon any thing. Whatever you may think of yourself, your
mind, I am certain, is tranquil and composed; objects present
themselves to you such as they are; but in mine, which is agitated
like a troubled sea, they are confounded and disfigured. I no longer
dare to depend upon any thing I see, or any thing I feel, and
notwithstanding so many years repentance, I perceive, with concern,
that the weight of past failings is a burthen we must bear to the end
of our lives.
Letter CXXXII. Answer.
Poor Eloisa! With so much reason to live at ease, what torments you
continually create! All thy misfortunes come from thyself, O Israel!
If you adhered to your own maxims; if, in point of sentiment, you only
hearkened to the voice within you, and your heart did but silence your
reason, you would then without scruple trust to that security it
inspires, and you would not constrain yourself against the testimony
of your own heart, to dread a danger which can arise only from thence.
I understand you, I perfectly understand you, Eloisa; being more
secure in yourself than you pretend to be, you have a mind to humble
yourself on account of your past failings, under a pretence of
preventing new ones; and your scruples are not so much precautions
against the future, as a penance you impose upon yourself to atone for
the indiscretion which ruined you formerly. You compare the times; do
you consider? Compare situations likewise, and remember that I then
reproved you for your confidence, as I now reprove you for your
diffidence.
You are mistaken, my dear; but nature does not alter so soon. If we
can forget our situation for want of reflection, we see it in its true
light when we take pains to consider of it, and we can no more conceal
our virtues than our vices from ourselves. Your gentleness and
devotion have given you a turn for humility. Mistrust that dangerous
virtue which only excites self-love by making it centre in one point,
and be assured that the noble sincerity of an upright mind, is greatly
preferable to the pride of humility. If moderation is necessary in
wisdom, it is requisite likewise in those precautions it suggests,
lest a solicitude which is reproachful to virtue should debase the
mind, and, by keeping us in constant alarm, render a chimerical danger
a real one. Don’t you perceive that after we have had a fall, we
should hold ourselves upright, and that by leaning too much towards
the side opposite to that on which we fell, we are in danger of
falling again? Cousin, you loved like Eloisa. Now, like her, you are
an extravagant devotee; he even said that you may be more successful
in the latter than you were in the former! In truth, if I was less
acquainted with your natural timidity, your apprehensions would be
sufficient to terrify me in my turn, and if I was so scrupulous, I
might, from being alarmed for you, begin to tremble for myself.
Consider farther, my dear friend; you whose system of morality is as
easy and natural as it is pure and honest, do not make constructions
which are harsh and foreign to your character, with respect to your
maxims concerning the separation of the sexes. I agree with you that
they ought not to live together, nor after the same manner; but
consider whether this important rule does not admit of many
distinctions in point of practice; examine whether it ought to be
applied indiscriminately, and without exception to married as well as
to single women, to society in general as well as to particular
connections, to business as well as to amusements, and whether that
honour and decency which inspire these maxims, ought not sometimes to
regulate them? In well governed countries, where the natural relations
of things are attended to in matrimony, you would admit of assemblies
where young persons of both sexes, might see, be acquainted, and
associate with each other; but you prohibit them, with good reason,
from holding any private intercourse. But is not the case quite
different with regard to married women and the mothers of families,
who can have no interest, that is justifiable, in exhibiting
themselves in public; who are confined within doors by their domestic
concerns, and who should not be refused to do any thing at home which
is becoming the mistress of a family? I should not like to see you in
the cellars presenting the wine for the merchants to taste, nor to see
you leave your children to settle accounts with a banker; but if an
honest man should come to visit your husband, or to transact some
business with him, will you refuse to entertain his guest in his
absence; and to do him the honours of the house for fear of being left
_tete a tete_ with him? Trace this principle to its source, and it
will explain all your maxims. Why do we suppose that women ought to
live retired and apart from the men? Shall we do such injustice to our
sex as to account for it upon principles drawn from our weakness, and
that it is only to avoid the danger of temptations? No, my dear, these
unworthy apprehensions do not become an honest woman, and the mother
of a family who is continually surrounded with objects which nourish
in her the sentiments of honour, and who is devoted to the most
respectable duties of human nature. It is nature herself that divides
us from the men, by prescribing to us different occupations; it is
that amiable and timorous modesty, which, without being immediately
attentive to chastity, is nevertheless its surest guardian; it is that
cautious and affecting reserve, which at one and the same time
cherishing both desire and respect in the hearts of men, serves as a
kind of coquetry to virtue. This is the reason why even husbands
themselves are not excepted out of this rule. This is the reason why
the most discreet women generally maintain the greatest ascendancy
over their husbands; because, by the help of this prudent and discreet
reserve, without shewing any caprice or non-compliance, they know,
even in the embraces of the most tender union, how to keep them at a
distance, and prevent their being cloyed with them. You will agree
with me that your maxims are too general not to admit of exceptions,
and that not being founded on any rigorous duty, the same principle
of decorum which established them, may sometimes justify our
dispensing with them.
The circumspection which you ground on your past failings, is
injurious to your present condition; I will never pardon this
unnecessary caution which your heart dictates, and I can scarce
forgive it in your reason. How was it possible that the rampart which
protects your person, could not secure you from such an ignominious
apprehension? How could my cousin, my sister, my friend, my Eloisa,
confound the indiscretions of a girl of too much sensibility, with the
infidelity of a guilty wife? Look around you, you will see nothing but
what contributes to raise and support your mind. Your husband who has
such confidence in you, and whose esteem it becomes you to justify;
your children whom you would train to virtue, and who will one day
deem it an honour that you was their mother; your venerable father who
is so dear to you, who enjoys your felicity, and who derives more
lustre from you than from his ancestors; your friend whose fate
depends on yours, and to whom you must be accountable for a
reformation to which she has contributed; her daughter, to whom you
ought to set an example of those virtues which you would excite in
her; your philosopher, who is a hundred times fonder of your virtues,
than of your person, and who respects you still more than you
apprehend; lastly, yourself, who are sensible what painful efforts
your discretion has cost you, and who will surely never forfeit the
fruit of so much trouble in a single moment; how many motives capable
of inspiring you with courage, conspire to make you ashamed of having
ventured to mistrust yourself! But in order to answer for my Eloisa,
what occasion have I to consider what she is? It is enough that I know
what she was, during the indiscretions which she bewails. Ah! if your
heart had ever been capable of infidelity, I would allow you to be
continually apprehensive: but at the very time when you imagined that
you viewed it at a distance, you may conceive the horror its real
existence would have occasioned you, by what you felt at that time,
when but to imagine it, had been to have committed it.
I recollect with what astonishment we learnt that there was a nation
where the wellness of a fond maid is considered as an inexpiable
crime, though the adultery of a married woman is there softened by the
gentle term of gallantry, and where married women publicly make
themselves amends for the short-lived restraint they undergo while
single. I know what maxims, in this respect, prevail in high life,
where virtue passes for nothing, where every thing is empty
appearance, where crimes are effaced by the difficulty of proving
them, or where the proof itself becomes ridiculous against custom. But
you, Eloisa, you who glowed with a pure and constant passion, who was
guilty only in the eyes of men, and between heaven and earth was open
to no reproach! You, who made yourself respected in the midst of your
indiscretions; you, who being abandoned to fruitless regret, obliged
us even to adore those virtues which you had forfeited; you, who
disdained to endure self-contempt, when every thing seemed to plead in
your excuse, can you be apprehensive of guilt, after having paid so
dearly for your weakness? Will you dare to be afraid that you have
less power now, than you had in those days which cost you so many
tears? No, my dear, so far from being alarmed at your former
indiscretions, they ought to inspire you with courage; so severe a
repentance does not lead to remorse, and whoever is so susceptible of
shame, will never bid defiance to infamy.
If ever a weak mind had supports against its weakness, they are such
as uphold you; if ever a vigorous mind was capable of supporting
itself, what prop can yours require? Tell me, what reasonable grounds
there can be for your apprehensions? All your life has been a
continual struggle, in which, even after your defeat, honour and duty
never ceased opposition, and at length came off victorious. Ah!
Eloisa! shall I believe that, after so much pain and torment, after
twelve years passed in tears, and six spent gloriously, that you still
dread a trial of eight days? In few words, deal sincerely with
yourself; if there really is any danger, save your person, and blush
at the condition of your heart; if there is no danger, it is an
offence to your reason, it is a dishonour to your virtue to be
apprehensive of perils which can never affect it. Do you not know that
there are some scandalous temptations which never approach noble
minds; that it is even shameful to be under a necessity of subduing
them, and that to take precautions against them, is not so much to
humble, as to debase ourselves?
I do not presume to give you my arguments as unanswerable, but only to
convince you that yours may be controverted, and that is sufficient to
warrant my advice. Do not depend on yourself, for you do not know how
to do yourself justice, nor on me; who even in your indiscretions
never considered any thing but your heart and always adored you; but
refer to your husband who sees you such as you are, and judges of you,
exactly according to your real worth. Being, like all people of
sensibility, ready to judge ill of those who appear insensible, I
mistrusted his power of penetration into the secrets of susceptible
minds, but since the arrival of our traveller, I find by his letters
that he reads yours perfectly well, and that there is not a single
emotion which escapes his observation. I find his remarks so just and
acute, that I have almost changed my opinion to the other extreme; and
I shall readily believe that your dispassionate people, who consult
their eyes more than their hearts, judge better of other men’s
passions, than your impetuous lively and vain persons like myself, who
always begin by supposing themselves in another’s place, and can never
see any thing but what they feel. However it be, Mr. Wolmar is
thoroughly acquainted with you, he esteems you, he loves you, and his
destiny is blended with yours. What does he require, but that you
would leave to him the entire direction of your conduct, with which
you are afraid to trust yourself? Perhaps finding old age coming on,
he is desirous, by some trials on which he may depend, to prevent
those uneasy jealousies, which an old husband generally feels who is
married to a young wife; perhaps the design he has in view requires
that you should live in a state of familiarity with your friend,
without alarming either your husband or yourself; perhaps he only
means to give you a testimony of confidence and esteem, worthy of that
which he entertains for you. You should never oppose such sentiments,
as if the weight of them was too much for you to endure; and for my
part, I think, that you cannot act more agreeably to the dictates of
prudence and modesty, than by relying entirely on his tenderness and
understanding.
Could you, without offending Mr. Wolmar, punish yourself for a vanity
you never had, and prevent a danger which no longer exists? Remain
alone with the philosopher, use all the superfluous precautions
against him, which would formerly have been of such service to you;
maintain the same reserve as if you still mistrusted your own heart
and his, as well as your own virtue. Avoid all pathetic conversation,
all tender recollection of time past; break off or prevent long _tete
a tete_ interviews; be constantly surrounded by your children; do not
stay long with him in a room, in elysium, or in the grove notwithstanding
the profanation. Above all things, use these precautions in so
natural a manner, that they may seem to be the effect of chance, and
that he may never once suspect that you are afraid of him. You love to
go upon the water; but you deprive yourself of the pleasure on account
of your husband who is afraid of that element, and of your children
whom you do not chuse to venture there. Take the advantage of this
absence, to entertain yourself with this recreation, and leave your
children to the care of Fanny. By this means you may securely devote
yourself to the sweet familiarity of friendship, and quietly enjoy a
long _tete a tete_ under the protection of the watermen, who see
without understanding, and from whom we cannot go far without thinking
what we are about.
A thought strikes me which many people would laugh at, but which will
be agreeable to you, I am sure; that is to keep an exact journal in
your husband’s absence, to shew him on his return, and to think on
this journal, with regard to every circumstance which is to be set
down in it. In truth, I do not believe that such an expedient would be
of service to many women; but a sincere mind, incapable of deceit, has
many resources against vice, which others stand in need of. We ought
to despise nothing which tends to preserve a purity of manners, and it
is by means of trifling precautions, that great virtues are secured.
Upon the whole, as your husband is to see me in his way, he will tell
me, I hope, the true reasons of his journey, and if I do not find them
substantial, I will persuade him from proceeding any farther, or at
all events, I will do what he has refused to do: upon this you may
depend. In the mean time, I think I have said enough to fortify you
against a trial of eight days. Go, Eloisa, I know you too well not to
answer for you as much, nay more than I could for myself. You will
always be what you ought to be, and what you desire to be. If you do
but rely on the integrity of your own mind, you will run no risk
whatever; for I have no faith in these unforeseen defects; it is in
vain to disguise voluntary failings by the idle appellation of
weaknesses; no woman was ever yet overcome who had not an inclination
to surrender; and if I thought that such a fate could attend you,
believe me, trust to the tenderness of my friendship, rely on all the
sentiments which would arise in the heart of your poor Clara, I should
be too sensibly interested in your protection, to abandon you entirely
to yourself.
As to what Mr. Wolmar declared to you concerning the intelligence he
received before your marriage, I am not much surprized at it; you know
I always suspected it; and I will tell you, moreover, that my
suspicions are not confined to the indiscretions of B----. I could
never suppose that a man of truth and integrity like your father, and
who had some suspicions at least himself, would resolve to impose upon
his son-in-law and his friend. If he engaged you so strictly to
secrecy, it was because the mode of discovery would come from him in a
very different manner to what it would have proceeded from you, and
because he was willing no doubt to give it a turn less likely to
disgust Mr. Wolmar, than that which he very well knew you would not
fail to give it yourself. But I must dismiss your messenger, we will
chat about there matters more at our leisure about a month hence.
Farewell, my dearest cousin, I have preached long enough to the
preacher; resume your old occupation.----I find myself quite uneasy
that I cannot be with you yet. I disorder all my affairs, by hurrying
to dispatch them, and I scarce know what to do. Ah Chaillot,
Chaillot... If I was less giddy...but I always hope that I shall----
P. S. A propos; I forgot to make my compliments to your highness. Tell
me, I beseech you, is the gentleman your husband Atteman, Knes, or
Boyard? [63] O poor child! You, who have so often lamented being born
a gentlewoman, are in high luck to become the wife of a prince!
Between ourselves nevertheless you discover apprehensions which are
somewhat vulgar for a woman of such high quality. Do not you know,
that little scruples belong to mean people; and that a child of a good
family, who should pretend to be his father’s son, would be laughed
at.
Letter CXXXIII. Mr. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
I am going to Etange, my sweet cousin, and I proposed to call upon you
in my way; but a delay of which you are the cause obliges me to make
more haste, and I had rather lie at Lausanne as I come back, that I
may pass a few hours the more with you. Besides I want to consult you
with regard to many particulars, which it is proper to communicate
before hand that you may have time to consider of them before you give
me your opinion.
I would not explain my scheme to you in relation to the young man,
till his presence had confirmed the good opinion I had conceived of
him. I think I may now depend upon him sufficiently to acquaint you,
between ourselves, that my design is to entrust him with the education
of my children. I am not ignorant that those important concerns are
the principal duty of a parent; but when it will be time to exert
them, I shall be too old to discharge them, and being naturally calm
and speculative by constitution, I should never have been sufficiently
active to govern the spirit of youth. Besides for a reason you know,
[64] Eloisa would be concerned to see me assume an office, in which I
should never acquit myself to her liking. I have a thousand reasons
besides; your sex is not equal to these duties; their mother shall
confine herself to the education of her Henrietta; to your share I
allot the management of the houshold upon the plan already
established, and of which you approve; and it shall be my business to
behold three worthy people concurring to promote the happiness of the
family, and to enjoy that repose in my old age, for which I shall be
indebted to their labours.
I have always found, that my wife was extremely averse from trusting
her children to the care of mercenaries, and I could not discommend
her scruples. The respectable capacity of a preceptor requires so many
talents which are not to be paid for, so many virtues which have no
piece set upon them, that it is in vain to think of procuring one by
means of money. It is from a man of genius only that we can expect the
talents of a preceptor; it is from the heart of an affectionate friend
alone that we can hope to meet with the zeal of a parent; and genius
is not to be sold any more than attachment.
All the requisite qualities seem to be united in your friend; and if I
am well acquainted with his disposition, I do not think he would
desire greater happiness, than to make those beloved children
contribute to their mother’s felicity. The only obstacle I can foresee
is his affection for Lord B----, which will not allow him to disengage
himself from so dear a friend, to whom he has such great obligations,
at least if his Lordship does not require it himself. We expect to see
this extraordinary man very soon; and as you have a great ascendancy
over him, if he answers the idea you have given me of him, I may
commit the business, so far as it relates to him, to your management.
You have now, my dear cousin, the clue of my whole conduct, which,
without this explanation, must have appeared very extraordinary, and
which, I hope, will hereafter meet with Eloisa’s approbation and
yours. The advantage of having such a wife as I have, made me try many
expedients which would have been impracticable with another. Though I
leave her, in full confidence, with her old lover, under no other
guard than her own virtue, it would be madness to establish that lover
in my family, before I was certain that he ceased to be such; and how
could I be assured of it, if I had a wife on whom I had less
dependence?
I have often observed you smile at my remarks on love; but now I
think I can mortify you. I have made a discovery which neither you nor
any other woman, with all the subtlety they attribute to your sex,
would ever have made; the proof of which you will nevertheless
perceive at first sight, and you will allow it to be equal to
demonstration, when I explain to you the principles on which I ground
it. Was I to tell you that my young couple are more fond than ever,
this undoubtedly would not appear wonderful to you. Was I to assure
you on the contrary, that they are perfectly cured; you know the power
of reason and virtue, and therefore you would not look upon that
neither as a vast miracle: but if I tell you, that both these
opposites are true at the same time; that they love each other with
more ardor than ever, and that nothing subsists between them but a
virtuous, attachment; that they are always lovers, and yet never more
than friends: this, I imagine is what you would least expect, what
you will have more difficulty to conceive, and what nevertheless
precisely corresponds with truth.
This is the riddle, which makes those frequent contradictions, which
you must have observed in them, both in their conversation and in
their letters. What you wrote to Eloisa concerning the picture, has
served more than any thing to explain the mystery, and I find that
they are always sincere, even in contradicting themselves continually.
When I say they, I speak particularly of the young man; for as to your
friend, one can only speak of her by conjecture. A veil of wisdom and
honour makes so many folds about her heart, that it is impenetrable to
human eyes, even to her own. The only circumstance which leads me to
imagine that she has still some distrust to overcome is, that she is
continually considering with herself what she should do if she was
perfectly cured; and she examines herself with so much accuracy, that
if she was really cured, she would not do it so well.
As to your friend, who, though virtuously inclined, is less
apprehensive of his present feelings, I find that he still retains all
the affections of his youth; but I perceive them without having any
reason to be offended at them. It is not Eloisa Wolmar he is fond of,
but Eloisa Etange; he does not hate me as the possessor of the object
I love, but as the ravisher of her whom he doated on. His friend’s
wife is not his mistress, the mother of two children is not her who
was formerly his scholar. It is true she is very like that person, and
often puts him in mind of her. He loves her in the time past. This is
the true explanation of the riddle. Deprive him of his memory, and you
destroy his love.
This is not an idle subtlety, my pretty cousin, but a solid
observation, which, if extended to other affections, may admit of a
more general application, than one would imagine. I even think that,
it would not be difficult to explain it by your own ideas. The time,
when you parted the two lovers, was when their passion was at the
highest degree of impetuosity. Perhaps, if they had continued much
longer together, they would gradually have grown cool; but their
imagination, being strongly affected, constantly presented each to the
other in the light in which they appeared at the time of their
separation. The young man, not perceiving those alterations which the
progress of time made in his mistress, loved her such as he had seen
her formerly, not such as she was then. [65] To compleat his
happiness, it would not have been enough to have given him possession
of her, unless she could have been given to him at the same age; and
under the same circumstances she was in, when their loves commenced.
The least alteration in these particulars would have lessened so much
of the felicity he proposed to himself; she is grown handsomer, but
she is altered, her improvement, in that sense, turns to her
prejudice; for it is of his former mistress, not of any other, that he
is enamoured.
What deceives him, is, that he confounds the times, and often
reproaches himself on account of a passion which he thinks present,
and which in fact is nothing more than the effect of too tender a
recollection; but I do not know, whether it will not be better to
accomplish his cure, than to undeceive him. Perhaps, in this respect,
we may reap more advantage from his mistake, than from his better
judgment. To discover to him the true state of his affections, would
be to apprize him of the death of the object he loved; this might be
an affliction dangerous to him, inasmuch as a state of melancholy is
always favourable to love.
Freed from the scruples which restrain him, he would probably be more
inclined to indulge recollections which he ought to stifle; he would
converse with less reserve, and the traces of Eloisa are not so
effaced in Mrs. Wolmar, but upon examination he might find them again.
I have thought, that instead of undeceiving him with respect to his
opinion of the progress he has made, and which encourages him to
pursue it to the end, we should rather endeavour to banish the
remembrance of those times which he ought to forget, by skilfully
substituting other ideas in the room of those he is so fond of. You,
who contributed to give them birth, may contribute more than any one
to efface them: but I shall wait till we are all together, that I may
tell you in your ear what you shall do for this purpose; a charge,
which if I am not mistaken, will not be very burthensome to me. In the
mean time, I endeavour to make the objects of his dread familiar to
him, by presenting them to him in such a manner, that he may no longer
think them dangerous. He is impetuous, but tractable and easily
managed. I avail myself of this advantage to give a turn to his
imagination. In the room of his mistress, I compel him always to look
at the wife of his friend, and the mother of my children; I efface one
picture by another, and hide the past with the present. We always ride
a startish horse up to the object which frights him, that he may not
be frightened at it again. We should act in the same manner with
those young people, whose imaginations are on fire even after their
affections are grown cold, and whose fancy presents monsters at a
distance, which disappear as they draw nearer.
I think I am well acquainted with the strength of both, and I do not
expose them to a trial which they cannot support: for wisdom does not
consist in using all kinds of precautions indiscriminately, but in
choosing those which are really useful, and in neglecting such as are
superfluous. The eight days, during which I leave them together, will
perhaps be sufficient for them to discover the true state of their
minds, and to know in what relation they really stand to each other.
The oftener they perceive themselves in private with each other, the
sooner they will find out their mistake, by comparing their present
sensations with those they felt formerly, when they were in the same
situation. Besides, it is of importance that they should use
themselves to endure, without danger, that state of familiarity, in
which they must necessarily live together, if my schemes take place. I
find by Eloisa’s conduct, that you have given her advice, which she
could not refuse taking, without wronging herself. What pleasure I
should take in giving her this proof that I am sensible of her real
worth, if she was a woman with whom a husband might make a merit of
such confidence! But if she gains nothing over her affections, her
virtue will still be the same; it will cost her dearer, and she will
not triumph the less. Whereas if she is still in danger of feeling any
inward uneasiness, it can arise only from some moving conversation,
which she must be too sensible before hand will awaken recollection,
and which she will therefore always avoid. Thus, you see, you must not
in this instance judge of my conduct by common maxims, but from the
motives which actuate me, and from the singular disposition of her
towards whom I shall regulate my behaviour.
Farewell, my dear cousin, till my return. Though I have not entered
into these explanations with Eloisa, I do not desire you to keep them
secret from her. It is a maxim with me, never to make secrets among my
friends; therefore I commit these to your discretion; make that use of
them which your prudence and friendship will direct. I know you will
do nothing, but what is best and most proper.
Letter CXXIV. To Lord B----.
Mr. Wolmar set out yesterday for Etange, and you can scarce conceive
in what a melancholy state his departure has left me. I think the
absence of his wife would not have affected me so much as his. I find
myself under greater restraint, than even when he is present; a
mournful silence takes possession of my heart; its murmurs are stifled
by a secret dread; and, being less tormented with desires than
apprehensions, I experience all the horrors of guilt, without being
exposed to the temptations of it.
Can you imagine, my Lord, where my mind gains confidence, and loses
these unworthy dreads? In the presence of Mrs. Wolmar. As soon as I
approach her, the sight of her pacifies my inquietude; her looks
purify my heart. Such is the ascendency of hers, that it always seems
to inspire others with a sense of her innocence, and to confer that
composure which is the effect of it. Unluckily for me, her system of
life does not allow her to devote the whole day to the society of her
friends; and in those moments which I am obliged to pass out of her
company, I should suffer less, if I was farther distant from her.
What contributes to feed the melancholy which oppresses me, is a
reflection which she made yesterday after her husband’s departure.
Though till that moment she kept up her spirits tolerably, yet for a
long time her eyes followed him with an air of tenderness, which I
then imagined was only occasioned by the departure of that happy
husband; but I found by her conversation, that the emotion was to be
imputed to another cause, which was a secret to me. You see, said she,
in what manner we live together, and you may judge whether he is dear
to me. Do not imagine; however, that the sentiment which attaches me
to him, though as tender and as powerful as that of love, is likewise
susceptible of its weakness. If an interruption of the agreeable habit
of living together is painful to us, we are consoled by the firm hope
of resuming the same habit again. A fate of such permanence admits few
vicissitudes which we have reason to dread; and in an absence of a few
days, the pain of so short an interval does not affect me so strongly,
as the pleasure of seeing an end to it. The affliction, which you read
in my eyes, proceeds from a more weighty cause, and though it is
relative to Mr. Wolmar, it is not occasioned by his departure.
My dear friend, she continued, with an affecting tone, there is no
true happiness on earth. My husband is one of the most worthy and
affectionate of men; the duty which incites us is cemented by mutual
inclination; he has no desires but mine; I have children which give,
and promise pleasure hereafter to their mother; there cannot be a more
affectionate, virtuous, and amiable friend, than her whom my heart
doats on, and with whom I shall pass my days; you yourself contribute
to my felicity, by having so well justified my esteem and affection
for you; a long and expensive law-suit, which is nearly finished, will
soon bring the best of fathers to my arms; every thing prospers with
us; peace and order reign throughout the family; our servants are
zealous and faithful; our neighbours express every kind of attachment
to us; we enjoy the good will of the public. Blest with every thing
which heaven, fortune, and men can bestow, all things conspire to my
happiness. A secret uneasiness, one trouble only, poisons all, and I
am not happy. She uttered these last words with a sigh, which pierced
my soul, and which I had no share in raising. She is not happy, said
I, sighing in my turn, and I am no longer an obstacle to her felicity!
That melancholy thought disordered my ideas in a moment, and disturbed
the repose which I began to taste. Unable to endure the intolerable
state of doubt into which her conversation had thrown me, I importuned
her so eagerly to disclose her whole mind to me, that at length she
deposited the fatal secret with me, and allows me to communicate it to
you. But this is the hour of recreation, Mrs. Wolmar is come out of
the nursery to walk with her children, she has just told me as much. I
attend her, my Lord; I leave you for the present; and I shall resume,
in my next, the subject I am now obliged to quit.
Letter CXXXV. Mrs. Wolmar to her Husband.
I expect you next Tuesday according to your appointment, and you will
find every thing disposed agreeable to your desire. Call on Mrs. Orbe
in your way back; she will tell you what has passed during your
absence; I had rather you should learn it from her than from me.
I thought, Mr. Wolmar, I had deserved your esteem; but your conduct is
not the more prudent, and you sport most cruelly with your wife’s
virtue.
Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.
I must give you an account, my Lord, of a danger we have incurred
within these few days, and from whence we are happily delivered at the
expense of a little terror and fatigue. This relation very well
deserves a letter by itself; when you read it, you will perceive the
motives which engage me to write.
You know that Mrs. Wolmar’s house is not far from the lake, and that
she is fond of the water. It is three days since her husband’s absence
has left us without employment; and the pleasantness of the evening
made us form a scheme for one of these parties the next day. Soon as
the sun was up, we went to the river’s side; we took a boat with nets
for fishing, three rowers, and a servant, and we embarked with some
provisions for dinner. I took a fowling-piece to knock down some
besolets, [66] but was ashamed to kill birds out of wantonness, and
only for the pleasure of doing mischief. I amused myself therefore in
observing the siflets, the crenets, [67] and I fired but once at a
grebe, at a great distance, which I missed.
We passed an hour or two in fishing within 500 paces of the shore. We
had good success, but Eloisa had them all thrown into the water again,
except a trout which had received a blow from the oar. The animals,
said she, are in pain; let us deliver them; let us enjoy the pleasure
they will feel on escaping from danger. This operation, however, was
performed slowly, and against the grain, not without some
representations against it; and I found that our gentry would have had
a much better relish for the fish they had catched, than for the moral
which saved their lives.
We then launched farther into the lake; soon after, with all the
vivacity of a young man, which it is time for me to check, undertaking
to manage the master oar, I rowed the boat into the middle of the
lake, so that we were soon above a league from shore. Then I explained
to Eloisa every part of that superb horizon which environed us. I
shewed her at a distance the mouth of the Rhone, whose impetuous
current stops on a sudden within a quarter of a league, as if it was
afraid to sully the chrystal azure of the lake with its muddy waters.
I made her observe the redans of the mountains, whose correspondent
angles, running parallel, formed a bed in the space between, fit to
receive the river which occupied it. As we got farther from shore, I
had great pleasure in making her take notice of the rich and
delightful banks of the _Pays de Vaud_, where the vast number of
towns, the prodigious throng of people, with the beautiful and verdant
hills all around, formed a most ravishing landscape: where every spot
of ground, being cultivated and equally fertile, supplies the
husbandman, the shepherd, and the vinedresser with the certain fruits
of their labours, which are not devoured by the greedy publican.
Afterwards I pointed out _Chablais_, a country not less favoured by
nature, and which nevertheless affords nothing but a spectacle of
wretchedness; I made her perceive the manifest distinction between the
different effects of the two governments, with respect to the riches,
number and happiness, of the inhabitants. It is thus, said I, that the
earth expands her fruitful bosom, and lavishes treasures among those
happy people who cultivate it for themselves. She seems to smile and
be enlivened, at the sweet aspect of liberty; she loves to nourish
mankind. On the contrary, the mournful ruins, the heath and brambles
which cover a half desert country, proclaim from afar that it is under
the dominion of an absent proprietor, and that it yields with
reluctance a scanty produce to slaves who reap no advantage from it.
While we were agreeably amusing ourselves with viewing the
neighbouring coasts, a gale arising, which drove us aslant towards the
opposite shore, began to blow very high, and when we thought to tack
about, the resistance was so strong that it was impossible for our
slight boat to overcome it. The waves soon began to grow dreadful; we
endeavoured to make for the coast of Savoy, and tried to land at the
village of Meillerie which was over against us, and the only place
almost where the shore affords a convenient landing. But the wind,
changing and blowing stronger, rendered all the endeavours of the
watermen ineffectual, and discovered to us a range of steep rocks
somewhat lower, where there was no shelter.
We all tugged at our oars, and at that instant I had the mortification
to perceive Eloisa grow sick, and see her weak and fainting at the
bottom of the boat. Happily she had been used to the water, and her
sickness did not last long. In the mean time, our efforts increased
with our danger; the heat of the sun, the fatigue, and profuse
sweating, took away our breaths, and made us excessively faint. Then
summoning all her courage, Eloisa revived our spirits by her
compassionate kindness; she wiped the sweat from off each of our
faces; and mixing some wine and water, for fear of intoxication, she
presented it alternately to those who were most exhausted. No, your
lovely friend never appeared with such lustre as at that moment, when
the heat and the agitation of her spirits gave an additional glow to
her complexion; and what greatly improved her charms, was that you
might plainly perceive, by the tenderness of her behaviour, that her
solicitude proceeded less from apprehensions for herself than
compassion for us. At one time, two planks having started by a shock
which dipt us all, she concluded that the boat was split, and in the
exclamation of that affectionate mother, I heard these words
distinctly: O my children, must I never see you more! As for my self,
whose imagination always exceeds the danger, though I knew the utmost
of our perilous condition, yet I expected every minute to see the boat
swallowed up, that delicate beauty struggling in the midst of the
waves, and the roses upon her cheeks chilled by the cold hand of
death.
At length, by dint of labour, we reached Meillerie; and after having
struggled above an hour within ten paces of the shore, we at last
compassed our landing. When we had landed, all our fatigues were
forgotten. Eloisa took upon herself to recompense the trouble which
every one had taken; and as in the height of danger her concern was
for us, she seemed now on shore to imagine that we had saved nobody
but her.
We dined with that appetite, which is the gift of hard labour. The
trout was served up: Eloisa, who was extremely fond of it, eat but
little; and I perceived, that to make the watermen amends for the
regret which the late sacrifice cost them, she did not chuse that I
should eat much myself. My Lord, you have observed a thousand times
that her amiable disposition is to be seen in trifles as well as in
matters of consequence.
After dinner, the water being still rough, and the boat wanting to be
refitted, I proposed taking a walk. Eloisa objected to the wind and
sun, and took notice of my being fatigued. I had my views, and I
obviated all her objections. I have been accustomed, said I, to
violent exercise from my infancy: far from hurting my health, they
strengthen my constitution; and my late voyage has still made me more
robust. As to the sun and wind, you have your straw hat, and we will
get under the wind and in the woods; we need only climb among the
rocks, and you who are not fond of a flat, will willingly bear the
fatigue. She consented, and we set out while our people were at
dinner.
You know, that when I was banished from Valais, I came, about ten
years ago, to Meillerie, to wait for leave to return. It was there I
passed those melancholy but pleasing days, solely intent upon her; and
it was from thence I wrote her that letter, with which she was so
strongly affected. I always wished to re-visit that lovely retreat,
which served me as an asylum in the midst of ice, and where my heart
loved to converse, in idea, with the object of all others most dear to
its affections. An opportunity of visiting this beloved spot in a more
agreeable season, and in company with her whose image formerly dwelt
there with me, was the secret motive of my walk. I took a pleasure in
pointing out to her those old memorials of such a constant and
unfortunate passion.
We got thither after an hour’s walk through cool and winding paths,
which ascending insensibly, between the trees and the rocks, were no
otherwise inconvenient than by being tedious. As we drew near, and I
recollected former tokens, I found myself a little disordered; but I
overcame it, I concealed my uneasiness, and we reached the place. This
solitary spot formed a wild and desert nook, but full of those sorts
of beauties, which are only agreeable to susceptible minds, and appear
horrible to others. A torrent, occasioned by the melting of the snow,
rolled in a muddy stream within twenty paces of us, and carried dirt,
sand, and stones along with it, not without considerable noise. Behind
us, a chain of inaccessible rocks divided the place where we stood
from that part of the Alps which they call the Ice-houses, because
from the beginning of the world, they have been covered with vast
mountains of ice, which are continually increasing. [68] Forests of
gloomy fir-trees afforded us a melancholy shade on the right. On the
left was a large wood of oak beyond which the torrent issued, and
beneath that vast body of water, which the lake forms in the bay of
the Alps, parted us from the rich coast of the _Pays de Vaud_,
crowning the whole landscape with the top of the majestic Jura.
In the midst of these noble and superb objects, the little spot where
we were, displayed all the charms of an agreeable and rural retreat;
small floods of water filtered through the rocks, and flowed along the
verdure in chrystal streams. Some wild fruit trees leaned their heads
over ours; the cool and moist earth was covered with grass and
flowers. Comparing this agreeable retreat with the objects which
surrounded us, one would have thought that this desert spot was
designed as an asylum for two lovers, who alone had escaped the
general wreck of nature.
When we had reached this corner, and I had attentively examined it for
some time, Now, said I to Eloisa, looking at her with eyes swimming in
tears, is your heart perfectly still in this place, and do you feel no
secret emotion at the sight of a spot which is full of you?
Immediately, without waiting for her answer, I led her towards the
rock, and shewed her where her cypher was engraved in a thousand
places, with several verses in Petrarch and Tasso relative to the
state I was in when I engraved them. On seeing them again at such a
distance of time, I found how powerfully the review of these objects
renewed my former violent sensations. I addressed her with some degree
of impetuosity: O Eloisa, the everlasting delight of my soul! This is
the spot, where the most constant lover in the world formerly sighed
for thee. This is the retreat, where thy beloved image made all the
scene of his felicity, and prepared him for that happiness which you
yourself afterwards dispensed. No fruit or shade were then to be found
here: these compartments were not then furnished with verdure or
flowers; the course of these streams did not then make these
separations, these birds did not chirp then, the voracious sparhawk,
the dismal crow, and the dreadful eagle alone made these caverns echo
with their cries; huge lumps of ice hung from these rocks; festoons of
snow were all the ornaments which bedecked these trees; every thing
here bore marks of the rigour of winter and hoary frost; the ardor of
my affection alone made this place supportable, and I spent whole days
here wrapt in thought of thee. Here is the stone where I used to sit,
to reflect on your happy abode at a distance; on this I penned that
letter which moved your heart; these sharp flints served me as graving
tools to cut out your name; here I crossed that frozen torrent to
regain one of your letters which the wind carried off; there I came to
review and give a thousand kisses to the last you ever wrote to me;
this is the brink where, with a gloomy and greedy eye, I measured the
depth of this abyss: in short, it was here that, before my sad
departure, I came to bewail you as dead, and swore never to survive
you. O thou lovely fair one, too constantly adored, thou for whom
alone I was born! Must I revisit this spot with you by my side, and
must I regret the time I spent here in bewailing your absence?... I was
proceeding further; but Eloisa perceiving me draw near the brink, was
affrighted, and seizing my hand pressed it without speaking, a word,
looked tenderly upon me, and could scarce suppress a rising sigh; soon
after turning from me and taking me by the arm, Let us be gone, my
friend, said she, with a tone of emotion, the air of this place is not
good for me. I went with her sighing, but without making her any
answer; and I quitted that melancholy spot for ever, with as much
regret, as I would have taken leave of Eloisa herself.
We came back gently to the harbour after some few deviations, and
parted. She chose to be alone, and I continued walking without knowing
whither I went. At my return, the boat not being yet ready, nor the
water smooth, we made a melancholy supper, with down-cast eyes; and
pensive looks, eating little and talking still less. After supper, we
sat on the strand, waiting an opportunity to go off. The moon shone on
a sudden, the water became smoother, and Eloisa proposed our
departure. I handed her into the boat, and when I sat down by her, I
never thought of quitting her hand. We kept a profound silence. The
equal and measured sound of the oars threw me into a reverie. The
lively chirping of the snipes, [69] recalling to my mind the pleasures
of a past period, made me dull. By degrees I found the melancholy
which oppressed me increase. A serene sky, the mild reflection of the
moon, the silver froth of the water which sparkled around us, the
concurrence of agreeable sensations; even the presence of the beloved
object herself, could not banish bitter reflections from my mind.
I began with recollecting a walk of the same kind which we took
together, during the rapture of our early loves. All the pleasing
sensations which then affected me, were present to my mind, to torment
me the more; all the adventures of our youth, our studies, our
entertainments, our letters, our assignations, our pleasures,
_E tanta fede, e si dolci memorie,
E si lungo costume!_
This croud of little objects, which recalled the image of my past
happiness, all pressed upon me and rushed into my memory, to increase
my present wretchedness. It is past, said I to myself, those times,
those happy times will be no more; they are gone for ever! Alas! they
will never return; and yet we live, and we are together, and our
hearts are still united! I seemed as if I could have endured her death
or her absence with more patience; and thought that I had suffered
less all the time I was parted from her. When I bewailed her at a
distance, the hope of seeing her again was comfort to my soul; I
flattered myself that the sight of her would banish all my sorrows in
an instant, at least I could conceive it possible to be in a more
cruel situation than my own. But to be by her side; to see her, to
touch her, to talk to her, to love her, to adore her, and, whilst I
almost enjoyed her again, to find her lost to me for ever; this is
what threw me into such fits of fury and rage, as by degrees agitated
me even to despair. My mind soon began to conceive deadly projects,
and in a transport, which I yet tremble to think of, I was violently
tempted to throw her with myself into the waves, and to end my days
and tedious torments in her arms. This horrid temptation grew so
strong at last, that I was obliged suddenly to quit her hand and walk
to the other end of the boat.
There my lively emotions began to take another turn; a more gentle
sensation by degrees stole upon my mind, and tenderness overcame
despair; I began to shed floods of tears, and that condition, compared
to the state I had just been in, was not unattended with pleasure. I
wept heartily for a long time, and found myself easier. When I was
tolerably composed, I returned to Eloisa, and took her by the hand
again. She held her handkerchief in her hand, which I found wet. Ah!
said I to her softly, I find that our hearts have not ceased to
sympathize! True, said she, in a broken accent, but may it be the last
time they ever correspond in this manner! We then began to talk about
indifferent matters, and after an hour’s rowing, we arrived without
any other accident. When we came in, I perceived that her eyes were
red and much swelled; and she must have discovered that mine were not
in a better condition. After the fatigue of this day, she stood in
great need of rest: she withdrew, and I went to bed.
Such, my friend, is the journal of the day, in which, without
exception, I experienced the most lively emotions I ever felt. I hope
they will prove a crisis, which will entirely restore me to myself.
Moreover I must tell you that this adventure has convinced me more
than all the power of argument, of the free-will of man, and the merit
of virtue. How many people yield to weak temptations? As for Eloisa,
my eyes beheld, and my heart felt her emotions: she underwent the most
violent struggle that day that ever human nature sustained;
nevertheless she conquered. O my Lord, when, seduced by your mistress,
you had power at once to triumph over her desires and your own, was
you not more than man? But for your example I had, perhaps, been lost.
The recollection of your virtue, renewed my own a hundred times in
that perilous day.
Letter CXXXV. [70] From Lord B----.
Awake, my friend, and emerge from childhood. Let not your reason
slumber to the end of your life. The hours glide imperceptibly away,
and ’tis now high time for you to grow wise. At thirty years of age
surely a man should begin to reflect. Reflect, therefore, and be a
man, at least once before you die.
Your heart, my dear friend, has long imposed on your understanding.
You strove to philosophize before you were capable of it, mistaking
your feelings for reason, and judging of things by the impressions
they made on you, which has always kept you ignorant of their real
state. A good heart, I will own, is indispensably necessary to the
knowledge of truth: he who feels nothing can learn nothing; he may
float from error to error in a sea of scepticism, but his discoveries
will be vain, and his information fruitless, being ignorant of the
relation of things to man, on which all true science depends. It were
to stop half-way, however, in our pursuits after knowledge, not to
enquire also into the relation of things to each other, in order to be
better able to judge of their connection with ourselves. To know the
nature and operation of our passions is to know little, if we know
not, at the same time, how to judge of and estimate their objects.
This latter knowledge is to be acquired only in the tranquility of
studious retirement. The youth of the philosopher is the time for
experiment, his passions being the instrument of his inquiries; but
after having applied himself long enough to the perception of external
objects, he retires within himself to consider, to compare, to know
them. To this task you ought to apply yourself sooner than any other
person in the world. All the pleasures and pains, of which a
susceptible mind is capable, you have felt; all that a man can see,
you have seen. In the space of twelve years you have exhausted all
those sensations, which might have served you during a long life, and
have acquired even in youth the extensive experience of age. The first
observations you were led to make, were on simple, unpolished
villagers, on persons almost such as they came out of the hand of
nature; just as if they had been presented to you for the ground-work
of your piece, or as proper objects by which to compare every other.
Banished next to the metropolis of one of the most celebrated people
in the universe, you leaped, as one may say, from one extremity to the
other, your genius supplying all the intermediate degrees. Then
visiting the only nation of men, which remains among the various herds
that are scattered over the face of the earth, you had an opportunity
of seeing a well governed society, or at least a society under a good
government; you had there an opportunity of observing how far the
public voice is the foundation of liberty. You have travelled thro’
all climates, and have visited all countries beneath the sun. Add to
this a sight still more worthy admiration, that which you enjoy in the
presence of a sublime and refined soul, triumphant over its passion,
and ruling over itself. The first object of your affections is that
which is now daily before you, your admiration of which is but the
better founded for your having seen and contemplated so many others.
There is now nothing more worth your attention or concern. The only
object of your future contemplation should be yourself, that of your
future enjoyment the fruits of your knowledge. You have lived enough
for this life; think now of living for that which is to come, and
which will last for ever.
Your passions, by which you were so long enslaved, did not deprive you
of your virtue. This is all your boast, and doubtless you have reason
to glory in it; yet be not too proud. Your very fortitude is the
effect of your weakness. Do you know how it came that you grew
enamoured of virtue? It was because virtue always appeared to your
imagination in the amiable form of that lovely woman, by whom she is
so truly represented, and whose image you will always adore. But will
you never love her for her own sake? Will you never, like Eloisa,
court virtue of your own accord? Vain and indolent enthusiast! Will
you content yourself with barely admiring her virtues, without
attempting to imitate them? You speak, in rapture, of the manner in
which she discharges the important duties of wife and mother; but when
will you discharge those of a man and a friend, by her example? Shall
a woman be able to triumph over herself, and a philosopher find it so
difficult to conquer his passions? Will you continue to be always a
mere prater, like the rest of them, and be content to write good
books, instead of doing good actions? [71] Take care, my friend; I
still perceive an air of softness and effeminacy in your writing,
which displeases me, as I think it rather the effect of an
unextinguished passion than peculiar to your character. I hate
imbecility in any one, and cannot bear the thoughts of it in my
friend. There is no such thing as virtue without fortitude, for
pusillanimity is the certain attendant on vice. How dare you rely on
your own strength, who have no courage? Believe me, were Eloisa as
weak as you, the very first opportunity would debase you into an
infamous adulterer. While you remain alone with her, therefore, learn
to know her worth, and blush at your own demerit.
I hope soon to be able to see you at Clarens: you know the motives of
my desiring to see Italy again. Twelve years of mistakes and troubles
have rendered me suspicious of myself; to resist my inclinations,
however, my own abilities might suffice; but to give the preference of
one to the other, to know which I should indulge, requires the
assistance of a friend: nor shall I take less pleasure in being
obliged to him on this occasion, than I have done in obliging him in
others. Between friends, their obligations, as well as their
affections, should be reciprocal. Do not deceive yourself, however;
before I put any confidence in you, I shall enquire whether you are
worthy of it, and if you deserve to return me the services you have
formerly received. Your heart I know, and am satisfied with its
integrity; but this is not all: it is your judgment I shall have
occasion for, to direct me in making a choice which should be governed
entirely by reason, and in which mine may be partial. I am not
apprehensive of danger from those passions, which, making open war
upon us, give us warning to put ourselves upon our defence; and,
whatever be their effect, leave us still conscious of our errors. We
cannot so properly be said to be overcome by these, as to give way to
them. I am more fearful of delusion than constraint, and of being
involuntarily induced to do what my reason condemns. We have no need
of foreign assistance to suppress our inclinations; but the assistance
of a friend may be necessary to point out which it is most prudent to
indulge: in this case it is that the friendship of a wise man may be
useful, by his viewing, in a different light, those objects with which
it is our interest to be intimately acquainted. Examine yourself,
therefore, and tell me whether, vainly repining at your fate, you will
continue for ever useless to yourself and others, or if, resuming the
command over yourself, you will at last become capable of advising and
assisting your friend.
My affairs will not detain me in London more than a fortnight longer,
when I shall set out for our army in Flanders, where I intend to stay
about the same time; so that you must not expect to see me before the
end of next month or the beginning of October. In the mean time, write
no more to me at London, but direct your letters to the army,
agreeable to the inclosed address. When you write, proceed also in
your descriptions; for, notwithstanding the censure I pass on your
letters, they both affect and instruct me; giving me, at the same
time, the most flattering ideas of a life of peace and retirement,
agreeable to my temper and age. In particular, I charge you to ease my
mind of the disquietude you have excited concerning Mrs. Wolmar. If
she be dissatisfied, who on earth can hope for happiness? After the
relation you have given me, I cannot conceive what can be wanting to
compleat her felicity.
Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.
Yes, my Lord, I can with transport assure you, the affair of Meillerie
was the crisis of my folly and misfortunes. My conversation with Mr.
Wolmar, made me perfectly acquainted with the true state of my heart.
That heart, too weak I confess, is nevertheless cured of its passion
as much as it possibly can be; and I prefer my present state of silent
regret to that of being perpetually fearful of falling into guilt.
Since the return of this worthy friend, I no longer hesitate to give
him that title which you have rendered so valuable. It is the least I
can bestow on every one who assists me in returning to the paths of
virtue. My heart is now become as peaceful as the mansion I inhabit. I
begin to be at ease in my residence; to live as if I was at home; and,
if I do not take upon me altogether the tone and authority of master,
I feel yet a greater pleasure in supposing myself a brother of the
family. There is something so delightful in the simplicity and
equality, which reign in this retirement, that I cannot help being
affected with tenderness and respect. Thus I spend my days in
tranquillity, amidst practical philosophy and susceptible virtue. In
company with this happy couple, their situation insensibly affects me,
and raises my heart by degrees into unison with theirs.
What a delightful retreat! What a charming habitation! A continuance
in this place renders it even yet more delightful; and though it
appear not very striking at first sight, it is impossible not to be
pleased with it, when it is once known. The pleasure Mrs. Wolmar takes
in discharging the noblest duties, in making all who approach her
virtuous and happy, communicates itself to all those who are the
objects of her care, to her husband, her children, her guests, her
domestics. No tumultuous scenes of noisy mirth, no loud peals of
laughter, are heard in this peaceful mansion; but, in their stead, you
always meet with contented hearts and chearful countenances. If at any
time you see a tear, it is the tear of susceptibility and joy.
Troubles, cares and sorrow intrude not here, any more than vice and
remorse, of which they are the fruits.
As to Eloisa, it is certain that, excepting the secret cause of
uneasiness, with which I acquainted you in my last, [72] every thing
conspires to make her happy. And yet, with so many reasons to be so, a
thousand other women would think themselves miserable in the same
situation. Her uniform and retired manner of living would be to them
insupportable; they would think the noise of children insufferable;
they would be fatigued to death with the care of their family; they
would not be able to bear the country; the esteem and prudence of a
husband, not over tender, would hardly recompense them for his
indifference and age; his presence, and even his regard for them,
would be burthensome. They would either find means to send him abroad,
that they might live more at their liberty; or would leave him to
himself; despising the peaceful pleasures of their situation, and
seeking more dangerous ones elsewhere, they would never be at ease in
their own house, unless when they came as visitors. It requires a
sound mind to be able to enjoy the pleasures of retirement; the
virtuous only being capable of amusing themselves with their family
concerns, and of voluntarily secluding themselves from the world: if
there be on earth any such thing as happiness, they undoubtedly enjoy
it in such a state. But the means of happiness are nothing to those
who know not how to make use of them; and we never know in what true
happiness consists, till we have acquired a taste for its enjoyment.
If I were desired to speak with precision, as to the reason why the
inhabitants of this place are happy, I should think I could not answer
with greater propriety than to say, it is because _they here know how
to live;_ not in the sense in which these words would be taken in
France, where it would be understood that they had adopted certain
customs and manners in vogue: No; but they have adopted such manners
as are most agreeable to human life, and the purposes for which man
came into the world; to that life you mention, of which you have set
me an example, which extends beyond itself, and is not given up for
lost even in the hour of death.
Eloisa has a father who is anxious for the honour and interests of his
family: she has children for whose subsistence it is necessary to
provide. This ought to be the chief care of man in a state of society;
and was therefore the first in which Eloisa and her husband united.
When they began house-keeping, they examined into the state of their
fortunes; not considering so much whether they were proportioned to
their rank, as to their wants; and seeing they were sufficient for the
provision of an honourable family, they had not so bad an opinion of
their children, as to be fearful, lest the patrimony they had to leave
would not content them. They applied themselves therefore rather to
improve their present, than acquire a larger fortune: they placed
their money rather safely than profitably; and, instead of purchasing
new estates, set about increasing the value of that which they already
had; leaving their own example in this point, as the only treasure by
which they would desire to see the inheritance of their offspring
increased.
It is true, that an estate which is not augmented, is liable to many
accidents by which it will naturally diminish: but if this were a
sufficient motive to begin increasing, when would it cease to be a
pretext for a constant augmentation? Must it be divided among several
children? Be it so; must they be all idle? Will not the industry of
each be a supplement to his share? and ought it not to be considered
in the partition? It is thus that insatiable avarice makes its way
under the mask of prudence, and leads to vice under the cloak of its
own security. It is in vain, says Mr. Wolmar, to attempt to give to
human affairs that stability, which is not in their nature. Prudence
itself requires that we should leave many things to chance; and, if
our lives and fortunes depend so much on accident, what a folly is it
to make ourselves really unhappy, in order to prevent doubtful evils,
or avoid inevitable dangers? The only precaution he took was, to live
one whole year on his principal, in order to have so much before hand
to receive of the interest, so that he had always the yearly product
of his estate at command. He chose rather to diminish his capital than
to be perpetually under the necessity of dunning for his rents; the
consequence of which has been in the end advantageous to him, as it
prevented him from borrowing and other ruinous expedients, to which
many people are obliged to have recourse on every unforeseen accident.
Thus good management supplies the place of parsimony, and he is in
fact a gainer by what he has spent.
The master of this house possesses but a moderate fortune, according
to the estimation of the world; but in reality I hardly know any body
more opulent. There is indeed no such thing as absolute wealth: that
term signifying only the relation between the wants and possessions of
those who are rich. One man is rich, though possessing only an acre of
land; another is a beggar in the midst of heaps of gold. Luxury and
caprice have no bounds, and make more persons poor than real wants.
But the proportion, between their wants and their abilities of
supplying them, is here established on a sure foundation, namely, the
perfect harmony subsisting between the husband and wife: the former
taking upon him the charge of collecting the rents and profits of his
estate, and the latter, that of regulating their expenses; and on this
harmony depends their wealth.
I was at first struck with a peculiarity in the economy of this house,
where there appeared so much ease, freedom and gaiety, in the midst of
order and diligence; the great fault of well regulated houses being
that they always wear an air of gloominess and restraint. The extreme
solicitude also of the heads of the family looks too much like
avarice. Every thing about them seems constrained, and there appears
something servile in their punctuality, which renders it intolerable.
The domestics do their duty indeed, but then they do it with an air of
discontent and mistrust The guests, it is true, are well-received; but
they dare not make use of a freedom cautiously bestowed, and are
always afraid of doing something that will be reckoned a breach of
regularity. Such slavish fathers of families cannot be said to live
for themselves, but for their children; without considering that they
are not only fathers but men, and that they ought to set their
children an example how to live prudent and happy. More judicious
maxims are adopted here. Mr. Wolmar thinks one of the principal duties
of a father of a family is to make his house, in the first place,
agreeable, that his children may delight in their home, and that
seeing their father happy, they may be tempted to tread in his
footsteps. Another of his maxims, and which he often repeats, is that
the gloomy and sordid lives of fathers and mothers are almost always
the first cause of the ill-conduct of children.
As to Eloisa, who never had any other guide, and who needed no better,
than her own heart, she obeys, without scruple, its dictates; being
then certain of doing right. Can a mind so susceptible as hers be
insensible to pleasure? On the contrary she delights in every
amusement, nor refuses to join in any diversion that promises to be
agreeable; but her pleasures are the pleasures of Eloisa. She neglects
neither her own convenience nor the satisfaction of those who are dear
to her. She esteems nothing superfluous that may contribute to the
happiness of a sensible mind; but censures every thing as such that
serves only to make a figure in the eyes of others; so that you will
find in this house all the gratifications which luxury and pleasure
can bestow, without refinement or effeminacy. With respect to
magnificence and pomp, you will see no more of it than she was obliged
to submit to, in order to please her father; her own taste, however,
prevails even here, which consists in giving to every thing less
brilliancy and shew, than grace and elegance. When I talk to her of
the methods which are daily invented at Paris and London, to hang the
coaches easier; she does not disapprove of that; but, when I tell her
of the great expense they are at in the varnishing of them, she can
hardly believe or comprehend me; she asks me, if such fine varnish
makes the coaches more commodious. Indeed she scruples not to say,
that I exaggerate a good deal on the scandalous paintings with which
they now adorn their equipages, instead of the coats of arms formerly
used; as if it were more eligible to be known to the world for a man
of licentious manners, than as a man of family. But she was
particularly shocked when I told her that the ladies had introduced,
and kept up, this custom, and that their chariots were distinguishable
from those of the gentlemen only, by paintings more lascivious and
immodest. I was obliged to recount to her an expression of your noble
friend’s, on this subject, which she could hardly digest. I was with
him one day to look at a vis-a-vis, which happened to be in this
taste. But he no sooner cast his eye on the panels than he turned away
from it, telling the owner that he should offer carriages of that kind
to wanton women of quality; for that no modest man could make use of
them.
As the first step to virtue is to forbear doing ill, so the first step
to happiness is to be free from pain. These two maxims, which, well
understood, would render precepts of morality in a great degree
useless, are favourite ones with Mrs. Wolmar. She is extremely
affected by the misfortunes of others; and it would be as difficult
for her to be happy with wretched objects about her, as it would be
for an innocent man to preserve his virtue and live in the midst of
vice. She has none of that barbarous pity, which is satisfied with
turning away its eye from the miserable objects it might relieve. On
the contrary, she makes it her business to seek out such objects: it
is the existence, and not the presence, of the unhappy which gives her
affliction. It is not sufficient for her to be ignorant that there are
any such; it is necessary to her quiet that she should be assured
there are none miserable; at least within her sphere of charity: for
it would be unreasonable to extend her concern beyond her own
neighbourhood, and to make her happiness depend upon the welfare of
all mankind. She takes care to inform herself of the necessities of
all that live near her, and interests herself in their relief as if
their wants were her own. She knows every one personally, includes
them all, as it were, in her family, and spares no pains to banish,
or alleviate, those misfortunes and afflictions to which human life is
subject.
I am desirous, my Lord, of profiting by your instructions; but you
must forgive me a piece of enthusiasm, of which I am no longer
ashamed, and with which you yourself are affected. There will never be
another Eloisa in the world. Providence takes a particular interest in
every thing that regards her, nor leaves any thing to the consequence
of accident. Heaven seems to have sent her upon earth, to serve at
once as an example of that excellence of which human nature is
capable, and of that happiness it may enjoy in the obscurity of
private life, without having recourse either to those public virtues
which sometimes raise humanity above itself, or to those honours with
which the breath of popular applause rewards them. Her fault, if love
be a fault, has served only to display her fortitude and virtue. Her
relations, her friends, her servants, all happily situated, were
formed to respect her and be respected by her. Her country is the only
one upon earth where she ought to have been born; to be happy herself,
it was necessary for her to live among a happy people. If, to her
misfortune, she had been born among those unhappy wretches, who groan
beneath the load of oppression, and struggle in vain against the iron
hand of cruelty, every complaint of the oppressed had poisoned the
sweets of her life; the common ruin had been hers, and her benevolent
heart had made her feel incessantly those evils she could not have
redressed.
Instead of that, every thing here animates and supports the native
goodness of her disposition. She has no public calamities to afflict
her. She sees not around her the frightful pictures of indigence and
despair. The villagers in easy circumstances, have more need of her
advice than her bounty. [73] But, if there be found among them an
orphan, too young to earn his subsistence; an obscure widow who pines
in secret indigence; a childless father, whose arms, enfeebled by age,
cannot supply him with the means of life; she is not afraid that her
bounty will increase the public charge, by encouraging idleness or
knavery. The happiness she herself feels, multiplies and extends
itself all around her. Every house she enters soon becomes a copy of
her own: nor are convenience and order only copied from her example,
but harmony and goodness become equally the objects of domestic
management. When she goes abroad, she sees none but agreeable objects
about her; and when she returns home she is saluted by others still
more engaging. Her heart is delighted by every prospect that meets her
eyes; and little susceptible as it is of self-love, it is led to love
itself in the effects of its own benevolence. No, my Lord, I repeat it
again; nothing that regards Eloisa can be indifferent to the cause of
virtue. Her charms, her talents, her taste, her errors, her
afflictions, her abode, her friends, her family, her pains, her
pleasures, every thing, in short, that compleats her destiny, compose
a life without example; such as few women would chuse to imitate, and
yet such as all, in spite of themselves, must admire.
What pleases me most, in the solicitude which prevails here regarding
the happiness of others is, that their benevolence is always exerted
with prudence, and is never abused. We do not always succeed in our
benevolent intentions; but, on the contrary, some people imagine they
are doing great services, who are, in reality, doing great injuries;
and, with a view to a little manifest good, are guilty of much
unforeseen evil. Mrs. Wolmar indeed possesses, in an eminent degree, a
qualification very rare, even among women of the best character; I
mean an exquisite discernment in the distribution of her favours, and
that as well in the choice of means to render them really useful, as
of the persons on whom they are bestowed. For her conduct in this
point, she has laid down certain rules to which she invariably
adheres. She knows how to grant, or refuse, every thing that is asked
of her, without betraying the least weakness in her compliance, or
caprice in her denial. Whoever hath committed one infamous or wicked
action, hath nothing to hope for from her but justice, and her pardon,
if he has offended her; but never that favour and protection, which
she can bestow on a worthier object. I heard her once refuse a favour,
which depended on herself only, to a man of this stamp. “I wish you
happy,” said she to him coldly, “but I shall not contribute any thing
to make you so, lest I should put it in your power to injure others.
There are too many honest people in the world, who require relief, for
me to think of assisting you.” It is true this piece of just severity
cost her dear, and it is but seldom she has occasion to exercise it.
Her maxim is, to look upon all those as deserving people, of whose
demerits she is not fully convinced; and there are few persons weak
and wicked enough not to evade the full proofs of their guilt. She has
none of that indolent charity of the wealthy, who give money to the
miserable, to be excused from attending to their distress; and know
how to answer their petitions only by giving alms. Her purse is not
inexhaustible, and since she is become the mother of a family, she
regulates it with more economy. Of all the kinds of relief we may
afford to the unhappy, the giving alms is certainly that which costs
us least trouble; but it is also the most transitory and least
serviceable to the object relieved: Eloisa does not seek to get rid of
such objects, but to be useful to them.
Neither does she grant her recommendation, or exert her good offices,
without first knowing whether the use intended to be made of her
interest be just and reasonable. Her protection is never refused to
any one, who really stands in need of, and deserves to obtain it: but
for those who desire to raise themselves through fickleness or
ambition only, she can very seldom be prevailed upon to give herself
any trouble. The natural business of man is to cultivate the earth,
and subsist on its produce. The peaceful inhabitant of the country
needs only to know in what happiness consists, to be happy. All the
real pleasures of humanity are within his reach; he feels only those
pains which are inseparable from it, those pains which whoever seeks
to remove will only change for others more severe. [74] His situation
is the only necessary, the only useful one in life. He is never
unhappy, but when others tyrannize over him, or seduce him by their
vices. In agriculture and husbandry consists the real prosperity of a
country, the greatness and strength which a people derive from
themselves, that which depends, not on other nations, which is not
obliged to attack others for its own preservation, but is productive
of the surest means of its own defence. In making an estimate of the
strength of a nation, a superficial observer would visit the court,
the prince, his posts, his troops, his magazines and his fortified
towns; but the true politician would take a survey of the country, and
visit the cottages of the husbandmen. The former would only see what
is already executed, but the latter what was capable of being put into
execution.
On this principle they proceed here, and yet more so at Etange: they
contribute as much as possible to make the peasants happy in their
condition, without ever assisting them to change it. The better, as
well as the poorer, sort of people are equally desirous of sending
their children to the cities, the one that they may study and become
gentlemen, the others that they may find employment, and so ease their
parents of the charge of maintaining them. The young people, on their
part, have curiosity, and are generally fond of roving: the girls
aspire to the dress and finery of the citizens; and the boys, most of
them go into foreign service, thinking it better to return with the
haughty and mean air of mercenaries, and a ridiculous contempt of
their former condition, than with that love for their country and
liberty which honourably distinguished their progenitors. It is the
care of this benevolent family to remonstrate against these mistaken
prejudices, to represent to the peasants the danger of their
children’s principles; the ill consequences of sending them from home,
and the continual risks they run of losing their life, fortune and
morals, where a thousand are ruined for one who does well. If after
all they continue obstinate, they are left at their own indiscretion,
to run into vice and misery; and the care, which was thrown away on
them is turned upon those who have listened to reason. This is exerted
in teaching them to honour their native condition, by seeming to
honour it ourselves: we do not converse with peasants, indeed, in the
stile of courts; but we treat them with a grave and distant
familiarity, which, without raising any one out of his station,
teaches them to respect ours. There is not one honest labourer in the
village, who does not rise greatly in his own estimation, when an
opportunity offers of our shewing the difference of our behaviour to
him, and to such petty visitants, who come home to make a figure, for
a day or two, and to obscure their relations. Mr. Wolmar and the
Baron, when he is here, seldom fail of being present at the exercises
and reviews of the militia of the village and parts adjacent: their
presence has a great effect on the youth of the country, who are
naturally of a martial and spirited temper, and are extremely
delighted to see themselves honoured with the presence of veteran
officers. They are still prouder of their own merit, when they see
soldiers retired from foreign service less expert than themselves: yet
this they often do; for, do what you will, five pence a day, and the
fear of being caned, will never produce that emulation which may be
excited in a free man under arms, by the presence of his relations,
his neighbours, his friends, his mistress, and the honour of his
country.
Mrs. Wolmar’s great maxim is, therefore, never to encourage any one to
change his condition, but to contribute all in her power to make every
one happy in his present station; being particularly solicitous to
present the happiest of all situations, that of a peasant in a free
state, from being despised in favour of other employments.
I remember, I one day made an objection on this subject founded on the
different talents which nature seems to have bestowed on mankind, in
order to fit them for different occupations, without any regard to
their birth. This she obviated, however, by observing that there were
two more material things to be consulted, before talents: these were
virtue and happiness. Man, said she, is too noble a being to be made a
mere tool of for the use of others: he ought not to be employed in
what he is fit for, without consulting how far such employment is fit
for him; for we are not made for our stations, but our stations for
us. In the right distribution of things therefore, we should not adapt
men to circumstances, but circumstances to men; we should not seek
that employment for which a man is best adapted, but that which is
best adapted to make him virtuous and happy. For it can never be right
to destroy one human soul for the temporal advantage of others, nor to
make any man a villain for the use of honest people. Now, out of a
thousand persons, who leave their native villages, there are not ten
of them but what are spoiled by going to town, and become even more
profligate than those who initiate them into vice. Those, who succeed
and make their fortunes, frequently compass it by base and dishonest
means; while the unsuccessful, instead of returning to their former
occupation, rather chuse to turn beggars and thieves. But, supposing
that one out of the thousand resist the contagion of example, and
perseveres in the sentiments of honesty, do you think that upon the
whole, his life is as happy as it might have been in the tranquil
obscurity of his first condition.
It is no easy matter to discover the talents with which nature hath
severally endowed us. On the contrary, it is very difficult to
distinguish those of young persons the best educated and most
attentively observed: how then shall a peasant, meanly bred, presume
to judge of his own? There is nothing so equivocal as the genius
frequently attributed to youth; the spirit of imitation has often a
greater share in it than natural ability, and very often it depends
more on accident than a determined inclination; nor does even
inclination itself always determine the capacity. Real talents, or
true genius, are attended with a certain simplicity of disposition,
which makes it less restless and enterprising, less ready to thrust
itself forward than a superficial and false one; which is nevertheless
generally mistaken for the true, and consists only in a vain desire of
making a figure without talents to support it. One of these geniuses
hears the drum beat, and is immediately in idea a general; another
sees a palace building, and directly commences architect. Thus Gustin,
my gardener, from seeing some of my works, must needs learn to draw. I
sent him to Lausanne to a master, and he imagines himself already a
fine painter. The opportunity, and the desire of preferment, generally
determine mens’ profession. But it is not enough to be sensible of the
bent of our genius, unless we are willing to pursue it. Will a prince
turn coachman, because he is expert at driving a set of horses? Will a
duke turn cook, because he is ingenious at inventing ragouts? Our
talents all tend to preferment; no one pretends to those which would
fit him for an inferior station: do you think this is agreeable to the
order of nature? Suppose every one sensible of his own talents, and as
willing to employ them, how is it possible? How could they surmount so
many obstacles? How could they overcome so many unworthy competitors?
He, who finds in himself the want of abilities, would call in subtilty
and intrigue to his aid; and thereby frequently becomes an overmatch
for others of greater capacity and sincerity. Have you not told me
yourself a hundred times, that the many establishments in favour of
the arts have only been of prejudice to them? In multiplying
indiscreetly the number of professors and academicians, true merit is
lost in the crowd; and the honours, due to the most ingenious, are
always bestowed on the most intriguing. Did there exist, indeed, a
society, wherein the rank and employment of its respective members
were exactly calculated to their talents and personal merit, every one
might there aspire to the place he should be most fit for; but it is
necessary to conduct ourselves by other rules, and give up that of
abilities, in societies where the vilest of all talents is the only
one that leads to fortune.
I will add further, continued she, that I cannot be persuaded of the
utility of having so many different talents displayed. It seems
necessary, the number of persons so qualified should be exactly
proportioned to the wants of society; now if those only were appointed
to cultivate the earth, who should have eminent talents for
agriculture; or if all those were taken from that employment, who
might be found more proper for some other, there would not remain a
sufficient number of labourers to furnish the common necessaries of
life. I am apt to think, therefore, that great talents in men are like
great virtues in drugs, which nature has provided to cure our
maladies, though its intention certainly was that we should never
stand in need of them. In the vegetable creation there are plants
which are poisonous: in the brutal animals that would tear us to
pieces; and among mankind there are those who possess talents no less
destructive to their species. Besides, if every thing were to be put
to that use for which its qualities seem best adapted, it might be
productive of more harm than good in the world. There are thousands
of simple honest people, who have no occasion for a diversity of great
talents; supporting themselves better by their simplicity, than others
with all their ingenuity. But, in proportion as their morals are
corrupted, their talents are displayed, as if to serve as a supplement
to the virtues they have lost, and to oblige the vicious to be useful,
in spite of themselves.
Another subject, on which we differed, was the relieving of beggars.
As we live near a public road, great numbers are constantly passing
by; and it is the custom of the house to give to every one that asks.
I represented to her, that this practice was not only throwing that
money away, which might be charitably bestowed on persons in real
want; but that it tended to multiply beggars and vagabonds, who take
pleasure in that idle life, and, by rendering themselves a burthen to
society, deprive it of their labour.
I see very well, says she, you have imbibed prejudices, by living in
great cities, and some of those maxims by which your complaisant
reasoners love to flatter the hard-heartedness of the wealthy: you
make use of their very expressions. Do you think to degrade a poor
wretch below a human being, by giving him the contemptuous name of
beggar? Compassionate as you really are, how could you prevail on
yourself to make use of it? Repeat it no more, my friend, it does not
come well from your lips: believe me, it is more dishonourable for the
cruel man by whom it is used, than for the unhappy wretch who bears
it. I will not pretend to decide whether those, who thus inveigh
against the giving alms, are right or wrong; but this I know, that Mr.
Wolmar, whose good sense is not inferior to that of your philosophers,
and who has frequently told me of the arguments they use to suppress
their natural compassion and sensibility, has always appeared to
despise them, and has never disapproved of my conduct. His own
argument is simple. We permit, says he, and even support at a great
expense, a multitude of useless professions; many of which serve only
to spoil and corrupt our manners. Now, to look upon the profession of
a beggar as a trade, so far are we from having any reason to fear the
like corruption of manners from the exercise of it, that, on the
contrary, it serves to excite in us those sentiments of humanity,
which ought to unite all mankind. Again, if we look upon begging as a
talent, why should I not reward the eloquence of a beggar, who has art
enough to excite my compassion, and induce me to relieve him, as well
as I do a comedian, who on the stage makes me shed a few fruitless
tears? If the one makes me admire the good actions of others, the
other induces me to do a good action myself: all, that we feel at the
representation of a tragedy, goes off as soon as we come out of the
playhouse; but the remembrance of the unhappy object we have relieved
gives continual pleasure. A great number of beggars may be burthensome
to a state: but of how many professions, which are tolerated and
encouraged, may we not say the same? It belongs to the legislature and
administration to take care there should be no beggars; but, in order
to make them lay down their trade, [75] is it necessary to make all
other ranks of people inhuman and unnatural? For my part, continued
Eloisa, without knowing what the poor may be to the state, I know they
are all my brethren, and that I cannot, without thinking myself
inexcusable, refuse them the small relief they ask of me. The greater
part of them, I own, are vagabonds; but I know too much of life, to be
ignorant how many misfortunes may reduce an honest man to such a
situation; and how can I be sure, that an unhappy stranger, who comes,
in the name of God, to implore my assistance, and to beg a poor morsel
of bread, is not such an honest man, ready to perish for want, and
whom my refusal may drive to despair? The alms I distribute at the
door are of no great value. A half-penny and a piece of bread are
refused to nobody; and twice the proportion is always given to such as
are maimed or otherwise evidently incapable of labour. Should they
meet with the same relief at every house, which can afford it, it
would be sufficient to support them on their journey; and that is all
a needy traveller has a right to expect. But, supposing this was not
enough to yield them any real help, it is at least a proof that we
take some part in their distress; a sort of salutation that softens
the rigour of refusing them more. A half-penny and a morsel of bread
cost little more, and are a more civil answer, than a mere _God help
you_; which is too often the only thing bestowed, as if the gifts of
providence were not placed in the hands of men, or that heaven had any
other store on earth than what is laid up in the coffers of the rich.
In short, whatever we ought to think of such unfortunate wretches, and
though nothing should in justice be given to common beggars, we ought
at least, out of respect to ourselves, to take some notice of
suffering humanity, and not harden our hearts at the sight of the
miserable.
This is my behaviour to those, who, without any other subterfuge or
pretext, come openly a begging. With respect to such as pretend to be
workmen, and complain for want of employment, we have here tools of
almost every kind for them, and we set them to work. By this means we
assist them and put their industry to the proof; a circumstance which
is now so well known that the lazy cheat never comes again to the
gate.
It is thus, my Lord, this angelic creature always deduces something
from her own virtues, to combat those vain subtilties, by which people
of cruel dispositions palliate their vices. The solicitude and pains
she takes to relieve the poor, are also ranked among her amusements,
and take up great part of the time she can spare from her most
important duties. After having performed her duty to others, she then
thinks of herself; and the means she takes to render life agreeable
may be reckoned among her virtues: so commendable are her constant
motives of action, that moderation and good sense are always mixed
with her pleasures! She is ambitious to please her husband, who
always delights in seeing her chearful and gay: she is desirous of
instilling into her children a taste for innocent pleasures, wherein
moderation order and simplicity prevail, and secure the heart from the
violence of impetuous passions. She amuses herself, therefore, to
divert them, as the dove softens the grain to nourish the young ones.
Eloisa’s mind and body are equally sensible. The same delicacy
prevails as well in her senses as her sentiments. She was formed to
know and taste every pleasure. Virtue having been long esteemed by her
as the most refined of all delights, in the peaceful enjoyment of that
supreme pleasure, she debars herself of none that are consistent with
it; but then her method of enjoyment resembles the austerity of self-
denial: not indeed of that afflicting and painful self-denial, which
is hurtful to nature, and which its author rejects as ridiculous
homage; but of that slight and moderate restraint, by which the empire
of reason is preserved; and which serves as a whet to pleasure by
preventing disgust. She will have it, that every thing which pleases
the sense, and is not necessary to life, changes its nature, whenever
it becomes habitual; that it ceases to be pleasant in becoming
needful; that we thus by habit lay ourselves at once under a needless
restraint and deprive ourselves of a real pleasure; and that the art
of satisfying our desires lies not in indulging, but in suppressing,
them. The method she takes to enhance the pleasures of the least
amusement, is to deny herself the use of it twenty times for once that
she enjoys it. Thus her mind preserves its first vigour; her taste is
not spoiled by use; she has no need to excite it by excess; and I have
often seen her take exquisite delight in a childish diversion, which
would have been insipid to any other person on earth.
A still nobler object, which she proposes to herself from the exercise
of this virtue, is that of remaining always mistress of herself, and
thereby to accustom her passions to obedience, and to subject her
inclinations to rule. This is a new way to be happy; for it is certain
that we enjoy nothing with so little inquietude, as what we can part
from without pain; and if the philosopher be happy, it is because he
is the man from whom fortune can take the least.