THE PRINCESS AND PEKUAH VISIT THE ASTRONOMER.
THE Princess and Pekuah, having talked in private of Imlac’s astronomer,
thought his character at once so amiable and so strange that they could
not be satisfied without a nearer knowledge, and Imlac was requested to
find the means of bringing them together.
This was somewhat difficult. The philosopher had never received any
visits from women, though he lived in a city that had in it many
Europeans, who followed the manners of their own countries, and many from
other parts of the world, that lived there with European liberty. The
ladies would not be refused, and several schemes were proposed for the
accomplishment of their design. It was proposed to introduce them as
strangers in distress, to whom the sage was always accessible; but after
some deliberation it appeared that by this artifice no acquaintance could
be formed, for their conversation would be short, and they could not
decently importune him often. “This,” said Rasselas, “is true; but I
have yet a stronger objection against the misrepresentation of your
state. I have always considered it as treason against the great republic
of human nature to make any man’s virtues the means of deceiving him,
whether on great or little occasions. All imposture weakens confidence
and chills benevolence. When the sage finds that you are not what you
seemed, he will feel the resentment natural to a man who, conscious of
great abilities, discovers that he has been tricked by understandings
meaner than his own, and perhaps the distrust which he can never
afterwards wholly lay aside may stop the voice of counsel and close the
hand of charity; and where will you find the power of restoring his
benefactions to mankind, or his peace to himself?”
To this no reply was attempted, and Imlac began to hope that their
curiosity would subside; but next day Pekuah told him she had now found
an honest pretence for a visit to the astronomer, for she would solicit
permission to continue under him the studies in which she had been
initiated by the Arab, and the Princess might go with her, either as a
fellow-student, or because a woman could not decently come alone. “I am
afraid,” said Imlac, “that he will soon be weary of your company. Men
advanced far in knowledge do not love to repeat the elements of their
art, and I am not certain that even of the elements, as he will deliver
them, connected with inferences and mingled with reflections, you are a
very capable auditress.” “That,” said Pekuah, “must be my care. I ask
of you only to take me thither. My knowledge is perhaps more than you
imagine it, and by concurring always with his opinions I shall make him
think it greater than it is.”
The astronomer, in pursuance of this resolution, was told that a foreign
lady, travelling in search of knowledge, had heard of his reputation, and
was desirous to become his scholar. The uncommonness of the proposal
raised at once his surprise and curiosity, and when after a short
deliberation he consented to admit her, he could not stay without
impatience till the next day.
The ladies dressed themselves magnificently, and were attended by Imlac
to the astronomer, who was pleased to see himself approached with respect
by persons of so splendid an appearance. In the exchange of the first
civilities he was timorous and bashful; but when the talk became regular,
he recollected his powers, and justified the character which Imlac had
given. Inquiring of Pekuah what could have turned her inclination
towards astronomy, he received from her a history of her adventure at the
Pyramid, and of the time passed in the Arab’s island. She told her tale
with ease and elegance, and her conversation took possession of his
heart. The discourse was then turned to astronomy. Pekuah displayed
what she knew. He looked upon her as a prodigy of genius, and entreated
her not to desist from a study which she had so happily begun.
They came again and again, and were every time more welcome than before.
The sage endeavoured to amuse them, that they might prolong their visits,
for he found his thoughts grow brighter in their company; the clouds of
solitude vanished by degrees as he forced himself to entertain them, and
he grieved when he was left, at their departure, to his old employment of
regulating the seasons.
The Princess and her favourite had now watched his lips for several
months, and could not catch a single word from which they could judge
whether he continued or not in the opinion of his preternatural
commission. They often contrived to bring him to an open declaration;
but he easily eluded all their attacks, and, on which side soever they
pressed him, escaped from them to some other topic.
As their familiarity increased, they invited him often to the house of
Imlac, where they distinguished him by extraordinary respect. He began
gradually to delight in sublunary pleasures. He came early and departed
late; laboured to recommend himself by assiduity and compliance; excited
their curiosity after new arts, that they might still want his
assistance; and when they made any excursion of pleasure or inquiry,
entreated to attend them.
By long experience of his integrity and wisdom, the Prince and his sister
were convinced that he might be trusted without danger; and lest he
should draw any false hopes from the civilities which he received,
discovered to him their condition, with the motives of their journey, and
required his opinion on the choice of life.
“Of the various conditions which the world spreads before you which you
shall prefer,” said the sage, “I am not able to instruct you. I can only
tell that I have chosen wrong. I have passed my time in study without
experience—in the attainment of sciences which can for the most part be
but remotely useful to mankind. I have purchased knowledge at the
expense of all the common comforts of life; I have missed the endearing
elegance of female friendship, and the happy commerce of domestic
tenderness. If I have obtained any prerogatives above other students,
they have been accompanied with fear, disquiet, and scrupulosity; but
even of these prerogatives, whatever they were, I have, since my thoughts
have been diversified by more intercourse with the world, begun to
question the reality. When I have been for a few days lost in pleasing
dissipation, I am always tempted to think that my inquiries have ended in
error, and that I have suffered much, and suffered it in vain.”
Imlac was delighted to find that the sage’s understanding was breaking
through its mists, and resolved to detain him from the planets till he
should forget his task of ruling them, and reason should recover its
original influence.
From this time the astronomer was received into familiar friendship, and
partook of all their projects and pleasures; his respect kept him
attentive, and the activity of Rasselas did not leave much time
unengaged. Something was always to be done; the day was spent in making
observations, which furnished talk for the evening, and the evening was
closed with a scheme for the morrow.
The sage confessed to Imlac that since he had mingled in the gay tumults
of life, and divided his hours by a succession of amusements, he found
the conviction of his authority over the skies fade gradually from his
mind, and began to trust less to an opinion which he never could prove to
others, and which he now found subject to variation, from causes in which
reason had no part. “If I am accidentally left alone for a few hours,”
said he, “my inveterate persuasion rushes upon my soul, and my thoughts
are chained down by some irresistible violence; but they are soon
disentangled by the Prince’s conversation, and instantaneously released
at the entrance of Pekuah. I am like a man habitually afraid of
spectres, who is set at ease by a lamp, and wonders at the dread which
harassed him in the dark; yet, if his lamp be extinguished, feels again
the terrors which he knows that when it is light he shall feel no more.
But I am sometimes afraid, lest I indulge my quiet by criminal
negligence, and voluntarily forget the great charge with which I am
entrusted. If I favour myself in a known error, or am determined by my
own ease in a doubtful question of this importance, how dreadful is my
crime!”
“No disease of the imagination,” answered Imlac, “is so difficult of cure
as that which is complicated with the dread of guilt; fancy and
conscience then act interchangeably upon us, and so often shift their
places, that the illusions of one are not distinguished from the dictates
of the other. If fancy presents images not moral or religious, the mind
drives them away when they give it pain; but when melancholy notions take
the form of duty, they lay hold on the faculties without opposition,
because we are afraid to exclude or banish them. For this reason the
superstitious are often melancholy, and the melancholy almost always
superstitious.
“But do not let the suggestions of timidity overpower your better reason;
the danger of neglect can be but as the probability of the obligation,
which, when you consider it with freedom, you find very little, and that
little growing every day less. Open your heart to the influence of the
light, which from time to time breaks in upon you; when scruples
importune you, which you in your lucid moments know to be vain, do not
stand to parley, but fly to business or to Pekuah; and keep this thought
always prevalent, that you are only one atom of the mass of humanity, and
have neither such virtue nor vice as that you should be singled out for
supernatural favours or afflictions.”