Part 53

In the morning I rose early, and with all the eagerness of a child, went to lock myself in the desert island. What agreeable ideas did I hope to carry with me into that solitary place, where the mild aspect of nature alone was sufficient to banish from my remembrance, all that new-coin’d system which had made me so miserable! All the objects around me will be the work of her whom I adored. In every thing about me, I shall behold her image; I shall see nothing which her hand has not touched; I shall kiss the flowers which have been her carpet; I shall inhale, with the morning dew, the air which she has breathed; the taste she has displayed in her amusements, will bring all her charms present to my imagination, and in every thing she will appear the Eloisa of my soul.

As I entered elysium with this temper of mind, I suddenly recollected the last word which Mr. Wolmar said to me yesterday very near the same spot. The recollection of that single word, instantly changed my whole frame of mind. I thought that I beheld the image of virtue, where I expected to find that of pleasure. That image intruded on my imagination with the charms of Mrs. Wolmar, and for the first time since my return, I saw Eloisa in her absence; not such as she appeared to me formerly and as I still love to represent her, but such as she appears to my eyes every day. My Lord, I imagined that I beheld that amiable, that chaste, that virtuous woman, in the midst of the train which surrounded her yesterday. I saw those three lovely children, those honourable and precious pledges of conjugal union and tender friendship, play about her, and give and receive a thousand affecting embraces. At her side I beheld the grave Wolmar, that husband so beloved, so happy, and so worthy of felicity. I imagined that I could perceive his judicious and penetrating eye pierce to the very bottom of my soul, and make me blush again; I fancied that I heard him utter reproaches which I too well deserved, and repeat lectures to which I had attended in vain. Last in her train I saw Fanny Regnard, a lively instance of the triumph of virtue and humanity over the most ardent passion. Ah! what guilty thought could reach so far as her, through such an impervious guard? With what indignation I suppressed the shameful transports of a criminal and scarce extinguished passion, and how I should have despised myself had I contaminated such a ravishing scene of honour and innocence, with a single sigh. I recalled to mind the reflections she made as we were going out, then my imagination attending her into that futurity on which she delights to contemplate, I saw that affectionate mother wipe the sweat from her children’s foreheads, kiss their ruddy cheeks, and devote that heart, which was formed for love, to the most tender sentiments of nature. There was nothing, even to the very name of elysium, but what contributed to rectify my rambling imagination, and to inspire my soul with a calm far preferable to the agitation of the most seductive passions. The word elysium seemed to me an emblem of the purity of her mind who adopted it; and I concluded that she would never have made choice of that name, had she been tormented with a troubled conscience. Peace, said I, reigns in the utmost recesses of her soul, as in this asylum which she has named.

I proposed to myself an agreeable reverie, and my reflections there were more agreeable, even than I expected. I passed two hours in elysium, which were not inferior to any time I ever spent. In observing with what rapidity and delight they passed away, I perceived that there was a kind of felicity in meditating on honest reflections, which the wicked never know, and which consists in being pleased with one’s-self. If we were to reflect on this without prejudice, I don’t know any other pleasure which can equal it. I perceive, at least, that one who loves solitude as I do, ought to be extremely cautious not to do any thing which may make it tormenting. Perhaps these principles may lead us to discover the spring of those false judgments of mankind with regard to vice and virtue; for the enjoyment of virtue is all internal, and is only perceived by him who feels it: but all the advantages of vice strike the imagination of others, and only he who has purchased them, knows what they cost.

_Se a ciascun l’interno affanno Si legesse in fronte scritto Quanti mai, che Invidia fanno Ci farebbero pieta?_ [62]

As it grew late before I perceived it, Mr. Wolmar came to join me, and acquaint me that Eloisa and the tea waited for me. It is you yourselves, said I, making an apology, who pre-vented my coming sooner: I was so delighted with the evening I spent yesterday, that I went thither again to enjoy this morning; luckily there is no mischief done, and as you have waited for me, my morning is not lost. That’s true, said Mr. Wolmar; it would be better to wait till noon, than lose the pleasure of breakfasting together. Strangers are never admitted into my room in the morning, but breakfast in their own. Breakfast is the repast of intimates, servants are excluded, and impertinents never appear at that time; we then declare all we think, we reveal all our secrets, we disguise none of our sentiments; we can then enjoy the delights of intimacy and confidence, without indiscretion. It is the only time almost in which we are allowed to appear what we really are; why can’t it last the day through! Ah, Eloisa! I was ready to say; this is an interesting wish! but I was silent. The first thing I learned to suppress with my love, was flattery. To praise people to their face, is but to tax them with vanity. You know, my Lord, whether Mrs. Wolmar deserves this reproach. No, no; I respect her too much, not to respect her in silence. Is it not a sufficient commendation of her, to listen to her, and observe her conduct?

Letter CXXXI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

It is decreed, my dear friend, that you are on all occasions to be my protectress against myself, and that after having delivered me from the snares which my affections laid for me, you are yet to rescue me from those which reason spreads to entrap me. After so many cruel instances, I have learned to guard against mistakes, as much as against my passions, which are frequently the cause of them. Why had I not the same precaution always! If in time past, I had relied less on the light of my own understanding, I should have had less reason to blush at my sentiments.

Do not be alarmed at this preamble. I should be unworthy your friendship, if I was still under a necessity of consulting you upon dismal subjects. Guilt was always a stranger to my heart, and I dare believe it to be more distant from me now than ever. Therefore, Clara, attend to me patiently, and believe that I shall never need your advice in difficulties which honour alone can resolve.

During these six years which I have lived with Mr. Wolmar in the most perfect union which can subsist between a married couple, you know that he never talked to me either about his family or himself, and that having received him from a father as solicitous for his daughter’s happiness as jealous of the honour of his family, I never expressed any eagerness to know more of his concerns, than he thought proper to communicate. Satisfied with being indebted to him for my honour, my repose, my reason, my children, and all that can render me estimable in my own eyes, besides the life of him who gave me being, I was convinced that the particulars concerning him, to which I was a stranger, would not falsify what I knew of him, and there was no occasion for my knowing more, in order to love, esteem, and honour him as much as possible.

This morning at breakfast he proposed our taking a little walk before the heat came on; then under a pretence of not going through the country in morning dishabille, as he said, he led us into the woods, and exactly into that wood, where all the misfortunes of my life commenced. As I approached that fatal spot, I felt a violent palpitation of heart, and should have refused to have gone in, if shame had not checked me, and if the recollection of a word which dropped the other day in elysium, had not made me dread the interpretations which might have been passed on such a refusal. I do not know whether the philosopher was more composed; but some time after having cast my eyes upon him by chance, I found his countenance pale and altered, and I cannot express to you the uneasiness it gave me.

On entering into the wood I perceived my husband cast a glance towards me and smile. He sat down between us, and after a moment’s pause, taking us both by the hand, my dear children, said he, I begin to perceive that my schemes will not be fruitless, and that we three may be connected by a lasting attachment, capable of promoting our common good, and procuring me some comfort to alleviate the troubles of approaching old age: but I am better acquainted with you two, than you are with me; it is but just to make every thing equal among us, and though I have nothing very interesting to impart, yet as you have no secrets hidden from me, I will have none concealed from you.

He then revealed to us the mystery of his birth, which had hitherto been known to no one but my father. When you are acquainted with it, you will imagine what great temper and moderation a man must be master of, who was able to conceal such a secret from his wife during six years; but it is no pain to him to keep such a secret, and he thinks too slightly of it, to be obliged to exert any vast efforts to conceal it.

I will not detain you, said he, with relating the occurrences of my life. It is of less importance to you to be acquainted with my adventures than with my character. The former are simple in their nature like the latter, and when you know what I am, you will easily imagine what I was capable of doing. My mind is naturally calm, and my affections temperate. I am one of those men, whom people think they reproach when they call them insensible; that is, when they upbraid them with having no passion, which may impel them to swerve from the true direction of human nature. Being but little susceptible of pleasure or grief, I receive but faint impressions from those interesting sentiments of humanity, which make the affections of others our own. If I feel uneasiness when I see the worthy in distress, it is not without reason that my compassion is moved, for when I see the wicked suffer, I have no pity for them. My only active principle is a natural love of order, and the concurrence of the accidents of fortune with the conduct of mankind well combined together, pleases me exactly like beautiful symmetry in a picture, or like a piece well represented on the stage. If I have any ruling passion, it is that of observation: I love to read the hearts of mankind. As my own seldom misleads me, as I make my observations with a disinterested and dispassionate temper, and as I have acquired some sagacity by long experience, I am seldom deceived in my judgments; this advantage therefore is the only recompense which self-love receives from my constant studies: for I am not fond of acting a part, but only of observing others play theirs. Society is agreeable to me for the sake of contemplation, and not as a member of it. If I could alter the nature of my being and become a living eye, I would willingly make the exchange. Therefore my indifference about mankind does not make me independent of them; without being solicitous to be seen, I want to see them, and though they are not dear, they are necessary, to me.

The two first characters in society which I had an opportunity of observing were courtiers and valets; two orders of men who differ more in appearance than fact, but so little worthy of being attended to, and so easily read, that I was tired of them at first sight. By quitting the court, where every thing is presently seen, I secured myself, without knowing it, from the danger which threatened me, and which I should not have escaped. I changed my name, and having a desire to be acquainted with military men, I solicited admission into the service of a foreign prince; it was there that I had the happiness of being useful to your father, who was impelled by despair for having killed his friend, to expose himself rashly and contrary to his duty. The grateful and susceptible heart of a brave officer began then to give me a better opinion of human nature. He attached himself to me with that zealous friendship which it was impossible for me not to return, and from that time we formed connections which have every day grown stronger. I discovered, in this new state of my mind, that interest is not always, as I had supposed, the sole motive which influences human conduct, and that among the crowd of prejudices which are opposite to virtue, there are some likewise which are favourable to her. I found that the general character of mankind was founded on a kind of self-love indifferent in itself, and either good or bad according to the accidents which modify it, and which depend on customs, laws, rank, fortune, and every circumstance relative to human policy. I therefore indulged my inclination, and despising the vain notions of worldly condition, I successively threw myself into all the different situations in life, which might enable me to compare them together, and know one by the other. I perceived, as you have observed in one of your letters, said he to St. Preux, that we see nothing if we rest satisfied with looking on, that we ought to act ourselves in order to judge of men’s actions, and I made myself an actor to qualify myself for a spectator. We can always lower ourselves with ease; and I stooped to a variety of situations, which no man of my station ever condescended to. I even became a peasant, and when Eloisa made me her gardener, she did not find me such a novice in the business, as she might have expected.

Besides gaining a thorough knowledge of mankind, which indolent philosophy only attains in appearance, I found another advantage which I never expected. This was, the opportunity it afforded me of improving, by an active life, that love of order I derived from nature, and of acquiring a new relish for virtue by the pleasure of contributing towards it. This sentiment made me less speculative, attached me somewhat more to myself, and from a natural consequence of this progress, I perceived that I was alone. Solitude, which was always tiresome to me, became hideous, and I could not hope to escape it long. Though I did not grow less dispassionate, I found the want of some connection; the idea of decay, without any one to comfort me, afflicted me by anticipation, and for the first time in my life, I experienced melancholy and uneasiness. I communicated my troubles to the Baron D’Etange. You must not, said he, grow an old bachelor. I myself, after having lived independent as it were in a state of matrimony, find that I have a desire of returning to the duties of a husband and a father, and I am going to repose myself in the midst of my family. It depends on yourself to make my family your own, and to supply the place of the son whom I have lost. I have an only daughter to marry: she is not destitute of merit; she has a sensibility of mind, and the love of her duty makes her love every thing relative to it. She is neither a beauty, nor a prodigy of understanding; but come and see her, and believe me that if she does not affect you, no woman will ever make an impression on you. I came, I saw you, Eloisa, and I found that your father had reported modestly of you. Your transports, the tears of joy you shed when you embraced him, gave me the first, or rather the only emotion I ever experienced in my life. If the impression was slight, it was the only one I felt, and our sensations are strong only in proportion to those which oppose them. Three years absence made no change in my inclinations. I was no stranger to the state of yours in my return, and on this occasion I must make you a return for the confession which has cost you so dear.” Judge, my dear Clara, with what extraordinary surprize, I learnt that all my secrets had been discovered to him before our marriage and that he had wedded me, knowing me to be the property of another.

This conduct, continued Mr. Wolmar, was unpardonable. I offended against delicacy; I sinned against prudence; I exposed your honour and my own; I should have been apprehensive of plunging you and myself into irretrievable calamities; but I loved you, and I loved nothing but you. Every thing else was indifferent to me. How is it possible to restrain a passion, be it ever so weak, when it has no counterpoise. This is the inconvenience of calm and dispassionate tempers. Every thing goes right while their insensibility secures them from temptations; but if one happens to touch them, they are conquered as soon as they are attacked, and reason, which governs while she sways alone, has no power to resist the slightest effort. I was tempted but once, and I gave way to it. If the intoxication of any other passion had rendered me wavering, I should have fallen, every false step I took; none but spirited souls are able to struggle and conquer. All great efforts, all sublime actions are their province; cool reason never achieved any thing illustrious, and we can only triumph over our passions by opposing one against another. When virtue gains the ascendancy, she reigns alone, and keeps all in due poise; this forms the true philosopher, who is as much exposed to the assaults of passion as another, but who alone is capable of subduing them by their own force, as a pilot steers through adverse winds.

You find that I do not attempt to extenuate my fault; had it been one, I should infallibly have committed it; but I knew you, Eloisa, and was guilty of none when I married you. I perceived that all my prospect of happiness depended on you alone, and that if any one was capable of making you happy, it was myself. I knew that peace and innocence were essential to your mind, that the affection with which it was pre- engaged could not afford them, and that nothing could banish love but the horror of guilt. I saw that your soul laboured under an oppression which it could not shake off but by some new struggle, and that to make you sensible how valuable you still were, was the only way to render you truly estimable.

Your heart was formed for love; I therefore slighted the disproportion of age, which excluded me from a right of pretending to the affection, which he who was the object of it could not enjoy, and which it was impossible to obtain for any other. On the contrary, finding my life half spent, and that I had been susceptible but of a single impression, I concluded that it would be lasting, and I pleased myself with the thoughts of preserving it the rest of my days. In all my tedious searches, I found nothing so estimable as yourself, I thought that what you could not effect, no one in the world could accomplish; I ventured to rely on your virtue, and I married you. The secrecy you observed did not surprize me; I knew the reason, and from your prudent conduct, I guessed how long it would last. From a regard to you, I copied your reserve, and I would not deprive you of the honour of one day making me a confession, which, I plainly perceived, was at your tongue’s end every minute. I have not been deceived in any particular; you have fully answered all I expected from you. When I made choice of a wife, I desired to find in her an amiable, discreet and happy companion. The first two requisites have been obtained. I hope, my dear, that we shall not be disappointed of the third.