Part 57

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.