Part 72

Thus every thing goes to ruin, when manners grow corrupted. Even taste depends on morals, and disappears with them; giving way to affect and pompous pretensions, that have no other foundation than fashion. True wit also lies nearly under the same circumstances. Is it not the modesty of our sex that obliges us to make use of address to resist the arts of men? and, if they are reduced to make use of artifice to excite our attention, have we less occasion for ingenuity to seem not to understand them? is it not the men who set our tongues and wits at liberty? who make us so keen at repartee, and oblige us to turn their persons and pretensions into ridicule? you may say what you will, but I maintain it that a certain coquettish air and malicious raillery, confounds a gallant much more than silence or contempt. What pleasure have I not taken in seeing a discontented Celadon, blush, stammer and lose himself at every word; while the shafts of ridicule, less flaming but more pointed than those of love, flew about him like hail; in seeing him shot thorough and thorough with icicles, whose coldness added to the smart of the wounds! even you yourself, who never loved to give pain, do you believe your mild and ingenuous behaviour, your timid, gentle looks conceal less roguery and art than my hoydening? Upon my word, my dear, I much doubt, with all your hypocritical airs, if an account were taken of all the lovers you and I have made fools of, whether yours would not be the longer list. I cannot help laughing every time I think of that poor Constans, who came to me in such a passion to reproach you with having too great a regard for him. She is so obliging to me, says he, that I know not what to complain of, and declines my pretensions with so much good sense, that I am ashamed of finding myself so unable to reply to her arguments; in short she is so much my friend, that I find myself incapable of supporting the character of her lover.

But to return to my subject. I believe there is no place in the world where married people agree better, and are better managers, than in this city: here a domestic life is peaceful and agreeable; the husbands are in general obliging, and the wives almost Eloisas. Here your system really exists. The two sexes employ and amuse themselves so differently that they are never tired with each others customs and company, but meet again with redoubled pleasure. This heightens the enjoyment of the wise; abstinence from what we delight in, is a tenet of your philosophy; it is indeed the epicurism of reason.

But, unhappily, this ancient modesty begins a little to decline. The sexes begin to associate more frequently, they approach in person and their hearts recede. It is here as with us, every thing is a mixture of good and bad, but in different proportions. The virtues of the natives of this country are of its own production; their vices are exotic. They are great travellers, and easily adopt the customs and manners of other nations; they speak other languages with facility, and learn without difficulty their proper accent, nevertheless they have a disagreeable drawling tone in the pronunciation of their own; particularly among the women, who travel but little. More humbled by their insignificance, than proud of their liberty, they seem among foreigners to be ashamed of their country, and are therefore in a hurry, as one may say, to naturalise themselves in that where they happen to reside; and perhaps the character they have of being avaricious and selfish, contributes not a little to this false shame. It would be better, without doubt, to wipe off the stain by a disinterested example, than to scandalize their fellow citizens by being ashamed of their country. But they despise the place of their nativity, even while they render it estimable; and are still more in the wrong not to give their city the honour of their own personal merit.

And yet, however avaricious they may be, they are not accused of amassing fortunes by low and servile means: they seldom attach themselves to the great, or dance attendance at courts; personal slavery being as odious to them as that of the community. Pliant and flexible as Alcibiades, they are equally impatient of servitude; and, though they adopt the customs of other nations, they imitate the people without being slaves to the prince. They are chiefly employed in trade, because that is the surest road to wealth, consistent with liberty.

And this great object of their wishes makes them often bury the talents with which they are prodigally endowed by nature. This brings me back to the beginning of my letter. They have ingenuity and courage, are lively and penetrating, nor is there any thing virtuous or great which surpasses their comprehension and abilities. But, more passionately fond of money than of honour, in order to live in abundance they die in obscurity, and the only example they leave to their children, is the love of those treasures which for their sakes they have amassed.

I learn all this from the natives themselves; for they speak of their own characters very impartially.

For my part, I know not what they may be abroad, but at home they are an agreeable people: and I know but one way to quit Geneva without regret. Do you know, cousin, what this is? you may affect as much ignorance and humility as you please; if you should say you have not already guessed, you certainly would tell a fib. The day after tomorrow our jovial company will embark in a pretty little ship, fitted out for the occasion: for we chuse to return by water on account of the pleasantness of the season and that we may be all together. We purpose to pass the first night at Morges, to be the next day at Lausanne, on account of the marriage ceremony, and the day following to be at----you know where. When you see at a distance the flags flying, the torches flaming, and hear the cannon roar; I charge you skid about the house like a mad thing, and call the whole family to arms! to arms! the enemy! the enemy is coming!

P. S. Although the distribution of the apartments incontestably belongs to me as housekeeper, I will give it up to you on this occasion; insisting only that my father be placed in those of Lord B---- on account of his charts and maps; with which I desire it may be compleatly hung from the ceiling to the floor.

Letter CLVI. From Mrs. Wolmar.

How delightful are my sensations in beginning this letter! it is the first time in my life that I ever wrote to you without fear or shame! I am proud of the friendship which now subsists between us, as it is the fruit of an unparallel’d conquest over a fatal passion: a passion which may sometimes be overcome, but is very rarely refined into friendship. To relinquish that which was once dear to us when honour requires it, may be effected by the efforts of ordinary minds; but to have been what we once were to each other, and to become what we now are, this is a triumph indeed. The motive for ceasing to love may possibly be a vicious one; but that which converts the most tender passion into as sincere a friendship cannot be equivocal: it must be virtuous. But should we ever have arrived at this of ourselves? never, never, my good friend; it had been rashness to attempt it. To avoid each other was the first article of our duty, and which nothing should have prevented us from performing. We might without doubt have continued our mutual esteem; but we must have ceased to write, or to converse. All thoughts of each other must have been suppressed, and the greatest regard we could have reciprocally shewn, had been to break off all correspondence.

Instead of that, let us consider our present situation; can there be on earth a more agreeable one, and do we not reap a thousand times a day the reward of our self-denial? to see, to love each other, to be sensible of our bliss, to pass our days together in fraternal intimacy and peaceful innocence; to think of each other without remorse, to speak without blushing; to do honour to that attachment for which we have been so often reproached; this is the point at which we are at last arrived. O my friend! how far in the career of honour have we already run! let us resolve to persevere, and finish our race as we have begun.

To whom are we indebted for such extraordinary happiness? you cannot be ignorant: you know it well. I have seen your susceptible heart overflow with gratitude at the goodness of the best of men, to whom both you and I have been so greatly obliged: a goodness that does not lay us under fresh obligations, but only renders those more dear which were before sacred. The only way to acknowledge his favours is to merit them; for the only value he sets on them consists in their emolument to us. Let us then reward our benefactor by our virtue; for this is all he requires, and therefore all we owe him. He will be satisfied with us and with himself, in having restored us to our reason.

But permit me to lay before you a picture of your future situation, that you may yourself examine it and see if there be any thing in it to make you apprehensive of danger: Yes, worthy youth, if you respect the cause of virtue, attend with a chaste ear to the counsels of your friend. I tremble to enter upon a subject in which I am sorry to engage; but how shall I be silent without betraying my friend? will it not be too late to warn you of the danger when you are already entangled in the snare? Yes, my friend, I am the only person in the world who is intimate enough with you to present it to your view. Have I not a right to talk to you as a sister, as a mother?

Your career, you tell me, is finished; if so, its end is premature. Though your first passion be extinguished, your sensibility still remains; and your heart is the more to be suspected, as its only cause of restraint no longer exists. A young man, of great ardor and susceptibility resolves to live continent and chaste; he knows, he feels, he has a thousand times said, that fortitude of mind which is productive of every virtue, depends on the purity of sentiment which supports it. As love preserved him from vice in his youth, his good sense must secure him in manhood; however severe may be the duty enjoined him, he knows there is a pleasure arising from it, that will compensate its rigour; and, though it be necessary to enter the conflict when conquest is in view, can he do less now out of piety to God than he did before out of regard to a mistress? such I imagine is your way of reasoning, and such the maxims you adopt for your future conduct: for you have always despised those persons who, content with outward appearances, have one doctrine for theory and another for practice, and who lay upon others a burthen of moral duties which they themselves are unwilling to bear.

But what kind of life has such a prudent, virtuous man made choice of, in order to comply with those rules he has prescribed? less a philosopher than a man of probity and a Christian, he has not surely taken his vanity for a guide: he certainly knows that it is much easier to avoid temptations, than to withstand them; does he therefore avoid all dangerous opportunities? does he shun those objects which are most likely to move his passions? has he that humble diffidence of himself which is the best security to virtue? quite the contrary; he does not hesitate rashly to rush on danger. At thirty years of age, he is going to seclude himself from the world, in company with women of his own age; one of which was once too dear to him for him ever to banish the dangerous idea of their former intimacy from his mind; another of whom has lived with him in great familiarity, and a third is attached to him by all those ties which obligations conferred excite in grateful minds. He is going to expose himself to every thing that can renew those passions which are but imperfectly extinguished; he is going to entangle himself in those snares which he ought, of all others, to avoid. There is not one circumstance attending his situation which ought not to make him distrust his own strength, nor one which will not render him for ever contemptible should he be weak enough to be off his guard for a moment. Where then is that great fortitude of mind, in which he presumes to place such confidence? in what instance has it hitherto appeared that he can be answerable for it, for the future? did he acquire it at Paris, in the house of the colonel’s lady? or was he influenced by it last summer at Meillerie? has it been his security during the winter, against the charms of another object, or this spring against the terrifying apprehensions of a dream? by the slender assistance it once afforded him, is there any reason to suppose it will always bring him off victorious? he may know when his duty requires how to combat the passions of a friend; but will he be as capable of combating his own? Alas! let him learn from the best half of his life to think modestly of the other.

A state of violence and constraint may be supported for a while. Six months, for instance, a year, is nothing; fix any certain time and we may presume to hold out. But when that state is to last as long as we live, where is the fortitude that can support itself under it? who can sustain a constant state of self-denial? O my friend! a life of pleasure is short, but a life of virtue is exceeding long. We must be incessantly on our guard. The instant of enjoyment is soon passed, and never more returns; that of doing evil passes away too; but as constantly returns, and is ever present. Forget ourselves for a moment, and we are undone! is it in such a state of danger and trial, that our days can pass away in happiness and tranquillity, or is it for such as have once escaped the danger to expose themselves again to like hazards? what future occasions may not arise as hazardous as those you have escaped, and what is worse, equally unforeseen? do you think the monuments of danger exist only at Meillerie? they are in every place where we are; we carry them about with us: yes, you know too well that a susceptible mind interests the whole universe in its passion, and that every object here will excite our former ideas and remind us of our former sensations.

I believe, however, I am presumptuous enough to believe, that will never happen to me; and my heart is ready enough to answer for yours. But, though it may be above meanness, is that easy heart of yours above weakness? and am I the only person here it will cost you pains to _respect_? forget not, St. Preux, that all who are dear to me are intitled to be respected as myself; reflect that you are continually to bear the innocent play of an amiable woman; think of the eternal disgrace you will deservedly fall into, if your heart should go astray for a moment, and you should harbour any designs on her you have so much reason to honour.

I would have your duty, your word and your ancient friendship restrain you; the obstacles which virtue throws in your way may serve to discourage idle hopes; and, by the help of your reason, you may suppress your fruitless wishes: but would you thence be freed from the influence of sense and the snares of imagination? obliged to respect us both and to forget our sex, you will be liable to temptation from our servants, and might perhaps think yourself justified by the condescension: but would you be in reality less culpable? or can the difference of rank change the nature of a crime? on the contrary, you would debase yourself the more, as the means you might employ would be more ignoble. But is it possible that you should be guilty of such means! no, perish the base man, who would bargain for an heart, and make love a mercenary passion! such men are the cause of all the crimes which are committed by debauchery: for she who is once bought will be ever after to be sold: and amidst the shame into which she is inevitably plunged, who may most properly be said to be the author of her misery, the brutal wretch who insults her in a brothel, or her seducer who shewed her the way thither, by first paying a price for her favours?

I will add another consideration which, if I am not mistaken, will affect you. You have been witness of the pains I have taken to establish order and decency in my family. Tranquility and modesty, happiness and innocence prevail throughout the whole. Think, my friend, of yourself, of me, of what we were, of what we are, and what we ought to be. Shall I have it one day to say, in regretting my lost labour, it is to you I owe the disorder of my house?

Let us, if it be necessary, go farther, and sacrifice even modesty to a true regard for virtue. Man is not made for a life of celibacy, and it is very difficult in a state so contrary to that of nature, not to fall into some public or private irregularity. For how shall a man be always on his guard against an intestine enemy? Look upon the rash votaries of other countries, who enter into a solemn vow, not to be men. To punish them for their presumption, heaven abandons them to their own weakness: they call themselves saints, for entering into engagements which necessarily make them sinners; their continence is only pretended, and, for affecting to set themselves above the duties of humanity, they debase themselves below it. It is easy to stand upon punctilio, and affect a nice observance of laws which are kept only in appearance; [97] but a truly virtuous man cannot but perceive that his essential duties are sufficient without extending them to works of supererogation.

It is, my dear St. Preux, the true humility of a Christian, always to think his duty too much for his strength; apply this rule, and you will be sensible that a situation which might only alarm another man, ought to make you tremble. The less you are afraid, the more reason you have to fear, and if you are not in some degree deterred by the severity of your duty, you can have little hopes of being able to discharge it.

Such are the perils that threaten you here. I know that you will never deliberately venture to do ill; and the only evils you have cause to apprehend are those which you cannot foresee. I do not however bid you draw your conclusions solely from my reasoning; but recommend it to your mature consideration. If you can answer me in a manner satisfactory to yourself, I shall be satisfied; if you can rely upon yourself, I too shall rely upon you. Tell me that you have overcome all the foibles of humanity, that you are an angel, and I will receive you with open arms.

But is it possible for you, whilst a man, to lead a life of continual self-denial and mortification? to have always the most severe duties to perform! to be constantly on your guard with those whom you so sincerely love! no, no, my amiable friend, happy is he who in this life can make one single sacrifice to virtue. I have one in view, worthy of a man who has struggled and suffered in its cause. If I do not presume too far, the happiness I have ventured to design for you, will repay every obligation of my heart, and be even greater than you would have enjoyed, had providence favoured our first inclinations. As I cannot make you an angel myself, I would unite you to one who would be the guardian of your heart, who will refine it, reanimate it to virtue, and under whose auspices you may securely live with us in this peaceful retreat of angelic innocence. You will not, I conceive, be under much difficulty to guess who it is I mean, as it is an object which has already got footing in the heart which it will one day entirely possess, if my project succeeds.

I foresee all the difficulties attending it, without being discouraged, as the design is virtuous, I know the influence I have over my fair friend, and think I shall not abuse it by exerting my power in your favour. But you are acquainted with her resolutions, and before I attempt to alter them I ought to be well assured of your sentiments, that while I am endeavouring to prevail on her to permit your addresses, I may be able to answer for your love and gratitude: for if the inequality which fortune has made between you deprives you of the privilege of making such a proposal yourself, it is still more improper that this privilege should be granted before we know how you will receive it. I am not unacquainted with your delicacy, and know that if you have any objections to make, they will respect her rather than yourself. But banish your idle scruples. Do you think you can be more tenacious of my friend’s reputation than I am? no, however dear you are to me, you need not be apprehensive lest I should prefer your interest to her honour. But as I value the esteem of people of sense, so I despise the prejudices and inconsiderate censures of the multitude, who are ever led by the false glare of things, and are strangers to real virtue. Were the difference in point of fortune between you a hundred times greater than it is, there is no rank in life to which great talents and good behaviour have not a right to aspire: and what pretensions can a woman have to disdain to make that man her husband, whom she is proud to number among her friends? You know the sentiments of us both in these matters. A false modesty and the fear of censure, lead to more bad actions than good ones; for virtue never blushes at any thing but vice.