Part 75

It is in this delicacy, which always survives true love, and not in Mr. Wolmar’s subtle distinctions, that we are to look for the cause of that elevation of soul, that innate fortitude we experience. Such an explication is at least more natural, and does more honour to our hearts, than his, and has a greater tendency to encourage us to virtue, which alone is sufficient to give it the preference. Hence you may be assured, that, so far am I from being in such a whimsical disposition as you imagine, that I am just the reverse. In so much that, if the project of your returning to reside here must be given up, I shall esteem such an event as a great misfortune to you, to me, to my children, and even to my husband; on whose account alone you know I have many reasons for desiring your presence. But to speak only of my own particular inclination: you remember your first arrival. Did I shew less pleasure at seeing you than you felt in seeing me? has it ever appeared to you that your stay at Clarens gave me the least trouble or uneasiness? did you think I betrayed the least pleasure at your departure? must I go farther and speak to you with my usual freedom? I will frankly confess to you then, that the six last months we passed together were the happiest of my life, and that in that short space of time I tasted all the happiness of which my sensibility has furnished me the idea.

Never shall I forget one day, in particular, of the past winter, when, after having been reading the journal of your voyages and that of your friend’s adventures, we supped in the Apollo. It was then that, reflecting on the felicity with which Providence had blessed me in this world, I looked round and saw all my friends about me; my father, my husband, my children, my cousin, Lord B----, and you, without counting Fanny, who did not cast the least blemish on the scene. This little saloon, said I to myself, contains all that is dear to my heart, and perhaps all that is desirable in this world. I am here surrounded by everything that interests me. The whole universe to me is in this little spot. I enjoy at once the regard I have for my friends, that which they have for me, and that which they have for each other: their mutual goodwill either comes from or relates to me: I see nothing but what seems to extend my being, and nothing to divide it. I exist in a manner in all those who are about me: my imagination can extend no farther. I have nothing more to desire: to reflect and to be happy is with me the same thing; I live at once in all that I love, I am replete with happiness and satisfied with life: come death when thou wilt! I no longer dread thy power: the measure of my life is full, and I have nothing new to experience worth enjoyment. The greater pleasure I enjoyed in your company, the more agreeable is it to me to reflect on it, and the more disquietude also hath every thing given me that might disturb it. We will for a moment lay aside that timid morality and pretended devotion, with which you reproach me. You must confess at least that the social pleasures we tasted sprung from that openness of heart, by which every thought, every sentiment, of the one was communicated to the other, and from which every one, conscious of being what he ought, appeared such as he really was. Let us suppose now any secret intrigue, any connection necessary to be concealed, any motive of reserve and secrecy intruding on our harmony; that moment the reciprocal pleasure we felt in seeing each other would vanish. Shyness and restraint would ensue; we should no sooner meet together than we should wish to part; and at length circumspection and decorum would bring on distrust and distaste. It is impossible long to love those of whom we are afraid or suspicious. They soon become troublesome----Eloisa troublesome!----troublesome to her friend! no, no, that cannot be; there can be no evils in nature, but such as it is possible to support.

In thus freely telling you my scruples, I do not pretend, however, to make you change your resolutions; but to induce you to reconsider the motives on which they are founded; lest, in taking a step, all the consequences of which you may not foresee, you might have reason to repent at a time, when you will not dare retract it. As to Mr. Wolmar’s having no fears, it was not his place to fear, but yours. No one is so proper a judge of what is to be feared of you, as yourself. Consider the matter well then; and, if nothing is in reality to be feared, tell me so, and I shall think of it no more: for I know your sincerity, and never can distrust your intentions. Your heart may be capable of an accidental error; but can never be guilty of a premeditated crime, and this it is that makes the distinction between a weak man and a wicked one.

Besides, though my objections had really more weight than I am inclined to think they have, why must things be viewed in their most disadvantageous light. Surely there can be no necessity for such extreme precautionary measures. It cannot be requisite that you should break through all your projects, and fly from us for ever. Though a child in years, you are possessed of all the experience of age. The tranquillity of mind which succeeds the noble passion, is a sensation which increases by fruition. A susceptible heart may dread a state of repose, to which it has been unaccustomed; but a little time is sufficient to reconcile us to our peaceful situation, and in a little time more we give it the preference. For my part, I foresee the hour of your security to be nearer than you yourself imagine. Extremes, you know, never last long; you have loved too much not to become in time indifferent: the cinder which is cast from the furnace can never be lighted again, but before it becomes such the coal must be totally burnt out. Be vigilant but for a few years more, and you will then have nothing to fear, your acceptance of my proposal would at once have removed all danger; but, independent of that view, such an attachment has charms enough to be desired for its own sake; and if your delicacy prevents you from closing with my proposals, I have no need to be informed how much such a restraint must cost you. At the same time, however, I am afraid that the pretences which impose on your reason, are many of them frivolous: I am afraid, that in piquing yourself on the fulfilling of engagements which no longer exist, you only make a false shew of virtue, in a constancy, for which you are by no means to be commended, and which is at present entirely misplaced. I have already told you, that I think the observance of a rash and criminal vow is an additional crime. If yours were not so at first, it is become so now; and that is sufficient to annul it. The promise which no man ought to break, is that of being always a man of virtue and resolute in the discharge of his duty; to change when that is changed, is not levity, but constancy. And at all times as virtue requires you to do, and you will never break your word. But if there be among your scruples any solid objection, we will examine it at leisure. In the mean time, I am not very sorry that you did not embrace my scheme with the same avidity as I formed it; that my blunder, if it be one, may give you less pain. I had meditated this project during the absence of my cousin, with whom, however, I have since had some general conversation on the subject of a second marriage, and find her so averse to it, that, in spite of the regard which I know she has for you, I am afraid I must exert a greater authority than becomes me, to overcome her reluctance; for this is a point in which friendship ought to respect the bent of the inclinations.

I will own nevertheless that I still abide by my design; it would be so agreeable to us all, would so honourably extricate you from your present precarious situation in life; would so unite all our interests, and makes so natural an obligation of that friendship which is so delightful to all, that I cannot think of giving it up entirely. No, my friend, you can never be too nearly allied to me; it is not even enough that you might be my cousin; I could wish you were my brother.

Whatever may be the consequence of these notions, do more justice to my sentiments for you. Make use without reserve of my friendship, my confidence and my esteem. Remember I shall not prescribe any rules to you; nor do I think I have any reason to do it. Deny me not however the privilege of giving you advice, but imagine not I lay you under any commands. If you think you can securely reside at Clarens, come hither; stay here: you cannot give me greater pleasure. But, if you think a few years longer absence necessary to cure the suspicious remains of impetuous youth, write to me often in your absence; come and see us as often as you will, and let us cultivate a correspondence founded on the most cordial intimacy.

What pains will not such consolation alleviate? what absence will not be supportable under the pleasing hope of at last closing our days together! I will do yet more; I am ready to put one of my children under your care; I shall think him safer in your hands than my own; and, when you bring him back, I know not which of you will give me the greater pleasure by your return. On the other hand, if you become entirely reasonable, banish your chimerical notions, and are willing to deserve my cousin, come, pay her your best respects and make her happy. Come then, and surmount every obstacle that opposes your success and make a conquest of her heart: such assistance as my friendship can give shall not on my part be wanting. Come, and make each other happy, and nothing more will be wanting to render me compleatly so. But, whatever resolution you take, after having maturely considered the matter, speak confidently, and affront your friend no more by your groundless suspicions.

Let me not however, in thinking so much of you, forget myself. My turn to be heard must come at last; for you as with your friends in a dispute, as with your adversaries at chess; you defend yourself by attacking them. You excuse your being a philosopher by accusing me of being a devotee. I am then, in your opinion a devotee, or ready to become one: well be it so. Contemptible denominations never change the nature of things. If devotion is commendable, why am I to blame in being devout? But, perhaps that epithet is too low for you. The dignity of the philosopher disdains the worship of the vulgar: it would serve God in a more sublime manner, and raise even to heaven itself its pretensions and its pride. Poor philosophers!----but to return to myself.

I have, from my childhood, respected virtue, and have always cultivated my reason. I endeavoured to regulate my conduct by human understanding and sentiment, and have been ill conducted. Before you deprive me of the guide I have chosen, give me another on which I may depend. I thought myself as wise as other people, and yet a thousand others have lived more prudently than I; they must therefore have had resources which I had not. Why is it that I; knowing myself well born, have had reason to conceal my life and conversation from the world? why did I hate the sin which I committed even in spite of myself? I thought I knew my own strength, I relied on it, and was deceived. All the resistance which was in my own power, I think, I made; and yet I fell----how must those have done who have escaped? they must have had a better support.

From their example I was induced to seek the same support, and have found in it a peculiar advantage which I did not expect. During the reign of the passions, they themselves contribute to the continuance of the anxieties they at first occasion; they retain hope always by the tide of desire, and hence we are enabled to support the absence of felicity: If our expectations are disappointed, hope supplies its place; and the agreeable delusion lasts as long as the passion which gave it birth. Thus, in a situation of this kind, passion supports itself, and the very solicitude it causes is a chimerical pleasure which is substituted for real enjoyment. Nay more: those who have no desires must be very unhappy; they are deprived, if I may be allowed the expression, of all they possess. We enjoy less that which we obtain than that which we hope for, and are seldom happy but in expectation. In fact, man, made to desire every thing and obtain little, of boundless avarice yet narrow capacity, has received of heaven a consolatory aid, which brings to him in idea every thing he desires, displays it to his imagination, represents it to his view, and in one sense makes it his own; but to render such imaginary property still more flattering and agreeable, it is even modified to his passion. But this shadow vanishes the moment the real object appears; the imagination can no longer magnify that which we actually possess, the charms of illusion cease, where those of enjoyment begin. The world of fancy, therefore, the land of chimeras, is the only world worthy to be inhabited; and such is the inanity of human enjoyments that, except that Being which is self existent; there is nothing delightful but that which has no existence at all.

If this effect does not always follow in the particular objects of our passions, it is infallible in the common sentiment which includes the whole. To live without pain is incompatible with our state of mortality: it would be in fact to die. He who has every thing in his power, if a creature, must be miserable, as he would be deprived of the pleasure of desiring; than which every other want would be more supportable. [103]

This is indeed what I have in part experienced since my marriage and your return. Every thing around me gives me cause of content, and yet I am not contented. A secret languor steals into the bottom of my heart; I find it puffed up and void, as you formerly said was the case with yours; all my attachments are not sufficient to fill it. This disquietude I confess is strange: but it is nevertheless true. O my friend! I am indeed too happy: my happiness is a burthen to me. Can you think of a remedy for this disgust? for my part, I must own that a sentiment so unreasonable and so involuntary, has in a great measure diminished the value of life, and I cannot imagine what blessings it can bestow which I want, or with which I should be satisfied. Can any woman be more susceptible than I am? can she love her father, her husband, her children, her friends, her relations better than I do? can she be more generally beloved? can she lead a life more agreeable to her taste? or can she be more at liberty to exchange it for any other? can she enjoy better health? can she have more expedients to divert her, or stronger ties to bind her to the world? and yet notwithstanding all this, I am constantly uneasy: my heart yearns for something of which it is entirely ignorant.

Therefore finding nothing on this globe capable of giving it satisfaction, my desiring soul seeks an object in another world; in elevating itself to the source of sentiment and existence, its languor vanishes: it is reanimated, it acquires new strength and new life. It thence obtains a new existence, independent of corporeal passions, or rather it exists no longer in me, but in the immensity of the supreme Being; and, disencumbered for a while from its terrestrial shackles, returns to them again with patience, consoled with the expectation of futurity.

You smile at all this, my good friend; I understand you. I have indeed pronounced my own condemnation, having formerly censured the heart, which I now approve. To this I have only one word to answer; and that is, I then spoke without experience. I do not pretend to justify it in every shape. I don’t pretend to say, this visionary taste is prudent, I only say, it is a delightful supplement to that sense of happiness which in other things exhausts itself by enjoyment. If it be productive of evil, doubtless it ought to be rejected; if it deceives the heart by false pleasure, it ought also on that account to be rejected. But after all, which has the greater incentive to virtue, the philosopher with his sublime maxims, or the Christian with his humble simplicity? who is most happy even in this world, the sage with his profound understanding, or the enthusiast with his rapture of devotion? what business have I to think or imagine, when my faculties are all in a manner alienated? will you say intoxication has its pleasures? be it so, and be mine esteemed such if you will. Either leave me in this agreeable delirium, or shew me a more delightful situation.

I have condemned indeed the ecstasies of the mystics, and condemn them still, when they serve to detach us from our duty; and, by raising in us a disgust against an active life by the charms of contemplation, seduce us into that state of quietism which you imagine me so near; and from which I believe myself nevertheless to be as far distant as yourself. I know very well that to serve God is not to pass our lives on our knees in prayer; that it is to discharge on earth those obligations which our duty requires; it is to do, with a view to please him, every thing which the situation in which he hath placed us demands.

_Il cor gradisce; E serve a lui chi’l suo dover compisce._

We ought first to perform the duties of our station, and then pray when we have time. This is the rule I have endeavoured to follow: I don’t make that self examination, with which you reproach me, a task, but a recreation. I don’t see why, among the pleasures that are within my reach, I should be forbidden the most affecting and the most innocent of all.

I have examined myself with more severity, since the receipt of your letter. I have enquired into the effects which that pious inclination, that so much displeases you, produces in my mind; and I can safely say, I see nothing that should give me reason to fear, at least so soon as you imagine, the evils of excessive and superfluous devotion.

In the first place, I have not so fervent a longing after this exercise as to give me pain when I am deprived of an opportunity, nor am I out of humour at every avocation from it. It never interrupts my thoughts in the business of the day, nor gives me any disgust or impatience in the discharge of my duty. If retirement be sometimes necessary, it is when I have felt some disagreeable emotion, and am better in my closet than elsewhere. It is there that, entering into the examination of myself, I recover my temper and ease. If any care troubles me, if any pain affects me, it is there I go and lay them down. Every pain, every trouble vanishes before a greater object. In reflecting on all the bounties of providence towards me, I am ashamed to be sensible of such trifling ills, and to forget its greater mercies. I require neither frequent nor long intervals of solitude. When I am affected by involuntary sadness, the shedding a few tears before him who is the comforter of hearts, relieves mine in an instant. My reflections are never bitter nor grievous; even my repentance is free from dread: my errors give me less cause of fear than of shame; I regret that I have committed them, but I feel no remorse, nor dread of their effects. The God I serve is a merciful Being; a Father, whose goodness only affects me, and surpasses all his other attributes. His power astonishes me; his immensity confounds my ideas; his justice----but he has made man weak; and though he be just, he is merciful. An avenging God is the God of the wicked. I can neither fear him on my own account, nor pray for his vengeance to be exerted against any other. It is the God of peace, the God of goodness whom I adore. I know, I feel, I am the work of his hands, and trust to see him at the last day such as he has manifested himself to my heart, during my life.

It is impossible for me to tell you how many pleasing ideas hence render my days agreeable, and give joy to my heart. In leaving my closet in such a disposition, I feel myself more light and gay. Every care vanishes, every embarrassment is removed; nothing rough or disagreeable appears; but all is smooth and flowing: every thing wears a pleasant countenance; it costs me no pains to be in good humour; I love those better whom I loved before, and am still more agreeable to them; even my husband is more pleased with the disposition which is the effect of such rational devotion. Devotion, he says, is the opium of the soul. When taken in small quantities, it enlivens, it animates, it supports it: a stronger dose lulls it to sleep, enrages or destroys it. I hope I shall never proceed to such extremes.

You see I am not so much offended at the title of devotee, as perhaps you intended; but then I do not value it at the rate you imagine: yet I would not have the term devotion applied to an affected external deportment, and to a sort of employment which dispenses with every other. Thus that Mrs. Guyon you mention, had in my opinion done better to have carefully discharged her duty as mistress of her family, to have educated her children in the Christian faith; and to have governed her servants prudently, than to compose books of devotion, dispute with bishops, and at last be imprisoned in the Bastille for her unintelligible reveries.