Part 76
I approve just as little of that mystical and metaphorical language, which feeds the heart with chimeras, and in the place of spiritual love, substitutes sentiments too nearly allied to carnal affections, and too apt to excite them. The more susceptible the heart, or lively the imagination, the more we ought to be on our guard against those images by which they may be affected; for how can we see the relations of the mystical object if we do not at the same time see the sensual; and how can a modest woman have the assurance to contemplate those objects in her imagination, which she would blush to look on?
But what sets me most against these devotees by profession, is that affectation of manners which renders them insensible to humanity; that excessive pride which makes them look down with pity on the rest of mankind. If ever they condescend to stoop from their imaginary elevation to do an act of charity, it is always done in a manner extremely mortifying to the object: their pity is so cruel and insulting, their justice is so rigid, their charity so severe, their zeal so bitter, their contempt so much like hatred, that even the insensibility of the rest of the world is less cruel than their pity. Their love for heaven serves them as an excuse for loving nobody on earth; they have even no affection for one another; nor is there an instance of sincere friendship to be found among people of extreme devotion. The more detached they affect to be from the world, the more they expect from it; and one would think their devotion to God is exerted only that they may have a pretext to exercise his authority over the rest of his creatures.
I have such an aversion for all abuses of this kind as should naturally be my security: if nevertheless I am doomed to fall, it will not be voluntarily, and I hope, from the friendship of those who are about me, that it will not be without warning. I must own, I now think that it was possible for my former inquietude concerning my husband, to have effected such a change. Happily, the prudent letter of my Lord B----, to which you very reasonably refer me, together with his sensible and consolatory conversation, as well as yours, have entirely dissipated my fears and changed my principles. I now see plainly that an intolerant spirit must by degrees become obdurate. For what charity can be long preserved for those who we think must inevitably be damned? to love them would be to hate God for punishing them. To act then on principles of humanity, we must take upon ourselves to condemn actions only, and not men. Let us not assume the horrible function of devils. Let us not so lightly throw open the gates of hell for our fellow creatures. Alas! if all those are destined to be eternally miserable who deceive themselves, where is the mortal who can avoid it?
O my friends! of what a load have you eased my heart? In teaching me that an error in judgment is no crime, you have delivered me from a thousand tormenting scruples. I leave to others the subtle interpretation of dogmas which I do not comprehend, and content myself with those glaring truths which strike and at once convince me; those practical truths which instruct me in my duty. As to any thing farther, I abide by the rule of your old answer to Mr. Wolmar. A man is not master of his own sentiments to believe or disbelieve what he pleases. Can it be a crime for one not to be a logician? no, it is not the business of conscience to instruct us in the truth of things, but in the maxims of our duty. It does not teach us to reason well, but to act aright. In what can my husband be criminal before God? does he turn his eye from the contemplation of the deity? God himself hath hid his face from his view. He does not shun the truth; the truth avoids him. He is not actuated by pride; he does not seek to convert any one to his own opinion. He is glad they are of a different one. He approves of our sentiments, he wishes he had the same, but cannot. He is deprived of our consolations and our hopes. He acts uprightly without even expecting a recompense: he is in fact more virtuous, more disinterested than we. He is indeed truly to be pitied! but wherefore should he be punished? no: goodness, sincerity, honesty, virtue, these are what heaven requires, and what it will undoubtedly reward: these constitute the true service which the deity requires, and that service Mr. Wolmar most uniformly performs. If God judges of our faith by our words, to be truly virtuous is to believe in him. A true Christian is a virtuous man: the real infidels are the vicious.
Be not surprized, therefore, my dear friend, that I do not dispute with you many particulars of your letter, concerning which we are not of the same opinion. I know too well what you are, to be in pain about what you believe. What do all those idle questions about free agency concern me? whether I myself have the power to do good, or can obtain it by prayer, if in the end I am enabled to do it, does it not amount to the same thing? whether I acquire what is wanting by asking for it, or the deity grants it to my prayers, if it be necessary to ask in order to have it, is not this a sufficient explanation? happy enough to agree about the principal articles of our faith, why need we enquire farther? ought we to be desirous of penetrating into the bottomless abyss of metaphysics, and, in disputing about the divine essence, throw away the short time which is allotted us here to revere and honour the deity? we are ignorant what he is; but we know that he exists, and that is sufficient: he manifests himself in his works, we feel him constantly within us. We may dispute, but cannot sincerely disbelieve his existence. He has given us that degree of sensibility which enables us to perceive, to embrace him; let us pity those to whom he has not imparted such a portion of susceptibility, without flattering ourselves that we shall be able to make them sensible of what they cannot see. Let us respect his decrees in silence and do our duty: this is the best method to make proselytes.
Do you know any man of better sense or a more enlightened understanding than Mr. Wolmar? do you know any one more sincere, more upright, more just, less subject to the control of his passions; who will be a greater gainer by divine justice or the soul’s immortality? Do you know any man more nervous, more sublime, more convincing in a dispute than Lord B----? is there any person by his virtue more worthy of entering on the defence of the cause of God, more certain of his existence, more sincerely penetrated with the idea of divine majesty, more zealous for his glory and more capable of supporting it? yet you have been a witness of what passed during three months at Clarens: you have seen two men, having the highest esteem and respect for each other, and equally disdainful of the pedantry and quirk of scholastic logic, pass a whole winter in prudent and peaceful as well as lively and profound argumentations, with a view to convert each other; you have seen them attack and defend themselves and take every advantage of which human understanding is capable; and that on a subject wherein both, being equally interested, desired nothing so earnestly as to be of one mind.
What was the consequence? their mutual esteem is augmented, and yet both retain their former sentiments: if such an example does not for ever cure a prudent man of the rage of dispute, the love of truth I am sure never will.
For my part, I have thrown aside, and that for ever, such an useless weapon; and am determined never to mention a single word more to my husband about religion, unless it be to give a reason for mine. Not that a notion of divine toleration has rendered me indifferent to his. I must confess that, though I am become tranquil about his future state, I do not find I am the less zealous for his conversion. I would lay down my life to see him once convinced of the truth of divine revelation, if not for the sake of his future happiness, at least for his happiness in this life. For of how many pleasures is he not on this account deprived? what sentiments can give him comfort in his afflictions? what spectator excites him to those good deeds he performs in secret? what reward does he hope for from his virtue? how can he look upon death? no, I hope he will not meet it in this terrible situation. There remains but one expedient more for me to try to prevent it; and to that I consecrate the remainder of my life. This is not to convince, but to affect him; to set him a prevailing example, and to make religion so amiable that he shall not be able to resist her charms. Ah! my friend! what a forcible argument against infidelity is the life of a true Christian? do you believe there is a being on earth proof against it? this is the task I impose on myself for the future; assist me to perform it. Mr. Wolmar is cold, but not insensible. What a picture might we lay open to his heart? his friends, his children, his wife all uniting to his edification! When without preaching about God in our discourses, we shall demonstrate him by those actions which he inspires, by those virtues of which he is the author, by the pleasure we take in his service: when he shall see a sketch of paradise in his own house; when an hundred times a day he shall be compelled to cry out: “human nature is of itself incapable of this; something divine must prevail here.”
If my enterprise pleases you, if you find yourself worthy to concur in it, come and let us pass our days together, and never part more till death. If the project displeases or frightens you, listen to the dictates of your conscience; that will teach you your duty. I have no more to say. Agreeable to what Lord B---- intimates, I shall expect you both towards the latter end of next month. You will hardly know your apartment again; but in the alteration made in it you will discover the care of a good friend, who took a pleasure in ornamenting it for you. You will find there, also, a small assortment of books, which she bought for you at Geneva, of a better taste than the _Adonis_; not, but that for the jest’s sake you will find that too. You must however be discreet; for, as she would not have you know this is her doing, I hasten to finish my letter before she comes to forbid my speaking of it. Adieu, my dear friend; our party of pleasure to the castle of Chillon will take place tomorrow without you. It will not be the better for that. The bailiff has invited us with our children, which leaves me no excuse: but I know not why, and yet I cannot help wishing we were safe returned.
Letter CLIX. From Fanny Anet.
Oh sir! O my benefactor! what tidings do they order me to write to you! Madam----my poor mistress----good God! methinks I see already how frightened you are! but you cannot see the affliction we are all in here.----But I have not a moment to lose----I must tell you.----I must run----Oh that I had already told you all!----what will become of you, when you know our misfortune! The whole family went out yesterday to dine at Chillon. The baron, who was going into Savoy to spend some days at the castle of Blonay, went away after dinner.
The company attended him a little way, and afterwards walked along the dyke. Mrs. Orbe and the bailiff’s lady went before with my master; my mistress followed, having hold by one hand of Harriot and by the other of Marcellin. I came after with the eldest. His honour, the bailiff, who had staid behind to speak to some body, came up; and joining the company, offered my mistress his arm; which, in order to accept of, she sent Marcellin to me. I ran forward to meet him while the child did the same towards me; but, in running, his foot slipped and he fell unhappily into the water. I screamed out, when my mistress, turning her head and seeing the child in the water, flew back in an instant and threw herself in after him.
Unhappy that I am! why did I not throw myself in too! better had I been drowned on the spot! with difficulty I kept the eldest from leaping after its mother; who kept struggling with the other in her arms.----No boat, nor people were at hand, so that some time past before they could be got out of the water----the child soon recovered, but as for the mother----the fright, the fall, the condition she was in----ah none knows better than I the danger of such a fall! She was taken out and remained a good while insensible. The moment she came to herself, she enquired eagerly after the child----heavens! with what transport did she embrace him! I thought she was quite well again; but her spirits lasted her but for a moment: she insisted on being brought home, but fainted away several times during the journey. By some orders she gave me, I saw she believed she should not recover. Her fears were alas! too true! she will never recover. Mrs. Orbe is a good deal more altered than she. They are all distracted; I am the most sensible in the whole house----Why should I be uneasy? ah! my good mistress, if I love you, I shall never have occasion for another.---- Oh my dear sir! may heaven enable you to support this trial! adieu! the physician is this moment coming out of the chamber. I must run to meet him----if he gives me hopes, I will let you know it. If I say nothing, you will know too well the cause.
Letter CLX. From Mrs. Orbe.
Imprudent, unfortunate man! unhappy dreamer! you will now indeed never see her more----the veil----Eloisa is no more.----
She has herself written to you, I refer you to her letter: respect, I charge you, her last request. Great and many are the obligations you have to discharge on this side the grave.----
Letter CLXI. From Mr. Wolmar.
I was unwilling to interrupt the first transports of your grief: my writing to you would but have aggravated your sorrow, as I was no better qualified to relate than you to read our sad tale. At present, possibly, such a relation may not be disagreeable to both. As nothing remains but the remembrance of her, my heart takes a delight in recalling every token of that remembrance to my mind. You will have some consolation in shedding tears to her memory; but of that grand relief of the unfortunate I am constitutionally deprived, and am therefore more unhappy than you.
It is not, however, of her illness, but of herself, I would write. Another might have thrown herself into the water to save her child. Such an accident, her fever, her death are natural; and may be common to other mortals: but the employment of her last moments, her conversation, her sentiments, her fortitude, all these are peculiar to Eloisa. She was no less singular in the hour of death than she had been during the whole course of her life; and as I was the sole witness to many particulars, you can learn them from me alone.
You already know that her fright, her agitation, the fall, and the water she had imbibed, thew her into fainting fits, from which she did not recover till after she was brought home. On being carried into the house, she asked again for the child; the child was brought; and, seeing him walk about and return her caresses, she became apparently easy, and consented to take a little rest. Her sleep was but short, and as the physician was not yet come, she made us sit round on the bed; that is, Fanny, her cousin and me. She talked to us about her children, of the great diligence and care which her plan of education required, and of the danger of a moment’s neglect. Without making her illness of any great importance, she foresaw, she said, that it would prevent her for some time from discharging her part of that duty, and charged us to divide it amongst us.
She enlarged on her own projects, on yours, on the most proper means to carry them into execution; on the observations she had made as to what would promote or injure them; and, in a word, on every thing which might enable us to supply her place, in the discharge of the duties of a mother, so long as she might be prevented from it herself. I thought so much precaution unnecessary for one who imagined she should be prevented from exercising such employment only for a few days: but what added to my apprehensions was to hear her enter into a long and particular charge respecting Harriot. As to her sons, she contented herself with what concerned their education in the earliest infancy, as if relying on another for the care of their youth.
But in speaking of Harriot, she went farther, extending her remarks even to her coming-of-age; and, being sensible that nothing could supply the place of those reflections which her own experience dictated, she gave us a clear: and methodical abstract of the plan of education she had laid down, recommending it to the mother in the most lively and affecting manner.
All these exhortations, respecting the education of young persons and the duty of mothers, mixt with frequent applications to herself, could not fail to render the conversation extremely interesting: I saw indeed that it affected her too much. In the mean time, her cousin held one of her hands, pressing it every now and then to her lips, and bathing it with tears, at every reply: Fanny was not less moved; and as for Eloisa herself, I observed the big tears swell out of her eyes and steal down her cheeks; but she was afraid to let us see she wept, lest it should alarm us. But I then saw, that she knew her life was drawing towards its final period. My only hope was that her fears might deceive her, and represent the danger greater than it really was. Unhappily, however, I knew her too well to build much upon such a deception. I endeavoured several times to stop her, and at last begged of her not to waste her spirits by talking so much at once on a subject which might be continued at our leisure. Ah! my dear, replied she, don’t you know that nothing hurts a woman so much as silence? and, since I find myself a little feverish, I may as well employ my discourse about useful matters as prattle away the time about trifles.
The arrival of the physician put the whole house into a confusion, which it is impossible to describe. All the domestics were gathered about the door of the chamber, where they waited with their arms folded and anxious looks, to know his opinion of their mistress’s situation, as if their own destiny were depending. This sight threw poor Mrs. Orbe into such an agony of grief, that I began to be afraid for her senses. Under different pretences, therefore, I dismissed them, that their presence might no longer affect her. The physician gave us indeed a little hope, but in such vague terms that it served to convince me there was none. Eloisa was also reserved on account of her cousin. When the doctor left the chamber I followed him, which Clara was also going to do; but Eloisa detained her, and gave me a wink which I understood, and therefore immediately told the physician, that if there were any real danger he should as carefully conceal it from Mrs. Orbe as from the patient, lest her despair should render her incapable of attending her friend. He told me the case was indeed dangerous, but that four and twenty hours being hardly elapsed since the accident, it required more time to form a certain judgment; that the succeeding night might determine the fate of the patient; but that he could not positively pronounce any thing till the third day. Fanny alone was by, on his saying this, on whom we prevailed with some difficulty to stifle her emotions, and agreed upon what was proper to tell Mrs. Orbe and the rest of the family.
Toward the evening, Eloisa prevailed with her cousin, who had sat up with her the preceding night, and was desirous of continuing her vigilance, to go to bed for some hours. In the mean time, the patient being informed that she was to be bled in the foot, and that the physician was prescribing for her, she sent for him to her bedside and addressed him thus.
“Mr. Bouffon, when it is necessary to flatter a timid patient as to the danger of his case, the precaution is humane, and I approve of it; but it is a piece of cruelty to lavish equally on all, the disagreeable remedies which to many may be superfluous. Prescribe for me every thing that you think will be really useful, and I will punctually follow your prescriptions. But as to those of mere experiment, I beg you will excuse me: it is my body and not my mind which is disordered; and I am not afraid to end my days, but to misspend those which remain. The last moments of life are too precious to be thrown away. If you cannot prolong mine, therefore, I beg you will at least not shorten them, by preventing me from employing them as I ought. Either recover me entirely, or leave me; I can die alone.” Thus, my friend, did this woman, so mild and timid on ordinary occasions, know how to exert herself in a resolute and serious manner at this important crisis.
The night was cruel and decisive. Suffocation, oppression, fainting, her skin dry and burning. An ardent fever tormented her, during the continuance of which she was heard frequently to call out _Marcellin_, as if to prevent his running into the water, and to pronounce also another name, formerly repeated on a like occasion. The next day the physician told me plainly, that he did not think she could live three days. I alone was made privy to this afflicting piece of information, and the most terrible hour of my life was that wherein I kept it a secret in my breast, without knowing what use to make of it. I strayed out alone into the garden, musing on the measures I ought to take; not without many afflicting reflections on the misfortune of being reduced in the last stage of life to that solitude, of which I was sufficiently tired, even before I had experienced a more agreeable one.