Part 8
Here it was that I plainly discovered; in the purity of the air, the true cause of that returning tranquility of soul, to which I had been so long a stranger. This impression is general, though not universally observed. Upon the tops of mountains, the air being subtle and pure, we respire with greater freedom, our bodies are more active, our minds more serene, our pleasures less ardent, and our passions much more moderate. Our meditations acquire a degree of sublimity from the grandeur of the objects around us. It seems as if, being lifted above all human society, we had left every low, terrestrial, sentiment behind; and that as we approach the aethereal regions, the soul imbibes something of their eternal purity. One is grave without being melancholy, peaceful, but not indolent, pensive yet contented: our desires lose their painful violence, and leave only a gentle emotion in our hearts. Thus the passions which in the lower world are man’s greatest torment, in happier climates contribute to his felicity. I doubt much whether any violent agitation, or vapours of the mind, could hold out against such a situation, and I am surprized that a bath of the reviving and wholesome air of the mountains is not frequently prescribed both by physic and morality.
_Quì non palazzi, non teatro o loggia, Ma’n lor vece un’ abete, un faggio, un pino Trà l’erba verde e’l bel monte vicino Levan di terra al Ciel nostr’ intelletto._
Imagine to yourself all these united impressions; the amazing variety, magnitude and beauty of a thousand stupendous objects; the pleasure of gazing at an entire new scene, strange birds, unknown plants, another nature, and a new world. To these even the subtilty of the air is advantageous; it enlivens their natural colours, renders every object more distinct, and brings it nearer to the eye. In short, there is a kind of supernatural beauty in these mountainous prospects which charms both the senses and the mind into a forgetfulness of one’s self and of every thing in the world.
I could have spent the whole time in contemplating these magnificent landskips, if I had not found still greater pleasure in my conversation with the inhabitants. In my observations you will find a slight sketch of their manners, their simplicity, their equality of soul, and of that peacefulness of mind, which renders them happy by an exemption from pain, rather than by the enjoyment of pleasure. But what I was unable to describe, and which is almost impossible to be conceived, is their disinterested humanity, and hospitable zeal to oblige every stranger whom chance or curiosity brings to visit them. This I myself continually experienced, I who was entirely unknown, and who was conducted from place to place only by a common guide. When, in the evening, I arrived in any hamlet at the foot of a mountain, each of the inhabitants was so eager to have me lodge at his house, that I was always embarrassed which to accept; and he who obtained the preference seemed so well pleased that, at first, I supposed his joy to arise from a lucrative prospect. But I was amazed, after having used the house like an inn, to find my host not only refuse to accept the least gratuity, but offended that it was offered. I found it universally the same. So that it was true hospitality, which, from its unusual ardour, I had mistaken for avarice. So perfectly disinterested are this people, that during eight days, it was not in my power to leave one dollar among them. In short, how is it possible to spend money in a country where the landlord will not be paid for his provisions, nor the servant for his trouble, and where there are no beggars to be found? Nevertheless, money is by no means abundant in the upper Valais, and for that very reason the inhabitants are not in want; for the necessaries of life are plentiful, yet nothing is sent out of the country; they are not luxurious at home, nor is the peasant less laborious. If ever they have more money they will grow poor? and of this they are so sensible that they tread upon mines of gold which they are determined never to open.
I was at first greatly surprized at the difference between the customs and manners of these people and those of the lower Valais; for in the road through that part of the country to Italy, travellers pay dearly enough for their passage. An inhabitant of the place explained the mystery. The strangers, says he, which pass through the lower Valais are chiefly merchants, or people that travel in pursuit of gain; it is but just that they should leave us a part of their profit; and that we should treat them as they treat others; but here our travellers meet with a different reception, because we are assured their journey must have a disinterested motive: they visit us out of friendship, and therefore we receive them as our friends. But indeed our hospitality is not very expensive; we have but few visitors. No wonder, I replied, that mankind should avoid a people, who live only to enjoy life, and not to acquire wealth and excite envy. Happy, deservedly happy, mortals! I am pleased to think that one must certainly resemble you in some degree, in order to approve your manners and taste your simplicity.
What I found particularly agreeable whilst I continued among them was the natural ease and freedom of their behaviour. They went about their business in the house, as if I had not been there; and it was in my power to act as if I were the sole inhabitant. They are entirely unacquainted with the impertinent vanity of _doing the honours of the house_, as if to remind the stranger of his dependence. When I said nothing, they concluded I was satisfied to live in their manner; but the least hint was sufficient to make them comply with mine, without any repugnance or astonishment. The only compliment which they made me, when they heard that I was a Swiss, was that they looked upon me as a brother, and I ought therefore to think myself at home. After this, they took but little notice of me, not supposing that I could doubt the sincerity of their offers, or refuse to accept them whenever they could useful. The same simplicity subsists among themselves: when the children are once arrived at maturity, all distinction between them and their parents seems to have ceased; their domestics are seated at the same table with their master; the same liberty reigns in the cottage as in the republic, and each family is an epitome of the state.
They never deprived me of my liberty, except when at table: indeed it was always in my power to avoid the repast; but, being once seated, I was obliged to sit late, and drink much. What a Swiss, and not drink! so they would exclaim. For my own part, I confess, I am no enemy to good wine, and that I have no dislike to a chearful glass; but I dislike compulsion. I have observed that deceitful men are generally sober, and that peculiar reserve at table frequently indicates a duplicity of soul. A guileless heart is not afraid of the unguarded eloquence and affectionate folly which commonly precede drunkenness; but we ought always to avoid the excess. Yet even that was sometimes impossible among these hearty Valaisians, their wine being strong, and water absolutely excluded. Who could act the philosopher here, or be offended with such honest people? In short, I drank to shew my gratitude, and since they refused to take my money, I made them a compliment of my reason.
They have another custom, not less embarrassing, which is practised even in the houses of the magistrates themselves; I mean that of their wives and daughters standing behind one’s chair, and waiting at table like so many servants. This would be insupportable to the gallantry of a Frenchman, especially as the women of this country are in general so extremely handsome that one can hardly bear to be attended by the maid. You may certainly believe them beautiful, since they appeared so to me; for my eyes have been accustomed to Eloisa, and are therefore extremely difficult to please.
As for me, who pay more regard to the manners of the people with whom I reside, than to any rules of politeness, I received their services in silence, and with a degree of gravity equal to that of Don Quixote when he was with the Duchess. I could not however help smiling now and then at the contrast between the rough old grey-beards at the table, and the charming complexions of the fair attendant nymphs, in whom a single word would excite a blush, which rendered their beauty more glowing and conspicuous. Not that I could admire the enormous compass of their necks, which resemble, in their dazzling whiteness only, that perfect model which always formed in my imagination (for though veiled, I have sometimes stolen a glance) that celebrated marble which is supposed to excel in delicate proportion the most perfect work of nature.
Be not surprized to find me so knowing in mysteries which you so carefully conceal: it happens in spite of all your caution; one sense instructs another. Notwithstanding the most jealous vigilance, there will always remain some friendly interstice or other, through which the sight performs the office of the touch. The curious, busy eye insinuates itself with impunity under the flowers of a nosegay, wanders beneath the spreading gauze, and conveys that elastic resistance to the hand which it dares not experience.
_Parte appar deble mamme acerbe e crude, Parte altrui ne ricopre invida vesta; Invida, ma s’ agli occhi il varco chiude, L’amoroso pensier gia non arresta._
I am also not quite satisfied with the dress of the Valaisian ladies: their gowns are raised so very high behind, that they all appear round shouldered; yet this, together with their little black coifs, and other peculiarities of their dress, has a singular effect, and wants neither simplicity nor elegance. I shall bring you one of their compleat suits, which I dare say will fit you; it was made to the finest shape in the whole country.
But whilst I traversed with delight these regions which are so little known, and so deserving of admiration, where was my Eloisa? Was she banished my memory? Forget my Eloisa! Forget my own soul! Is it possible for me to be one moment of my life alone, who exist only through her? O no! our souls are inseparable, and, by instinct, change their situation together according to the prevailing state of mine. When I am in sorrow, she takes refuge with yours, and seeks consolation in the place where you are; as was the case the day I left you. When I am happy, being incapable of enjoyment alone, they both attend upon me, and our pleasure becomes mutual: thus it was during my whole excursion. I did not take one step without you, nor admire a single prospect without eagerly pointing its beauties to Eloisa. The same tree spread its shadow over us both, and we constantly reclined against the same flowery bank. Sometimes as we sat I gazed with you at the wonderful scene before us, and sometimes, on my knees I gazed with rapture on an object more worthy the contemplation of human sensibility. If I came to a difficult pass, I saw you skip over it with the activity of the bounding doe. When a torrent happened to cross our path, I presumed to press you in my arms, walked slowly through the water, and was always sorry when I reached the opposite bank. Every thing in that peaceful solitude brought you to my imagination; the pleasing awfulness of nature, the invariable serenity of the air, the grateful simplicity of the people, their constant and natural prudence, the unaffected modesty and innocence of the sex, and every object that gave pleasure to the eye or to the heart, seemed inseparably connected with the idea of Eloisa.
O divine maid! I often tenderly exclaimed, that we might spend our days in there unfrequented mountains, unenvied and unknown! Why can I not here collect my whole soul into thee alone, and become, in turn, the universe to Eloisa! Thy charms would then receive the homage they deserve; then would our hearts taste without interruption the delicious fruit of the soft passion with which they are filled: the years of our long elysium would pass away untold, and when the frigid hand of age should have calmed our first transports, the constant habit of thinking and acting from the same principle would beget a lasting friendship no less tender than our love, whose vacant place should be filled by the kindred sentiments which grew and were nourished with it in our youth. Like this happy people, we would practice every duty of humanity, we would unite in acts of benevolence, and at last die with the satisfaction of not having lived in vain.
Hark----it is the post. I will close my letter, and fly to receive another from Eloisa. How my heart beats? Why was I roused from my reverie? I was happy at least in idea. Heaven only knows what I am to be in reality.
Letter XXIV. To Eloisa.
I sit down to give you an immediate answer to that article of your letter concerning the stipend; thank God, it requires no reflection. My sentiments, my Eloisa, on this subject, are these.
In what is called honour, there is a material distinction between that which is founded on the opinion of the world, and that which is derived from self esteem. The first is nothing but the loud voice of foolish prejudice, which has no more stability than the wind; but the basis of the latter is fixed in the eternal truth of morality. The honour of the world may be of advantage with regard to fortune but as it cannot reach the soul, it has no influence on real happiness. True honour, on the contrary, is the very essence of felicity; for it is that alone inspires the permanent interior satisfaction which constitutes the happiness of a rational being. Let us, my Eloisa, apply these principles to your question, and it will be soon resolved.
To become an instructor of philosophy, and like the fool in the fable, receive money for teaching wisdom, will appear rather low in the eyes of the world, and, I own, has something in it ridiculous enough. Yet, as no man can subsist merely of himself, and as there can be nothing wrong in eating the fruit of one’s labour, we will regard this opinion of mankind as a piece of foolish prejudice, to which it would be madness to sacrifice our happiness. I know you will not esteem me the less on this account, nor shall I deserve more pity for living upon the talents I have cultivated.
But, my Eloisa, there are other things to be considered. Let us leave the multitude and look a little into ourselves. What shall I in reality be to your father, in receiving from him a salary for instructing his daughter? Am I not from that moment a mercenary, a hireling, a servant? and do I not tacitly pledge my faith for his security, like the meanest of his domestics? Now what has a father to lose of greater value than his only daughter, even though she were not an Eloisa? and what should the man do who had thus pledged his faith and sold his service? Ought he to stifle the flame within his breast? Ah! Eloisa, that you know to be impossible: or should he rather indulge this passion, and wound, in the most sensible part, the man who has an undoubted right to his fidelity? In this case I behold a perfidious teacher, trampling under foot every sacred bond of society, [9] a seducer, a domestic traitor, whom the law hath justly condemned to die. I hope Eloisa understands me. I do not fear death, but the ignominy of deserving it, and my own contempt.
When the letters of your name’s sake and Abelard fell into your hands, you remember my opinion of the conduct of that priest. I always pitied Eloisa; she had a heart made for love: but Abelard seemed to deserve his fate, as he was a stranger both to love and virtue. Ought I then to follow his example? What wretch dares preach that virtue which he will not practise? Whosoever suffers himself to be thus blinded by his passions, will soon find himself punished in a loathing for those very sensations to which he sacrificed his honour. There can be no pleasure in any enjoyment which the heart cannot approve, and which tends to sink in our estimation the object of our love. Abstract the idea of perfection, and our enthusiasm vanishes: take away our esteem, and love is at an end. How is it possible for a woman to honour a man who dishonours himself? and how can he adore the person who was weak enough to abandon herself to a vile seducer? Mutual contempt therefore is the consequence; their very passions will grow burthensome, and they will have lost their honour without finding happiness.
But how different, my Eloisa, is it with two lovers of the same age, influenced by the same passion, united by the same bonds, under no particular engagements, and both in possession of their original liberty. The most severe laws can inflict no other punishment, than the natural consequences of their passion: their sole obligation is to love eternally; and if there be in the world some unhappy climate where men’s authority dares to break such sacred bonds, they are surely punished by the crimes that must inevitably ensue.
These, my ever prudent and virtuous Eloisa, are many reasons; they are indeed but a frigid commentary on those which you urged with so much spirit and energy in one of your letters; but they are sufficient to shew you how entirely I am of your opinion. You remember that I did not persist in refusing your offer, and that notwithstanding the first scruples of prejudice, being convinced that it was not inconsistent with my honour, I consented to open the box. But in the present case, my duty, my reason, my love, all speak too plainly to be misunderstood. If I must chose between my honour and Eloisa, my heart is prepared to resign her. Oh I love her too well to purchase her at the price of my honour!
Letter XXV. From Eloisa.
You will easily believe, my dear friend, how extremely I was entertained with the agreeable account of your late tour. The elegance of the detail itself, would have engaged my esteem, even though its author had been wholly a stranger; but its coming from you, was a circumstance of additional recommendation. I could, however, find in my heart to chide you for a certain part of it, which you will easily guess, though I could scarce refrain from laughing at the ridiculous finesse you made use of to shelter yourself under Tasso. Have you never really perceived the wide difference that should be made between a narration intended for the view of the public, and that little sketch of particulars which is solely to be referred to the inspection of your mistress. Or is love, with all its fears, doubts, jealousies, and scruples, to have no more regard paid to it than the mere decencies of good breeding are entitled to? Could you be at a moment’s loss to conceive that the dry preciseness of an author must be displeasing, where the passionate sentiments of inspiring tenderness were expected? And could you deliberately resolve to disappoint my expectations? But I fear I have already said too much on a subject which perhaps had better been entirely passed over. Besides, the contents of your last letter have so closely engaged my thoughts, that I have had no leisure to attend to the particulars of the former. Leaving then, my dear friend, the Valais to some future opportunity, let us now fix our attention on what more immediately concerns ourselves; we shall find sufficient matter of employment.
I very clearly foresaw what your sentiments would be, and indeed the time we have known each other, had been spent to little purpose, if now our conjectures were vague or uncertain. If virtue ever should forsake us, be assured, it will not, cannot be in those instances, which require resolution and resignation. [10] When the assault is violent, the first step to be taken is, resistance; and we shall ever triumph, I hope, so long as we are forewarned of our danger. A taste of careless security is the most to be dreaded, and we may be taken by sap, e’er we perceive that the citadel is attacked. The most fatal circumstance of all, is the continuance of misfortunes; their very duration makes them dangerous to a mind that might bear up against the sharpest trials and most vigorous sudden onsets; it may be worn out by the tedious pressure of inferior sufferings, and give way to the length of those afflictions which have quite exhausted its forbearance. This struggle, my dear friend, falls to our lot. We are not called upon to signalize ourselves by deeds of heroism, or renowned exploits; but we are bound to the more painful task of supporting an indefatigable resistance, and enduring misfortunes without the least relaxation.
I foresaw but too well the melancholy event. Our happiness is passed away like a morning cloud, and our trials are beginning without the least prospect of any alteration for the better. Every circumstance is to me an aggravation of my distress, and what at other times would have passed unheeded and unobserved, now serves but too plainly to increase my dismay: my body sympathises with my mind in distressed situation, the one is as languid and spiritless as the other is alarmed and apprehensive. Involuntary tears are ever stealing down my cheeks, without my being sensible of any immediate cause of sorrow. I do not indeed foresee any very distressful events, but I perceive, alas, too well, my fondest hopes blasted, my most sanguine expectations continually disappointed, and what good purpose can it serve to water the leaves, when the plant is decayed and withered at the root.
I feel myself unable to support your absence; I feel, my dear friend, that I can never live without you, and this is a fresh subject to me of continual apprehensions. How often do I traverse the scenes which were once the witness of our happy interviews; but, alas! you are no where to be found. I constantly expect you at your usual time; but time comes and goes without your return. Every object of my senses presents a new monument, and every object, alas! reminds me that I have lost you. Whatever your sufferings may be in other respects, you are exempted however from this aggravation. Your heart alone is sufficient to remind you of my unhappy absence. Oh, if you did but know what endless pangs these fruitless expectations, there impatient longings perpetually occasion, how they imbitter and increase the torments I already feel, you would, without hesitation, prefer your condition to mine.