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; 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.
As to yourself, that pride which I have some time remarked in you cannot be exerted with greater impropriety than on this occasion; and it would be a kind of ingratitude in you to receive from her, reluctantly, one favour more. Besides, however nice and difficult you may be in this point, you must own it is more agreeable, and has a much better look, for a man to be indebted for his fortune to his wife than to a friend; as he becomes a protector of the one, and is protected by the other and as nothing can be more true than, that a virtuous man cannot have a better friend than his wife.
If after all, if there remain in the bottom of your heart any repugnance to enter into new love engagements, you cannot too speedily suppress them, both for your own honour and my repose: for I shall never be satisfied with either you or myself till you really become what you ought to be, and take pleasure in what your duty requires. Ah! my friend, ought I not to be less apprehensive of such a repugnance to new engagements, than of inclinations too relative to the old? what have I not done with regard to you, to discharge my duty? I have even exceeded my promises. Do I not even give you an Eloisa? will you not possess the better half of myself, and be still dearer to the other? with what pleasure shall I not indulge myself, after such a connection, in my attachment to you! yes, accomplish to her those vows you made to me, and let your heart fulfil with her all our former engagements. May it, if possible, give to hers all it owes to mine. O St. Preux! to her I transfer that ancient debt. Remember it is not easily to be discharged.
Such, my friend is the scheme I have projected to reunite you to us without danger; in giving you the same place in our family which you already hold in our hearts, attached by the most dear and sacred connections, we shall live together, sisters and brothers; you no longer your own enemy nor ours. The warmest sentiments when legitimate are not dangerous. When we are no longer under the necessity of suppressing them, they cannot excite our apprehensions. So far indeed from endeavouring to suppress sentiments so innocent and delightful, we should make them at once both our pleasure and our duty. We should then love each other with the purest affection, and should enjoy the united charms of friendship, love and innocence. And, if in executing the charge you have taken upon yourself, heaven should recompense the care you take of our children, by blessing you with children of your own, you will then know from experience how to estimate the service you have done us. Endowed with the greatest blessings of which human nature is capable, you will learn to support with pleasure the agreeable burthen of a life useful to your friends and relations; you will, in short, perceive that to be true which the vain philosophy of the vicious could never believe; that happiness is even in this world the reward of the virtuous.
Reflect at leisure on my proposal, not however to determine whether it suits you; I require not your answer on that point; but whether it is proper for Mrs. Orbe, and whether you can make her as happy as she ought to make you. You know in what manner she has discharged her duty in every station of her sex. Judge by what she is, what she has a right to expect. She is as capable of love as Eloisa, and should be loved in the same degree. If you think you can deserve her, speak; my friendship will try to effect such an union, and from hers, flatters itself with success. But, if my hopes are deceived in you, you are at least a man of honour and probity, and are not unacquainted with her delicacy; you would not covet happiness at the expense of her felicity: let your heart be worthy of her, or let the offer of it never be made.
Once more, I say, consult your own heart; consider well of your answer before you send it. In matters relative to the happiness of one’s whole life, common prudence will not permit us to determine without great deliberation: but, in an affair where our whole soul, our happiness both here and hereafter is at stake, even to deliberate lightly would be a crime. Call to your aid, therefore, my good friend, all the dictates of true wisdom; nor will I be ashamed to put you in mind of those which are most essential. You don’t want religion: I am afraid however, you do not draw from it all the advantage which your conduct might receive from its precepts; but that your philosophical pride elevates you above true Christian simplicity: in particular, your notions of prayer are by no means consistent with mine. In your opinion, that act of humiliation is of no use to us. God having implanted in every man’s conscience all that is necessary to direct him aright, has afterwards left him to himself, a free agent, to act as he pleases. But you well know this is not the doctrine of St. Paul, nor that which is professed in our church. We are free agents, it is true, but we are by nature ignorant, weak and prone to evil: of whom then shall we acquire strength and knowledge, but of the source of all power and wisdom? and how shall we obtain them if we are not humble enough to ask? take care, my friend, that to the sublime ideas you entertain of the supreme Being, human pride doth not annex the abject notions, which belong only to man. Can you think the deity wants such arts as are necessary to human understanding, or that he lies under the necessity of generalising his ideas to comprehend them the more readily? according to your notions of things, providence would be under an embarrassment to take care of individuals. You seem to be afraid that, constant attention to a diversity of objects must perplex and fatigue infinite wisdom, and to think that it can act better by general than particular laws; doubtless because this seems easier for the Almighty. The deity is highly obliged to such great philosophers for furnishing him with convenient means of action, to ease him of his labour. But why should we ask any thing of him? Say you: is he not acquainted with our wants? Is he not a father that provides for his children? do we know better than he what is needful for us, or are we more desirous of happiness than he is that we should be happy?
This, my dear St. Preux, is all sophistry. The greatest of our wants, even the only one we have no remedy for, is that of being insensible of them; and the first step to relief is the knowledge of our necessities. To be wise we must be humble; in the sensibility of our weakness we become strong. Thus justice is united to clemency, thus grace and liberty triumph together.
Slaves by our weakness, we are set free by prayer: for it depends on us to seek and obtain favour; but the power to do this, depends not on ourselves.
Learn then not always to depend on your own sagacity on difficult occasions; but on that Being whose omnipotence is equal to his wisdom, and who knows how to direct us in every thing aright. The greatest defect in human wisdom, even in that which has only virtue for its object, is a too great confidence, which makes us judge by the present of the future, and of our whole lives from the experience of a single moment. We perceive ourselves resolute one instant, and therefore conclude we shall always be so. Puffed up with that pride, which is nevertheless mortified by daily experience, we think we are under no danger of falling into a snare which we have once escaped. The modest language of true fortitude is, I had resolution on this or that occasion; but he who boasts of his present security knows not how weak he may prove on the next trial; and, relying on his borrowed strength as if it was his own, deserves to feel the want of it when he stands in most need of assistance. How vain are all our projects, how absurd our reasonings in the eyes of that Being, who is not confined to time or space! man is so weak as to disregard things which are placed at a distance from him: he sees only the objects which immediately surround him; changes his notions of things as the point of sight is changed from whence he views them. We judge of the future from what agrees with us now, without knowing how far that which pleases to day may be disagreeable tomorrow: we depend on ourselves, as if we were always the same, and yet are changing every day. Who can tell if they shall always desire what they now wish for? if they shall be tomorrow what they are to day, if external objects and even a change in the constitution of the body may not vary the modification of their minds, and if we may not be made miserable by the very means we have concerted for our happiness? shew me the fixed and certain rule of human wisdom, and I will take it for my guide. But if the best lesson it can teach us is, to distrust our own strength, let us have recourse to that superior wisdom which cannot deceive us, and follow those dictates which cannot lead us astray. It is that wisdom I implore to enlighten my understanding to advise you; do you implore the same to direct your resolutions? Whatever these be, I well know you will take no step which does not at present appear honourable and just: but this is not enough, it is necessary you should take such as will be always so; and of the means to do this, neither you nor I are of ourselves competent judges.
