Eloisa · Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Letter CLXI. From Mr. Wolmar.
These reflections led me farther than I thought I ever should proceed. I began to be uneasy lest my opinions, indiscreetly maintained, might at length have gained too much upon her belief. I had not adopted hers, and yet I was not willing that she should have renounced them. Had I been sick, I should certainly have died in my own way of thinking, but I was desirous that she should die also in hers. These contradictory notions will appear to you very extravagant; I myself do not find them very reasonable: they were, however, such as really suggested themselves, at that time. I do not undertake to justify, I only relate them. At length the time drew near, when my doubts were to be cleared up: for it was easy to see that, sooner or later, the minister would turn the conversation on the object of his duty; and though Eloisa had been capable of disguising her sentiments, it would be too difficult for her to do it in such a manner that a person, attentive and prepossessed as I was, should not see through the disguise. It soon after happened as I expected. To pass over, however, the commonplace compliments with which this worthy clergyman introduced the subject, as well as the affecting manner in which he represented the happiness of crowning a well-spent life by a Christian exit; he added, that he had indeed remembered her to have maintained opinions, on some points, different from those of the church, or such as may be most reasonably deduced from the sacred writings; but that, as she had never persisted in defending them, he hoped she would die, as she had lived, in the communion of the faithful, and acquiesce in all the particulars of their common confession.
As Eloisa’s answer removed at once all my doubts, and differed a good deal from the commonplace discourses on such occasions, I shall give it you almost word for word; for I listened to it very attentively, and committed it to paper immediately after. “Permit me, sir, said she, to begin by thanking you for all the care you have taken to conduct me in the paths of virtue and Christianity, and for that complacency with which you have borne with my errors when I have gone astray. Filled with a due respect for your zeal, as well as gratitude for all your goodness, I declare with pleasure that it is to you I am indebted for all my good resolutions, and that you have always directed me to do what was right, and to believe what was true. “I have lived and I die in the protestant communion, whose maxims are deduced from scripture and reason; concerning which my heart hath always confirmed what my lips uttered; and though I may not have had always that docility in regard to your precepts which perhaps I ought, it has arisen from my aversion to all kind of hypocrisy: that which I could not believe, I never could profess; I have always sincerely sought what was most conformable to truth, and the glory of my Creator. I may have been deceived in my research; I have not the vanity to think I have always been in the right. I may, indeed, have been constantly in the wrong; but my intention has been invariably good. This was as much as was in my own power. If God did not vouchsafe to enlighten my understanding farther, he is too merciful and just to demand of me an account of what he has not committed to my care.
“This, sir, is all I think necessary to say on the opinions I profess. As to the rest, let my present situation answer for me. With my head distracted by illness and subjected to the delirium of a fever, is it now a proper time to endeavour to reason better than I did when in health? when my understanding was unimpaired and as sound as I received it from my Maker,----if I was deceived then, am I less subject to be so now? and in my present weakness, does it depend on me to believe otherwise than I did when in full health and strength of body and mind? It is our reason which determines our belief, but mine has lost its best faculties; what dependence then could be made on the opinions I should now adopt without it? what now remains for me to do, is to appeal to what I believed before; for the uprightness of my intention is the same, though I have lost my judgment. If I am in an error, I am sorry for and detest it; and this is sufficient to set my heart at ease as to my belief.
“With respect to my preparation for death; that, sir, is made; badly indeed I own, but it is done in the best manner I could; and at least much better than I can do it now. I endeavoured to discharge that important part of my duty before I became incapable of it. I prayed in health;----when I was strong, I struggled with divine grace for favour; at present, now I am weak, I am resigned, and rely upon it. The best prayers of the sick, are patience and resignation. The preparation of death, is a good life; I know of no other. While I conversed with you, while I meditated by myself, while I endeavoured to discharge the duties which Providence ordained for me; it was then I was preparing myself for death: for meeting my God and judge at my last hour.
It was then I adored him with all my faculties and powers; what more can I now do, when I have lost them? is my languid soul in a condition to raise itself to the Almighty? this remnant of a half extinguished life, absorbed in pain, is it worthy of being offered up to God? no, sir, he leaves it me to employ it for those he taught me to love, and from whom it is his sovereign will that I should now depart: I am going to leave them to go to him, it is therefore with them I should now concern myself; I shall soon have nothing to do but with him alone: the last pleasure I take on earth shall be in doing my last duty; is not that to serve him, and do his will; to discharge all those duties which humanity enjoins me before I throw it off entirely? what have I to do to calm troubles which I have not? my conscience is not troubled: if sometimes it has accused me, it has done it more when I was in health than at present. It tells me now that God is more merciful than I am criminal; and my confidence increases as I find I approach nearer to him. I do not present him with an imperfect, tardy, or forced repentance, which, dictated by fear, can never be truly sincere, and is only a snare by which the false penitent is deceived. I do not present him with the service of the remnant and latter end of my days, full of pain and sorrow, a prey to sickness, grief, anxiety, death; and which I would not dedicate to his service till I could do nothing else. No, I present before him my whole life, full indeed of errors and faults, but exempt from the remorse of the impious, and the crimes of the wicked.
“To what punishment can a just God condemn me? the reprobate, it is said, hate him. Must he not first make me not love him? no, I fear not to be found one of that number. O thou great eternal being! supreme intelligence! source of life and happiness! creator! preserver! father! lord of nature! God powerful and good, of whose existence I never doubted for a moment and under whose eye I have always delighted to live! I know, I rejoice that I am going to appear before thy throne. In a few days my soul, delivered from its earthly tabernacle, shall begin to pay thee more worthily that immortal homage which will constitute my happiness to all eternity. I look upon what I shall be, till that moment comes, as nothing. My body, indeed, still lives; but my intellectual life is at an end. I am at the end of my career, and am already judged from what is past. To suffer, to die, is all that I have now to do: and this is nature’s work. I have endeavoured to live in such a manner as to have no occasion to concern myself at death, and now it approaches, I see it without fear. Those who sleep on the bosom of a father, are in no fear of being awaked.”
This discourse, begun in a grave and slow voice, and ending in a more elevated and animated tone, made on everyone present, myself not excepted, an impression the more lively, as the eyes of her who pronounced it seemed to sparkle with a supernatural fire; rays of light seemed to encircle her brow; and, if there be any thing in this world which deserves the name of celestial, it was certainly the face of Eloisa, while she was thus speaking. The minister himself was transported at what he heard; and, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, good God! said he, behold the worship that truly honours thee! deign to render it propitious; for how seldom do mortals offer thee the like! Madam, continued he, turning to Eloisa and approaching her bed, I thought to have instructed you, but have myself been instructed. I have nothing farther to say. You have that true faith, which knows how to love God. Bear with you that precious repose and testimony of a good conscience, and believe me it will not deceive you. I have seen many Christians in your situation, but never before saw any thing like this. What a difference between such a peaceful end, and that of those terrified sinners, who implore heaven with vain and idle prayers unworthy to be heard. Your death, madam, is as exemplary as your life: you have lived to exercise your charity to mankind, and die a martyr to maternal tenderness. Whether it please God to restore you to us, to serve us as an example, or whether he is pleased to call you to himself to crown your virtue with its due reward, may we all so long as we survive, live like you, and in the end follow your example in death; we shall then be certain of happiness in another life.
He offered now to take his leave; but Eloisa prevailed on him to stay. You are one of my friends, said she to him, and one of those I take the greatest pleasure to see; it is for those my last moments are so precious. We are going to part for too long a time, to part so soon now. He was well pleased to stay, and I went out and left them. At my return, I found the conversation continued still on the same subject; but in a less interesting manner. The minister complained much of that false notion, which makes religion only of use to persons on their deathbed, and represents its ministers as men of ill omen. We are looked upon, says he, in common rather as the messengers of sorrow and death, than of the glad tidings of life and salvation: and that because, from the convenient opinion of the world that a quarter of an hour’s repentance is sufficient to efface fifty years of guilt, we are only welcome at such a time. We must be clothed in a mourning habit and affect a morose air, in short nothing is spared to render us dismal and terrifying. It is yet worse, in other religious professions. A dying roman-catholic is surrounded by objects the most terrifying, and is pestered with ceremonies that in a manner bury him alive. By the pains they take to keep the devils from him, he imagines he sees his chamber full of them; he dies a hundred times with fear before he expires, and it is in this state of horror the church delights to plunge the dying sinner, in order to make the greater advantage of his purse.
Thank God, said Eloisa, that we were not brought up in those venal religions, which murder people to inherit their wealth, and who, selling heaven to the rich, would extend even to the other world that unjust inequality which prevails in this. I do not at all doubt that such mournful ideas encourage infidelity, and create a natural aversion for that species of worship, which adopts them. I hope, continued she, looking steadfastly at me, that he who may educate our children will adopt very different maxims: and that he will not represent religion to them as a mournful exercise, by continually setting before them the prospect of death. If they learn once but to live well, they will of themselves know how to die.
In the continuation of this discourse, which became less affecting and more interrupted than I shall tell you, I fully comprehended the maxims of Eloisa, and the conduct at which I had been surprized. It appeared that, perceiving her situation quite desperate, she contrived only to remove that useless and mournful appearance which the fear of most persons when dying makes them put on. This she did either to divert our affliction, or to banish from her own view a spectacle so moving, and at the same time unnecessary. Death, said she, is of itself sufficiently painful! why must it be rendered hideous? the care which others throw away in endeavouring to prolong their lives, I will employ to enjoy mine to the last moment. Shall I make an hospital of my apartment, a scene of disgust and trouble, when my last care will be to assemble in it all those who are most dear to me? If I suffer the air to stagnate, I must banish my children or expose their health to danger. If I put on a frightful dress and appearance myself, I shall be known no longer; I shall be no longer the same person you will all remember to have loved, and will be able to bear me no more. I shall, even alive, have the frightful spectacle of horror before me, which I shall be to my friends when I am dead. Instead of this, I have discovered the art to extend my life without prolonging it. I exist, I love, am loved, and live till the last breath forsakes me. The moment of death is nothing: the natural evil is a trifle; and I have overcome all those of opinion.
This and a good deal of similar discourse passed between the patient, the minister, sometimes the doctor, Fanny, and me. Mrs. Orbe was present all the while but never joined in the conversation. Attentive to the wants of her friend, she was very assiduous to serve her, when she wanted any assistance; the rest of the time she remained immoveable and almost inanimate; she kept looking at her without speaking, and without understanding any thing of what was said. As to myself; fearing that Eloisa would talk too much for her strength, I took the opportunity of the minister and physician’s talking to each other aside, to tell her, in her ear, that she talked a great deal for a sick person, and reasoned very profoundly for one who conceived herself incapable of reasoning. Yes, replied she, very low, I talk too much for a person that is sick, but not for one that is dying; I shall very soon have nothing more to say. With respect to argument, I reason no more now; I have done with it. I have often reflected on my last illness; I am now to profit by my reflection. I am no longer capable of reflecting nor resolving; I am now only able to talk of what I have before thought of, and to practice what I have formerly resolved.
The remainder of the day passed away in nearly the same tranquillity, and almost in the same manner as if no sick person was in the house. Eloisa, just as in full health, calm and resigned, talked with the same good sense and the same spirit; putting on, now and then, an air of serenity approaching even to sprightliness. In short, I continued to observe a certain appearance of joy in her eyes, which increased my uneasiness, and concerning which I was determined to come to an explanation. I delayed it no longer than the same evening: when, seeing I had an inclination to be left alone with her, she told me I had prevented her, for that she had something to say to me. It is very well, replied I, but as I intimated my intention first, give me leave first to explain myself.
Then sitting down by her and looking at her attentively, my Eloisa, said I, my dear Eloisa, you have wounded my very soul. Yes, continued I, seeing her look upon me with some surprise, I have penetrated your sentiments; you are glad to die, you rejoice to leave me. Reflect on my behaviour to you since we have lived together: have I ever deserved on your part so cruel a desire? at that instant she clasped both my hands in hers, and with a voice that thrilled my soul, who? I! said she, I glad to leave you! Is it thus you penetrate my sentiments? Have you so soon forgot our conversation of yesterday? at least, interrupted I, you die content----I have seen----I see it. Hold, said she, it is indeed true, I die content; but it is content to die, as I have lived, worthy the name of your wife. Ask of me no more, for I can tell you no more: but here, continued she, taking a folded paper from under her pillow, here is what will unfold to you the mystery. This paper was a letter which I saw was directed to you. I give it to you open, added she, giving it into my hands, that after having read it you will determine within yourself, either to send or suppress it, according as you think best. I desire, however, you will not read it till I am no more; and I am certain you will grant that request.
This letter, my dear St. Preux, you will find inclosed. She who wrote it I well know is dead; but I can hardly bring myself to believe that she no longer exists. She questioned me afterwards, expressing great uneasiness, about her father. Is it possible, said she, that he should know his daughter to be in danger and she not hear from him! has any misfortune happened to him? or has he ceased to love me? can it be that my father, so tender a father, should thus abandon his child? that he should let me die without seeing him; without receiving his last blessing; without embracing him in my last moments. Good God! how bitterly will he reproach himself, when he comes to find that he will see me no more! ----this reflection so extremely afflicted her, that I judged she would be less affected to know her father was ill than to suspect his indifference. I therefore determined to acquaint her with the truth, and in fact found her more easy than under her first suspicions. The thoughts of never seeing him again, however, much affected her. Alas! said she, what will become of him when I am gone? shall he live to survive his whole family! what a life of solitude will his be? It is impossible he should long survive! at this moment nature resumed its empire, and the horrors of approaching death were extremely perceptible. She sighed, clasped her hands, lifted up her eyes to heaven; and, I saw plainly, endeavoured to pray, with all that difficulty which she before observed, always attended the prayers of the sick.
When it was over, she turned to me, and, complaining that she felt herself very weak; told me, she foresaw this would be the last time we should have an opportunity of conversing together. I conjure you, therefore, continued she, by our sacred union, in the name of those dear infants the pledges of our love, harbour no longer such unjust suspicions of your wife. Can I rejoice to leave you? you, the business of whose life it has been to instruct and make me happy! you, who, of all the men in the world, were the most capable to make me so; you, with whom only perhaps I could have lived within the bounds of discretion and virtue! no! believe me, if I could set any value upon life, it would be that I might spend it with you.----These words, pronounced with great tenderness, affected me to that degree, that as I pressed her hands frequently with my lips I found them wet with my tears. I never before thought my eyes made for weeping. These tears were the first I ever shed since my birth, and shall be the last till the hour of my death. After having wept the last for Eloisa, there is nothing left on earth that can draw from me a tear. This was a day of great fatigue for poor Eloisa. Her preparation of Mrs. Orbe in the preceding night, her interview with the children in the morning, that with the minister in the afternoon, together with the above conversation with me in the evening had quite exhausted her. She betook herself to rest, and slept better that night than on the preceding, whether on account of her lassitude, or that in fact her fever and paroxysms were less violent.
Early the next morning, word was brought me that a stranger, very indifferently dressed, desired very earnestly to speak particularly to Eloisa: and though he was informed of her situation, he still continued his importunity, saying, his business related to an act of great charity, that he knew Mrs. Wolmar very well, and that while she had life remaining, she would take pleasure in exerting her benevolence. As Eloisa had established it as an inviolable rule that no person, particularly such as appeared to be in distress, should be turned away, the servants brought me word of the man and his request: on which I ordered him in. His appearance was mean to the greatest degree, being clothed almost in rags, and having in his air and manner all the symptoms of indigence. I did not observe, however, any thing further either in his looks or discourse to make me suspicious of him; though he still persisted in his resolution of telling his business to none but Eloisa. I told him that if it related to any remedy he might be possessed of, to save her life, I would give him all the recompense he might expect from her, without troubling her in her present extremity. No, sir, replied he, poor as I am, I desire not your money. I demand only what belongs to me, what I esteem beyond all the treasures on earth, what I have lost by my own folly, and what Mrs. Wolmar alone, to whom I owe it, can a second time restore.
This discourse, though unintelligible, determined me, however, what to do. A designing knave might indeed have said as much, but he could never have said it in the same manner. He required that none of the servants should be present, a precaution which seemed mysterious and strange; I indulged him, and introduced him to Eloisa. He had said that he was known to Mrs. Orbe; he passed by her, however, without her taking notice of him, at which I was a little surprized. Eloisa recollected him immediately. Their meeting was extremely affecting. Clara, hearing a noise, came forward, and soon remembered her old acquaintance, nor without some tokens of joy: but these were soon checked by her affliction. One sentiment only engrossed her attention, and her heart was insensible to every thing else. It is needless, I imagine, to tell you who this person was; a thousand ideas will rise up in your memory and suggest it. But whilst Eloisa was comforting him, however, she was seized with a violent stoppage of her breath, and became so ill that we thought she was going to expire. To prevent any further surprise or distraction, at a time when her relief only was to be thought on, I put the man into the closet, and bid him lock himself in. Fanny was then called up, and after some time Eloisa recovered from her fit; when, looking round and seeing us all in a consternation about her, she said, never mind, children, this is only an essay; it is nothing like so painful as one would think.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.