THE DIFFICULT DUTY.
MORAL DOUBTS.
Monsieur de Flaumont one day said to his children:--"I am going torelate to you a circumstance which has come to my knowledge, in orderthat you may give me your opinion on it."
Henry, Clementine, and Gustavus hastened to take their seats near him,when he related what follows:--
"A workman named Paul, the father of several children, who weredependent on his industry, was walking by the side of a very rapidriver, then greatly swollen by recent rains. The water formed awhirlpool under one of the arches of a neighbouring bridge, and drewinto it, with a great deal of noise, the remains of a boat ladenwith planks, which it had already dashed to pieces. Paul gazed uponthe torrent and thought, 'If I were to fall into it, I should havesome difficulty in getting out again.' Yet Paul was an excellentswimmer, and had even saved the lives of several persons who had beennear drowning in that very river; but at that moment the danger wasso great, that in spite of his natural courage, he felt there wassufficient cause for fear. Then his thoughts reverted to his children,who were entirely dependent upon him for support: to his eldest boy, alad of some twelve years of age, who promised to be a good workman,but who, if deprived of his father, would have no one to instruct orprotect him. He thought of his daughter, whom he hoped soon to be ableto apprentice out, and of his little one just weaned, whom his sistertook care of, for the children had lost their mother. It was delightfulto him to reflect how neat and clean they were kept; how well fedthey were, and what good health they enjoyed; and he said, 'All thiswould be greatly changed were I taken home dead!' and, so saying, heinvoluntarily withdrew from the river's edge, as if there were reallysome danger of his being dragged into the water. As he walked on, heobserved upon the bridge a man bearing on his shoulders a bundle of oldiron rails. He was looking into the water, and watching a plank on thepoint of passing under the bridge. He bent over to see if it clearedthe arch well, but, leaning too far, his head turned giddy, the loadon his shoulders threw him off his balance, and he was precipitatedinto the water, uttering a fearful cry. Paul also uttered a cry ofdistress, for he felt himself chained to the shore by the remembranceof his children, while his kind feelings made him anxious to aid theunfortunate being whom he beheld on the brink of destruction. Helooked around him with inexpressible anguish, and perceiving a longpole, he seized hold of it, and endeavoured, by advancing into thewater, without losing his footing, to push a plank to the unfortunateman, who was trying to swim towards him. But all in vain; the torrentwas furious, and after a few efforts, the poor wretch sank, roseagain to the surface, and then disappeared altogether. Paul remainedmotionless at the side of the river, with his eyes fixed on the spotwhere the miserable man had been engulfed. He continued there untilit became quite dark, then returned home, a prey to the most intensemelancholy, but still saying to himself, 'I do not think I have donewrong.' For several days he refused food; sleep fled from his eyes,and he scarcely spoke to any one. His neighbours, seeing him in thiscondition, inquired the cause, and he told them. The greater partconsidered that he had done right, some few were of a contrary opinion,but he himself always said, 'Still, I do not think I have actedwrong.'--What is your opinion, my children?"
CLEMENTINE.--Certainly, he did quite right, to preserve his life forthe sake of his children.
HENRY.--Oh! yes! that is a most convenient excuse for not doing one'sduty.
GUSTAVUS.--But he owed nothing to this man who was so clumsy as to fallinto the water: he did not even know him.
HENRY.--Papa has always told us that we ought to do all the good we canto our fellow-creatures; and Paul might at least have tried to save thepoor man: he was not sure of perishing with him.
CLEMENTINE.--Oh! but it was very likely.
HENRY.--There would be great merit, certainly, in doing courageousdeeds, if we were quite sure there was no danger in them!
M. DE FLAUMONT.--But, consider my boy, that by exposing himself to thedanger, which was very great, and in which he would in all probabilityhave perished, he also exposed his children to the risk of dying ofhunger, or of becoming rogues, for the want of an honest means ofobtaining a living. Do you not think this a consideration of sufficientimportance to counterbalance the desire he felt to save the drowningman?
HENRY.--Perhaps so, papa,--but it is nevertheless certain, that we holda man who courageously exposes his life to save a fellow-being in farhigher estimation than we do one who so carefully calculates all thereasons that can be found for not doing so.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is quite natural: the courage of the man whoperforms a brave deed is self-evident; whereas, we cannot be so sureof the motives of him who refuses to perform one. But, supposing itto be clearly proved that Paul really wished to throw himself into thewater to save this man, and was only withheld by the interests of hischildren, do you not think he merited esteem rather than reproach?
HENRY.--One thing, at least, is certain: I should not have liked to bein his position.
CLEMENTINE.--It would certainly be a most difficult matter to know whatto do.
GUSTAVUS.--Well, and while you were reflecting, the poor man would bestill in the water; and so it would come to the same thing.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--Hesitation is undoubtedly the very thing that shouldbe most avoided in such a case, for it prevents all action; and forthis reason it is that we ought to accustom ourselves to reflect uponthe relative importance of our duties, in order to know which of themought to take precedence.
HENRY.--But when there happen to be two of equal importance?
M. DE FLAUMONT.--That can never be the case; for we are never calledupon to do impossibilities. Do you think, for example, that Paul couldat one and the same moment, throw himself into the water, and _not_throw himself into it?
GUSTAVUS, _laughing_.--That would, indeed, be an impossibility.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--Do you think, then, that he could be obliged toperform an action, and at the same time to do what would render thataction impossible?
HENRY.--Certainly not.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is, then, quite evident, that if it was his dutyto perform one of these actions, he ought to have put aside everythingcalculated to interfere with it; even what would be a duty under othercircumstances.
CLEMENTINE.--And you think, papa, do you not, that the duty ofproviding for one's children ought to take precedence of every other?
M. DE FLAUMONT.--No, not of every other, certainly. The first of allduties is to be an honest man, to do no wrong to any one, never tobetray the interest committed to one's charge.
CLEMENTINE.--But the interests of one's children are surely committedto one's charge.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--But we are first of all responsible for the interestsof our own probity, for no one can be charged with these but ourselves.The first thing prescribed to us is, not to be unjust to others; but weare not necessarily unjust to them when we do not render them all theassistance they require; and though the drowning man stood in need ofPaul's assistance, it was not an injustice in him to withhold it, forthe sake of his children.
HENRY.--Because his children had need of it also. But, papa, accordingto this argument, neither would it have been an injustice not to do forhis children all the good they stood in need of; for he was not morenecessary to them than he was to the drowning man, who had no one buthim to look to for assistance.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--Certainly not; but do you think it possible to do goodto every one?
GUSTAVUS.--To do that, we should have to pass our days in running aboutthe streets, in order to assist all the poor.
CLEMENTINE.--Or even wander over the earth to discover those who mightrequire our aid, and spend our whole fortunes in doing so.
HENRY.--This, certainly, is a point which has often puzzled me.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is because you have not considered that eachman, forming but a very small portion of the world, can be speciallytrusted with only a very small portion of the good to be done in it.Were it otherwise, it woul
d be impossible to do any good at all;for if every one wanted to do everything, there would be nothing butconfusion. Each one must therefore endeavour to discover for himselfwhat is the portion of good he is naturally expected to do. Thus, evenif it were not a duty of justice to make the existence and well-beingof our children our first care, still it would be a duty of reason,since it would be absurd to neglect the good we might accomplish inour own homes, for the sake of going elsewhere to do good. This duty,therefore, we must first of all fulfil, and afterwards consider whatmeans are left for the accomplishment of any others which may presentthemselves; such as kindness and devotion towards those who have noother claim upon us, than that of standing in need of our aid.
HENRY.--Notwithstanding all that, papa, I shall always find itdifficult to understand, that because a man has children who requirehis protection, he must therefore give up the idea of assisting othersif, by so doing, he exposes himself to danger.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--You are right not to understand it, for it is nottrue. We can, and we certainly ought, even in that case, to exposeourselves to a moderate danger for the sake of a great good. Thus, forexample, if the river had been tranquil, or even had there been only aconsiderable probability of escape, Paul would have done wrong not tothrow himself into the water.
CLEMENTINE.--But, papa, since he might still have perished, he wouldstill have exposed himself to the danger of failing in his duty towardshis children.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--Undoubtedly; but would he not also incur great riskof losing an opportunity of saving a fellow-being, when, to allappearance, he might have done so without injuring his children?
CLEMENTINE.--Yes; and now the case becomes again embarrassing.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is under such circumstances that duties may becompared and weighed one against the other. But if you were assured,that by exposing your children to some slight inconvenience,--such, forexample, as being worse fed or clothed for a time,--you would therebysave the life of another, do you not think that you ought to do so?
CLEMENTINE.--Certainly.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--Impossible as it is for us to discover what willbe the result of things subjected to chance, we ought I think tolean to that side which seems to offer the greatest probability ofproducing the greatest good, and to regard a slight danger as a slightinconvenience, to which we subject our children in order to secure toanother a very great advantage. Are you satisfied, Henry?
HENRY.--Well, papa, I shall try to become very expert, so that thedanger may always be slight.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is quite right; but now let me conclude my story.
CLEMENTINE.--What! is it not finished?
GUSTAVUS.--Oh, go on, then, papa.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--Paul, as I have already told you, had the utmostdifficulty in overcoming his distress. He sometimes said to himself,"The river was not so very much swollen; I took fright too easily;we might both have escaped;" and he had not the courage to return tothe side of that river,--he preferred making wide circuits in orderto avoid going near it. He often heard of persons being drowned whilebathing in this river, a thing by no means unusual; for those who didnot know it well, imprudently ventured too near the whirlpool under thearch, and were ingulfed. At these times, Paul's conscience smote him,and he felt almost degraded. But what was most singular was, that hislast adventure had given him a dread of the water--he who had hithertobeen so courageous; but he constantly thought, "It would be a terriblething, if, now that I have done so much for my children, I were to betaken away from them;" and thus he avoided every danger with extremecare. He scarcely seemed to be the same man, so timid and cautious hadhe become. His neighbours said among themselves, "How extraordinary!Paul has become a coward!" and they imagined that it was from fearthat he had not plunged into the water. In other respects, he was moreindustrious than ever, and lost no opportunity of putting his childrenin a condition to earn their own living, as if he was afraid of dyingbefore the completion of his task. He succeeded in bringing them upremarkably well. His eldest son became a clever workman, and was aboutto marry and establish himself in another town; his daughter became thewife of a shopkeeper with a good trade; and the schoolmaster of thetown, who became attached to the youngest boy, because he was diligentin his studies, requested his father to allow him, when fifteen yearsof age, to aid him in the duties of his school, and promised, if heconducted himself well, to give it up to him in the course of a fewyears.
The day on which Paul had established his son with the schoolmaster,and on which he could consequently say that his children no longerstood in need of his assistance, that they would no longer be exposedto misery if he were taken from them, he felt his mind relieved from aheavy burden, and in the joy which he experienced, he seemed to haverecovered all the courage which for twelve years had deserted him; fortwelve years had now elapsed since the occurrence of the accident whichhad rendered him so unhappy. He left his work at an earlier hour thanusual, and went for a solitary ramble. For the first time these twelveyears he directed his steps towards the river, recalling to mind thedifferent persons whom he had saved from it, before the fatal day whichhad deprived him of his daring. It was an autumn evening; the weatherwas dull and cold; the river, swollen by the rains, was agitated by aviolent wind, and appeared in much the same condition as when he hadlast beheld it. He approached, and considered it attentively. "Theriver is much swollen," he said; "nevertheless, if I were to throwmyself into it to-day, I am sure I should escape;" and he said thisbecause, having no longer the dread of failing in his duty to hischildren, he did not think of the danger, but only of the means ofovercoming it. On raising his eyes mechanically towards the bridge,to the spot whence he had seen the poor man whom he had been unableto aid, fall, he saw, as it was not yet dark, some one approach theparapet, who appeared to him a very young man. This young man stoodgazing at the water for some time, and all the while Paul kept his eyefixed upon him. At last, seeing him climb the parapet, and observinghim totter, he cried out, "You will fall," but at the same moment theyoung man took a spring and dashed into the water. Paul, as if he had apresentiment of what would happen, had already his hand upon his coat;he tore it off, dashed it from him, and was in the river almost as soonas the young man, and, swimming towards the spot where he had seen himfall, he endeavoured to catch him before he reached the whirlpool,where he knew they must both perish. He reached him while he was stillstruggling under the water: he plunged; but by a movement natural tothose who are drowning, even when they drown themselves intentionally,the young man seized hold of him, grasping his legs so tightly, thathe prevented his swimming. They must both have perished, had not Paulhappily succeeded in disengaging one of his legs, with which he gavethe other such a violent kick, that he was forced to relax his hold.Paul then seized him by the hair, and remounted to the surface of thewater. The young man was insensible, but Paul dragged him on whileswimming with one hand. At that moment the wind was terrible, and withit was mingled a violent rain, which intercepted his sight. The windand the current of the river hurried them towards the whirlpool. Heredoubled his efforts: he felt animated by an extraordinary vigour. Atlast, he succeeded in escaping the danger, reached the bank, landed,and they were saved.
The Difficult Duty, p. 148.]
The young man was like one dead, but Paul, who had saved many personsfrom a watery grave, knew what were the means to be adopted in orderto restore him to life. He carried him to the foot of a large tree,the dense foliage of which sheltered them from the rain, and renderedhim every assistance which the circumstances permitted. He succeededin restoring him in some degree, and the moment he heard him breathe,he placed him on his shoulders, and bore him with all possible speedto his own house, where, by dint of care, the young man completelyrecovered his senses. He was about seventeen years of age, and seemedwasted away by want and illness. As soon as he was able to speak, Paulasked him what had induced him to throw himself into the river. Theyoung man, who was named Andre, replied that it was want and despair.He stated,
that twelve years before, his father, who was a travellingblacksmith, had been drowned by accident, as it was supposed, in thatsame river, his body having been discovered there some days after.Paul shuddered while he listened to this recital, but said nothing.Andre went on to state that up to the age of ten, he had lived with hismother, who provided for him as well as she could by her labour, butthat, having lost her, he endeavoured to gain a living for himself byworking whenever he could find employment. Sometimes at the harvest,sometimes at the barns, sometimes in assisting the masons; that he hadendured great hardships, and often wanted food; that, at last, he hadfallen ill, and on leaving the hospital, while still convalescent,having neither home, nor money, nor employment, he had been obliged tosleep in the fields, and to pass two whole days without food, so thathe felt completely exhausted; that finally, towards the close ofthe second day, happening to be upon the bridge, from which it was saidthat his father had fallen, and, feeling unable to proceed farther,and impelled by despair, he had thrown himself into the water. Whilelistening to this recital, Paul mentally exclaimed, "Since I have savedthis man, I might have saved the other also;" but then he thought,"We might both have perished, and then my children would have been asdestitute as Andre." He was greatly rejoiced at having been able tosave Andre, and determined, after this new trial of his strength, neveragain to fear the water nor the swelling of the river, especially nowthat he was no longer necessary to his children.
However, he could not carry his good resolutions into effect, for thefollowing day he was seized with a violent fever, accompanied by severepains in all his limbs. On coming out of the river, intent only onrestoring Andre, he had not been able to dry himself, and, indeed, hehad not even thought of doing so; thus the damp clothes he had keptso long about him had brought on an attack of rheumatic gout. For thenext two days he grew worse and worse, and his life was despaired of.He had moments of delirium, during which he was tormented by anxietyfor his children, but when his senses returned he remembered that theywere well provided for, and appeared truly happy. Notwithstanding hissufferings, Andre, who gradually regained his strength, tended himwith the greatest assiduity, and wept beside his bed when he beheldhim getting worse. Paul did not die; but he continued subject topains, which sometimes entirely deprived him of the use of his limbs."Ah!" he would sometimes exclaim, when a sharp pain shot through anarm or a leg; "if I had become like this before I had provided for mychildren!" Andre, whom he had kept with him, and who was intelligentand well-disposed, learned his trade sufficiently to assist him when hewas able to work, and to work under his direction when he was ill. Theshop continued to prosper, and his business was even increased by theinterest taken both in himself and Andre, and when speaking of Andre'sfather, he would say, "Poor fellow! may God receive his soul; but I amsure he has forgiven me, for he has seen that I could not have actedotherwise."
M. de Flaumont ceased, and the children waited for a moment in silence,to see if the story was ended.
"Oh!" said Henry, at length, with a heavy sigh, "I am glad the storyhas ended thus."
CLEMENTINE.--Yes! but think of poor Paul remaining a martyr torheumatism!
GUSTAVUS.--Most assuredly his good action was not too well rewarded.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--He received such a reward as ought to be expectedfor a good action--the consciousness of having done well. This is itsnatural recompense, and this recompense is quite independent of theconsequences which may otherwise result from it.
CLEMENTINE.--Nevertheless, it is painful to see an honest man sufferingfrom having performed a good action.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--But it would have been far more painful if he had donewrong. Would you have preferred his leaving Andre to perish?
CLEMENTINE.--Oh! certainly not.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--It was even possible that Paul might have died. Evenin that case, could one have regretted his exposing his life to saveAndre?
HENRY (_with animation_).--No, certainly not: that could not beregretted.
M. DE FLAUMONT.--That proves to you that the reward, as I have said,is quite independent of the consequences. Thus, for instance, if aworkman had executed a piece of work for a person who refused to payhim: you would regret that he had done the work, because the payment isthe natural recompense of his toil; whereas, you would never think ofregretting that a man had performed a generous action, even though itturned out badly for him, because you would feel that he was rewardedby the action itself.
After all, my children, added M. de Flaumont, do not think that virtueis always so difficult. Our true duties are usually placed within ourreach, so that they may be performed without much effort; still, ascases may arise in which effort is necessary, we ought to be preparedwith means of supporting those efforts. We ought to accustom ourselvesto consider duty as being quite as indispensable when it is difficultas when it is easy; and we ought, also, to have our minds so prepared,that we shall not magnify difficulties to such a degree as to renderthem insurmountable. Thus, we should not exaggerate the importanceof any one duty, as we shall thereby be led to neglect others; but,after having fully persuaded ourselves that it is impossible therecan exist at one and the same time two contradictory duties, let us,in cases of difficulty, lean to that which seems the most important,and, while regretting our inability to do all that we could wish, letus not regard as a duty that which another duty has prevented us fromperforming.