SECOND DIALOGUE.
Caroline—Madame de Boissy, working.
Madame de Boissy.—Caroline, did you really require that sash, which you induced your uncle to give you, by asking him to lend you the money to buy it?
Caroline.—I am very glad to have it, mamma, since it has cost me nothing.
Madame de Boissy.—You knew, then, that your uncle would make you a present of it?
Caroline.—Mamma, I only asked him to lend me the money.
Madame de Boissy.—I know that; but did you expect you would have to repay him?
Caroline.—Certainly! if he wished it.
Madame de Boissy.—But did you think he would wish it?
Caroline (embarrassed).—I do not know, mamma.
Madame de Boissy.—Tell me candidly,—when you asked your uncle to lend you the money to purchase this sash, which you did not want, and which, in all probability, you would not have bought had you been alone,—did you not know that it was a means of obtaining it as a gift?
Caroline.—Dear me, mamma! you make me examine my conscience as if I were going to confession.
Madame de Boissy.—And it is thus you should always examine it, my child.
Caroline.—Yes, mamma, when one has done anything wrong.
Madame de Boissy.—Or to ascertain whether one has done wrong.
Caroline (much confused).—But what wrong can I have done? My uncle could act as he pleased, and it was certainly quite true that I had no money in my purse.
Madame de Boissy.—There was one thing, however, which was not quite true, but which you, nevertheless, wished to make him believe, and that was, that you really intended to buy this sash yourself.
Caroline (still confused).—But, mamma, my intentions do not concern any one but myself.
Madame de Boissy.—You seem to fear the contrary, since you conceal them. You would not have been willing that your uncle should have discovered them; therefore, while you were really actuated by one motive, you led him to suppose that you were influenced by another. You would not have asked him to give you this ribbon, because you know that we ought not to accept a gift, unless we feel that the giver has as much pleasure in presenting it as we have in receiving it, and, in that case, it will occur to him as readily as to ourselves. You have, therefore, allowed your uncle to believe that you had the delicacy not to desire a present, which it had not occurred to him to make you, while, at the same time, you endeavoured to make him think of it by underhand means. You have sought to obtain, at one and the same time, both the esteem which delicacy merits, and the gift which it would be necessary to sacrifice in order to deserve this esteem. It is evident that both cannot belong to you, and that you have committed a theft in the transaction.
Caroline (shocked).—Oh! mamma, we only commit theft when we injure some one, and I have not injured any one.
Madame de Boissy.—You have extorted from your uncle a present, which he probably would not have made to any one whom he believed capable of subterfuge. You have cheated his intentions of giving you an unexpected pleasure.
Caroline.—He cannot know that; therefore his pleasure will be all the same.
Madame de Boissy.—Caroline, would you think you were not stealing, if you took money from the coffers of a rich man who made no use of it, and did not know how much he had? If you did not do him an injury of which he was conscious, you injured those to whom his money would one day go, and who might not be either so rich or so indifferent as himself. In like manner, if you did not do your uncle any positive wrong, by usurping an esteem which was not your due, you at least were unjust to those whom he might place on a level with you in his esteem, or whom he might set beneath you; for either you must share with them an esteem which you did not merit, and which is always more flattering when obtained alone, or you must diminish the consolation they would otherwise have in finding an additional example to excuse them. Be well assured that we can never deceive without injuring some one, and that there can be no unfair advantage which is not gained at the expense of our neighbours.
Caroline.—But really, mamma, this advantage is so very trifling.
Madame de Boissy.—The case is trifling, but the principle is the same, and you would no more wish to steal needles than diamonds. Besides, my child, we must attach some value to, and derive some advantage from, a thing which we take the trouble to steal; and who can, with propriety, desire an advantage which he has not merited? Listen, Caroline: you are now growing a great girl, and it is time you should understand all that is due to yourself and others, in regard to uprightness and honesty in the most trifling things, and how mean it is to wish to deceive others, or to think it necessary to do so.
Caroline.—Mamma, I have never wished to deceive any one, I assure you.
Madame de Boissy.—I grant you that we do not say to ourselves, I wish to deceive; we should be horrified; but, without telling absolute falsehoods, people often pass their lives in endeavouring to make others believe things which are untrue. If we are cold, or hot, or tired, we complain of our sufferings; we exaggerate them in order to attract attention, and gain pity, or at least to make people think of us. We laugh louder than we feel inclined to do, to make it appear that we are very gay; we look in the glass, and exclaim, "How, I am sunburnt!" in order that we may be told that it is imperceptible, and be complimented on our complexion. We complain of a dress that fits badly, and say, "What a fright I look to-day," in the hope of finding some sycophant who will assure us that we look well in everything. Or, finally, we give expression to some worthy sentiment in order to be praised for it.
Caroline.—But, mamma, if the sentiment be sincere?
Madame de Boissy.—My dear child, there is always insincerity in the means employed to obtain praise for it; for good feelings are not intended to gain us admiration, but to make us do what is right. We should not esteem the benevolence of a man, who did good merely for the sake of obtaining commendation; nor the fraternal sentiments of him whose sole object in displaying them was to be praised for his attachment to his brothers and sisters. Thus, those who make a display of feeling for the sake of being praised, must take care to conceal their intentions; consequently, if they obtain the praise, it is quite clear that they have stolen it.
Caroline.—But one must then watch every movement of the mind, for these things may escape us without our in the least intending it.
Madame de Boissy.—To prevent them from doing so, it is only necessary to think, once for all, of two or three things. First, that we display very little respect or consideration for ourselves when we stoop to deceive others, in order that they may condescend to pay attention to us. Secondly, that we place ourselves in a very humiliating position when we thus beg for a flattery, a compliment, or a mark of attention, which is usually granted from mere politeness, or for the sake of pleasing us, just as we give a penny to a beggar in the street. Finally, that these kinds of stratagems, when they are discovered—and they are discovered oftener than people imagine—may overwhelm us with ridicule, or even with shame, and that the most trifling untruth exposes us to a risk far greater than the pleasure which it procures. Tell me if your sash would ever afford you a pleasure as great as the annoyance you would feel, if your uncle were to discover the subterfuge you employed in order to induce him to make you a present of it.
Caroline.—Oh! mamma, you have made me absolutely hate it. I will never even look at it again.
Madame de Boissy.—There you are wrong, my child; you must look at it, and think of it, in order that it may remind you of the necessity of always acting honourably.