Chapter VII: Can I Attain Hope at Last?

“Jean Paul Richter says that many sensitive people feel most depressed at midday in Midsummer, _i.e._, when the brilliant light and luxuriance of this world are at the full glory of their perfection. Does not this show how unsatisfactory are the best states and capabilities of this world, and how impossible it is to attain perfect happiness here below. Yes,” continued Aunt Jane, “and to think that there are no beings more perfect than ourselves, no higher intelligence than weak sinning mortals--that babies struggle and cry through their painful teething, and old age through its numerous infirmities, all in vain!--that they can never, never enjoy an unalloyed happiness, after all their bodily and mental sufferings, never attain the perfection all the best of us long for. What a prospect! To think that all the high-minded and beautiful teachings of Scripture are all delusions! Well, but if they were even invented by mortals, does not that even show that the mortals who could thus aspire after perfection, and hope for everlasting life, will and must attain it?”

“It seems indeed,” I said, “as if man were the only animal made for suffering--I mean, that the higher his faculties are developed, the greater his capacity for suffering as well as joy. This, and the fact that hope is his chief characteristic, would show that he is destined for a better life than _this_ world can afford. But still the origin of evil is the great stumbling-block to a thinking and inquiring mind--”

“It is,” replied Aunt Jane, “difficult to remember that this probation ought to ensure a higher degree of happiness, if our free will has been rightly directed. Nothing in nature, or literature, or science can solve the enigma of our condition in this beautiful world, except the account given in Scripture. If we can believe that Volume, all the misery and sinfulness of human nature become intelligible. What else can account for our state here below? A set of beings placed in a condition which make them wish and hope for a happiness and perfection which, very certainly, never can in this world be attained. Do not we all,” continued Aunt Jane, “feel that we improve as we grow older in goodness? Do not our aspirations after real happiness--the happiness of goodness and love--become stronger, and therefore we become more fit for eternal happiness? This in spite of bodily decay, loss of hearing or sight, or even of the increased irritability which seems to indicate less amiability; and even the decay of the mental powers of application or study. I am sure we do. And also does not the above prove that we are tending towards immortality, becoming fit to enjoy that state of mind or being which can alone render eternity enjoyable, or even bearable?”

“Yet all old people do not improve,” said I.

“No; but those invariably do who are actuated by the spirit of religion. I grant you that one of the most depressing things to be met with in advancing age is to find old friends changed by what appears to us the worldly or unbelieving bad spirit of the times. To see old friends gradually imbued with the sceptical scoffing and doubting spirit of these days--a spirit which did not outwardly show itself on the countenances of well-bred people of fifty, or more years ago, is very sad.”

I suppose this must have been the fate of susceptible and thinking persons in all ages. It may not prove at all that mankind has become worse, but that different kinds of vices or failings become more or less developed at various periods, and that as we live on, we are more struck with the particular fault which happened _not_ to show itself so much in our youth. Things are very long in operating; and well-born young London faces of the present day are only beginning to take the stamp which the scoffers of Voltaire’s time began to print on the features of mankind. What will remove this fatal and ugly mark?

* * * * *

One day, when I had been talking of old age, I said, “Originality doubtless increases with age.”

“Yes, it does so,” said Aunt Jane, “and my difference from most other people has increased most inconveniently, and now prevents me from agreeing fully with, or condemning wholly, anyone.”

“I have observed that your faculty for seeing all round, and seeing also the good in everything and everybody, must make you very solitary. So far can I fully agree with you.”

“Not entirely solitary,” said Aunt Jane, “for I can generally, almost always, feel the kindness of God towards me. I feel (particularly when suffering, or in misfortune) that He is _loving_ me and comforting me. We find it so difficult to believe that responsibility (the power to choose evil or good) was given to us in order to attain a higher degree of happiness. Is not this the case?”

“Often,” I said; “and then, again, I find myself wasting whole hours in wondering about the reasons of my unbelief.”

“Loss of time,” said Aunt Jane, “is chiefly that which impedes and retards our acquirement of Faith.”

“Has the loss of time,” I asked, “engendered by the doubt created in my mind by the entering into or studying more fully the doctrine of different churches been really lost, or will it ever lead to better faith and hope?”

“I trust and believe it will.”

“Is it because I am so grasping and covetous,” said I, “that I cannot enjoy the beautiful world in its highest beauty, at those times when my faith in future happiness, _i.e._, in Revelation and the promises of Scripture, is weak? Ah! how sadly often is my faith weak! I feel so worldly in my religion, so exactly like the so-called worldly lady who is always calculating for the future of herself and family, always thinking of the ends to be gained, so that she never fully enjoys the present.”

“In that point of view I am worldly too,” said Aunt Jane, laughing. “Yes--but don’t interrupt--it is exactly the same, only my anxiety carries me a little further, and, so far from being satisfied with any future advantage in this world, I am still more avariciously craving for future happiness in the next. I am so greedy for this, that nothing--no other hope can satisfy me. Stop. I exaggerate the text, to work out my salvation in fear and trembling, always thinking what God will give me, and those I love, in the next world, and how I shall be with them--whether for ever freed from all remorse and self-reproach. Yes, I am the most calculating--that is, worldly of you all.”

“It must, I think, be a blessing to be calculating and worldly after that fashion,” said I. “But it is rather of a different kind from the unscrupulous cupidity of Mrs. Powdler, in the story you were reading to me yesterday.”

“Ah!” continued Aunt Jane, “what strikes me most in these modern novels is the total absence of any religious sentiment. No one could tell from reading them whether any of the characters were Christians or Jews, or anything else. From this proceeds the low standard--the absence of high and noble sentiment, in the books which are gradually demoralizing our youth. Does it not stand to reason that it must be much better for us to believe that an unseen eye is always watching our thoughts, and seeing more into our hidden motives than even our best friend or keenest enemy can do? How can we dare to cherish hatred, revenge, and malice, if we feel that His eye is upon us? And the effort to be good towards others increases within ourselves that happiness for which we crave, as you will find when you grow older. Because a loving frame of mind is so much happier than a hating state--an amiable heart than a proud one. There is always some of the bitterness of hatred when we feel that we have been injured or ill-treated, or that our friends have not done enough for us. Most certainly ‘Love is the fulfilling of the Law.’”

“It is very difficult,” I said, “to realise an eternity of what one so seldom feels--happiness. I try to be in a thankful state of mind, and most of my prayers are thanksgivings, but I so very seldom feel really happy, that I can scarcely ever imagine an eternity or any length of time of it. In these sad humours I can fully realise all the punishment and torture which await such sinners as myself, but I seem totally unable to believe the beautiful Revelation which promises happiness to those who do their best. I cannot believe that my ‘bad’ could ever have been, or will be, ‘best.’ It must be a mental disease which can thus put faith in one part of immortality, _i.e._, everlasting torture, and yet have no faith in the beautiful Scriptures, which declare that ‘Blessed are the meek,’ ‘Blessed are those that mourn.’ I can’t see that all the sufferings, bodily and mental, can ever give wicked _me_ the kingdom of heaven. I often think that if in a future life I could obtain a visible certainty that those I love most were enjoying eternal happiness, this certain consciousness of it would be sufficient for me. I mean that, if I were doomed to retain the miserable feeling of remorse, and guilt, and shortcoming which almost incessantly torment me here below in this imperfect world, the consciousness of my loved one’s happiness would make this, my state of misery, bearable. I can so fully realise the _justice_ of my suffering from remorse--in fact, it is more satisfactory when I can feel that what I suffer is caused by my own fault, than the despairing insensibility to sin, the self-pity, or the murmuring pride which visit some of my darkest hours. If eternity could be like what I feel at my bright moments, I should be fully satisfied. I cannot realise that I could ever inherit the joys eternal which are promised to those who love God; for alas! in my dark hours I only really love or realise my fellow-creatures, although I am always praying to the Unseen, and giving Him thanks for all my unmerited blessings. But the conviction through eternity that those I love are happy, even if I am doomed to a consciousness of my own sin and consequent remorse, would be far preferable to the ever-haunting dread I now experience, that there may be no hereafter for them--that all their sufferings, all their patience and goodness may attain no reward!--that all the perfections they have attained through probation and agony would only end in annihilation!--that they should have suffered and striven and prayed in vain! This, of course, shews that my only happy moments are those when I can hope that revelation is true, and the doubt of futurity, or, rather, dread of annihilation, is my almost absorbing misery.”

“It will not be always so,” said Aunt Jane.

“I think--I trust,” I said, “that Almighty God may grant my prayers for faith and hope, because He has (probably in His mercy) given me trials which have not been occasional suffering, but such as I cannot forget even in my dreams.”