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My sensations take place in myself, for they make me aware of my
own existence; but their cause is outside me, for they affect me
whether I have any reason for them or not, and they are produced
or destroyed independently of me. So I clearly perceive that my
sensation, which is within me, and its cause or its object, which
is outside me, are different things.
Thus, not only do I exist, but other entities exist also, that is
to say, the objects of my sensations; and even if these objects
are merely ideas, still these ideas are not me.
But everything outside myself, everything which acts upon my senses,
I call matter, and all the particles of matter which I suppose to be
united into separate entities I call bodies. Thus all the disputes
of the idealists and the realists have no meaning for me; their
distinctions between the appearance and the reality of bodies are
wholly fanciful.
I am now as convinced of the existence of the universe as of
my own. I next consider the objects of my sensations, and I find
that I have the power of comparing them, so I perceive that I am
endowed with an active force of which I was not previously aware.
To perceive is to feel; to compare is to judge; to judge and to feel
are not the same. Through sensation objects present themselves to
me separately and singly as they are in nature; by comparing them
I rearrange them, I shift them so to speak, I place one upon another
to decide whether they are alike or different, or more generally
to find out their relations. To my mind, the distinctive faculty of
an active or intelligent being is the power of understanding this
word "is." I seek in vain in the merely sensitive entity that
intelligent force which compares and judges; I can find no trace of
it in its nature. This passive entity will be aware of each object
separately, it will even be aware of the whole formed by the two
together, but having no power to place them side by side it can
never compare them, it can never form a judgment with regard to
them.
To see two things at once is not to see their relations nor to judge
of their differences; to perceive several objects, one beyond the
other, is not to relate them. I may have at the same moment an idea
of a big stick and a little stick without comparing them, without
judging that one is less than the other, just as I can see my whole
hand without counting my fingers. [Footnote: M. de le Cordamines'
narratives tell of a people who only know how to count up to three.
Yet the men of this nation, having hands, have often seen their
fingers without learning to count up to five.] These comparative
ideas, 'greater', 'smaller', together with number ideas of 'one',
'two', etc. are certainly not sensations, although my mind only
produces them when my sensations occur.
We are told that a sensitive being distinguishes sensations from each
other by the inherent differences in the sensations; this requires
explanation. When the sensations are different, the sensitive
being distinguishes them by their differences; when they are alike,
he distinguishes them because he is aware of them one beyond the
other. Otherwise, how could he distinguish between two equal objects
simultaneously experienced? He would necessarily confound the two
objects and take them for one object, especially under a system
which professed that the representative sensations of space have
no extension.
When we become aware of the two sensations to be compared, their
impression is made, each object is perceived, both are perceived,
but for all that their relation is not perceived. If the judgment
of this relation were merely a sensation, and came to me solely
from the object itself, my judgments would never be mistaken, for
it is never untrue that I feel what I feel.
Why then am I mistaken as to the relation between these two sticks,
especially when they are not parallel? Why, for example, do I say
the small stick is a third of the large, when it is only a quarter?
Why is the picture, which is the sensation, unlike its model which
is the object? It is because I am active when I judge, because
the operation of comparison is at fault; because my understanding,
which judges of relations, mingles its errors with the truth of
sensations, which only reveal to me things.
Add to this a consideration which will, I feel sure, appeal to
you when you have thought about it: it is this--If we were purely
passive in the use of our senses, there would be no communication
between them; it would be impossible to know that the body we are
touching and the thing we are looking at is the same. Either we
should never perceive anything outside ourselves, or there would
be for us five substances perceptible by the senses, whose identity
we should have no means of perceiving.
This power of my mind which brings my sensations together and
compares them may be called by any name; let it be called attention,
meditation, reflection, or what you will; it is still true that
it is in me and not in things, that it is I alone who produce it,
though I only produce it when I receive an impression from things.
Though I am compelled to feel or not to feel, I am free to examine
more or less what I feel.
Being now, so to speak, sure of myself, I begin to look at things
outside myself, and I behold myself with a sort of shudder flung
at random into this vast universe, plunged as it were into the vast
number of entities, knowing nothing of what they are in themselves
or in relation to me. I study them, I observe them; and the first
object which suggests itself for comparison with them is myself.
All that I perceive through the senses is matter, and I deduce
all the essential properties of matter from the sensible qualities
which make me perceive it, qualities which are inseparable from it.
I see it sometimes in motion, sometimes at rest, [Footnote: This
repose is, if you prefer it, merely relative; but as we perceive
more or less of motion, we may plainly conceive one of two extremes,
which is rest; and we conceive it so clearly that we are even
disposed to take for absolute rest what is only relative. But it
is not true that motion is of the essence of matter, if matter may
be conceived of as at rest.] hence I infer that neither motion nor
rest is essential to it, but motion, being an action, is the result
of a cause of which rest is only the absence. When, therefore,
there is nothing acting upon matter it does not move, and for the
very reason that rest and motion are indifferent to it, its natural
state is a state of rest.
I perceive two sorts of motions of bodies, acquired motion and
spontaneous or voluntary motion. In the first the cause is external
to the body moved, in the second it is within. I shall not conclude
from that that the motion, say of a watch, is spontaneous, for if no
external cause operated upon the spring it would run down and the
watch would cease to go. For the same reason I should not admit
that the movements of fluids are spontaneous, neither should I
attribute spontaneous motion to fire which causes their fluidity.
[Footnote: Chemists regard phlogiston or the element of fire as
diffused, motionless, and stagnant in the compounds of which it
forms part, until external forces set it free, collect it and set
it in motion, and change it into fire.]
You ask me if the movements of animals are spontaneous; my answer
is, "I cannot tell," but analogy points that way. You ask me again,
how do I know that there are spontaneous movements? I tell you, "I
know it because I feel them." I want to move my arm and I move it
without any other immediate cause of the movement but my own will.
In vain would any one try to argue me out of this feeling, it is
stronger than any proofs; you might as well try to convince me that
I do not exist.
If there were no spontaneity in men's actions, nor in anything
that happens on this earth, it would be all the more difficult to
imagine a first cause for all motion. For my own part, I feel myself
so thoroughly convinced that the natural state of matter is a state
of rest, and that it has no power of action in itself, that when
I see a body in motion I at once assume that it is either a living
body or that this motion has been imparted to it. My mind declines
to accept in any way the idea of inorganic matter moving of its
own accord, or giving rise to any action.
Yet this visible universe consists of matter, matter diffused and
dead, [Footnote: I have tried hard to grasp the idea of a living
molecule, but in vain. The idea of matter feeling without any senses
seems to me unintelligible and self-contradictory. To accept or
reject this idea one must first understand it, and I confess that
so far I have not succeeded.] matter which has none of the cohesion,
the organisation, the common feeling of the parts of a living body,
for it is certain that we who are parts have no consciousness of
the whole. This same universe is in motion, and in its movements,
ordered, uniform, and subject to fixed laws, it has none of that
freedom which appears in the spontaneous movements of men and
animals. So the world is not some huge animal which moves of its
own accord; its movements are therefore due to some external cause,
a cause which I cannot perceive, but the inner voice makes this
cause so apparent to me that I cannot watch the course of the
sun without imagining a force which drives it, and when the earth
revolves I think I see the hand that sets it in motion.
If I must accept general laws whose essential relation to matter
is unperceived by me, how much further have I got? These laws, not
being real things, not being substances, have therefore some other
basis unknown to me. Experiment and observation have acquainted us
with the laws of motion; these laws determine the results without
showing their causes; they are quite inadequate to explain the
system of the world and the course of the universe. With the help
of dice Descartes made heaven and earth; but he could not set his
dice in motion, nor start the action of his centrifugal force without
the help of rotation. Newton discovered the law of gravitation; but
gravitation alone would soon reduce the universe to a motionless
mass; he was compelled to add a projectile force to account for
the elliptical course of the celestial bodies; let Newton show us
the hand that launched the planets in the tangent of their orbits.
The first causes of motion are not to be found in matter; matter
receives and transmits motion, but does not produce it. The more
I observe the action and reaction of the forces of nature playing
on one another, the more I see that we must always go back from one
effect to another, till we arrive at a first cause in some will;
for to assume an infinite succession of causes is to assume that
there is no first cause. In a word, no motion which is not caused
by another motion can take place, except by a spontaneous, voluntary
action; inanimate bodies have no action but motion, and there is
no real action without will. This is my first principle. I believe,
therefore, that there is a will which sets the universe in motion
and gives life to nature. This is my first dogma, or the first
article of my creed.
How does a will produce a physical and corporeal action? I cannot
tell, but I perceive that it does so in myself; I will to do
something and I do it; I will to move my body and it moves, but
if an inanimate body, when at rest, should begin to move itself,
the thing is incomprehensible and without precedent. The will is
known to me in its action, not in its nature. I know this will as
a cause of motion, but to conceive of matter as producing motion
is clearly to conceive of an effect without a cause, which is not
to conceive at all.
It is no more possible for me to conceive how my will moves my body
than to conceive how my sensations affect my mind. I do not even
know why one of these mysteries has seemed less inexplicable than the
other. For my own part, whether I am active or passive, the means
of union of the two substances seem to me absolutely incomprehensible.
It is very strange that people make this very incomprehensibility a
step towards the compounding of the two substances, as if operations
so different in kind were more easily explained in one case than
in two.
The doctrine I have just laid down is indeed obscure; but at least
it suggests a meaning and there is nothing in it repugnant to reason
or experience; can we say as much of materialism? Is it not plain
that if motion is essential to matter it would be inseparable from
it, it would always be present in it in the same degree, always
present in every particle of matter, always the same in each
particle of matter, it would not be capable of transmission, it
could neither increase nor diminish, nor could we ever conceive of
matter at rest. When you tell me that motion is not essential to
matter but necessary to it, you try to cheat me with words which
would be easier to refute if there was a little more sense in them.
For either the motion of matter arises from the matter itself and
is therefore essential to it; or it arises from an external cause
and is not necessary to the matter, because the motive cause acts
upon it; we have got back to our original difficulty.
The chief source of human error is to be found in general and abstract
ideas; the jargon of metaphysics has never led to the discovery of
any single truth, and it has filled philosophy with absurdities of
which we are ashamed as soon as we strip them of their long words.
Tell me, my friend, when they talk to you of a blind force diffused
throughout nature, do they present any real idea to your mind? They
think they are saying something by these vague ｅxpressions--universal
force, essential motion--but they are saying nothing at all. The idea
of motion is nothing more than the idea of transference from place
to place; there is no motion without direction; for no individual
can move all ways at once. In what direction then does matter move
of necessity? Has the whole body of matter a uniform motion, or
has each atom its own motion? According to the first idea the whole
universe must form a solid and indivisible mass; according to the
second it can only form a diffused and incoherent fluid, which
would make the union of any two atoms impossible. What direction
shall be taken by this motion common to all matter? Shall it be
in a straight line, in a circle, or from above downwards, to the
right or to the left? If each molecule has its own direction, what
are the causes of all these directions and all these differences?
If every molecule or atom only revolved on its own axis, nothing
would ever leave its place and there would be no transmitted motion,
and even then this circular movement would require to follow some
direction. To set matter in motion by an abstraction is to utter
words without meaning, and to attribute to matter a given direction
is to assume a determining cause. The more examples I take, the
more causes I have to explain, without ever finding a common agent
which controls them. Far from being able to picture to myself an
entire absence of order in the fortuitous concurrence of elements,
I cannot even imagine such a strife, and the chaos of the universe
is less conceivable to me than its harmony. I can understand that
the mechanism of the universe may not be intelligible to the human
mind, but when a man sets to work to explain it, he must say what
men can understand.
If matter in motion points me to a will, matter in motion according
to fixed laws points me to an intelligence; that is the second article
of my creed. To act, to compare, to choose, are the operations of
an active, thinking being; so this being exists. Where do you find
him existing, you will say? Not merely in the revolving heavens,
nor in the sun which gives us light, not in myself alone, but in
the sheep that grazes, the bird that flies, the stone that falls,
and the leaf blown by the wind.
I judge of the order of the world, although I know nothing of its
purpose, for to judge of this order it is enough for me to compare
the parts one with another, to study their co-operation, their
relations, and to observe their united action. I know not why the
universe exists, but I see continually how it is changed; I never
fail to perceive the close connection by which the entities of
which it consists lend their aid one to another. I am like a man
who sees the works of a watch for the first time; he is never weary
of admiring the mechanism, though he does not know the use of the
instrument and has never seen its face. I do not know what this is
for, says he, but I see that each part of it is fitted to the rest,
I admire the workman in the details of his work, and I am quite
certain that all these wheels only work together in this fashion
for some common end which I cannot perceive.
Let us compare the special ends, the means, the ordered relations
of every kind, then let us listen to the inner voice of feeling;
what healthy mind can reject its evidence? Unless the eyes are
blinded by prejudices, can they fail to see that the visible order
of the universe proclaims a supreme intelligence? What sophisms
must be brought together before we fail to understand the harmony
of existence and the wonderful co-operation of every part for the
maintenance of the rest? Say what you will of combinations and
probabilities; what do you gain by reducing me to silence if you
cannot gain my consent? And how can you rob me of the spontaneous
feeling which, in spite of myself, continually gives you the lie?
If organised bodies had come together fortuitously in all sorts of
ways before assuming settled forms, if stomachs are made without
mouths, feet without heads, hands without arms, imperfect organs of
every kind which died because they could not preserve their life,
why do none of these imperfect attempts now meet our eyes; why has
nature at length prescribed laws to herself which she did not at
first recognise? I must not be surprised if that which is possible
should happen, and if the improbability of the event is compensated
for by the number of the attempts. I grant this; yet if any one
told me that printed characters scattered broadcast had produced
the Aeneid all complete, I would not condescend to take a single
step to verify this falsehood. You will tell me I am forgetting the
multitude of attempts. But how many such attempts must I assume to
bring the combination within the bounds of probability? For my own
part the only possible assumption is that the chances are infinity
to one that the product is not the work of chance. In addition to
this, chance combinations yield nothing but products of the same
nature as the elements combined, so that life and organisation will
not be produced by a flow of atoms, and a chemist when making his
compounds will never give them thought and feeling in his crucible.
[Footnote: Could one believe, if one had not seen it, that human
absurdity could go so far? Amatus Lusitanus asserts that he saw a
little man an inch long enclosed in a glass, which Julius Camillus,
like a second Prometheus, had made by alchemy. Paracelsis (De
natura rerum) teaches the method of making these tiny men, and he
maintains that the pygmies, fauns, satyrs, and nymphs have been made
by chemistry. Indeed I cannot see that there is anything more to
be done, to establish the possibility of these facts, unless it
is to assert that organic matter resists the heat of fire and that
its molecules can preserve their life in the hottest furnace.]
I was surprised and almost shocked when I read Neuwentit. How
could this man desire to make a book out of the wonders of nature,
wonders which show the wisdom of the author of nature? His book would
have been as large as the world itself before he had exhausted his
subject, and as soon as we attempt to give details, that greatest
wonder of all, the concord and harmony of the whole, escapes us.
The mere generation of living organic bodies is the despair of the
human mind; the insurmountable barrier raised by nature between the
various species, so that they should not mix with one another, is
the clearest proof of her intention. She is not content to have
established order, she has taken adequate measures to prevent the
disturbance of that order.
There is not a being in the universe which may not be regarded as
in some respects the common centre of all, around which they are
grouped, so that they are all reciprocally end and means in relation
to each other. The mind is confused and lost amid these innumerable
relations, not one of which is itself confused or lost in the
crowd. What absurd assumptions are required to deduce all this
harmony from the blind mechanism of matter set in motion by chance!
In vain do those who deny the unity of intention manifested in the
relations of all the parts of this great whole, in vain do they
conceal their nonsense under abstractions, co-ordinations, general
principles, symbolic ｅxpressions; whatever they do I find it
impossible to conceive of a system of entities so firmly ordered
unless I believe in an intelligence that orders them. It is not in
my power to believe that passive and dead matter can have brought
forth living and feeling beings, that blind chance has brought
forth intelligent beings, that that which does not think has brought
forth thinking beings.
I believe, therefore, that the world is governed by a wise and
powerful will; I see it or rather I feel it, and it is a great
thing to know this. But has this same world always existed, or has
it been created? Is there one source of all things? Are there two
or many? What is their nature? I know not; and what concern is it
of mine? When these things become of importance to me I will try
to learn them; till then I abjure these idle speculations, which may
trouble my peace, but cannot affect my conduct nor be comprehended
by my reason.
Recollect that I am not preaching my own opinion but explaining
it. Whether matter is eternal or created, whether its origin is
passive or not, it is still certain that the whole is one, and that
it proclaims a single intelligence; for I see nothing that is not
part of the same ordered system, nothing which does not co-operate
to the same end, namely, the conservation of all within the
established order. This being who wills and can perform his will,
this being active through his own power, this being, whoever he may
be, who moves the universe and orders all things, is what I call
God. To this name I add the ideas of intelligence, power, will,
which I have brought together, and that of kindness which is their
necessary consequence; but for all this I know no more of the being
to which I ascribe them. He hides himself alike from my senses
and my understanding; the more I think of him, the more perplexed
I am; I know full well that he exists, and that he exists of himself
alone; I know that my existence depends on his, and that everything
I know depends upon him also. I see God everywhere in his works;
I feel him within myself; I behold him all around me; but if I try
to ponder him himself, if I try to find out where he is, what he
is, what is his substance, he escapes me and my troubled spirit
finds nothing.
Convinced of my unfitness, I shall never argue about the nature of
God unless I am driven to it by the feeling of his relations with
myself. Such reasonings are always rash; a wise man should venture
on them with trembling, he should be certain that he can never
sound their abysses; for the most insolent attitude towards God is
not to abstain from thinking of him, but to think evil of him.
After the discovery of such of his attributes as enable me to conceive
of his existence, I return to myself, and I try to discover what is
my place in the order of things which he governs, and I can myself
examine. At once, and beyond possibility of doubt, I discover my
species; for by my own will and the instruments I can control to
carry out my will, I have more power to act upon all bodies about
me, either to make use of or to avoid their action at my pleasure,
than any of them has power to act upon me against my will by mere
physical impulsion; and through my intelligence I am the only one
who can examine all the rest. What being here below, except man,
can observe others, measure, calculate, forecast their motions,
their effects, and unite, so to speak, the feeling of a common
existence with that of his individual existence? What is there so
absurd in the thought that all things are made for me, when I alone
can relate all things to myself?
It is true, therefore, that man is lord of the earth on which he
dwells; for not only does he tame all the beasts, not only does he
control its elements through his industry; but he alone knows how
to control it; by contemplation he takes possession of the stars
which he cannot approach. Show me any other creature on earth who
can make a fire and who can behold with admiration the sun. What!
can I observe and know all creatures and their relations; can
I feel what is meant by order, beauty, and virtue; can I consider
the universe and raise myself towards the hand that guides it; can
I love good and perform it; and should I then liken myself to the
beasts? Wretched soul, it is your gloomy philosophy which makes
you like the beasts; or rather in vain do you seek to degrade
yourself; your genius belies your principles, your kindly heart
belies your doctrines, and even the abuse of your powers proves
their excellence in your own despite.
For myself, I am not pledged to the support of any system. I am a
plain and honest man, one who is not carried away by party spirit,
one who has no ambition to be head of a sect; I am content with
the place where God has set me; I see nothing, next to God himself,
which is better than my species; and if I had to choose my place in
the order of creation, what more could I choose than to be a man!
I am not puffed up by this thought, I am deeply moved by it; for
this state was no choice of mine, it was not due to the deserts
of a creature who as yet did not exist. Can I behold myself thus
distinguished without congratulating myself on this post of honour,
without blessing the hand which bestowed it? The first return to
self has given birth to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness
to the author of my species, and this feeling calls forth my first
homage to the beneficent Godhead. I worship his Almighty power and
my heart acknowledges his mercies. Is it not a natural consequence
of our self-love to honour our protector and to love our benefactor?
But when, in my desire to discover my own place within my species,
I consider its different ranks and the men who fill them, where am
I now? What a sight meets my eyes! Where is now the order I perceived?
Nature showed me a scene of harmony and proportion; the human race
shows me nothing but confusion and disorder. The elements agree
together; men are in a state of chaos. The beasts are happy; their
king alone is wretched. O Wisdom, where are thy laws? O Providence,
is this thy rule over the world? Merciful God, where is thy Power?
I behold the earth, and there is evil upon it.
Would you believe it, dear friend, from these gloomy thoughts and
apparent contradictions, there was shaped in my mind the sublime
idea of the soul, which all my seeking had hitherto failed to
discover? While I meditated upon man's nature, I seemed to discover
two distinct principles in it; one of them raised him to the study
of the eternal truths, to the love of justice, and of true morality,
to the regions of the world of thought, which the wise delight to
contemplate; the other led him downwards to himself, made him the
slave of his senses, of the passions which are their instruments,
and thus opposed everything suggested to him by the former principle.
When I felt myself carried away, distracted by these conflicting
motives, I said, No; man is not one; I will and I will not; I feel
myself at once a slave and a free man; I perceive what is right, I
love it, and I do what is wrong; I am active when I listen to the
voice of reason; I am passive when I am carried away by my passions;
and when I yield, my worst suffering is the knowledge that I might
have resisted.
Young man, hear me with confidence. I will always be honest with
you. If conscience is the creature of prejudice, I am certainly
wrong, and there is no such thing as a proof of morality; but if
to put oneself first is an inclination natural to man, and if the
first sentiment of justice is moreover inborn in the human heart,
let those who say man is a simple creature remove these contradictions
and I will grant that there is but one substance.
You will note that by this term 'substance' I understand generally
the being endowed with some primitive quality, apart from all special
and secondary modifications. If then all the primitive qualities
which are known to us can be united in one and the same being, we
should only acknowledge one substance; but if there are qualities
which are mutually exclusive, there are as many different substances
as there are such exclusions. You will think this over; for my
own part, whatever Locke may say, it is enough for me to recognise
matter as having merely extension and divisibility to convince
myself that it cannot think, and if a philosopher tells me that
trees feel and rocks think [Footnote: It seems to me that modern
philosophy, far from saying that rocks think, has discovered that
men do not think. It perceives nothing more in nature than sensitive
beings; and the only difference it finds between a man and a stone
is that a man is a sensitive being which experiences sensations, and
a stone is a sensitive being which does not experience sensations.
But if it is true that all matter feels, where shall I find the
sensitive unit, the individual ego? Shall it be in each molecule of
matter or in bodies as aggregates of molecules? Shall I place this
unity in fluids and solids alike, in compounds and in elements? You
tell me nature consists of individuals. But what are these individuals?
Is that stone an individual or an aggregate of individuals? Is
it a single sensitive being, or are there as many beings in it as
there are grains of sand? If every elementary atom is a sensitive
being, how shall I conceive of that intimate communication by which
one feels within the other, so that their two egos are blended in
one? Attraction may be a law of nature whose mystery is unknown to
us; but at least we conceive that there is nothing in attraction
acting in proportion to mass which is contrary to extension and
divisibility. Can you conceive of sensation in the same way? The
sensitive parts have extension, but the sensitive being is one and
indivisible; he cannot be cut in two, he is a whole or he is nothing;
therefore the sensitive being is not a material body. I know not
how our materialists understand it, but it seems to me that the
same difficulties which have led them to reject thought, should
have made them also reject feeling; and I see no reason why, when
the first step has been taken, they should not take the second
too; what more would it cost them? Since they are certain they do
not think, why do they dare to affirm that they feel?] in vain will
he perplex me with his cunning arguments; I merely regard him as
a dishonest sophist, who prefers to say that stones have feeling
rather than that men have souls.
Suppose a deaf man denies the existence of sounds because he has
never heard them. I put before his eyes a stringed instrument and
cause it to sound in unison by means of another instrument concealed
from him; the deaf man sees the chord vibrate. I tell him, "The
sound makes it do that." "Not at all," says he, "the string itself
is the cause of the vibration; to vibrate in that way is a quality
common to all bodies." "Then show me this vibration in other
bodies," I answer, "or at least show me its cause in this string."
"I cannot," replies the deaf man; "but because I do not understand
how that string vibrates why should I try to explain it by means of
your sounds, of which I have not the least idea? It is explaining
one obscure fact by means of a cause still more obscure. Make me
perceive your sounds; or I say there are no such things."
The more I consider thought and the nature of the human mind, the
more likeness I find between the arguments of the materialists and
those of the deaf man. Indeed, they are deaf to the inner voice
which cries aloud to them, in a tone which can hardly be mistaken.
A machine does not think, there is neither movement nor form which
can produce reflection; something within thee tries to break the
bands which confine it; space is not thy measure, the whole universe
does not suffice to contain thee; thy sentiments, thy desires, thy
anxiety, thy pride itself, have another origin than this small body
in which thou art imprisoned.
No material creature is in itself active, and I am active. In vain
do you argue this point with me; I feel it, and it is this feeling
which speaks to me more forcibly than the reason which disputes it.
I have a body which is acted upon by other bodies, and it acts in
turn upon them; there is no doubt about this reciprocal action;
but my will is independent of my senses; I consent or I resist;
I yield or I win the victory, and I know very well in myself when
I have done what I wanted and when I have merely given way to
my passions. I have always the power to will, but not always the
strength to do what I will. When I yield to temptation I surrender
myself to the action of external objects. When I blame myself for
this weakness, I listen to my own will alone; I am a slave in my
vices, a free man in my remorse; the feeling of freedom is never
effaced in me but when I myself do wrong, and when I at length
prevent the voice of the soul from protesting against the authority
of the body.
I am only aware of will through the consciousness of my own will,
and intelligence is no better known to me. When you ask me what
is the cause which determines my will, it is my turn to ask what
cause determines my judgment; for it is plain that these two causes
are but one; and if you understand clearly that man is active in
his judgments, that his intelligence is only the power to compare
and judge, you will see that his freedom is only a similar power
or one derived from this; he chooses between good and evil as he
judges between truth and falsehood; if his judgment is at fault, he
chooses amiss. What then is the cause that determines his will? It
is his judgment. And what is the cause that determines his judgment?
It is his intelligence, his power of judging; the determining cause
is in himself. Beyond that, I understand nothing.
No doubt I am not free not to desire my own welfare, I am not free
to desire my own hurt; but my freedom consists in this very thing,
that I can will what is for my own good, or what I esteem as such,
without any external compulsion. Does it follow that I am not my
own master because I cannot be other than myself?
The motive power of all action is in the will of a free creature; we
can go no farther. It is not the word freedom that is meaningless, but
the word necessity. To suppose some action which is not the effect
of an active motive power is indeed to suppose effects without
cause, to reason in a vicious circle. Either there is no original
impulse, or every original impulse has no antecedent cause, and
there is no will properly so-called without freedom. Man is therefore
free to act, and as such he is animated by an immaterial substance;
that is the third article of my creed. From these three you will
easily deduce the rest, so that I need not enumerate them.
If man is at once active and free, he acts of his own accord; what
he does freely is no part of the system marked out by Providence
and it cannot be imputed to Providence. Providence does not will
the evil that man does when he misuses the freedom given to him;
neither does Providence prevent him doing it, either because the
wrong done by so feeble a creature is as nothing in its eyes, or
because it could not prevent it without doing a greater wrong and
degrading his nature. Providence has made him free that he may
choose the good and refuse the evil. It has made him capable of this
choice if he uses rightly the faculties bestowed upon him, but it
has so strictly limited his powers that the misuse of his freedom
cannot disturb the general order. The evil that man does reacts
upon himself without affecting the system of the world, without
preventing the preservation of the human species in spite of
itself. To complain that God does not prevent us from doing wrong
is to complain because he has made man of so excellent a nature,
that he has endowed his actions with that morality by which they
are ennobled, that he has made virtue man's birthright. Supreme
happiness consists in self-content; that we may gain this self-content
we are placed upon this earth and endowed with freedom, we are
tempted by our passions and restrained by conscience. What more
could divine power itself have done on our behalf? Could it have made
our nature a contradiction, and have given the prize of well-doing
to one who was incapable of evil? To prevent a man from wickedness,
should Providence have restricted him to instinct and made him
a fool? Not so, O God of my soul, I will never reproach thee that
thou hast created me in thine own image, that I may be free and
good and happy like my Maker!
It is the abuse of our powers that makes us unhappy and wicked.
Our cares, our sorrows, our sufferings are of our own making. Moral
ills are undoubtedly the work of man, and physical ills would be
nothing but for our vices which have made us liable to them. Has
not nature made us feel our needs as a means to our preservation!
Is not bodily suffering a sign that the machine is out of order
and needs attention? Death.... Do not the wicked poison their own
life and ours? Who would wish to live for ever? Death is the cure
for the evils you bring upon yourself; nature would not have you
suffer perpetually. How few sufferings are felt by man living in
a state of primitive simplicity! His life is almost entirely free
from suffering and from passion; he neither fears nor feels death;
if he feels it, his sufferings make him desire it; henceforth it
is no evil in his eyes. If we were but content to be ourselves we
should have no cause to complain of our lot; but in the search for
an imaginary good we find a thousand real ills. He who cannot bear
a little pain must expect to suffer greatly. If a man injures his
constitution by dissipation, you try to cure him with medicine;
the ill he fears is added to the ill he feels; the thought of
death makes it horrible and hastens its approach; the more we seek
to escape from it, the more we are aware of it; and we go through
life in the fear of death, blaming nature for the evils we have
inflicted on ourselves by our neglect of her laws.
O Man! seek no further for the author of evil; thou art he. There
is no evil but the evil you do or the evil you suffer, and both
come from yourself. Evil in general can only spring from disorder,
and in the order of the world I find a never failing system. Evil
in particular cases exists only in the mind of those who experience
it; and this feeling is not the gift of nature, but the work of
man himself. Pain has little power over those who, having thought
little, look neither before nor after. Take away our fatal progress,
take away our faults and our vices, take away man's handiwork, and
all is well.
Where all is well, there is no such thing as injustice. Justice and
goodness are inseparable; now goodness is the necessary result of
boundless power and of that self-love which is innate in all sentient
beings. The omnipotent projects himself, so to speak, into the being
of his creatures. Creation and preservation are the everlasting
work of power; it does not act on that which has no existence; God
is not the God of the dead; he could not harm and destroy without
injury to himself. The omnipotent can only will what is good.
[Footnote: The ancients were right when they called the supreme
God Optimus Maximus, but it would have been better to say Maximus
Optimus, for his goodness springs from his power, he is good
because he is great.] Therefore he who is supremely good, because
he is supremely powerful, must also be supremely just, otherwise
he would contradict himself; for that love of order which creates
order we call goodness and that love of order which preserves order
we call justice.
Men say God owes nothing to his creatures. I think he owes them
all he promised when he gave them their being. Now to give them
the idea of something good and to make them feel the need of it,
is to promise it to them. The more closely I study myself, the more
carefully I consider, the more plainly do I read these words, "Be
just and you will be happy." It is not so, however, in the present
condition of things, the wicked prospers and the oppression of the
righteous continues. Observe how angry we are when this expectation
is disappointed. Conscience revolts and murmurs against her Creator;
she exclaims with cries and groans, "Thou hast deceived me."
"I have deceived thee, rash soul! Who told thee this? Is thy soul
destroyed? Hast thou ceased to exist? O Brutus! O my son! let there
be no stain upon the close of thy noble life; do not abandon thy
hope and thy glory with thy corpse upon the plains of Philippi.
Why dost thou say, 'Virtue is naught,' when thou art about to enjoy
the reward of virtue? Thou art about to die! Nay, thou shalt live,
and thus my promise is fulfilled."
One might judge from the complaints of impatient men that God owes
them the reward before they have deserved it, that he is bound to
pay for virtue in advance. Oh! let us first be good and then we
shall be happy. Let us not claim the prize before we have won it,
nor demand our wages before we have finished our work. "It is not
in the lists that we crown the victors in the sacred games," says
Plutarch, "it is when they have finished their course."
If the soul is immaterial, it may survive the body; and if
it so survives, Providence is justified. Had I no other proof of
the immaterial nature of the soul, the triumph of the wicked and
the oppression of the righteous in this world would be enough to
convince me. I should seek to resolve so appalling a discord in the
universal harmony. I should say to myself, "All is not over with
life, everything finds its place at death." I should still have to
answer the question, "What becomes of man when all we know of him
through our senses has vanished?" This question no longer presents
any difficulty to me when I admit the two substances. It is easy
to understand that what is imperceptible to those senses escapes
me, during my bodily life, when I perceive through my senses only.
When the union of soul and body is destroyed, I think one may be
dissolved and the other may be preserved. Why should the destruction
of the one imply the destruction of the other? on the contrary, so
unlike in their nature, they were during their union in a highly
unstable condition, and when this union comes to an end they both
return to their natural state; the active vital substance regains
all the force which it expended to set in motion the passive dead
substance. Alas! my vices make me only too well aware that man is
but half alive during this life; the life of the soul only begins
with the death of the body.
But what is that life? Is the soul of man in its nature immortal?
I know not. My finite understanding cannot hold the infinite; what
is called eternity eludes my grasp. What can I assert or deny, how
can I reason with regard to what I cannot conceive? I believe that
the soul survives the body for the maintenance of order; who knows
if this is enough to make it eternal? However, I know that the
body is worn out and destroyed by the division of its parts, but
I cannot conceive a similar destruction of the conscious nature,
and as I cannot imagine how it can die, I presume that it does not
die. As this assumption is consoling and in itself not unreasonable,
why should I fear to accept it?
I am aware of my soul; it is known to me in feeling and in thought;
I know what it is without knowing its essence; I cannot reason
about ideas which are unknown to me. What I do know is this, that
my personal identity depends upon memory, and that to be indeed
the same self I must remember that I have existed. Now after death
I could not recall what I was when alive unless I also remembered
what I felt and therefore what I did; and I have no doubt that
this remembrance will one day form the happiness of the good and
the torment of the bad. In this world our inner consciousness is
absorbed by the crowd of eager passions which cheat remorse. The
humiliation and disgrace involved in the practice of virtue do not
permit us to realise its charm. But when, freed from the illusions
of the bodily senses, we behold with joy the supreme Being and
the eternal truths which flow from him; when all the powers of our
soul are alive to the beauty of order and we are wholly occupied in
comparing what we have done with what we ought to have done, then
it is that the voice of conscience will regain its strength and sway;
then it is that the pure delight which springs from self-content,
and the sharp regret for our own degradation of that self, will
decide by means of overpowering feeling what shall be the fate
which each has prepared for himself. My good friend, do not ask me
whether there are other sources of happiness or suffering; I cannot
tell; that which my fancy pictures is enough to console me in this
life and to bid me look for a life to come. I do not say the good
will be rewarded, for what greater good can a truly good being expect
than to exist in accordance with his nature? But I do assert that
the good will be happy, because their maker, the author of all
justice, who has made them capable of feeling, has not made them
that they may suffer; moreover, they have not abused their freedom
upon earth and they have not changed their fate through any fault
of their own; yet they have suffered in this life and it will be made
up to them in the life to come. This feeling relies not so much on
man's deserts as on the idea of good which seems to me inseparable
from the divine essence. I only assume that the laws of order are
constant and that God is true to himself.
Do not ask me whether the torments of the wicked will endure for
ever, whether the goodness of their creator can condemn them to
the eternal suffering; again, I cannot tell, and I have no empty
curiosity for the investigation of useless problems. How does the
fate of the wicked concern me? I take little interest in it. All
the same I find it hard to believe that they will be condemned to
everlasting torments. If the supreme justice calls for vengeance,
it claims it in this life. The nations of the world with their errors
are its ministers. Justice uses self-inflicted ills to punish the
crimes which have deserved them. It is in your own insatiable souls,
devoured by envy, greed, and ambition, it is in the midst of your
false prosperity, that the avenging passions find the due reward
of your crimes. What need to seek a hell in the future life? It is
here in the breast of the wicked.
When our fleeting needs are over, and our mad desires are at rest,
there should also be an end of our passions and our crimes. Can
pure spirits be capable of any perversity? Having need of nothing,
why should they be wicked? If they are free from our gross senses,
if their happiness consists in the contemplation of other beings,
they can only desire what is good; and he who ceases to be bad can
never be miserable. This is what I am inclined to think though I
have not been at the pains to come to any decision. O God, merciful
and good, whatever thy decrees may be I adore them; if thou shouldst
commit the wicked to everlasting punishment, I abandon my feeble
reason to thy justice; but if the remorse of these wretched beings
should in the course of time be extinguished, if their sufferings
should come to an end, and if the same peace shall one day be the
lot of all mankind, I give thanks to thee for this. Is not the
wicked my brother? How often have I been tempted to be like him?
Let him be delivered from his misery and freed from the spirit of
hatred that accompanied it; let him be as happy as I myself; his
happiness, far from arousing my jealousy, will only increase my
own.
Thus it is that, in the contemplation of God in his works, and in
the study of such of his attributes as it concerned me to know,
I have slowly grasped and developed the idea, at first partial
and imperfect, which I have formed of this Infinite Being. But if
this idea has become nobler and greater it is also more suited to
the human reason. As I approach in spirit the eternal light, I am
confused and dazzled by its glory, and compelled to abandon all
the earthly notions which helped me to picture it to myself. God
is no longer corporeal and sensible; the supreme mind which rules
the world is no longer the world itself; in vain do I strive to
grasp his inconceivable essence. When I think that it is he that
gives life and movement to the living and moving substance which
controls all living bodies; when I hear it said that my soul is
spiritual and that God is a spirit, I revolt against this abasement
of the divine essence; as if God and my soul were of one and the
same nature! As if God were not the one and only absolute being,
the only really active, feeling, thinking, willing being, from whom
we derive our thought, feeling, motion, will, our freedom and our
very existence! We are free because he wills our freedom, and his
inexplicable substance is to our souls what our souls are to our
bodies. I know not whether he has created matter, body, soul, the
world itself. The idea of creation confounds me and eludes my grasp;
so far as I can conceive of it I believe it; but I know that he has
formed the universe and all that is, that he has made and ordered
all things. No doubt God is eternal; but can my mind grasp the idea
of eternity? Why should I cheat myself with meaningless words?
This is what I do understand; before things were--God was; he will
be when they are no more, and if all things come to an end he will
still endure. That a being beyond my comprehension should give life
to other beings, this is merely difficult and beyond my understanding;
but that Being and Nothing should be convertible terms, this is
indeed a palpable contradiction, an evident absurdity.
God is intelligent, but how? Man is intelligent when he reasons, but
the Supreme Intelligence does not need to reason; there is neither
premise nor conclusion for him, there is not even a proposition.
The Supreme Intelligence is wholly intuitive, it sees what is and
what shall be; all truths are one for it, as all places are but one
point and all time but one moment. Man's power makes use of means,
the divine power is self-active. God can because he wills; his
will is his power. God is good; this is certain; but man finds his
happiness in the welfare of his kind. God's happiness consists in
the love of order; for it is through order that he maintains what
is, and unites each part in the whole. God is just; of this I am
sure, it is a consequence of his goodness; man's injustice is not
God's work, but his own; that moral justice which seems to the
philosophers a presumption against Providence, is to me a proof of
its existence. But man's justice consists in giving to each his
due; God's justice consists in demanding from each of us an account
of that which he has given us.
If I have succeeded in discerning these attributes of which I have
no absolute idea, it is in the form of unavoidable deductions, and
by the right use of my reason; but I affirm them without understanding
them, and at bottom that is no affirmation at all. In vain do I
say, God is thus, I feel it, I experience it, none the more do I
understand how God can be thus.
In a word: the more I strive to envisage his infinite essence the
less do I comprehend it; but it is, and that is enough for me; the
less I understand, the more I adore. I abase myself, saying, "Being
of beings, I am because thou art; to fix my thoughts on thee is
to ascend to the source of my being. The best use I can make of my
reason is to resign it before thee; my mind delights, my weakness
rejoices, to feel myself overwhelmed by thy greatness."
Having thus deduced from the perception of objects of sense and
from my inner consciousness, which leads me to judge of causes by
my native reason, the principal truths which I require to know, I
must now seek such principles of conduct as I can draw from them,
and such rules as I must lay down for my guidance in the fulfilment
of my destiny in this world, according to the purpose of my Maker.
Still following the same method, I do not derive these rules from
the principles of the higher philosophy, I find them in the depths
of my heart, traced by nature in characters which nothing can efface.
I need only consult myself with regard to what I wish to do; what
I feel to be right is right, what I feel to be wrong is wrong;
conscience is the best casuist; and it is only when we haggle with
conscience that we have recourse to the subtleties of argument.
Our first duty is towards ourself; yet how often does the voice of
others tell us that in seeking our good at the expense of others
we are doing ill? We think we are following the guidance of nature,
and we are resisting it; we listen to what she says to our senses,
and we neglect what she says to our heart; the active being obeys,
the passive commands. Conscience is the voice of the soul, the
passions are the voice of the body. It is strange that these voices
often contradict each other? And then to which should we give heed?
Too often does reason deceive us; we have only too good a right to
doubt her; but conscience never deceives us; she is the true guide
of man; it is to the soul what instinct is to the body, [Footnote:
Modern philosophy, which only admits what it can understand, is
careful not to admit this obscure power called instinct which seems
to guide the animals to some end without any acquired experience.
Instinct, according to some of our wise philosophers, is only a
secret habit of reflection, acquired by reflection; and from the
way in which they explain this development one ought to suppose
that children reflect more than grown-up people: a paradox strange
enough to be worth examining. Without entering upon this discussion I
must ask what name I shall give to the eagerness with which my dog
makes war on the moles he does not eat, or to the patience with
which he sometimes watches them for hours and the skill with which
he seizes them, throws them to a distance from their earth as soon
as they emerge, and then kills them and leaves them. Yet no one
has trained him to this sport, nor even told him there were such
things as moles. Again, I ask, and this is a more important question,
why, when I threatened this same dog for the first time, why did
he throw himself on the ground with his paws folded, in such a
suppliant attitude .....calculated to touch me, a position which
he would have maintained if, without being touched by it, I had
continued to beat him in that position? What! Had my dog, little
more than a puppy, acquired moral ideas? Did he know the meaning
of mercy and generosity? By what acquired knowledge did he seek
to appease my wrath by yielding to my discretion? Every dog in the
world does almost the same thing in similar circumstances, and I
am asserting nothing but what any one can verify for himself. Will
the philosophers, who so scornfully reject instinct, kindly explain
this fact by the mere play of sensations and experience which they
assume we have acquired? Let them give an account of it which will
satisfy any sensible man; in that case I have nothing further to
urge, and I will say no more of instinct.] he who obeys his conscience
is following nature and he need not fear that he will go astray.
This is a matter of great importance, continued my benefactor,
seeing that I was about to interrupt him; let me stop awhile to
explain it more fully.
The morality of our actions consists entirely in the judgments we
ourselves form with regard to them. If good is good, it must be
good in the depth of our heart as well as in our actions; and the
first reward of justice is the consciousness that we are acting
justly. If moral goodness is in accordance with our nature, man can
only be healthy in mind and body when he is good. If it is not so,
and if man is by nature evil, he cannot cease to be evil without
corrupting his nature, and goodness in him is a crime against
nature. If he is made to do harm to his fellow-creatures, as the
wolf is made to devour his prey, a humane man would be as depraved
a creature as a pitiful wolf; and virtue alone would cause remorse.
My young friend, let us look within, let us set aside all personal
prejudices and see whither our inclinations lead us. Do we take
more pleasure in the sight of the sufferings of others or their
joys? Is it pleasanter to do a kind action or an unkind action,
and which leaves the more delightful memory behind it? Why do you
enjoy the theatre? Do you delight in the crimes you behold? Do you
weep over the punishment which overtakes the criminal? They say
we are indifferent to everything but self-interest; yet we find
our consolation in our sufferings in the charms of friendship and
humanity, and even in our pleasures we should be too lonely and
miserable if we had no one to share them with us. If there is no
such thing as morality in man's heart, what is the source of his
rapturous admiration of noble deeds, his passionate devotion to
great men? What connection is there between self-interest and this
enthusiasm for virtue? Why should I choose to be Cato dying by his
own hand, rather than Caesar in his triumphs? Take from our hearts
this love of what is noble and you rob us of the joy of life. The
mean-spirited man in whom these delicious feelings have been stifled
among vile passions, who by thinking of no one but himself comes
at last to love no one but himself, this man feels no raptures, his
cold heart no longer throbs with joy, and his eyes no longer fill
with the sweet tears of sympathy, he delights in nothing; the wretch
has neither life nor feeling, he is already dead.
There are many bad men in this world, but there are few of these
dead souls, alive only to self-interest, and insensible to all that
is right and good. We only delight in injustice so long as it is
to our own advantage; in every other case we wish the innocent to
be protected. If we see some act of violence or injustice in town
or country, our hearts are at once stirred to their depths by an
instinctive anger and wrath, which bids us go to the help of the
oppressed; but we are restrained by a stronger duty, and the law
deprives us of our right to protect the innocent. on the other hand,
if some deed of mercy or generosity meets our eye, what reverence
and love does it inspire! Do we not say to ourselves, "I should
like to have done that myself"? What does it matter to us that two
thousand years ago a man was just or unjust? and yet we take the
same interest in ancient history as if it happened yesterday. What
are the crimes of Cataline to me? I shall not be his victim. Why
then have I the same horror of his crimes as if he were living
now? We do not hate the wicked merely because of the harm they do
to ourselves, but because they are wicked. Not only do we wish to
be happy ourselves, we wish others to be happy too, and if this
happiness does not interfere with our own happiness, it increases
it. In conclusion, whether we will or not, we pity the unfortunate;
when we see their suffering we suffer too. Even the most depraved
are not wholly without this instinct, and it often leads them to
self-contradiction. The highwayman who robs the traveller, clothes
the nakedness of the poor; the fiercest murderer supports a fainting
man.
Men speak of the voice of remorse, the secret punishment of hidden
crimes, by which such are often brought to light. Alas! who does
not know its unwelcome voice? We speak from experience, and we
would gladly stifle this imperious feeling which causes us such
agony. Let us obey the call of nature; we shall see that her yoke
is easy and that when we give heed to her voice we find a joy in
the answer of a good conscience. The wicked fears and flees from
her; he delights to escape from himself; his anxious eyes look
around him for some object of diversion; without bitter satire and
rude mockery he would always be sorrowful; the scornful laugh is
his one pleasure. Not so the just man, who finds his peace within
himself; there is joy not malice in his laughter, a joy which
springs from his own heart; he is as cheerful alone as in company,
his satisfaction does not depend on those who approach him; it
includes them.
Cast your eyes over every nation of the world; peruse every volume
of its history; in the midst of all these strange and cruel forms
of worship, among this amazing variety of manners and customs, you
will everywhere find the same ideas of right and justice; everywhere
the same principles of morality, the same ideas of good and evil.
The old paganism gave birth to abominable gods who would have been
punished as scoundrels here below, gods who merely offered, as a
picture of supreme happiness, crimes to be committed and lust to
be gratified. But in vain did vice descend from the abode of the
gods armed with their sacred authority; the moral instinct refused to
admit it into the heart of man. While the debaucheries of Jupiter
were celebrated, the continence of Xenocrates was revered; the
chaste Lucrece adored the shameless Venus; the bold Roman offered
sacrifices to Fear; he invoked the god who mutilated his father,
and he died without a murmur at the hand of his own father. The
most unworthy gods were worshipped by the noblest men. The sacred
voice of nature was stronger than the voice of the gods, and won
reverence upon earth; it seemed to relegate guilt and the guilty
alike to heaven.
There is therefore at the bottom of our hearts an innate principle
of justice and virtue, by which, in spite of our maxims, we judge
our own actions or those of others to be good or evil; and it is
this principle that I call conscience.
But at this word I hear the murmurs of all the wise men so-called.
Childish errors, prejudices of our upbringing, they exclaim in
concert! There is nothing in the human mind but what it has gained
by experience; and we judge everything solely by means of the ideas
we have acquired. They go further; they even venture to reject the
clear and universal agreement of all peoples, and to set against
this striking unanimity in the judgment of mankind, they seek out
some obscure exception known to themselves alone; as if the whole
trend of nature were rendered null by the depravity of a single
nation, and as if the existence of monstrosities made an end
of species. But to what purpose does the sceptic Montaigne strive
himself to unearth in some obscure corner of the world a custom
which is contrary to the ideas of justice? To what purpose does
he credit the most untrustworthy travellers, while he refuses to
believe the greatest writers? A few strange and doubtful customs,
based on local causes, unknown to us; shall these destroy a general
inference based on the agreement of all the nations of the earth,
differing from each other in all else, but agreed in this? O
Montaigne, you pride yourself on your truth and honesty; be sincere
and truthful, if a philosopher can be so, and tell me if there is
any country upon earth where it is a crime to keep one's plighted
word, to be merciful, helpful, and generous, where the good man is
scorned, and the traitor is held in honour.
Self-interest, so they say, induces each of us to agree for the
common good. But bow is it that the good man consents to this to
his own hurt? Does a man go to death from self-interest? No doubt
each man acts for his own good, but if there is no such thing as
moral good to be taken into consideration, self-interest will only
enable you to account for the deeds of the wicked; possibly you
will not attempt to do more. A philosophy which could find no place
for good deeds would be too detestable; you would find yourself
compelled either to find some mean purpose, some wicked motive, or
to abuse Socrates and slander Regulus. If such doctrines ever took
root among us, the voice of nature, together with the voice of
reason, would constantly protest against them, till no adherent of
such teaching could plead an honest excuse for his partisanship.
It is no part of my scheme to enter at present into metaphysical
discussions which neither you nor I can understand, discussions
which really lead nowhere. I have told you already that I do not
wish to philosophise with you, but to help you to consult your own
heart. If all the philosophers in the world should prove that I am
wrong, and you feel that I am right, that is all I ask.
For this purpose it is enough to lead you to distinguish between
our acquired ideas and our natural feelings; for feeling precedes
knowledge; and since we do not learn to seek what is good for us
and avoid what is bad for us, but get this desire from nature, in
the same way the love of good and the hatred of evil are as natural
to us as our self-love. The decrees of conscience are not judgments
but feelings. Although all our ideas come from without, the feelings
by which they are weighed are within us, and it is by these feelings
alone that we perceive fitness or unfitness of things in relation
to ourselves, which leads us to seek or shun these things.
To exist is to feel; our feeling is undoubtedly earlier than our
intelligence, and we had feelings before we had ideas.[Footnote:
In some respects ideas are feelings and feelings are ideas. Both
terms are appropriate to any perception with which we are concerned,
appropriate both to the object of that perception and to ourselves
who are affected by it; it is merely the order in which we are
affected which decides the appropriate term. When we are chiefly
concerned with the object and only think of ourselves as it were by
reflection, that is an idea; when, on the other hand, the impression
received excites our chief attention and we only think in the second
place of the object which caused it, it is a feeling.] Whatever may
be the cause of our being, it has provided for our preservation by
giving us feelings suited to our nature; and no one can deny that
these at least are innate. These feelings, so far as the individual
is concerned, are self-love, fear, pain, the dread of death, the
desire for comfort. Again, if, as it is impossible to doubt, man
is by nature sociable, or at least fitted to become sociable, he
can only be so by means of other innate feelings, relative to his
kind; for if only physical well-being were considered, men would
certainly be scattered rather than brought together. But the motive
power of conscience is derived from the moral system formed through
this twofold relation to himself and to his fellow-men. To know
good is not to love it; this knowledge is not innate in man; but as
soon as his reason leads him to perceive it, his conscience impels
him to love it; it is this feeling which is innate.
So I do not think, my young friend, that it is impossible to explain
the immediate force of conscience as a result of our own nature,
independent of reason itself. And even should it be impossible,
it is unnecessary; for those who deny this principle, admitted and
received by everybody else in the world, do not prove that there
is no such thing; they are content to affirm, and when we affirm
its existence we have quite as good grounds as they, while we have
moreover the witness within us, the voice of conscience, which
speaks on its own behalf. If the first beams of judgment dazzle
us and confuse the objects we behold, let us wait till our feeble
sight grows clear and strong, and in the light of reason we shall
soon behold these very objects as nature has already showed them
to us. Or rather let us be simpler and less pretentious; let us be
content with the first feelings we experience in ourselves, since
science always brings us back to these, unless it has led us astray.
Conscience! Conscience! Divine instinct, immortal voice from
heaven; sure guide for a creature ignorant and finite indeed, yet
intelligent and free; infallible judge of good and evil, making
man like to God! In thee consists the excellence of man's nature
and the morality of his actions; apart from thee, I find nothing in
myself to raise me above the beasts--nothing but the sad privilege
of wandering from one error to another, by the help of an unbridled
understanding and a reason which knows no principle.
Thank heaven we have now got rid of all that alarming show of
philosophy; we may be men without being scholars; now that we need
not spend our life in the study of morality, we have found a less
costly and surer guide through this vast labyrinth of human thought.
But it is not enough to be aware that there is such a guide;
we must know her and follow her. If she speaks to all hearts, how
is it that so few give heed to her voice? She speaks to us in the
language of nature, and everything leads us to forget that tongue.
Conscience is timid, she loves peace and retirement; she is startled
by noise and numbers; the prejudices from which she is said to arise
are her worst enemies. She flees before them or she is silent; their
noisy voices drown her words, so that she cannot get a hearing;
fanaticism dares to counterfeit her voice and to inspire crimes
in her name. She is discouraged by ill-treatment; she no longer
speaks to us, no longer answers to our call; when she has been
scorned so long, it is as hard to recall her as it was to banish
her.
How often in the course of my inquiries have I grown weary of my
own coldness of heart! How often have grief and weariness poured
their poison into my first meditations and made them hateful to me!
My barren heart yielded nothing but a feeble zeal and a lukewarm
love of truth. I said to myself: Why should I strive to find what
does not exist? Moral good is a dream, the pleasures of sense
are the only real good. When once we have lost the taste for the
pleasures of the soul, how hard it is to recover it! How much more
difficult to acquire it if we have never possessed it! If there
were any man so wretched as never to have done anything all his life
long which he could remember with pleasure, and which would make him
glad to have lived, that man would be incapable of self-knowledge,
and for want of knowledge of goodness, of which his nature is
capable, he would be constrained to remain in his wickedness and
would be for ever miserable. But do you think there is any one man
upon earth so depraved that he has never yielded to the temptation
of well-doing? This temptation is so natural, so pleasant, that it
is impossible always to resist it; and the thought of the pleasure
it has once afforded is enough to recall it constantly to our
memory. Unluckily it is hard at first to find satisfaction for it;
we have any number of reasons for refusing to follow the inclinations
of our heart; prudence, so called, restricts the heart within the
limits of the self; a thousand efforts are needed to break these
bonds. The joy of well-doing is the prize of having done well,
and we must deserve the prize before we win it. There is nothing
sweeter than virtue; but we do not know this till we have tried it.
Like Proteus in the fable, she first assumes a thousand terrible
shapes when we would embrace her, and only shows her true self to
those who refuse to let her go.
Ever at strife between my natural feelings, which spoke of the
common weal, and my reason, which spoke of self, I should have
drifted through life in perpetual uncertainty, hating evil, loving
good, and always at war with myself, if my heart had not received
further light, if that truth which determined my opinions had not
also settled my conduct, and set me at peace with myself. Reason
alone is not a sufficient foundation for virtue; what solid ground
can be found? Virtue we are told is love of order. But can this
love prevail over my love for my own well-being, and ought it so
to prevail? Let them give me clear and sufficient reason for this
preference. Their so-called principle is in truth a mere playing
with words; for I also say that vice is love of order, differently
understood. Wherever there is feeling and intelligence, there
is some sort of moral order. The difference is this: the good man
orders his life with regard to all men; the wicked orders it for
self alone. The latter centres all things round himself; the other
measures his radius and remains on the circumference. Thus his
place depends on the common centre, which is God, and on all the
concentric circles which are His creatures. If there is no God,
the wicked is right and the good man is nothing but a fool.
My child! May you one day feel what a burden is removed when, having
fathomed the vanity of human thoughts and tasted the bitterness of
passion, you find at length near at hand the path of wisdom, the
prize of this life's labours, the source of that happiness which
you despaired of. Every duty of natural law, which man's injustice
had almost effaced from my heart, is engraven there, for the second
time in the name of that eternal justice which lays these duties
upon me and beholds my fulfilment of them. I feel myself merely the
instrument of the Omnipotent, who wills what is good, who performs
it, who will bring about my own good through the co-operation of my
will with his own, and by the right use of my liberty. I acquiesce
in the order he establishes, certain that one day I shall enjoy
that order and find my happiness in it; for what sweeter joy is
there than this, to feel oneself a part of a system where all is
good? A prey to pain, I bear it in patience, remembering that it
will soon be over, and that it results from a body which is not
mine. If I do a good deed in secret, I know that it is seen, and
my conduct in this life is a pledge of the life to come. When I
suffer injustice, I say to myself, the Almighty who does all things
well will reward me: my bodily needs, my poverty, make the idea
of death less intolerable. There will be all the fewer bonds to be
broken when my hour comes.
Why is my soul subjected to my senses, and imprisoned in this body
by which it is enslaved and thwarted? I know not; have I entered
into the counsels of the Almighty? But I may, without rashness,
venture on a modest conjecture. I say to myself: If man's soul
had remained in a state of freedom and innocence, what merit would
there have been in loving and obeying the order he found established,
an order which it would not have been to his advantage to disturb?
He would be happy, no doubt, but his happiness would not attain to
the highest point, the pride of virtue, and the witness of a good
conscience within him; he would be but as the angels are, and
no doubt the good man will be more than they. Bound to a mortal
body, by bonds as strange as they are powerful, his care for the
preservation of this body tempts the soul to think only of self,
and gives it an interest opposed to the general order of things,
which it is still capable of knowing and loving; then it is that
the right use of his freedom becomes at once the merit and the
reward; then it is that it prepares for itself unending happiness, by
resisting its earthly passions and following its original direction.
If even in the lowly position in which we are placed during our present
life our first impulses are always good, if all our vices are of
our own making, why should we complain that they are our masters?
Why should we blame the Creator for the ills we have ourselves
created, and the enemies we ourselves have armed against us? Oh,
let us leave man unspoilt; he will always find it easy to be good
and he will always be happy without remorse. The guilty, who assert
that they are driven to crime, are liars as well as evil-doers; how
is it that they fail to perceive that the weakness they bewail is
of their own making; that their earliest depravity was the result
of their own will; that by dint of wishing to yield to temptations,
they at length yield to them whether they will or no and make them
irresistible? No doubt they can no longer avoid being weak and
wicked, but they need not have become weak and wicked. Oh, how easy
would it be to preserve control of ourselves and of our passions,
even in this life, if with habits still unformed, with a mind
beginning to expand, we were able to keep to such things as we ought
to know, in order to value rightly what is unknown; if we really
wished to learn, not that we might shine before the eyes of others,
but that we might be wise and good in accordance with our nature,
that we might be happy in the performance of our duty. This study
seems tedious and painful to us, for we do not attempt it till we
are already corrupted by vice and enslaved by our passions. Our
judgments and our standards of worth are determined before we have
the knowledge of good and evil; and then we measure all things by
this false standard, and give nothing its true worth.
There is an age when the heart is still free, but eager, unquiet,
greedy of a happiness which is still unknown, a happiness which it
seeks in curiosity and doubt; deceived by the senses it settles at
length upon the empty show of happiness and thinks it has found it
where it is not. In my own case these illusions endured for a long
time. Alas! too late did I become aware of them, and I have not
succeeded in overcoming them altogether; they will last as long as
this mortal body from which they arise. If they lead me astray, I
am at least no longer deceived by them; I know them for what they
are, and even when I give way to them, I despise myself; far from
regarding them as the goal of my happiness, I behold in them an
obstacle to it. I long for the time when, freed from the fetters
of the body, I shall be myself, at one with myself, no longer torn
in two, when I myself shall suffice for my own happiness. Meanwhile
I am happy even in this life, for I make small account of all its
evils, in which I regard myself as having little or no part, while
all the real good that I can get out of this life depends on myself
alone.
To raise myself so far as may be even now to this state of happiness,
strength, and freedom, I exercise myself in lofty contemplation. I
consider the order of the universe, not to explain it by any futile
system, but to revere it without ceasing, to adore the wise Author
who reveals himself in it. I hold intercourse with him; I immerse
all my powers in his divine essence; I am overwhelmed by his kindness,
I bless him and his gifts, but I do not pray to him. What should I
ask of him--to change the order of nature, to work miracles on my
behalf? Should I, who am bound to love above all things the order
which he has established in his wisdom and maintained by his
providence, should I desire the disturbance of that order on my own
account? No, that rash prayer would deserve to be punished rather
than to be granted. Neither do I ask of him the power to do right;
why should I ask what he has given me already? Has he not given
me conscience that I may love the right, reason that I may perceive
it, and freedom that I may choose it? If I do evil, I have no
excuse; I do it of my own free will; to ask him to change my will
is to ask him to do what he asks of me; it is to want him to do
the work while I get the wages; to be dissatisfied with my lot is
to wish to be no longer a man, to wish to be other than what I am,
to wish for disorder and evil. Thou source of justice and truth,
merciful and gracious God, in thee do I trust, and the desire of
my heart is--Thy will be done. When I unite my will with thine, I
do what thou doest; I have a share in thy goodness; I believe that
I enjoy beforehand the supreme happiness which is the reward of
goodness.
In my well-founded self-distrust the only thing that I ask of God,
or rather expect from his justice, is to correct my error if I go
astray, if that error is dangerous to me. To be honest I need not
think myself infallible; my opinions, which seem to me true, may
be so many lies; for what man is there who does not cling to his
own beliefs; and how many men are agreed in everything? The illusion
which deceives me may indeed have its source in myself, but it
is God alone who can remove it. I have done all I can to attain
to truth; but its source is beyond my reach; is it my fault if my
strength fails me and I can go no further; it is for Truth to draw
near to me.
The good priest had spoken with passion; he and I were overcome
with emotion. It seemed to me as if I were listening to the divine
Orpheus when he sang the earliest hymns and taught men the worship
of the gods. I saw any number of objections which might be raised;
yet I raised none, for I perceived that they were more perplexing
than serious, and that my inclination took his part. When he spoke
to me according to his conscience, my own seemed to confirm what
he said.
"The novelty of the sentiments you have made known to me," said
I, "strikes me all the more because of what you confess you do not
know, than because of what you say you believe. They seem to be very
like that theism or natural religion, which Christians profess to
confound with atheism or irreligion which is their exact opposite.
But in the present state of my faith I should have to ascend
rather than descend to accept your views, and I find it difficult
to remain just where you are unless I were as wise as you. That I
may be at least as honest, I want time to take counsel with myself.
By your own showing, the inner voice must be my guide, and you have
yourself told me that when it has long been silenced it cannot be
recalled in a moment. I take what you have said to heart, and I must
consider it. If after I have thought things out, I am as convinced
as you are, you will be my final teacher, and I will be your disciple
till death. Continue your teaching however; you have only told me
half what I must know. Speak to me of revelation, of the Scriptures,
of those difficult doctrines among which I have strayed ever since
I was a child, incapable either of understanding or believing them,
unable to adopt or reject them."
"Yes, my child," said he, embracing me, "I will tell you all I
think; I will not open my heart to you by halves; but the desire
you express was necessary before I could cast aside all reserve. So
far I have told you nothing but what I thought would be of service
to you, nothing but what I was quite convinced of. The inquiry
which remains to be made is very difficult. It seems to me full
of perplexity, mystery, and darkness; I bring to it only doubt
and distrust. I make up my mind with trembling, and I tell you my
doubts rather than my convictions. If your own opinions were more
settled I should hesitate to show you mine; but in your present
condition, to think like me would be gain. [Footnote: I think the
worthy clergyman might say this at the present time to the general
public.] Moreover, give to my words only the authority of reason;
I know not whether I am mistaken. It is difficult in discussion
to avoid assuming sometimes a dogmatic tone; but remember in this
respect that all my assertions are but reasons to doubt me. Seek
truth for yourself, for my own part I only promise you sincerity.
"In my exposition you find nothing but natural religion; strange
that we should need more! How shall I become aware of this need?
What guilt can be mine so long as I serve God according to the
knowledge he has given to my mind, and the feelings he has put
into my heart? What purity of morals, what dogma useful to man and
worthy of its author, can I derive from a positive doctrine which
cannot be derived without the aid of this doctrine by the right
use of my faculties? Show me what you can add to the duties of the
natural law, for the glory of God, for the good of mankind, and for
my own welfare; and what virtue you will get from the new form of
religion which does not result from mine. The grandest ideas of
the Divine nature come to us from reason only. Behold the spectacle
of nature; listen to the inner voice. Has not God spoken it all to
our eyes, to our conscience, to our reason? What more can man tell
us? Their revelations do but degrade God, by investing him with
passions like our own. Far from throwing light upon the ideas of
the Supreme Being, special doctrines seem to me to confuse these
ideas; far from ennobling them, they degrade them; to the inconceivable
mysteries which surround the Almighty, they add absurd contradictions,
they make man proud, intolerant, and cruel; instead of bringing
peace upon earth, they bring fire and sword. I ask myself what
is the use of it all, and I find no answer. I see nothing but the
crimes of men and the misery of mankind.
"They tell me a revelation was required to teach men how God would
be served; as a proof of this they point to the many strange rites
which men have instituted, and they do not perceive that this very
diversity springs from the fanciful nature of the revelations. As
soon as the nations took to making God speak, every one made him
speak in his own fashion, and made him say what he himself wanted.
Had they listened only to what God says in the heart of man, there
would have been but one religion upon earth.
one form of worship was required; just so, but was this a matter
of such importance as to require all the power of the Godhead to
establish it? Do not let us confuse the outward forms of religion
with religion itself. The service God requires is of the heart; and
when the heart is sincere that is ever the same. It is a strange
sort of conceit which fancies that God takes such an interest in
the shape of the priest's vestments, the form of words he utters,
the gestures he makes before the altar and all his genuflections.
Oh, my friend, stand upright, you will still be too near the earth.
God desires to be worshipped in spirit and in truth; this duty
belongs to every religion, every country, every individual. As to
the form of worship, if order demands uniformity, that is only a
matter of discipline and needs no revelation.
"These thoughts did not come to me to begin with. Carried away by
the prejudices of my education, and by that dangerous vanity which
always strives to lift man out of his proper sphere, when I could
not raise my feeble thoughts up to the great Being, I tried to
bring him down to my own level. I tried to reduce the distance he
has placed between his nature and mine. I desired more immediate
relations, more individual instruction; not content to make God
in the image of man that I might be favoured above my fellows,
I desired supernatural knowledge; I required a special form of
worship; I wanted God to tell me what he had not told others, or
what others had not understood like myself.
"Considering the point I had now reached as the common centre from
which all believers set out on the quest for a more enlightened
form of religion, I merely found in natural religion the elements
of all religion. I beheld the multitude of diverse sects which hold
sway upon earth, each of which accuses the other of falsehood and
error; which of these, I asked, is the right? Every one replied,
'My own;' every one said, 'I alone and those who agree with me
think rightly, all the others are mistaken.' And how do you know
that your sect is in the right? Because God said so. And how do
you know God said so? [Footnote: "All men," said a wise and good
priest, "maintain that they hold and believe their religion (and
all use the same jargon), not of man, nor of any creature, but of
God. But to speak truly, without pretence or flattery, none of them
do so; whatever they may say, religions are taught by human hands
and means; take, for example, the way in which religions have been
received by the world, the way in which they are still received
every day by individuals; the nation, the country, the locality
gives the religion; we belong to the religion of the place where
we are born and brought up; we are baptised or circumcised, we are
Christians, Jews, Mohametans before we know that we are men; we
do not pick and choose our religion for see how ill the life and
conduct agree with the religion, see for what slight and human
causes men go against the teaching of their religion."--Charron,
De la Sagesse.--It seems clear that the honest creed of the holy
theologian of Condom would not have differed greatly from that of
the Savoyard priest.] And who told you that God said it? My pastor,
who knows all about it. My pastor tells me what to believe and I
believe it; he assures me that any one who says anything else is
mistaken, and I give not heed to them.
"What! thought I, is not truth one; can that which is true for me
be false for you? If those who follow the right path and those who
go astray have the same method, what merit or what blame can be
assigned to one more than to the other? Their choice is the result
of chance; it is unjust to hold them responsible for it, to reward
or punish them for being born in one country or another. To dare to
say that God judges us in this manner is an outrage on his justice.
"Either all religions are good and pleasing to God, or if there
is one which he prescribes for men, if they will be punished for
despising it, he will have distinguished it by plain and certain
signs by which it can be known as the only true religion; these
signs are alike in every time and place, equally plain to all men,
great or small, learned or unlearned, Europeans, Indians, Africans,
savages. If there were but one religion upon earth, and if all
beyond its pale were condemned to eternal punishment, and if there
were in any corner of the world one single honest man who was not
convinced by this evidence, the God of that religion would be the
most unjust and cruel of tyrants.
"Let us therefore seek honestly after truth; let us yield nothing
to the claims of birth, to the authority of parents and pastors,
but let us summon to the bar of conscience and of reason all that
they have taught us from our childhood. In vain do they exclaim,
'Submit your reason;' a deceiver might say as much; I must have
reasons for submitting my reason.
"All the theology I can get for myself by observation of the universe
and by the use of my faculties is contained in what I have already
told you. To know more one must have recourse to strange means.
These means cannot be the authority of men, for every man is of
the same species as myself, and all that a man knows by nature I am
capable of knowing, and another may be deceived as much as I; when
I believe what he says, it is not because he says it but because
he proves its truth. The witness of man is therefore nothing more
than the witness of my own reason, and it adds nothing to the
natural means which God has given me for the knowledge of truth.
"Apostle of truth, what have you to tell me of which I am not the
sole judge? God himself has spoken; give heed to his revelation.
That is another matter. God has spoken, these are indeed words which
demand attention. To whom has he spoken? He has spoken to men. Why
then have I heard nothing? He has instructed others to make known
his words to you. I understand; it is men who come and tell me what
God has said. I would rather have heard the words of God himself;
it would have been as easy for him and I should have been secure
from fraud. He protects you from fraud by showing that his envoys
come from him. How does he show this? By miracles. Where are these
miracles? In the books. And who wrote the books? Men. And who
saw the miracles? The men who bear witness to them. What! Nothing
but human testimony! Nothing but men who tell me what others told
them! How many men between God and me! Let us see, however, let
us examine, compare, and verify. Oh! if God had but deigned to free
me from all this labour, I would have served him with all my heart.
"Consider, my friend, the terrible controversy in which I am now
engaged; what vast learning is required to go back to the remotest
antiquity, to examine, weigh, confront prophecies, revelations,
facts, all the monuments of faith set forth throughout the world,
to assign their date, place, authorship, and occasion. What exactness
of critical judgment is needed to distinguish genuine documents from
forgeries, to compare objections with their answers, translations
with their originals; to decide as to the impartiality of witnesses,
their common-sense, their knowledge; to make sure that nothing
has been omitted, nothing added, nothing transposed, altered, or
falsified; to point out any remaining contradictions, to determine
what weight should be given to the silence of our adversaries
with regard to the charges brought against them; how far were they
aware of those charges; did they think them sufficiently serious
to require an answer; were books sufficiently well known for our
books to reach them; have we been honest enough to allow their
books to circulate among ourselves and to leave their strongest
objections unaltered?
"When the authenticity of all these documents is accepted, we must
now pass to the evidence of their authors' mission; we must know the
laws of chance, and probability, to decide which prophecy cannot
be fulfilled without a miracle; we must know the spirit of the
original languages, to distinguish between prophecy and figures of
speech; we must know what facts are in accordance with nature and
what facts are not, so that we may say how far a clever man may
deceive the eyes of the simple and may even astonish the learned;
we must discover what are the characteristics of a prodigy and how
its authenticity may be established, not only so far as to gain
credence, but so that doubt may be deserving of punishment; we must
compare the evidence for true and false miracles, and find sure
tests to distinguish between them; lastly we must say why God chose
as a witness to his words means which themselves require so much
evidence on their behalf, as if he were playing with human credulity,
and avoiding of set purpose the true means of persuasion.
"Assuming that the divine majesty condescends so far as to make a
man the channel of his sacred will, is it reasonable, is it fair,
to demand that the whole of mankind should obey the voice of this
minister without making him known as such? Is it just to give him
as his sole credentials certain private signs, performed in the
presence of a few obscure persons, signs which everybody else can
only know by hearsay? If one were to believe all the miracles that
the uneducated and credulous profess to have seen in every country
upon earth, every sect would be in the right; there would be more
miracles than ordinary events; and it would be the greatest miracle
if there were no miracles wherever there were persecuted fanatics.
The unchangeable order of nature is the chief witness to the wise
hand that guides it; if there were many exceptions, I should hardly
know what to think; for my own part I have too great a faith in God
to believe in so many miracles which are so little worthy of him.
"Let a man come and say to us: Mortals, I proclaim to you the will
of the Most Highest; accept my words as those of him who has sent
me; I bid the sun to change his course, the stars to range themselves
in a fresh order, the high places to become smooth, the floods to
rise up, the earth to change her face. By these miracles who will
not recognise the master of nature? She does not obey impostors,
their miracles are wrought in holes and corners, in deserts, within
closed doors, where they find easy dupes among a small company
of spectators already disposed to believe them. Who will venture
to tell me how many eye-witnesses are required to make a miracle
credible! What use are your miracles, performed if proof of your
doctrine, if they themselves require so much proof! You might as
well have let them alone.
"There still remains the most important inquiry of all with regard
to the doctrine proclaimed; for since those who tell us God works
miracles in this world, profess that the devil sometimes imitates
them, when we have found the best attested miracles we have got
very little further; and since the magicians of Pharaoh dared in
the presence of Moses to counterfeit the very signs he wrought at
God's command, why should they not, behind his back, claim a like
authority? So when we have proved our doctrine by means of miracles,
we must prove our miracles by means of doctrine, [Footnote: This
is expressly stated in many passages of Scripture, among others in
Deuteronomy xiii., where it is said that when a prophet preaching
strange gods confirms his words by means of miracles and what he
foretells comes to pass, far from giving heed to him, this prophet
must be put to death. If then the heathen put the apostles to
death when they preached a strange god and confirmed their words by
miracles which came to pass I cannot see what grounds we have for
complaint which they could not at once turn against us. Now, what
should be done in such a case? There is only one course; to return
to argument and let the miracles alone. It would have been better
not to have had recourse to them at all. That is plain common-sense
which can only be obscured by great subtlety of distinction. Subtleties
in Christianity! So Jesus Christ was mistaken when he promised the
kingdom of heaven to the simple, he was mistaken when he began his
finest discourse with the praise of the poor in spirit, if so much
wit is needed to understand his teaching and to get others to believe
in him. When you have convinced me that submission is my duty, all
will be well; but to convince me of this, come down to my level;
adapt your arguments to a lowly mind, or I shall not recognise you
as a true disciple of your master, and it is not his doctrine that
you are teaching me.] for fear lest we should take the devil's
doings for the handiwork of God. What think you of this dilemma?
"This doctrine, if it comes from God, should bear the sacred stamp
of the godhead; not only should it illumine the troubled thoughts
which reason imprints on our minds, but it should also offer us
a form of worship, a morality, and rules of conduct in accordance
with the attributes by means of which we alone conceive of God's
essence. If then it teaches us what is absurd and unreasonable, if
it inspires us with feelings of aversion for our fellows and terror
for ourselves, if it paints us a God, angry, jealous, revengeful,
partial, hating men, a God of war and battles, ever ready to strike
and to destroy, ever speaking of punishment and torment, boasting
even of the punishment of the innocent, my heart would not be drawn
towards this terrible God, I would take good care not to quit the
realm of natural religion to embrace such a religion as that; for
you see plainly I must choose between them. Your God is not ours.
He who begins by selecting a chosen people, and proscribing the rest
of mankind, is not our common father; he who consigns to eternal
punishment the greater part of his creatures, is not the merciful
and gracious God revealed to me by my reason.
"Reason tells me that dogmas should be plain, clear, and striking
in their simplicity. If there is something lacking in natural
religion, it is with respect to the obscurity in which it leaves
the great truths it teaches; revelation should teach us these truths
in a way which the mind of man can understand; it should bring them
within his reach, make him comprehend them, so that he may believe
them. Faith is confirmed and strengthened by understanding; the
best religion is of necessity the simplest. He who hides beneath
mysteries and contradictions the religion that he preaches to me,
teaches me at the same time to distrust that religion. The God whom
I adore is not the God of darkness, he has not given me understanding
in order to forbid me to use it; to tell me to submit my reason
is to insult the giver of reason. The minister of truth does not
tyrannise over my reason, he enlightens it.
"We have set aside all human authority, and without it I do not see
how any man can convince another by preaching a doctrine contrary
to reason. Let them fight it out, and let us see what they have to
say with that harshness of speech which is common to both.
"INSPIRATION: Reason tells you that the whole is greater than the
part; but I tell you, in God's name, that the part is greater than
the whole.
"REASON: And who are you to dare to tell me that God contradicts
himself? And which shall I choose to believe. God who teaches me,
through my reason, the eternal truth, or you who, in his name,
proclaim an absurdity?
"INSPIRATION: Believe me, for my teaching is more positive; and I
will prove to you beyond all manner of doubt that he has sent me.
"REASON: What! you will convince me that God has sent you to bear
witness against himself? What sort of proofs will you adduce to
convince me that God speaks more surely by your mouth than through
the understanding he has given me?
"INSPIRATION: The understanding he has given you! Petty, conceited
creature! As if you were the first impious person who had been led
astray through his reason corrupted by sin.
"REASON: Man of God, you would not be the first scoundrel who
asserts his arrogance as a proof of his mission.
"INSPIRATION: What! do even philosophers call names?
"REASON: Sometimes, when the saints set them the example.
"INSPIRATION: Oh, but I have a right to do it, for I am speaking
on God's behalf.
"REASON: You would do well to show your credentials before you make
use of your privileges.
"INSPIRATION: My credentials are authentic, earth and heaven will
bear witness on my behalf. Follow my arguments carefully, if you
please.
"REASON: Your arguments! You forget what you are saying. When you
teach me that my reason misleads me, do you not refute what it might
have said on your behalf? He who denies the right of reason, must
convince me without recourse to her aid. For suppose you have
convinced me by reason, how am I to know that it is not my reason,
corrupted by sin, which makes me accept what you say? besides,
what proof, what demonstration, can you advance, more self-evident
than the axiom it is to destroy? It is more credible that a good
syllogism is a lie, than that the part is greater than the whole.
"INSPIRATION: What a difference! There is no answer to my evidence;
it is of a supernatural kind.
"REASON: Supernatural! What do you mean by the word? I do not
understand it.
"INSPIRATION: I mean changes in the order of nature, prophecies,
signs, and wonders of every kind.
"REASON: Signs and wonders! I have never seen anything of the kind.
"INSPIRATION: Others have seen them for you. Clouds of witnesses--the
witness of whole nations....
"REASON: Is the witness of nations supernatural?
"INSPIRATION: No; but when it is unanimous, it is incontestable.
"REASON: There is nothing so incontestable as the principles of
reason, and one cannot accept an absurdity on human evidence. once
more, let us see your supernatural evidence, for the consent of
mankind is not supernatural.
"INSPIRATION: Oh, hardened heart, grace does not speak to you.
"REASON: That is not my fault; for by your own showing, one must
have already received grace before one is able to ask for it. Begin
by speaking to me in its stead.
"INSPIRATION: But that is just what I am doing, and you will not
listen. But what do you say to prophecy?
"REASON: In the first place, I say I have no more heard a prophet
than I have seen a miracle. In the next, I say that no prophet
could claim authority over me.
"INSPIRATION: Follower of the devil! Why should not the words of
the prophets have authority over you?
"REASON: Because three things are required, three things which will
never happen: firstly, I must have heard the prophecy; secondly,
I must have seen its fulfilment; and thirdly, it must be clearly
proved that the fulfilment of the prophecy could not by any possibility
have been a mere coincidence; for even if it was as precise, as
plain, and clear as an axiom of geometry, since the clearness of
a chance prediction does not make its fulfilment impossible, this
fulfilment when it does take place does not, strictly speaking,
prove what was foretold.
"See what your so-called supernatural proofs, your miracles, your
prophecies come to: believe all this upon the word of another,
Submit to the authority of men the authority of God which speaks to
my reason. If the eternal truths which my mind conceives of could
suffer any shock, there would be no sort of certainty for me; and
far from being sure that you speak to me on God's behalf, I should
not even be sure that there is a God.
"My child, here are difficulties enough, but these are not all.
Among so many religions, mutually excluding and proscribing each
other, one only is true, if indeed any one of them is true. To
recognise the true religion we must inquire into, not one, but all;
and in any question whatsoever we have no right to condemn unheard.
[Footnote: on the other hand, Plutarch relates that the Stoics
maintained, among other strange paradoxes, that it was no use hearing
both sides; for, said they, the first either proves his point or
he does not prove it; if he has proved it, there is an end of it,
and the other should be condemned: if he has not proved it, he
himself is in the wrong and judgment should be given against him.
I consider the method of those who accept an exclusive revelation
very much like that of these Stoics. When each of them claims to
be the sole guardian of truth, we must hear them all before we can
choose between them without injustice.] The objections must be
compared with the evidence; we must know what accusation each brings
against the other, and what answers they receive. The plainer any
feeling appears to us, the more we must try to discover why so many
other people refuse to accept it. We should be simple, indeed, if
we thought it enough to hear the doctors on our own side, in order
to acquaint ourselves with the arguments of the other. Where can
you find theologians who pride themselves on their honesty? Where
are those who, to refute the arguments of their opponents, do
not begin by making out that they are of little importance? A man
may make a good show among his own friends, and be very proud of
his arguments, who would cut a very poor figure with those same
arguments among those who are on the other side. Would you find
out for yourself from books? What learning you will need! What
languages you must learn; what libraries you must ransack; what an
amount of reading must be got through! Who will guide me in such
a choice? It will be hard to find the best books on the opposite
side in any one country, and all the harder to find those on all
sides; when found they would be easily answered. The absent are
always in the wrong, and bad arguments boldly asserted easily efface
good arguments put forward with scorn. Besides books are often very
misleading, and scarcely express the opinions of their authors.
If you think you can judge the Catholic faith from the writings
of Bossuet, you will find yourself greatly mistaken when you have
lived among us. You will see that the doctrines with which Protestants
are answered are quite different from those of the pulpit. To
judge a religion rightly, you must not study it in the books of its
partisans, you must learn it in their lives; this is quite another
matter. Each religion has its own traditions, meaning, customs,
prejudices, which form the spirit of its creed, and must be taken
in connection with it.
"How many great nations neither print books of their own nor read
ours! How shall they judge of our opinions, or we of theirs? We
laugh at them, they despise us; and if our travellers turn them
into ridicule, they need only travel among us to pay us back in
our own coin. Are there not, in every country, men of common-sense,
honesty, and good faith, lovers of truth, who only seek to know
what truth is that they may profess it? Yet every one finds truth
in his own religion, and thinks the religion of other nations
absurd; so all these foreign religions are not so absurd as they
seem to us, or else the reason we find for our own proves nothing.
"We have three principal forms of religion in Europe. one accepts
one revelation, another two, and another three. Each hates the
others, showers curses on them, accuses them of blindness, obstinacy,
hardness of heart, and falsehood. What fair-minded man will dare
to decide between them without first carefully weighing their
evidence, without listening attentively to their arguments? That
which accepts only one revelation is the oldest and seems the best
established; that which accepts three is the newest and seems the
most consistent; that which accepts two revelations and rejects the
third may perhaps be the best, but prejudice is certainly against
it; its inconsistency is glaring.
"In all three revelations the sacred books are written in languages
unknown to the people who believe in them. The Jews no longer
understand Hebrew, the Christians understand neither Hebrew nor
Greek; the Turks and Persians do not understand Arabic, and the
Arabs of our time do not speak the language of Mahomet. Is not
it a very foolish way of teaching, to teach people in an unknown
tongue? These books are translated, you say. What an answer! How
am I to know that the translations are correct, or how am I to
make sure that such a thing as a correct translation is possible?
If God has gone so far as to speak to men, why should he require
an interpreter?
"I can never believe that every man is obliged to know what is
contained in books, and that he who is out of reach of these books,
and of those who understand them, will be punished for an ignorance
which is no fault of his. Books upon books! What madness! As
all Europe is full of books, Europeans regard them as necessary,
forgetting that they are unknown throughout three-quarters of the
globe. Were not all these books written by men? Why then should a
man need them to teach him his duty, and how did he learn his duty
before these books were in existence? Either he must have learnt
his duties for himself, or his ignorance must have been excused.
"Our Catholics talk loudly of the authority of the Church; but what
is the use of it all, if they also need just as great an array of
proofs to establish that authority as the other seeks to establish
their doctrine? The Church decides that the Church has a right to
decide. What a well-founded authority! Go beyond it, and you are
back again in our discussions.
"Do you know many Christians who have taken the trouble to inquire
what the Jews allege against them? If any one knows anything at
all about it, it is from the writings of Christians. What a way of
ascertaining the arguments of our adversaries! But what is to be
done? If any one dared to publish in our day books which were openly
in favour of the Jewish religion, we should punish the author,
publisher, and bookseller. This regulation is a sure and certain
plan for always being in the right. It is easy to refute those who
dare not venture to speak.
"Those among us who have the opportunity of talking with Jews are
little better off. These unhappy people feel that they are in our
power; the tyranny they have suffered makes them timid; they know
that Christian charity thinks nothing of injustice and cruelty;
will they dare to run the risk of an outcry against blasphemy? Our
greed inspires us with zeal, and they are so rich that they must
be in the wrong. The more learned, the more enlightened they are,
the more cautious. You may convert some poor wretch whom you have
paid to slander his religion; you get some wretched old-clothes-man
to speak, and he says what you want; you may triumph over their
ignorance and cowardice, while all the time their men of learning
are laughing at your stupidity. But do you think you would get
off so easily in any place where they knew they were safe! At the
Sorbonne it is plain that the Messianic prophecies refer to Jesus
Christ. Among the rabbis of Amsterdam it is just as clear that they
have nothing to do with him. I do not think I have ever heard the
arguments of the Jews as to why they should not have a free state,
schools and universities, where they can speak and argue without
danger. Then alone can we know what they have to say.
"At Constantinople the Turks state their arguments, but we dare not
give ours; then it is our turn to cringe. Can we blame the Turks
if they require us to show the same respect for Mahomet, in whom
we do not believe, as we demand from the Jews with regard to Jesus
Christ in whom they do not believe? Are we right? on what grounds
of justice can we answer this question?
"Two-thirds of mankind are neither Jews, Mahometans, nor Christians;
and how many millions of men have never heard the name of Moses,
Jesus Christ, or Mahomet? They deny it; they maintain that our
missionaries go everywhere. That is easily said. But do they go into
the heart of Africa, still undiscovered, where as yet no European
has ever ventured? Do they go to Eastern Tartary to follow on
horseback the wandering tribes, whom no stranger approaches, who
not only know nothing of the pope, but have scarcely heard tell
of the Grand Lama! Do they penetrate into the vast continents
of America, where there are still whole nations unaware that the
people of another world have set foot on their shores? Do they
go to Japan, where their intrigues have led to their perpetual
banishment, where their predecessors are only known to the rising
generation as skilful plotters who came with feigned zeal to take
possession in secret of the empire? Do they reach the harems of the
Asiatic princes to preach the gospel to those thousands of poor
slaves? What have the women of those countries done that no missionary
may preach the faith to them? Will they all go to hell because of
their seclusion?
"If it were true that the gospel is preached throughout the world,
what advantage would there be? The day before the first missionary
set foot in any country, no doubt somebody died who could not hear
him. Now tell me what we shall do with him? If there were a single
soul in the whole world, to whom Jesus Christ had never been
preached, this objection would be as strong for that man as for a
quarter of the human race.
"If the ministers of the gospel have made themselves heard among
far-off nations, what have they told them which might reasonably be
accepted on their word, without further and more exact verification?
You preach to me God, born and dying, two thousand years ago, at
the other end of the world, in some small town I know not where;
and you tell me that all who have not believed this mystery are
damned. These are strange things to be believed so quickly on the
authority of an unknown person. Why did your God make these things
happen so far off, if he would compel me to know about them? Is
it a crime to be unaware of what is happening half a world away?
Could I guess that in another hemisphere there was a Hebrew nation
and a town called Jerusalem? You might as well expect me to know
what was happening in the moon. You say you have come to teach me;
but why did you not come and teach my father, or why do you consign
that good old man to damnation because he knew nothing of all
this? Must he be punished everlastingly for your laziness, he who
was so kind and helpful, he who sought only for truth? Be honest;
put yourself in my place; see if I ought to believe, on your word
alone, all these incredible things which you have told me, and
reconcile all this injustice with the just God you proclaim to
me. At least allow me to go and see this distant land where such
wonders, unheard of in my own country, took place; let me go and
see why the inhabitants of Jerusalem put their God to death as a
robber. You tell me they did not know he was God. What then shall
I do, I who have only heard of him from you? You say they have been
punished, dispersed, oppressed, enslaved; that none of them dare
approach that town. Indeed they richly deserved it; but what do its
present inhabitants say of their crime in slaying their God! They
deny him; they too refuse to recognise God as God. They are no
better than the children of the original inhabitants.
"What! In the very town where God was put to death, neither the
former nor the latter inhabitants knew him, and you expect that I
should know him, I who was born two thousand years after his time,
and two thousand leagues away? Do you not see that before I can
believe this book which you call sacred, but which I do not in the
least understand, I must know from others than yourself when and by
whom it was written, how it has been preserved, how it came into
your possession, what they say about it in those lands where it is
rejected, and what are their reasons for rejecting it, though they
know as well as you what you are telling me? You perceive I must
go to Europe, Asia, Palestine, to examine these things for myself;
it would be madness to listen to you before that.
"Not only does this seem reasonable to me, but I maintain that it
is what every wise man ought to say in similar circumstances; that
he ought to banish to a great distance the missionary who wants
to instruct and baptise him all of a sudden before the evidence is
verified. Now I maintain that there is no revelation against which
these or similar objections cannot be made, and with more force
than against Christianity. Hence it follows that if there is but
one true religion and if every man is bound to follow it under pain
of damnation, he must spend his whole life in studying, testing,
comparing all these religions, in travelling through the countries
in which they are established. No man is free from a man's first
duty; no one has a right to depend on another's judgment. The
artisan who earns his bread by his daily toil, the ploughboy who
cannot read, the delicate and timid maiden, the invalid who can
scarcely leave his bed, all without exception must study, consider,
argue, travel over the whole world; there will be no more fixed
and settled nations; the whole earth will swarm with pilgrims on
their way, at great cost of time and trouble, to verify, compare,
and examine for themselves the various religions to be found. Then
farewell to the trades, the arts, the sciences of mankind, farewell
to all peaceful occupations; there can be no study but that
of religion, even the strongest, the most industrious, the most
intelligent, the oldest, will hardly be able in his last years to
know where he is; and it will be a wonder if he manages to find
out what religion he ought to live by, before the hour of his death.
"Hard pressed by these arguments, some prefer to make God unjust
and to punish the innocent for the sins of their fathers, rather
than to renounce their barbarous dogmas. Others get out of the
difficulty by kindly sending an angel to instruct all those who
in invincible ignorance have lived a righteous life. A good idea,
that angel! Not content to be the slaves of their own inventions
they expect God to make use of them also!
"Behold, my son, the absurdities to which pride and intolerance
bring us, when everybody wants others to think as he does, and
everybody fancies that he has an exclusive claim upon the rest of
mankind. I call to witness the God of Peace whom I adore, and whom
I proclaim to you, that my inquiries were honestly made; but when
I discovered that they were and always would be unsuccessful, and
that I was embarked upon a boundless ocean, I turned back, and
restricted my faith within the limits of my primitive ideas. I
could never convince myself that God would require such learning
of me under pain of hell. So I closed all my books. There is one
book which is open to every one--the book of nature. In this good
and great volume I learn to serve and adore its Author. There
is no excuse for not reading this book, for it speaks to all in a
language they can understand. Suppose I had been born in a desert
island, suppose I had never seen any man but myself, suppose I had
never heard what took place in olden days in a remote corner of
the world; yet if I use my reason, if I cultivate it, if I employ
rightly the innate faculties which God bestows upon me, I shall
learn by myself to know and love him, to love his works, to will
what he wills, and to fulfil all my duties upon earth, that I may
do his pleasure. What more can all human learning teach me?
"With regard to revelation, if I were a more accomplished disputant,
or a more learned person, perhaps I should feel its truth, its
usefulness for those who are happy enough to perceive it; but if I
find evidence for it which I cannot combat, I also find objections
against it which I cannot overcome. There are so many weighty
reasons for and against that I do not know what to decide, so that
I neither accept nor reject it. I only reject all obligation to be
convinced of its truth; for this so-called obligation is incompatible
with God's justice, and far from removing objections in this way
it would multiply them, and would make them insurmountable for the
greater part of mankind. In this respect I maintain an attitude of
reverent doubt. I do not presume to think myself infallible; other
men may have been able to make up their minds though the matter
seems doubtful to myself; I am speaking for myself, not for them;
I neither blame them nor follow in their steps; their judgment may
be superior to mine, but it is no fault of mine that my judgment
does not agree with it.
"I own also that the holiness of the gospel speaks to my heart,
and that this is an argument which I should be sorry to refute.
Consider the books of the philosophers with all their outward show;
how petty they are in comparison! Can a book at once so grand and
so simple be the work of men? Is it possible that he whose history
is contained in this book is no more than man? Is the tone of this
book, the tone of the enthusiast or the ambitious sectary? What
gentleness and purity in his actions, what a touching grace in his
teaching, how lofty are his sayings, how profoundly wise are his
sermons, how ready, how discriminating, and how just are his answers!
What man, what sage, can live, suffer, and die without weakness
or ostentation? When Plato describes his imaginary good man,
overwhelmed with the disgrace of crime, and deserving of all the
rewards of virtue, every feature of the portrait is that of Christ;
the resemblance is so striking that it has been noticed by all
the Fathers, and there can be no doubt about it. What prejudices
and blindness must there be before we dare to compare the son of
Sophronisca with the son of Mary. How far apart they are! Socrates
dies a painless death, he is not put to open shame, and he plays
his part easily to the last; and if this easy death had not done
honour to his life, we might have doubted whether Socrates, with all
his intellect, was more than a mere sophist. He invented morality,
so they say; others before him had practised it; he only said
what they had done, and made use of their example in his teaching.
Aristides was just before Socrates defined justice; Leonidas died
for his country before Socrates declared that patriotism was a
virtue; Sparta was sober before Socrates extolled sobriety; there
were plenty of virtuous men in Greece before he defined virtue.
But among the men of his own time where did Jesus find that pure
and lofty morality of which he is both the teacher and pattern?
[Footnote: Cf. in the Sermon on the Mount the parallel he himself
draws between the teaching of Moses and his own.--Matt. v.] The
voice of loftiest wisdom arose among the fiercest fanaticism, the
simplicity of the most heroic virtues did honour to the most degraded
of nations one could wish no easier death than that of Socrates,
calmly discussing philosophy with his friends; one could fear nothing
worse than that of Jesus, dying in torment, among the insults,
the mockery, the curses of the whole nation. In the midst of these
terrible sufferings, Jesus prays for his cruel murderers. Yes,
if the life and death of Socrates are those of a philosopher, the
life and death of Christ are those of a God. Shall we say that the
gospel story is the work of the imagination? My friend, such things
are not imagined; and the doings of Socrates, which no one doubts,
are less well attested than those of Jesus Christ. At best, you
only put the difficulty from you; it would be still more incredible
that several persons should have agreed together to invent such a
book, than that there was one man who supplied its subject matter.
The tone and morality of this story are not those of any Jewish
authors, and the gospel indeed contains characters so great, so
striking, so entirely inimitable, that their invention would be
more astonishing than their hero. With all this the same gospel
is full of incredible things, things repugnant to reason, things
which no natural man can understand or accept. What can you do
among so many contradictions? You can be modest and wary, my child;
respect in silence what you can neither reject nor understand, and
humble yourself in the sight of the Divine Being who alone knows
the truth.
"This is the unwilling scepticism in which I rest; but this scepticism
is in no way painful to me, for it does not extend to matters of
practice, and I am well assured as to the principles underlying all
my duties. I serve God in the simplicity of my heart; I only seek
to know what affects my conduct. As to those dogmas which have
no effect upon action or morality, dogmas about which so many men
torment themselves, I give no heed to them. I regard all individual
religions as so many wholesome institutions which prescribe a
uniform method by which each country may do honour to God in public
worship; institutions which may each have its reason in the country,
the government, the genius of the people, or in other local causes
which make one preferable to another in a given time or place. I
think them all good alike, when God is served in a fitting manner.
True worship is of the heart. God rejects no homage, however offered,
provided it is sincere. Called to the service of the Church in
my own religion, I fulfil as scrupulously as I can all the duties
prescribed to me, and my conscience would reproach me if I were
knowingly wanting with regard to any point. You are aware that after
being suspended for a long time, I have, through the influence of
M. Mellarede, obtained permission to resume my priestly duties,
as a means of livelihood. I used to say Mass with the levity that
comes from long experience even of the most serious matters when
they are too familiar to us; with my new principles I now celebrate
it with more reverence; I dwell upon the majesty of the Supreme
Being, his presence, the insufficiency of the human mind, which
so little realises what concerns its Creator. When I consider how
I present before him the prayers of all the people in a form laid
down for me, I carry out the whole ritual exactly; I give heed
to what I say, I am careful not to omit the least word, the least
ceremony; when the moment of the consecration approaches, I collect my
powers, that I may do all things as required by the Church and by
the greatness of this sacrament; I strive to annihilate my own reason
before the Supreme Mind; I say to myself, Who art thou to measure
infinite power? I reverently pronounce the sacramental words, and
I give to their effect all the faith I can bestow. Whatever may
be this mystery which passes understanding, I am not afraid that
at the day of judgment I shall be punished for having profaned it
in my heart."
Honoured with the sacred ministry, though in its lowest ranks, I
will never do or say anything which may make me unworthy to fulfil
these sublime duties. I will always preach virtue and exhort men
to well-doing; and so far as I can I will set them a good example.
It will be my business to make religion attractive; it will be my
business to strengthen their faith in those doctrines which are
really useful, those which every man must believe; but, please God,
I shall never teach them to hate their neighbour, to say to other
men, You will be damned; to say, No salvation outside the Church.
[Footnote: The duty of following and loving the religion of our
country does not go so far as to require us to accept doctrines
contrary to good morals, such as intolerance. This horrible
doctrine sets men in arms against their fellow-men, and makes them
all enemies of mankind. The distinction between civil toleration
and theological toleration is vain and childish. These two kinds
of toleration are inseparable, and we cannot accept one without the
other. Even the angels could not live at peace with men whom they
regarded as the enemies of God.] If I were in a more conspicuous
position, this reticence might get me into trouble; but I am too
obscure to have much to fear, and I could hardly sink lower than I
am. Come what may, I will never blaspheme the justice of God, nor
lie against the Holy Ghost.
"I have long desired to have a parish of my own; it is still
my ambition, but I no longer hope to attain it. My dear friend, I
think there is nothing so delightful as to be a parish priest. A
good clergyman is a minister of mercy, as a good magistrate is a
minister of justice. A clergyman is never called upon to do evil;
if he cannot always do good himself, it is never out of place for
him to beg for others, and he often gets what he asks if he knows
how to gain respect. Oh! if I should ever have some poor mountain
parish where I might minister to kindly folk, I should be happy
indeed; for it seems to me that I should make my parishioners happy.
I should not bring them riches, but I should share their poverty;
I should remove from them the scorn and opprobrium which are harder
to bear than poverty. I should make them love peace and equality,
which often remove poverty, and always make it tolerable. When they
saw that I was in no way better off than themselves, and that yet
I was content with my lot, they would learn to put up with their
fate and to be content like me. In my sermons I would lay more stress
on the spirit of the gospel than on the spirit of the church; its
teaching is simple, its morality sublime; there is little in it
about the practices of religion, but much about works of charity.
Before I teach them what they ought to do, I would try to practise
it myself, that they might see that at least I think what I say.
If there were Protestants in the neighbourhood or in my parish, I
would make no difference between them and my own congregation so
far as concerns Christian charity; I would get them to love one
another, to consider themselves brethren, to respect all religions,
and each to live peaceably in his own religion. To ask any one to
abandon the religion in which he was born is, I consider, to ask
him to do wrong, and therefore to do wrong oneself. While we await
further knowledge, let us respect public order; in every country
let us respect the laws, let us not disturb the form of worship
prescribed by law; let us not lead its citizens into disobedience;
for we have no certain knowledge that it is good for them to abandon
their own opinions for others, and on the other hand we are quite
certain that it is a bad thing to disobey the law.
"My young friend, I have now repeated to you my creed as God reads
it in my heart; you are the first to whom I have told it; perhaps
you will be the last. As long as there is any true faith left among
men, we must not trouble quiet souls, nor scare the faith of the
ignorant with problems they cannot solve, with difficulties which
cause them uneasiness, but do not give them any guidance. But
when once everything is shaken, the trunk must be preserved at the
cost of the branches. Consciences, restless, uncertain, and almost
quenched like yours, require to be strengthened and aroused; to
set the feet again upon the foundation of eternal truth, we must
remove the trembling supports on which they think they rest.
"You are at that critical age when the mind is open to conviction,
when the heart receives its form and character, when we decide our
own fate for life, either for good or evil. At a later date, the
material has hardened and fresh impressions leave no trace. Young
man, take the stamp of truth upon your heart which is not yet
hardened, if I were more certain of myself, I should have adopted
a more decided and dogmatic tone; but I am a man ignorant and.
liable to error; what could I do? I have opened my heart fully to
you; and I have told what I myself hold for certain and sure; I
have told you my doubts as doubts, my opinions as opinions; I have
given you my reasons both for faith and doubt. It is now your turn
to judge; you have asked for time; that is a wise precaution and
it makes me think well of you. Begin by bringing your conscience
into that state in which it desires to see clearly; be honest with
yourself. Take to yourself such of my opinions as convince you,
reject the rest. You are not yet so depraved by vice as to run the
risk of choosing amiss. I would offer to argue with you, but as
soon as men dispute they lose their temper; pride and obstinacy
come in, and there is an end of honesty. My friend, never argue;
for by arguing we gain no light for ourselves or for others. So far
as I myself am concerned, I have only made up my mind after many
years of meditation; here I rest, my conscience is at peace, my
heart is satisfied. If I wanted to begin afresh the examination of
my feelings, I should not bring to the task a purer love of truth;
and my mind, which is already less active, would be less able to
perceive the truth. Here I shall rest, lest the love of contemplation,
developing step by step into an idle passion, should make me
lukewarm in the performance of my duties, lest I should fall into
my former scepticism without strength to struggle out of it. More
than half my life is spent; I have barely time to make good use of
what is left, to blot out my faults by my virtues. If I am mistaken,
it is against my will. He who reads my inmost heart knows that
I have no love for my blindness. As my own knowledge is powerless
to free me from this blindness, my only way out of it is by a good
life; and if God from the very stones can raise up children to
Abraham, every man has a right to hope that he may be taught the
truth, if he makes himself worthy of it.
"If my reflections lead you to think as I do, if you share my
feelings, if we have the same creed, I give you this advice: Do
not continue to expose your life to the temptations of poverty and
despair, nor waste it in degradation and at the mercy of strangers;
no longer eat the shameful bread of charity. Return to your own
country, go back to the religion of your fathers, and follow it in
sincerity of heart, and never forsake it; it is very simple and very
holy; I think there is no other religion upon earth whose morality
is purer, no other more satisfying to the reason. Do not trouble
about the cost of the journey, that will be provided for you.
Neither do you fear the false shame of a humiliating return; we
should blush to commit a fault, not to repair it. You are still at
an age when all is forgiven, but when we cannot go on sinning with
impunity. If you desire to listen to your conscience, a thousand
empty objections will disappear at her voice. You will feel that, in
our present state of uncertainty, it is an inexcusable presumption
to profess any faith but that we were born into, while it is
treachery not to practise honestly the faith we profess. If we go
astray, we deprive ourselves of a great excuse before the tribunal
of the sovereign judge. Will he not pardon the errors in which we
were brought up, rather than those of our own choosing?
"My son, keep your soul in such a state that you always desire
that there should be a God and you will never doubt it. Moreover,
whatever decision you come to, remember that the real duties of
religion are independent of human institutions; that a righteous
heart is the true temple of the Godhead; that in every land, in
every sect, to love God above all things and to love our neighbour
as ourself is the whole law; remember there is no religion which
absolves us from our moral duties; that these alone are really
essential, that the service of the heart is the first of these duties,
and that without faith there is no such thing as true virtue.
"Shun those who, under the pretence of explaining nature, sow
destructive doctrines in the heart of men, those whose apparent
scepticism is a hundredfold more self-assertive and dogmatic than
the firm tone of their opponents. Under the arrogant claim, that
they alone are enlightened, true, honest, they subject us imperiously
to their far-reaching decisions, and profess to give us, as the
true principles of all things, the unintelligible systems framed by
their imagination. Moreover, they overthrow, destroy, and trample
under foot all that men reverence; they rob the afflicted of
their last consolation in their misery; they deprive the rich and
powerful of the sole bridle of their passions; they tear from the
very depths of man's heart all remorse for crime, and all hope of
virtue; and they boast, moreover, that they are the benefactors of
the human race. Truth, they say, can never do a man harm. I think
so too, and to my mind that is strong evidence that what they
teach is not true. [Footnote: The rival parties attack each other
with so many sophistries that it would be a rash and overwhelming
enterprise to attempt to deal with all of them; it is difficult
enough to note some of them as they occur. one of the commonest
errors among the partisans of philosophy is to contrast a nation
of good philosophers with a nation of bad Christians; as if it were
easier to make a nation of good philosophers than a nation of good
Christians. I know not whether in individual cases it is easier to
discover one rather than the other; but I am quite certain that,
as far as nations are concerned, we must assume that there will
be those who misuse their philosophy without religion, just as our
people misuse their religion without philosophy, and that seems
to put quite a different face upon the matter.]--Bayle has proved
very satisfactorily that fanaticism is more harmful than atheism,
and that cannot be denied; but what he has not taken the trouble to
say, though it is none the less true, is this: Fanaticism, though
cruel and bloodthirsty, is still a great and powerful passion,
which stirs the heart of man, teaching him to despise death, and
giving him an enormous motive power, which only needs to be guided
rightly to produce the noblest virtues; while irreligion, and the
argumentative philosophic spirit generally, on the other hand,
assaults the life and enfeebles it, degrades the soul, concentrates
all the passions in the basest self-interest, in the meanness of
the human self; thus it saps unnoticed the very foundations of all
society, for what is common to all these private interests is so
small that it will never outweigh their opposing interests.--If
atheism does not lead to bloodshed, it is less from love of peace
than from indifference to what is good; as if it mattered little
what happened to others, provided the sage remained undisturbed in
his study. His principles do not kill men, but they prevent their
birth, by destroying the morals by which they were multiplied, by
detaching them from their fellows, by reducing all their affections
to a secret selfishness, as fatal to population as to virtue. The
indifference of the philosopher is like the peace in a despotic state;
it is the repose of death; war itself is not more destructive.--Thus
fanaticism though its immediate results are more fatal than those
of what is now called the philosophic mind, is much less fatal in
its after effects. Moreover, it is an easy matter to exhibit fine
maxims in books; but the real question is--Are they really in
accordance with your teaching, are they the necessary consequences
of it? and this has not been clearly proved so far. It remains
to be seen whether philosophy, safely enthroned, could control
successfully man's petty vanity, his self-interest, his ambition,
all the lesser passions of mankind, and whether it would practise
that sweet humanity which it boasts of, pen in hand.--In theory,
there is no good which philosophy can bring about which is not equally
secured by religion, while religion secures much that philosophy
cannot secure.--In practice, it is another matter; but still we
must put it to the proof. No man follows his religion in all things,
even if his religion is true; most people have hardly any religion,
and they do not in the least follow what they have; that is still
more true; but still there are some people who have a religion
and follow it, at least to some extent; and beyond doubt religious
motives do prevent them from wrong-doing, and win from them virtues,
praiseworthy actions, which would not have existed but for these
motives.--A monk denies that money was entrusted to him; what of
that? It only proves that the man who entrusted the money to him
was a fool. If Pascal had done the same, that would have proved that
Pascal was a hypocrite. But a monk! Are those who make a trade of
religion religious people? All the crimes committed by the clergy,
as by other men, do not prove that religion is useless, but that
very few people are religious.--Most certainly our modern governments
owe to Christianity their more stable authority, their less frequent
revolutions; it has made those governments less bloodthirsty; this
can be shown by comparing them with the governments of former times.
Apart from fanaticism, the best known religion has given greater
gentleness to Christian conduct. This change is not the result of
learning; for wherever learning has been most illustrious humanity
has been no more respected on that account; the cruelties of the
Athenians, the Egyptians, the Roman emperors, the Chinese bear
witness to this. What works of mercy spring from the gospel! How
many acts of restitution, reparation, confession does the gospel
lead to among Catholics! Among ourselves, as the times of communion
draw near, do they not lead us to reconciliation and to alms-giving?
Did not the Hebrew Jubilee make the grasping less greedy, did it
not prevent much poverty? The brotherhood of the Law made the nation
one; no beggar was found among them. Neither are there beggars
among the Turks, where there are countless pious institutions;
from motives of religion they even show hospitality to the foes of
their religion.--"The Mahometans say, according to Chardin, that
after the interrogation which will follow the general resurrection,
all bodies will traverse a bridge called Poul-Serrho, which is
thrown across the eternal fires, a bridge which may be called the
third and last test of the great Judgment, because it is there that
the good and bad will be separated, etc.--"The Persians, continues
Chardin, make a great point of this bridge; and when any one suffers
a wrong which he can never hope to wipe out by any means or at any
time, he finds his last consolation in these words: 'By the living
God, you will pay me double at the last day; you will never get
across the Poul-Serrho if you do not first do me justice; I will
hold the hem of your garment, I will cling about your knees.' I
have seen many eminent men, of every profession, who for fear lest
this hue and cry should be raised against them as they cross that
fearful bridge, beg pardon of those who complained against them;
it has happened to me myself on many occasions. Men of rank, who
had compelled me by their importunity to do what I did not wish
to do, have come to me when they thought my anger had had time to
cool, and have said to me; I pray you "Halal becon antchisra," that
is, "Make this matter lawful and right." Some of them have even
sent gifts and done me service, so that I might forgive them and
say I did it willingly; the cause of this is nothing else but this
belief that they will not be able to get across the bridge of hell
until they have paid the uttermost farthing to the oppressed."--Must
I think that the idea of this bridge where so many iniquities are
made good is of no avail? If the Persians were deprived of this
idea, if they were persuaded that there was no Poul-Serrho, nor
anything of the kind, where the oppressed were avenged of their
tyrants after death, is it not clear that they would be very much
at their ease, and they would be freed from the care of appeasing
the wretched? But it is false to say that this doctrine is hurtful;
yet it would not be true.--O Philosopher, your moral laws are all
very fine; but kindly show me their sanction. Cease to shirk the
question, and tell me plainly what you would put in the place of
Poul-Serrho.
"My good youth, be honest and humble; learn how to be ignorant, then
you will never deceive yourself or others. If ever your talents are
so far cultivated as to enable you to speak to other men, always
speak according to your conscience, without oaring for their
applause. The abuse of knowledge causes incredulity. The learned
always despise the opinions of the crowd; each of them must have his
own opinion. A haughty philosophy leads to atheism just as blind
devotion leads to fanaticism. Avoid these extremes; keep steadfastly
to the path of truth, or what seems to you truth, in simplicity of
heart, and never let yourself be turned aside by pride or weakness.
Dare to confess God before the philosophers; dare to preach humanity
to the intolerant. It may be you will stand alone, but you will
bear within you a witness which will make the witness of men of no
account with you. Let them love or hate, let them read your writings
or despise them; no matter. Speak the truth and do the right; the
one thing that really matters is to do one's duty in this world;
and when we forget ourselves we are really working for ourselves.
My child, self-interest misleads us; the hope of the just is the
only sure guide."
I have transcribed this document not as a rule for the sentiments
we should adopt in matters of religion, but as an example of the way
in which we may reason with our pupil without forsaking the method
I have tried to establish. So long as we yield nothing to human
authority, nor to the prejudices of our native land, the light of
reason alone, in a state of nature, can lead us no further than to
natural religion; and this is as far as I should go with Emile. If
he must have any other religion, I have no right to be his guide;
he must choose for himself.
We are working in agreement with nature, and while she is shaping
the physical man, we are striving to shape his moral being, but
we do not make the same progress. The body is already strong and
vigorous, the soul is still frail and delicate, and whatever can be
done by human art, the body is always ahead of the mind. Hitherto
all our care has been devoted to restrain the one and stimulate
the other, so that the man might be as far as possible at one with
himself. By developing his individuality, we have kept his growing
susceptibilities in check; we have controlled it by cultivating
his reason. Objects of thought moderate the influence of objects
of sense. By going back to the causes of things, we have withdrawn
him from the sway of the senses; it is an easy thing to raise him
from the study of nature to the search for the author of nature.
When we have reached this point, what a fresh hold we have got over
our pupil; what fresh ways of speaking to his heart! Then alone
does he find a real motive for being good, for doing right when he
is far from every human eye, and when he is not driven to it by
law. To be just in his own eyes and in the sight of God, to do his
duty, even at the cost of life itself, and to bear in his heart
virtue, not only for the love of order which we all subordinate
to the love of self, but for the love of the Author of his being,
a love which mingles with that self-love, so that he may at length
enjoy the lasting happiness which the peace of a good conscience
and the contemplation of that supreme being promise him in another
life, after he has used this life aright. Go beyond this, and I see
nothing but injustice, hypocrisy, and falsehood among men; private
interest, which in competition necessarily prevails over everything
else, teaches all things to adorn vice with the outward show of
virtue. Let all men do what is good for me at the cost of what is
good for themselves; let everything depend on me alone; let the
whole human race perish, if needs be, in suffering and want, to
spare me a moment's pain or hunger. Yes, I shall always maintain
that whoso says in his heart, "There is no God," while he takes
the name of God upon his lips, is either a liar or a madman.
Reader, it is all in vain; I perceive that you and I shall never
see Emile with the same eyes; you will always fancy him like your
own young people, hasty, impetuous, flighty, wandering from fete to
fete, from amusement to amusement, never able to settle to anything.
You smile when I expect to make a thinker, a philosopher, a young
theologian, of an ardent, lively, eager, and fiery young man,
at the most impulsive period of youth. This dreamer, you say, is
always in pursuit of his fancy; when he gives us a pupil of his
own making, he does not merely form him, he creates him, he makes
him up out of his own head; and while he thinks he is treading in
the steps of nature, he is getting further and further from her.
As for me, when I compare my pupil with yours, I can scarcely find
anything in common between them. So differently brought up, it is
almost a miracle if they are alike in any respect. As his childhood
was passed in the freedom they assume in youth, in his youth he
begins to bear the yoke they bore as children; this yoke becomes
hateful to them, they are sick of it, and they see in it nothing
but their masters' tyranny; when they escape from childhood, they
think they must shake off all control, they make up for the prolonged
restraint imposed upon them, as a prisoner, freed from his fetters,
moves and stretches and shakes his limbs. [Footnote: There is no
one who looks down upon childhood with such lofty scorn as those
who are barely grown-up; just as there is no country where rank is
more strictly regarded than that where there is little real inequality;
everybody is afraid of being confounded with his inferiors.] Emile,
however, is proud to be a man, and to submit to the yoke of his
growing reason; his body, already well grown, no longer needs so
much action, and begins to control itself, while his half-fledged
mind tries its wings on every occasion. Thus the age of reason
becomes for the one the age of licence; for the other, the age of
reasoning.
Would you know which of the two is nearer to the order of nature!
Consider the differences between those who are more or less removed
from a state of nature. Observe young villagers and see if they
are as undisciplined as your scholars. The Sieur de Beau says that
savages in childhood are always active, and ever busy with sports
that keep the body in motion; but scarcely do they reach adolescence
than they become quiet and dreamy; they no longer devote themselves
to games of skill or chance. Emile, who has been brought up in full
freedom like young peasants and savages, should behave like them
and change as he grows up. The whole difference is in this, that
instead of merely being active in sport or for food, he has, in the
course of his sports, learned to think. Having reached this stage,
and by this road, he is quite ready to enter upon the next stage to
which I introduce him; the subjects I suggest for his consideration
rouse his curiosity, because they are fine in themselves, because
they are quite new to him, and because he is able to understand
them. Your young people, on the other hand, are weary and overdone
with your stupid lessons, your long sermons, and your tedious
catechisms; why should they not refuse to devote their minds to
what has made them sad, to the burdensome precepts which have been
continually piled upon them, to the thought of the Author of their
being, who has been represented as the enemy of their pleasures?
All this has only inspired in them aversion, disgust, and weariness;
constraint has set them against it; why then should they devote
themselves to it when they are beginning to choose for themselves?
They require novelty, you must not repeat what they learned
as children. Just so with my own pupil, when he is a man I speak
to him as a man, and only tell him what is new to him; it is just
because they are tedious to your pupils that he will find them to
his taste.
This is how I doubly gain time for him by retarding nature to the
advantage of reason. But have I indeed retarded the progress of
nature? No, I have only prevented the imagination from hastening
it; I have employed another sort of teaching to counterbalance
the precocious instruction which the young man receives from other
sources. When he is carried away by the flood of existing customs
and I draw him in the opposite direction by means of other customs,
this is not to remove him from his place, but to keep him in it.
Nature's due time comes at length, as come it must. Since man must
die, he must reproduce himself, so that the species may endure and
the order of the world continue. When by the signs I have spoken of
you perceive that the critical moment is at hand, at once abandon
for ever your former tone. He is still your disciple, but not your
scholar. He is a man and your friend; henceforth you must treat
him as such.
What! Must I abdicate my authority when most I need it? Must I
abandon the adult to himself just when he least knows how to control
himself, when he may fall into the gravest errors! Must I renounce
my rights when it matters most that I should use them on his behalf?
Who bids you renounce them; he is only just becoming conscious of
them. Hitherto all you have gained has been won by force or guile;
authority, the law of duty, were unknown to him, you had to constrain
or deceive him to gain his obedience. But see what fresh chains
you have bound about his heart. Reason, friendship, affection,
gratitude, a thousand bonds of affection, speak to him in a voice
he cannot fail to hear. His ears are not yet dulled by vice, he
is still sensitive only to the passions of nature. Self-love, the
first of these, delivers him into your hands; habit confirms this.
If a passing transport tears him from you, regret restores him to
you without delay; the sentiment which attaches him to you is the
only lasting sentiment, all the rest are fleeting and self-effacing.
Do not let him become corrupt, and he will always be docile; he
will not begin to rebel till he is already perverted.
I grant you, indeed, that if you directly oppose his growing desires
and foolishly treat as crimes the fresh needs which are beginning
to make themselves felt in him, he will not listen to you for
long; but as soon as you abandon my method I cannot be answerable
for the consequences. Remember that you are nature's minister; you
will never be her foe.
But what shall we decide to do? You see no alternative but either
to favour his inclinations or to resist them; to tyrannise or to
wink at his misconduct; and both of these may lead to such dangerous
results that one must indeed hesitate between them.
The first way out of the difficulty is a very early marriage; this
is undoubtedly the safest and most natural plan. I doubt, however,
whether it is the best or the most useful. I will give my reasons
later; meanwhile I admit that young men should marry when they reach
a marriageable age. But this age comes too soon; we have made them
precocious; marriage should be postponed to maturity.
If it were merely a case of listening to their wishes and following
their lead it would be an easy matter; but there are so many
contradictions between the rights of nature and the laws of society
that to conciliate them we must continually contradict ourselves.
Much art is required to prevent man in society from being altogether
artificial.
For the reasons just stated, I consider that by the means I have
indicated and others like them the young man's desires may be kept
in ignorance and his senses pure up to the age of twenty. This is
so true that among the Germans a young man who lost his virginity
before that age was considered dishonoured; and the writers justly
attribute the vigour of constitution and the number of children
among the Germans to the continence of these nations during youth.
This period may be prolonged still further, and a few centuries
ago nothing was more common even in France. Among other well-known
examples, Montaigne's father, a man no less scrupulously truthful
than strong and healthy, swore that his was a virgin marriage at
three and thirty, and he had served for a long time in the Italian
wars. We may see in the writings of his son what strength and
spirit were shown by the father when he was over sixty. Certainly
the contrary opinion depends rather on our own morals and our own
prejudices than on the experience of the race as a whole.
I may, therefore, leave on one side the experience of our young
people; it proves nothing for those who have been educated in
another fashion. Considering that nature has fixed no exact limits
which cannot be advanced or postponed, I think I may, without going
beyond the law of nature, assume that under my care Emil has so far
remained in his first innocence, but I see that this happy period
is drawing to a close. Surrounded by ever-increasing perils, he
will escape me at the first opportunity in spite of all my efforts,
and this opportunity will not long be delayed; he will follow the
blind instinct of his senses; the chances are a thousand to one on
his ruin. I have considered the morals of mankind too profoundly
not to be aware of the irrevocable influence of this first moment
on all the rest of his life. If I dissimulate and pretend to see
nothing, he will take advantage of my weakness; if he thinks he
can deceive me, he will despise me, and I become an accomplice in
his destruction. If I try to recall him, the time is past, he no
longer heeds me, he finds me tiresome, hateful, intolerable; it
will not be long before he is rid of me. There is therefore only
one reasonable course open to me; I must make him accountable for
his own actions, I must at least preserve him from being taken
unawares, and I must show him plainly the dangers which beset his
path. I have restrained him so far through his ignorance; henceforward
his restraint must be his own knowledge.
This new teaching is of great importance, and we will take up our
story where we left it. This is the time to present my accounts,
to show him how his time and mine have been spent, to make known
to him what he is and what I am; what I have done, and what he has
done; what we owe to each other; all his moral relations, all the
undertakings to which he is pledged, all those to which others
have pledged themselves in respect to him; the stage he has reached
in the development of his faculties, the road that remains to be
travelled, the difficulties he will meet, and the way to overcome
them; how I can still help him and how he must henceforward help
himself; in a word, the critical time which he has reached, the
new dangers round about him, and all the valid reasons which should
induce him to keep a close watch upon himself before giving heed
to his growing desires.
Remember that to guide a grown man you must reverse all that you
did to guide the child. Do not hesitate to speak to him of those
dangerous mysteries which you have so carefully concealed from him
hitherto. Since he must become aware of them, let him not learn
them from another, nor from himself, but from you alone; since he
must henceforth fight against them, let him know his enemy, that
he may not be taken unawares.
Young people who are found to be aware of these matters, without
our knowing how they obtained their knowledge, have not obtained it
with impunity. This unwise teaching, which can have no honourable
object, stains the imagination of those who receive it if it does
nothing worse, and it inclines them to the vices of their instructors.
This is not all; servants, by this means, ingratiate themselves
with a child, gain his confidence, make him regard his tutor as a
gloomy and tiresome person; and one of the favourite subjects of
their secret colloquies is to slander him. When the pupil has got
so far, the master may abandon his task; he can do no good.
But why does the child choose special confidants? Because of the
tyranny of those who control him. Why should he hide himself from
them if he were not driven to it? Why should he complain if he had
nothing to complain of? Naturally those who control him are his
first confidants; you can see from his eagerness to tell them what
he thinks that he feels he has only half thought till he has told
his thoughts to them. You may be sure that when the child knows you
will neither preach nor scold, he will always tell you everything,
and that no one will dare to tell him anything he must conceal from
you, for they will know very well that he will tell you everything.
What makes me most confident in my method is this: when I follow
it out as closely as possible, I find no situation in the life of
my scholar which does not leave me some pleasing memory of him.
Even when he is carried away by his ardent temperament or when he
revolts against the hand that guides him, when he struggles and is
on the point of escaping from me, I still find his first simplicity
in his agitation and his anger; his heart as pure as his body, he
has no more knowledge of pretence than of vice; reproach and scorn
have not made a coward of him; base fears have never taught him
the art of concealment. He has all the indiscretion of innocence;
he is absolutely out-spoken; he does not even know the use of
deceit. Every impulse of his heart is betrayed either by word or
look, and I often know what he is feeling before he is aware of it
himself.
So long as his heart is thus freely opened to me, so long as he
delights to tell me what he feels, I have nothing to fear; the danger
is not yet at hand; but if he becomes more timid, more reserved,
if I perceive in his conversation the first signs of confusion and
shame, his instincts are beginning to develop, he is beginning to
connect the idea of evil with these instincts, there is not a moment
to lose, and if I do not hasten to instruct him, he will learn in
spite of me.
Some of my readers, even of those who agree with me, will think
that it is only a question of a conversation with the young man at
any time. Oh, this is not the way to control the human heart. What
we say has no meaning unless the opportunity has been carefully
chosen. Before we sow we must till the ground; the seed of virtue
is hard to grow; and a long period of preparation is required before
it will take root. one reason why sermons have so little effect is
that they are offered to everybody alike, without discrimination
or choice. How can any one imagine that the same sermon could be
suitable for so many hearers, with their different dispositions,
so unlike in mind, temper, age, sex, station, and opinion. Perhaps
there are not two among those to whom what is addressed to all is
really suitable; and all our affections are so transitory that perhaps
there are not even two occasions in the life of any man when the
same speech would have the same effect on him. Judge for yourself
whether the time when the eager senses disturb the understanding
and tyrannise over the will, is the time to listen to the solemn
lessons of wisdom. Therefore never reason with young men, even
when they have reached the age of reason, unless you have first
prepared the way. Most lectures miss their mark more through the
master's fault than the disciple's. The pedant and the teacher say
much the same; but the former says it at random, and the latter
only when he is sure of its effect.
As a somnambulist, wandering in his sleep, walks along the edge
of a precipice, over which he would fall if he were awake, so my
Emile, in the sleep of ignorance, escapes the perils which he does
not see; were I to wake him with a start, he might fall. Let us
first try to withdraw him from the edge of the precipice, and then
we will awake him to show him it from a distance.
Reading, solitude, idleness, a soft and sedentary life, intercourse
with women and young people, these are perilous paths for a young
man, and these lead him constantly into danger. I divert his senses
by other objects of sense; I trace another course for his spirits
by which I distract them from the course they would have taken; it
is by bodily exercise and hard work that I check the activity of
the imagination, which was leading him astray. When the arms are
hard at work, the imagination is quiet; when the body is very weary,
the passions are not easily inflamed. The quickest and easiest
precaution is to remove him from immediate danger. At once I take
him away from towns, away from things which might lead him into
temptation. But that is not enough; in what desert, in what wilds,
shall he escape from the thoughts which pursue him? It is not
enough to remove dangerous objects; if I fail to remove the memory
of them, if I fail to find a way to detach him from everything,
if I fail to distract him from himself, I might as well have left
him where he was.
Emile has learned a trade, but we do not have recourse to it; he
is fond of farming and understands it, but farming is not enough;
the occupations he is acquainted with degenerate into routine; when
he is engaged in them he is not really occupied; he is thinking of
other things; head and hand are at work on different subjects. He
must have some fresh occupation which has the interest of novelty--an
occupation which keeps him busy, diligent, and hard at work, an
occupation which he may become passionately fond of, one to which
he will devote himself entirely. Now the only one which seems to
possess all these characteristics is the chase. If hunting is ever
an innocent pleasure, if it is ever worthy of a man, now is the
time to betake ourselves to it. Emile is well-fitted to succeed in
it. He is strong, skilful, patient, unwearied. He is sure to take
a fancy to this sport; he will bring to it all the ardour of youth;
in it he will lose, at least for a time, the dangerous inclinations
which spring from softness. The chase hardens the heart a well as
the body; we get used to the sight of blood and cruelty. Diana is
represented as the enemy of love; and the allegory is true to life;
the languors of love are born of soft repose, and tender feelings
are stifled by violent exercise. In the woods and fields, the lover
and the sportsman are so diversely affected that they receive very
different impressions. The fresh shade, the arbours, the pleasant
resting-places of the one, to the other are but feeding grounds, or
places where the quarry will hide or turn to bay. Where the lover
hears the flute and the nightingale, the hunter hears the horn
and the hounds; one pictures to himself the nymphs and dryads, the
other sees the horses, the huntsman, and the pack. Take a country
walk with one or other of these men; their different conversation
will soon show you that they behold the earth with other eyes,
and that the direction of their thoughts is as different as their
favourite pursuit.
I understand how these tastes may be combined, and that at last men
find time for both. But the passions of youth cannot be divided in
this way. Give the youth a single occupation which he loves, and
the rest will soon be forgotten. Varied desires come with varied
knowledge, and the first pleasures we know are the only ones we
desire for long enough. I would not have the whole of Emile's youth
spent in killing creatures, and I do not even profess to justify
this cruel passion; it is enough for me that it serves to delay a
more dangerous passion, so that he may listen to me calmly when I
speak of it, and give me time to describe it without stimulating
it.
There are moments in human life which can never be forgotten. Such
is the time when Emile receives the instruction of which I have
spoken; its influence should endure all his life through. Let us
try to engrave it on his memory so that it may never fade away. It
is one of the faults of our age to rely too much on cold reason,
as if men were all mind. By neglecting the language of ｅxpression
we have lost the most forcible mode of speech. The spoken word is
always weak, and we speak to the heart rather through the eyes than
the ears. In our attempt to appeal to reason only, we have reduced
our precepts to words, we have not embodied them in deed. Mere
reason is not active; occasionally she restrains, more rarely she
stimulates, but she never does any great thing. Small minds have a
mania for reasoning. Strong souls speak a very different language,
and it is by this language that men are persuaded and driven to
action.
I observe that in modern times men only get a hold over others by
force or self-interest, while the ancients did more by persuasion,
by the affections of the heart; because they did not neglect the
language; of symbolic ｅxpression. All agreements were drawn up
solemnly, so that they might be more inviolable; before the reign
of force, the gods were the judges of mankind; in their presence,
individuals made their treaties and alliances, and pledged themselves
to perform their promises; the face of the earth was the book in
which the archives were preserved. The leaves of this book were
rocks, trees, piles of stones, made sacred by these transactions,
and regarded with reverence by barbarous men; and these pages were
always open before their eyes. The well of the oath, the well of
the living and seeing one; the ancient oak of Mamre, the stones of
witness, such were the simple but stately monuments of the sanctity
of contracts; none dared to lay a sacrilegious hand on these
monuments, and man's faith was more secure under the warrant of
these dumb witnesses than it is to-day upon all the rigour of the
law.
In government the people were over-awed by the pomp and splendour
of royal power. The symbols of greatness, a throne, a sceptre, a
purple robe, a crown, a fillet, these were sacred in their sight.
These symbols, and the respect which they inspired, led them to
reverence the venerable man whom they beheld adorned with them;
without soldiers and without threats, he spoke and was obeyed.
[Footnote: The Roman Catholic clergy have very wisely retained
these symbols, and certain republics, such as Venice, have followed
their example. Thus the Venetian government, despite the fallen
condition of the state, still enjoys, under the trappings of
its former greatness, all the affection, all the reverence of the
people; and next to the pope in his triple crown, there is perhaps
no king, no potentate, no person in the world so much respected
as the Doge of Venice; he has no power, no authority, but he is
rendered sacred by his pomp, and he wears beneath his ducal coronet
a woman's flowing locks. That ceremony of the Bucentaurius, which
stirs the laughter of fools, stirs the Venetian populace to shed
its life-blood for the maintenance of this tyrannical government.]
In our own day men profess to do away with these symbols. What are
the consequences of this contempt? The kingly majesty makes no
impression on all hearts, kings can only gain obedience by the help
of troops, and the respect of their subjects is based only on the
fear of punishment. Kings are spared the trouble of wearing their
crowns, and our nobles escape from the outward signs of their
station, but they must have a hundred thousand men at their command
if their orders are to be obeyed. Though this may seem a finer
thing, it is easy to see that in the long run they will gain nothing.
It is amazing what the ancients accomplished with the aid of
eloquence; but this eloquence did not merely consist in fine speeches
carefully prepared; and it was most effective when the orator said
least. The most startling speeches were expressed not in words but
in signs; they were not uttered but shown. A thing beheld by the
eyes kindles the imagination, stirs the curiosity, and keeps the
mind on the alert for what we are about to say, and often enough
the thing tells the whole story. Thrasybulus and Tarquin cutting
off the heads of the poppies, Alexander placing his seal on the
lips of his favourite, Diogenes marching before Zeno, do not these
speak more plainly than if they had uttered long orations? What
flow of words could have expressed the ideas as clearly? Darius,
in the course of the Scythian war, received from the king of the
Scythians a bird, a frog, a mouse, and five arrows. The ambassador
deposited this gift and retired without a word. In our days he would
have been taken for a madman. This terrible speech was understood,
and Darius withdrew to his own country with what speed he could.
Substitute a letter for these symbols and the more threatening it
was the less terror it would inspire; it would have been merely a
piece of bluff, to which Darius would have paid no attention.
What heed the Romans gave to the language of signs! Different ages
and different ranks had their appropriate garments, toga, tunic,
patrician robes, fringes and borders, seats of honour, lictors,
rods and axes, crowns of gold, crowns of leaves, crowns of flowers,
ovations, triumphs, everything had its pomp, its observances,
its ceremonial, and all these spoke to the heart of the citizens.
The state regarded it as a matter of importance that the populace
should assemble in one place rather than another, that they should
or should not behold the Capitol, that they should or should not
turn towards the Senate, that this day or that should be chosen for
their deliberations. The accused wore a special dress, so did the
candidates for election; warriors did not boast of their exploits,
they showed their scars. I can fancy one of our orators at the
death of Caesar exhausting all the commonplaces of rhetoric to give
a pathetic description of his wounds, his blood, his dead body;
Anthony was an orator, but he said none of this; he showed the
murdered Caesar. What rhetoric was this!
But this digression, like many others, is drawing me unawares away
from my subject; and my digressions are too frequent to be borne
with patience. I therefore return to the point.
Do not reason coldly with youth. Clothe your reason with a body,
if you would make it felt. Let the mind speak the language of the
heart, that it may be understood. I say again our opinions, not our
actions, may be influenced by cold argument; they set us thinking,
not doing; they show us what we ought to think, not what we ought
to do. If this is true of men, it is all the truer of young people
who are still enwrapped in their senses and cannot think otherwise
than they imagine.
Even after the preparations of which I have spoken, I shall take
good care not to go all of a sudden to Emile's room and preach a
long and heavy sermon on the subject in which he is to be instructed.
I shall begin by rousing his imagination; I shall choose the time,
place, and surroundings most favourable to the impression I wish
to make; I shall, so to speak, summon all nature as witness to our
conversations; I shall call upon the eternal God, the Creator of
nature, to bear witness to the truth of what I say. He shall judge
between Emile and myself; I will make the rocks, the woods, the
mountains round about us, the monuments of his promises and mine;
eyes, voice, and gesture shall show the enthusiasm I desire to
inspire. Then I will speak and he will listen, and his emotion will
be stirred by my own. The more impressed I am by the sanctity of
my duties, the more sacred he will regard his own. I will enforce
the voice of reason with images and figures, I will not give him
long-winded speeches or cold precepts, but my overflowing feelings
will break their bounds; my reason shall be grave and serious, but
my heart cannot speak too warmly. Then when I have shown him all
that I have done for him, I will show him how he is made for me;
he will see in my tender affection the cause of all my care. How
greatly shall I surprise and disturb him when I change my tone.
Instead of shrivelling up his soul by always talking of his own
interests, I shall henceforth speak of my own; he will be more
deeply touched by this. I will kindle in his young heart all the
sentiments of affection, generosity, and gratitude which I have
already called into being, and it will indeed be sweet to watch
their growth. I will press him to my bosom, and weep over him in
my emotion; I will say to him: "You are my wealth, my child, my
handiwork; my happiness is bound up in yours; if you frustrate my
hopes, you rob me of twenty years of my life, and you bring my grey
hairs with sorrow to the grave." This is the way to gain a hearing
and to impress what is said upon the heart and memory of the young
man.
Hitherto I have tried to give examples of the way in which a tutor
should instruct his pupil in cases of difficulty. I have tried to
do so in this instance; but after many attempts I have abandoned
the task, convinced that the French language is too artificial
to permit in print the plainness of speech required for the first
lessons in certain subjects.
They say French is more chaste than other languages; for my own
part I think it more obscene; for it seems to me that the purity
of a language does not consist in avoiding coarse ｅxpressions but
in having none. Indeed, if we are to avoid them, they must be in
our thoughts, and there is no language in which it is so difficult
to speak with purity on every subject than French. The reader is
always quicker to detect than the author to avoid a gross meaning,
and he is shocked and startled by everything. How can what is heard
by impure ears avoid coarseness? on the other hand, a nation whose
morals are pure has fit terms for everything, and these terms are
always right because they are rightly used. one could not imagine
more modest language than that of the Bible, just because of its
plainness of speech. The same things translated into French would
become immodest. What I ought to say to Emile will sound pure and
honourable to him; but to make the same impression in print would
demand a like purity of heart in the reader.
I should even think that reflections on true purity of speech
and the sham delicacy of vice might find a useful place in the
conversations as to morality to which this subject brings us; for
when he learns the language of plain-spoken goodness, he must also
learn the language of decency, and he must know why the two are
so different. However this may be, I maintain that if instead of
the empty precepts which are prematurely dinned into the ears of
children, only to be scoffed at when the time comes when they might
prove useful, if instead of this we bide our time, if we prepare
the way for a hearing, if we then show him the laws of nature in
all their truth, if we show him the sanction of these laws in the
physical and moral evils which overtake those who neglect them,
if while we speak to him of this great mystery of generation, we
join to the idea of the pleasure which the Author of nature has
given to this act the idea of the exclusive affection which makes
it delightful, the idea of the duties of faithfulness and modesty
which surround it, and redouble its charm while fulfilling its
purpose; if we paint to him marriage, not only as the sweetest form
of society, but also as the most sacred and inviolable of contracts,
if we tell him plainly all the reasons which lead men to respect
this sacred bond, and to pour hatred and curses upon him who dares
to dishonour it; if we give him a true and terrible picture of the
horrors of debauch, of its stupid brutality, of the downward road
by which a first act of misconduct leads from bad to worse, and at
last drags the sinner to his ruin; if, I say, we give him proofs
that on a desire for chastity depends health, strength, courage,
virtue, love itself, and all that is truly good for man--I maintain
that this chastity will be so dear and so desirable in his eyes,
that his mind will be ready to receive our teaching as to the way
to preserve it; for so long as we are chaste we respect chastity;
it is only when we have lost this virtue that we scorn it.
It is not true that the inclination to evil is beyond our control,
and that we cannot overcome it until we have acquired the habit of
yielding to it. Aurelius Victor says that many men were mad enough
to purchase a night with Cleopatra at the price of their life,
and this is not incredible in the madness of passion. But let us
suppose the maddest of men, the man who has his senses least under
control; let him see the preparations for his death, let him realise
that he will certainly die in torment a quarter of an hour later;
not only would that man, from that time forward, become able
to resist temptation, he would even find it easy to do so; the
terrible picture with which they are associated will soon distract
his attention from these temptations, and when they are continually
put aside they will cease to recur. The sole cause of our weakness
is the feebleness of our will, and we have always strength to
perform what we strongly desire. "Volenti nihil difficile!" Oh! if
only we hated vice as much as we love life, we should abstain as
easily from a pleasant sin as from a deadly poison in a delicious
dish.
How is it that you fail to perceive that if all the lessons given
to a young man on this subject have no effect, it is because they
are not adapted to his age, and that at every age reason must be
presented in a shape which will win his affection? Speak seriously
to him if required, but let what you say to him always have a charm
which will compel him to listen. Do not coldly oppose his wishes;
do not stifle his imagination, but direct it lest it should bring
forth monsters. Speak to him of love, of women, of pleasure; let
him find in your conversation a charm which delights his youthful
heart; spare no pains to make yourself his confidant; under this
name alone will you really be his master. Then you need not fear
he will find your conversation tedious; he will make you talk more
than you desire.
If I have managed to take all the requisite precautions in accordance
with these maxims, and have said the right things to Emile at the
age he has now reached, I am quite convinced that he will come of
his own accord to the point to which I would lead him, and will
eagerly confide himself to my care. When he sees the dangers by
which he is surrounded, he will say to me with all the warmth of
youth, "Oh, my friend, my protector, my master! resume the authority
you desire to lay aside at the very time when I most need it;
hitherto my weakness has given you this power. I now place it in
your hands of my own free-will, and it will be all the more sacred
in my eyes. Protect me from all the foes which are attacking me,
and above all from the traitors within the citadel; watch over
your work, that it may still be worthy of you. I mean to obey your
laws, I shall ever do so, that is my steadfast purpose; if I ever
disobey you, it will be against my will; make me free by guarding
me against the passions which do me violence; do not let me become
their slave; compel me to be my own master and to obey, not my
senses, but my reason."
When you have led your pupil so far (and it will be your own fault
if you fail to do so), beware of taking him too readily at his word,
lest your rule should seem too strict to him, and lest he should
think he has a right to escape from it, by accusing you of taking
him by surprise. This is the time for reserve and seriousness; and
this attitude will have all the more effect upon him seeing that
it is the first time you have adopted it towards him.
You will say to him therefore: "Young man, you readily make promises
which are hard to keep; you must understand what they mean before
you have a right to make them; you do not know how your fellows
are drawn by their passions into the whirlpool of vice masquerading
as pleasure. You are honourable, I know; you will never break your
word, but how often will you repent of having given it? How often
will you curse your friend, when, in order to guard you from the
ills which threaten you, he finds himself compelled to do violence
to your heart. Like Ulysses who, hearing the song of the Sirens,
cried aloud to his rowers to unbind him, you will break your
chains at the call of pleasure; you will importune me with your
lamentations, you will reproach me as a tyrant when I have your
welfare most at heart; when I am trying to make you happy, I shall
incur your hatred. Oh, Emile, I can never bear to be hateful in
your eyes; this is too heavy a price to pay even for your happiness.
My dear young man, do you not see that when you undertake to obey
me, you compel me to promise to be your guide, to forget myself
in my devotion to you, to refuse to listen to your murmurs and
complaints, to wage unceasing war against your wishes and my own.
Before we either of us undertake such a task, let us count our
resources; take your time, give me time to consider, and be sure
that the slower we are to promise, the more faithfully will our
promises be kept."
You may be sure that the more difficulty he finds in getting your
promise, the easier you will find it to carry it out. The young
man must learn that he is promising a great deal, and that you
are promising still more. When the time is come, when he has, so
to say, signed the contract, then change your tone, and make your
rule as gentle as you said it would be severe. Say to him, "My
young friend, it is experience that you lack; but I have taken care
that you do not lack reason. You are ready to see the motives of
my conduct in every respect; to do this you need only wait till
you are free from excitement. Always obey me first, and then ask
the reasons for my commands; I am always ready to give my reasons
so soon as you are ready to listen to them, and I shall never be
afraid to make you the judge between us. You promise to follow my
teaching, and I promise only to use your obedience to make you the
happiest of men. For proof of this I have the life you have lived
hitherto. Show me any one of your age who has led as happy a life
as yours, and I promise you nothing more."
When my authority is firmly established, my first care will be to
avoid the necessity of using it. I shall spare no pains to become
more and more firmly established in his confidence, to make myself
the confidant of his heart and the arbiter of his pleasures. Far
from combating his youthful tastes, I shall consult them that I
may be their master; I will look at things from his point of view
that I may be his guide; I will not seek a remote distant good at
the cost of his present happiness. I would always have him happy
always if that may be.
Those who desire to guide young people rightly and to preserve them
from the snares of sense give them a disgust for love, and would
willingly make the very thought of it a crime, as if love were
for the old. All these mistaken lessons have no effect; the heart
gives the lie to them. The young man, guided by a surer instinct,
laughs to himself over the gloomy maxims which he pretends to
accept, and only awaits the chance of disregarding them. All that
is contrary to nature. By following the opposite course I reach
the same end more safely. I am not afraid to encourage in him the
tender feeling for which he is so eager, I shall paint it as the
supreme joy of life, as indeed it is; when I picture it to him, I
desire that he shall give himself up to it; by making him feel the
charm which the union of hearts adds to the delights of sense, I
shall inspire him with a disgust for debauchery; I shall make him
a lover and a good man.
How narrow-minded to see nothing in the rising desires of a young
heart but obstacles to the teaching of reason. In my eyes, these
are the right means to make him obedient to that very teaching.
Only through passion can we gain the mastery over passions; their
tyranny must be controlled by their legitimate power, and nature
herself must furnish us with the means to control her.
Emile is not made to live alone, he is a member of society, and must
fulfil his duties as such. He is made to live among his fellow-men
and he must get to know them. He knows mankind in general; he has
still to learn to know individual men. He knows what goes on in the
world; he has now to learn how men live in the world. It is time
to show him the front of that vast stage, of which he already
knows the hidden workings. It will not arouse in him the foolish
admiration of a giddy youth, but the discrimination of an exact
and upright spirit. He may no doubt be deceived by his passions;
who is there who yields to his passions without being led astray
by them? At least he will not be deceived by the passions of other
people. If he sees them, he will regard them with the eye of the
wise, and will neither be led away by their example nor seduced by
their prejudices.
As there is a fitting age for the study of the sciences, so there
is a fitting age for the study of the ways of the world. Those who
learn these too soon, follow them throughout life, without choice
or consideration, and although they follow them fairly well they
never really know what they are about. But he who studies the ways
of the world and sees the reason for them, follows them with more
insight, and therefore more exactly and gracefully. Give me a child
of twelve who knows nothing at all; at fifteen I will restore him
to you knowing as much as those who have been under instruction
from infancy; with this difference, that your scholars only know
things by heart, while mine knows how to use his knowledge. In
the same way plunge a young man of twenty into society; under good
guidance, in a year's time, he will be more charming and more truly
polite than one brought up in society from childhood. For the former
is able to perceive the reasons for all the proceedings relating
to age, position, and sex, on which the customs of society depend,
and can reduce them to general principles, and apply them to
unforeseen emergencies; while the latter, who is guided solely by
habit, is at a loss when habit fails him.
Young French ladies are all brought up in convents till they are
married. Do they seem to find any difficulty in acquiring the ways
which are so new to them, and is it possible to accuse the ladies
of Paris of awkward and embarrassed manners or of ignorance of the
ways of society, because they have not acquired them in infancy!
This is the prejudice of men of the world, who know nothing of more
importance than this trifling science, and wrongly imagine that
you cannot begin to acquire it too soon.
On the other hand, it is quite true that we must not wait too long.
Any one who has spent the whole of his youth far from the great
world is all his life long awkward, constrained, out of place; his
manners will be heavy and clumsy, no amount of practice will get
rid of this, and he will only make himself more ridiculous by trying
to do so. There is a time for every kind of teaching and we ought
to recognise it, and each has its own dangers to be avoided. At this
age there are more dangers than at any other; but I do not expose
my pupil to them without safeguards.
When my method succeeds completely in attaining one object, and
when in avoiding one difficulty it also provides against another,
I then consider that it is a good method, and that I am on the
right track. This seems to be the case with regard to the expedient
suggested by me in the present case. If I desire to be stern and
cold towards my pupil, I shall lose his confidence, and he will soon
conceal himself from me. If I wish to be easy and complaisant, to
shut my eyes, what good does it do him to be under my care? I only
give my authority to his excesses, and relieve his conscience at
the expense of my own. If I introduce him into society with no
object but to teach him, he will learn more than I want. If I keep
him apart from society, what will he have learnt from me? Everything
perhaps, except the one art absolutely necessary to a civilised
man, the art of living among his fellow-men. If I try to attend to
this at a distance, it will be of no avail; he is only concerned
with the present. If I am content to supply him with amusement, he
will acquire habits of luxury and will learn nothing.
We will have none of this. My plan provides for everything. Your
heart, I say to the young man, requires a companion; let us go
in search of a fitting one; perhaps we shall not easily find such
a one, true worth is always rare, but we will be in no hurry, nor
will we be easily discouraged. No doubt there is such a one, and
we shall find her at last, or at least we shall find some one like
her. With an end so attractive to himself, I introduce him into
society. What more need I say? Have I not achieved my purpose?
By describing to him his future mistress, you may imagine whether
I shall gain a hearing, whether I shall succeed in making the
qualities he ought to love pleasing and dear to him, whether I shall
sway his feelings to seek or shun what is good or bad for him. I
shall be the stupidest of men if I fail to make him in love with he
knows not whom. No matter that the person I describe is imaginary,
it is enough to disgust him with those who might have attracted
him; it is enough if it is continually suggesting comparisons which
make him prefer his fancy to the real people he sees; and is not
love itself a fancy, a falsehood, an illusion? We are far more in
love with our own fancy than with the object of it. If we saw the
object of our affections as it is, there would be no such thing as
love. When we cease to love, the person we used to love remains
unchanged, but we no longer see with the same eyes; the magic veil
is drawn aside, and love disappears. But when I supply the object
of imagination, I have control over comparisons, and I am able
easily to prevent illusion with regard to realities.
For all that I would not mislead a young man by describing a model
of perfection which could never exist; but I would so choose the
faults of his mistress that they will suit him, that he will be
pleased by them, and they may serve to correct his own. Neither
would I lie to him and affirm that there really is such a person;
let him delight in the portrait, he will soon desire to find the
original. From desire to belief the transition is easy; it is a
matter of a little skilful description, which under more perceptible
features will give to this imaginary object an air of greater reality.
I would go so far as to give her a name; I would say, smiling. Let
us call your future mistress Sophy; Sophy is a name of good omen;
if it is not the name of the lady of your choice at least she will
be worthy of the name; we may honour her with it meanwhile. If
after all these details, without affirming or denying, we excuse
ourselves from giving an answer, his suspicions will become certainty;
he will think that his destined bride is purposely concealed from
him, and that he will see her in good time. If once he has arrived
at this conclusion and if the characteristics to be shown to him
have been well chosen, the rest is easy; there will be little risk
in exposing him to the world; protect him from his senses, and his
heart is safe.
But whether or no he personifies the model I have contrived to
make so attractive to him, this model, if well done, will attach
him none the less to everything that resembles itself, and will
give him as great a distaste for all that is unlike it as if Sophy
really existed. What a means to preserve his heart from the dangers
to which his appearance would expose him, to repress his senses
by means of his imagination, to rescue him from the hands of those
women who profess to educate young men, and make them pay so dear
for their teaching, and only teach a young man manners by making
him utterly shameless. Sophy is so modest? What would she think of
their advances! Sophy is so simple! How would she like their airs?
They are too far from his thoughts and his observations to be
dangerous.
Every one who deals with the control of children follows the same
prejudices and the same maxima, for their observation is at fault,
and their reflection still more so. A young man is led astray in
the first place neither by temperament nor by the senses, but by
popular opinion. If we were concerned with boys brought up in boarding
schools or girls in convents, I would show that this applies even
to them; for the first lessons they learn from each other, the only
lessons that bear fruit, are those of vice; and it is not nature
that corrupts them but example. But let us leave the boarders in
schools and convents to their bad morals; there is no cure for them.
I am dealing only with home training. Take a young man carefully
educated in his father's country house, and examine him when he
reaches Paris and makes his entrance into society; you will find
him thinking clearly about honest matters, and you will find his
will as wholesome as his reason. You will find scorn of vice and
disgust for debauchery; his face will betray his innocent horror at
the very mention of a prostitute. I maintain that no young man could
make up his mind to enter the gloomy abodes of these unfortunates
by himself, if indeed he were aware of their purpose and felt their
necessity.
See the same young man six months later, you will not know him;
from his bold conversation, his fashionable maxims, his easy air,
you would take him for another man, if his jests over his former
simplicity and his shame when any one recalls it did not show that
it is he indeed and that he is ashamed of himself. How greatly has
he changed in so short a time! What has brought about so sudden and
complete a change? His physical development? Would not that have
taken place in his father's house, and certainly he would not have
acquired these maxims and this tone at home? The first charms of
sense? on the contrary; those who are beginning to abandon themselves
to these pleasures are timid and anxious, they shun the light and
noise. The first pleasures are always mysterious, modesty gives
them their savour, and modesty conceals them; the first mistress
does not make a man bold but timid. Wholly absorbed in a situation
so novel to him, the young man retires into himself to enjoy it,
and trembles for fear it should escape him. If he is noisy he knows
neither passion nor love; however he may boast, he has not enjoyed.
These changes are merely the result of changed ideas. His heart is
the same, but his opinions have altered. His feelings, which change
more slowly, will at length yield to his opinions and it is then
that he is indeed corrupted. He has scarcely made his entrance
into society before he receives a second education quite unlike the
first, which teaches him to despise what he esteemed, and esteem
what he despised; he learns to consider the teaching of his parents
and masters as the jargon of pedants, and the duties they have
instilled into him as a childish morality, to be scorned now that
he is grown up. He thinks he is bound in honour to change his
conduct; he becomes forward without desire, and he talks foolishly
from false shame. He rails against morality before he has any taste
for vice, and prides himself on debauchery without knowing how to
set about it. I shall never forget the confession of a young officer
in the Swiss Guards, who was utterly sick of the noisy pleasures
of his comrades, but dared not refuse to take part in them lest he
should be laughed at. "I am getting used to it," he said, "as I am
getting used to taking snuff; the taste will come with practice;
it will not do to be a child for ever."
So a young man when he enters society must be preserved from vanity
rather than from sensibility; he succumbs rather to the tastes
of others than to his own, and self-love is responsible for more
libertines than love.
This being granted, I ask you. Is there any one on earth better
armed than my pupil against all that may attack his morals, his
sentiments, his principles; is there any one more able to resist the
flood? What seduction is there against which he is not forearmed?
If his desires attract him towards women, he fails to find what
he seeks, and his heart, already occupied, holds him back. If he
is disturbed and urged onward by his senses, where will he find
satisfaction? His horror of adultery and debauch keeps him at a
distance from prostitutes and married women, and the disorders of
youth may always be traced to one or other of these. A maiden may
be a coquette, but she will not be shameless, she will not fling
herself at the head of a young man who may marry her if he believes
in her virtue; besides she is always under supervision. Emile, too,
will not be left entirely to himself; both of them will be under
the guardianship of fear and shame, the constant companions of
a first passion; they will not proceed at once to misconduct, and
they will not have time to come to it gradually without hindrance.
If he behaves otherwise, he must have taken lessons from his comrades,
he must have learned from them to despise his self-control, and to
imitate their boldness. But there is no one in the whole world so
little given to imitation as Emile. What man is there who is so
little influenced by mockery as one who has no prejudices himself
and yields nothing to the prejudices of others. I have laboured
twenty years to arm him against mockery; they will not make him
their dupe in a day; for in his eyes ridicule is the argument of
fools, and nothing makes one less susceptible to raillery than to
be beyond the influence of prejudice. Instead of jests he must have
arguments, and while he is in this frame of mind, I am not afraid
that he will be carried away by young fools; conscience and truth
are on my side. If prejudice is to enter into the matter at all,
an affection of twenty years' standing counts for something; no one
will ever convince him that I have wearied him with vain lessons;
and in a heart so upright and so sensitive the voice of a tried and
trusted friend will soon efface the shouts of twenty libertines.
As it is therefore merely a question of showing him that he is
deceived, that while they pretend to treat him as a man they are
really treating him as a child, I shall choose to be always simple
but serious and plain in my arguments, so that he may feel that I
do indeed treat him as a man. I will say to him, You will see that
your welfare, in which my own is bound up, compels me to speak; I
can do nothing else. But why do these young men want to persuade
you? Because they desire to seduce you; they do not care for you,
they take no real interest in you; their only motive is a secret
spite because they see you are better than they; they want to
drag you down to their own level, and they only reproach you with
submitting to control that they may themselves control you. Do you
think you have anything to gain by this? Are they so much wiser
than I, is the affection of a day stronger than mine? To give any
weight to their jests they must give weight to their authority; and
by what experience do they support their maxima above ours? They
have only followed the example of other giddy youths, as they would
have you follow theirs. To escape from the so-called prejudices
of their fathers, they yield to those of their comrades. I cannot
see that they are any the better off; but I see that they lose two
things of value--the affection of their parents, whose advice is
that of tenderness and truth, and the wisdom of experience which
teaches us to judge by what we know; for their fathers have once
been young, but the young men have never been fathers.
But you think they are at least sincere in their foolish precepts.
Not so, dear Emile; they deceive themselves in order to deceive you;
they are not in agreement with themselves; their heart continually
revolts, and their very words often contradict themselves. This man
who mocks at everything good would be in despair if his wife held
the same views. Another extends his indifference to good morals even
to his future wife, or he sinks to such depths of infamy as to be
indifferent to his wife's conduct; but go a step further; speak to
him of his mother; is he willing to be treated as the child of an
adulteress and the son of a woman of bad character, is he ready
to assume the name of a family, to steal the patrimony of the true
heir, in a word will he bear being treated as a bastard? Which of
them will permit his daughter to be dishonoured as he dishonours
the daughter of another? There is not one of them who would not kill
you if you adopted in your conduct towards him all the principles
he tries to teach you. Thus they prove their inconsistency, and
we know they do not believe what they say. Here are reasons, dear
Emile; weigh their arguments if they have any, and compare them
with mine. If I wished to have recourse like them to scorn and
mockery, you would see that they lend themselves to ridicule as
much or more than myself. But I am not afraid of serious inquiry.
The triumph of mockers is soon over; truth endures, and their
foolish laughter dies away.
You do not think that Emile, at twenty, can possibly be docile. How
differently we think! I cannot understand how he could be docile
at ten, for what hold have I on him at that age? It took me fifteen
years of careful preparation to secure that hold. I was not educating
him, but preparing him for education. He is now sufficiently educated
to be docile; he recognises the voice of friendship and he knows
how to obey reason. It is true I allow him a show of freedom, but
he was never more completely under control, because he obeys of
his own free will. So long as I could not get the mastery over his
will, I retained my control over his person; I never left him for
a moment. Now I sometimes leave him to himself because I control
him continually. When I leave him I embrace him and I say with
confidence: Emile, I trust you to my friend, I leave you to his
honour; he will answer for you.
To corrupt healthy affections which have not been previously
depraved, to efface principles which are directly derived from our
own reasoning, is not the work of a moment. If any change takes
place during my absence, that absence will not be long, he will
never be able to conceal himself from me, so that I shall perceive
the danger before any harm comes of it, and I shall be in time to
provide a remedy. As we do not become depraved all at once, neither
do we learn to deceive all at once; and if ever there was a man
unskilled in the art of deception it is Emile, who has never had
any occasion for deceit.
By means of these precautions and others like them, I expect to
guard him so completely against strange sights and vulgar precepts
that I would rather see him in the worst company in Paris than alone
in his room or in a park left to all the restlessness of his age.
Whatever we may do, a young man's worst enemy is himself, and
this is an enemy we cannot avoid. Yet this is an enemy of our own
making, for, as I have said again and again, it is the imagination
which stirs the senses. Desire is not a physical need; it is not
true that it is a need at all. If no lascivious object had met our
eye, if no unclean thought had entered our mind, this so-called
need might never have made itself felt, and we should have remained
chaste, without temptation, effort, or merit. We do not know how
the blood of youth is stirred by certain situations and certain
sights, while the youth himself does not understand the cause of
his uneasiness-an uneasiness difficult to subdue and certain to
recur. For my own part, the more I consider this serious crisis
and its causes, immediate and remote, the more convinced I am that
a solitary brought up in some desert, apart from books, teaching,
and women, would die a virgin, however long he lived.
But we are not concerned with a savage of this sort. When we
educate a man among his fellow-men and for social life, we cannot,
and indeed we ought not to, bring him up in this wholesome ignorance,
and half knowledge is worse than none. The memory of things we have
observed, the ideas we have acquired, follow us into retirement
and people it, against our will, with images more seductive than
the things themselves, and these make solitude as fatal to those
who bring such ideas with them as it is wholesome for those who
have never left it.
Therefore, watch carefully over the young man; he can protect
himself from all other foes, but it is for you to protect him
against himself. Never leave him night or day, or at least share
his room; never let him go to bed till he is sleepy, and let him
rise as soon as he wakes. Distrust instinct as soon as you cease
to rely altogether upon it. Instinct was good while he acted under
its guidance only; now that he is in the midst of human institutions,
instinct is not to be trusted; it must not be destroyed, it must
be controlled, which is perhaps a more difficult matter. It would
be a dangerous matter if instinct taught your pupil to abuse his
senses; if once he acquires this dangerous habit he is ruined. From
that time forward, body and soul will be enervated; he will carry
to the grave the sad effects of this habit, the most fatal habit
which a young man can acquire. If you cannot attain to the mastery
of your passions, dear Emile, I pity you; but I shall not hesitate
for a moment, I will not permit the purposes of nature to be evaded.
If you must be a slave, I prefer to surrender you to a tyrant from
whom I may deliver you; whatever happens, I can free you more easily
from the slavery of women than from yourself.
Up to the age of twenty, the body is still growing and requires
all its strength; till that age continence is the law of nature,
and this law is rarely violated without injury to the constitution.
After twenty, continence is a moral duty; it is an important
duty, for it teaches us to control ourselves, to be masters of our
own appetites. But moral duties have their modifications, their
exceptions, their rules. When human weakness makes an alternative
inevitable, of two evils choose the least; in any case it is better
to commit a misdeed than to contract a vicious habit.
Remember, I am not talking of my pupil now, but of yours. His
passions, to which you have given way, are your master; yield to
them openly and without concealing his victory. If you are able
to show him it in its true light, he will be ashamed rather than
proud of it, and you will secure the right to guide him in his
wanderings, at least so as to avoid precipices. The disciple must
do nothing, not even evil, without the knowledge and consent of his
master; it is a hundredfold better that the tutor should approve
of a misdeed than that he should deceive himself or be deceived by
his pupil, and the wrong should be done without his knowledge. He
who thinks he must shut his eyes to one thing, must soon shut them
altogether; the first abuse which is permitted leads to others, and
this chain of consequences only ends in the complete overthrow of
all order and contempt for every law.
There is another mistake which I have already dealt with, a mistake
continually made by narrow-minded persons; they constantly affect
the dignity of a master, and wish to be regarded by their disciples
as perfect. This method is just the contrary of what should be
done. How is it that they fail to perceive that when they try to
strengthen their authority they are really destroying it; that to
gain a hearing one must put oneself in the place of our hearers,
and that to speak to the human heart, one must be a man. All these
perfect people neither touch nor persuade; people always say, "It
is easy for them to fight against passions they do not feel." Show
your pupil your own weaknesses if you want to cure his; let him
see in you struggles like his own; let him learn by your example
to master himself and let him not say like other young men, "These
old people, who are vexed because they are no longer young, want to
treat all young people as if they were old; and they make a crime
of our passions because their own passions are dead."
Montaigne tells us that he once asked Seigneur de Langey how often,
in his negotiations with Germany, he had got drunk in his king's
service. I would willingly ask the tutor of a certain young man
how often he has entered a house of ill-fame for his pupil's sake.
How often? I am wrong. If the first time has not cured the young
libertine of all desire to go there again, if he does not return
penitent and ashamed, if he does not shed torrents of tears upon
your bosom, leave him on the spot; either he is a monster or you
are a fool; you will never do him any good. But let us have done
with these last expedients, which are as distressing as they are
dangerous; our kind of education has no need of them.
What precautions we must take with a young man of good birth before
exposing him to the scandalous manners of our age! These precautions
are painful but necessary; negligence in this matter is the ruin of
all our young men; degeneracy is the result of youthful excesses,
and it is these excesses which make men what they are. Old and base
in their vices, their hearts are shrivelled, because their worn-out
bodies were corrupted at an early age; they have scarcely strength
to stir. The subtlety of their thoughts betrays a mind lacking in
substance; they are incapable of any great or noble feeling, they
have neither simplicity nor vigour; altogether abject and meanly
wicked, they are merely frivolous, deceitful, and false; they have
not even courage enough to be distinguished criminals. Such are
the despicable men produced by early debauchery; if there were but
one among them who knew how to be sober and temperate, to guard his
heart, his body, his morals from the contagion of bad example, at
the age of thirty he would crush all these insects, and would become
their master with far less trouble than it cost him to become master
of himself.
However little Emile owes to birth and fortune, he might be this
man if he chose; but he despises such people too much to condescend
to make them his slaves. Let us now watch him in their midst, as he
enters into society, not to claim the first place, but to acquaint
himself with it and to seek a helpmeet worthy of himself.
Whatever his rank or birth, whatever the society into which he
is introduced, his entrance into that society will be simple and
unaffected; God grant he may not be unlucky enough to shine in
society; the qualities which make a good impression at the first
glance are not his, he neither possesses them, nor desires to
possess them. He cares too little for the opinions of other people
to value their prejudices, and he is indifferent whether people
esteem him or not until they know him. His address is neither shy nor
conceited, but natural and sincere, he knows nothing of constraint
or concealment, and he is just the same among a group of people
as he is when he is alone. Will this make him rude, scornful, and
careless of others? on the contrary; if he were not heedless of
others when he lived alone, why should he be heedless of them now
that he is living among them? He does not prefer them to himself
in his manners, because he does not prefer them to himself in his
heart, but neither does he show them an indifference which he is far
from feeling; if he is unacquainted with the forms of politeness,
he is not unacquainted with the attentions dictated by humanity.
He cannot bear to see any one suffer; he will not give up his place
to another from mere external politeness, but he will willingly
yield it to him out of kindness if he sees that he is being neglected
and that this neglect hurts him; for it will be less disagreeable
to Emile to remain standing of his own accord than to see another
compelled to stand.
Although Emile has no very high opinion of people in general, he
does not show any scorn of them, because he pities them and is sorry
for them. As he cannot give them a taste for what is truly good, he
leaves them the imaginary good with which they are satisfied, lest
by robbing them of this he should leave them worse off than before.
So he neither argues nor contradicts; neither does he flatter nor
agree; he states his opinion without arguing with others, because
he loves liberty above all things, and freedom is one of the fairest
gifts of liberty.
He says little, for he is not anxious to attract attention; for the
same reason he only says what is to the point; who could induce him
to speak otherwise? Emile is too well informed to be a chatter-box.
A great flow of words comes either from a pretentious spirit, of
which I shall speak presently, or from the value laid upon trifles
which we foolishly think to be as important in the eyes of others
as in our own. He who knows enough of things to value them at
their true worth never says too much; for he can also judge of the
attention bestowed on him and the interest aroused by what he says.
People who know little are usually great talkers, while men who
know much say little. It is plain that an ignorant person thinks
everything he does know important, and he tells it to everybody.
But a well-educated man is not so ready to display his learning;
he would have too much to say, and he sees that there is much more
to be said, so he holds his peace.
Far from disregarding the ways of other people, Emile conforms to
them readily enough; not that he may appear to know all about them,
nor yet to affect the airs of a man of fashion, but on the contrary
for fear lest he should attract attention, and in order to pass
unnoticed; he is most at his ease when no one pays any attention
to him.
Although when he makes his entrance into society he knows nothing
of its customs, this does not make him shy or timid; if he keeps in
the background, it is not because he is embarrassed, but because,
if you want to see, you must not be seen; for he scarcely troubles
himself at all about what people think of him, and he is not the
least afraid of ridicule. Hence he is always quiet and self-possessed
and is not troubled with shyness. All he has to do is done as well
as he knows how to do it, whether people are looking at him or
not; and as he is always on the alert to observe other people, he
acquires their ways with an ease impossible to the slaves of other
people's opinions. We might say that he acquires the ways of society
just because he cares so little about them.
But do not make any mistake as to his bearing; it is not to be
compared with that of your young dandies. It is self-possessed, not
conceited; his manners are easy, not haughty; an insolent look is
the mark of a slave, there is nothing affected in independence. I
never saw a man of lofty soul who showed it in his bearing; this
affectation is more suited to vile and frivolous souls, who have
no other means of asserting themselves. I read somewhere that a
foreigner appeared one day in the presence of the famous Marcel,
who asked him what country he came from. "I am an Englishman,"
replied the stranger. "You are an Englishman!" replied the dancer,
"You come from that island where the citizens have a share in the
government, and form part of the sovereign power? [Footnote: As if
there were citizens who were not part of the city and had not, as
such, a share in sovereign power! But the French, who have thought
fit to usurp the honourable name of citizen which was formerly the
right of the members of the Gallic cities, have degraded the idea
till it has no longer any sort of meaning. A man who recently wrote
a number of silly criticisms on the "Nouvelle Heloise" added to
his signature the title "Citizen of Paimboeuf," and he thought it
a capital joke.] No, sir, that modest bearing, that timid glance,
that hesitating manner, proclaim only a slave adorned with the
title of an elector."
I cannot say whether this saying shows much knowledge of the true
relation between a man's character and his appearance. I have not
the honour of being a dancing master, and I should have thought just
the opposite. I should have said, "This Englishman is no courtier;
I never heard that courtiers have a timid bearing and a hesitating
manner. A man whose appearance is timid in the presence of a dancer
might not be timid in the House of Commons." Surely this M. Marcel
must take his fellow-countrymen for so many Romans.
He who loves desires to be loved, Emile loves his fellows and
desires to please them. Even more does he wish to please the women;
his age, his character, the object he has in view, all increase
this desire. I say his character, for this has a great effect; men
of good character are those who really adore women. They have not
the mocking jargon of gallantry like the rest, but their eagerness
is more genuinely tender, because it comes from the heart. In the
presence of a young woman, I could pick out a young man of character
and self-control from among a hundred thousand libertines. Consider
what Emile must be, with all the eagerness of early youth and so
many reasons for resistance! For in the presence of women
I think he will sometimes be shy and timid; but this shyness will
certainly not be displeasing, and the least foolish of them will
only too often find a way to enjoy it and augment it. Moreover, his
eagerness will take a different shape according to those he has to
do with. He will be more modest and respectful to married women,
more eager and tender towards young girls. He never loses sight of
his purpose, and it is always those who most recall it to him who
receive the greater share of his attentions.
No one could be more attentive to every consideration based upon
the laws of nature, and even on the laws of good society; but the
former are always preferred before the latter, and Emile will show
more respect to an elderly person in private life than to a young
magistrate of his own age. As he is generally one of the youngest
in the company, he will always be one of the most modest, not from
the vanity which apes humility, but from a natural feeling founded
upon reason. He will not have the effrontery of the young fop,
who speaks louder than the wise and interrupts the old in order to
amuse the company. He will never give any cause for the reply given
to Louis XV by an old gentleman who was asked whether he preferred
this century or the last: "Sire, I spent my youth in reverence
towards the old; I find myself compelled to spend my old age in
reverence towards the young."
His heart is tender and sensitive, but he cares nothing for the
weight of popular opinion, though he loves to give pleasure to
others; so he will care little to be thought a person of importance.
Hence he will be affectionate rather than polite, he will never be
pompous or affected, and he will be always more touched by a caress
than by much praise. For the same reasons he will never be careless
of his manners or his clothes; perhaps he will be rather particular
about his dress, not that he may show himself a man of taste, but
to make his appearance more pleasing; he will never require a gilt
frame, and he will never spoil his style by a display of wealth.
All this demands, as you see, no stock of precepts from me; it is
all the result of his early education. People make a great mystery
of the ways of society, as if, at the age when these ways are
acquired, we did not take to them quite naturally, and as if the
first laws of politeness were not to be found in a kindly heart.
True politeness consists in showing our goodwill towards men; it
shows its presence without any difficulty; those only who lack this
goodwill are compelled to reduce the outward signs of it to an art.
"The worst effect of artificial politeness is that it teaches
us how to dispense with the virtues it imitates. If our education
teaches us kindness and humanity, we shall be polite, or we shall
have no need of politeness.
"If we have not those qualities which display themselves gracefully
we shall have those which proclaim the honest man and the citizen;
we shall have no need for falsehood.
"Instead of seeking to please by artificiality, it will suffice
that we are kindly; instead of flattering the weaknesses of others
by falsehood, it will suffice to tolerate them.
"Those with whom we have to do will neither be puffed up nor
corrupted by such intercourse; they will only be grateful and will
be informed by it." [Footnote: Considerations sur les moeurs de ce
siecle, par M. Duclos.]
It seems to me that if any education is calculated to produce the
sort of politeness required by M. Duclos in this passage, it is
the education I have already described.
Yet I admit that with such different teaching Emile will not be just
like everybody else, and heaven preserve him from such a fate! But
where he is unlike other people, he will neither cause annoyance
nor will he be absurd; the difference will be perceptible but not
unpleasant. Emile will be, if you like, an agreeable foreigner. At
first his peculiarities will be excused with the phrase, "He will
learn." After a time people will get used to his ways, and seeing
that he does not change they will still make excuses for him and
say, "He is made that way."
He will not be feted as a charming man, but every one will like him
without knowing why; no one will praise his intellect, but every
one will be ready to make him the judge between men of intellect;
his own intelligence will be clear and limited, his mind will be
accurate, and his judgment sane. As he never runs after new ideas,
he cannot pride himself on his wit. I have convinced him that all
wholesome ideas, ideas which are really useful to mankind, were
among the earliest known, that in all times they have formed the
true bonds of society, and that there is nothing left for ambitious
minds but to seek distinction for themselves by means of ideas which
are injurious and fatal to mankind. This way of winning admiration
scarcely appeals to him; he knows how he ought to seek his
own happiness in life, and how he can contribute to the happiness
of others. The sphere of his knowledge is restricted to what is
profitable. His path is narrow and clearly defined; as he has no
temptation to leave it, he is lost in the crowd; he will neither
distinguish himself nor will he lose his way. Emile is a man
of common sense and he has no desire to be anything more; you may
try in vain to insult him by applying this phrase to him; he will
always consider it a title of honour.
Although from his wish to please he is no longer wholly indifferent
to the opinion of others, he only considers that opinion so far as
he himself is directly concerned, without troubling himself about
arbitrary values, which are subject to no law but that of fashion
or conventionality. He will have pride enough to wish to do well
in everything that he undertakes, and even to wish to do it better
than others; he will want to be the swiftest runner, the strongest
wrestler, the cleverest workman, the readiest in games of skill;
but he will not seek advantages which are not in themselves clear
gain, but need to be supported by the opinion of others, such as
to be thought wittier than another, a better speaker, more learned,
etc.; still less will he trouble himself with those which have
nothing to do with the man himself, such as higher birth, a greater
reputation for wealth, credit, or public estimation, or the impression
created by a showy exterior.
As he loves his fellows because they are like himself, he will
prefer him who is most like himself, because he will feel that he
is good; and as he will judge of this resemblance by similarity of
taste in morals, in all that belongs to a good character, he will
be delighted to win approval. He will not say to himself in so
many words, "I am delighted to gain approval," but "I am delighted
because they say I have done right; I am delighted because the men
who honour me are worthy of honour; while they judge so wisely, it
is a fine thing to win their respect."
As he studies men in their conduct in society, just as he formerly
studied them through their passions in history, he will often have
occasion to consider what it is that pleases or offends the human
heart. He is now busy with the philosophy of the principles of
taste, and this is the most suitable subject for his present study.
The further we seek our definitions of taste, the further we
go astray; taste is merely the power of judging what is pleasing
or displeasing to most people. Go beyond this, and you cannot say
what taste is. It does not follow that the men of taste are in the
majority; for though the majority judges wisely with regard to each
individual thing, there are few men who follow the judgment of the
majority in everything; and though the most general agreement in
taste constitutes good taste, there are few men of good taste just
as there are few beautiful people, although beauty consists in the
sum of the most usual features.
It must be observed that we are not here concerned with what we
like because it is serviceable, or hate because it is harmful to us.
Taste deals only with things that are indifferent to us, or which
affect at most our amusements, not those which relate to our needs;
taste is not required to judge of these, appetite only is sufficient.
It is this which makes mere decisions of taste so difficult and as
it seems so arbitrary; for beyond the instinct they follow there
appears to be no reason whatever for them. We must also make a
distinction between the laws of good taste in morals and its laws
in physical matters. In the latter the laws of taste appear to
be absolutely inexplicable. But it must be observed that there is
a moral element in everything which involves imitation.[Footnote:
This is demonstrated in an "Essay on the Origin of Languages"
which will be found in my collected works.] This is the explanation
of beauties which seem to be physical, but are not so in reality.
I may add that taste has local rules which make it dependent in
many respects on the country we are in, its manners, government,
institutions; it has other rules which depend upon age, sex, and
character, and it is in this sense that we must not dispute over
matters of taste.
Taste is natural to men; but all do not possess it in the same
degree, it is not developed to the same extent in every one; and
in every one it is liable to be modified by a variety of causes.
Such taste as we may possess depends on our native sensibility;
its cultivation and its form depend upon the society in which we
have lived. In the first place we must live in societies of many
different kinds, so as to compare much. In the next place, there
must be societies for amusement and idleness, for in business
relations, interest, not pleasure, is our rule. Lastly, there must
be societies in which people are fairly equal, where the tyranny of
public opinion may be moderate, where pleasure rather than vanity
is queen; where this is not so, fashion stifles taste, and we seek
what gives distinction rather than delight.
In the latter case it is no longer true that good taste is the taste
of the majority. Why is this? Because the purpose is different.
Then the crowd has no longer any opinion of its own, it only follows
the judgment of those who are supposed to know more about it; its
approval is bestowed not on what is good, but on what they have
already approved. At any time let every man have his own opinion,
and what is most pleasing in itself will always secure most votes.
Every beauty that is to be found in the works of man is imitated.
All the true models of taste are to be found in nature. The further
we get from the master, the worse are our pictures. Then it is
that we find our models in what we ourselves like, and the beauty
of fancy, subject to caprice and to authority, is nothing but what
is pleasing to our leaders.
Those leaders are the artists, the wealthy, and the great, and
they themselves follow the lead of self-interest or pride. Some
to display their wealth, others to profit by it, they seek eagerly
for new ways of spending it. This is how luxury acquires its power
and makes us love what is rare and costly; this so-called beauty
consists, not in following nature, but in disobeying her. Hence
luxury and bad taste are inseparable. Wherever taste is lavish, it
is bad.
Taste, good or bad, takes its shape especially in the intercourse
between the two sexes; the cultivation of taste is a necessary
consequence of this form of society. But when enjoyment is easily
obtained, and the desire to please becomes lukewarm, taste must
degenerate; and this is, in my opinion, one of the best reasons
why good taste implies good morals.
Consult the women's opinions in bodily matters, in all that concerns
the senses; consult the men in matters of morality and all that
concerns the understanding. When women are what they ought to be,
they will keep to what they can understand, and their judgment
will be right; but since they have set themselves up as judges of
literature, since they have begun to criticise books and to make them
with might and main, they are altogether astray. Authors who take
the advice of blue-stockings will always be ill-advised; gallants who
consult them about their clothes will always be absurdly dressed.
I shall presently have an opportunity of speaking of the real
talents of the female sex, the way to cultivate these talents,
and the matters in regard to which their decisions should receive
attention.
These are the elementary considerations which I shall lay down
as principles when I discuss with Emile this matter which is by
no means indifferent to him in his present inquiries. And to whom
should it be a matter of indifference? To know what people may
find pleasant or unpleasant is not only necessary to any one who
requires their help, it is still more necessary to any one who would
help them; you must please them if you would do them service; and
the art of writing is no idle pursuit if it is used to make men
hear the truth.
If in order to cultivate my pupil's taste, I were compelled to choose
between a country where this form of culture has not yet arisen
and those in which it has already degenerated, I would progress
backwards; I would begin his survey with the latter and end with the
former. My reason for this choice is, that taste becomes corrupted
through excessive delicacy, which makes it sensitive to things
which most men do not perceive; this delicacy leads to a spirit
of discussion, for the more subtle is our discrimination of things
the more things there are for us. This subtlety increases the
delicacy and decreases the uniformity of our touch. So there are as
many tastes as there are people. In disputes as to our preferences,
philosophy and knowledge are enlarged, and thus we learn to think.
It is only men accustomed to plenty of society who are capable of
very delicate observations, for these observations do not occur to
us till the last, and people who are unused to all sorts of society
exhaust their attention in the consideration of the more conspicuous
features. There is perhaps no civilised place upon earth where the
common taste is so bad as in Paris. Yet it is in this capital that
good taste is cultivated, and it seems that few books make any
impression in Europe whose authors have not studied in Paris. Those
who think it is enough to read our books are mistaken; there is
more to be learnt from the conversation of authors than from their
books; and it is not from the authors that we learn most. It is the
spirit of social life which develops a thinking mind, and carries
the eye as far as it can reach. If you have a spark of genius, go
and spend a year in Paris; you will soon be all that you are capable
of becoming, or you will never be good for anything at all.
One may learn to think in places where bad taste rules supreme;
but we must not think like those whose taste is bad, and it is very
difficult to avoid this if we spend much time among them. We must
use their efforts to perfect the machinery of judgment, but we
must be careful not to make the same use of it. I shall take care
not to polish Emile's judgment so far as to transform it, and when
he has acquired discernment enough to feel and compare the varied
tastes of men, I shall lead him to fix his own taste upon simpler
matters.
I will go still further in order to keep his taste pure and wholesome.
In the tumult of dissipation I shall find opportunities for useful
conversation with him; and while these conversations are always
about things in which he takes a delight, I shall take care to make
them as amusing as they are instructive. Now is the time to read
pleasant books; now is the time to teach him to analyse speech and
to appreciate all the beauties of eloquence and diction. It is a
small matter to learn languages, they are less useful than people
think; but the study of languages leads us on to that of grammar in
general. We must learn Latin if we would have a thorough knowledge
of French; these two languages must be studied and compared if we
would understand the rules of the art of speaking.
There is, moreover, a certain simplicity of taste which goes straight
to the heart; and this is only to be found in the classics. In
oratory, poetry, and every kind of literature, Emile will find the
classical authors as he found them in history, full of matter and
sober in their judgment. The authors of our own time, on the contrary,
say little and talk much. To take their judgment as our constant
law is not the way to form our own judgment. These differences of
taste make themselves felt in all that is left of classical times
and even on their tombs. Our monuments are covered with praises,
theirs recorded facts.
"Sta, viator; heroem calcas."
If I had found this epitaph on an ancient monument, I should at
once have guessed it was modern; for there is nothing so common
among us as heroes, but among the ancients they were rare. Instead
of saying a man was a hero, they would have said what he had done
to gain that name. With the epitaph of this hero compare that of
the effeminate Sardanapalus--
"Tarsus and Anchiales I built in a day, and now I am dead."
Which do you think says most? Our inflated monumental style is only
fit to trumpet forth the praises of pygmies. The ancients showed men
as they were, and it was plain that they were men indeed. Xenophon
did honour to the memory of some warriors who were slain by
treason during the retreat of the Ten Thousand. "They died," said
he, "without stain in war and in love." That is all, but think how
full was the heart of the author of this short and simple elegy.
Woe to him who fails to perceive its charm. The following words
were engraved on a tomb at Thermopylae--
"Go, Traveller, tell Sparta that here we fell in obedience to her
laws."
It is pretty clear that this was not the work of the Academy of
Inscriptions.
If I am not mistaken, the attention of my pupil, who sets so small
value upon words, will be directed in the first place to these
differences, and they will affect his choice in his reading. He
will be carried away by the manly eloquence of Demosthenes, and
will say, "This is an orator;" but when he reads Cicero, he will
say, "This is a lawyer."
Speaking generally Emile will have more taste for the books of the
ancients than for our own, just because they were the first, and
therefore the ancients are nearer to nature and their genius is
more distinct. Whatever La Motte and the Abbe Terrasson may say,
there is no real advance in human reason, for what we gain in one
direction we lose in another; for all minds start from the same
point, and as the time spent in learning what others have thought
is so much time lost in learning to think for ourselves, we have
more acquired knowledge and less vigour of mind. Our minds like our
arms are accustomed to use tools for everything, and to do nothing
for themselves. Fontenelle used to say that all these disputes as
to the ancients and the moderns came to this--Were the trees in
former times taller than they are now. If agriculture had changed,
it would be worth our while to ask this question.
After I have led Emile to the sources of pure literature, I will
also show him the channels into the reservoirs of modern compilers;
journals, translations, dictionaries, he shall cast a glance at
them all, and then leave them for ever. To amuse him he shall hear
the chatter of the academies; I will draw his attention to the fast
that every member of them is worth more by himself than he is as
a member of the society; he will then draw his own conclusions as
to the utility of these fine institutions.
I take him to the theatre to study taste, not morals; for in the
theatre above all taste is revealed to those who can think. Lay
aside precepts and morality, I should say; this is not the place
to study them. The stage is not made for truth; its object is to
flatter and amuse: there is no place where one can learn so completely
the art of pleasing and of interesting the human heart. The study
of plays leads to the study of poetry; both have the same end
in view. If he has the least glimmering of taste for poetry, how
eagerly will he study the languages of the poets, Greek, Latin,
and Italian! These studies will afford him unlimited amusement and
will be none the less valuable; they will be a delight to him at
an age and in circumstances when the heart finds so great a charm
in every kind of beauty which affects it. Picture to yourself on
the one hand Emile, on the other some young rascal from college,
reading the fourth book of the Aeneid, or Tibollus, or the Banquet
of Plato: what a difference between them! What stirs the heart of
Emile to its depths, makes not the least impression on the other!
Oh, good youth, stay, make a pause in your reading, you are too
deeply moved; I would have you find pleasure in the language of
love, but I would not have you carried away by it; be a wise man, but
be a good man too. If you are only one of these, you are nothing.
After this let him win fame or not in dead languages, in literature,
in poetry, I care little. He will be none the worse if he knows
nothing of them, and his education is not concerned with these mere
words.
My main object in teaching him to feel and love beauty of every
kind is to fix his affections and his taste on these, to prevent
the corruption of his natural appetites, lest he should have to
seek some day in the midst of his wealth for the means of happiness
which should be found close at hand. I have said elsewhere that
taste is only the art of being a connoisseur in matters of little
importance, and this is quite true; but since the charm of life
depends on a tissue of these matters of little importance, such
efforts are no small thing; through their means we learn how to
fill our life with the good things within our reach, with as much
truth as they may hold for us. I do not refer to the morally good
which depends on a good disposition of the heart, but only to that
which depends on the body, on real delight, apart from the prejudices
of public opinion.
The better to unfold my idea, allow me for a moment to leave Emile,
whose pure and wholesome heart cannot be taken as a rule for others,
and to seek in my own memory for an illustration better suited to
the reader and more in accordance with his own manners.
There are professions which seem to change a man's nature, to
recast, either for better or worse, the men who adopt them. A coward
becomes a brave man in the regiment of Navarre. It is not only in
the army that esprit de corps is acquired, and its effects are not
always for good. I have thought again and again with terror that
if I had the misfortune to fill a certain post I am thinking of in
a certain country, before to-morrow I should certainly be a tyrant,
an extortioner, a destroyer of the people, harmful to my king, and
a professed enemy of mankind, a foe to justice and every kind of
virtue.
In the same way, if I were rich, I should have done all that is
required to gain riches; I should therefore be insolent and degraded,
sensitive and feeling only on my own behalf, harsh and pitiless to
all besides, a scornful spectator of the sufferings of the lower
classes; for that is what I should call the poor, to make people
forget that I was once poor myself. Lastly I should make my fortune
a means to my own pleasures with which I should be wholly occupied;
and so far I should be just like other people.
But in one respect I should be very unlike them; I should be sensual
and voluptuous rather than proud and vain, and I should give myself
up to the luxury of comfort rather than to that of ostentation.
I should even be somewhat ashamed to make too great a show of
my wealth, and if I overwhelmed the envious with my pomp I should
always fancy I heard him saying, "Here is a rascal who is greatly
afraid lest we should take him for anything but what he is."
In the vast profusion of good things upon this earth I should seek
what I like best, and what I can best appropriate to myself.
To this end, the first use I should make of my wealth would be to
purchase leisure and freedom, to which I would add health, if it
were to be purchased; but health can only be bought by temperance,
and as there is no real pleasure without health, I should be
temperate from sensual motives.
I should also keep as close as possible to nature, to gratify the
senses given me by nature, being quite convinced that, the greater
her share in my pleasures, the more real I shall find them. In
the choice of models for imitation I shall always choose nature
as my pattern; in my appetites I will give her the preference; in
my tastes she shall always be consulted; in my food I will always
choose what most owes its charm to her, and what has passed through
the fewest possible hands on its way to table. I will be on my guard
against fraudulent shams; I will go out to meet pleasure. No cook
shall grow rich on my gross and foolish greediness; he shall not
poison me with fish which cost its weight in gold, my table shall
not be decked with fetid splendour or putrid flesh from far-off
lands. I will take any amount of trouble to gratify my sensibility,
since this trouble has a pleasure of its own, a pleasure more than
we expect. If I wished to taste a food from the ends of the earth,
I would go, like Apicius, in search of it, rather than send for
it; for the daintiest dishes always lack a charm which cannot be
brought along with them, a flavour which no cook can give them--the
air of the country where they are produced.
For the same reason I would not follow the example of those who are
never well off where they are, but are always setting the seasons
at nought, and confusing countries and their seasons; those who
seek winter in summer and summer in winter, and go to Italy to be
cold and to the north to be warm, do not consider that when they
think they are escaping from the severity of the seasons, they
are going to meet that severity in places where people are not
prepared for it. I shall stay in one place, or I shall adopt just
the opposite course; I should like to get all possible enjoyment
out of one season to discover what is peculiar to any given country.
I would have a variety of pleasures, and habits quite unlike one
another, but each according to nature; I would spend the summer at
Naples and the winter in St. Petersburg; sometimes I would breathe
the soft zephyr lying in the cool grottoes of Tarentum, and again
I would enjoy the illuminations of an ice palace, breathless and
wearied with the pleasures of the dance.
In the service of my table and the adornment of my dwelling I would
imitate in the simplest ornaments the variety of the seasons, and
draw from each its charm without anticipating its successor. There
is no taste but only difficulty to be found in thus disturbing the
order of nature; to snatch from her unwilling gifts, which she
yields regretfully, with her curse upon them; gifts which have
neither strength nor flavour, which can neither nourish the body
nor tickle the palate. Nothing is more insipid than forced fruits.
A wealthy man in Paris, with all his stoves and hot-houses, only
succeeds in getting all the year round poor fruit and poor vegetables
for his table at a very high price. If I had cherries in frost,
and golden melons in the depths of winter, what pleasure should I
find in them when my palate did not need moisture or refreshment.
Would the heavy chestnut be very pleasant in the heat of the
dog-days; should I prefer to have it hot from the stove, rather
than the gooseberry, the strawberry, the refreshing fruits which
the earth takes care to provide for me. A mantelpiece covered in
January with forced vegetation, with pale and scentless flowers,
is not winter adorned, but spring robbed of its beauty; we deprive
ourselves of the pleasure of seeking the first violet in the woods,
of noting the earliest buds, and exclaiming in a rapture of delight,
"Mortals, you are not forsaken, nature is living still."
To be well served I would have few servants; this has been said
before, but it is worth saying again. A tradesman gets more real
service from his one man than a duke from the ten gentlemen round
about him. It has often struck me when I am sitting at table with
my glass beside me that I can drink whenever I please; whereas, if
I were dining in state, twenty men would have to call for "Wine"
before I could quench my thirst. You may be sure that whatever is
done for you by other people is ill done. I would not send to the
shops, I would go myself; I would go so that my servants should
not make their own terms with the shopkeepers, and to get a better
choice and cheaper prices; I would go for the sake of pleasant
exercise and to get a glimpse of what was going on out of doors;
this is amusing and sometimes instructive; lastly I would go for
the sake of the walk; there is always something in that. A sedentary
life is the source of tedium; when we walk a good deal we are never
dull. A porter and footmen are poor interpreters, I should never
wish to have such people between the world and myself, nor would
I travel with all the fuss of a coach, as if I were afraid people
would speak to me. Shanks' mare is always ready; if she is tired
or ill, her owner is the first to know it; he need not be afraid
of being kept at home while his coachman is on the spree; on the
road he will not have to submit to all sorts of delays, nor will
he be consumed with impatience, nor compelled to stay in one place
a moment longer than he chooses. Lastly, since no one serves us so
well as we serve ourselves, had we the power of Alexander and the
wealth of Croesus we should accept no services from others, except
those we cannot perform for ourselves.
I would not live in a palace; for even in a palace I should only
occupy one room; every room which is common property belongs to
nobody, and the rooms of each of my servants would be as strange
to me as my neighbour's. The Orientals, although very voluptuous,
are lodged in plain and simply furnished dwellings. They consider
life as a journey, and their house as an inn. This reason scarcely
appeals to us rich people who propose to live for ever; but I should
find another reason which would have the same effect. It would seem
to me that if I settled myself in one place in the midst of such
splendour, I should banish myself from every other place, and
imprison myself, so to speak, in my palace. The world is a palace
fair enough for any one; and is not everything at the disposal of
the rich man when he seeks enjoyment? "Ubi bene, ibi patria," that
is his motto; his home is anywhere where money will carry him,
his country is anywhere where there is room for his strong-box,
as Philip considered as his own any place where a mule laden with
silver could enter. [Footnote: A stranger, splendidly clad, was asked
in Athens what country he belonged to. "I am one of the rich," was
his answer; and a very good answer in my opinion.] Why then should
we shut ourselves up within walls and gates as if we never meant
to leave them? If pestilence, war, or rebellion drive me from one
place, I go to another, and I find my hotel there before me. Why
should I build a mansion for myself when the world is already at my
disposal? Why should I be in such a hurry to live, to bring from
afar delights which I can find on the spot? It is impossible to
make a pleasant life for oneself when one is always at war with
oneself. Thus Empedocles reproached the men of Agrigentum with
heaping up pleasures as if they had but one day to live, and building
as if they would live for ever.
And what use have I for so large a dwelling, as I have so few people
to live in it, and still fewer goods to fill it? My furniture would
be as simple as my tastes; I would have neither picture-gallery
nor library, especially if I was fond of reading and knew something
about pictures. I should then know that such collections are never
complete, and that the lack of that which is wanting causes more
annoyance than if one had nothing at all. In this respect abundance
is the cause of want, as every collector knows to his cost. If you
are an expert, do not make a collection; if you know how to use
your cabinets, you will not have any to show.
Gambling is no sport for the rich, it is the resource of those
who have nothing to do; I shall be so busy with my pleasures that
I shall have no time to waste. I am poor and lonely and I never
play, unless it is a game of chess now and then, and that is more
than enough. If I were rich I would play even less, and for very
low stakes, so that I should not be disappointed myself, nor see
the disappointment of others. The wealthy man has no motive for
play, and the love of play will not degenerate into the passion
for gambling unless the disposition is evil. The rich man is always
more keenly aware of his losses than his gains, and as in games
where the stakes are not high the winnings are generally exhausted
in the long run, he will usually lose more than he gains, so that
if we reason rightly we shall scarcely take a great fancy to games
where the odds are against us. He who flatters his vanity so far
as to believe that Fortune favours him can seek her favour in more
exciting ways; and her favours are just as clearly shown when the
stakes are low as when they are high. The taste for play, the result
of greed and dullness, only lays hold of empty hearts and heads;
and I think I should have enough feeling and knowledge to dispense
with its help. Thinkers are seldom gamblers; gambling interrupts
the habit of thought and turns it towards barren combinations;
thus one good result, perhaps the only good result of the taste
for science, is that it deadens to some extent this vulgar passion;
people will prefer to try to discover the uses of play rather
than to devote themselves to it. I should argue with the gamblers
against gambling, and I should find more delight in scoffing at
their losses than in winning their money.
I should be the same in private life as in my social intercourse.
I should wish my fortune to bring comfort in its train, and never
to make people conscious of inequalities of wealth. Showy dress is
inconvenient in many ways. To preserve as much freedom as possible
among other men, I should like to be dressed in such a way that
I should not seem out of place among all classes, and should not
attract attention in any; so that without affectation or change I
might mingle with the crowd at the inn or with the nobility at the
Palais Royal. In this way I should be more than ever my own master,
and should be free to enjoy the pleasures of all sorts and conditions
of men. There are women, so they say, whose doors are closed to
embroidered cuffs, women who will only receive guests who wear lace
ruffles; I should spend my days elsewhere; though if these women
were young and pretty I might sometimes put on lace ruffles to
spend an evening or so in their company.
Mutual affection, similarity of tastes, suitability of character;
these are the only bonds between my companions and myself; among
them I would be a man, not a person of wealth; the charm of their
society should never be embittered by self-seeking. If my wealth
had not robbed me of all humanity, I would scatter my benefits and
my services broadcast, but I should want companions about me, not
courtiers, friends, not proteges; I should wish my friends to regard
me as their host, not their patron. Independence and equality would
leave to my relations with my friends the sincerity of goodwill;
while duty and self-seeking would have no place among us, and we
should know no law but that of pleasure and friendship.
Neither a friend nor a mistress can be bought. Women may be got
for money, but that road will never lead to love. Love is not only
not for sale; money strikes it dead. If a man pays, were he indeed
the most lovable of men, the mere fact of payment would prevent
any lasting affection. He will soon be paying for some one else,
or rather some one else will get his money; and in this double
connection based on self-seeking and debauchery, without love,
honour, or true pleasure, the woman is grasping, faithless, and
unhappy, and she is treated by the wretch to whom she gives her
money as she treats the fool who gives his money to her; she has
no love for either. It would be sweet to lie generous towards one
we love, if that did not make a bargain of love. I know only one
way of gratifying this desire with the woman one loves without
embittering love; it is to bestow our all upon her and to live at
her expense. It remains to be seen whether there is any woman with
regard to whom such conduct would not be unwise.
He who said, "Lais is mine, but I am not hers," was talking nonsense.
Possession which is not mutual is nothing at all; at most it is
the possession of the sex not of the individual. But where there
is no morality in love, why make such ado about the rest? Nothing
is so easy to find. A muleteer is in this respect as near to
happiness as a millionaire.
Oh, if we could thus trace out the unreasonableness of vice, how
often should we find that, when it has attained its object, it
discovers it is not what it seemed! Why is there this cruel haste
to corrupt innocence, to make, a victim of a young creature whom we
ought to protect, one who is dragged by this first false step into
a gulf of misery from which only death can release her? Brutality,
vanity, folly, error, and nothing more. This pleasure itself is
unnatural; it rests on popular opinion, and popular opinion at its
worst, since it depends on scorn of self. He who knows he is the
basest of men fears comparison with others, and would be the first
that he may be less hateful. See if those who are most greedy in
pursuit of such fancied pleasures are ever attractive young men--men
worthy of pleasing, men who might have some excuse if they were
hard to please. Not so; any one with good looks, merit, and feeling
has little fear of his mistress' experience; with well-placed
confidence he says to her, "You know what pleasure is, what is that
to me? my heart assures me that this is not so."
But an aged satyr, worn out with debauchery, with no charm, no
consideration, no thought for any but himself, with no shred of
honour, incapable and unworthy of finding favour in the eyes of any
woman who knows anything of men deserving of love, expects to make
up for all this with an innocent girl by trading on her inexperience
and stirring her emotions for the first time. His last hope is to
find favour as a novelty; no doubt this is the secret motive of
this desire; but he is mistaken, the horror he excites is just as
natural as the desires he wishes to arouse. He is also mistaken
in his foolish attempt; that very nature takes care to assert her
rights; every girl who sells herself is no longer a maid; she has
given herself to the man of her choice, and she is making the very
comparison he dreads. The pleasure purchased is imaginary, but none
the less hateful.
For my own part, however riches may change me, there is one matter
in which I shall never change. If I have neither morals nor virtue,
I shall not be wholly without taste, without sense, without delicacy;
and this will prevent me from spending my fortune in the pursuit
of empty dreams, from wasting my money and my strength in teaching
children to betray me and mock at me. If I were young, I would
seek the pleasures of youth; and as I would have them at their best
I would not seek them in the guise of a rich man. If I were at my
present age, it would be another matter; I would wisely confine
myself to the pleasures of my age; I would form tastes which I could
enjoy, and I would stifle those which could only cause suffering.
I would not go and offer my grey beard to the scornful jests of
young girls; I could never bear to sicken them with my disgusting
caresses, to furnish them at my expense with the most absurd
stories, to imagine them describing the vile pleasures of the old
ape, so as to avenge themselves for what they had endured. But if
habits unresisted had changed my former desires into needs, I would
perhaps satisfy those needs, but with shame and blushes. I would
distinguish between passion and necessity, I would find a suitable
mistress and would keep to her. I would not make a business of my
weakness, and above all I would only have one person aware of it.
Life has other pleasures when these fail us; by hastening in vain
after those that fly us, we deprive ourselves of those that remain.
Let our tastes change with our years, let us no more meddle with
age than with the seasons. We should be ourselves at all times,
instead of struggling against nature; such vain attempts exhaust
our strength and prevent the right use of life.
The lower classes are seldom dull, their life is full of activity;
if there is little variety in their amusements they do not recur
frequently; many days of labour teach them to enjoy their rare
holidays. Short intervals of leisure between long periods of labour
give a spice to the pleasures of their station. The chief curse of
the rich is dullness; in the midst of costly amusements, among so
many men striving to give them pleasure, they are devoured and slain
by dullness; their life is spent in fleeing from it and in being
overtaken by it; they are overwhelmed by the intolerable burden;
women more especially, who do not know how to work or play, are a
prey to tedium under the name of the vapours; with them it takes
the shape of a dreadful disease, which robs them of their reason
and even of their life. For my own part I know no more terrible
fate than that of a pretty woman in Paris, unless it is that of
the pretty manikin who devotes himself to her, who becomes idle
and effeminate like her, and so deprives himself twice over of his
manhood, while he prides himself on his successes and for their
sake endures the longest and dullest days which human being ever
put up with.
Proprieties, fashions, customs which depend on luxury and breeding,
confine the course of life within the limits of the most miserable
uniformity. The pleasure we desire to display to others is a pleasure
lost; we neither enjoy it ourselves, nor do others enjoy it.
[Footnote: Two ladies of fashion, who wished to seem to be enjoying
themselves greatly, decided never to go to bed before five o'clock
in the morning. In the depths of winter their servants spent the
night in the street waiting for them, and with great difficulty
kept themselves from freezing. one night, or rather one morning,
some one entered the room where these merry people spent their
hours without knowing how time passed. He found them quite alone;
each of them was asleep in her arm-chair.] Ridicule, which public
opinion dreads more than anything, is ever at hand to tyrannise,
and punish. It is only ceremony that makes us ridiculous; if we can
vary our place and our pleasures, to-day's impressions can efface
those of yesterday; in the mind of men they are as if they had
never been; but we enjoy ourselves for we throw ourselves into
every hour and everything. My only set rule would be this: wherever
I was I would pay no heed to anything else. I would take each day
as it came, as if there were neither yesterday nor to-morrow. As
I should be a man of the people, with the populace, I should be a
countryman in the fields; and if I spoke of farming, the peasant
should not laugh at my expense. I would not go and build a town
in the country nor erect the Tuileries at the door of my lodgings.
On some pleasant shady hill-side I would have a little cottage,
a white house with green shutters, and though a thatched roof is
the best all the year round, I would be grand enough to have, not
those gloomy slates, but tiles, because they look brighter and more
cheerful than thatch, and the houses in my own country are always
roofed with them, and so they would recall to me something of the
happy days of my youth. For my courtyard I would have a poultry-yard,
and for my stables a cowshed for the sake of the milk which I love.
My garden should be a kitchen-garden, and my park an orchard, like
the one described further on. The fruit would be free to those
who walked in the orchard, my gardener should neither count it nor
gather it; I would not, with greedy show, display before your eyes
superb espaliers which one scarcely dare touch. But this small
extravagance would not be costly, for I would choose my abode in
some remote province where silver is scarce and food plentiful,
where plenty and poverty have their seat.
There I would gather round me a company, select rather than numerous,
a band of friends who know what pleasure is, and how to enjoy it,
women who can leave their arm-chairs and betake themselves to outdoor
sports, women who can exchange the shuttle or the cards for the
fishing line or the bird-trap, the gleaner's rake or grape-gatherer's
basket. There all the pretensions of the town will be forgotten,
and we shall be villagers in a village; we shall find all sorts of
different sports and we shall hardly know how to choose the morrow's
occupation. Exercise and an active life will improve our digestion
and modify our tastes. Every meal will be a feast, where plenty will
be more pleasing than any delicacies. There are no such cooks in
the world as mirth, rural pursuits, and merry games; and the finest
made dishes are quite ridiculous in the eyes of people who have
been on foot since early dawn. Our meals will be served without
regard to order or elegance; we shall make our dining-room anywhere,
in the garden, on a boat, beneath a tree; sometimes at a distance
from the house on the banks of a running stream, on the fresh green
grass, among the clumps of willow and hazel; a long procession
of guests will carry the material for the feast with laughter and
singing; the turf will be our chairs and table, the banks of the
stream our side-board, and our dessert is hanging on the trees;
the dishes will be served in any order, appetite needs no ceremony;
each one of us, openly putting himself first, would gladly see
every one else do the same; from this warm-hearted and temperate
familiarity there would arise, without coarseness, pretence,
or constraint, a laughing conflict a hundredfold more delightful
than politeness, and more likely to cement our friendship. No
tedious flunkeys to listen to our words, to whisper criticisms on
our behaviour, to count every mouthful with greedy eyes, to amuse
themselves by keeping us waiting for our wine, to complain of the
length of our dinner. We will be our own servants, in order to be
our own masters. Time will fly unheeded, our meal will be an interval
of rest during the heat of the day. If some peasant comes our way,
returning from his work with his tools over his shoulder, I will
cheer his heart with kindly words, and a glass or two of good
wine, which will help him to bear his poverty more cheerfully; and
I too shall have the joy of feeling my heart stirred within me,
and I should say to myself--I too am a man.
If the inhabitants of the district assembled for some rustic feast,
I and my friends would be there among the first; if there were
marriages, more blessed than those of towns, celebrated near my
home, every one would know how I love to see people happy, and I
should be invited. I would take these good folks some gift as simple
as themselves, a gift which would be my share of the feast; and in
exchange I should obtain gifts beyond price, gifts so little known
among my equals, the gifts of freedom and true pleasure. I should
sup gaily at the head of their long table; I should join in the
chorus of some rustic song and I should dance in the barn more
merrily than at a ball in the Opera House.
"This is all very well so far," you will say, "but what about the
shooting! one must have some sport in the country." Just so; I only
wanted a farm, but I was wrong. I assume I am rich, I must keep
my pleasures to myself, I must be free to kill something; this is
quite another matter. I must have estates, woods, keepers, rents,
seignorial rights, particularly incense and holy water.
Well and good. But I shall have neighbours about my estate who are
jealous of their rights and anxious to encroach on those of others;
our keepers will quarrel, and possibly their masters will quarrel
too; this means altercations, disputes, ill-will, or law-suits at
the least; this in itself is not very pleasant. My tenants will not
enjoy finding my hares at work upon their corn, or my wild boars
among their beans. As they dare not kill the enemy, every one of
them will try to drive him from their fields; when the day has been
spent in cultivating the ground, they will be compelled to sit up
at night to watch it; they will have watch-dogs, drums, horns, and
bells; my sleep will be disturbed by their racket. Do what I will,
I cannot help thinking of the misery of these poor people, and
I cannot help blaming myself for it. If I had the honour of being
a prince, this would make little impression on me; but as I am a
self-made man who has only just come into his property, I am still
rather vulgar at heart.
That is not all; abundance of game attracts trespassers; I shall
soon have poachers to punish; I shall require prisons, gaolers,
guards, and galleys; all this strikes me as cruel. The wives of
those miserable creatures will besiege my door and disturb me with
their crying; they must either be driven away or roughly handled.
The poor people who are not poachers, whose harvest has been
destroyed by my game, will come next with their complaints. Some
people will be put to death for killing the game, the rest will
be punished for having spared it; what a choice of evils! on every
side I shall find nothing but misery and hear nothing but groans.
So far as I can see this must greatly disturb the pleasure of slaying
at one's ease heaps of partridges and hares which are tame enough
to run about one's feet.
If you would have pleasure without pain let there be no monopoly;
the more you leave it free to everybody, the purer will be your own
enjoyment. Therefore I should not do what I have just described,
but without change of tastes I would follow those which seem likely
to cause me least pain. I would fix my rustic abode in a district
where game is not preserved, and where I can have my sport without
hindrance. Game will be less plentiful, but there will be more
skill in finding it, and more pleasure in securing it. I remember
the start of delight with which my father watched the rise of his
first partridge and the rapture with which he found the hare he
had sought all day long. Yes, I declare, that alone with his dog,
carrying his own gun, cartridges, and game bag together with his
hare, he came home at nightfall, worn out with fatigue and torn to
pieces by brambles, but better pleased with his day's sport than
all your ordinary sportsmen, who on a good horse, with twenty guns
ready for them, merely take one gun after another, and shoot and
kill everything that comes their way, without skill, without glory,
and almost without exercise. The pleasure is none the less, and
the difficulties are removed; there is no estate to be preserved,
no poacher to be punished, and no wretches to be tormented; here are
solid grounds for preference. Whatever you do, you cannot torment
men for ever without experiencing some amount of discomfort; and
sooner or later the muttered curses of the people will spoil the
flavour of your game.
Again, monopoly destroys pleasure. Real pleasures are those which
we share with the crowd; we lose what we try to keep to ourselves
alone. If the walls I build round my park transform it into a
gloomy prison, I have only deprived myself, at great expense, of
the pleasure of a walk; I must now seek that pleasure at a distance.
The demon of property spoils everything he lays hands upon. A rich
man wants to be master everywhere, and he is never happy where he is;
he is continually driven to flee from himself. I shall therefore
continue to do in my prosperity what I did in my poverty.
Henceforward, richer in the wealth of others than I ever shall
be in my own wealth, I will take possession of everything in my
neighbourhood that takes my fancy; no conqueror is so determined as
I; I even usurp the rights of princes; I take possession of every
open place that pleases me, I give them names; this is my park,
chat is my terrace, and I am their owner; henceforward I wander
among them at will; I often return to maintain my proprietary rights;
I make what use I choose of the ground to walk upon, and you will
never convince me that the nominal owner of the property which I
have appropriated gets better value out of the money it yields him
than I do out of his land. No matter if I am interrupted by hedges
and ditches, I take my park on my back, and I carry it elsewhere;
there will be space enough for it near at hand, and I may plunder
my neighbours long enough before I outstay my welcome.
This is an attempt to show what is meant by good taste in the choice
of pleasant occupations for our leisure hours; this is the spirit
of enjoyment; all else is illusion, fancy, and foolish pride. He
who disobeys these rules, however rich he may be, will devour his
gold on a dung-hill, and will never know what it is to live.
You will say, no doubt, that such amusements lie within the reach
of all, that we need not be rich to enjoy them. That is the very
point I was coming to. Pleasure is ours when we want it; it is only
social prejudice which makes everything hard to obtain, and drives
pleasure before us. To be happy is a hundredfold easier than it
seems. If he really desires to enjoy himself the man of taste has
no need of riches; all he wants is to be free and to be his own
master. With health and daily bread we are rich enough, if we will
but get rid of our prejudices; this is the "Golden Mean" of Horace.
You folks with your strong-boxes may find some other use for your
wealth, for it cannot buy you pleasure. Emile knows this as well
as I, but his heart is purer and more healthy, so he will feel
it more strongly, and all that he has beheld in society will only
serve to confirm him in this opinion.
While our time is thus employed, we are ever on the look-out for
Sophy, and we have not yet found her. It was not desirable that
she should be found too easily, and I have taken care to look for
her where I knew we should not find her.
The time is come; we must now seek her in earnest, lest Emile should
mistake some one else for Sophy, and only discover his error when
it is too late. Then farewell Paris, far-famed Paris, with all your
noise and smoke and dirt, where the women have ceased to believe in
honour and the men in virtue. We are in search of love, happiness,
innocence; the further we go from Paris the better.
BOOK V
We have reached the last act of youth's drams; we are approaching
its closing scene.
It is not good that man should be alone. Emile is now a man, and
we must give him his promised helpmeet. That helpmeet is Sophy.
Where is her dwelling-place, where shall she be found? We must
know beforehand what she is, and then we can decide where to look
for her. And when she is found, our task is not ended. "Since our
young gentleman," says Locke, "is about to marry, it is time to leave
him with his mistress." And with these words he ends his book. As
I have not the honour of educating "A young gentleman," I shall
take care not to follow his example.
SOPHY, OR WOMAN
Sophy should be as truly a woman as Emile is a man, i.e., she
must possess all those characters of her sex which are required to
enable her to play her part in the physical and moral order. Let
us inquire to begin with in what respects her sex differs from our
own.
But for her sex, a woman is a man; she has the same organs, the
same needs, the same faculties. The machine is the same in its
construction; its parts, its working, and its appearance are similar.
Regard it as you will the difference is only in degree.
Yet where sex is concerned man and woman are unlike; each is the
complement of the other; the difficulty in comparing them lies in
our inability to decide, in either case, what is a matter of sex,
and what is not. General differences present themselves to the
comparative anatomist and even to the superficial observer; they
seem not to be a matter of sex; yet they are really sex differences,
though the connection eludes our observation. How far such differences
may extend we cannot tell; all we know for certain is that where man
and woman are alike we have to do with the characteristics of the
species; where they are unlike, we have to do with the characteristics
of sex. Considered from these two standpoints, we find so many
instances of likeness and unlikeness that it is perhaps one of the
greatest of marvels how nature has contrived to make two beings so
like and yet so different.
These resemblances and differences must have an influence on the
moral nature; this inference is obvious, and it is confirmed by
experience; it shows the vanity of the disputes as to the superiority
or the equality of the sexes; as if each sex, pursuing the path
marked out for it by nature, were not more perfect in that very
divergence than if it more closely resembled the other. A perfect
man and a perfect woman should no more be alike in mind than in
face, and perfection admits of neither less nor more.
In the union of the sexes each alike contributes to the common
end, but in different ways. From this diversity springs the first
difference which may be observed between man and woman in their
moral relations. The man should be strong and active; the woman
should be weak and passive; the one must have both the power and
the will; it is enough that the other should offer little resistance.
When this principle is admitted, it follows that woman is specially
made for man's delight. If man in his turn ought to be pleasing
in her eyes, the necessity is less urgent, his virtue is in his
strength, he pleases because he is strong. I grant you this is not
the law of love, but it is the law of nature, which is older than
love itself.
If woman is made to please and to be in subjection to man, she
ought to make herself pleasing in his eyes and not provoke him to
anger; her strength is in her charms, by their means she should
compel him to discover and use his strength. The surest way of
arousing this strength is to make it necessary by resistance. Thus
pride comes to the help of desire and each exults in the other's
victory. This is the origin of attack and defence, of the boldness
of one sex and the timidity of the other, and even of the shame
and modesty with which nature has armed the weak for the conquest
of the strong.
Who can possibly suppose that nature has prescribed the same advances
to the one sex as to the other, or that the first to feel desire
should be the first to show it? What strange depravity of judgment!
The consequences of the act being so different for the two sexes,
is it natural that they should enter upon it with equal boldness?
How can any one fail to see that when the share of each is so
unequal, if the one were not controlled by modesty as the other is
controlled by nature, the result would be the destruction of both,
and the human race would perish through the very means ordained
for its continuance?
Women so easily stir a man's senses and fan the ashes of a dying
passion, that if philosophy ever succeeded in introducing this
custom into any unlucky country, especially if it were a warm
country where more women are born than men, the men, tyrannised
over by the women, would at last become their victims, and would
be dragged to their death without the least chance of escape.
Female animals are without this sense of shame, but what of that?
Are their desires as boundless as those of women, which are curbed
by this shame? The desires of the animals are the result of necessity,
and when the need is satisfied, the desire ceases; they no longer
make a feint of repulsing the male, they do it in earnest. Their
seasons of complaisance are short and soon over. Impulse and
restraint are alike the work of nature. But what would take the
place of this negative instinct in women if you rob them of their
modesty?
The Most High has deigned to do honour to mankind; he has endowed
man with boundless passions, together with a law to guide them, so
that man may be alike free and self-controlled; though swayed by
these passions man is endowed with reason by which to control them.
Woman is also endowed with boundless passions; God has given her
modesty to restrain them. Moreover, he has given to both a present
reward for the right use of their powers, in the delight which
springs from that right use of them, i.e., the taste for right
conduct established as the law of our behaviour. To my mind this
is far higher than the instinct of the beasts.
Whether the woman shares the man's passion or not, whether she is
willing or unwilling to satisfy it, she always repulses him and
defends herself, though not always with the same vigour, and therefore
not always with the same success. If the siege is to be successful,
the besieged must permit or direct the attack. How skilfully can
she stimulate the efforts of the aggressor. The freest and most
delightful of activities does not permit of any real violence;
reason and nature are alike against it; nature, in that she has
given the weaker party strength enough to resist if she chooses;
reason, in that actual violence is not only most brutal in itself,
but it defeats its own ends, not only because the man thus declares
war against his companion and thus gives her a right to defend her
person and her liberty even at the cost of the enemy's life, but
also because the woman alone is the judge of her condition, and a
child would have no father if any man might usurp a father's rights.
Thus the different constitution of the two sexes leads us to a third
conclusion, that the stronger party seems to be master, but is as
a matter of fact dependent on the weaker, and that, not by any foolish
custom of gallantry, nor yet by the magnanimity of the protector,
but by an inexorable law of nature. For nature has endowed woman
with a power of stimulating man's passions in excess of man's power
of satisfying those passions, and has thus made him dependent on
her goodwill, and compelled him in his turn to endeavour to please
her, so that she may be willing to yield to his superior strength.
Is it weakness which yields to force, or is it voluntary self-surrender?
This uncertainty constitutes the chief charm of the man's victory,
and the woman is usually cunning enough to leave him in doubt. In
this respect the woman's mind exactly resembles her body; far from
being ashamed of her weakness, she is proud of it; her soft muscles
offer no resistance, she professes that she cannot lift the lightest
weight; she would be ashamed to be strong. And why? Not only to
gain an appearance of refinement; she is too clever for that; she
is providing herself beforehand with excuses, with the right to be
weak if she chooses.
The experience we have gained through our vices has considerably
modified the views held in older times; we rarely hear of violence
for which there is so little occasion that it would hardly be
credited, Yet such stories are common enough among the Jews and
ancient Greeks; for such views belong to the simplicity of nature,
and have only been uprooted by our profligacy. If fewer deeds
of violence are quoted in our days, it is not that men are more
temperate, but because they are less credulous, and a complaint
which would have been believed among a simple people would only
excite laughter among ourselves; therefore silence is the better
course. There is a law in Deuteronomy, under which the outraged
maiden was punished, along with her assailant, if the crime were
committed in a town; but if in the country or in a lonely place,
the latter alone was punished. "For," says the law, "the maiden
cried for help, and there was none to hear." From this merciful
interpretation of the law, girls learnt not to let themselves be
surprised in lonely places.
This change in public opinion has had a perceptible effect on our
morals. It has produced our modern gallantry. Men have found that
their pleasures depend, more than they expected, on the goodwill
of the fair sex, and have secured this goodwill by attentions which
have had their reward.
See how we find ourselves led unconsciously from the physical to
the moral constitution, how from the grosser union of the sexes
spring the sweet laws of love. Woman reigns, not by the will of
man, but by the decrees of nature herself; she had the power long
before she showed it. That same Hercules who proposed to violate
all the fifty daughters of Thespis was compelled to spin at the
feet of Omphale, and Samson, the strong man, was less strong than
Delilah. This power cannot be taken from woman; it is hers by right;
she would have lost it long ago, were it possible.
The consequences of sex are wholly unlike for man and woman. The
male is only a male now and again, the female is always a female,
or at least all her youth; everything reminds her of her sex; the
performance of her functions requires a special constitution. She
needs care during pregnancy and freedom from work when her child
is born; she must have a quiet, easy life while she nurses her
children; their education calls for patience and gentleness, for
a zeal and love which nothing can dismay; she forms a bond between
father and child, she alone can win the father's love for his
children and convince him that they are indeed his own. What loving
care is required to preserve a united family! And there should be
no question of virtue in all this, it must be a labour of love,
without which the human race would be doomed to extinction.
The mutual duties of the two sexes are not, and cannot be, equally
binding on both. Women do wrong to complain of the inequality of
man-made laws; this inequality is not of man's making, or at any
rate it is not the result of mere prejudice, but of reason. She
to whom nature has entrusted the care of the children must hold
herself responsible for them to their father. No doubt every breach
of faith is wrong, and every faithless husband, who robs his wife
of the sole reward of the stern duties of her sex, is cruel and
unjust; but the faithless wife is worse; she destroys the family
and breaks the bonds of nature; when she gives her husband children
who are not his own, she is false both to him and them, her crime
is not infidelity but treason. To my mind, it is the source of
dissension and of crime of every kind. Can any position be more
wretched than that of the unhappy father who, when he clasps his
child to his breast, is haunted by the suspicion that this is the
child of another, the badge of his own dishonour, a thief who is
robbing his own children of their inheritance. Under such circumstances
the family is little more than a group of secret enemies, armed
against each other by a guilty woman, who compels them to pretend
to love one another.
Thus it is not enough that a wife should be faithful; her husband,
along with his friends and neighbours, must believe in her fidelity;
she must be modest, devoted, retiring; she should have the witness
not only of a good conscience, but of a good reputation. In a word,
if a father must love his children, he must be able to respect their
mother. For these reasons it is not enough that the woman should
be chaste, she must preserve her reputation and her good name. From
these principles there arises not only a moral difference between
the sexes, but also a fresh motive for duty and propriety, which
prescribes to women in particular the most scrupulous attention
to their conduct, their manners, their behaviour. Vague assertions
as to the equality of the sexes and the similarity of their duties
are only empty words; they are no answer to my argument.
It is a poor sort of logic to quote isolated exceptions against
laws so firmly established. Women, you say, are not always bearing
children. Granted; yet that is their proper business. Because there
are a hundred or so of large towns in the world where women live
licentiously and have few children, will you maintain that it is
their business to have few children? And what would become of your
towns if the remote country districts, with their simpler and purer
women, did not make up for the barrenness of your fine ladies?
There are plenty of country places where women with only four or
five children are reckoned unfruitful. In conclusion, although here
and there a woman may have few children, what difference does it
make? [Footnote: Without this the race would necessarily diminish;
all things considered, for its preservation each woman ought to have
about four children, for about half the children born die before
they can become parents, and two must survive to replace the father
and mother. See whether the towns will supply them?] Is it any the
less a woman's business to be a mother? And to not the general laws
of nature and morality make provision for this state of things?
Even if there were these long intervals, which you assume, between
the periods of pregnancy, can a woman suddenly change her way of life
without danger? Can she be a nursing mother to-day and a soldier
to-morrow? Will she change her tastes and her feelings as a chameleon
changes his colour? Will she pass at once from the privacy of
household duties and indoor occupations to the buffeting of the
winds, the toils, the labours, the perils of war? Will she be now
timid, [Footnote: Women's timidity is yet another instinct of nature
against the double risk she runs during pregnancy.] now brave, now
fragile, now robust? If the young men of Paris find a soldier's
life too hard for them, how would a woman put up with it, a woman
who has hardly ventured out of doors without a parasol and who has
scarcely put a foot to the ground? Will she make a good soldier at
an age when even men are retiring from this arduous business?
There are countries, I grant you, where women bear and rear
children with little or no difficulty, but in those lands the men
go half-naked in all weathers, they strike down the wild beasts,
they carry a canoe as easily as a knapsack, they pursue the chase
for 700 or 800 leagues, they sleep in the open on the bare ground,
they bear incredible fatigues and go many days without food. When
women become strong, men become still stronger; when men become
soft, women become softer; change both the terms and the ratio
remains unaltered.
I am quite aware that Plato, in the Republic, assigns the same
gymnastics to women and men. Having got rid of the family there is
no place for women in his system of government, so he is forced to
turn them into men. That great genius has worked out his plans in
detail and has provided for every contingency; he has even provided
against a difficulty which in all likelihood no one would ever have
raised; but he has not succeeded in meeting the real difficulty. I
am not speaking of the alleged community of wives which has often
been laid to his charge; this assertion only shows that his detractors
have never read his works. I refer to that political promiscuity
under which the same occupations are assigned to both sexes alike,
a scheme which could only lead to intolerable evils; I refer to that
subversion of all the tenderest of our natural feelings, which he
sacrificed to an artificial sentiment which can only exist by their
aid. Will the bonds of convention hold firm without some foundation
in nature? Can devotion to the state exist apart from the love of
those near and dear to us? Can patriotism thrive except in the soil
of that miniature fatherland, the home? Is it not the good son,
the good husband, the good father, who makes the good citizen?
When once it is proved that men and women are and ought to be
unlike in constitution and in temperament, it follows that their
education must be different. Nature teaches us that they should work
together, but that each has its own share of the work; the end is
the same, but the means are different, as are also the feelings
which direct them. We have attempted to paint a natural man, let
us try to paint a helpmeet for him.
You must follow nature's guidance if you would walk aright. The
native characters of sex should be respected as nature's handiwork.
You are always saying, "Women have such and such faults, from which
we are free." You are misled by your vanity; what would be faults
in you are virtues in them; and things would go worse, if they
were without these so-called faults. Take care that they do not
degenerate into evil, but beware of destroying them.
On the other hand, women are always exclaiming that we educate them
for nothing but vanity and coquetry, that we keep them amused with
trifles that we may be their masters; we are responsible, so they
say, for the faults we attribute to them. How silly! What have men
to do with the education of girls? What is there to hinder their
mothers educating them as they please? There are no colleges for
girls; so much the better for them! Would God there were none for
the boys, their education would be more sensible and more wholesome.
Who is it that compels a girl to waste her time on foolish trifles?
Are they forced, against their will, to spend half their time over
their toilet, following the example set them by you? Who prevents
you teaching them, or having them taught, whatever seems good
in your eyes? Is it our fault that we are charmed by their beauty
and delighted by their airs and graces, if we are attracted and
flattered by the arts they learn from you, if we love to see them
prettily dressed, if we let them display at leisure the weapons
by which we are subjugated? Well then, educate them like men. The
more women are like men, the less influence they will have over
men, and then men will be masters indeed.
All the faculties common to both sexes are not equally shared
between them, but taken as a whole they are fairly divided. Woman
is worth more as a woman and less as a man; when she makes a good
use of her own rights, she has the best of it; when she tries to
usurp our rights, she is our inferior. It is impossible to controvert
this, except by quoting exceptions after the usual fashion of the
partisans of the fair sex.
To cultivate the masculine virtues in women and to neglect their
own is evidently to do them an injury. Women are too clear-sighted
to be thus deceived; when they try to usurp our privileges they do
not abandon their own; with this result: they are unable to make use
of two incompatible things, so they fall below their own level as
women, instead of rising to the level of men. If you are a sensible
mother you will take my advice. Do not try to make your daughter a
good man in defiance of nature. Make her a good woman, and be sure
it will be better both for her and us.
Does this mean that she must be brought up in ignorance and kept
to housework only? Is she to be man's handmaid or his help-meet?
Will he dispense with her greatest charm, her companionship? To keep
her a slave will he prevent her knowing and feeling? Will he make
an automaton of her? No, indeed, that is not the teaching of nature,
who has given women such a pleasant easy wit. on the contrary,
nature means them to think, to will, to love, to cultivate their
minds as well as their persons; she puts these weapons in their
hands to make up for their lack of strength and to enable them to
direct the strength of men. They should learn many things, but only
such things as are suitable.
When I consider the special purpose of woman, when I observe
her inclinations or reckon up her duties, everything combines to
indicate the mode of education she requires. Men and women are made
for each other, but their mutual dependence differs in degree; man
is dependent on woman through his desires; woman is dependent on
man through her desires and also through her needs; he could do
without her better than she can do without him. She cannot fulfil
her purpose in life without his aid, without his goodwill, without
his respect; she is dependent on our feelings, on the price we
put upon her virtue, and the opinion we have of her charms and her
deserts. Nature herself has decreed that woman, both for herself
and her children, should be at the mercy of man's judgment.
Worth alone will not suffice, a woman must be thought worthy; nor
beauty, she must be admired; nor virtue, she must be respected.
A woman's honour does not depend on her conduct alone, but on her
reputation, and no woman who permits herself to be considered vile
is really virtuous. A man has no one but himself to consider, and
so long as he does right he may defy public opinion; but when a
woman does right her task is only half finished, and what people
think of her matters as much as what she really is. Hence her
education must, in this respect, be different from man's education.
"What will people think" is the grave of a man's virtue and the
throne of a woman's.
The children's health depends in the first place on the mother's,
and the early education of man is also in a woman's hands; his
morals, his passions, his tastes, his pleasures, his happiness
itself, depend on her. A woman's education must therefore be planned
in relation to man. To be pleasing in his sight, to win his respect
and love, to train him in childhood, to tend him in manhood, to
counsel and console, to make his life pleasant and happy, these
are the duties of woman for all time, and this is what she should
be taught while she is young. The further we depart from this
principle, the further we shall be from our goal, and all our
precepts will fail to secure her happiness or our own.
Every woman desires to be pleasing in men's eyes, and this is right;
but there is a great difference between wishing to please a man of
worth, a really lovable man, and seeking to please those foppish
manikins who are a disgrace to their own sex and to the sex which
they imitate. Neither nature nor reason can induce a woman to love
an effeminate person, nor will she win love by imitating such a
person.
If a woman discards the quiet modest bearing of her sex, and
adopts the airs of such foolish creatures, she is not following
her vocation, she is forsaking it; she is robbing herself of the
rights to which she lays claim. "If we were different," she says,
"the men would not like us." She is mistaken. only a fool likes
folly; to wish to attract such men only shows her own foolishness. If
there were no frivolous men, women would soon make them, and women
are more responsible for men's follies than men are for theirs.
The woman who loves true manhood and seeks to find favour in its
sight will adopt means adapted to her ends. Woman is a coquette by
profession, but her coquetry varies with her aims; let these aims
be in accordance with those of nature, and a woman will receive a
fitting education.
Even the tiniest little girls love finery; they are not content to
be pretty, they must be admired; their little airs and graces show
that their heads are full of this idea, and as soon as they can
understand they are controlled by "What will people think of you?"
If you are foolish enough to try this way with little boys, it
will not have the same effect; give them their freedom and their
sports, and they care very little what people think; it is a work
of time to bring them under the control of this law.
However acquired, this early education of little girls is an
excellent thing in itself. As the birth of the body must precede
the birth of the mind, so the training of the body must precede
the cultivation of the mind. This is true of both sexes; but the
aim of physical training for boys and girls is not the same; in the
one case it is the development of strength, in the other of grace;
not that these qualities should be peculiar to either sex, but that
their relative values should be different. Women should be strong
enough to do anything gracefully; men should be skilful enough to
do anything easily.
The exaggeration of feminine delicacy leads to effeminacy in men.
Women should not be strong like men but for them, so that their
sons may be strong. Convents and boarding-schools, with their plain
food and ample opportunities for amusements, races, and games in
the open air and in the garden, are better in this respect than
the home, where the little girl is fed on delicacies, continually
encouraged or reproved, where she is kept sitting in a stuffy room,
always under her mother's eye, afraid to stand or walk or speak
or breathe, without a moment's freedom to play or jump or run or
shout, or to be her natural, lively, little self; there is either
harmful indulgence or misguided severity, and no trace of reason.
In this fashion heart and body are alike destroyed.
In Sparta the girls used to take part in military sports just like
the boys, not that they might go to war, but that they might bear
sons who could endure hardship. That is not what I desire. To provide
the state with soldiers it is not necessary that the mother should
carry a musket and master the Prussian drill. Yet, on the whole, I
think the Greeks were very wise in this matter of physical training.
Young girls frequently appeared in public, not with the boys, but
in groups apart. There was scarcely a festival, a sacrifice, or a
procession without its bands of maidens, the daughters of the chief
citizens. Crowned with flowers, chanting hymns, forming the chorus
of the dance, bearing baskets, vases, offerings, they presented a
charming spectacle to the depraved senses of the Greeks, a spectacle
well fitted to efface the evil effects of their unseemly gymnastics.
Whatever this custom may have done for the Greek men, it was well
fitted to develop in the Greek women a sound constitution by means
of pleasant, moderate, and healthy exercise; while the desire to
please would develop a keen and cultivated taste without risk to
character.
When the Greek women married, they disappeared from public life;
within the four walls of their home they devoted themselves to
the care of their household and family. This is the mode of life
prescribed for women alike by nature and reason. These women gave
birth to the healthiest, strongest, and best proportioned men who
ever lived, and except in certain islands of ill repute, no women
in the whole world, not even the Roman matrons, were ever at once
so wise and so charming, so beautiful and so virtuous, as the women
of ancient Greece.
It is admitted that their flowing garments, which did not cramp
the figure, preserved in men and women alike the fine proportions
which are seen in their statues. These are still the models of
art, although nature is so disfigured that they are no longer to
be found among us. The Gothic trammels, the innumerable bands which
confine our limbs as in a press, were quite unknown. The Greek
women were wholly unacquainted with those frames of whalebone in
which our women distort rather than display their figures. It seems
to me that this abuse, which is carried to an incredible degree of
folly in England, must sooner or later lead to the production of
a degenerate race. Moreover, I maintain that the charm which these
corsets are supposed to produce is in the worst possible taste; it
is not a pleasant thing to see a woman cut in two like a wasp--it
offends both the eye and the imagination. A slender waist has
its limits, like everything else, in proportion and suitability,
and beyond these limits it becomes a defect. This defect would be
a glaring one in the nude; why should it be beautiful under the
costume?
I will not venture upon the reasons which induce women to incase
themselves in these coats of mail. A clumsy figure, a large waist,
are no doubt very ugly at twenty, but at thirty they cease to offend
the eye, and as we are bound to be what nature has made us at any
given age, and as there is no deceiving the eye of man, such defects
are less offensive at any age than the foolish affectations of a
young thing of forty.
Everything which cramps and confines nature is in bad taste; this
is as true of the adornments of the person as of the ornaments of
the mind. Life, health, common-sense, and comfort must come first;
there is no grace in discomfort, languor is not refinement, there
is no charm in ill-health; suffering may excite pity, but pleasure
and delight demand the freshness of health.
Boys and girls have many games in common, and this is as it should
be; do they not play together when they are grown up? They have also
special tastes of their own. Boys want movement and noise, drums,
tops, toy-carts; girls prefer things which appeal to the eye,
and can be used for dressing-up--mirrors, jewellery, finery, and
specially dolls. The doll is the girl's special plaything; this shows
her instinctive bent towards her life's work. The art of pleasing
finds its physical basis in personal adornment, and this physical
side of the art is the only one which the child can cultivate.
Here is a little girl busy all day with her doll; she is always
changing its clothes, dressing and undressing it, trying new
combinations of trimmings well or ill matched; her fingers are
clumsy, her taste is crude, but there is no mistaking her bent; in
this endless occupation time flies unheeded, the hours slip away
unnoticed, even meals are forgotten. She is more eager for adornment
than for food. "But she is dressing her doll, not herself," you
will say. Just so; she sees her doll, she cannot see herself; she
cannot do anything for herself, she has neither the training, nor
the talent, nor the strength; as yet she herself is nothing, she is
engrossed in her doll and all her coquetry is devoted to it. This
will not always be so; in due time she will be her own doll.
We have here a very early and clearly-marked bent; you have only to
follow it and train it. What the little girl most clearly desires
is to dress her doll, to make its bows, its tippets, its sashes,
and its tuckers; she is dependent on other people's kindness in all
this, and it would be much pleasanter to be able to do it herself.
Here is a motive for her earliest lessons, they are not tasks
prescribed, but favours bestowed. Little girls always dislike learning
to read and write, but they are always ready to learn to sew. They
think they are grown up, and in imagination they are using their
knowledge for their own adornment.
The way is open and it is easy to follow it; cutting out, embroidery,
lace-making follow naturally. Tapestry is not popular; furniture is
too remote from the child's interests, it has nothing to do with
the person, it depends on conventional tastes. Tapestry is a woman's
amusement; young girls never care for it.
This voluntary course is easily extended to include drawing, an
art which is closely connected with taste in dress; but I would not
have them taught landscape and still less figure painting. Leaves,
fruit, flowers, draperies, anything that will make an elegant
trimming for the accessories of the toilet, and enable the girl
to design her own embroidery if she cannot find a pattern to her
taste; that will be quite enough. Speaking generally, if it is
desirable to restrict a man's studies to what is useful, this is
even more necessary for women, whose life, though less laborious,
should be even more industrious and more uniformly employed in a
variety of duties, so that one talent should not be encouraged at
the expense of others.
Whatever may be said by the scornful, good sense belongs to both
sexes alike. Girls are usually more docile than boys, and they
should be subjected to more authority, as I shall show later on,
but that is no reason why they should be required to do things
in which they can see neither rhyme nor reason. The mother's art
consists in showing the use of everything they are set to do, and
this is all the easier as the girl's intelligence is more precocious
than the boy's. This principle banishes, both for boys and girls,
not only those pursuits which never lead to any appreciable results,
not even increasing the charms of those who have pursued them, but
also those studies whose utility is beyond the scholar's present age
and can only be appreciated in later years. If I object to little
boys being made to learn to read, still more do I object to it
for little girls until they are able to see the use of reading; we
generally think more of our own ideas than theirs in our attempts
to convince them of the utility of this art. After all, why should
a little girl know how to read and write! Has she a house to manage?
Most of them make a bad use of this fatal knowledge, and girls are
so full of curiosity that few of them will fail to learn without
compulsion. Possibly cyphering should come first; there is nothing
so obviously useful, nothing which needs so much practice or gives
so much opportunity for error as reckoning. If the little girl
does not get the cherries for her lunch without an arithmetical
exercise, she will soon learn to count.
I once knew a little girl who learnt to write before she could read,
and she began to write with her needle. To begin with, she would
write nothing but O's; she was always making O's, large and small,
of all kinds and one within another, but always drawn backwards.
Unluckily one day she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass
while she was at this useful work, and thinking that the cramped
attitude was not pretty, like another Minerva she flung away her
pen and declined to make any more O's. Her brother was no fonder
of writing, but what he disliked was the constraint, not the look
of the thing. She was induced to go on with her writing in this way.
The child was fastidious and vain; she could not bear her sisters
to wear her clothes. Her things had been marked, they declined to
mark them any more, she must learn to mark them herself; there is
no need to continue the story.
Show the sense of the tasks you set your little girls, but keep them
busy. Idleness and insubordination are two very dangerous faults,
and very hard to cure when once established. Girls should be
attentive and industrious, but this is not enough by itself; they
should early be accustomed to restraint. This misfortune, if such
it be, is inherent in their sex, and they will never escape from it,
unless to endure more cruel sufferings. All their life long, they
will have to submit to the strictest and most enduring restraints,
those of propriety. They must be trained to bear the yoke from the
first, so that they may not feel it, to master their own caprices
and to submit themselves to the will of others. If they were always
eager to be at work, they should sometimes be compelled to do
nothing. Their childish faults, unchecked and unheeded, may easily
lead to dissipation, frivolity, and inconstancy. To guard against
this, teach them above all things self-control. Under our senseless
conditions, the life of a good woman is a perpetual struggle against
self; it is only fair that woman should bear her share of the ills
she has brought upon man.
Beware lest your girls become weary of their tasks and infatuated
with their amusements; this often happens under our ordinary methods
of education, where, as Fenelon says, all the tedium is on one side
and all the pleasure on the other. If the rules already laid down
are followed, the first of these dangers will be avoided, unless the
child dislikes those about her. A little girl who is fond of her
mother or her friend will work by her side all day without getting
tired; the chatter alone will make up for any loss of liberty. But
if her companion is distasteful to her, everything done under her
direction will be distasteful too. Children who take no delight
in their mother's company are not likely to turn out well; but to
judge of their real feelings you must watch them and not trust to
their words alone, for they are flatterers and deceitful and soon
learn to conceal their thoughts. Neither should they be told that
they ought to love their mother. Affection is not the result of
duty, and in this respect constraint is out of place. Continual
intercourse, constant care, habit itself, all these will lead
a child to love her mother, if the mother does nothing to deserve
the child's ill-will. The very control she exercises over the
child, if well directed, will increase rather than diminish the
affection, for women being made for dependence, girls feel themselves
made to obey.
Just because they have, or ought to have, little freedom, they are
apt to indulge themselves too fully with regard to such freedom
as they have; they carry everything to extremes, and they devote
themselves to their games with an enthusiasm even greater than that
of boys. This is the second difficulty to which I referred. This
enthusiasm must be kept in check, for it is the source of several
vices commonly found among women, caprice and that extravagant
admiration which leads a woman to regard a thing with rapture to-day
and to be quite indifferent to it to-morrow. This fickleness of
taste is as dangerous as exaggeration; and both spring from the same
cause. Do not deprive them of mirth, laughter, noise, and romping
games, but do not let them tire of one game and go off to another;
do not leave them for a moment without restraint. Train them to
break off their games and return to their other occupations without
a murmur. Habit is all that is needed, as you have nature on your
side.
This habitual restraint produces a docility which woman requires
all her life long, for she will always be in subjection to a man,
or to man's judgment, and she will never be free to set her own
opinion above his. What is most wanted in a woman is gentleness;
formed to obey a creature so imperfect as man, a creature often
vicious and always faulty, she should early learn to submit to
injustice and to suffer the wrongs inflicted on her by her husband
without complaint; she must be gentle for her own sake, not his.
Bitterness and obstinacy only multiply the sufferings of the wife
and the misdeeds of the husband; the man feels that these are
not the weapons to be used against him. Heaven did not make women
attractive and persuasive that they might degenerate into bitterness,
or meek that they should desire the mastery; their soft voice was
not meant for hard words, nor their delicate features for the frowns
of anger. When they lose their temper they forget themselves; often
enough they have just cause of complaint; but when they scold they
always put themselves in the wrong. We should each adopt the tone
which befits our sex; a soft-hearted husband may make an overbearing
wife, but a man, unless he is a perfect monster, will sooner or
later yield to his wife's gentleness, and the victory will be hers.
Daughters must always be obedient, but mothers need not always be
harsh. To make a girl docile you need not make her miserable; to
make her modest you need not terrify her; on the contrary, I should
not be sorry to see her allowed occasionally to exercise a little
ingenuity, not to escape punishment for her disobedience, but
to evade the necessity for obedience. Her dependence need not be
made unpleasant, it is enough that she should realise that she is
dependent. Cunning is a natural gift of woman, and so convinced
am I that all our natural inclinations are right, that I would
cultivate this among others, only guarding against its abuse.
For the truth of this I appeal to every honest observer. I do not
ask you to question women themselves, our cramping institutions may
compel them to sharpen their wits; I would have you examine girls,
little girls, newly-born so to speak; compare them with boys of the
same age, and I am greatly mistaken if you do not find the little
boys heavy, silly, and foolish, in comparison. Let me give one
illustration in all its childish simplicity.
Children are commonly forbidden to ask for anything at table, for
people think they can do nothing better in the way of education
than to burden them with useless precepts; as if a little bit of
this or that were not readily given or refused without leaving a
poor child dying of greediness intensified by hope. Every one knows
how cunningly a little boy brought up in this way asked for salt
when he had been overlooked at table. I do not suppose any one will
blame him for asking directly for salt and indirectly for meat;
the neglect was so cruel that I hardly think he would have been
punished had he broken the rule and said plainly that he was hungry.
But this is what I saw done by a little girl of six; the circumstances
were much more difficult, for not only was she strictly forbidden
to ask for anything directly or indirectly, but disobedience would
have been unpardonable, for she had eaten of every dish; one only
had been overlooked, and on this she had set her heart. This is what
she did to repair the omission without laying herself open to the
charge of disobedience; she pointed to every dish in turn, saying,
"I've had some of this; I've had some of this;" however she omitted
the one dish so markedly that some one noticed it and said, "Have
not you had some of this?" "Oh, no," replied the greedy little girl
with soft voice and downcast eyes. These instances are typical of
the cunning of the little boy and girl.
What is, is good, and no general law can be bad. This special skill
with which the female sex is endowed is a fair equivalent for its
lack of strength; without it woman would be man's slave, not his
helpmeet. By her superiority in this respect she maintains her equality
with man, and rules in obedience. She has everything against her,
our faults and her own weakness and timidity; her beauty and her
wiles are all that she has. Should she not cultivate both? Yet beauty
is not universal; it may be destroyed by all sorts of accidents,
it will disappear with years, and habit will destroy its influence.
A woman's real resource is her wit; not that foolish wit which is
so greatly admired in society, a wit which does nothing to make
life happier; but that wit which is adapted to her condition, the
art of taking advantage of our position and controlling us through
our own strength. Words cannot tell how beneficial this is to
man, what a charm it gives to the society of men and women, how it
checks the petulant child and restrains the brutal husband; without
it the home would be a scene of strife; with it, it is the abode
of happiness. I know that this power is abused by the sly and the
spiteful; but what is there that is not liable to abuse? Do not
destroy the means of happiness because the wicked use them to our
hurt.
The toilet may attract notice, but it is the person that wins our
hearts. Our finery is not us; its very artificiality often offends,
and that which is least noticeable in itself often wins the most
attention. The education of our girls is, in this respect, absolutely
topsy-turvy. Ornaments are promised them as rewards, and they are
taught to delight in elaborate finery. "How lovely she is!" people
say when she is most dressed up. on the contrary, they should be
taught that so much finery is only required to hide their defects,
and that beauty's real triumph is to shine alone. The love of
fashion is contrary to good taste, for faces do not change with the
fashion, and while the person remains unchanged, what suits it at
one time will suit it always.
If I saw a young girl decked out like a little peacock, I should
show myself anxious about her figure so disguised, and anxious what
people would think of her; I should say, "She is over-dressed with
all those ornaments; what a pity! Do you think she could do with
something simpler? Is she pretty enough to do without this or that?"
Possibly she herself would be the first to ask that her finery might
be taken off and that we should see how she looked without it. In
that case her beauty should receive such praise as it deserves. I
should never praise her unless simply dressed. If she only regards
fine clothes as an aid to personal beauty, and as a tacit confession
that she needs their aid, she will not be proud of her finery, she
will be humbled by it; and if she hears some one say, "How pretty
she is," when she is smarter than usual, she will blush for shame.
Moreover, though there are figures that require adornment there
are none that require expensive clothes. Extravagance in dress is
the folly of the class rather than the individual, it is merely
conventional. Genuine coquetry is sometimes carefully thought out,
but never sumptuous, and Juno dressed herself more magnificently
than Venus. "As you cannot make her beautiful you are making her
fine," said Apelles to an unskilful artist who was painting Helen
loaded with jewellery. I have also noticed that the smartest clothes
proclaim the plainest women; no folly could be more misguided. If
a young girl has good taste and a contempt for fashion, give her a
few yards of ribbon, muslin, and gauze, and a handful of flowers,
without any diamonds, fringes, or lace, and she will make herself
a dress a hundredfold more becoming than all the smart clothes of
La Duchapt.
Good is always good, and as you should always look your best, the
women who know what they are about select a good style and keep
to it, and as they are not always changing their style they think
less about dress than those who can never settle to any one style.
A genuine desire to dress becomingly does not require an elaborate
toilet. Young girls rarely give much time to dress; needlework and
lessons are the business of the day; yet, except for the rouge,
they are generally as carefully dressed as older women and often
in better taste. Contrary to the usual opinion, the real cause of
the abuse of the toilet is not vanity but lack of occupation. The
woman who devotes six hours to her toilet is well aware that she
is no better dressed than the woman who took half an hour, but she
has got rid of so many of the tedious hours and it is better to
amuse oneself with one's clothes than to be sick of everything.
Without the toilet how would she spend the time between dinner and
supper. With a crowd of women about her, she can at least cause
them annoyance, which is amusement of a kind; better still she avoids
a tete-a-tete with the husband whom she never sees at any other
time; then there are the tradespeople, the dealers in bric-a-brac,
the fine gentlemen, the minor poets with their songs, their verses,
and their pamphlets; how could you get them together but for the
toilet. Its only real advantage is the chance of a little more
display than is permitted by full dress, and perhaps this is less
than it seems and a woman gains less than she thinks. Do not be
afraid to educate your women as women; teach them a woman's business,
that they be modest, that they may know how to manage their house
and look after their family; the grand toilet will soon disappear,
and they will be more tastefully dressed.
Growing girls perceive at once that all this outside adornment is
not enough unless they have charms of their own. They cannot make
themselves beautiful, they are too young for coquetry, but they
are not too young to acquire graceful gestures, a pleasing voice,
a self-possessed manner, a light step, a graceful bearing, to choose
whatever advantages are within their reach. The voice extends its
range, it grows stronger and more resonant, the arms become plumper,
the bearing more assured, and they perceive that it is easy to
attract attention however dressed. Needlework and industry suffice
no longer, fresh gifts are developing and their usefulness is
already recognised.
I know that stern teachers would have us refuse to teach little
girls to sing or dance, or to acquire any of the pleasing arts.
This strikes me as absurd. Who should learn these arts--our boys?
Are these to be the favourite accomplishments of men or women? Of
neither, say they; profane songs are simply so many crimes, dancing
is an invention of the Evil one; her tasks and her prayers we all
the amusement a young girl should have. What strange amusements
for a child of ten! I fear that these little saints who have been
forced to spend their childhood in prayers to God will pass their
youth in another fashion; when they are married they will try to
make up for lost time. I think we must consider age as well as sex;
a young girl should not live like her grandmother; she should be
lively, merry, and eager; she should sing and dance to her heart's
content, and enjoy all the innocent pleasures of youth; the time
will come, all too soon, when she must settle down and adopt a more
serious tone.
But is this change in itself really necessary? Is it not merely
another result of our own prejudices? By making good women the slaves
of dismal duties, we have deprived marriage of its charm for men.
Can we wonder that the gloomy silence they find at home drives them
elsewhere, or inspires little desire to enter a state which offers
so few attractions? Christianity, by exaggerating every duty, has
made our duties impracticable and useless; by forbidding singing,
dancing, and amusements of every kind, it renders women sulky,
fault-finding, and intolerable at home. There is no religion which
imposes such strict duties upon married life, and none in which
such a sacred engagement is so often profaned. Such pains has been
taken to prevent wives being amiable, that their husbands have
become indifferent to them. This should not be, I grant you, but
it will be, since husbands are but men. I would have an English
maiden cultivate the talents which will delight her husband as
zealously as the Circassian cultivates the accomplishments of an
Eastern harem. Husbands, you say, care little for such accomplishments.
So I should suppose, when they are employed, not for the husband,
but to attract the young rakes who dishonour the home. But imagine
a virtuous and charming wife, adorned with such accomplishments
and devoting them to her husband's amusement; will she not add to
his happiness? When he leaves his office worn out with the day's
work, will she not prevent him seeking recreation elsewhere? Have
we not all beheld happy families gathered together, each contributing
to the general amusement? Are not the confidence and familiarity
thus established, the innocence and the charm of the pleasures thus
enjoyed, more than enough to make up for the more riotous pleasures
of public entertainments?
Pleasant accomplishments have been made too formal an affair of
rules and precepts, so that young people find them very tedious
Instead of a mere amusement or a merry game as they ought to be.
Nothing can be more absurd than an elderly singing or dancing
master frowning upon young people, whose one desire is to laugh,
and adopting a more pedantic and magisterial manner in teaching his
frivolous art than if he were teaching the catechism. Take the case
of singing; does this art depend on reading music; cannot the voice
be made true and flexible, can we not learn to sing with taste and
even to play an accompaniment without knowing a note? Does the same
kind of singing suit all voices alike? Is the same method adapted
to every mind? You will never persuade me that the same attitudes,
the same steps, the same movements, the same gestures, the same
dances will suit a lively little brunette and a tall fair maiden
with languishing eyes. So when I find a master giving the same
lessons to all his pupils I say, "He has his own routine, but he
knows nothing of his art!"
Should young girls have masters or mistresses? I cannot say; I wish
they could dispense with both; I wish they could learn of their
own accord what they are already so willing to learn. I wish there
were fewer of these dressed-up old ballet masters promenading our
streets. I fear our young people will get more harm from intercourse
with such people than profit from their instruction, and that their
jargon, their tone, their airs and graces, will instil a precocious
taste for the frivolities which the teacher thinks so important,
and to which the scholars are only too likely to devote themselves.
Where pleasure is the only end in view, any one may serve as
teacher--father, mother, brother, sister, friend, governess, the
girl's mirror, and above all her own taste. Do not offer to teach,
let her ask; do not make a task of what should be a reward, and in
these studies above all remember that the wish to succeed is the
first step. If formal instruction is required I leave it to you
to choose between a master and a mistress. How can I tell whether
a dancing master should take a young pupil by her soft white hand,
make her lift her skirt and raise her eyes, open her arms and advance
her throbbing bosom? but this I know, nothing on earth would induce
me to be that master.
Taste is formed partly by industry and partly by talent, and by
its means the mind is unconsciously opened to the idea of beauty
of every kind, till at length it attains to those moral ideas which
are so closely related to beauty. Perhaps this is one reason why
ideas of propriety and modesty are acquired earlier by girls than
by boys, for to suppose that this early feeling is due to the
teaching of the governesses would show little knowledge of their
style of teaching and of the natural development of the human mind.
The art of speaking stands first among the pleasing arts; it alone
can add fresh charms to those which have been blunted by habit. It
is the mind which not only gives life to the body, but renews, so
to speak, its youth; the flow of feelings and ideas give life and
variety to the countenance, and the conversation to which it gives
rise arouses and sustains attention, and fixes it continuously on
one object. I suppose this is why little girls so soon learn to
prattle prettily, and why men enjoy listening to them even before
the child can understand them; they are watching for the first
gleam of intelligence and sentiment.
Women have ready tongues; they talk earlier, more easily, and more
pleasantly than men. They are also said to talk more; this may
be true, but I am prepared to reckon it to their credit; eyes and
mouth are equally busy and for the same cause. A man says what he
knows, a woman says what will please; the one needs knowledge, the
other taste; utility should be the man's object; the woman speaks
to give pleasure. There should be nothing in common but truth.
You should not check a girl's prattle like a boy's by the harsh
question, "What is the use of that?" but by another question at
least as difficult to answer, "What effect will that have?" At this
early age when they know neither good nor evil, and are incapable
of judging others, they should make this their rule and never say
anything which is unpleasant to those about them; this rule is all
the more difficult to apply because it must always be subordinated
to our first rule, "Never tell a lie."
I can see many other difficulties, but they belong to a later stage.
For the present it is enough for your little girls to speak the
truth without grossness, and as they are naturally averse to what
is gross, education easily teaches them to avoid it. In social
intercourse I observe that a man's politeness is usually more
helpful and a woman's more caressing. This distinction is natural,
not artificial. A man seeks to serve, a woman seeks to please. Hence
a woman's politeness is less insincere than ours, whatever we may
think of her character; for she is only acting upon a fundamental
instinct; but when a man professes to put my interests before his
own, I detect the falsehood, however disguised. Hence it is easy
for women to be polite, and easy to teach little girls politeness.
The first lessons come by nature; art only supplements them and
determines the conventional form which politeness shall take. The
courtesy of woman to woman is another matter; their manner is so
constrained, their attentions so chilly, they find each other so
wearisome, that they take little pains to conceal the fact, and
seem sincere even in their falsehood, since they take so little
pains to conceal it. Still young girls do sometimes become sincerely
attached to one another. At their age good spirits take the place
of a good disposition, and they are so pleased with themselves that
they are pleased with every one else. Moreover, it is certain that
they kiss each other more affectionately and caress each other more
gracefully in the presence of men, for they are proud to be able
to arouse their envy without danger to themselves by the sight of
favours which they know will arouse that envy.
If young boys must not be allowed to ask unsuitable questions, much
more must they be forbidden to little girls; if their curiosity is
satisfied or unskilfully evaded it is a much more serious matter,
for they are so keen to guess the mysteries concealed from them and
so skilful to discover them. But while I would not permit them to
ask questions, I would have them questioned frequently, and pains
should be taken to make them talk; let them be teased to make them
speak freely, to make them answer readily, to loosen mind and
tongue while it can be done without danger. Such conversation always
leading to merriment, yet skilfully controlled and directed, would
form a delightful amusement at this age and might instil into these
youthful hearts the first and perhaps the most helpful lessons in
morals which they will ever receive, by teaching them in the guise
of pleasure and fun what qualities are esteemed by men and what is
the true glory and happiness of a good woman.
If boys are incapable of forming any true idea of religion, much
more is it beyond the grasp of girls; and for this reason I would
speak of it all the sooner to little girls, for if we wait till
they are ready for a serious discussion of these deep subjects we
should be in danger of never speaking of religion at all. A woman's
reason is practical, and therefore she soon arrives at a given
conclusion, but she fails to discover it for herself. The social
relation of the sexes is a wonderful thing. This relation produces
a moral person of which woman is the eye and man the hand, but the
two are so dependent on one another that the man teaches the woman
what to see, while she teaches him what to do. If women could
discover principles and if men had as good heads for detail, they
would be mutually independent, they would live in perpetual strife,
and there would be an end to all society. But in their mutual
harmony each contributes to a common purpose; each follows the
other's lead, each commands and each obeys.
As a woman's conduct is controlled by public opinion, so is her
religion ruled by authority. The daughter should follow her mother's
religion, the wife her husband's. Were that religion false, the
docility which leads mother and daughter to submit to nature's
laws would blot out the sin of error in the sight of God. Unable
to judge for themselves they should accept the judgment of father
and husband as that of the church.
While women unaided cannot deduce the rules of their faith, neither
can they assign limits to that faith by the evidence of reason;
they allow themselves to be driven hither and thither by all sorts
of external influences, they are ever above or below the truth. Extreme
in everything, they are either altogether reckless or altogether
pious; you never find them able to combine virtue and piety. Their
natural exaggeration is not wholly to blame; the ill-regulated
control exercised over them by men is partly responsible. Loose
morals bring religion into contempt; the terrors of remorse make
it a tyrant; this is why women have always too much or too little
religion.
As a woman's religion is controlled by authority it is more
important to show her plainly what to believe than to explain the
reasons for belief; for faith attached to ideas half-understood
is the main source of fanaticism, and faith demanded on behalf of
what is absurd leads to madness or unbelief. Whether our catechisms
tend to produce impiety rather than fanaticism I cannot say, but
I do know that they lead to one or other.
In the first place, when you teach religion to little girls never
make it gloomy or tiresome, never make it a task or a duty, and
therefore never give them anything to learn by heart, not even
their prayers. Be content to say your own prayers regularly in their
presence, but do not compel them to join you. Let their prayers
be short, as Christ himself has taught us. Let them always be said
with becoming reverence and respect; remember that if we ask the
Almighty to give heed to our words, we should at least give heed
to what we mean to say.
It does not much matter that a girl should learn her religion young,
but it does matter that she should learn it thoroughly, and still
more that she should learn to love it. If you make religion a
burden to her, if you always speak of God's anger, if in the name
of religion you impose all sorts of disagreeable duties, duties
which she never sees you perform, what can she suppose but that
to learn one's catechism and to say one's prayers is only the duty
of a little girl, and she will long to be grown-up to escape, like
you, from these duties. Example! Example! Without it you will never
succeed in teaching children anything.
When you explain the Articles of Faith let it be by direct teaching,
not by question and answer. Children should only answer what they
think, not what has been drilled into them. All the answers in the
catechism are the wrong way about; it is the scholar who instructs
the teacher; in the child's mouth they are a downright lie, since
they explain what he does not understand, and affirm what he cannot
believe. Find me, if you can, an intelligent man who could honestly
say his catechism. The first question I find in our catechism is as
follows: "Who created you and brought you into the world?" To which
the girl, who thinks it was her mother, replies without hesitation,
"It was God." All she knows is that she is asked a question which
she only half understands and she gives an answer she does not
understand at all.
I wish some one who really understands the development of children's
minds would write a catechism for them. It might be the most useful
book ever written, and, in my opinion, it would do its author no
little honour. This at least is certain--if it were a good book it
would be very unlike our catechisms.
Such a catechism will not be satisfactory unless the child can
answer the questions of its own accord without having to learn the
answers; indeed the child will often ask the questions itself. An
example is required to make my meaning plain and I feel how ill
equipped I am to furnish such an example. I will try to give some
sort of outline of my meaning.
To get to the first question in our catechism I suppose we must
begin somewhat after the following fashion.
NURSE: Do you remember when your mother was a little girl?
CHILD: No, nurse.
NURSE: Why not, when you have such a good memory?
CHILD: I was not alive.
NURSE: Then you were not always alive!
CHILD: No.
NURSE: Will you live for ever!
CHILD: Yes.
NURSE: Are you young or old?
CHILD: I am young.
NURSE: Is your grandmamma old or young?
CHILD: She is old.
NURSE: Was she ever young?
CHILD: Yes.
NURSE: Why is she not young now?
CHILD: She has grown old.
NURSE: Will you grow old too?
CHILD: I don't know.
NURSE: Where are your last year's frocks?
CHILD: They have been unpicked.
NURSE: Why!
CHILD: Because they were too small for me.
NURSE: Why were they too small?
CHILD: I have grown bigger.
NURSE: Will you grow any more!
CHILD: Oh, yes.
NURSE: And what becomes of big girls?
CHILD: They grow into women.
NURSE: And what becomes of women!
CHILD: They are mothers.
NURSE: And what becomes of mothers?
CHILD: They grow old.
NURSE: Will you grow old?
CHILD: When I am a mother.
NURSE: And what becomes of old people?
CHILD: I don't know.
NURSE: What became of your grandfather?
CHILD: He died. [Footnote: The child will say this because she has
heard it said; but you must make sure she knows what death is, for
the idea is not so simple and within the child's grasp as people
think. In that little poem "Abel" you will find an example of the way
to teach them. This charming work breathes a delightful simplicity
with which one should feed one's own mind so as to talk with
children.]
NURSE: Why did he die?
CHILD: Because he was so old.
NURSE: What becomes of old people!
CHILD: They die.
NURSE: And when you are old----?
CHILD: Oh nurse! I don't want to die!
NURSE: My dear, no one wants to die, and everybody dies.
CHILD: Why, will mamma die too!
NURSE: Yes, like everybody else. Women grow old as well as men,
and old age ends in death.
CHILD: What must I do to grow old very, very slowly?
NURSE: Be good while you are little.
CHILD: I will always be good, nurse.
NURSE: So much the better. But do you suppose you will live for
ever?
CHILD: When I am very, very old----
NURSE: Well?
CHILD: When we are so very old you say we must die?
NURSE: You must die some day.
CHILD: Oh dear! I suppose I must.
NURSE: Who lived before you?
CHILD: My father and mother.
NURSE: And before them?
CHILD: Their father and mother.
NURSE: Who will live after you?
CHILD: My children.
NURSE: Who will live after them?
CHILD: Their children.
In this way, by concrete examples, you will find a beginning and end
for the human race like everything else--that is to say, a father
and mother who never had a father and mother, and children who will
never have children of their own.
It is only after a long course of similar questions that we are
ready for the first question in the catechism; then alone can we
put the question and the child may be able to understand it. But
what a gap there is between the first and the second question which
is concerned with the definitions of the divine nature. When will
this chasm be bridged? "God is a spirit." "And what is a spirit?"
Shall I start the child upon this difficult question of metaphysics
which grown men find so hard to understand? These are no questions
for a little girl to answer; if she asks them, it is as much or more
than we can expect. In that case I should tell her quite simply,
"You ask me what God is; it is not easy to say; we can neither
hear nor see nor handle God; we can only know Him by His works. To
learn what He is, you must wait till you know what He has done."
If our dogmas are all equally true, they are not equally important.
It makes little difference to the glory of God that we should perceive
it everywhere, but it does make a difference to human society, and
to every member of that society, that a man should know and do the
duties which are laid upon him by the law of God, his duty to his
neighbour and to himself. This is what we should always be teaching
one another, and it is this which fathers and mothers are specially
bound to teach their little ones. Whether a virgin became the mother
of her Creator, whether she gave birth to God, or merely to a man
into whom God has entered, whether the Father and the Son are of
the same substance or of like substance only, whether the Spirit
proceeded from one or both of these who are but one, or from both
together, however important these questions may seem, I cannot
see that it is any more necessary for the human race to come to a
decision with regard to them than to know what day to keep Easter,
or whether we should tell our beads, fast, and refuse to eat meat,
speak Latin or French in church, adorn the walls with statues,
hear or say mass, and have no wife of our own. Let each think as
he pleases; I cannot see that it matters to any one but himself;
for my own part it is no concern of mine. But what does concern my
fellow-creatures and myself alike is to know that there is indeed
a judge of human fate, that we are all His children, that He bids
us all be just, He bids us love one another, He bids us be kindly
and merciful, He bids us keep our word with all men, even with our
own enemies and His; we must know that the apparent happiness of
this world is naught; that there is another life to come, in which
this Supreme Being will be the rewarder of the just and the judge
of the unjust. Children need to be taught these doctrines and others
like them and all citizens require to be persuaded of their truth.
Whoever sets his face against these doctrines is indeed guilty; he
is the disturber of the peace, the enemy of society. Whoever goes
beyond these doctrines and seeks to make us the slaves of his private
opinions, reaches the same goal by another way; to establish his
own kind of order he disturbs the peace; in his rash pride he makes
himself the interpreter of the Divine, and in His name demands the
homage and the reverence of mankind; so far as may be, he sets himself
in God's place; he should receive the punishment of sacrilege if
he is not punished for his intolerance.
Give no heed, therefore, to all those mysterious doctrines which
are words without ideas for us, all those strange teachings, the
study of which is too often offered as a substitute for virtue, a
study which more often makes men mad rather than good. Keep your
children ever within the little circle of dogmas which are related
to morality. Convince them that the only useful learning is that which
teaches us to act rightly. Do not make your daughters theologians
and casuists; only teach them such things of heaven as conduce
to human goodness; train them to feel that they are always in the
presence of God, who sees their thoughts and deeds, their virtue
and their pleasures; teach them to do good without ostentation and
because they love it, to suffer evil without a murmur, because God
will reward them; in a word to be all their life long what they
will be glad to have been when they appear in His presence. This
is true religion; this alone is incapable of abuse, impiety, or
fanaticism. Let those who will, teach a religion more sublime,
but this is the only religion I know.
Moreover, it is as well to observe that, until the age when the
reason becomes enlightened, when growing emotion gives a voice to
conscience, what is wrong for young people is what those about have
decided to be wrong. What they are told to do is good; what they
are forbidden to do is bad; that is all they ought to know: this
shows how important it is for girls, even more than for boys,
that the right people should be chosen to be with them and to have
authority over them. At last there comes a time when they begin to
judge things for themselves, and that is the time to change your
method of education.
Perhaps I have said too much already. To what shall we reduce the
education of our women if we give them no law but that of conventional
prejudice? Let us not degrade so far the set which rules over us,
and which does us honour when we have not made it vile. For all
mankind there is a law anterior to that of public opinion. All other
laws should bend before the inflexible control of this law; it is
the judge of public opinion, and only in so far as the esteem of
men is in accordance with this law has it any claim on our obedience.
This law is our individual conscience. I will not repeat what has
been said already; it is enough to point out that if these two
laws clash, the education of women will always be imperfect. Right
feeling without respect for public opinion will not give them that
delicacy of soul which lends to right conduct the charm of social
approval; while respect for public opinion without right feeling
will only make false and wicked women who put appearances in the
place of virtue.
It is, therefore, important to cultivate a faculty which serves
as judge between the two guides, which does not permit conscience
to go astray and corrects the errors of prejudice. That faculty
is reason. But what a crowd of questions arise at this word. Are
women capable of solid reason; should they cultivate it, can they
cultivate it successfully? Is this culture useful in relation to the
functions laid upon them? Is it compatible with becoming simplicity?
The different ways of envisaging and answering these questions lead
to two extremes; some would have us keep women indoors sewing and
spinning with their maids; thus they make them nothing more than
the chief servant of their master. Others, not content to secure
their rights, lead them to usurp ours; for to make woman our superior
in all the qualities proper to her sex, and to make her our equal
in all the rest, what is this but to transfer to the woman the
superiority which nature has given to her husband? The reason which
teaches a man his duties is not very complex; the reason which
teaches a woman hers is even simpler. The obedience and fidelity
which she owes to her husband, the tenderness and care due to her
children, are such natural and self-evident consequences of her
position that she cannot honestly refuse her consent to the inner
voice which is her guide, nor fail to discern her duty in her
natural inclination.
I would not altogether blame those who would restrict a woman to
the labours of her sex and would leave her in profound ignorance
of everything else; but that would require a standard of morality
at once very simple and very healthy, or a life withdrawn from the
world. In great towns, among immoral men, such a woman would be
too easily led astray; her virtue would too often be at the mercy
of circumstances; in this age of philosophy, virtue must be able
to resist temptation; she must know beforehand what she may hear
and what she should think of it.
Moreover, in submission to man's judgment she should deserve his
esteem; above all she should obtain the esteem of her husband;
she should not only make him love her person, she should make him
approve her conduct; she should justify his choice before the world,
and do honour to her husband through the honour given to the wife.
But how can she set about this task if she is ignorant of our
institutions, our customs, our notions of propriety, if she knows
nothing of the source of man's judgment, nor the passions by which
it is swayed! Since she depends both on her own conscience and
on public opinion, she must learn to know and reconcile these two
laws, and to put her own conscience first only when the two are
opposed to each other. She becomes the judge of her own judges,
she decides when she should obey and when she should refuse her
obedience. She weighs their prejudices before she accepts or rejects
them; she learns to trace them to their source, to foresee what
they will be, and to turn them in her own favour; she is careful
never to give cause for blame if duty allows her to avoid it. This
cannot be properly done without cultivating her mind and reason.
I always come back to my first principle and it supplies the
solution of all my difficulties. I study what is, I seek its cause,
and I discover in the end that what is, is good. I go to houses
where the master and mistress do the honours together. They are
equally well educated, equally polite, equally well equipped with
wit and good taste, both of them are inspired with the same desire
to give their guests a good reception and to send every one away
satisfied. The husband omits no pains to be attentive to every
one; he comes and goes and sees to every one and takes all sorts
of trouble; he is attention itself. The wife remains in her place;
a little circle gathers round her and apparently conceals the rest
of the company from her; yet she sees everything that goes on,
no one goes without a word with her; she has omitted nothing which
might interest anybody, she has said nothing unpleasant to any
one, and without any fuss the least is no more overlooked than
the greatest. Dinner is announced, they take their places; the
man knowing the assembled guests will place them according to his
knowledge; the wife, without previous acquaintance, never makes
a mistake; their looks and bearing have already shown her what is
wanted and every one will find himself where he wishes to be. I
do not assert that the servants forget no one. The master of the
house may have omitted no one, but the mistress perceives what you
like and sees that you get it; while she is talking to her neighbour
she has one eye on the other end of the table; she sees who is not
eating because he is not hungry and who is afraid to help himself
because he is clumsy and timid. When the guests leave the table
every one thinks she has had no thought but for him, everybody thinks
she has had no time to eat anything, but she has really eaten more
than anybody.
When the guests are gone, husband and wife tails over the events
of the evening. He relates what was said to him, what was said and
done by those with whom he conversed. If the lady is not always
quite exact in this respect, yet on the other hand she perceived
what was whispered at the other end of the room; she knows what
so-and-so thought, and what was the meaning of this speech or that
gesture; there is scarcely a change of ｅxpression for which she
has not an explanation in readiness, and she is almost always right.
The same turn of mind which makes a woman of the world such an
excellent hostess, enables a flirt to excel in the art of amusing
a number of suitors. Coquetry, cleverly carried out, demands an
even finer discernment than courtesy; provided a polite lady is
civil to everybody, she has done fairly well in any case; but the
flirt would soon lose her hold by such clumsy uniformity; if she
tries to be pleasant to all her lovers alike, she will disgust them
all. In ordinary social intercourse the manners adopted towards
everybody are good enough for all; no question is asked as to
private likes or dislikes provided all are alike well received. But
in love, a favour shared with others is an insult. A man of feeling
would rather be singled out for ill-treatment than be caressed with
the crowd, and the worst that can befall him is to be treated like
every one else. So a woman who wants to keep several lovers at
her feet must persuade every one of them that she prefers him, and
she must contrive to do this in the sight of all the rest, each of
whom is equally convinced that he is her favourite.
If you want to see a man in a quandary, place him between two
women with each of whom he has a secret understanding, and see what
a fool he looks. But put a woman in similar circumstances between
two men, and the results will be even more remarkable; you will be
astonished at the skill with which she cheats them both, and makes
them laugh at each other. Now if that woman were to show the same
confidence in both, if she were to be equally familiar with both,
how could they be deceived for a moment? If she treated them alike,
would she not show that they both had the same claims upon her?
Oh, she is far too clever for that; so far from treating them just
alike, she makes a marked difference between them, and she does
it so skilfully that the man she flatters thinks it is affection,
and the man she ill uses think it is spite. So that each of them
believes she is thinking of him, when she is thinking of no one
but herself.
A general desire to please suggests similar measures; people would
be disgusted with a woman's whims if they were not skilfully managed,
and when they are artistically distributed her servants are more
than ever enslaved.
"Usa ogn'arte la donna, onde sia colto
Nella sua rete alcun novello amante;
Ne con tutti, ne sempre un stesso volto
Serba; ma cangia a tempo atto e sembiante."
Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv., v. 87.
What is the secret of this art? Is it not the result of a delicate
and continuous observation which shows her what is taking place in
a man's heart, so that she is able to encourage or to check every
hidden impulse? Can this art be acquired? No; it is born with women;
it is common to them all, and men never show it to the same degree.
It is one of the distinctive characters of the sex. Self-possession,
penetration, delicate observation, this is a woman's science; the
skill to make use of it is her chief accomplishment.
This is what is, and we have seen why it is so. It is said that
women are false. They become false. They are really endowed with
skill not duplicity; in the genuine inclinations of their sex they
are not false even when they tell a lie. Why do you consult their
words when it is not their mouths that speak? Consult their eyes,
their colour, their breathing, their timid manner, their slight
resistance, that is the language nature gave them for your answer.
The lips always say "No," and rightly so; but the tone is not
always the same, and that cannot lie. Has not a woman the same needs
as a man, but without the same right to make them known? Her fate
would be too cruel if she had no language in which to express her
legitimate desires except the words which she dare not utter. Must
her modesty condemn her to misery? Does she not require a means
of indicating her inclinations without open ｅxpression? What skill
is needed to hide from her lover what she would fain reveal! Is it
not of vital importance that she should learn to touch his heart
without showing that she cares for him? It is a pretty story that
tale of Galatea with her apple and her clumsy flight. What more
is needed? Will she tell the shepherd who pursues her among the
willows that she only flees that he may follow? If she did, it would
be a lie; for she would no longer attract him. The more modest
a woman is, the more art she needs, even with her husband. Yes,
I maintain that coquetry, kept within bounds, becomes modest and
true, and out of it springs a law of right conduct.
One of my opponents has very truly asserted that virtue is one;
you cannot disintegrate it and choose this and reject the other.
If you love virtue, you love it in its entirety, and you close your
heart when you can, and you always close your lips to the feelings
which you ought not to allow. Moral truth is not only what is,
but what is good; what is bad ought not to be, and ought not to be
confessed, especially when that confession produces results which
might have been avoided. If I were tempted to steal, and in confessing
it I tempted another to become my accomplice, the very confession
of my temptation would amount to a yielding to that temptation. Why
do you say that modesty makes women false? Are those who lose their
modesty more sincere than the rest? Not so, they are a thousandfold
more deceitful. This degree of depravity is due to many vices, none
of which is rejected, vices which owe their power to intrigue and
falsehood. [Footnote: I know that women who have openly decided on
a certain course of conduct profess that their lack of concealment
is a virtue in itself, and swear that, with one exception, they are
possessed of all the virtues; but I am sure they never persuaded
any but fools to believe them. When the natural curb is removed
from their sex, what is there left to restrain them? What honour
will they prize when they have rejected the honour of their sex?
Having once given the rein to passion they have no longer any reason
for self-control. "Nec femina, amissa pudicitia, alia abnuerit."
No author ever understood more thoroughly the heart of both sexes
than Tacitus when he wrote those words.]
On the other hand, those who are not utterly shameless, who take no
pride in their faults, who are able to conceal their desires even
from those who inspire them, those who confess their passion most
reluctantly, these are the truest and most sincere, these are they
on whose fidelity you may generally rely.
The only example I know which might be quoted as a recognised exception
to these remarks is Mlle. de L'Enclos; and she was considered a
prodigy. In her scorn for the virtues of women, she practised, so
they say, the virtues of a man. She is praised for her frankness
and uprightness; she was a trustworthy acquaintance and a faithful
friend. To complete the picture of her glory it is said that she
became a man. That may be, but in spite of her high reputation I
should no more desire that man as my friend than as my mistress.
This is not so irrelevant as it seems. I am aware of the tendencies
of our modern philosophy which make a jest of female modesty and
its so-called insincerity; I also perceive that the most certain
result of this philosophy will be to deprive the women of this
century of such shreds of honour as they still possess.
On these grounds I think we may decide in general terms what sort
of education is suited to the female mind, and the objects to which
we should turn its attention in early youth.
As I have already said, the duties of their sex are more easily
recognised than performed. They must learn in the first place
to love those duties by considering the advantages to be derived
from them--that is the only way to make duty easy. Every age and
condition has its own duties. We are quick to see our duty if we
love it. Honour your position as a woman, and in whatever station
of life to which it shall please heaven to call you, you will be
well off. The essential thing is to be what nature has made you;
women are only too ready to be what men would have them.
The search for abstract and speculative truths, for principles and
axioms in science, for all that tends to wide generalisation, is
beyond a woman's grasp; their studies should be thoroughly practical.
It is their business to apply the principles discovered by men, it
is their place to make the observations which lead men to discover
those principles. A woman's thoughts, beyond the range of her immediate
duties, should be directed to the study of men, or the acquirement
of that agreeable learning whose sole end is the formation of taste;
for the works of genius are beyond her reach, and she has neither
the accuracy nor the attention for success in the exact sciences; as
for the physical sciences, to decide the relations between living
creatures and the laws of nature is the task of that sex which
is more active and enterprising, which sees more things, that sex
which is possessed of greater strength and is more accustomed to
the exercise of that strength. Woman, weak as she is and limited
in her range of observation, perceives and judges the forces at
her disposal to supplement her weakness, and those forces are the
passions of man. Her own mechanism is more powerful than ours; she
has many levers which may set the human heart in motion. She must
find a way to make us desire what she cannot achieve unaided and
what she considers necessary or pleasing; therefore she must have
a thorough knowledge of man's mind; not an abstract knowledge of
the mind of man in general, but the mind of those men who are about
her, the mind of those men who have authority over her, either by
law or custom. She must learn to divine their feelings from speech
and action, look and gesture. By her own speech and action, look
and gesture, she must be able to inspire them with the feelings she
desires, without seeming to have any such purpose. The men will
have a better philosophy of the human heart, but she will read
more accurately in the heart of men. Woman should discover, so to
speak, an experimental morality, man should reduce it to a system.
Woman has more wit, man more genius; woman observes, man reasons;
together they provide the clearest light and the profoundest
knowledge which is possible to the unaided human mind; in a word,
the surest knowledge of self and of others of which the human race
is capable. In this way art may constantly tend to the perfection
of the instrument which nature has given us.
The world is woman's book; if she reads it ill, it is either her
own fault or she is blinded by passion. Yet the genuine mother of
a family is no woman of the world, she is almost as much of a recluse
as the nun in her convent. Those who have marriageable daughters
should do what is or ought to be done for those who are entering
the cloisters: they should show them the pleasures they forsake
before they are allowed to renounce them, lest the deceitful picture
of unknown pleasures should creep in to disturb the happiness of
their retreat. In France it is the girls who live in convents and
the wives who flaunt in society. Among the ancients it was quite
otherwise; girls enjoyed, as I have said already, many games and
public festivals; the married women lived in retirement. This was
a more reasonable custom and more conducive to morality. A girl
may be allowed a certain amount of coquetry, and she may be mainly
occupied at amusement. A wife has other responsibilities at home,
and she is no longer on the look-out for a husband; but women
would not appreciate the change, and unluckily it is they who set
the fashion. Mothers, let your daughters be your companions. Give
them good sense and an honest heart, and then conceal from them
nothing that a pure eye may behold. Balls, assemblies, sports, the
theatre itself; everything which viewed amiss delights imprudent
youth may be safely displayed to a healthy mind. The more they
know of these noisy pleasures, the sooner they will cease to desire
them.
I can fancy the outcry with which this will be received. What girl
will resist such an example? Their heads are turned by the first
glimpse of the world; not one of them is ready to give it up. That
may be; but before you showed them this deceitful prospect, did
you prepare them to behold it without emotion? Did you tell them
plainly what it was they would see? Did you show it in its true
light? Did you arm them against the illusions of vanity? Did you
inspire their young hearts with a taste for the true pleasures
which are not to be met with in this tumult? What precautions, what
steps, did you take to preserve them from the false taste which
leads them astray? Not only have you done nothing to preserve
their minds from the tyranny of prejudice, you have fostered that
prejudice; you have taught them to desire every foolish amusement
they can get. Your own example is their teacher. Young people on
their entrance into society have no guide but their mother, who
is often just as silly as they are themselves, and quite unable to
show them things except as she sees them herself. Her example is
stronger than reason; it justifies them in their own eyes, and the
mother's authority is an unanswerable excuse for the daughter. If
I ask a mother to bring her daughter into society, I assume that
she will show it in its true light.
The evil begins still earlier; the convents are regular schools
of coquetry; not that honest coquetry which I have described, but
a coquetry the source of every kind of misconduct, a coquetry which
turns out girls who are the most ridiculous little madams. When
they leave the convent to take their place in smart society, young
women find themselves quite at home. They have been educated for
such a life; is it strange that they like it? I am afraid what I
am going to say may be based on prejudice rather than observation,
but so far as I can see, one finds more family affection, more good
wives and loving mothers in Protestant than in Catholic countries;
if that is so, we cannot fail to suspect that the difference is
partly due to the convent schools.
The charms of a peaceful family life must be known to be enjoyed;
their delights should be tasted in childhood. It is only in our
father's home that we learn to love our own, and a woman whose
mother did not educate her herself will not be willing to educate
her own children. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as home
education in our large towns. Society is so general and so mixed there
is no place left for retirement, and even in the home we live in
public. We live in company till we have no family, and we scarcely
know our own relations, we see them as strangers; and the simplicity
of home life disappears together with the sweet familiarity which
was its charm. In this wise do we draw with our mother's milk a
taste for the pleasures of the age and the maxims by which it is
controlled.
Girls are compelled to assume an air of propriety so that men may
be deceived into marrying them by their appearance. But watch these
young people for a moment; under a pretence of coyness they barely
conceal the passion which devours them, and already you may read
in their eager eyes their desire to imitate their mothers. It is
not a husband they want, but the licence of a married woman. What
need of a husband when there are so many other resources; but
a husband there must be to act as a screen. [Footnote: The way of
a man in his youth was one of the four things that the sage could
not understand; the fifth was the shamelessness of an adulteress.
"Quae comedit, et tergens os suum dicit; non sum operata malum."
Prov. xxx. 20.] There is modesty on the brow, but vice in the
heart; this sham modesty is one of its outward signs; they affect
it that they may be rid of it once for all. Women of Paris and
London, forgive me! There may be miracles everywhere, but I am not
aware of them; and if there is even one among you who is really
pure in heart, I know nothing of our institutions.
All these different methods of education lead alike to a taste for
the pleasures of the great world, and to the passions which this
taste so soon kindles. In our great towns depravity begins at birth;
in the smaller towns it begins with reason. Young women brought up
in the country are soon taught to despise the happy simplicity of
their lives, and hasten to Paris to share the corruption of ours.
Vices, cloaked under the fair name of accomplishments, are the sole
object of their journey; ashamed to find themselves so much behind
the noble licence of the Parisian ladies, they hasten to become
worthy of the name of Parisian. Which is responsible for the
evil--the place where it begins, or the place where it is accomplished?
I would not have a sensible mother bring her girl to Paris to show
her these sights so harmful to others; but I assert that if she
did so, either the girl has been badly brought up, or such sights
have little danger for her. With good taste, good sense, and a love
of what is right, these things are less attractive than to those
who abandon themselves to their charm. In Paris you may see giddy
young things hastening to adopt the tone and fashions of the town
for some six months, so that they may spend the rest of their life
in disgrace; but who gives any heed to those who, disgusted with
the rout, return to their distant home and are contented with their
lot when they have compared it with that which others desire. How
many young wives have I seen whose good-natured husbands have taken
them to Paris where they might live if they pleased; but they have
shrunk from it and returned home more willingly than they went,
saying tenderly, "Ah, let us go back to our cottage, life is happier
there than in these palaces." We do not know how many there are who
have not bowed the knee to Baal, who scorn his senseless worship.
Fools make a stir; good women pass unnoticed.
If so many women preserve a judgment which is proof against temptation,
in spite of universal prejudice, in spite of the bad education of
girls, what would their judgment have been, had it been strengthened
by suitable instruction, or rather left unaffected by evil teaching,
for to preserve or restore the natural feelings is our main business?
You can do this without preaching endless sermons to your daughters,
without crediting them with your harsh morality. The only effect
of such teaching is to inspire a dislike for the teacher and the
lessons. In talking to a young girl you need not make her afraid
of her duties, nor need you increase the burden laid upon her by
nature. When you explain her duties speak plainly and pleasantly;
do not let her suppose that the performance of these duties is
a dismal thing--away with every affectation of disgust or pride.
Every thought which we desire to arouse should find its ｅxpression
in our pupils, their catechism of conduct should be as brief and
plain as their catechism of religion, but it need not be so serious.
Show them that these same duties are the source of their pleasures
and the basis of their rights. Is it so hard to win love by love,
happiness by an amiable disposition, obedience by worth, and honour
by self-respect? How fair are these woman's rights, how worthy of
reverence, how dear to the heart of man when a woman is able to
show their worth! These rights are no privilege of years; a woman's
empire begins with her virtues; her charms are only in the bud,
yet she reigns already by the gentleness of her character and
the dignity of her modesty. Is there any man so hard-hearted and
uncivilised that he does not abate his pride and take heed to his
manners with a sweet and virtuous girl of sixteen, who listens but
says little; her bearing is modest, her conversation honest, her
beauty does not lead her to forget her sex and her youth, her very
timidity arouses interest, while she wins for herself the respect
which she shows to others?
These external signs are not devoid of meaning; they do not rest
entirely upon the charms of sense; they arise from that conviction
that we all feel that women are the natural judges of a man's
worth. Who would be scorned by women? not even he who has ceased
to desire their love. And do you suppose that I, who tell them such
harsh truths, am indifferent to their verdict? Reader, I care more
for their approval than for yours; you are often more effeminate
than they. While I scorn their morals, I will revere their justice;
I care not though they hate me, if I can compel their esteem.
What great things might be accomplished by their influence if only
we could bring it to bear! Alas for the age whose women lose their
ascendancy, and fail to make men respect their judgment! This
is the last stage of degradation. Every virtuous nation has shown
respect to women. Consider Sparta, Germany, and Rome; Rome the
throne of glory and virtue, if ever they were enthroned on earth.
The Roman women awarded honour to the deeds of great generals, they
mourned in public for the fathers of the country, their awards and
their tears were alike held sacred as the most solemn utterance of
the Republic. Every great revolution began with the women. Through
a woman Rome gained her liberty, through a woman the plebeians
won the consulate, through a woman the tyranny of the decemvirs
was overthrown; it was the women who saved Rome when besieged by
Coriolanus. What would you have said at the sight of this procession,
you Frenchmen who pride yourselves on your gallantry, would you
not have followed it with shouts of laughter? You and I see things
with such different eyes, and perhaps we are both right. Such
a procession formed of the fairest beauties of France would be an
indecent spectacle; but let it consist of Roman ladies, you will
all gaze with the eyes of the Volscians and feel with the heart of
Coriolanus.
I will go further and maintain that virtue is no less favourable
to love than to other rights of nature, and that it adds as much
to the power of the beloved as to that of the wife or mother. There
is no real love without enthusiasm, and no enthusiasm without an
object of perfection real or supposed, but always present in the
imagination. What is there to kindle the hearts of lovers for
whom this perfection is nothing, for whom the loved one is merely
the means to sensual pleasure? Nay, not thus is the heart kindled,
not thus does it abandon itself to those sublime transports which
form the rapture of lovers and the charm of love. Love is an
illusion, I grant you, but its reality consists in the feelings it
awakes, in the love of true beauty which it inspires. That beauty
is not to be found in the object of our affections, it is the
creation of our illusions. What matter! do we not still sacrifice
all those baser feelings to the imaginary model? and we still feed
our hearts on the virtues we attribute to the beloved, we still
withdraw ourselves from the baseness of human nature. What lover is
there who would not give his life for his mistress? What gross and
sensual passion is there in a man who is willing to die? We scoff
at the knights of old; they knew the meaning of love; we know
nothing but debauchery. When the teachings of romance began to seem
ridiculous, it was not so much the work of reason as of immorality.
Natural relations remain the same throughout the centuries, their
good or evil effects are unchanged; prejudices, masquerading as
reason, can but change their outward seeming; self-mastery, even
at the behest of fantastic opinions, will not cease to be great
and good. And the true motives of honour will not fail to appeal to
the heart of every woman who is able to seek happiness in life in
her woman's duties. To a high-souled woman chastity above all must
be a delightful virtue. She sees all the kingdoms of the world before
her and she triumphs over herself and them; she sits enthroned in
her own soul and all men do her homage; a few passing struggles
are crowned with perpetual glory; she secures the affection, or it
may be the envy, she secures in any case the esteem of both sexes
and the universal respect of her own. The loss is fleeting, the gain
is permanent. What a joy for a noble heart--the pride of virtue
combined with beauty. Let her be a heroine of romance; she will
taste delights more exquisite than those of Lais and Cleopatra; and
when her beauty is fled, her glory and her joys remain; she alone
can enjoy the past.
The harder and more important the duties, the stronger and clearer
must be the reasons on which they are based. There is a sort of
pious talk about the most serious subjects which is dinned in vain
into the ears of young people. This talk, quite unsuited to their
ideas and the small importance they attach to it in secret, inclines
them to yield readily to their inclinations, for lack of any
reasons for resistance drawn from the facts themselves. No doubt
a girl brought up to goodness and piety has strong weapons against
temptation; but one whose heart, or rather her ears, are merely
filled with the jargon of piety, will certainly fall a prey to the
first skilful seducer who attacks her. A young and beautiful girl
will never despise her body, she will never really deplore sins which
her beauty leads men to commit, she will never lament earnestly in
the sight of God that she is an object of desire, she will never
be convinced that the tenderest feeling is an invention of the Evil
One. Give her other and more pertinent reasons for her own sake,
for these will have no effect. It will be worse to instil, as is
often done, ideas which contradict each other, and after having
humbled and degraded her person and her charms as the stain of sin,
to bid her reverence that same vile body as the temple of Jesus
Christ. Ideas too sublime and too humble are equally ineffective
and they cannot both be true. A reason adapted to her age and sex
is what is needed. Considerations of duty are of no effect unless
they are combined with some motive for the performance of our duty.
"Quae quia non liceat non facit, illa facit."
OVID, Amor. I. iii. eleg. iv.
One would not suspect Ovid of such a harsh judgment.
If you would inspire young people with a love of good conduct avoid
saying, "Be good;" make it their interest to be good; make them
feel the value of goodness and they will love it. It is not enough
to show this effect in the distant future, show it now, in the
relations of the present, in the character of their lovers. Describe
a good man, a man of worth, teach them to recognise him when they
see him, to love him for their own sake; convince them that such
a man alone can make them happy as friend, wife, or mistress. Let
reason lead the way to virtue; make them feel that the empire of
their sex and all the advantages derived from it depend not merely
on the right conduct, the morality, of women, but also on that of
men; that they have little hold over the vile and base, and that
the lover is incapable of serving his mistress unless he can do
homage to virtue. You may then be sure that when you describe the
manners of our age you will inspire them with a genuine disgust;
when you show them men of fashion they will despise them; you
will give them a distaste for their maxims, an aversion to their
sentiments, and a scorn for their empty gallantry; you will arouse a
nobler ambition, to reign over great and strong souls, the ambition
of the Spartan women to rule over men. A bold, shameless, intriguing
woman, who can only attract her lovers by coquetry and retain
them by her favours, wins a servile obedience in common things; in
weighty and important matters she has no influence over them. But
the woman who is both virtuous, wise, and charming, she who, in
a word, combines love and esteem, can send them at her bidding to
the end of the world, to war, to glory, and to death at her behest.
This is a fine kingdom and worth the winning.
This is the spirit in which Sophy has been educated, she has been
trained carefully rather than strictly, and her taste has been
followed rather than thwarted. Let us say just a word about her
person, according to the description I have given to Emile and the
picture he himself has formed of the wife in whom he hopes to find
happiness.
I cannot repeat too often that I am not dealing with prodigies.
Emile is no prodigy, neither is Sophy. He is a man and she is a
woman; this is all they have to boast of. In the present confusion
between the sexes it is almost a miracle to belong to one's own
sex. Sophy is well born and she has a good disposition; she is
very warm-hearted, and this warmth of heart sometimes makes her
imagination run away with her. Her mind is keen rather than accurate,
her temper is pleasant but variable, her person pleasing though
nothing out of the common, her countenance bespeaks a soul and it
speaks true; you may meet her with indifference, but you will not
leave her without emotion. Others possess good qualities which
she lacks; others possess her good qualities in a higher degree,
but in no one are these qualities better blended to form a happy
disposition. She knows how to make the best of her very faults,
and if she were more perfect she would be less pleasing.
Sophy is not beautiful; but in her presence men forget the fairer
women, and the latter are dissatisfied with themselves. At first
sight she is hardly pretty; but the more we see her the prettier
she is; she wins where so many lose, and what she wins she keeps.
Her eyes might be finer, her mouth more beautiful, her stature more
imposing; but no one could have a more graceful figure, a finer
complexion, a whiter hand, a daintier foot, a sweeter look, and
a more expressive countenance. She does not dazzle; she arouses
interest; she delights us, we know not why.
Sophy is fond of dress, and she knows how to dress; her mother has
no other maid; she has taste enough to dress herself well; but she
hates rich clothes; her own are always simple but elegant. She does
not like showy but becoming things. She does not know what colours
are fashionable, but she makes no mistake about those that suit
her. No girl seems more simply dressed, but no one could take
more pains over her toilet; no article is selected at random, and
yet there is no trace of artificiality. Her dress is very modest
in appearance and very coquettish in reality; she does not display
her charms, she conceals them, but in such a way as to enhance
them. When you see her you say, "That is a good modest girl," but
while you are with her, you cannot take your eyes or your thoughts
off her and one might say that this very simple adornment is only
put on to be removed bit by bit by the imagination.
Sophy has natural gifts; she is aware of them, and they have not
been neglected; but never having had a chance of much training she
is content to use her pretty voice to sing tastefully and truly;
her little feet step lightly, easily, and gracefully, she can always
make an easy graceful courtesy. She has had no singing master but
her father, no dancing mistress but her mother; a neighbouring
organist has given her a few lessons in playing accompaniments
on the spinet, and she has improved herself by practice. At first
she only wished to show off her hand on the dark keys; then she
discovered that the thin clear tone of the spinet made her voice
sound sweeter; little by little she recognised the charms of
harmony; as she grew older she at last began to enjoy the charms
of ｅxpression, to love music for its own sake. But she has taste
rather than talent; she cannot read a simple air from notes.
Needlework is what Sophy likes best; and the feminine arts have
been taught her most carefully, even those you would not expect,
such as cutting out and dressmaking. There is nothing she cannot
do with her needle, and nothing that she does not take a delight in
doing; but lace-making is her favourite occupation, because there
is nothing which requires such a pleasing attitude, nothing which
calls for such grace and dexterity of finger. She has also studied
all the details of housekeeping; she understands cooking and
cleaning; she knows the prices of food, and also how to choose it;
she can keep accounts accurately, she is her mother's housekeeper.
Some day she will be the mother of a family; by managing her father's
house she is preparing to manage her own; she can take the place
of any of the servants and she is always ready to do so. You cannot
give orders unless you can do the work yourself; that is why her
mother sets her to do it. Sophy does not think of that; her first
duty is to be a good daughter, and that is all she thinks about for
the present. Her one idea is to help her mother and relieve her of
some of her anxieties. However, she does not like them all equally
well. For instance, she likes dainty food, but she does not like
cooking; the details of cookery offend her, and things are never
clean enough for her. She is extremely sensitive in this respect
and carries her sensitiveness to a fault; she would let the whole
dinner boil over into the fire rather than soil her cuffs. She has
always disliked inspecting the kitchen-garden for the same reason.
The soil is dirty, and as soon as she sees the manure heap she
fancies there is a disagreeable smell.
This defect is the result of her mother's teaching. According to
her, cleanliness is one of the most necessary of a woman's duties,
a special duty, of the highest importance and a duty imposed by
nature. Nothing could be more revolting than a dirty woman, and a
husband who tires of her is not to blame. She insisted so strongly
on this duty when Sophy was little, she required such absolute
cleanliness in her person, clothing, room, work, and toilet, that
use has become habit, till it absorbs one half of her time and
controls the other; so that she thinks less of how to do a thing
than of how to do it without getting dirty.
Yet this has not degenerated into mere affectation and softness;
there is none of the over refinement of luxury. Nothing but clean
water enters her room; she knows no perfumes but the scent of
flowers, and her husband will never find anything sweeter than her
breath. In conclusion, the attention she pays to the outside does
not blind her to the fact that time and strength are meant for greater
tasks; either she does not know or she despises that exaggerated
cleanliness of body which degrades the soul. Sophy is more than
clean, she is pure.
I said that Sophy was fond of good things. She was so by nature; but
she became temperate by habit and now she is temperate by virtue.
Little girls are not to be controlled, as little boys are, to
some extent, through their greediness. This tendency may have ill
effects on women and it is too dangerous to be left unchecked.
When Sophy was little, she did not always return empty handed if
she was sent to her mother's cupboard, and she was not quite to be
trusted with sweets and sugar-almonds. Her mother caught her, took
them from her, punished her, and made her go without her dinner.
At last she managed to persuade her that sweets were bad for the
teeth, and that over-eating spoiled the figure. Thus Sophy overcame
her faults; and when she grew older other tastes distracted her from
this low kind of self-indulgence. With awakening feeling greediness
ceases to be the ruling passion, both with men and women. Sophy
has preserved her feminine tastes; she likes milk and sweets; she
likes pastry and made-dishes, but not much meat. She has never
tasted wine or spirits; moreover, she eats sparingly; women, who do
not work so hard as men, have less waste to repair. In all things
she likes what is good, and knows how to appreciate it; but she
can also put up with what is not so good, or can go without it.
Sophy's mind is pleasing but not brilliant, and thorough but not
deep; it is the sort of mind which calls for no remark, as she
never seems cleverer or stupider than oneself. When people talk to
her they always find what she says attractive, though it may not be
highly ornamental according to modern ideas of an educated woman;
her mind has been formed not only by reading, but by conversation
with her father and mother, by her own reflections, and by her
own observations in the little world in which she has lived. Sophy
is naturally merry; as a child she was even giddy; but her mother
cured her of her silly ways, little by little, lest too sudden a
change should make her self-conscious. Thus she became modest and
retiring while still a child, and now that she is a child no longer,
she finds it easier to continue this conduct than it would have
been to acquire it without knowing why. It is amusing to see her
occasionally return to her old ways and indulge in childish mirth
and then suddenly check herself, with silent lips, downcast eyes,
and rosy blushes; neither child nor woman, she may well partake of
both.
Sophy is too sensitive to be always good humoured, but too gentle
to let this be really disagreeable to other people; it is only
herself who suffers. If you say anything that hurts her she does
not sulk, but her heart swells; she tries to run away and cry. In
the midst of her tears, at a word from her father or mother she
returns at once laughing and playing, secretly wiping her eyes and
trying to stifle her sobs.
Yet she has her whims; if her temper is too much indulged
it degenerates into rebellion, and then she forgets herself. But
give her time to come round and her way of making you forget her
wrong-doing is almost a virtue. If you punish her she is gentle
and submissive, and you see that she is more ashamed of the fault
than the punishment. If you say nothing, she never fails to make
amends, and she does it so frankly and so readily that you cannot
be angry with her. She would kiss the ground before the lowest servant
and would make no fuss about it; and as soon as she is forgiven,
you can see by her delight and her caresses that a load is taken
off her heart. In a word, she endures patiently the wrong-doing of
others, and she is eager to atone for her own. This amiability is
natural to her sex when unspoiled. Woman is made to submit to man
and to endure even injustice at his hands. You will never bring
young lads to this; their feelings rise in revolt against injustice;
nature has not fitted them to put up with it.
"Gravem Pelidae stomachum cedere nescii."
HORACE, lib. i. ode vi.
Sophy's religion is reasonable and simple, with few doctrines and
fewer observances; or rather as she knows no course of conduct but
the right her whole life is devoted to the service of God and to
doing good. In all her parents' teaching of religion she has been
trained to a reverent submission; they have often said, "My little
girl, this is too hard for you; your husband will teach you when
you are grown up." Instead of long sermons about piety, they have
been content to preach by their example, and this example is engraved
on her heart.
Sophy loves virtue; this love has come to be her ruling passion;
she loves virtue because there is nothing fairer in itself, she
loves it because it is a woman's glory and because a virtuous woman
is little lower than the angels; she loves virtue as the only road
to real happiness, because she sees nothing but poverty, neglect,
unhappiness, shame, and disgrace in the life of a bad woman; she
loves virtue because it is dear to her revered father and to her
tender and worthy mother; they are not content to be happy in their
own virtue, they desire hers; and she finds her chief happiness
in the hope of making them happy. All these feelings inspire an
enthusiasm which stirs her heart and keeps all its budding passions
in subjection to this noble enthusiasm. Sophy will be chaste and
good till her dying day; she has vowed it in her secret heart, and
not before she knew how hard it would be to keep her vow; she made
this vow at a time when she would have revoked it had she been the
slave of her senses.
Sophy is not so fortunate as to be a charming French woman,
cold-hearted and vain, who would rather attract attention than
give pleasure, who seeks amusement rather than delight. She suffers
from a consuming desire for love; it even disturbs and troubles
her heart in the midst of festivities; she has lost her former
liveliness, and her taste for merry games; far from being afraid of
the tedium of solitude she desires it. Her thoughts go out to him
who will make solitude sweet to her. She finds strangers tedious,
she wants a lover, not a circle of admirers. She would rather give
pleasure to one good man than be a general favourite, or win that
applause of society which lasts but a day and to-morrow is turned
to scorn.
A woman's judgment develops sooner than a man's; being on the
defensive from her childhood up, and intrusted with a treasure so
hard to keep, she is earlier acquainted with good and evil. Sophy
is precocious by temperament in everything, and her judgment is
more formed than that of most girls of her age. There is nothing
strange in that, maturity is not always reached at the same age.
Sophy has been taught the duties and rights of her own sex and
of ours. She knows men's faults and women's vices; she also knows
their corresponding good qualities and virtues, and has them
by heart. No one can have a higher ideal of a virtuous woman, but
she would rather think of a virtuous man, a man of true worth; she
knows that she is made for such a man, that she is worthy of him,
that she can make him as happy as he will make her; she is sure
she will know him when she sees him; the difficulty is to find him.
Women are by nature judges of a man's worth, as he is of theirs;
this right is reciprocal, and it is recognised as such both by men
and women. Sophy recognises this right and exercises it, but with
the modesty becoming her youth, her inexperience, and her position;
she confines her judgment to what she knows, and she only forms an
opinion when it may help to illustrate some useful precept. She
is extremely careful what she says about those who are absent,
particularly if they are women. She thinks that talking about each
other makes women spiteful and satirical; so long as they only talk
about men they are merely just. So Sophy stops there. As to women
she never says anything at all about them, except to tell the good
she knows; she thinks this is only fair to her sex; and if she
knows no good of any woman, she says nothing, and that is enough.
Sophy has little knowledge of society, but she is observant and
obliging, and all that she does is full of grace. A happy disposition
does more for her than much art. She has a certain courtesy of her
own, which is not dependent on fashion, and does not change with
its changes; it is not a matter of custom, but it arises from a
feminine desire to please. She is unacquainted with the language
of empty compliment, nor does she invent more elaborate compliments
of her own; she does not say that she is greatly obliged, that you
do her too much honour, that you should not take so much trouble,
etc. Still less does she try to make phrases of her own. She responds
to an attention or a customary piece of politeness by a courtesy or
a mere "Thank you;" but this phrase in her mouth is quite enough.
If you do her a real service, she lets her heart speak, and its
words are no empty compliment. She has never allowed French manners
to make her a slave to appearances; when she goes from one room
to another she does not take the arm of an old gentleman, whom she
would much rather help. When a scented fop offers her this empty
attention, she leaves him on the staircase and rushes into the
room saying that she is not lame. Indeed, she will never wear high
heels though she is not tall; her feet are small enough to dispense
with them.
Not only does she adopt a silent and respectful attitude towards
women, but also towards married men, or those who are much older
than herself; she will never take her place above them, unless
compelled to do so; and she will return to her own lower place as
soon as she can; for she knows that the rights of age take precedence
of those of sex, as age is presumably wiser than youth, and wisdom
should be held in the greatest honour.
With young folks of her own age it is another matter; she requires a
different manner to gain their respect, and she knows how to adopt
it without dropping the modest ways which become her. If they
themselves are shy and modest, she will gladly preserve the friendly
familiarity of youth; their innocent conversation will be merry but
suitable; if they become serious they must say something useful;
if they become silly, she soon puts a stop to it, for she has an
utter contempt for the jargon of gallantry, which she considers an
insult to her sex. She feels sure that the man she seeks does not
speak that jargon, and she will never permit in another what would
be displeasing to her in him whose character is engraved on her
heart. Her high opinion of the rights of women, her pride in the
purity of her feelings, that active virtue which is the basis of
her self-respect, make her indignant at the sentimental speeches
intended for her amusement. She does not receive them with open
anger, but with a disconcerting irony or an unexpected iciness.
If a fair Apollo displays his charms, and makes use of his wit in
the praise of her wit, her beauty, and her grace; at the risk of
offending him she is quite capable of saying politely, "Sir, I am
afraid I know that better than you; if we have nothing more interesting
to talk about, I think we may put an end to this conversation." To
say this with a deep courtesy, and then to withdraw to a considerable
distance, is the work of a moment. Ask your lady-killers if it is
easy to continue to babble to such, an unsympathetic ear.
It is not that she is not fond of praise if it is really sincere,
and if she thinks you believe what you say. You must show that you
appreciate her merit if you would have her believe you. Her proud
spirit may take pleasure in homage which is based upon esteem,
but empty compliments are always rejected; Sophy was not meant to
practise the small arts of the dancing-girl.
With a judgment so mature, and a mind like that of a woman of
twenty, Sophy, at fifteen, is no longer treated as a child by her
parents. No sooner do they perceive the first signs of youthful
disquiet than they hasten to anticipate its development, their
conversations with her are wise and tender. These wise and tender
conversations are in keeping with her age and disposition. If her
disposition is what I fancy why should not her father speak to her
somewhat after this fashion?
"You are a big girl now, Sophy, you will soon be a woman. We
want you to be happy, for our own sakes as well as yours, for our
happiness depends on yours. A good girl finds her own happiness
in the happiness of a good man, so we must consider your marriage;
we must think of it in good time, for marriage makes or mars our
whole life, and we cannot have too much time to consider it.
"There is nothing so hard to choose as a good husband, unless it
is a good wife. You will be that rare creature, Sophy, you will
be the crown of our life and the blessing of our declining years;
but however worthy you are, there are worthier people upon earth.
There is no one who would not do himself honour by marriage with
you; there are many who would do you even greater honour than
themselves. Among these we must try to find one who suits you, we
must get to know him and introduce you to him.
"The greatest possible happiness in marriage depends on so many
points of agreement that it is folly to expect to secure them all.
We must first consider the more important matters; if others are
to be found along with them, so much the better; if not we must do
without them. Perfect happiness is not to be found in this world,
but we can, at least, avoid the worst form of unhappiness, that
for which ourselves are to blame.
"There is a natural suitability, there is a suitability of established
usage, and a suitability which is merely conventional. Parents
should decide as to the two latters, and the children themselves
should decide as to the former. Marriages arranged by parents only
depend on a suitability of custom and convention; it is not two
people who are united, but two positions and two properties; but
these things may change, the people remain, they are always there;
and in spite of fortune it is the personal relation that makes a
happy or an unhappy marriage.
"Your mother had rank, I had wealth; this was all that our parents
considered in arranging our marriage. I lost my money, she lost
her position; forgotten by her family, what good did it do her to
be a lady born? In the midst of our misfortunes, the union of our
hearts has outweighed them all; the similarity of our tastes led
us to choose this retreat; we live happily in our poverty, we are
all in all to each other. Sophy is a treasure we hold in common,
and we thank Heaven which has bestowed this treasure and deprived
us of all others. You see, my child, whither we have been led
by Providence; the conventional motives which brought about our
marriage no longer exist, our happiness consists in that natural
suitability which was held of no account.
"Husband and wife should choose each other. A mutual liking should
be the first bond between them. They should follow the guidance of
their own eyes and hearts; when they are married their first duty
will be to love one another, and as love and hatred do not depend
on ourselves, this duty brings another with it, and they must begin
to love each other before marriage. That is the law of nature, and
no power can abrogate it; those who have fettered it by so many
legal restrictions have given heed rather to the outward show of
order than to the happiness of marriage or the morals of the citizen.
You see, my dear Sophy, we do not preach a harsh morality. It tends
to make you your own mistress and to make us leave the choice of
your husband to yourself.
"When we have told you our reasons for giving you full liberty, it
is only fair to speak of your reasons for making a wise use of that
liberty. My child, you are good and sensible, upright and pious, you
have the accomplishments of a good woman and you are not altogether
without charms; but you are poor; you have the gifts most worthy
of esteem, but not those which are most esteemed. Do not seek what
is beyond your reach, and let your ambition be controlled, not by
your ideas or ours, but by the opinion of others. If it were merely
a question of equal merits, I know not what limits to impose on
your hopes; but do not let your ambitions outrun your fortune, and
remember it is very small. Although a man worthy of you would not
consider this inequality an obstacle, you must do what he would not
do; Sophy must follow her mother's example and only enter a family
which counts it an honour to receive her. You never saw our wealth,
you were born in our poverty; you make it sweet for us, and you
share it without hardship. Believe me, Sophy, do not seek those
good things we indeed thank heaven for having taken from us; we
did not know what happiness was till we lost our money.
"You are so amiable that you will win affection, and you are not
go poor as to be a burden. You will be sought in marriage, it may
be by those who are unworthy of you. If they showed themselves in
their true colours, you would rate them at their real value; all
their outward show would not long deceive you; but though your
judgment is good and you know what merit is when you see it, you
are inexperienced and you do not know how people can conceal their
real selves. A skilful knave might study your tastes in order to
seduce you, and make a pretence of those virtues which he does not
possess. You would be ruined, Sophy, before you knew what you were
doing, and you would only perceive your error when you had cause to
lament it. The most dangerous snare, the only snare which reason
cannot avoid, is that of the senses; if ever you have the misfortune
to fall into its toils, you will perceive nothing but fancies and
illusions; your eyes will be fascinated, your judgment troubled,
your will corrupted, your very error will be dear to you, and even
if you were able to perceive it you would not be willing to escape
from it. My child, I trust you to Sophy's own reason; I do not
trust you to the fancies of your own heart. Judge for yourself so
long as your heart is untouched, but when you love betake yourself
to your mother's care.
"I propose a treaty between us which shows our esteem for you, and
restores the order of nature between us. Parents choose a husband
for their daughter and she is only consulted as a matter of form;
that is the custom. We shall do just the opposite; you will choose,
and we shall be consulted. Use your right, Sophy, use it freely
and wisely. The husband suitable for you should be chosen by you
not us. But it is for us to judge whether he is really suitable,
or whether, without knowing it, you are only following your own
wishes. Birth, wealth, position, conventional opinions will count
for nothing with us. Choose a good man whose person and character
suit you; whatever he may be in other respects, we will accept
him as our son-in-law. He will be rich enough if he has bodily
strength, a good character, and family affection. His position will
be good enough if it is ennobled by virtue. If everybody blames
us, we do not care. We do not seek the approbation of men, but your
happiness."
I cannot tell my readers what effect such words would have upon
girls brought up in their fashion. As for Sophy, she will have no
words to reply; shame and emotion will not permit her to express
herself easily; but I am sure that what was said will remain engraved
upon her heart as long as she lives, and that if any human resolution
may be trusted, we may rely on her determination to deserve her
parent's esteem.
At worst let us suppose her endowed with an ardent disposition
which will make her impatient of long delays; I maintain that her
judgment, her knowledge, her taste, her refinement, and, above all,
the sentiments in which she has been brought up from childhood, will
outweigh the impetuosity of the senses, and enable her to offer a
prolonged resistance, if not to overcome them altogether. She would
rather die a virgin martyr than distress her parents by marrying
a worthless man and exposing herself to the unhappiness of an
ill-assorted marriage. Ardent as an Italian and sentimental as an
Englishwoman, she has a curb upon heart and sense in the pride of
a Spaniard, who even when she seeks a lover does not easily discover
one worthy of her.
Not every one can realise the motive power to be found in a love of
what is right, nor the inner strength which results from a genuine
love of virtue. There are men who think that all greatness is a
figment of the brain, men who with their vile and degraded reason
will never recognise the power over human passions which is wielded
by the very madness of virtue. You can only teach such men by
examples; if they persist in denying their existence, so much the
worse for them. If I told them that Sophy is no imaginary person,
that her name alone is my invention, that her education, her conduct,
her character, her very features, really existed, and that her loss
is still mourned by a very worthy family, they would, no doubt,
refuse to believe me; but indeed why should I not venture to relate
word for word the story of a girl so like Sophy that this story
might be hers without surprising any one. Believe it or no, it is
all the same to me; call my history fiction if you will; in any
case I have explained my method and furthered my purpose.
This young girl with the temperament which I have attributed to
Sophy was so like her in other respects that she was worthy of the
name, and so we will continue to use it. After the conversation
related above, her father and mother thought that suitable husbands
would not be likely to offer themselves in the hamlet where they
lived; so they decided to send her to spend the winter in town,
under the care of an aunt who was privately acquainted with the
object of the journey; for Sophy's heart throbbed with noble pride
at the thought of her self-control; and however much she might
want to marry, she would rather have died a maid than have brought
herself to go in search of a husband.
In response to her parents' wishes her aunt introduced her to her
friends, took her into company, both private and public, showed
her society, or rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid little
heed to its bustle. Yet it was plain that she did not shrink from
young men of pleasing appearance and modest seemly behaviour.
Her very shyness had a charm of its own, which was very much like
coquetry; but after talking to them once or twice she repulsed them.
She soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to accept men's
homage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling politeness.
Always watchful over her conduct, she gave them no chance of doing
her the least service; it was perfectly plain that she was determined
not to accept any one of them.
Never did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, the
empty and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those who
think that a merry life is a happy life. Sophy did not find what
she sought, and she felt sure she never would, so she got tired
of the town. She loved her parents dearly and nothing made up for
their absence, nothing could make her forget them; she went home
long before the time fixed for the end of her visit.
Scarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived that
her temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she was
forgetful, impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret. At first
they thought she was in love and was ashamed to own it; they spoke
to her, but she repudiated the idea. She protested she had seen no
one who could touch her heart, and Sophy always spoke the truth.
Yet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to give
way. Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know the
reason for this change. She took her aside, and with the winning
speech and the irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ,
she said, "My child, whom I have borne beneath my heart, whom I bear
ever in my affection, confide your secret to your mother's bosom.
What secrets are these which a mother may not know? Who pities
your sufferings, who shares them, who would gladly relieve them,
if not your father and myself? Ah, my child! would you have me die
of grief for your sorrow without letting me share it?"
Far from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl asked
nothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but she
could not speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to describe
a condition so unworthy of her, as the emotion which disturbed her
senses in spite of all her efforts. At length her very shame gave
her mother a clue to her difficulty, and she drew from her the
humiliating confession. Far from distressing her with reproaches
or unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her, wept over her; she
was too wise to make a crime of an evil which virtue alone made so
cruel. But why put up with such an evil when there was no necessity
to do so, when the remedy was so easy and so legitimate? Why did
she not use the freedom they had granted her? Why did she not take
a husband? Why did she not make her choice? Did she not know that
she was perfectly independent in this matter, that whatever her
choice, it would be approved, for it was sure to be good? They had
sent her to town, but she would not stay; many suitors had offered
themselves, but she would have none of them. What did she expect?
What did she want? What an inexplicable contradiction?
The reply was simple. If it were only a question of the partner of
her youth, her choice would soon be made; but a master for life is
not so easily chosen; and since the two cannot be separated, people
must often wait and sacrifice their youth before they find the man
with whom they could spend their life. Such was Sophy's case; she
wanted a lover, but this lover must be her husband; and to discover
a heart such as she required, a lover and husband were equally
difficult to find. All these dashing young men were only her equals
in age, in everything else they were found lacking; their empty
wit, their vanity, their affectations of speech, their ill-regulated
conduct, their frivolous imitations alike disgusted her. She sought
a man and she found monkeys; she sought a soul and there was none
to be found.
"How unhappy I am!" said she to her mother; "I am compelled to love
and yet I am dissatisfied with every one. My heart rejects every
one who appeals to my senses. Every one of them stirs my passions
and all alike revolt them; a liking unaccompanied by respect cannot
last. That is not the sort of man for your Sophy; the delightful
image of her ideal is too deeply graven in her heart. She can love
no other; she can make no one happy but him, and she cannot be
happy without him. She would rather consume herself in ceaseless
conflicts, she would rather die free and wretched, than driven
desperate by the company of a man she did not love, a man she
would make as unhappy as herself; she would rather die than live
to suffer."
Amazed at these strange ideas, her mother found them so peculiar
that she could not fail to suspect some mystery. Sophy was neither
affected nor absurd. How could such exaggerated delicacy exist in
one who had been so carefully taught from her childhood to adapt
herself to those with whom she must live, and to make a virtue
of necessity? This ideal of the delightful man with which she was
so enchanted, who appeared so often in her conversation, made her
mother suspect that there was some foundation for her caprices
which was still unknown to her, and that Sophy had not told her
all. The unhappy girl, overwhelmed with her secret grief, was only
too eager to confide it to another. Her mother urged her to speak;
she hesitated, she yielded, and leaving the room without a word,
she presently returned with a book in her hand. "Have pity on your
unhappy daughter, there is no remedy for her grief, her tears cannot
be dried. You would know the cause: well, here it is," said she,
flinging the book on the table. Her mother took the book and opened
it; it was The Adventures of Telemachus. At first she could make
nothing of this riddle; by dint of questions and vague replies, she
discovered to her great surprise that her daughter was the rival
of Eucharis.
Sophy was in love with Telemachus, and loved him with a passion
which nothing could cure. When her father and mother became aware
of her infatuation, they laughed at it and tried to cure her by
reasoning with her. They were mistaken, reason was not altogether
on their side; Sophy had her own reason and knew how to use it.
Many a time did she reduce them to silence by turning their own
arguments against them, by showing them that it was all their own
fault for not having trained her to suit the men of that century;
that she would be compelled to adopt her husband's way of thinking
or he must adopt hers, that they had made the former course impossible
by the way she had been brought up, and that the latter was just
what she wanted. "Give me," said she, "a man who holds the same
opinions as I do, or one who will be willing to learn them from me,
and I will marry him; but until then, why do you scold me? Pity me;
I am miserable, but not mad. Is the heart controlled by the will?
Did my father not ask that very question? Is it my fault if I love
what has no existence? I am no visionary; I desire no prince, I
seek no Telemachus, I know he is only an imaginary person; I seek
some one like him. And why should there be no such person, since
there is such a person as I, I who feel that my heart is like his?
No, let us not wrong humanity so greatly, let us not think that
an amiable and virtuous man is a figment of the imagination. He
exists, he lives, perhaps he is seeking me; he is seeking a soul
which is capable of love for him. But who is he, where is he? I
know not; he is not among those I have seen; and no doubt I shall
never see him. Oh! mother, why did you make virtue too attractive?
If I can love nothing less, you are more to blame than I."
Must I continue this sad story to its close? Must I describe the
long struggles which preceded it? Must I show an impatient mother
exchanging her former caresses for severity? Must I paint an angry
father forgetting his former promises, and treating the most virtuous
of daughters as a mad woman? Must I portray the unhappy girl, more
than ever devoted to her imaginary hero, because of the persecution
brought upon her by that devotion, drawing nearer step by step
to her death, and descending into the grave when they were about
to force her to the altar? No; I will not dwell upon these gloomy
scenes; I have no need to go so far to show, by what I consider
a sufficiently striking example, that in spite of the prejudices
arising from the manners of our age, the enthusiasm for the good
and the beautiful is no more foreign to women than to men, and that
there is nothing which, under nature's guidance, cannot be obtained
from them as well as from us.
You stop me here to inquire whether it is nature which teaches us
to take such pains to repress our immoderate desires. No, I reply,
but neither is it nature who gives us these immoderate desires.
Now, all that is not from nature is contrary to nature, as I have
proved again and again.
Let us give Emile his Sophy; let us restore this sweet girl to life
and provide her with a less vivid imagination and a happier fate.
I desired to paint an ordinary woman, but by endowing her with a
great soul, I have disturbed her reason. I have gone astray. Let us
retrace our steps. Sophy has only a good disposition and an ordinary
heart; her education is responsible for everything in which she
excels other women.
In this book I intended to describe all that might be done and to
leave every one free to choose what he could out of all the good
things I described. I meant to train a helpmeet for Emile, from the
very first, and to educate them for each other and with each other.
But on consideration I thought all these premature arrangements
undesirable, for it was absurd to plan the marriage of two children
before I could tell whether this union was in accordance with
nature and whether they were really suited to each other. We must
not confuse what is suitable in a state of savagery with what is
suitable in civilised life. In the former, any woman will suit any
man, for both are still in their primitive and undifferentiated
condition; in the latter, all their characteristics have been
developed by social institutions, and each mind, having taken its
own settled form, not from education alone, but by the co-operation,
more or less well-regulated, of natural disposition and education,
we can only make a match by introducing them to each other to see
if they suit each other in every respect, or at least we can let them
make that choice which gives the most promise of mutual suitability.
The difficulty is this: while social life develops character
it differentiates classes, and these two classifications do not
correspond, so that the greater the social distinctions, the greater
the difficulty of finding the corresponding character. Hence we
have ill-assorted marriages and all their accompanying evils; and
we find that it follows logically that the further we get from
equality, the greater the change in our natural feelings; the wider
the distance between great and small, the looser the marriage tie;
the deeper the gulf between rich and poor the fewer husbands and
fathers. Neither master nor slave belongs to a family, but only to
a class.
If you would guard against these abuses, and secure happy marriages,
you must stifle your prejudices, forget human institutions, and
consult nature. Do not join together those who are only alike in
one given condition, those who will not suit one another if that
condition is changed; but those who are adapted to one another in
every situation, in every country, and in every rank in which they
may be placed. I do not say that conventional considerations are
of no importance in marriage, but I do say that the influence of
natural relations is so much more important, that our fate in life
is decided by them alone, and that there is such an agreement of
taste, temper, feeling, and disposition as should induce a wise
father, though he were a prince, to marry his son, without a moment's
hesitation, to the woman so adapted to him, were she born in a bad
home, were she even the hangman's daughter. I maintain indeed that
every possible misfortune may overtake husband and wife if they are
thus united, yet they will enjoy more real happiness while they
mingle their tears, than if they possessed all the riches of the
world, poisoned by divided hearts.
Instead of providing a wife for Emile in childhood, I have waited
till I knew what would suit him. It is not for me to decide, but
for nature; my task is to discover the choice she has made. My
business, mine I repeat, not his father's; for when he entrusted his
son to my care, he gave up his place to me. He gave me his rights;
it is I who am really Emile's father; it is I who have made a man
of him. I would have refused to educate him if I were not free to
marry him according to his own choice, which is mine. Nothing but
the pleasure of bestowing happiness on a man can repay me for the
cost of making him capable of happiness.
Do not suppose, however, that I have delayed to find a wife for
Emile till I sent him in search of her. This search is only a pretext
for acquainting him with women, so that he may perceive the value
of a suitable wife. Sophy was discovered long since; Emile may even
have seen her already, but he will not recognise her till the time
is come.
Although equality of rank is not essential in marriage, yet this
equality along with other kinds of suitability increases their
value; it is not to be weighed against any one of them, but, other
things being equal, it turns the scale.
A man, unless he is a king, cannot seek a wife in any and every
class; if he himself is free from prejudices, he will find them in
others; and this girl or that might perhaps suit him and yet she
would be beyond his reach. A wise father will therefore restrict
his inquiries within the bounds of prudence. He should not wish to
marry his pupil into a family above his own, for that is not within
his power. If he could do so he ought not desire it; for what
difference does rank make to a young man, at least to my pupil?
Yet, if he rises he is exposed to all sorts of real evils which
he will feel all his life long. I even say that he should not try
to adjust the balance between different gifts, such as rank and
money; for each of these adds less to the value of the other than
the amount deducted from its own value in the process of adjustment;
moreover, we can never agree as to a common denominator; and
finally the preference, which each feels for his own surroundings,
paves the way for discord between the two families and often to
difficulties between husband and wife.
It makes a considerable difference as to the suitability of
a marriage whether a man marries above or beneath him. The former
case is quite contrary to reason, the latter is more in conformity
with reason. As the family is only connected with society through
its head, it is the rank of that head which decides that of the
family as a whole. When he marries into a lower rank, a man does
not lower himself, he raises his wife; if, on the other hand, he
marries above his position, he lowers his wife and does not raise
himself. Thus there is in the first case good unmixed with evil,
in the other evil unmixed with good. Moreover, the law of nature
bids the woman obey the man. If he takes a wife from a lower class,
natural and civil law are in accordance and all goes well. When he
marries a woman of higher rank it is just the opposite case; the
man must choose between diminished rights or imperfect gratitude;
he must be ungrateful or despised. Then the wife, laying claim to
authority, makes herself a tyrant over her lawful head; and the
master, who has become a slave, is the most ridiculous and miserable
of creatures. Such are the unhappy favourites whom the sovereigns
of Asia honour and torment with their alliance; people tell us that
if they desire to sleep with their wife they must enter by the foot
of the bed.
I expect that many of my readers will remember that I think women
have a natural gift for managing men, and will accuse me of contradicting
myself; yet they are mistaken. There is a vast difference between
claiming the right to command, and managing him who commands. Woman's
reign is a reign of gentleness, tact, and kindness; her commands
are caresses, her threats are tears. She should reign in the home
as a minister reigns in the state, by contriving to be ordered to
do what she wants. In this sense, I grant you, that the best managed
homes are those where the wife has most power. But when she despises
the voice of her head, when she desires to usurp his rights and
take the command upon herself, this inversion of the proper order
of things leads only to misery, scandal, and dishonour.
There remains the choice between our equals and our inferiors; and
I think we ought also to make certain restrictions with regard to
the latter; for it is hard to find in the lowest stratum of society
a woman who is able to make a good man happy; not that the lower
classes are more vicious than the higher, but because they have so
little idea of what is good and beautiful, and because the injustice
of other classes makes its very vices seem right in the eyes of
this class.
By nature man thinks but seldom. He learns to think as he acquires
the other arts, but with even greater difficulty. In both sexes
alike I am only aware of two really distinct classes, those who
think and those who do not; and this difference is almost entirely
one of education. A man who thinks should not ally himself with a
woman who does not think, for he loses the chief delight of social
life if he has a wife who cannot share his thoughts. People who
spend their whole life in working for a living have no ideas beyond
their work and their own interests, and their mind seems to reside
in their arms. This ignorance is not necessarily unfavourable either
to their honesty or their morals; it is often favourable; we often
content ourselves with thinking about our duties, and in the end
we substitute words for things. Conscience is the most enlightened
philosopher; to be an honest man we need not read Cicero's De
Officiis, and the most virtuous woman in the world is probably she
who knows least about virtue. But it is none the less true that
a cultivated mind alone makes intercourse pleasant, and it is a
sad thing for a father of a family, who delights in his home, to
be forced to shut himself up in himself and to be unable to make
himself understood.
Moreover, if a woman is quite unaccustomed to think, how can she
bring up her children? How will she know what is good for them? How
can she incline them to virtues of which she is ignorant, to merit
of which she has no conception? She can only flatter or threaten,
she can only make them insolent or timid; she will make them
performing monkeys or noisy little rascals; she will never make
them intelligent or pleasing children.
Therefore it is not fitting that a man of education should choose
a wife who has none, or take her from a class where she cannot be
expected to have any education. But I would a thousand times rather
have a homely girl, simply brought up, than a learned lady and a
wit who would make a literary circle of my house and install herself
as its president. A female wit is a scourge to her husband, her
children, her friends, her servants, to everybody. From the lofty
height of her genius she scorns every womanly duty, and she is
always trying to make a man of herself after the fashion of Mlle.
de L'Enclos. Outside her home she always makes herself ridiculous
and she is very rightly a butt for criticism, as we always are when
we try to escape from our own position into one for which we are
unfitted. These highly talented women only get a hold over fools.
We can always tell what artist or friend holds the pen or pencil
when they are at work; we know what discreet man of letters dictates
their oracles in private. This trickery is unworthy of a decent
woman. If she really had talents, her pretentiousness would degrade
them. Her honour is to be unknown; her glory is the respect of
her husband; her joys the happiness of her family. I appeal to my
readers to give me an honest answer; when you enter a woman's room
what makes you think more highly of her, what makes you address
her with more respect--to see her busy with feminine occupations,
with her household duties, with her children's clothes about her,
or to find her writing verses at her toilet table surrounded with
pamphlets of every kind and with notes on tinted paper? If there
were none but wise men upon earth such a woman would die an old
maid.
"Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, galla? diserta es."
Martial xi. 20.
Looks must next be considered; they are the first thing that strikes
us and they ought to be the last, still they should not count for
nothing. I think that great beauty is rather to be shunned than
sought after in marriage. Possession soon exhausts our appreciation
of beauty; in six weeks' time we think no more about it, but its
dangers endure as long as life itself. Unless a beautiful woman
is an angel, her husband is the most miserable of men; and even if
she were an angel he would still be the centre of a hostile crowd
and she could not prevent it. If extreme ugliness were not repulsive
I should prefer it to extreme beauty; for before very long the
husband would cease to notice either, but beauty would still have
its disadvantages and ugliness its advantages. But ugliness which
is actually repulsive is the worst misfortune; repulsion increases
rather than diminishes, and it turns to hatred. Such a union is a
hell upon earth; better death than such a marriage.
Desire mediocrity in all things, even in beauty. A pleasant attractive
countenance, which inspires kindly feelings rather than love, is
what we should prefer; the husband runs no risk, and the advantages
are common to husband and wife; charm is less perishable than
beauty; it is a living thing, which constantly renews itself, and
after thirty years of married life, the charms of a good woman
delight her husband even as they did on the wedding-day.
Such are the considerations which decided my choice of Sophy.
Brought up, like Emile, by Nature, she is better suited to him than
any other; she will be his true mate. She is his equal in birth and
character, his inferior in fortune. She makes no great impression
at first sight, but day by day reveals fresh charms. Her chief
influence only takes effect gradually, it is only discovered in
friendly intercourse; and her husband will feel it more than any
one. Her education is neither showy nor neglected; she has taste
without deep study, talent without art, judgment without learning.
Her mind knows little, but it is trained to learn; it is well-tilled
soil ready for the sower. She has read no book but Bareme and
Telemachus which happened to fall into her hands; but no girl who
can feel so passionately towards Telemachus can have a heart without
feeling or a mind without discernment. What charming ignorance!
Happy is he who is destined to be her tutor. She will not be her
husband's teacher but his scholar; far from seeking to control his
tastes, she will share them. She will suit him far better than
a blue-stocking and he will have the pleasure of teaching her
everything. It is time they made acquaintance; let us try to plan
a meeting.
When we left Paris we were sorrowful and wrapped in thought. This
Babel is not our home. Emile casts a scornful glance towards the
great city, saying angrily, "What a time we have wasted; the bride
of my heart is not there. My friend, you knew it, but you think
nothing of my time, and you pay no heed to my sufferings." With
steady look and firm voice I reply, "Emile, do you mean what you
say?" At once he flings his arms round my neck and clasps me to
his breast without speaking. That is his answer when he knows he
is in the wrong.
And now we are wandering through the country like true knights-errant;
yet we are not seeking adventures when we leave Paris; we are escaping
from them; now fast now slow, we wander through the country like
knights-errants. By following my usual practice the taste for it
has become established; and I do not suppose any of my readers are
such slaves of custom as to picture us dozing in a post-chaise with
closed windows, travelling, yet seeing nothing, observing nothing,
making the time between our start and our arrival a mere blank,
and losing in the speed of our journey, the time we meant to save.
Men say life is short, and I see them doing their best to shorten
it. As they do not know how to spend their time they lament the
swiftness of its flight, and I perceive that for them it goes only
too slowly. Intent merely on the object of their pursuit, they behold
unwillingly the space between them and it; one desires to-morrow,
another looks a month ahead, another ten years beyond that. No
one wants to live to-day, no one contents himself with the present
hour, all complain that it passes slowly. When they complain that
time flies, they lie; they would gladly purchase the power to hasten
it; they would gladly spend their fortune to get rid of their whole
life; and there is probably not a single one who would not have
reduced his life to a few hours if he had been free to get rid of
those hours he found tedious, and those which separated him from
the desired moment. A man spends his whole life rushing from Paris
to Versailles, from Versailles to Paris, from town to country, from
country to town, from one district of the town to another; but he
would not know what to do with his time if he had not discovered
this way of wasting it, by leaving his business on purpose to find
something to do in coming back to it; he thinks he is saving the
time he spends, which would otherwise be unoccupied; or maybe he
rushes for the sake of rushing, and travels post in order to return
in the same fashion. When will mankind cease to slander nature? Why
do you complain that life is short when it is never short enough
for you? If there were but one of you, able to moderate his desires,
so that he did not desire the flight of time, he would never find
life too short; for him life and the joy of life would be one and
the same; should he die young, he would still die full of days.
If this were the only advantage of my way of travelling it would
be enough. I have brought Emile up neither to desire nor to wait,
but to enjoy; and when his desires are bent upon the future, their
ardour is not so great as to make time seem tedious. He will not
only enjoy the delights of longing, but the delights of approaching
the object of his desires; and his passions are under such restraint
that he lives to a great extent in the present.
So we do not travel like couriers but like explorers. We do not
merely consider the beginning and the end, but the space between.
The journey itself is a delight. We do not travel sitting, dismally
imprisoned, so to speak, in a tightly closed cage. We do not travel
with the ease and comfort of ladies. We do not deprive ourselves
of the fresh air, nor the sight of the things about us, nor the
opportunity of examining them at our pleasure. Emile will never
enter a post-chaise, nor will he ride post unless in a great hurry.
But what cause has Emile for haste? None but the joy of life. Shall
I add to this the desire to do good when he can? No, for that is
itself one of the joys of life.
I can only think of one way of travelling pleasanter than travelling
on horseback, and that is to travel on foot. You start at your own
time, you stop when you will, you do as much or as little as you
choose. You see the country, you turn off to the right or left;
you examine anything which interests you, you stop to admire every
view. Do I see a stream, I wander by its banks; a leafy wood, I
seek its shade; a cave, I enter it; a quarry, I study its geology.
If I like a place, I stop there. As soon as I am weary of it, I go
on. I am independent of horses and postillions; I need not stick
to regular routes or good roads; I go anywhere where a man can
go; I see all that a man can see; and as I am quite independent of
everybody, I enjoy all the freedom man can enjoy. If I am stopped
by bad weather and I find myself getting bored, then I take horses.
If I am tired--but Emile is hardly ever tired; he is strong; why
should he get tired? There is no hurry? If he stops, why should he
be bored? He always finds some amusement. He works at a trade; he
uses his arms to rest his feet.
To travel on foot is to travel in the fashion of Thales, Plato,
and Pythagoras. I find it hard to understand how a philosopher can
bring himself to travel in any other way; how he can tear himself
from the study of the wealth which lies before his eyes and beneath
his feet. Is there any one with an interest in agriculture, who
does not want to know the special products of the district through
which he is passing, and their method of cultivation? Is there
any one with a taste for natural history, who can pass a piece of
ground without examining it, a rock without breaking off a piece
of it, hills without looking for plants, and stones without seeking
for fossils?
Your town-bred scientists study natural history in cabinets; they
have small specimens; they know their names but nothing of their
nature. Emile's museum is richer than that of kings; it is the
whole world. Everything is in its right place; the Naturalist who
is its curator has taken care to arrange it in the fairest order;
Dauberton could do no better.
What varied pleasures we enjoy in this delightful way of travelling,
not to speak of increasing health and a cheerful spirit. I notice
that those who ride in nice, well-padded carriages are always wrapped
in thought, gloomy, fault-finding, or sick; while those who go on
foot are always merry, light-hearted, and delighted with everything.
How cheerful we are when we get near our lodging for the night!
How savoury is the coarse food! How we linger at table enjoying
our rest! How soundly we sleep on a hard bed! If you only want to
get to a place you may ride in a post-chaise; if you want to travel
you must go on foot.
If Sophy is not forgotten before we have gone fifty leagues in the
way I propose, either I am a bungler or Emile lacks curiosity; for
with an elementary knowledge of so many things, it is hardly to be
supposed that he will not be tempted to extend his knowledge. It
is knowledge that makes us curious; and Emile knows just enough to
want to know more.
One thing leads on to another, and we make our way forward. If I
chose a distant object for the end of our first journey, it is not
difficult to find an excuse for it; when we leave Paris we must
seek a wife at a distance.
A few days later we had wandered further than usual among hills and
valleys where no road was to be seen and we lost our way completely.
No matter, all roads are alike if they bring you to your journey's
end, but if you are hungry they must lead somewhere. Luckily we
came across a peasant who took up to his cottage; we enjoyed his
poor dinner with a hearty appetite. When he saw how hungry and
tired we were he said, "If the Lord had led you to the other side
of the hill you would have had a better welcome, you would have
found a good resting place, such good, kindly people! They could
not wish to do more for you than I, but they are richer, though
folks say they used to be much better off. Still they are not
reduced to poverty, and the whole country-side is the better for
what they have."
When Emile heard of these good people his heart warmed to them. "My
friend," said he, looking at me, "let us visit this house, whose
owners are a blessing to the district; I shall be very glad to
see them; perhaps they will be pleased to see us too; I am sure we
shall be welcome; we shall just suit each other."
Our host told us how to find our way to the house and we set off,
but lost our way in the woods. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm,
which delayed us further. At last we found the right path and in
the evening we reached the house, which had been described to us.
It was the only house among the cottages of the little hamlet, and
though plain it had an air of dignity. We went up to the door and
asked for hospitality. We were taken to the owner of the house, who
questioned us courteously; without telling him the object of our
journey, we told him why we had left our path. His former wealth
enabled him to judge a man's position by his manners; those who
have lived in society are rarely mistaken; with this passport we
were admitted.
The room we were shown into was very small, but clean and comfortable;
a fire was lighted, and we found linen, clothes, and everything
we needed. "Why," said Emile, in astonishment, one would think
they were expecting us. The peasant was quite right; how kind and
attentive, how considerate, and for strangers too! I shall think I
am living in the times of Homer." "I am glad you feel this," said
I, "but you need not be surprised; where strangers are scarce, they
are welcome; nothing makes people more hospitable than the fact
that calls upon their hospitality are rare; when guests are frequent
there is an end to hospitality. In Homer's time, people rarely
travelled, and travellers were everywhere welcome. Very likely we
are the only people who have passed this way this year." "Never
mind," said he, "to know how to do without guests and yet to give
them a kind welcome, is its own praise."
Having dried ourselves and changed our clothes, we rejoined the
master of the house, who introduced us to his wife; she received
us not merely with courtesy but with kindness. Her glance rested
on Emile. A mother, in her position, rarely receives a young man
into her house without some anxiety or some curiosity at least.
Supper was hurried forward on our account. When we went into the
dining-room there were five places laid; we took our seats and the
fifth chair remained empty. Presently a young girl entered, made
a deep courtesy, and modestly took her place without a word. Emile
was busy with his supper or considering how to reply to what was
said to him; he bowed to her and continued talking and eating.
The main object of his journey was as far from his thoughts as he
believed himself to be from the end of his journey. The conversation
turned upon our losing our way. "Sir," said the master of the house
to Emile, "you seem to be a pleasant well-behaved young gentleman,
and that reminds me that your tutor and you arrived wet and weary
like Telemachus and Mentor in the island of Calypso." "Indeed,"
said Emile, "we have found the hospitality of Calypso." His Mentor
added, "And the charms of Eucharis." But Emile knew the Odyssey and
he had not read Telemachus, so he knew nothing of Eucharis. As for
the young girl, I saw she blushed up to her eyebrows, fixed her
eyes on her plate, and hardly dared to breathe. Her mother, noticing
her confusion, made a sign to her father to turn the conversation.
When he talked of his lonely life, he unconsciously began to relate
the circumstances which brought him into it; his misfortunes, his
wife's fidelity, the consolations they found in their marriage,
their quiet, peaceful life in their retirement, and all this without
a word of the young girl; it is a pleasing and a touching story,
which cannot fail to interest. Emile, interested and sympathetic,
leaves off eating and listens. When finally this best of men
discourses with delight of the affection of the best of women, the
young traveller, carried away by his feelings, stretches one hand
to the husband, and taking the wife's hand with the other, he kisses
it rapturously and bathes it with his tears. Everybody is charmed
with the simple enthusiasm of the young man; but the daughter, more
deeply touched than the rest by this evidence of his kindly heart,
is reminded of Telemachus weeping for the woes of Philoctetus. She
looks at him shyly, the better to study his countenance; there is
nothing in it to give the lie to her comparison.
His easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners are
lively but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and his
ｅxpression more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep, is ready
to mingle her tears with his. With so good an excuse for tears,
she is restrained by a secret shame; she blames herself already for
the tears which tremble on her eyelids, as though it were wrong to
weep for one's family.
Her mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down to
supper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her on some
errand. The daughter returns directly, but so little recovered that
her distress is apparent to all. Her mother says gently, "Sophy,
control yourself; will you never cease to weep for the misfortunes
of your parents? Why should you, who are their chief comfort, be
more sensitive than they are themselves?"
At the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start. His
attention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at once
and looks eagerly at one who dares to bear it. Sophy! Are you the
Sophy whom my heart is seeking? Is it you that I love? He looks at
her; he watches her with a sort of fear and self-distrust. The face
is not quite what he pictured; he cannot tell whether he likes it
more or less. He studies every feature, he watches every movement,
every gesture; he has a hundred fleeting interpretations for them
all; he would give half his life if she would but speak. He looks
at me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions and
reproaches. His every glance seems to say, "Guide me while there
is yet time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived, I shall
never get over it."
There is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings than
Emile. How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatest
disturbance he has ever experienced, and under the eyes of four
spectators who are all watching him, while she who seems to heed
him least is really most occupied with him. His uneasiness does
not escape the keen eyes of Sophy; his own eyes tell her that she
is its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not yet love; what
matter? He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will be
very unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity.
Mothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too.
Sophy's mother smiles at the success of our schemes. She reads the
hearts of the young people; she sees that the time has come to
secure the heart of this new Telemachus; she makes her daughter
speak. Her daughter, with her native sweetness, replies in a timid
tone which makes all the more impression. At the first sound of
her voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy herself; there can be no
doubt about it. If it were not so, it would be too late to deny
it.
The charms of this maiden enchantress rush like torrents through
his heart, and he begins to drain the draughts of poison with which
he is intoxicated. He says nothing; questions pass unheeded; he
sees only Sophy, he hears only Sophy; if she says a word, he opens
his mouth; if her eyes are cast down, so are his; if he sees her
sigh, he sighs too; it is Sophy's heart which seems to speak in
his. What a change have these few moments wrought in her heart! It
is no longer her turn to tremble, it is Emile's. Farewell liberty,
simplicity, frankness. Confused, embarrassed, fearful, he dare not
look about him for fear he should see that we are watching him.
Ashamed that we should read his secret, he would fain become
invisible to every one, that he might feed in secret on the sight
of Sophy. Sophy, on the other hand, regains her confidence at the
sight of Emile's fear; she sees her triumph and rejoices in it.
"No'l mostra gia, ben che in suo cor ne rida."
Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv. v. 33.
Her ｅxpression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest look
and downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and it
tells her that she has found Telemachus.
If I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affections
you will accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken. Sufficient
attention is not given to the effect which the first connection
between man and woman is bound to produce on the future life of
both. People do not see that a first impression so vivid as that
of love, or the liking which takes the place of love, produces
lasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works on
education are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of the
imaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the most
important and most difficult part of their education, the crisis
which forms the bridge between the child and the man. If any part
of this work is really useful, it will be because I have dwelt at great
length on this matter, so essential in itself and so neglected by
other authors, and because I have not allowed myself to be discouraged
either by false delicacy or by the difficulties of ｅxpression. The
story of human nature is a fair romance. Am I to blame if it is
not found elsewhere? I am trying to write the history of mankind.
If my book is a romance, the fault lies with those who deprave
mankind.
This is supported by another reason; we are not dealing with a
youth given over from childhood to fear, greed, envy, pride, and
all those passions which are the common tools of the schoolmaster;
we have to do with a youth who is not only in love for the first
time, but with one who is also experiencing his first passion of
any kind; very likely it will be the only strong passion he will
ever know, and upon it depends the final formation of his character.
His mode of thought, his feelings, his tastes, determined by
a lasting passion, are about to become so fixed that they will be
incapable of further change.
You will easily understand that Emile and I do not spend the whole
of the night which follows after such an evening in sleep. Why! Do
you mean to tell me that a wise man should be so much affected by
a mere coincidence of name! Is there only one Sophy in the world?
Are they all alike in heart and in name? Is every Sophy he meets
his Sophy? Is he mad to fall in love with a person of whom he knows
so little, with whom he has scarcely exchanged a couple of words?
Wait, young man; examine, observe. You do not even know who our
hosts may be, and to hear you talk one would think the house was
your own.
This is no time for teaching, and what I say will receive scant
attention. It only serves to stimulate Emile to further interest
in Sophy, through his desire to find reasons for his fancy. The
unexpected coincidence in the name, the meeting which, so far as he
knows, was quite accidental, my very caution itself, only serve as
fuel to the fire. He is so convinced already of Sophy's excellence,
that he feels sure he can make me fond of her.
Next morning I have no doubt Emile will make himself as smart as
his old travelling suit permits. I am not mistaken; but I am amused
to see how eager he is to wear the clean linen put out for us. I
know his thoughts, and I am delighted to see that he is trying to
establish a means of intercourse, through the return and exchange
of the linen; so that he may have a right to return it and so pay
another visit to the house.
I expected to find Sophy rather more carefully dressed too; but I
was mistaken. Such common coquetry is all very well for those who
merely desire to please. The coquetry of true love is a more delicate
matter; it has quite another end in view. Sophy is dressed, if
possible, more simply than last night, though as usual her frock is
exquisitely clean. The only sign of coquetry is her self-consciousness.
She knows that an elaborate toilet is a sign of love, but she does
not know that a careless toilet is another of its signs; it shows
a desire to be like not merely for one's clothes but for oneself.
What does a lover care for her clothes if he knows she is thinking
of him? Sophy is already sure of her power over Emile, and she is
not content to delight his eyes if his heart is not hers also; he
must not only perceive her charms, he must divine them; has he not
seen enough to guess the rest?
We may take it for granted that while Emile and I were talking last
night, Sophy and her mother were not silent; a confession was made
and instructions given. The morning's meeting is not unprepared.
Twelve hours ago our young people had never met; they have never
said a word to each other; but it is clear that there is already
an understanding between them. Their greeting is formal, confused,
timid; they say nothing, their downcast eyes seem to avoid each
other, but that is in itself a sign that they understand, they
avoid each other with one consent; they already feel the need of
concealment, though not a word has been uttered. When we depart we
ask leave to come again to return the borrowed clothes in person,
Emile's words are addressed to the father and mother, but his eyes
seek Sophy's, and his looks are more eloquent than his words. Sophy
says nothing by word or gesture; she seems deaf and blind, but she
blushes, and that blush is an answer even plainer than that of her
parents.
We receive permission to come again, though we are not invited to
stay. This is only fitting; you offer shelter to benighted travellers,
but a lover does not sleep in the house of his mistress.
We have hardly left the beloved abode before Emile is thinking of
taking rooms in the neighbourhood; the nearest cottage seems too
far; he would like to sleep in the next ditch. "You young fool!" I
said in a tone of pity, "are you already blinded by passion? Have
you no regard for manners or for reason? Wretched youth, you call
yourself a lover and you would bring disgrace upon her you love!
What would people say of her if they knew that a young man who has
been staying at her house was sleeping close by? You say you love
her! Would you ruin her reputation? Is that the price you offer
for her parents' hospitality? Would you bring disgrace on her who
will one day make you the happiest of men?" "Why should we trouble
ourselves about the empty words and unjust suspicions of other
people?" said he eagerly. "Have you not taught me yourself to make
light of them? Who knows better than I how greatly I honour Sophy,
what respect I desire to show her? My attachment will not cause
her shame, it will be her glory, it shall be worthy of her. If my
heart and my actions continually give her the homage she deserves,
what harm can I do her?" "Dear Emile," I said, as I clasped him to
my heart, "you are thinking of yourself alone; learn to think for
her too. Do not compare the honour of one sex with that of the
other, they rest on different foundations. These foundations are
equally firm and right, because they are both laid by nature, and
that same virtue which makes you scorn what men say about yourself,
binds you to respect what they say of her you love. Your honour
is in your own keeping, her honour depends on others. To neglect
it is to wound your own honour, and you fail in what is due to
yourself if you do not give her the respect she deserves."
Then while I explain the reasons for this difference, I make him
realise how wrong it would be to pay no attention to it. Who can
say if he will really be Sophy's husband? He does not know how she
feels towards him; her own heart or her parents' will may already
have formed other engagements; he knows nothing of her, perhaps
there are none of those grounds of suitability which make a
happy marriage. Is he not aware that the least breath of scandal
with regard to a young girl is an indelible stain, which not even
marriage with him who has caused the scandal can efface? What man
of feeling would ruin the woman he loves? What man of honour would
desire that a miserable woman should for ever lament the misfortune
of having found favour in his eyes?
Always prone to extremes, the youth takes alarm at the consequences
which I have compelled him to consider, and now he thinks that
he cannot be too far from Sophy's home; he hastens his steps to
get further from it; he glances round to make sure that no one is
listening; he would sacrifice his own happiness a thousand times
to the honour of her whom he loves; he would rather never see her
again than cause her the least unpleasantness. This is the first
result of the pains I have taken ever since he was a child to make
him capable of affection.
We must therefore seek a lodging at a distance, but not too far.
We look about us, we make inquiries; we find that there is a town
at least two leagues away. We try and find lodgings in this town,
rather than in the nearer villages, where our presence might give
rise to suspicion. It is there that the new lover takes up his abode,
full of love, hope, joy, above all full of right feeling. In this
way, I guide his rising passion towards all that is honourable and
good, so that his inclinations unconsciously follow the same bent.
My course is drawing to a close; the end is in view. All the chief
difficulties are vanquished, the chief obstacles overcome; the
hardest thing left to do is to refrain from spoiling my work by
undue haste to complete it. Amid the uncertainty of human life, let
us shun that false prudence which seeks to sacrifice the present
to the future; what is, is too often sacrificed to what will never
be. Let us make man happy at every age lest in spite of our care
he should die without knowing the meaning of happiness. Now if there
is a time to enjoy life, it is undoubtedly the close of adolescence,
when the powers of mind and body have reached their greatest
strength, and when man in the midst of his course is furthest from
those two extremes which tell him "Life is short." If the imprudence
of youth deceives itself it is not in its desire for enjoyment, but
because it seeks enjoyment where it is not to be found, and lays
up misery for the future, while unable to enjoy the present.
Consider my Emile over twenty years of age, well formed, well developed
in mind and body, strong, healthy, active, skilful, robust, full
of sense, reason, kindness, humanity, possessed of good morals and
good taste, loving what is beautiful, doing what is good, free from
the sway of fierce passions, released from the tyranny of popular
prejudices, but subject to the law of wisdom, and easily guided
by the voice of a friend; gifted with so many useful and pleasant
accomplishments, caring little for wealth, able to earn a living
with his own hands, and not afraid of want, whatever may come. Behold
him in the intoxication of a growing passion; his heart opens to
the first beams of love; its pleasant fancies reveal to him a whole
world of new delights and enjoyments; he loves a sweet woman, whose
character is even more delightful than her person; he hopes, he
expects the reward which he deserves.
Their first attachment took its rise in mutual affection, in community
of honourable feelings; therefore this affection is lasting. It
abandons itself, with confidence, with reason, to the most delightful
madness, without fear, regret, remorse, or any other disturbing
thought, but that which is inseparable from all happiness. What
lacks there yet? Behold, inquire, imagine what still is lacking,
that can be combined with present joys. Every happiness which can
exist in combination is already present; nothing could be added
without taking away from what there is; he is as happy as man can
be. Shall I choose this time to cut short so sweet a period? Shall
I disturb such pure enjoyment? The happiness he enjoys is my life's
reward. What could I give that could outweigh what I should take
away? Even if I set the crown to his happiness I should destroy
its greatest charm. That supreme joy is a hundredfold greater in
anticipation than in possession; its savour is greater while we wait
for it than when it is ours. O worthy Emile! love and be loved!
prolong your enjoyment before it is yours; rejoice in your love and
in your innocence, find your paradise upon earth, while you await
your heaven. I shall not cut short this happy period of life. I will
draw out its enchantments, I will prolong them as far as possible.
Alas! it must come to an end and that soon; but it shall at least
linger in your memory, and you will never repent of its joys.
Emile has not forgotten that we have something to return. As soon
as the things are ready, we take horse and set off at a great pace,
for on this occasion he is anxious to get there. When the heart
opens the door to passion, it becomes conscious of the slow flight
of time. If my time has not been wasted he will not spend his life
like this.
Unluckily the road is intricate and the country difficult. We
lose our way; he is the first to notice it, and without losing his
temper, and without grumbling, he devotes his whole attention to
discovering the path; he wanders for a long time before he knows
where he is and always with the same self-control. You think nothing
of that; but I think it a matter of great importance, for I know
how eager he is; I see the results of the care I have taken from
his infancy to harden him to endure the blows of necessity.
We are there at last! Our reception is much simpler and more friendly
than on the previous occasion; we are already old acquaintances.
Emile and Sophy bow shyly and say nothing; what can they say in our
presence? What they wish to say requires no spectators. We walk in
the garden; a well-kept kitchen-garden takes the place of flower-beds,
the park is an orchard full of fine tall fruit trees of every
kind, divided by pretty streams and borders full of flowers. "What
a lovely place!" exclaims Emile, still thinking of his Homer,
and still full of enthusiasm, "I could fancy myself in the garden
of Alcinous." The daughter wishes she knew who Alcinous was;
her mother asks. "Alcinous," I tell them, "was a king of Coreyra.
Homer describes his garden and the critics think it too simple and
unadorned. [Footnote: "'When you leave the palace you enter a vast
garden, four acres in extent, walled in on every side, planted
with tall trees in blossom, and yielding pears, pomegranates, and
other goodly fruits, fig-trees with their luscious burden and green
olives. All the year round these fair trees are heavy with fruit;
summer and winter the soft breath of the west wind sways the trees
and ripens the fruit. Pears and apples wither on the branches, the
fig on the fig-tree, and the clusters of grapes on the vine. The
inexhaustible stock bears fresh grapes, some are baked, some are
spread out on the threshing floor to dry, others are made into
wine, while flowers, sour grapes, and those which are beginning
to wither are left upon the tree. At either end is a square garden
filled with flowers which bloom throughout the year, these gardens
are adorned by two fountains, one of these streams waters the
garden, the other passes through the palace and is then taken to a
lofty tower in the town to provide drinking water for its citizens.'
Such is the description of the royal garden of Alcinous in the 7th
book of the Odyssey, a garden in which, to the lasting disgrace
of that old dreamer Homer and the princes of his day, there were
neither trellises, statues, cascades, nor bowling-greens."] This
Alcinous had a charming daughter who dreamed the night before her
father received a stranger at his board that she would soon have
a husband." Sophy, taken unawares, blushed, hung her head, and
bit her lips; no one could be more confused. Her father, who was
enjoying her confusion, added that the young princess bent herself
to wash the linen in the river. "Do you think," said he, "she would
have scorned to touch the dirty clothes, saying, that they smelt of
grease?" Sophy, touched to the quick, forgot her natural timidity
and defended herself eagerly. Her papa knew very well all the
smaller things would have had no other laundress if she had been
allowed to wash them, and she would gladly have done more had she
been set to do it. [Footnote: I own I feel grateful to Sophy's
mother for not letting her spoil such pretty hands with soap, hands
which Emile will kiss so often.] Meanwhile she watched me secretly
with such anxiety that I could not suppress a smile, while I read
the terrors of her simple heart which urged her to speak. Her
father was cruel enough to continue this foolish sport, by asking
her, in jest, why she spoke on her own behalf and what had she in
common with the daughter of Alcinous. Trembling and ashamed she
dared hardly breathe or look at us. Charming girl! This is no time
for feigning, you have shown your true feelings in spite of yourself.
To all appearance this little scene is soon forgotten; luckily for
Sophy, Emile, at least, is unaware of it. We continue our walk,
the young people at first keeping close beside us; but they find
it hard to adapt themselves to our slower pace, and presently they
are a little in front of us, they are walking side by side, they
begin to talk, and before long they are a good way ahead. Sophy
seems to be listening quietly, Emile is talking and gesticulating
vigorously; they seem to find their conversation interesting. When
we turn homewards a full hour later, we call them to us and they
return slowly enough now, and we can see they are making good
use of their time. Their conversation ceases suddenly before they
come within earshot, and they hurry up to us. Emile meets us with
a frank affectionate ｅxpression; his eyes are sparkling with joy;
yet he looks anxiously at Sophy's mother to see how she takes it.
Sophy is not nearly so much at her ease; as she approaches us she
seems covered with confusion at finding herself tete-a-tete with
a young man, though she has met so many other young men frankly
enough, and without being found fault with for it. She runs up to
her mother, somewhat out of breath, and makes some trivial remark,
as if to pretend she had been with her for some time.
From the happy ｅxpression of these dear children we see that
this conversation has taken a load off their hearts. They are no
less reticent in their intercourse, but their reticence is less
embarrassing, it is only due to Emile's reverence and Sophy's
modesty, to the goodness of both. Emile ventures to say a few words
to her, she ventures to reply, but she always looks at her mother
before she dares to answer. The most remarkable change is in her
attitude towards me. She shows me the greatest respect, she watches
me with interest, she takes pains to please me; I see that I am
honoured with her esteem, and that she is not indifferent to mine.
I understand that Emile has been talking to her about me; you might
say they have been scheming to win me over to their side; yet it
is not so, and Sophy herself is not so easily won. Perhaps Emile
will have more need of my influence with her than of hers with
me. What a charming pair! When I consider that the tender love of
my young friend has brought my name so prominently into his first
conversation with his lady-love, I enjoy the reward of all my
trouble; his affection is a sufficient recompense.
Our visit is repeated. There are frequent conversations between the
young people. Emile is madly in love and thinks that his happiness
is within his grasp. Yet he does not succeed in winning any formal
avowal from Sophy; she listens to what he says and answers nothing.
Emile knows how modest she is, and is not surprised at her reticence;
he feels sure that she likes him; he knows that parents decide whom
their daughters shall marry; he supposes that Sophy is awaiting
her parents' commands; he asks her permission to speak to them, and
she makes no objection. He talks to me and I speak on his behalf
and in his presence. He is immensely surprised to hear that Sophy
is her own mistress, that his happiness depends on her alone. He
begins to be puzzled by her conduct. He is less self-confident,
he takes alarm, he sees that he has not made so much progress as
he expected, and then it is that his love appeals to her in the
tenderest and most moving language.
Emile is not the sort of man to guess what is the matter; if no one
told him he would never discover it as long as he lived, and Sophy
is too proud to tell him. What she considers obstacles, others would
call advantages. She has not forgotten her parents' teaching. She
is poor; Emile is rich; so much she knows. He must win her esteem;
his deserts must be great indeed to remove this inequality. But
how should he perceive these obstacles? Is Emile aware that he is
rich? Has he ever condescended to inquire? Thank heaven, he has
no need of riches, he can do good without their aid. The good he
does comes from his heart, not his purse. He gives the wretched
his time, his care, his affection, himself; and when he reckons
up what he has done, he hardly dares to mention the money spent on
the poor.
As he does not know what to make of his disgrace, he thinks it is
his own fault; for who would venture to accuse the adored one of
caprice. The shame of humiliation adds to the pangs of disappointed
love. He no longer approaches Sophy with that pleasant confidence
of his own worth; he is shy and timid in her presence. He no longer
hopes to win her affections, but to gain her pity. Sometimes he
loses patience and is almost angry with her. Sophy seems to guess
his angry feelings and she looks at him. Her glance is enough to
disarm and terrify him; he is more submissive than he used to be.
Disturbed by this stubborn resistance, this invincible silence, he
pours out his heart to his friend. He shares with him the pangs of
a heart devoured by sorrow; he implores his help and counsel. "How
mysterious it is, how hard to understand! She takes an interest
in me, that I am sure; far from avoiding me she is pleased to see
me; when I come she shows signs of pleasure, when I go she shows
regret; she receives my attentions kindly, my services seem to
give her pleasure, she condescends to give me her advice and even
her commands. Yet she rejects my requests and my prayers. When
I venture to speak of marriage, she bids me be silent; if I say
a word, she leaves me at once. Why on earth should she wish me to
be hers but refuse to be mine? She respects and loves you, and she
will not dare to refuse to listen to you. Speak to her, make her
answer. Come to your friend's help, and put the coping stone to all
you have done for him; do not let him fall a victim to your care!
If you fail to secure his happiness, your own teaching will have
been the cause of his misery."
I speak to Sophy, and have no difficulty in getting her to confide
her secret to me, a secret which was known to me already. It is not
so easy to get permission to tell Emile; but at last she gives me
leave and I tell him what is the matter. He cannot get over his
surprise at this explanation. He cannot understand this delicacy;
he cannot see how a few pounds more or less can affect his character
or his deserts. When I get him to see their effect on people's
prejudices he begins to laugh; he is so wild with delight that he
wants to be off at once to tear up his title deeds and renounce his
money, so as to have the honour of being as poor as Sophy, and to
return worthy to be her husband.
"Why," said I, trying to check him, and laughing in my turn at his
impetuosity, "will this young head never grow any older? Having
dabbled all your life in philosophy, will you never learn to reason?
Do not you see that your wild scheme would only make things worse,
and Sophy more obstinate? It is a small superiority to be rather
richer than she, but to give up all for her would be a very
great superiority; if her pride cannot bear to be under the small
obligation, how will she make up her mind to the greater? If she
cannot bear to think that her husband might taunt her with the fact
that he has enriched her, would she permit him to blame her for
having brought him to poverty? Wretched boy, beware lest she suspects
you of such a plan! on the contrary, be careful and economical
for her sake, lest she should accuse you of trying to gain her by
cunning, by sacrificing of your own free will what you are really
wasting through carelessness.
"Do you really think that she is afraid of wealth, and that she is
opposed to great possessions in themselves? No, dear Emile; there
are more serious and substantial grounds for her opinion, in the
effect produced by wealth on its possessor. She knows that those
who are possessed of fortune's gifts are apt to place them first.
The rich always put wealth before merit. When services are reckoned
against silver, the latter always outweighs the former, and those
who have spent their life in their master's service are considered
his debtors for the very bread they eat. What must you do, Emile,
to calm her fears? Let her get to know you better; that is not done
in a day. Show her the treasures of your heart, to counterbalance
the wealth which is unfortunately yours. Time and constancy will
overcome her resistance; let your great and noble feelings make her
forget your wealth. Love her, serve her, serve her worthy parents.
Convince her that these attentions are not the result of a foolish
fleeting passion, but of settled principles engraved upon your
heart. Show them the honour deserved by worth when exposed to the
buffets of Fortune; that is the only way to reconcile it with that
worth which basks in her smiles."
The transports of joy experienced by the young man at these words
may easily be imagined; they restore confidence and hope, his good
heart rejoices to do something to please Sophy, which he would
have done if there had been no such person, or if he had not been
in love with her. However little his character has been understood,
anybody can see how he would behave under such circumstances.
Here am I, the confidant of these two young people and the mediator
of their affection. What a fine task for a tutor! So fine that
never in all my life have I stood so high in my own eyes, nor felt
so pleased with myself. Moreover, this duty is not without its
charms. I am not unwelcome in the home; it is my business to see
that the lovers behave themselves; Emile, ever afraid of offending
me, was never so docile. The little lady herself overwhelms me with
a kindness which does not deceive me, and of which I only take my
proper share. This is her way of making up for her severity towards
Emile. For his sake she bestows on me a hundred tender caresses,
though she would die rather than bestow them on him; and he, knowing
that I would never stand in his way, is delighted that I should
get on so well with her. If she refuses his arm when we are out
walking, he consoles himself with the thought that she has taken
mine. He makes way for me without a murmur, be clasps my hand, and
voice and look alike whisper, "My friend, plead for me!" and his
eyes follow us with interest; he tries to read our feelings in our
faces, and to interpret our conversation by our gestures; he knows
that everything we are saying concerns him. Dear Sophy, how frank
and easy you are when you can talk to Mentor without being overheard
by Telemachus. How freely and delightfully you permit him to read
what is passing in your tender little heart! How delighted you are
to show him how you esteem his pupil! How cunningly and appealingly
you allow him to divine still tenderer sentiments. With what
a pretence of anger you dismiss Emile when his impatience leads
him to interrupt you? With what pretty vexation you reproach his
indiscretion when he comes and prevents you saying something to
his credit, or listening to what I say about him, or finding in my
words some new excuse to love him!
Having got so far as to be tolerated as an acknowledged lover,
Emile takes full advantage of his position; he speaks, he urges, he
implores, he demands. Hard words or ill treatment make no difference,
provided he gets a hearing. At length Sophy is persuaded, though
with some difficulty, to assume the authority of a betrothed, to
decide what he shall do, to command instead of to ask, to accept
instead of to thank, to control the frequency and the hours of his
visits, to forbid him to come till such a day or to stay beyond
such an hour. This is not done in play, but in earnest, and if it
was hard to induce her to accept these rights, she uses them so
sternly that Emile is often ready to regret that he gave them to
her. But whatever her commands, they are obeyed without question,
and often when at her bidding he is about to leave her, he glances
at me his eyes full of delight, as if to say, "You see she has taken
possession of me." Yet unknown to him, Sophy, with all her pride,
is observing him closely, and she is smiling to herself at the
pride of her slave.
Oh that I had the brush of an Alban or a Raphael to paint their
bliss, or the pen of the divine Milton to describe the pleasures
of love and innocence! Not so; let such hollow arts shrink back
before the sacred truth of nature. In tenderness and pureness of
heart let your imagination freely trace the raptures of these young
lovers, who under the eyes of parents and tutor, abandon themselves
to their blissful illusions; in the intoxication of passion they
are advancing step by step to its consummation; with flowers and
garlands they are weaving the bonds which are to bind them till
death do part. I am carried away by this succession of pictures,
I am so happy that I cannot group them in any sort of order or
scheme; any one with a heart in his breast can paint the charming
picture for himself and realise the different experiences of father,
mother, daughter, tutor, and pupil, and the part played by each
and all in the union of the most delightful couple whom love and
virtue have ever led to happiness.
Now that he is really eager to please, Emile begins to feel the
value of the accomplishments he has acquired. Sophy is fond of
singing, he sings with her; he does more, he teaches her music.
She is lively and light of foot, she loves skipping; he dances
with her, he perfects and develops her untrained movements into the
steps of the dance. These lessons, enlivened by the gayest mirth,
are quite delightful, they melt the timid respect of love; a lover
may enjoy teaching his betrothed--he has a right to be her teacher.
There is an old spinet quite out of order. Emile mends and tunes
it; he is a maker and mender of musical instruments as well as a
carpenter; it has always been his rule to learn to do everything he
can for himself. The house is picturesquely situated and he makes
several sketches of it, in some of which Sophy does her share, and
she hangs them in her father's study. The frames are not gilded,
nor do they require gilding. When she sees Emile drawing, she draws
too, and improves her own drawing; she cultivates all her talents,
and her grace gives a charm to all she does. Her father and mother
recall the days of their wealth, when they find themselves surrounded
by the works of art which alone gave value to wealth; the whole
house is adorned by love; love alone has enthroned among them,
without cost or effort, the very same pleasures which were gathered
together in former days by dint of toil and money.
As the idolater gives what he loves best to the shrine of the object
of his worship, so the lover is not content to see perfection in
his mistress, he must be ever trying to add to her adornment. She
does not need it for his pleasure, it is he who needs the pleasure
of giving, it is a fresh homage to be rendered to her, a fresh
pleasure in the joy of beholding her. Everything of beauty seems
to find its place only as an accessory to the supreme beauty.
It is both touching and amusing to see Emile eager to teach Sophy
everything he knows, without asking whether she wants to learn
it or whether it is suitable for her. He talks about all sorts of
things and explains them to her with boyish eagerness; he thinks
he has only to speak and she will understand; he looks forward to
arguing, and discussing philosophy with her; everything he cannot
display before her is so much useless learning; he is quite ashamed
of knowing more than she.
So he gives her lessons in philosophy, physics, mathematics, history,
and everything else. Sophy is delighted to share his enthusiasm
and to try and profit by it. How pleased Emile is when he can get
leave to give these lessons on his knees before her! He thinks
the heavens are open. Yet this position, more trying to pupil than
to teacher, is hardly favourable to study. It is not easy to know
where to look, to avoid meeting the eyes which follow our own, and
if they meet so much the worse for the lesson.
Women are no strangers to the art of thinking, but they should
only skim the surface of logic and metaphysics. Sophy understands
readily, but she soon forgets. She makes most progress in the moral
sciences and aesthetics; as to physical science she retains some
vague idea of the general laws and order of this world. Sometimes in
the course of their walks, the spectacle of the wonders of nature
bids them not fear to raise their pure and innocent hearts to
nature's God; they are not afraid of His presence, and they pour
out their hearts before him.
What! Two young lovers spending their time together talking of
religion! Have they nothing better to do than to say their catechism!
What profit is there in the attempt to degrade what is noble? Yes,
no doubt they are saying their catechism in their delightful land
of romance; they are perfect in each other's eyes; they love one
another, they talk eagerly of all that makes virtue worth having.
Their sacrifices to virtue make her all the dearer to them. Their
struggles after self-control draw from them tears purer than the
dew of heaven, and these sweet tears are the joy of life; no human
heart has ever experienced a sweeter intoxication. Their very
renunciation adds to their happiness, and their sacrifices increase
their self-respect. Sensual men, bodies without souls, some day
they will know your pleasures, and all their life long they will
recall with regret the happy days when they refused the cup of
pleasure.
In spite of this good understanding, differences and even quarrels
occur from time to time; the lady has her whims, the lover has a hot
temper; but these passing showers are soon over and only serve to
strengthen their union. Emile learns by experience not to attach too
much importance to them, he always gains more by the reconciliation
than he lost by the quarrel. The results of the first difference
made him expect a like result from all; he was mistaken, but even
if he does not make any appreciable step forward, he has always the
satisfaction of finding Sophy's genuine concern for his affection
more firmly established. "What advantage is this to him?" you
would ask. I will gladly tell you; all the more gladly because it
will give me an opportunity to establish clearly a very important
principle, and to combat a very deadly one.
Emile is in love, but he is not presuming; and you will easily
understand that the dignified Sophy is not the sort of girl to allow
any kind of familiarity. Yet virtue has its bounds like everything
else, and she is rather to be blamed for her severity than for
indulgence; even her father himself is sometimes afraid lest her
lofty pride should degenerate into a haughty spirit. When most
alone, Emile dare not ask for the slightest favour, he must not
even seem to desire it; and if she is gracious enough to take his
arm when they are out walking, a favour which she will never permit
him to claim as a right, it is only occasionally that he dare venture
with a sigh to press her hand to his heart. However, after a long
period of self-restraint, he ventured secretly to kiss the hem of
her dress, and several times he was lucky enough to find her willing
at least to pretend she was not aware of it. one day he attempts
to take the same privilege rather more openly, and Sophy takes it
into her head to be greatly offended. He persists, she gets angry
and speaks sharply to him; Emile will not put up with this without
reply; the rest of the day is given over to sulks, and they part
in a very ill temper.
Sophy is ill at ease; her mother is her confidant in all things,
how can she keep this from her? It is their first misunderstanding,
and the misunderstanding of an hour is such a serious business.
She is sorry for what she has done, she has her mother's permission
and her father's commands to make reparation.
The next day Emile returns somewhat earlier than usual and in a
state of some anxiety. Sophy is in her mother's dressing-room and
her father is also present. Emile enters respectfully but gloomily.
Scarcely have her parents greeted him than Sophy turns round and
holding out her hand asks him in an affectionate tone how he is.
That pretty hand is clearly held out to be kissed; he takes it but
does not kiss it. Sophy, rather ashamed of herself, withdraws her
hand as best she may. Emile, who is not used to a woman's whims,
and does not know how far caprice may be carried, does not forget
so easily or make friends again all at once. Sophy's father, seeing
her confusion, completes her discomfiture by his jokes. The poor
girl, confused and ashamed, does not know what to do with herself
and would gladly have a good cry. The more she tries to control
herself the worse she feels; at last a tear escapes in spite of all
she can do to prevent it. Emile, seeing this tear, rushes towards
her, falls on his knees, takes her hand and kisses it again
and again with the greatest devotion. "My word, you are too kind
to her," says her father, laughing; "if I were you, I should deal
more severely with these follies, I should punish the mouth that
wronged me." Emboldened by these words, Emile turns a suppliant
eye towards her mother, and thinking she is not unwilling, he
tremblingly approaches Sophy's face; she turns away her head, and
to save her mouth she exposes a blushing cheek. The daring young
man is not content with this; there is no great resistance. What
a kiss, if it were not taken under her mother's eyes. Have a care,
Sophy, in your severity; he will be ready enough to try to kiss
your dress if only you will sometimes say "No."
After this exemplary punishment, Sophy's father goes about his
business, and her mother makes some excuse for sending her out of
the room; then she speaks to Emile very seriously. "Sir," she says,
"I think a young man so well born and well bred as yourself, a man
of feeling and character, would never reward with dishonour the
confidence reposed in him by the friendship of this family. I am
neither prudish nor over strict; I know how to make excuses for
youthful folly, and what I have permitted in my own presence is
sufficient proof of this. Consult your friend as to your own duty,
he will tell you there is all the difference in the world between
the playful kisses sanctioned by the presence of father and mother,
and the same freedom taken in their absence and in betrayal of
their confidence, a freedom which makes a snare of the very favours
which in the parents' presence were wholly innocent. He will tell
you, sir, that my daughter is only to blame for not having perceived
from the first what she ought never to have permitted; he will tell
you that every favour, taken as such, is a favour, and that it is
unworthy of a man of honour to take advantage of a young girl's
innocence, to usurp in private the same freedom which she may
permit in the presence of others. For good manners teach us what
is permitted in public; but we do not know what a man will permit
to himself in private, if he makes himself the sole judge of his
conduct."
After this well-deserved rebuke, addressed rather to me than to
my pupil, the good mother leaves us, and I am amazed by her rare
prudence, in thinking it a little thing that Emile should kiss
her daughter's lips in her presence, while fearing lest he should
venture to kiss her dress when they are alone. When I consider
the folly of worldly maxims, whereby real purity is continually
sacrificed to a show of propriety, I understand why speech becomes
more refined while the heart becomes more corrupt, and why etiquette
is stricter while those who conform to it are most immoral.
While I am trying to convince Emile's heart with regard to these
duties which I ought to have instilled into him sooner, a new idea
occurs to me, an idea which perhaps does Sophy all the more credit,
though I shall take care not to tell her lover; this so-called
pride, for which she has been censured, is clearly only a very
wise precaution to protect her from herself. Being aware that,
unfortunately, her own temperament is inflammable, she dreads the
least spark, and keeps out of reach so far as she can. Her sternness
is due not to pride but to humility. She assumes a control over
Emile because she doubts her control of herself; she turns the one
against the other. If she had more confidence in herself she would
be much less haughty. With this exception is there anywhere on earth
a gentler, sweeter girl? Is there any who endures an affront with
greater patience, any who is more afraid of annoying others? Is
there any with less pretension, except in the matter of virtue?
Moreover, she is not proud of her virtue, she is only proud in order
to preserve her virtue, and if she can follow the guidance of her
heart without danger, she caresses her lover himself. But her wise
mother does not confide all this even to her father; men should
not hear everything.
Far from seeming proud of her conquest, Sophy has grown more friendly
and less exacting towards everybody, except perhaps the one person
who has wrought this change. Her noble heart no longer swells with
the feeling of independence. She triumphs modestly over a victory
gained at the price of her freedom. Her bearing is more restrained,
her speech more timid, since she has begun to blush at the word
"lover"; but contentment may be seen beneath her outward confusion
and this very shame is not painful. This change is most noticeable
in her behaviour towards the young men she meets. Now that she
has ceased to be afraid of them, much of her extreme reserve has
disappeared. Now that her choice is made, she does not hesitate
to be gracious to those to whom she is quite indifferent; taking
no more interest in them, she is less difficult to please, and she
always finds them pleasant enough for people who are of no importance
to her.
If true love were capable of coquetry, I should fancy I saw traces
of it in the way Sophy behaves towards other young men in her
lover's presence. one would say that not content with the ardent
passion she inspires by a mixture of shyness and caresses, she is
not sorry to rouse this passion by a little anxiety; one would say
that when she is purposely amusing her young guests she means to
torment Emile by the charms of a freedom she will not allow herself
with him; but Sophy is too considerate, too kindly, too wise to
really torment him. Love and honour take the place of prudence and
control the use of this dangerous weapon. She can alarm and reassure
him just as he needs it; and if she sometimes makes him uneasy she
never really gives him pain. The anxiety she causes to her beloved
may be forgiven because of her fear that he is not sufficiently
her own.
But what effect will this little performance have upon Emile?
Will he be jealous or not? That is what we must discover; for such
digressions form part of the purpose of my book, and they do not
lead me far from my main subject.
I have already shown how this passion of jealousy in matters
of convention finds its way into the heart of man. In love it is
another matter; then jealousy is so near akin to nature, that it
is hard to believe that it is not her work; and the example of the
very beasts, many of whom are madly jealous, seems to prove this
point beyond reply. Is it man's influence that has taught cooks to
tear each other to pieces or bulls to fight to the death?
No one can deny that the aversion to everything which may disturb
or interfere with our pleasures is a natural impulse. Up to a
certain point the desire for the exclusive possession of that which
ministers to our pleasure is in the same case. But when this desire
has become a passion, when it is transformed into madness, or into
a bitter and suspicious fancy known as jealousy, that is quite
another matter; such a passion may be natural or it may not; we
must distinguish between these different cases.
I have already analysed the example of the animal world in my
Discourse on Inequality, and on further consideration I think I may
refer my readers to that analysis as sufficiently thorough. I will
only add this further point to those already made in that work, that
the jealousy which springs from nature depends greatly on sexual
power, and that when sexual power is or appears to be boundless, that
jealousy is at its height; for then the male, measuring his rights
by his needs, can never see another male except as an unwelcome
rival. In such species the females always submit to the first
comer, they only belong to the male by right of conquest, and they
are the cause of unending strife.
Among the monogamous species, where intercourse seems to give rise
to some sort of moral bond, a kind of marriage, the female who
belongs by choice to the male on whom she has bestowed herself
usually denies herself to all others; and the male, having this
preference of affection as a pledge of her fidelity, is less uneasy
at the sight of other males and lives more peaceably with them.
Among these species the male shares the care of the little ones; and
by one of those touching laws of nature it seems as if the female
rewards the father for his love for his children.
Now consider the human species in its primitive simplicity; it is
easy to see, from the limited powers of the male, and the moderation
of his desires, that nature meant him to be content with one female;
this is confirmed by the numerical equality of the two sexes, at any
rate in our part of the world; an equality which does not exist in
anything like the same degree among those species in which several
females are collected around one male. Though a man does not brood
like a pigeon, and though he has no milk to suckle the young, and
must in this respect be classed with the quadrupeds, his children
are feeble and helpless for so long a time, that mother and children
could ill dispense with the father's affection, and the care which
results from it.
All these observations combine to prove that the jealous fury of
the males of certain animals proves nothing with regard to man;
and the exceptional case of those southern regions were polygamy
is the established custom, only confirms the rule, since it is the
plurality of wives that gives rise to the tyrannical precautions
of the husband, and the consciousness of his own weakness makes
the man resort to constraint to evade the laws of nature.
Among ourselves where these same laws are less frequently evaded in
this respect, but are more frequently evaded in another and even
more detestable manner, jealousy finds its motives in the passions of
society rather than in those of primitive instinct. In most irregular
connections the hatred of the lover for his rivals far exceeds his
love for his mistress; if he fears a rival in her affections it
is the effect of that self-love whose origin I have already traced
out, and he is moved by vanity rather than affection. Moreover,
our clumsy systems of education have made women so deceitful,
[Footnote: The kind of deceit referred to here is just the opposite
of that deceit becoming in a woman, and taught her by nature;
the latter consists in concealing her real feelings, the former
in feigning what she does not feel. Every society lady spends her
life in boasting of her supposed sensibility, when in reality she
cares for no one but herself.] and have so over-stimulated their
appetites, that you cannot rely even on the most clearly proved
affection; they can no longer display a preference which secures
you against the fear of a rival.
True love is another matter. I have shown, in the work already
referred to, that this sentiment is not so natural as men think,
and that there is a great difference between the gentle habit which
binds a man with cords of love to his helpmeet, and the unbridled
passion which is intoxicated by the fancied charms of an object
which he no longer sees in its true light. This passion which is
full of exclusions and preferences, only differs from vanity in
this respect, that vanity demands all and gives nothing, so that
it is always harmful, while love, bestowing as much as it demands,
is in itself a sentiment full of equity. Moreover, the more
exacting it is, the more credulous; that very illusion which gave
rise to it, makes it easy to persuade. If love is suspicious, esteem
is trustful; and love will never exist in an honest heart without
esteem, for every one loves in another the qualities which he
himself holds in honour.
When once this is clearly understood, we can predict with confidence
the kind of jealousy which Emile will be capable of experiencing;
as there is only the smallest germ of this passion in the human
heart, the form it takes must depend solely upon education: Emile,
full of love and jealousy, will not be angry, sullen, suspicious,
but delicate, sensitive, and timid; he will be more alarmed than vexed;
he will think more of securing his lady-love than of threatening his
rival; he will treat him as an obstacle to be removed if possible
from his path, rather than as a rival to be hated; if he hates
him, it is not because he presumes to compete with him for Sophy's
affection, but because Emile feels that there is a real danger of
losing that affection; he will not be so unjust and foolish as to
take offence at the rivalry itself; he understands that the law
of preference rests upon merit only, and that honour depends upon
success; he will redouble his efforts to make himself acceptable,
and he will probably succeed. His generous Sophy, though she has
given alarm to his love, is well able to allay that fear, to atone
for it; and the rivals who were only suffered to put him to the
proof are speedily dismissed.
But whither am I going? O Emile! what art thou now? Is this my pupil?
How art thou fallen! Where is that young man so sternly fashioned,
who braved all weathers, who devoted his body to the hardest tasks
and his soul to the laws of wisdom; untouched by prejudice or
passion, a lover of truth, swayed by reason only, unheeding all that
was not hers? Living in softness and idleness he now lets himself
be ruled by women; their amusements are the business of his life,
their wishes are his laws; a young girl is the arbiter of his
fate, he cringes and grovels before her; the earnest Emile is the
plaything of a child.
So shift the scenes of life; each age is swayed by its own motives,
but the man is the same. At ten his mind was set upon cakes, at
twenty it is set upon his mistress; at thirty it will be set upon
pleasure; at forty on ambition, at fifty on avarice; when will
he seek after wisdom only? Happy is he who is compelled to follow
her against his will! What matter who is the guide, if the end is
attained. Heroes and sages have themselves paid tribute to this
human weakness; and those who handled the distaff with clumsy
fingers were none the less great men.
If you would prolong the influence of a good education through
life itself, the good habits acquired in childhood must be carried
forward into adolescence, and when your pupil is what he ought to
be you must manage to keep him what he ought to be. This is the
coping-stone of your work. This is why it is of the first importance
that the tutor should remain with young men; otherwise there is
little doubt they will learn to make love without him. The great
mistake of tutors and still more of fathers is to think that one way
of living makes another impossible, and that as soon as the child
is grown up, you must abandon everything you used to do when he was
little. If that were so, why should we take such pains in childhood,
since the good or bad use we make of it will vanish with childhood
itself; if another way of life were necessarily accompanied by
other ways of thinking?
The stream of memory is only interrupted by great illnesses, and the
stream of conduct, by great passions. Our tastes and inclinations
may change, but this change, though it may be sudden enough, is
rendered less abrupt by our habits. The skilful artist, in a good
colour scheme, contrives so to mingle and blend his tints that the
transitions are imperceptible; and certain colour washes are spread
over the whole picture so that there may be no sudden breaks. So
should it be with our likings. Unbalanced characters are always
changing their affections, their tastes, their sentiments; the
only constant factor is the habit of change; but the man of settled
character always returns to his former habits and preserves to old
age the tastes and the pleasures of his childhood.
If you contrive that young people passing from one stage of life
to another do not despise what has gone before, that when they form
new habits, they do not forsake the old, and that they always love
to do what is right, in things new and old; then only are the fruits
of your toil secure, and you are sure of your scholars as long as
they live; for the revolution most to be dreaded is that of the age
over which you are now watching. As men always look back to this
period with regret so the tastes carried forward into it from
childhood are not easily destroyed; but if once interrupted they
are never resumed.
Most of the habits you think you have instilled into children and
young people are not really habits at all; they have only been
acquired under compulsion, and being followed reluctantly they
will be cast off at the first opportunity. However long you remain
in prison you never get a taste for prison life; so aversion is
increased rather than diminished by habit. Not so with Emile; as
a child he only did what he could do willingly and with pleasure,
and as a man he will do the same, and the force of habit will
only lend its help to the joys of freedom. An active life, bodily
labour, exercise, movement, have become so essential to him that
he could not relinquish them without suffering. Reduce him all at
once to a soft and sedentary life and you condemn him to chains
and imprisonment, you keep him in a condition of thraldom and
constraint; he would suffer, no doubt, both in health and temper.
He can scarcely breathe in a stuffy room, he requires open air,
movement, fatigue. Even at Sophy's feet he cannot help casting
a glance at the country and longing to explore it in her company.
Yet he remains if he must; but he is anxious and ill at ease;
he seems to be struggling with himself; he remains because he is
a captive. "Yes," you will say, "these are necessities to which
you have subjected him, a yoke which you have laid upon him." You
speak truly, I have subjected him to the yoke of manhood.
Emile loves Sophy; but what were the charms by which he was first
attracted? Sensibility, virtue, and love for things pure and honest.
When he loves this love in Sophy, will he cease to feel it himself?
And what price did she put upon herself? She required all her
lover's natural feelings--esteem of what is really good, frugality,
simplicity, generous unselfishness, a scorn of pomp and riches.
These virtues were Emile's before love claimed them of him. Is he
really changed? He has all the more reason to be himself; that is
the only difference. The careful reader will not suppose that all
the circumstances in which he is placed are the work of chance.
There were many charming girls in the town; is it chance that his
choice is discovered in a distant retreat? Is their meeting the work
of chance? Is it chance that makes them so suited to each other?
Is it chance that they cannot live in the same place, that he is
compelled to find a lodging so far from her? Is it chance that he
can see her so seldom and must purchase the pleasure of seeing her
at the price of such fatigue? You say he is becoming effeminate.
Not so, he is growing stronger; he must be fairly robust to stand
the fatigue he endures on Sophy's account.
He lives more than two leagues away. That distance serves to temper
the shafts of love. If they lived next door to each other, or if
he could drive to see her in a comfortable carriage, he would love
at his ease in the Paris fashion. Would Leander have braved death
for the sake of Hero if the sea had not lain between them? Need I
say more; if my reader is able to take my meaning, he will be able
to follow out my principles in detail.
The first time we went to see Sophy, we went on horseback, so as
to get there more quickly. We continue this convenient plan until
our fifth visit. We were expected; and more than half a league
from the house we see people on the road. Emile watches them, his
pulse quickens as he gets nearer, he recognises Sophy and dismounts
quickly; he hastens to join the charming family. Emile is fond of
good horses; his horse is fresh, he feels he is free, and gallops
off across the fields; I follow and with some difficulty I succeed
in catching him and bringing him back. Unluckily Sophy is afraid
of horses, and I dare not approach her. Emile has not seen what
happened, but Sophy whispers to him that he is giving his friend
a great deal of trouble. He hurries up quite ashamed of himself,
takes the horses, and follows after the party. It is only fair
that each should take his turn and he rides on to get rid of our
mounts. He has to leave Sophy behind him, and he no longer thinks
riding a convenient mode of travelling. He returns out of breath
and meets us half-way.
The next time, Emile will not hear of horses. "Why," say I, "we need
only take a servant to look after them." "Shall we put our worthy
friends to such expense?" he replies. "You see they would insist
on feeding man and horse." "That is true," I reply; "theirs is the
generous hospitality of the poor. The rich man in his niggardly
pride only welcomes his friends, but the poor find room for their
friends' horses." "Let us go on foot," says he; "won't you venture
on the walk, when you are always so ready to share the toilsome
pleasures of your child?" "I will gladly go with you," I reply at
once, "and it seems to me that love does not desire so much show."
As we draw near, we meet the mother and daughter even further from
home than on the last occasion. We have come at a great pace. Emile
is very warm; his beloved condescends to pass her handkerchief
over his cheeks. It would take a good many horses to make us ride
there after this.
But it is rather hard never to be able to spend an evening together.
Midsummer is long past and the days are growing shorter. Whatever
we say, we are not allowed to return home in the dark, and unless
we make a very early start, we have to go back almost as soon as
we get there. The mother is sorry for us and uneasy on our account,
and it occurs to her that, though it would not be proper for us to
stay in the house, beds might be found for us in the village, if
we liked to stay there occasionally. Emile claps his hands at this
idea and trembles with joy; Sophy, unwittingly, kisses her mother
rather oftener than usual on the day this idea occurs to her.
Little by little the charm of friendship and the familiarity
of innocence take root and grow among us. I generally accompany
my young friend on the days appointed by Sophy or her mother, but
sometimes I let him go alone. The heart thrives in the sunshine
of confidence, and a man must not be treated as a child; and what
have I accomplished so far, if my pupil is unworthy of my esteem?
Now and then I go without him; he is sorry, but he does not complain;
what use would it be? And then he knows I shall not interfere with
his interests. However, whether we go together or separately you
will understand that we are not stopped by the weather; we are only
too proud to arrive in a condition which calls for pity. Unluckily
Sophy deprives us of this honour and forbids us to come in bad
weather. This is the only occasion on which she rebels against
the rules which I laid down for her in private.
One day Emile had gone alone and I did not expect him back till the
following day, but he returned the same evening. "My dear Emile,"
said I, "have you come back to your old friend already?" But instead
of responding to my caresses he replied with some show of temper,
"You need not suppose I came back so soon of my own accord;
she insisted on it; it is for her sake not yours that I am here."
Touched by his frankness I renewed my caresses, saying, "Truthful
heart and faithful friend, do not conceal from me anything I ought
to know. If you came back for her sake, you told me so for my own;
your return is her doing, your frankness is mine. Continue to
preserve the noble candour of great souls; strangers may think what
they will, but it is a crime to let our friends think us better
than we are."
I take care not to let him underrate the cost of his confession
by assuming that there is more love than generosity in it, and by
telling him that he would rather deprive himself of the honour of
this return, than give it to Sophy. But this is how he revealed
to me, all unconsciously, what were his real feelings; if he had
returned slowly and comfortably, dreaming of his sweetheart, I
should know he was merely her lover; when he hurried back, even if
he was a little out of temper, he was the friend of his Mentor.
You see that the young man is very far from spending his days with
Sophy, and seeing as much of her as he wants. one or two visits
a week are all that is permitted, and these visits are often only
for the afternoon and are rarely extended to the next day. He spends
much more of his time in longing to see her, or in rejoicing that
he has seen her, than he actually spends in her presence. Even when
he goes to see her, more time is spent in going and returning than
by her side. His pleasures, genuine, pure, delicious, but more
imaginary than real, serve to kindle his love but not to make him
effeminate.
On the days when he does not see Sophy he is not sitting idle at
home. He is Emile himself and quite unchanged. He usually scours
the country round in pursuit of its natural history; he observes
and studies the soil, its products, and their mode of cultivation;
he compares the methods he sees with those with which he is already
familiar; he tries to find the reasons for any differences; if he
thinks other methods better than those of the locality, he introduces
them to the farmers' notice; if he suggests a better kind of
plough, he has one made from his own drawings; if he finds a lime
pit he teaches them how to use the lime on the land, a process
new to them; he often lends a hand himself; they are surprised to
find him handling all manner of tools more easily than they can
themselves; his furrows are deeper and straighter than theirs,
he is a more skilful sower, and his beds for early produce are
more cleverly planned. They do not scoff at him as a fine talker,
they see he knows what he is talking about. In a word, his zeal
and attention are bestowed on everything that is really useful to
everybody; nor does he stop there. He visits the peasants in their
homes; inquires into their circumstances, their families, the
number of their children, the extent of their holdings, the nature
of their produce, their markets, their rights, their burdens, their
debts, etc. He gives away very little money, for he knows it is
usually ill spent; but he himself directs the use of his money,
and makes it helpful to them without distributing it among them.
He supplies them with labourers, and often pays them for work done
by themselves, on tasks for their own benefit. For one he has the
falling thatch repaired or renewed; for another he clears a piece
of land which had gone out of cultivation for lack of means; to
another he gives a cow, a horse, or stock of any kind to replace
a loss; two neighbours are ready to go to law, he wins them over,
and makes them friends again; a peasant falls ill, he has him cared
for, he looks after him himself; [Footnote: To look after a sick
peasant is not merely to give him a pill, or medicine, or to send
a surgeon to him. That is not what these poor folk require in
sickness; what they want is more and better food. When you have
fever, you will do well to fast, but when your peasants have it, give
them meat and wine; illness, in their case, is nearly always due to
poverty and exhaustion; your cellar will supply the best draught,
your butchers will be the best apothecary.] another is harassed by
a rich and powerful neighbor, he protects him and speaks on his
behalf; young people are fond of one another, he helps forward their
marriage; a good woman has lost her beloved child, he goes to see
her, he speaks words of comfort and sits a while with her; he does
not despise the poor, he is in no hurry to avoid the unfortunate;
he often takes his dinner with some peasant he is helping, and he
will even accept a meal from those who have no need of his help;
though he is the benefactor of some and the friend of all, he is
none the less their equal. In conclusion, he always does as much
good by his personal efforts as by his money.
Sometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode;
he may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walking
without being seen. But Emile is always quite open in everything
he does; he neither can nor would deceive. His delicacy is of that
pleasing type in which pride rests on the foundation of a good
conscience. He keeps strictly within bounds, and never comes near
enough to gain from chance what he only desires to win from Sophy
herself. on the other hand, he delights to roam about the neighbourhood,
looking for the trace of Sophy's steps, feeling what pains she has
taken and what a distance she has walked to please him.
The day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm and
order a little feast for the morrow. We shall take our walk in that
direction without any special object, we shall turn in apparently
by chance; fruit, cakes, and cream are waiting for us. Sophy likes
sweets, so is not insensible to these attentions, and she is quite
ready to do honour to what we have provided; for I always have my
share of the credit even if I have had no part in the trouble; it
is a girl's way of returning thanks more easily. Her father and I
have cakes and wine; Emile keeps the ladies company and is always
on the look-out to secure a dish of cream in which Sophy has dipped
her spoon.
The cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run. Every
one wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; they
ask him if he can run as well as ever. "Better," says he; "I should
be sorry to forget how to run." one member of the company is dying
to see him run, but she dare not say so; some one else undertakes
to suggest it; he agrees and we send for two or three young men
of the neighbourhood; a prize is offered, and in imitation of our
earlier games a cake is placed on the goal. Every one is ready,
Sophy's father gives the signal by clapping his hands. The nimble
Emile flies like lightning and reaches the goal almost before the
others have started. He receives his prize at Sophy's hands, and
no less generous than Aeneas, he gives gifts to all the vanquished.
In the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor,
and to assert that she can run as fast as he. He does not refuse to
enter the lists with her, and while she is getting ready to start,
while she is tucking up her skirt at each side, more eager to show
Emile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him in the race, while she
is seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he whispers a word
to her mother who smiles and nods approval. Then he takes his place
by his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than she is off
like a bird.
Women were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken.
Running is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only thing
they do awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and pointed
backwards look ridiculous, and the high heels on which they are
perched make them look like so many grasshoppers trying to run
instead of to jump.
Emile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, does
not deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a smile
of mockery. But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low heels;
she needs no pretence to make her foot look smaller; she runs so
quickly that he has only just time to overtake this new Atalanta
when he sees her so far ahead. Then he starts like an eagle dashing
upon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps her at last
quite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm about her,
he lifts her like a feather, and pressing his sweet burden to his
heart, he finishes the race, makes her touch the goal first, and
then exclaiming, "Sophy wins!" he sinks on one knee before her and
owns himself beaten.
Along with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt. one
day a week at least, and every day when the weather is too bad for
country pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner.
We do not work for show, like people above our trade; we work in
earnest like regular workmen. once when Sophy's father came to see
us, he found us at work, and did not fail to report his wonder to
his wife and daughter. "Go and see that young man in the workshop,"
said he, "and you will soon see if he despises the condition of
the poor." You may fancy how pleased Sophy was at this! They talk
it over, and they decide to surprise him at his work. They question
me, apparently without any special object, and having made sure of
the time, mother and daughter take a little carriage and come to
town on that very day.
On her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a young
man in his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at work
that he does not see her; she makes a sign to her mother. Emile,
a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, is just finishing
a mortise; then he saws a piece of wood and places it in the vice
in order to polish it. The sight of this does not set Sophy laughing;
it affects her greatly; it wins her respect. Woman, honour your
master; he it is who works for you, he it is who gives you bread
to eat; this is he!
While they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile by
the sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to them
with an exclamation of delight. After he has given way to his first
raptures, he makes them take a seat and he goes back to his work.
But Sophy cannot keep quiet; she gets up hastily, runs about the
workshop, looks at the tools, feels the polish of the boards, picks
up shavings, looks at our hands, and says she likes this trade, it
is so clean. The merry girl tries to copy Emile. With her delicate
white hand she passes a plane over a bit of wood; the plane slips
and makes no impression. It seems to me that Love himself is hovering
over us and beating his wings; I think I can hear his joyous cries,
"Hercules is avenged."
Yet Sophy's mother questions the master. "Sir, how much do you pay
these two men a day?" "I give them each tenpence a day and their
food; but if that young fellow wanted he could earn much more, for
he is the best workman in the country." "Tenpence a day and their
food," said she looking at us tenderly. "That is so, madam," replied
the master. At these words she hurries up to Emile, kisses him,
and clasps him to her breast with tears; unable to say more she
repeats again and again, "My son, my son!"
When they had spent some time chatting with us, but without
interrupting our work, "We must be going now," said the mother to
her daughter, "it is getting late and we must not keep your father
waiting." Then approaching Emile she tapped him playfully on the
cheek, saying, "Well, my good workman, won't you come with us?" He
replied sadly, "I am at work, ask the master." The master is asked
if he can spare us. He replies that he cannot. "I have work on
hand," said he, "which is wanted the day after to-morrow, so there
is not much time. Counting on these gentlemen I refused other
workmen who came; if they fail me I don't know how to replace them
and I shall not be able to send the work home at the time promised."
The mother said nothing, she was waiting to hear what Emile would
say. Emile hung his head in silence. "Sir," she said, somewhat
surprised at this, "have you nothing to say to that?" Emile looked
tenderly at her daughter and merely said, "You see I am bound to
stay." Then the ladies left us. Emile went with them to the door,
gazed after them as long as they were in sight, and returned to
his work without a word.
On the way home, the mother, somewhat vexed at his conduct, spoke
to her daughter of the strange way in which he had behaved. "Why,"
said she, "was it so difficult to arrange matters with the master
without being obliged to stay. The young man is generous enough
and ready to spend money when there is no need for it, could not
he spend a little on such a fitting occasion?" "Oh, mamma," replied
Sophy, "I trust Emile will never rely so much on money as to use it
to break an engagement, to fail to keep his own word, and to make
another break his! I know he could easily give the master a trifle
to make up for the slight inconvenience caused by his absence; but
his soul would become the slave of riches, he would become accustomed
to place wealth before duty, and he would think that any duty might
be neglected provided he was ready to pay. That is not Emile's way
of thinking, and I hope he will never change on my account. Do you
think it cost him nothing to stay? You are quite wrong, mamma; it
was for my sake that he stayed; I saw it in his eyes."
It is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love; on
the contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather not
be loved at all than be loved half-heartedly. Hers is the noble
pride of worth, conscious of its own value, self-respecting and
claiming a like honour from others. She would scorn a heart that
did not recognise the full worth of her own; that did not love
her for her virtues as much and more than for her charms; a heart
which did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything. She did
not desire a lover who knew no will but hers. She wished to reign
over a man whom she had not spoilt. Thus Circe, having changed into
swine the comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on him over whom
she had no power.
Except for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealous
of her own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them,
how zealously he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes,
how exactly he arrives at the appointed time; she will have him
neither late nor early; he must arrive to the moment. To come early
is to think more of himself than of her; to come late is to neglect
her. To neglect Sophy, that could not happen twice. An unfounded
suspicion on her part nearly ruined everything, but Sophy is really
just and knows how to atone for her faults.
They were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders.
They came to meet us, but we were not there. What has become of us?
What accident have we met with? No message from us! The evening
is spent in expectation of our arrival. Sophy thinks we are dead;
she is miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the night
through. In the course of the evening a messenger was despatched to
inquire after us and bring back news in the morning. The messenger
returns together with another messenger sent by us, who makes our
excuses verbally and says we are quite well. Then the scene is
changed; Sophy dries her tears, or if she still weeps it is for
anger. It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know that we
are alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting.
When we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parents
desire her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding at
once what course she will take she assumes a calm and contented
ｅxpression which would deceive most people. Her father comes forward
to receive us saying, "You have made your friends very uneasy;
there are people here who will not forgive you very readily." "Who
are they, papa," said Sophy with the most gracious smile she could
assume. "What business is that of yours," said her father, "if it
is not you?" Sophy bent over her work without reply. Her mother
received us coldly and formally. Emile was so confused he dared not
speak to Sophy. She spoke first, inquired how he was, asked him to
take a chair, and pretended so cleverly that the poor young fellow,
who as yet knew nothing of the language of angry passions, was quite
deceived by her apparent indifference, and ready to take offence
on his own account.
To undeceive him I was going to take Sophy's hand and raise it to
my lips as I sometimes did; she drew it back so hastily, with the
word, "Sir," uttered in such a strange manner that Emile's eyes
were opened at once by this involuntary movement.
Sophy herself, seeing that she had betrayed herself, exercised less
control over herself. Her apparent indifference was succeeded by
scornful irony. She replied to everything he said in monosyllables
uttered slowly and hesitatingly as if she were afraid her anger
should show itself too plainly. Emile half dead with terror stared
at her full of sorrow, and tried to get her to look at him so that
his eyes might read in hers her real feelings. Sophy, still more
angry at his boldness, gave him one look which removed all wish
for another. Luckily for himself, Emile, trembling and dumbfounded,
dared neither look at her nor speak to her again; for had he not
been guilty, had he been able to endure her wrath, she would never
have forgiven him.
Seeing that it was my turn now, and that the time was ripe for
explanation, I returned to Sophy. I took her hand and this time
she did not snatch it away; she was ready to faint. I said gently,
"Dear Sophy, we are the victims of misfortune; but you are just and
reasonable; you will not judge us unheard; listen to what we have
to say." She said nothing and I proceeded--
"We set out yesterday at four o'clock; we were told to be here at
seven, and we always allow ourselves rather more time than we need,
so as to rest a little before we get here. We were more than half
way here when we heard lamentable groans, which came from a little
valley in the hillside, some distance off. We hurried towards the
place and found an unlucky peasant who had taken rather more wine
than was good for him; on his way home he had fallen heavily from
his horse and broken his leg. We shouted and called for help; there
was no answer; we tried to lift the injured man on his horse, but
without success; the least movement caused intense agony. We decided
to tie up the horse in a quiet part of the wood; then we made a
chair of our crossed arms and carried the man as gently as possible,
following his directions till we got him home. The way was long,
and we were constantly obliged to stop and rest. At last we got
there, but thoroughly exhausted. We were surprised and sorry to find
that it was a house we knew already and that the wretched creature
we had carried with such difficulty was the very man who received
us so kindly when first we came. We had all been so upset that
until that moment we had not recognised each other.
"There were only two little children. His wife was about to present
him with another, and she was so overwhelmed at the sight of him
brought home in such a condition, that she was taken ill and a few
hours later gave birth to another little one. What was to be done
under such circumstances in a lonely cottage far from any help?
Emile decided to fetch the horse we had left in the wood, to ride
as fast as he could into the town and fetch a surgeon. He let the
surgeon have the horse, and not succeeding in finding a nurse all
at once, he returned on foot with a servant, after having sent a
messenger to you; meanwhile I hardly knew what to do between a man
with a broken leg and a woman in travail, but I got ready as well
as I could such things in the house as I thought would be needed
for the relief of both.
"I will pass over the rest of the details; they are not to the
point. It was two o'clock in the morning before we got a moment's
rest. At last we returned before daybreak to our lodging close at
hand, where we waited till you were up to let you know what had
happened to us."
That was all I said. But before any one could speak Emile,
approaching Sophy, raised his voice and said with greater firmness
than I expected, "Sophy, my fate is in your hands, as you very well
know. You may condemn me to die of grief; but do not hope to make
me forget the rights of humanity; they are even more sacred in my
eyes than your own rights; I will never renounce them for you."
For all answer, Sophy rose, put her arm round his neck, and kissed
him on the cheek; then offering him her hand with inimitable grace
she said to him, "Emile, take this hand; it is yours. When you will,
you shall be my husband and my master; I will try to be worthy of
that honour."
Scarcely had she kissed him, when her delighted father clapped his
hands calling, "Encore, encore," and Sophy without further ado,
kissed him twice on the other cheek; but afraid of what she had done
she took refuge at once in her mother's arms and hid her blushing
face on the maternal bosom.
I will not describe our happiness; everybody will feel with us.
After dinner Sophy asked if it were too far to go and see the
poor invalids. It was her wish and it was a work of mercy. When we
got there we found them both in bed--Emile had sent for a second
bedstead; there were people there to look after them--Emile had
seen to it. But in spite of this everything was so untidy that they
suffered almost as much from discomfort as from their condition.
Sophy asked for one of the good wife's aprons and set to work to
make her more comfortable in her bed; then she did as much for the
man; her soft and gentle hand seemed to find out what was hurting
them and how to settle them into less painful positions. Her
very presence seemed to make them more comfortable; she seemed to
guess what was the matter. This fastidious girl was not disgusted
by the dirt or smells, and she managed to get rid of both without
disturbing the sick people. She who had always appeared so modest
and sometimes so disdainful, she who would not for all the world
have touched a man's bed with her little finger, lifted the sick
man and changed his linen without any fuss, and placed him to rest
in a more comfortable position. The zeal of charity is of more
value than modesty. What she did was done so skilfully and with
such a light touch that he felt better almost without knowing she
had touched him. Husband and wife mingled their blessings upon the
kindly girl who tended, pitied, and consoled them. She was an angel
from heaven come to visit them; she was an angel in face and manner,
in gentleness and goodness. Emile was greatly touched by all this
and he watched her without speaking. O man, love thy helpmeet. God
gave her to relieve thy sufferings, to comfort thee in thy troubles.
This is she!
The new-born baby was baptised. The two lovers were its god-parents,
and as they held it at the font they were longing, at the bottom of
their hearts, for the time when they should have a child of their
own to be baptised. They longed for their wedding day; they thought
it was close at hand; all Sophy's scruples had vanished, but mine
remained. They had not got so far as they expected; every one must
have his turn.
One morning when they had not seen each other for two whole days,
I entered Emile's room with a letter in my hands, and looking
fixedly at him I said to him, "What would you do if some one told
you Sophy were dead?" He uttered a loud cry, got up and struck his
hands together, and without saying a single word, he looked at me
with eyes of desperation. "Answer me," I continued with the same
calmness. Vexed at my composure, he then approached me with eyes
blazing with anger; and checking himself in an almost threatening
attitude, "What would I do? I know not; but this I do know, I would
never set eyes again upon the person who brought me such news."
"Comfort yourself," said I, smiling, "she lives, she is well, and
they are expecting us this evening. But let us go for a short walk
and we can talk things over."
The passion which engrosses him will no longer permit him to devote
himself as in former days to discussions of pure reason; this very
passion must be called to our aid if his attention is to be given
to my teaching. That is why I made use of this terrible preface;
I am quite sure he will listen to me now.
"We must be happy, dear Emile; it is the end of every feeling
creature; it is the first desire taught us by nature, and the only
one which never leaves us. But where is happiness? Who knows? Every
one seeks it, and no one finds it. We spend our lives in the search
and we die before the end is attained. My young friend, when I
took you, a new-born infant, in my arms, and called God himself to
witness to the vow I dared to make that I would devote my life to
the happiness of your life, did I know myself what I was undertaking?
No; I only knew that in making you happy, I was sure of my own
happiness. By making this useful inquiry on your account, I made
it for us both.
"So long as we do not know what to do, wisdom consists in doing
nothing. Of all rules there is none so greatly needed by man, and
none which he is less able to obey. In seeking happiness when we
know not where it is, we are perhaps getting further and further
from it, we are running as many risks as there are roads to choose
from. But it is not every one that can keep still. Our passion
for our own well-being makes us so uneasy, that we would rather
deceive ourselves in the search for happiness than sit still and do
nothing; and when once we have left the place where we might have
known happiness, we can never return.
"In ignorance like this I tried to avoid a similar fault. When
I took charge of you I decided to take no useless steps and to
prevent you from doing so too. I kept to the path of nature, until
she should show me the path of happiness. And lo! their paths were
the same, and without knowing it this was the path I trod.
"Be at once my witness and my judge; I will never refuse to accept
your decision. Your early years have not been sacrificed to those
that were to follow, you have enjoyed all the good gifts which
nature bestowed upon you. Of the ills to which you were by nature
subject, and from which I could shelter you, you have only experienced
such as would harden you to bear others. You have never suffered
any evil, except to escape a greater. You have known neither hatred
nor servitude. Free and happy, you have remained just and kindly;
for suffering and vice are inseparable, and no man ever became bad
until he was unhappy. May the memory of your childhood remain with
you to old age! I am not afraid that your kind heart will ever
recall the hand that trained it without a blessing upon it.
"When you reached the age of reason, I secured you from the influence
of human prejudice; when your heart awoke I preserved you from the
sway of passion. Had I been able to prolong this inner tranquillity
till your life's end, my work would have been secure, and you would
have been as happy as man can be; but, my dear Emile, in vain did
I dip you in the waters of Styx, I could not make you everywhere
invulnerable; a fresh enemy has appeared, whom you have not yet
learnt to conquer, and from whom I cannot save you. That enemy
is yourself. Nature and fortune had left you free. You could face
poverty, you could bear bodily pain; the sufferings of the heart
were unknown to you; you were then dependent on nothing but your
position as a human being; now you depend on all the ties you have
formed for yourself; you have learnt to desire, and you are now
the slave of your desires. Without any change in yourself, without
any insult, any injury to yourself, what sorrows may attack your
soul, what pains may you suffer without sickness, how many deaths
may you die and yet live! A lie, an error, a suspicion, may plunge
you in despair.
"At the theatre you used to see heroes, abandoned to depths of woe,
making the stage re-echo with their wild cries, lamenting like
women, weeping like children, and thus securing the applause of the
audience. Do you remember how shocked you were by those lamentations,
cries, and groans, in men from whom one would only expect deeds of
constancy and heroism. 'Why,' said you, 'are those the patterns we
are to follow, the models set for our imitation! Are they afraid
man will not be small enough, unhappy enough, weak enough, if his
weakness is not enshrined under a false show of virtue.' My young
friend, henceforward you must be more merciful to the stage; you
have become one of those heroes.
"You know how to suffer and to die; you know how to bear the heavy
yoke of necessity in ills of the body, but you have not yet learnt
to give a law to the desires of your heart; and the difficulties
of life arise rather from our affections than from our needs. Our
desires are vast, our strength is little better than nothing. In his
wishes man is dependent on many things; in himself he is dependent
on nothing, not even on his own life; the more his connections are
multiplied, the greater his sufferings. Everything upon earth has
an end; sooner or later all that we love escapes from our fingers,
and we behave as if it would last for ever. What was your terror at
the mere suspicion of Sophy's death? Do you suppose she will live
for ever? Do not young people of her age die? She must die, my son,
and perhaps before you. Who knows if she is alive at this moment?
Nature meant you to die but once; you have prepared a second death
for yourself.
"A slave to your unbridled passions, how greatly are you to be
pitied! Ever privations, losses, alarms; you will not even enjoy
what is left. You will possess nothing because of the fear of losing
it; you will never be able to satisfy your passions, because you
desired to follow them continually. You will ever be seeking that
which will fly before you; you will be miserable and you will
become wicked. How can you be otherwise, having no care but your
unbridled passions! If you cannot put up with involuntary privations
how will you voluntarily deprive yourself? How can you sacrifice
desire to duty, and resist your heart in order to listen to your
reason? You would never see that man again who dared to bring you
word of the death of your mistress; how would you behold him who
would deprive you of her living self, him who would dare to tell
you, 'She is dead to you, virtue puts a gulf between you'? If you
must live with her whatever happens, whether Sophy is married or
single, whether you are free or not, whether she loves or hates
you, whether she is given or refused to you, no matter, it is your
will and you must have her at any price. Tell me then what crime
will stop a man who has no law but his heart's desires, who knows
not how to resist his own passions.
"My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue without
a struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifying
strength, and strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue is
the heritage of a creature weak by nature but strong by will; that
is the whole merit of the righteous man; and though we call God good
we do not call Him virtuous, because He does good without effort.
I waited to explain the meaning of this word, so often profaned,
until you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue is quite
easy to practise, there is little need to know it. This need arises
with the awakening of the passions; your time has come.
"When I brought you up in all the simplicity of nature, instead
of preaching disagreeable duties, I secured for you immunity from
the vices which make such duties disagreeable; I made lying not
so much hateful as unnecessary in your sight; I taught you not so
much to give others their due, as to care little about your own
rights; I made you kindly rather than virtuous. But the kindly man
is only kind so long as he finds it pleasant; kindness falls to
pieces at the shook of human passions; the kindly man is only kind
to himself.
"What is meant by a virtuous man? He who can conquer his affections;
for then he follows his reason, his conscience; he does his duty;
he is his own master and nothing can turn him from the right way.
So far you have had only the semblance of liberty, the precarious
liberty of the slave who has not received his orders. Now is the
time for real freedom; learn to be your own master; control your
heart, my Emile, and you will be virtuous.
"There is another apprenticeship before you, an apprenticeship more
difficult than the former; for nature delivers us from the evils
she lays upon us, or else she teaches us to submit to them; but
she has no message for us with regard to our self-imposed evils;
she leaves us to ourselves; she leaves us, victims of our own
passions, to succumb to our vain sorrows, to pride ourselves on
the tears of which we should be ashamed.
"This is your first passion. Perhaps it is the only passion worthy
of you. If you can control it like a man, it will be the last; you
will be master of all the rest, and you will obey nothing but the
passion for virtue.
"There is nothing criminal in this passion; I know it; it is as
pure as the hearts which experience it. It was born of honour and
nursed by innocence. Happy lovers! for you the charms of virtue do
but add to those of love; and the blessed union to which you are
looking forward is less the reward of your goodness than of your
affection. But tell me, O truthful man, though this passion is
pure, is it any the less your master? Are you the less its slave?
And if to-morrow it should cease to be innocent, would you strangle
it on the spot? Now is the time to try your strength; there is no
time for that in hours of danger. These perilous efforts should be
made when danger is still afar. We do not practise the use of our
weapons when we are face to face with the enemy, we do that before
the war; we come to the battle-field ready prepared.
"It is a mistake to classify the passions as lawful and unlawful,
so as to yield to the one and refuse the other. All alike are good
if we are their masters; all alike are bad if we abandon ourselves to
them. Nature forbids us to extend our relations beyond the limits
of our strength; reason forbids us to want what we cannot get,
conscience forbids us, not to be tempted, but to yield to temptation.
To feel or not to feel a passion is beyond our control, but we can
control ourselves. Every sentiment under our own control is lawful;
those which control us are criminal. A man is not guilty if he
loves his neighbour's wife, provided he keeps this unhappy passion
under the control of the law of duty; he is guilty if he loves his
own wife so greatly as to sacrifice everything to that love.
"Do not expect me to supply you with lengthy precepts of morality,
I have only one rule to give you which sums up all the rest. Be a
man; restrain your heart within the limits of your manhood. Study
and know these limits; however narrow they may be, we are not
unhappy within them; it is only when we wish to go beyond them that
we are unhappy, only when, in our mad passions, we try to attain
the impossible; we are unhappy when we forget our manhood to make
an imaginary world for ourselves, from which we are always slipping
back into our own. The only good things, whose loss really affects
us, are those which we claim as our rights. If it is clear that
we cannot obtain what we want, our mind turns away from it; wishes
without hope cease to torture us. A beggar is not tormented by a
desire to be a king; a king only wishes to be a god when he thinks
himself more than man.
"The illusions of pride are the source of our greatest ills; but
the contemplation of human suffering keeps the wise humble. He
keeps to his proper place and makes no attempt to depart from it;
he does not waste his strength in getting what he cannot keep; and
his whole strength being devoted to the right employment of what
he has, he is in reality richer and more powerful in proportion as
he desires less than we. A man, subject to death and change, shall
I forge for myself lasting chains upon this earth, where everything
changes and disappears, whence I myself shall shortly vanish! Oh,
Emile! my son! if I were to lose you, what would be left of myself?
And yet I must learn to lose you, for who knows when you may be
taken from me?
"Would you live in wisdom and happiness, fix your heart on the
beauty that is eternal; let your desires be limited by your position,
let your duties take precedence of your wishes; extend the law of
necessity into the region of morals; learn to lose what may be taken
from you; learn to forsake all things at the command of virtue,
to set yourself above the chances of life, to detach your heart
before it is torn in pieces, to be brave in adversity so that you
may never be wretched, to be steadfast in duty that you may never
be guilty of a crime. Then you will be happy in spite of fortune,
and good in spite of your passions. You will find a pleasure that
cannot be destroyed, even in the possession of the most fragile
things; you will possess them, they will not possess you, and you
will realise that the man who loses everything, only enjoys what
he knows how to resign. It is true you will not enjoy the illusions
of imaginary pleasures, neither will you feel the sufferings which
are their result. You will profit greatly by this exchange, for
the sufferings are real and frequent, the pleasures are rare and
empty. Victor over so many deceitful ideas, you will also vanquish
the idea that attaches such an excessive value to life. You will
spend your life in peace, and you will leave it without terror; you
will detach yourself from life as from other things. Let others,
horror-struck, believe that when this life is ended they cease to
be; conscious of the nothingness of life, you will think that you
are but entering upon the true life. To the wicked, death is the
close of life; to the just it is its dawn."
Emile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After such
a startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion. He foresaw
that when I showed him how necessary it is to practise the strength
of the soul, I desired to subject him to this stern discipline; he
was like a wounded man who shrinks from the surgeon, and fancies
he already feels the painful but healing touch which will cure the
deadly wound.
Uncertain, anxious, eager to know what I am driving at, he does
not answer, he questions me but timidly. "What must I do?" says
he almost trembling, not daring to raise his eyes. "What must you
do?" I reply firmly. "You must leave Sophy." "What are you saying?"
he exclaimed angrily. "Leave Sophy, leave Sophy, deceive her, become
a traitor, a villain, a perjurer!" "Why!" I continue, interrupting
him; "does Emile suppose I shall teach him to deserve such titles?"
"No," he continued with the same vigour. "Neither you nor any one
else; I am capable of preserving your work; I shall not deserve
such reproaches."
I was prepared for this first outburst; I let it pass unheeded. If
I had not the moderation I preach it would not be much use preaching
it! Emile knows me too well to believe me capable of demanding
any wrong action from him, and he knows that it would be wrong to
leave Sophy, in the sense he attaches to the phrase. So he waits
for an explanation. Then I resume my speech.
"My dear Emile, do you think any man whatsoever can be happier than
you have been for the last three months? If you think so, undeceive
yourself. Before tasting the pleasures of life you have plumbed
the depths of its happiness. There is nothing more than you have
already experienced. The joys of sense are soon over; habit invariably
destroys them. You have tasted greater joys through hope than you
will ever enjoy in reality. The imagination which adorns what we
long for, deserts its possession. With the exception of the one
self-existing Being, there is nothing beautiful except that which
is not. If that state could have lasted for ever, you would have
found perfect happiness. But all that is related to man shares his
decline; all is finite, all is fleeting in human life, and even
if the conditions which make us happy could be prolonged for ever,
habit would deprive us of all taste for that happiness. If external
circumstances remain unchanged, the heart changes; either happiness
forsakes us, or we forsake her.
"During your infatuation time has passed unheeded. Summer is over,
winter is at hand. Even if our expeditions were possible, at such
a time of year they would not be permitted. Whether we wish it or
no, we shall have to change our way of life; it cannot continue.
I read in your eager eyes that this does not disturb you greatly;
Sophy's confession and your own wishes suggest a simple plan
for avoiding the snow and escaping the journey. The plan has its
advantages, no doubt; but when spring returns, the snow will melt
and the marriage will remain; you must reckon for all seasons.
"You wish to marry Sophy and you have only known her five months!
You wish to marry her, not because she is a fit wife for you,
but because she pleases you; as if love were never mistaken as to
fitness, as if those, who begin with love, never ended with hatred!
I know she is virtuous; but is that enough? Is fitness merely a matter
of honour? It is not her virtue I misdoubt, it is her disposition.
Does a woman show her real character in a day? Do you know how
often you must have seen her and under what varying conditions to
really know her temper? Is four months of liking a sufficient pledge
for the rest of your life? A couple of months hence you may have
forgotten her; as soon as you are gone another may efface your
image in her heart; on your return you may find her as indifferent
as you have hitherto found her affectionate. Sentiments are not
a matter of principle; she may be perfectly virtuous and yet cease
to love you. I am inclined to think she will be faithful and true;
but who will answer for her, and who will answer for you if you
are not put to the proof? Will you postpone this trial till it is
too late, will you wait to know your true selves till parting is
no longer possible?
"Sophy is not eighteen, and you are barely twenty-two; this is the
age for love, but not for marriage. What a father and mother for
a family! If you want to know how to bring up children, you should
at least wait till you yourselves are children no longer. Do you
not know that too early motherhood has weakened the constitution,
destroyed the health, and shortened the life of many young women?
Do you not know that many children have always been weak and sickly
because their mother was little more than a child herself? When
mother and child are both growing, the strength required for their
growth is divided, and neither gets all that nature intended; are
not both sure to suffer? Either I know very little of Emile, or
he would rather wait and have a healthy wife and children, than
satisfy his impatience at the price of their life and health.
"Let us speak of yourself. You hope to be a husband and a father;
have you seriously considered your duties? When you become the head
of a family you will become a citizen of your country. And what is
a citizen of the state? What do you know about it? You have studied
your duties as a man, but what do you know of the duties of a
citizen? Do you know the meaning of such terms as government, laws,
country? Do you know the price you must pay for life, and for what
you must be prepared to die? You think you know everything, when
you really know nothing at all. Before you take your place in the
civil order, learn to perceive and know what is your proper place.
"Emile, you must leave Sophy; I do not bid you forsake her; if you
were capable of such conduct, she would be only too happy not to
have married you; you must leave her in order to return worthy of
her. Do not be vain enough to think yourself already worthy. How
much remains to be done! Come and fulfil this splendid task; come
and learn to submit to absence; come and earn the prize of fidelity,
so that when you return you may indeed deserve some honour, and
may ask her hand not as a favour but as a reward."
Unaccustomed to struggle with himself, untrained to desire one thing
and to will another, the young man will not give way; he resists,
he argues. Why should he refuse the happiness which awaits him?
Would he not despise the hand which is offered him if he hesitated
to accept it? Why need he leave her to learn what he ought to know?
And if it were necessary to leave her why not leave her as his
wife with a certain pledge of his return? Let him be her husband,
and he is ready to follow me; let them be married and he will leave
her without fear. "Marry her in order to leave her, dear Emile! what
a contradiction! A lover who can leave his mistress shows himself
capable of great things; a husband should never leave his wife
unless through necessity. To cure your scruples, I see the delay
must be involuntary on your part; you must be able to tell Sophy
you leave her against your will. Very well, be content, and since
you will not follow the commands of reason, you must submit to
another master. You have not forgotten your promise. Emile, you
must leave Sophy; I will have it."
For a moment or two he was downcast, silent, and thoughtful,
then looking me full in the face he said, "When do we start?" "In
a week's time," I replied; "Sophy must be prepared for our going.
Women are weaker than we are, and we must show consideration for
them; and this parting is not a duty for her as it is for you, so
she may be allowed to bear it less bravely."
The temptation to continue the daily history of their love up
to the time of their separation is very great; but I have already
presumed too much upon the good nature of my readers; let us abridge
the story so as to bring it to an end. Will Emile face the situation
as bravely at his mistress' feet as he has done in conversation
with his friend? I think he will; his confidence is rooted in the
sincerity of his love. He would be more at a loss with her, if it
cost him less to leave her; he would leave her feeling himself to
blame, and that is a difficult part for a man of honour to play;
but the greater the sacrifice, the more credit he demands for it
in the sight of her who makes it so difficult. He has no fear that
she will misunderstand his motives. Every look seems to say, "Oh,
Sophy, read my heart and be faithful to me; your lover is not
without virtue."
Sophy tries to bear the unforeseen blow with her usual pride
and dignity. She tries to seem as if she did not care, but as the
honours of war are not hers, but Emile's, her strength is less
equal to the task. She weeps, she sighs against her will, and the
fear of being forgotten embitters the pain of parting. She does
not weep in her lover's sight, she does not let him see her terror;
she would die rather than utter a sigh in his presence. I am the
recipient of her lamentations, I behold her tears, it is I who am
supposed to be her confidant. Women are very clever and know how to
conceal their cleverness; the more she frets in private, the more
pains she takes to please me; she feels that her fate is in my
hands.
I console and comfort her; I make myself answerable for her lover,
or rather for her husband; let her be as true to him as he to
her and I promise they shall be married in two years' time. She
respects me enough to believe that I do not want to deceive her.
I am guarantor to each for the other. Their hearts, their virtue,
my honesty, the confidence of their parents, all combine to reassure
them. But what can reason avail against weakness? They part as if
they were never to meet again.
Then it is that Sophy recalls the regrets of Eucharis, and fancies
herself in her place. Do not let us revive that fantastic affection
during his absence "Sophy," say I one day, "exchange books with
Emile; let him have your Telemachus that he may learn to be like
him, and let him give you his Spectator which you enjoy reading.
Study the duties of good wives in it, and remember that in two years'
time you will undertake those duties." The exchange gave pleasure
to both and inspired them with confidence. At last the sad day
arrived and they must part.
Sophy's worthy father, with whom I had arranged the whole business,
took affectionate leave of me, and taking me aside, he spoke
seriously and somewhat emphatically, saying, "I have done everything
to please you; I knew I had to do with a man of honour; I have only
one word to say. Remembering your pupil has signed his contract of
marriage on my daughter's lips."
What a difference in the behaviour of the two lovers! Emile,
impetuous, eager, excited, almost beside himself, cries aloud
and sheds torrents of tears upon the hands of father, mother, and
daughter; with sobs he embraces every one in the house and repeats
the same thing over and over again in a way that would be ludicrous
at any other time. Sophy, pale, sorrowful, doleful, and heavy-eyed,
remains quiet without a word or a tear, she sees no one, not even
Emile. In vain he takes her hand, and clasps her in his arms; she
remains motionless, unheeding his tears, his caresses, and everything
he does; so far as she is concerned, he is gone already. A sight
more moving than the prolonged lamentations and noisy regrets of her
lover! He sees, he feels, he is heartbroken. I drag him reluctantly
away; if I left him another minute, he would never go. I am delighted
that he should carry this touching picture with him. If he should
ever be tempted to forget what is due to Sophy, his heart must
have strayed very far indeed if I cannot bring it back to her by
recalling her as he saw her last.
OF TRAVEL
Is it good for young people to travel? The question is often asked
and as often hotly disputed. If it were stated otherwise--Are
men the better for having travelled?--perhaps there would be less
difference of opinion.
The misuse of books is the death of sound learning. People think
they know what they have read, and take no pains to learn. Too much
reading only produces a pretentious ignoramus. There was never so
much reading in any age as the present, and never was there less
learning; in no country of Europe are so many histories and books
of travel printed as in France, and nowhere is there less knowledge
of the mind and manners of other nations. So many books lead us to
neglect the book of the world; if we read it at all, we keep each
to our own page. If the phrase, "Can one become a Persian," were
unknown to me, I should suspect on hearing it that it came from
the country where national prejudice is most prevalent and from
the sex which does most to increase it.
A Parisian thinks he has a knowledge of men and he knows only
Frenchmen; his town is always full of foreigners, but he considers
every foreigner as a strange phenomenon which has no equal in the
universe. You must have a close acquaintance with the middle classes
of that great city, you must have lived among them, before you can
believe that people could be at once so witty and so stupid. The
strangest thing about it is that probably every one of them has
read a dozen times a description of the country whose inhabitants
inspire him with such wonder.
To discover the truth amidst our own prejudices and those of the
authors is too hard a task. I have been reading books of travels
all my life, but I never found two that gave me the same idea of
the same nation. on comparing my own scanty observations with what
I have read, I have decided to abandon the travellers and I regret
the time wasted in trying to learn from their books; for I am
quite convinced that for that sort of study, seeing not reading is
required. That would be true enough if every traveller were honest,
if he only said what he saw and believed, and if truth were not
tinged with false colours from his own eyes. What must it be when
we have to disentangle the truth from the web of lies and ill-faith?
Let us leave the boasted resources of books to those who are content
to use them. Like the art of Raymond Lully they are able to set
people chattering about things they do not know. They are able to
set fifteen-year-old Platos discussing philosophy in the clubs, and
teaching people the customs of Egypt and the Indies on the word of
Paul Lucas or Tavernier.
I maintain that it is beyond dispute that any one who has only seen
one nation does not know men; he only knows those men among whom
he has lived. Hence there is another way of stating the question
about travel: "Is it enough for a well-educated man to know his
fellow-countrymen, or ought he to know mankind in general?" Then
there is no place for argument or uncertainty. See how greatly the
solution of a difficult problem may depend on the way in which it
is stated.
But is it necessary to travel the whole globe to study mankind? Need
we go to Japan to study Europeans? Need we know every individual
before we know the species? No, there are men so much alike that it
is not worth while to study them individually. When you have seen
a dozen Frenchmen you have seen them all. Though one cannot say
as much of the English and other nations, it is, however, certain
that every nation has its own specific character, which is derived
by induction from the study, not of one, but many of its members.
He who has compared a dozen nations knows men, just he who has
compared a dozen Frenchmen knows the French.
To acquire knowledge it is not enough to travel hastily through a
country. Observation demands eyes, and the power of directing them
towards the object we desire to know. There are plenty of people
who learn no more from their travels than from their books, because
they do not know how to think; because in reading their mind is
at least under the guidance of the author, and in their travels
they do not know how to see for themselves. Others learn nothing,
because they have no desire to learn. Their object is so entirely
different, that this never occurs to them; it is very unlikely
that you will see clearly what you take no trouble to look for. The
French travel more than any other nation, but they are so taken up
with their own customs, that everything else is confused together.
There are Frenchmen in every corner of the globe. In no country
of the world do you find more people who have travelled than in
France. And yet of all the nations of Europe, that which has seen
most, knows least. The English are also travellers, but they travel
in another fashion; these two nations must always be at opposite
extremes. The English nobility travels, the French stays at home;
the French people travel, the English stay at home. This difference
does credit, I think, to the English. The French almost always
travel for their own ends; the English do not seek their fortune
in other lands, unless in the way of commerce and with their hands
full; when they travel it is to spend their money, not to live by
their wits; they are too proud to cringe before strangers. This
is why they learn more abroad than the French who have other fish
to fry. Yet the English have their national prejudices; but these
prejudices are not so much the result of ignorance as of feeling.
The Englishman's prejudices are the result of pride, the Frenchman's
are due to vanity.
Just as the least cultivated nations are usually the best, so those
travel best who travel least; they have made less progress than we
in our frivolous pursuits, they are less concerned with the objects
of our empty curiosity, so that they give their attention to what
is really useful. I hardly know any but the Spaniards who travel
in this fashion. While the Frenchman is running after all the
artists of the country, while the Englishman is getting a copy of
some antique, while the German is taking his album to every man
of science, the Spaniard is silently studying the government, the
manners of the country, its police, and he is the only one of the
four who from all that he has seen will carry home any observation
useful to his own country.
The ancients travelled little, read little, and wrote few books;
yet we see in those books that remain to us, that they observed each
other more thoroughly than we observe our contemporaries. Without
going back to the days of Homer, the only poet who transports us
to the country he describes, we cannot deny to Herodotus the glory
of having painted manners in his history, though he does it rather
by narrative than by comment; still he does it better than all our
historians whose books are overladen with portraits and characters.
Tacitus has described the Germans of his time better than any
author has described the Germans of to-day. There can be no doubt
that those who have devoted themselves to ancient history know more
about the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Gauls, and Persians than
any nation of to-day knows about its neighbours.
It must also be admitted that the original characteristics of
different nations are changing day by day, and are therefore more
difficult to grasp. As races blend and nations intermingle, those
national differences which formerly struck the observer at first
sight gradually disappear. Before our time every nation remained
more or less cut off from the rest; the means of communication were
fewer; there was less travelling, less of mutual or conflicting
interests, less political and civil intercourse between nation and
nation; those intricate schemes of royalty, miscalled diplomacy,
were less frequent; there were no permanent ambassadors resident
at foreign courts; long voyages were rare, there was little foreign
trade, and what little there was, was either the work of princes,
who employed foreigners, or of people of no account who had no
influence on others and did nothing to bring the nations together.
The relations between Europe and Asia in the present century are
a hundredfold more numerous than those between Gaul and Spain in
the past; Europe alone was less accessible than the whole world is
now.
Moreover, the peoples of antiquity usually considered themselves
as the original inhabitants of their country; they had dwelt there
so long that all record was lost of the far-off times when their
ancestors settled there; they had been there so long that the
place had made a lasting impression on them; but in modern Europe
the invasions of the barbarians, following upon the Roman conquests,
have caused an extraordinary confusion. The Frenchmen of to-day
are no longer the big fair men of old; the Greeks are no longer
beautiful enough to serve as a sculptor's model; the very face of
the Romans has changed as well as their character; the Persians,
originally from Tartary, are daily losing their native ugliness
through the intermixture of Circassian blood. Europeans are no longer
Gauls, Germans, Iberians, Allobroges; they are all Scythians, more
or less degenerate in countenance, and still more so in conduct.
This is why the ancient distinctions of race, the effect of soil
and climate, made a greater difference between nation and nation
in respect of temperament, looks, manners, and character than can
be distinguished in our own time, when the fickleness of Europe
leaves no time for natural causes to work, when the forests are
cut down and the marshes drained, when the earth is more generally,
though less thoroughly, tilled, so that the same differences between
country and country can no longer be detected even in purely physical
features.
If they considered these facts perhaps people would not be in such
a hurry to ridicule Herodotus, Ctesias, Pliny for having described
the inhabitants of different countries each with its own peculiarities
and with striking differences which we no longer see. To recognise
such types of face we should need to see the men themselves; no
change must have passed over them, if they are to remain the same.
If we could behold all the people who have ever lived, who can
doubt that we should find greater variations between one century
and another, than are now found between nation and nation.
At the same time, while observation becomes more difficult, it
is more carelessly and badly done; this is another reason for the
small success of our researches into the natural history of the
human race. The information acquired by travel depends upon the
object of the journey. If this object is a system of philosophy, the
traveller only sees what he desires to see; if it is self-interest,
it engrosses the whole attention of those concerned. Commerce and
the arts which blend and mingle the nations at the same time prevent
them from studying each other. If they know how to make a profit
out of their neighbours, what more do they need to know?
It is a good thing to know all the places where we might live, so
as to choose those where we can live most comfortably. If every
one lived by his own efforts, all he would need to know would be
how much land would keep him in food. The savage, who has need of
no one, and envies no one, neither knows nor seeks to know any other
country but his own. If he requires more land for his subsistence
he shuns inhabited places; he makes war upon the wild beasts
and feeds on them. But for us, to whom civilised life has become
a necessity, for us who must needs devour our fellow-creatures,
self-interest prompts each one of us to frequent those districts
where there are most people to be devoured. This is why we all
flock to Rome, Paris, and London. Human flesh and blood are always
cheapest in the capital cities. Thus we only know the great nations,
which are just like one another.
They say that men of learning travel to obtain information; not so,
they travel like other people from interested motives. Philosophers
like Plato and Pythagoras are no longer to be found, or if they
are, it must be in far-off lands. Our men of learning only travel
at the king's command; they are sent out, their expenses are paid,
they receive a salary for seeing such and such things, and the
object of that journey is certainly not the study of any question
of morals. Their whole time is required for the object of their
journey, and they are too honest not to earn their pay. If in any
country whatsoever there are people travelling at their own expense,
you may be sure it is not to study men but to teach them. It is
not knowledge they desire but ostentation. How should their travels
teach them to shake off the yoke of prejudice? It is prejudice that
sends them on their travels.
To travel to see foreign lands or to see foreign nations are two
very different things. The former is the usual aim of the curious,
the latter is merely subordinate to it. If you wish to travel as
a philosopher you should reverse this order. The child observes
things till he is old enough to study men. Man should begin by
studying his fellows; he can study things later if time permits.
It is therefore illogical to conclude that travel is useless
because we travel ill. But granting the usefulness of travel, does
it follow that it is good for all of us? Far from it; there are
very few people who are really fit to travel; it is only good for
those who are strong enough in themselves to listen to the voice
of error without being deceived, strong enough to see the example
of vice without being led away by it. Travelling accelerates the
progress of nature, and completes the man for good or evil. When
a man returns from travelling about the world, he is what he will
be all his life; there are more who return bad than good, because
there are more who start with an inclination towards evil. In the
course of their travels, young people, ill-educated and ill-behaved,
pick up all the vices of the nations among whom they have sojourned,
and none of the virtues with which those vices are associated; but
those who, happily for themselves, are well-born, those whose good
disposition has been well cultivated, those who travel with a real
desire to learn, all such return better and wiser than they went.
Emile will travel in this fashion; in this fashion there travelled
another young man, worthy of a nobler age; one whose worth was the
admiration of Europe, one who died for his country in the flower
of his manhood; he deserved to live, and his tomb, ennobled by his
virtues only, received no honour till a stranger's hand adorned it
with flowers.
Everything that is done in reason should have its rules. Travel,
undertaken as a part of education, should therefore have its rules.
To travel for travelling's sake is to wander, to be a vagabond; to
travel to learn is still too vague; learning without some definite
aim is worthless. I would give a young man a personal interest
in learning, and that interest, well-chosen, will also decide the
nature of the instruction. This is merely the continuation of the
method I have hitherto practised.
Now after he has considered himself in his physical relations
to other creatures, in his moral relations with other men, there
remains to be considered his civil relations with his fellow-citizens.
To do this he must first study the nature of government in general,
then the different forms of government, and lastly the particular
government under which he was born, to know if it suits him to live
under it; for by a right which nothing can abrogate, every man,
when he comes of age, becomes his own master, free to renounce the
contract by which he forms part of the community, by leaving the
country in which that contract holds good. It is only by sojourning
in that country, after he has come to years of discretion, that
he is supposed to have tacitly confirmed the pledge given by his
ancestors. He acquires the right to renounce his country, just as
he has the right to renounce all claim to his father's lands; yet
his place of birth was a gift of nature, and in renouncing it, he
renounces what is his own. Strictly speaking, every man remains in
the land of his birth at his own risk unless he voluntarily submits
to its laws in order to acquire a right to their protection.
For example, I should say to Emile, "Hitherto you have lived under
my guidance, you were unable to rule yourself. But now you are
approaching the age when the law, giving you the control over your
property, makes you master of your person. You are about to find
yourself alone in society, dependent on everything, even on your
patrimony. You mean to marry; that is a praiseworthy intention,
it is one of the duties of man; but before you marry you must know
what sort of man you want to be, how you wish to spend your life,
what steps you mean to take to secure a living for your family
and for yourself; for although we should not make this our main
business, it must be definitely considered. Do you wish to be
dependent on men whom you despise? Do you wish to establish your
fortune and determine your position by means of civil relations which
will make you always dependent on the choice of others, which will
compel you, if you would escape from knaves, to become a knave
yourself?"
In the next place I would show him every possible way of using his
money in trade, in the civil service, in finance, and I shall show
him that in every one of these there are risks to be taken, every
one of them places him in a precarious and dependent position, and
compels him to adapt his morals, his sentiments, his conduct to
the example and the prejudices of others.
"There is yet another way of spending your time and money; you may
join the army; that is to say, you may hire yourself out at very
high wages to go and kill men who never did you any harm. This trade
is held in great honour among men, and they cannot think too highly
of those who are fit for nothing better. Moreover, this profession,
far from making you independent of other resources, makes them all
the more necessary; for it is a point of honour in this profession
to ruin those who have adopted it. It is true they are not all
ruined; it is even becoming fashionable to grow rich in this as in
other professions; but if I told you how people manage to do it,
I doubt whether you would desire to follow their example.
"Moreover, you must know that, even in this trade, it is no longer
a question of courage or valour, unless with regard to the ladies;
on the contrary, the more cringing, mean, and degraded you are, the
more honour you obtain; if you have decided to take your profession
seriously, you will be despised, you will be hated, you will very
possibly be driven out of the service, or at least you will fall a
victim to favouritism and be supplanted by your comrades, because
you have been doing your duty in the trenches, while they have been
attending to their toilet."
We can hardly suppose that any of these occupations will be much
to Emile's taste. "Why," he will exclaim, "have I forgotten the
amusements of my childhood? Have I lost the use of my arms? Is
my strength failing me? Do I not know how to work? What do I care
about all your fine professions and all the silly prejudices of
others? I know no other pride than to be kindly and just; no other
happiness than to live in independence with her I love, gaining
health and a good appetite by the day's work. All these difficulties
you speak of do not concern me. The only property I desire is
a little farm in some quiet corner. I will devote all my efforts
after wealth to making it pay, and I will live without a care. Give
me Sophy and my land, and I shall be rich."
"Yes, my dear friend, that is all a wise man requires, a wife and
land of his own; but these treasures are scarcer than you think.
The rarest you have found already; let us discuss the other.
"A field of your own, dear Emile! Where will you find it, in what
remote corner of the earth can you say, 'Here am I master of myself
and of this estate which belongs to me?' We know where a man may
grow rich; who knows where he can do without riches? Who knows
where to live free and independent, without ill-treating others
and without fear of being ill-treated himself! Do you think it is
so easy to find a place where you can always live like an honest man?
If there is any safe and lawful way of living without intrigues,
without lawsuits, without dependence on others, it is, I admit,
to live by the labour of our hands, by the cultivation of our own
land; but where is the state in which a man can say, 'The earth
which I dig is my own?' Before choosing this happy spot, be sure
that you will find the peace you desire; beware lest an unjust
government, a persecuting religion, and evil habits should disturb
you in your home. Secure yourself against the excessive taxes which
devour the fruits of your labours, and the endless lawsuits which
consume your capital. Take care that you can live rightly without
having to pay court to intendents, to their deputies, to judges,
to priests, to powerful neighbours, and to knaves of every kind,
who are always ready to annoy you if you neglect them. Above all,
secure yourself from annoyance on the part of the rich and great;
remember that their estates may anywhere adjoin your Naboth's vineyard.
If unluckily for you some great man buys or builds a house near
your cottage, make sure that he will not find a way, under some
pretence or other, to encroach on your lands to round off his estate,
or that you do not find him at once absorbing all your resources
to make a wide highroad. If you keep sufficient credit to ward off
all these disagreeables, you might as well keep your money, for it
will cost you no more to keep it. Riches and credit lean upon each
other, the one can hardly stand without the other.
"I have more experience than you, dear Emile; I see more clearly
the difficulties in the way of your scheme. Yet it is a fine scheme
and honourable; it would make you happy indeed. Let us try to carry
it out. I have a suggestion to make; let us devote the two years
from now till the time of your return to choosing a place in
Europe where you could live happily with your family, secure from
all the dangers I have just described. If we succeed, you will
have discovered that true happiness, so often sought for in vain;
and you will not have to regret the time spent in its search. If
we fail, you will be cured of a mistaken idea; you will console
yourself for an inevitable ill, and you will bow to the law of
necessity."
I do not know whether all my readers will see whither this suggested
inquiry will lead us; but this I do know, if Emile returns from his
travels, begun and continued with this end in view, without a full
knowledge of questions of government, public morality, and political
philosophy of every kind, we are greatly lacking, he in intelligence
and I in judgment.
The science of politics is and probably always will be unknown.
Grotius, our leader in this branch of learning, is only a child,
and what is worse an untruthful child. When I hear Grotius praised
to the skies and Hobbes overwhelmed with abuse, I perceive how
little sensible men have read or understood these authors. As a
matter of fact, their principles are exactly alike, they only differ
in their mode of ｅxpression. Their methods are also different:
Hobbes relies on sophism; Grotius relies on the poets; they are
agreed in everything else. In modern times the only man who could
have created this vast and useless science was the illustrious
Montesquieu. But he was not concerned with the principles of
political law; he was content to deal with the positive laws of
settled governments; and nothing could be more different than these
two branches of study.
Yet he who would judge wisely in matters of actual government is
forced to combine the two; he must know what ought to be in order
to judge what is. The chief difficulty in the way of throwing light
upon this important matter is to induce an individual to discuss
and to answer these two questions. "How does it concern me; and
what can I do?" Emile is in a position to answer both.
The next difficulty is due to the prejudices of childhood, the
principles in which we were brought up; it is due above all to the
partiality of authors, who are always talking about truth, though
they care very little about it; it is only their own interests
that they care for, and of these they say nothing. Now the nation
has neither professorships, nor pensions, nor membership of the
academies to bestow. How then shall its rights be established by
men of that type? The education I have given him has removed this
difficulty also from Emile's path. He scarcely knows what is meant
by government; his business is to find the best; he does not want
to write books; if ever he did so, it would not be to pay court to
those in authority, but to establish the rights of humanity.
There is a third difficulty, more specious than real; a difficulty
which I neither desire to solve nor even to state; enough that I am
not afraid of it; sure I am that in inquiries of this kind, great
talents are less necessary than a genuine love of justice and a
sincere reverence for truth. If matters of government can ever be
fairly discussed, now or never is our chance.
Before beginning our observations we must lay down rules of procedure;
we must find a scale with which to compare our measurements. Our
principles of political law are our scale. Our actual measurements
are the civil law of each country.
Our elementary notions are plain and simple, being taken directly
from the nature of things. They will take the form of problems
discussed between us, and they will not be formulated into principles,
until we have found a satisfactory solution of our problems.
For example, we shall begin with the state of nature, we shall see
whether men are born slaves or free, in a community or independent;
is their association the result of free will or of force? Can the
force which compels them to united action ever form a permanent
law, by which this original force becomes binding, even when another
has been imposed upon it, so that since the power of King Nimrod,
who is said to have been the first conqueror, every other power
which has overthrown the original power is unjust and usurping,
so that there are no lawful kings but the descendants of Nimrod or
their representatives; or if this original power has ceased, has
the power which succeeded it any right over us, and does it destroy
the binding force of the former power, so that we are not bound to
obey except under compulsion, and we are free to rebel as soon as
we are capable of resistance? Such a right is not very different
from might; it is little more than a play upon words.
We shall inquire whether man might not say that all sickness comes
from God, and that it is therefore a crime to send for the doctor.
Again, we shall inquire whether we are bound by our conscience to
give our purse to a highwayman when we might conceal it from him,
for the pistol in his hand is also a power.
Does this word power in this context mean something different from
a power which is lawful and therefore subject to the laws to which
it owes its being?
Suppose we reject this theory that might is right and admit the
right of nature, or the authority of the father, as the foundation
of society; we shall inquire into the extent of this authority; what
is its foundation in nature? Has it any other grounds but that of
its usefulness to the child, his weakness, and the natural love
which his father feels towards him? When the child is no longer
feeble, when he is grown-up in mind as well as in body, does not
he become the sole judge of what is necessary for his preservation?
Is he not therefore his own master, independent of all men, even
of his father himself? For is it not still more certain that the
son loves himself, than that the father loves the son?
The father being dead, should the children obey the eldest brother,
or some other person who has not the natural affection of a father?
Should there always be, from family to family, one single head to
whom all the family owe obedience? If so, how has power ever come
to be divided, and how is it that there is more than one head to
govern the human race throughout the world?
Suppose the nations to have been formed each by its own choice; we
shall then distinguish between right and fact; being thus subjected
to their brothers, uncles, or other relations, not because they
were obliged, but because they choose, we shall inquire whether
this kind of society is not a sort of free and voluntary association?
Taking next the law of slavery, we shall inquire whether a man can
make over to another his right to himself, without restriction,
without reserve, without any kind of conditions; that is to say,
can he renounce his person, his life, his reason, his very self,
can he renounce all morality in his actions; in a word, can he
cease to exist before his death, in spite of nature who places him
directly in charge of his own preservation, in spite of reason and
conscience which tell him what to do and what to leave undone?
If there is any reservation or restriction in the deed of slavery,
we shall discuss whether this deed does not then become a true
contract, in which both the contracting powers, having in this respect
no common master, [Footnote: If they had such a common master, he
would be no other than the sovereign, and then the right of slavery
resting on the right of sovereignty would not be its origin.]
remain their own judge as to the conditions of the contract, and
therefore free to this extent, and able to break the contract as
soon as it becomes hurtful.
If then a slave cannot convey himself altogether to his master,
how can a nation convey itself altogether to its head? If a slave
is to judge whether his master is fulfilling his contract, is not
the nation to judge whether its head is fulfilling his contract?
Thus we are compelled to retrace our steps, and when we consider
the meaning of this collective nation we shall inquire whether some
contract, a tacit contract at the least, is not required to make
a nation, a contract anterior to that which we are assuming.
Since the nation was a nation before it chose a king, what made it
a nation, except the social contract? Therefore the social contract
is the foundation of all civil society, and it is in the nature of
this contract that we must seek the nature of the society formed
by it.
We will inquire into the meaning of this contract; may it not be
fairly well expressed in this formula? As an individual every one
of us contributes his goods, his person, his life, to the common
stock, under the supreme direction of the general will; while as
a body we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole.
Assuming this, in order to define the terms we require, we shall
observe that, instead of the individual person of each contracting
party, this deed of association produces a moral and collective body,
consisting of as many members as there are votes in the Assembly.
This public personality is usually called the body politic, which
is called by its members the State when it is passive, and the
Sovereign when it is active, and a Power when compared with its
equals. With regard to the members themselves, collectively they
are known as the nation, and individually as citizens as members
of the city or partakers in the sovereign power, and subjects as
obedient to the same authority.
We shall note that this contract of association includes a mutual
pledge on the part of the public and the individual; and that each
individual, entering, so to speak, into a contract with himself,
finds himself in a twofold capacity, i.e., as a member of the
sovereign with regard to others, as member of the state with regard
to the sovereign.
We shall also note that while no one is bound by any engagement to
which he was not himself a party, the general deliberation which
may be binding on all the subjects with regard to the sovereign,
because of the two different relations under which each of them is
envisaged, cannot be binding on the state with regard to itself.
Hence we see that there is not, and cannot be, any other fundamental
law, properly so called, except the social contract only. This does
not mean that the body politic cannot, in certain respects, pledge
itself to others; for in regard to the foreigner, it then becomes
a simple creature, an individual.
Thus the two contracting parties, i.e., each individual and the
public, have no common superior to decide their differences; so we
will inquire if each of them remains free to break the contract at
will, that is to repudiate it on his side as soon as he considers
it hurtful.
To clear up this difficulty, we shall observe that, according to
the social pact, the sovereign power is only able to act through
the common, general will; so its decrees can only have a general
or common aim; hence it follows that a private individual cannot
be directly injured by the sovereign, unless all are injured, which
is impossible, for that would be to want to harm oneself. Thus the
social contract has no need of any warrant but the general power,
for it can only be broken by individuals, and they are not therefore
freed from their engagement, but punished for having broken it.
To decide all such questions rightly, we must always bear in mind
that the nature of the social pact is private and peculiar to
itself, in that the nation only contracts with itself, i.e., the
people as a whole as sovereign, with the individuals as subjects;
this condition is essential to the construction and working of the
political machine, it alone makes pledges lawful, reasonable, and
secure, without which it would be absurd, tyrannical, and liable
to the grossest abuse.
Individuals having only submitted themselves to the sovereign, and
the sovereign power being only the general will, we shall see that
every man in obeying the sovereign only obeys himself, and how much
freer are we under the social part than in the state of nature.
Having compared natural and civil liberty with regard to persons,
we will compare them as to property, the rights of ownership and
the rights of sovereignty, the private and the common domain. If
the sovereign power rests upon the right of ownership, there is no
right more worthy of respect; it is inviolable and sacred for the
sovereign power, so long as it remains a private individual right; as
soon as it is viewed as common to all the citizens, it is subject
to the common will, and this will may destroy it. Thus the sovereign
has no right to touch the property of one or many; but he may
lawfully take possession of the property of all, as was done in
Sparta in the time of Lycurgus; while the abolition of debts by
Solon was an unlawful deed.
Since nothing is binding on the subjects except the general will,
let us inquire how this will is made manifest, by what signs we may
recognise it with certainty, what is a law, and what are the true
characters of the law? This is quite a fresh subject; we have still
to define the term law.
As soon as the nation considers one or more of its members, the
nation is divided. A relation is established between the whole and
its part which makes of them two separate entities, of which the
part is one, and the whole, minus that part, is the other. But the
whole minus the part is not the whole; as long as this relation
exists, there is no longer a whole, but two unequal parts.
On the other hand, if the whole nation makes a law for the whole
nation, it is only considering itself; and if a relation is set
up, it is between the whole community regarded from one point of
view, and the whole community regarded from another point of view,
without any division of that whole. Then the object of the statute
is general, and the will which makes that statute is general too.
Let us see if there is any other kind of decree which may bear the
name of law.
If the sovereign can only speak through laws, and if the law can
never have any but a general purpose, concerning all the members
of the state, it follows that the sovereign never has the power
to make any law with regard to particular cases; and yet it is
necessary for the preservation of the state that particular oases
should also be dealt with; let us see how this can be done.
The decrees of the sovereign can only be decrees of the general
will, that is laws; there must also be determining decrees, decrees
of power or government, for the execution of those laws; and these,
on the other hand, can only have particular aims. Thus the decrees
by which the sovereign decides that a chief shall be elected is
a law; the decree by which that chief is elected, in pursuance of
the law, is only a decree of government.
This is a third relation in which the assembled people may be
considered, i.e., as magistrates or executors of the law which it
has passed in its capacity as sovereign. [Footnote: These problems
and theorems are mostly taken from the Treatise on the Social
Contract, itself a summary of a larger work, undertaken without
due consideration of my own powers, and long since abandoned.]
We will now inquire whether it is possible for the nation to deprive
itself of its right of sovereignty, to bestow it on one or more
persons; for the decree of election not being a law, and the people
in this decree not being themselves sovereign, we do not see how
they can transfer a right which they do not possess.
The essence of sovereignty consisting in the general will, it is
equally hard to see how we can be certain that an individual will
shall always be in agreement with the general will. We should
rather assume that it will often be opposed to it; for individual
interest always tends to privileges, while the common interest
always tends to equality, and if such an agreement were possible,
no sovereign right could exist, unless the agreement were either
necessary or indestructible.
We will inquire if, without violating the social pact, the heads of
the nation, under whatever name they are chosen, can ever be more
than the officers of the people, entrusted by them with the duty
of carrying the law into execution. Are not these chiefs themselves
accountable for their administration, and are not they themselves
subject to the laws which it is their business to see carried out?
If the nation cannot alienate its supreme right, can it entrust
it to others for a time? Cannot it give itself a master, cannot it
find representatives? This is an important question and deserves
discussion.
If the nation can have neither sovereign nor representatives we
will inquire how it can pass its own laws; must there be many laws;
must they be often altered; is it easy for a great nation to be
its own lawgiver?
Was not the Roman people a great nation?
Is it a good thing that there should be great nations?
It follows from considerations already established that there is
an intermediate body in the state between subjects and sovereign;
and this intermediate body, consisting of one or more members, is
entrusted with the public administration, the carrying out of the
laws, and the maintenance of civil and political liberty.
The members of this body are called magistrates or kings, that is
to say, rulers. This body, as a whole, considered in relation to
its members, is called the prince, and considered in its actions
it is called the government.
If we consider the action of the whole body upon itself, that is
to say, the relation of the whole to the whole, of the sovereign
to the state, we can compare this relation to that of the extremes
in a proportion of which the government is the middle term. The
magistrate receives from the sovereign the commands which he gives
to the nation, and when it is reckoned up his product or his power
is in the same degree as the product or power of the citizens
who are subjects on one side of the proportion and sovereigns on
the other. None of the three terms can be varied without at once
destroying this proportion. If the sovereign tries to govern, and
if the prince wants to make the laws, or if the subject refuses to
obey them, disorder takes the place of order, and the state falls
to pieces under despotism or anarchy.
Let us suppose that this state consists of ten thousand citizens.
The sovereign can only be considered collectively and as a body,
but each individual, as a subject, has his private and independent
existence. Thus the sovereign is as ten thousand to one; that is
to say, every member of the state has, as his own share, only one
ten-thousandth part of the sovereign power, although he is subject
to the whole. Let the nation be composed of one hundred thousand
men, the position of the subjects is unchanged, and each continues
to bear the whole weight of the laws, while his vote, reduced to the
one hundred-thousandth part, has ten times less influence in the
making of the laws. Thus the subject being always one, the sovereign
is relatively greater as the number of the citizens is increased.
Hence it follows that the larger the state the less liberty.
Now the greater the disproportion between private wishes and the
general will, i.e., between manners and laws, the greater must be
the power of repression. on the other side, the greatness of the
state gives the depositaries of public authority greater temptations
and additional means of abusing that authority, so that the more
power is required by the government to control the people, the more
power should there be in the sovereign to control the government.
From this twofold relation it follows that the continued proportion
between the sovereign, the prince, and the people is not an arbitrary
idea, but a consequence of the nature of the state. Moreover, it
follows that one of the extremes, i.e., the nation, being constant,
every time the double ratio increases or decreases, the simple
ratio increases or diminishes in its turn; which cannot be unless
the middle term is as often changed. From this we may conclude that
there is no single absolute form of government, but there must
be as many different forms of government as there are states of
different size.
If the greater the numbers of the nation the less the ratio between
its manners and its laws, by a fairly clear analogy, we may also
say, the more numerous the magistrates, the weaker the government.
To make this principle clearer we will distinguish three essentially
different wills in the person of each magistrate; first, his
own will as an individual, which looks to his own advantage only;
secondly, the common will of the magistrates, which is concerned
only with the advantage of the prince, a will which may be called
corporate, and one which is general in relation to the government
and particular in relation to the state of which the government
forms part; thirdly, the will of the people, or the sovereign will,
which is general, as much in relation to the state viewed as the
whole as in relation to the government viewed as a part of the
whole. In a perfect legislature the private individual will should
be almost nothing; the corporate will belonging to the government
should be quite subordinate, and therefore the general and sovereign
will is the master of all the others. on the other hand, in the
natural order, these different wills become more and more active in
proportion as they become centralised; the general will is always
weak, the corporate will takes the second place, the individual
will is preferred to all; so that every one is himself first, then
a magistrate, and then a citizen; a series just the opposite of
that required by the social order.
Having laid down this principle, let us assume that the government
is in the hands of one man. In this case the individual and the
corporate will are absolutely one, and therefore this will has
reached the greatest possible degree of intensity. Now the use of
power depends on the degree of this intensity, and as the absolute
power of the government is always that of the people, and therefore
invariable, it follows that the rule of one man is the most active
form of government.
If, on the other hand, we unite the government with the supreme
power, and make the prince the sovereign and the citizens so many
magistrates, then the corporate will is completely lost in the general
will, and will have no more activity than the general will, and it
will leave the individual will in full vigour. Thus the government,
though its absolute force is constant, will have the minimum of
activity.
These rules are incontestable in themselves, and other considerations
only serve to confirm them. For example, we see the magistrates
as a body far more active than the citizens as a body, so that the
individual will always counts for more. For each magistrate usually
has charge of some particular duty of government; while each citizen,
in himself, has no particular duty of sovereignty. Moreover, the
greater the state the greater its real power, although its power
does not increase because of the increase in territory; but the
state remaining unchanged, the magistrates are multiplied in vain,
the government acquires no further real strength, because it is
the depositary of that of the state, which I have assumed to be
constant. Thus, this plurality of magistrates decreases the activity
of the government without increasing its power.
Having found that the power of the government is relaxed in
proportion as the number of magistrates is multiplied, and that
the more numerous the people, the more the controlling power must
be increased, we shall infer that the ratio between the magistrates
and the government should be inverse to that between subjects and
sovereign, that is to say, that the greater the state, the smaller
the government, and that in like manner the number of chiefs should
be diminished because of the increased numbers of the people.
In order to make this diversity of forms clearer, and to assign
them their different names, we shall observe in the first place
that the sovereign may entrust the care of the government to the
whole nation or to the greater part of the nation, so that there
are more citizen magistrates than private citizens. This form of
government is called Democracy.
Or the sovereign may restrict the government in the hands of a lesser
number, so that there are more plain citizens than magistrates;
and this form of government is called Aristocracy.
Finally, the sovereign may concentrate the whole government in the
hands of one man. This is the third and commonest form of government,
and is called Monarchy or royal government.
We shall observe that all these forms, or the first and second at
least, may be less or more, and that within tolerably wide limits.
For the democracy may include the whole nation, or may be confined
to one half of it. The aristocracy, in its turn, may shrink from
the half of the nation to the smallest number. Even royalty may be
shared, either between father and son, between two brothers, or in
some other fashion. There were always two kings in Sparta, and in
the Roman empire there were as many as eight emperors at once, and
yet it cannot be said that the empire was divided. There is a point
where each form of government blends with the next; and under the
three specific forms there may be really as many forms of government
as there are citizens in the state.
Nor is this all. In certain respects each of these governments is
capable of subdivision into different parts, each administered in
one of these three ways. From these forms in combination there may
arise a multitude of mixed forms, since each may be multiplied by
all the simple forms.
In all ages there have been great disputes as to which is the best
form of government, and people have failed to consider that each
is the best in some cases and the worst in others. For ourselves,
if the number of magistrates [Footnote: You will remember that
I mean, in this context, the supreme magistrates or heads of the
nation, the others being only their deputies in this or that respect.]
in the various states is to be in inverse ratio to the number of
the citizens, we infer that generally a democratic government is
adapted to small states, an aristocratic government to those of
moderate size, and a monarchy to large states.
These inquiries furnish us with a clue by which we may discover
what are the duties and rights of citizens, and whether they can
be separated one from the other; what is our country, in what does
it really consist, and how can each of us ascertain whether he has
a country or no?
Having thus considered every kind of civil society in itself, we
shall compare them, so as to note their relations one with another;
great and small, strong and weak, attacking one another, insulting
one another, destroying one another; and in this perpetual action
and reaction causing more misery and loss of life than if men had
preserved their original freedom. We shall inquire whether too much
or too little has not been accomplished in the matter of social
institutions; whether individuals who are subject to law and to
men, while societies preserve the independence of nature, are not
exposed to the ills of both conditions without the advantages of
either, and whether it would not be better to have no civil society
in the world rather than to have many such societies. Is it not
that mixed condition which partakes of both and secures neither?
"Per quem neutrum licet, nec tanquam in bello paratum esse, nec
tanquam in pace securum."--Seneca De Trang: Animi, cap. I.
Is it not this partial and imperfect association which gives rise
to tyranny and war? And are not tyranny and war the worst scourges
of humanity?
Finally we will inquire how men seek to get rid of these difficulties
by means of leagues and confederations, which leave each state
its own master in internal affairs, while they arm it against any
unjust aggression. We will inquire how a good federal association
may be established, what can make it lasting, and how far the rights
of the federation may be stretched without destroying the right of
sovereignty.
The Abbe de Saint-Pierre suggested an association of all the states
of Europe to maintain perpetual peace among themselves. Is this
association practicable, and supposing that it were established,
would it be likely to last? These inquiries lead us straight to all
the questions of international law which may clear up the remaining
difficulties of political law. Finally we shall lay down the real
principles of the laws of war, and we shall see why Grotius and
others have only stated false principles.
I should not be surprised if my pupil, who is a sensible young man,
should interrupt me saying, one would think we were building our
edifice of wood and not of men; we are putting everything so exactly
in its place!" That is true; but remember that the law does not
bow to the passions of men, and that we have first to establish
the true principles of political law. Now that our foundations are
laid, come and see what men have built upon them; and you will see
some strange sights!
Then I set him to read Telemachus, and we pursue our journey; we
are seeking that happy Salentum and the good Idomeneus made wise
by misfortunes. By the way we find many like Protesilas and no
Philocles, neither can Adrastes, King of the Daunians, be found.
But let our readers picture our travels for themselves, or take
the same journeys with Telemachus in their hand; and let us not
suggest to them painful applications which the author himself avoids
or makes in spite of himself.
Moreover, Emile is not a king, nor am I a god, so that we are not
distressed that we cannot imitate Telemachus and Mentor in the good
they did; none know better than we how to keep to our own place,
none have less desire to leave it. We know that the same task
is allotted to all; that whoever loves what is right with all his
heart, and does the right so far as it is in his power, has fulfilled
that task. We know that Telemachus and Mentor are creatures of the
imagination. Emile does not travel in idleness and he does more
good than if he were a prince. If we were kings we should be no
greater benefactors. If we were kings and benefactors we should
cause any number of real evils for every apparent good we supposed
we were doing. If we were kings and sages, the first good deed we
should desire to perform, for ourselves and for others, would be
to abdicate our kingship and return to our present position.
I have said why travel does so little for every one. What makes it
still more barren for the young is the way in which they are sent
on their travels. Tutors, more concerned to amuse than to instruct,
take them from town to town, from palace to palace, where if they
are men of learning and letters, they make them spend their time
in libraries, or visiting antiquaries, or rummaging among old
buildings transcribing ancient inscriptions. In every country they
are busy over some other century, as if they were living in another
country; so that after they have travelled all over Europe at great
expense, a prey to frivolity or tedium, they return, having seen
nothing to interest them, and having learnt nothing that could be
of any possible use to them.
All capitals are just alike, they are a mixture of all nations and
all ways of living; they are not the place in which to study the
nations. Paris and London seem to me the same town. Their inhabitants
have a few prejudices of their own, but each has as many as the
other, and all their rules of conduct are the same. We know the
kind of people who will throng the court. We know the way of living
which the crowds of people and the unequal distribution of wealth
will produce. As soon as any one tells me of a town with two hundred
thousand people, I know its life already. What I do not know about
it is not worth going there to learn.
To study the genius and character of a nation you should go to the
more remote provinces, where there is less stir, less commerce,
where strangers seldom travel, where the inhabitants stay in one
place, where there are fewer changes of wealth and position. Take
a look at the capital on your way, but go and study the country
far away from that capital. The French are not in Paris, but in
Touraine; the English are more English in Mercia than in London,
and the Spaniards more Spanish in Galicia than in Madrid. In these
remoter provinces a nation assumes its true character and shows
what it really is; there the good or ill effects of the government
are best perceived, just as you can measure the arc more exactly
at a greater radius.
The necessary relations between character and government have been
so clearly pointed out in the book of L'Esprit des Lois, that one
cannot do better than have recourse to that work for the study of
those relations. But speaking generally, there are two plain and
simple standards by which to decide whether governments are good or
bad. one is the population. Every country in which the population
is decreasing is on its way to ruin; and the countries in which
the population increases most rapidly, even were they the poorest
countries in the world, are certainly the best governed. [Footnote:
I only know one exception to this rule--it is China.] But this
population must be the natural result of the government and the
national character, for if it is caused by colonisation or any other
temporary and accidental cause, then the remedy itself is evidence
of the disease. When Augustus passed laws against celibacy, those
laws showed that the Roman empire was already beginning to decline.
Citizens must be induced to marry by the goodness of the government,
not compelled to marry by law; you must not examine the effects
of force, for the law which strives against the constitution has
little or no effect; you should study what is done by the influence
of public morals and by the natural inclination of the government,
for these alone produce a lasting effect. It was the policy of
the worthy Abbe de Saint-Pierre always to look for a little remedy
for every individual ill, instead of tracing them to their common
source and seeing if they could not all be cured together. You
do not need to treat separately every sore on a rich man's body;
you should purify the blood which produces them. They say that in
England there are prizes for agriculture; that is enough for me;
that is proof enough that agriculture will not flourish there much
longer.
The second sign of the goodness or badness of the government and
the laws is also to be found in the population, but it is to be
found not in its numbers but in its distribution. Two states equal
in size and population may be very unequal in strength; and the
more powerful is always that in which the people are more evenly
distributed over its territory; the country which has fewer large
towns, and makes less show on this account, will always defeat the
other. It is the great towns which exhaust the state and are the
cause of its weakness; the wealth which they produce is a sham
wealth, there is much money and few goods. They say the town of
Paris is worth a whole province to the King of France; for my own
part I believe it costs him more than several provinces. I believe
that Paris is fed by the provinces in more senses than one, and
that the greater part of their revenues is poured into that town
and stays there, without ever returning to the people or to the
king. It is inconceivable that in this age of calculators there
is no one to see that France would be much more powerful if Paris
were destroyed. Not only is this ill-distributed population not
advantageous to the state, it is more ruinous than depopulation
itself, because depopulation only gives as produce nought, and
the ill-regulated addition of still more people gives a negative
result. When I hear an Englishman and a Frenchman so proud of the
size of their capitals, and disputing whether London or Paris has
more inhabitants, it seems to me that they are quarrelling as to
which nation can claim the honour of being the worst governed.
Study the nation outside its towns; thus only will you really get
to know it. It is nothing to see the apparent form of a government,
overladen with the machinery of administration and the jargon
of the administrators, if you have not also studied its nature as
seen in the effects it has upon the people, and in every degree of
administration. The difference of form is really shared by every
degree of the administration, and it is only by including every
degree that you really know the difference. In one country you
begin to feel the spirit of the minister in the manoeuvres of his
underlings; in another you must see the election of members of
parliament to see if the nation is really free; in each and every
country, he who has only seen the towns cannot possibly know what
the government is like, as its spirit is never the same in town
and country. Now it is the agricultural districts which form the
country, and the country people who make the nation.
This study of different nations in their remoter provinces, and
in the simplicity of their native genius, gives a general result
which is very satisfactory, to my thinking, and very consoling to
the human heart; it is this: All the nations, if you observe them
in this fashion, seem much better worth observing; the nearer they
are to nature, the more does kindness hold sway in their character;
it is only when they are cooped up in towns, it is only when they
are changed by cultivation, that they become depraved, that certain
faults which were rather coarse than injurious are exchanged for
pleasant but pernicious vices.
From this observation we see another advantage in the mode of
travel I suggest; for young men, sojourning less in the big towns
which are horribly corrupt, are less likely to catch the infection
of vice; among simpler people and less numerous company, they will
preserve a surer judgment, a healthier taste, and better morals.
Besides this contagion of vice is hardly to be feared for Emile;
he has everything to protect him from it. Among all the precautions
I have taken, I reckon much on the love he bears in his heart.
We do not know the power of true love over youthful desires, because
we are ourselves as ignorant of it as they are, and those who have
control over the young turn them from true love. Yet a young man
must either love or fall into bad ways. It is easy to be deceived
by appearances. You will quote any number of young men who are said
to live very chastely without love; but show me one grown man, a
real man, who can truly say that his youth was thus spent? In all
our virtues, all our duties, people are content with appearances;
for my own part I want the reality, and I am much mistaken if there
is any other way of securing it beyond the means I have suggested.
The idea of letting Emile fall in love before taking him on his
travels is not my own. It was suggested to me by the following
incident.
I was in Venice calling on the tutor of a young Englishman. It was
winter and we were sitting round the fire. The tutor's letters were
brought from the post office. He glanced at them, and then read
them aloud to his pupil. They were in English; I understood not a
word, but while he was reading I saw the young man tear some fine
point lace ruffles which he was wearing, and throw them in the fire
one after another, as quietly as he could, so that no one should
see it. Surprised at this whim, I looked at his face and thought
I perceived some emotion; but the external signs of passion, though
much alike in all men, have national differences which may easily
lead one astray. Nations have a different language of facial ｅxpression
as well as of speech. I waited till the letters were finished and
then showing the tutor the bare wrists of his pupil, which he did
his best to hide, I said, "May I ask the meaning of this?"
The tutor seeing what had happened began to laugh; he embraced his
pupil with an air of satisfaction and, with his consent, he gave
me the desired explanation.
"The ruffles," said he, "which Mr. John has just torn to pieces,
were a present from a lady in this town, who made them for him not
long ago. Now you must know that Mr. John is engaged to a young
lady in his own country, with whom he is greatly in love, and she
well deserves it. This letter is from the lady's mother, and I will
translate the passage which caused the destruction you beheld.
"'Lucy is always at work upon Mr. John's ruffles. Yesterday Miss
Betty Roldham came to spend the afternoon and insisted on doing
some of her work. I knew that Lucy was up very early this morning
and I wanted to see what she was doing; I found her busy unpicking
what Miss Betty had done. She would not have a single stitch in
her present done by any hand but her own.'"
Mr. John went to fetch another pair of ruffles, and I said to his
tutor: "Your pupil has a very good disposition; but tell me is
not the letter from Miss Lucy's mother a put up job? Is it not an
expedient of your designing against the lady of the ruffles?" "No,"
said he, "it is quite genuine; I am not so artful as that; I have
made use of simplicity and zeal, and God has blessed my efforts."
This incident with regard to the young man stuck in my mind; it
was sure to set a dreamer like me thinking.
But it is time we finished. Let us take Mr. John back to Miss Lucy,
or rather Emile to Sophy. He brings her a heart as tender as ever,
and a more enlightened mind, and he returns to his native land all
the bettor for having made acquaintance with foreign governments
through their vices and foreign nations through their virtues.
I have even taken care that he should associate himself with some
man of worth in every nation, by means of a treaty of hospitality
after the fashion of the ancients, and I shall not be sorry if this
acquaintance is kept up by means of letters. Not only may this be
useful, not only is it always pleasant to have a correspondent in
foreign lands, it is also an excellent antidote against the sway
of patriotic prejudices, to which we are liable all through our
life, and to which sooner or later we are more or less enslaved.
Nothing is better calculated to lessen the hold of such prejudices
than a friendly interchange of opinions with sensible people whom
we respect; they are free from our prejudices and we find ourselves
face to face with theirs, and so we can set the one set of prejudices
against the other and be safe from both. It is not the same thing
to have to do with strangers in our own country and in theirs.
In the former case there is always a certain amount of politeness
which either makes them conceal their real opinions, or makes them
think more favourably of our country while they are with us; when
they get home again this disappears, and they merely do us justice.
I should be very glad if the foreigner I consult has seen my country,
but I shall not ask what he thinks of it till he is at home again.
When we have spent nearly two years travelling in a few of the
great countries and many of the smaller countries of Europe, when
we have learnt two or three of the chief languages, when we have
seen what is really interesting in natural history, government,
arts, or men, Emile, devoured by impatience, reminds me that our
time is almost up. Then I say, "Well, my friend, you remember the
main object of our journey; you have seen and observed; what is
the final result of your observations? What decision have you come
to?" Either my method is wrong, or he will answer me somewhat after
this fashion--
"What decision have I come to? I have decided to be what you made
me; of my own free will I will add no fetters to those imposed
upon me by nature and the laws. The more I study the works of men
in their institutions, the more clearly I see that, in their efforts
after independence, they become slaves, and that their very freedom
is wasted in vain attempts to assure its continuance. That they
may not be carried away by the flood of things, they form all sorts
of attachments; then as soon as they wish to move forward they are
surprised to find that everything drags them back. It seems to me
that to set oneself free we need do nothing, we need only continue
to desire freedom. My master, you have made me free by teaching
me to yield to necessity. Let her come when she will, I follow her
without compulsion; I lay hold of nothing to keep me back. In our
travels I have sought for some corner of the earth where I might
be absolutely my own; but where can one dwell among men without
being dependent on their passions? on further consideration I have
discovered that my desire contradicted itself; for were I to hold
to nothing else, I should at least hold to the spot on which I had
settled; my life would be attached to that spot, as the dryads were
attached to their trees. I have discovered that the words liberty
and empire are incompatible; I can only be master of a cottage by
ceasing to be master of myself.
"'Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus.'
Horace, lib. ii., sat. vi.
"I remember that my property was the origin of our inquiries. You
argued very forcibly that I could not keep both my wealth and my
liberty; but when you wished me to be free and at the same time
without needs, you desired two incompatible things, for I could
only be independent of men by returning to dependence on nature.
What then shall I do with the fortune bequeathed to me by my
parents? To begin with, I will not be dependent on it; I will cut
myself loose from all the ties which bind me to it; if it is left
in my hands, I shall keep it; if I am deprived of it, I shall not
be dragged away with it. I shall not trouble myself to keep it,
but I shall keep steadfastly to my own place. Rich or poor, I shall
be free. I shall be free not merely in this country or in that; I
shall be free in any part of the world. All the chains of prejudice
are broken; as far as I am concerned I know only the bonds of
necessity. I have been trained to endure them from my childhood,
and I shall endure them until death, for I am a man; and why should
I not wear those chains as a free man, for I should have to wear
them even if I were a slave, together with the additional fetters
of slavery?
"What matters my place in the world? What matters it where I am?
Wherever there are men, I am among my brethren; wherever there
are none, I am in my own home. So long as I may be independent and
rich, and have wherewithal to live, and I shall live. If my wealth
makes a slave of me, I shall find it easy to renounce it. I have
hands to work, and I shall get a living. If my hands fail me, I
shall live if others will support me; if they forsake me I shall
die; I shall die even if I am not forsaken, for death is not the
penalty of poverty, it is a law of nature. Whensoever death comes
I defy it; it shall never find me making preparations for life; it
shall never prevent me having lived.
"My father, this is my decision. But for my passions, I should be
in my manhood independent as God himself, for I only desire what
is and I should never fight against fate. At least, there is only
one chain, a chain which I shall ever wear, a chain of which I may
be justly proud. Come then, give me my Sophy, and I am free."
"Dear Emile, I am glad indeed to hear you speak like a man, and
to behold the feelings of your heart. At your age this exaggerated
unselfishness is not unpleasing. It will decrease when you have
children of your own, and then you will be just what a good father
and a wise man ought to be. I knew what the result would be before
our travels; I knew that when you saw our institutions you would be
far from reposing a confidence in them which they do not deserve.
In vain do we seek freedom under the power of the laws. The laws!
Where is there any law? Where is there any respect for law? Under
the name of law you have everywhere seen the rule of self-interest
and human passion. But the eternal laws of nature and of order
exist. For the wise man they take the place of positive law; they
are written in the depths of his heart by conscience and reason;
let him obey these laws and be free; for there is no slave but the
evil-doer, for he always does evil against his will. Liberty is
not to be found in any form of government, she is in the heart of
the free man, he bears her with him everywhere. The vile man bears
his slavery in himself; the one would be a slave in Geneva, the
other free in Paris.
"If I spoke to you of the duties of a citizen, you would perhaps
ask me, 'Which is my country?' And you would think you had put me
to confusion. Yet you would be mistaken, dear Emile, for he who
has no country has, at least, the land in which he lives. There is
always a government and certain so-called laws under which he has
lived in peace. What matter though the social contract has not been
observed, if he has been protected by private interest against the
general will, if he has been secured by public violence against
private aggressions, if the evil he has beheld has taught him to
love the good, and if our institutions themselves have made him
perceive and hate their own iniquities? Oh, Emile, where is the
man who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever that
land may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by
man, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue. Born in
the depths of a forest he would have lived in greater happiness
and freedom; but being able to follow his inclinations without a
struggle there would have been no merit in his goodness, he would
not have been virtuous, as he may be now, in spite of his passions.
The mere sight of order teaches him to know and love it. The public
good, which to others is a mere pretext, is a real motive for him.
He learns to fight against himself and to prevail, to sacrifice
his own interest to the common weal. It is not true that he gains
nothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even in
the midst of the wicked. It is not true that they have failed to
make him free; they have taught him to rule himself.
"Do not say therefore, 'What matter where I am?' It does matter
that you should be where you can best do your duty; and one of
these duties is to love your native land. Your fellow-countrymen
protected you in childhood; you should love them in your manhood.
You should live among them, or at least you should live where you
can serve them to the best of your power, and where they know where
to find you if ever they are in need of you. There are circumstances
in which a man may be of more use to his fellow-countrymen outside
his country than within it. Then he should listen only to his own
zeal and should bear his exile without a murmur; that exile is one
of his duties. But you, dear Emile, you have not undertaken the
painful task of telling men the truth, you must live in the midst
of your fellow-creatures, cultivating their friendship in pleasant
intercourse; you must be their benefactor, their pattern; your
example will do more than all our books, and the good they see you
do will touch them more deeply than all our empty words.
"Yet I do not exhort you to live in a town; on the contrary, one
of the examples which the good should give to others is that of a
patriarchal, rural life, the earliest life of man, the most peaceful,
the most natural, and the most attractive to the uncorrupted heart.
Happy is the land, my young friend, where one need not seek peace
in the wilderness! But where is that country? A man of good will
finds it hard to satisfy his inclinations in the midst of towns,
where he can find few but frauds and rogues to work for. The welcome
given by the towns to those idlers who flock to them to seek their
fortunes only completes the ruin of the country, when the country
ought really to be repopulated at the cost of the towns. All the
men who withdraw from high society are useful just because of their
withdrawal, since its vices are the result of its numbers. They are
also useful when they can bring with them into the desert places
life, culture, and the love of their first condition. I like
to think what benefits Emile and Sophy, in their simple home, may
spread about them, what a stimulus they may give to the country,
how they may revive the zeal of the unlucky villagers.
"In fancy I see the population increasing, the land coming under
cultivation, the earth clothed with fresh beauty. Many workers and
plenteous crops transform the labours of the fields into holidays; I
see the young couple in the midst of the rustic sports which they
have revived, and I hear the shouts of joy and the blessings of
those about them. Men say the golden age is a fable; it always will
be for those whose feelings and taste are depraved. People do not
really regret the golden age, for they do nothing to restore it.
What is needed for its restoration? one thing only, and that is an
impossibility; we must love the golden age.
"Already it seems to be reviving around Sophy's home; together you
will only complete what her worthy parents have begun. But, dear
Emile, you must not let so pleasant a life give you a distaste for
sterner duties, if every they are laid upon you; remember that the
Romans sometimes left the plough to become consul. If the prince
or the state calls you to the service of your country, leave all
to fulfil the honourable duties of a citizen in the post assigned
to you. If you find that duty onerous, there is a sure and honourable
means of escaping from it; do your duty so honestly that it will
not long be left in your hands. Moreover, you need not fear the
difficulties of such a test; while there are men of our own time,
they will not summon you to serve the state."
Why may I not paint the return of Emile to Sophy and the end of
their love, or rather the beginning of their wedded love! A love
founded on esteem which will last with life itself, on virtues
which will not fade with fading beauty, on fitness of character
which gives a charm to intercourse, and prolongs to old age the
delights of early love. But all such details would be pleasing but
not useful, and so far I have not permitted myself to give attractive
details unless I thought they would be useful. Shall I abandon
this rule when my task is nearly ended? No, I feel that my pen is
weary. Too feeble for such prolonged labours, I should abandon
this if it were not so nearly completed; if it is not to be left
imperfect it is time it were finished.
At last I see the happy day approaching, the happiest day of
Emile's life and my own; I see the crown of my labours, I begin to
appreciate their results. The noble pair are united till death do
part; heart and lips confirm no empty vows; they are man and wife.
When they return from the church, they follow where they are led;
they know not where they are, whither they are going, or what is
happening around them. They heed nothing, they answer at random;
their eyes are troubled and they see nothing. Oh, rapture! Oh,
human weakness! Man is overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, he
is not strong enough to bear it.
There are few people who know how to talk to the newly-married
couple. The gloomy propriety of some and the light conversation
of others seem to me equally out of place. I would rather their
young hearts were left to themselves, to abandon themselves to an
agitation which is not without its charm, rather than that they
should be so cruelly distressed by a false modesty, or annoyed by
coarse witticisms which, even if they appealed to them at other
times, are surely out of place on such a day.
I behold our young people, wrapped in a pleasant languor, giving
no heed to what is said. Shall I, who desire that they should enjoy
all the days of their life, shall I let them lose this precious
day? No, I desire that they shall taste its pleasures and enjoy
them. I rescue them from the foolish crowd, and walk with them in
some quiet place; I recall them to themselves by speaking of them
I wish to speak, not merely to their ears, but to their hearts,
and I know that there is only one subject of which they can think
to-day.
"My children," say I, taking a hand of each, "it is three years
since I beheld the birth of the pure and vigorous passion which is
your happiness to-day. It has gone on growing; your eyes tell me
that it has reached its highest point; it must inevitably decline."
My readers can fancy the raptures, the anger, the vows of Emile,
and the scornful air with which Sophy withdraws her hand from mine;
how their eyes protest that they will adore each other till their
latest breath. I let them have their way; then I continue:
"I have often thought that if the happiness of love could continue
in marriage, we should find a Paradise upon earth. So far this has
never been. But if it were not quite impossible, you two are quite
worthy to set an example you have not received, an example which
few married couples could follow. My children, shall I tell you
what I think is the way, and the only way, to do it?"
They look at one another and smile at my simplicity. Emile thanks
me curtly for my prescription, saying that he thinks Sophy has a
better, at any rate it is good enough for him. Sophy agrees with
him and seems just as certain. Yet in spite of her mockery, I think
I see a trace of curiosity. I study Emile; his eager eyes are fixed
upon his wife's beauty; he has no curiosity for anything else; and
he pays little heed to what I say. It is my turn to smile, and I
say to myself, "I will soon get your attention."
The almost imperceptible difference between these two hidden impulses
is characteristic of a real difference between the two sexes; it
is that men are generally less constant than women, and are sooner
weary of success in love. A woman foresees man's future inconstancy,
and is anxious; it is this which makes her more jealous. [Footnote:
In France it is the wives who first emancipate themselves; and
necessarily so, for having very little heart, and only desiring
attention, when a husband ceases to pay them attention they
care very little for himself. In other countries it is not so; it
is the husband who first emancipates himself; and necessarily so,
for women, faithful, but foolish, importune men with their desires
and only disgust them. There may be plenty of exceptions to these
general truths; but I still think they are truths.] When his
passion begins to cool she is compelled to pay him the attentions
he used to bestow on her for her pleasure; she weeps, it is her
turn to humiliate herself, and she is rarely successful. Affection
and kind deeds rarely win hearts, and they hardly ever win them
back. I return to my prescription against the cooling of love in
marriage.
"It is plain and simple," I continue. "It consists in remaining
lovers when you are husband and wife."
"Indeed," said Emile, laughing at my secret, "we shall not find
that hard."
"Perhaps you will find it harder than you think. Pray give me time
to explain.
"Cords too tightly stretched are soon broken. This is what happens
when the marriage bond is subjected to too great a strain. The
fidelity imposed by it upon husband and wife is the most sacred of
all rights; but it gives to each too great a power over the other.
Constraint and love do not agree together, and pleasure is not to
be had for the asking. Do not blush, Sophy, and do not try to run
away. God forbid that I should offend your modesty! But your fate
for life is at stake. For so great a cause, permit a conversation
between your husband and your father which you would not permit
elsewhere.
"It is not so much possession as mastery of which people tire, and
affection is often more prolonged with regard to a mistress than
a wife. How can people make a duty of the tenderest caresses, and
a right of the sweetest pledges of love? It is mutual desire which
gives the right, and nature knows no other. The law may restrict
this right, it cannot extend it. The pleasure is so sweet in itself!
Should it owe to sad constraint the power which it cannot gain from
its own charms? No, my children, in marriage the hearts are bound,
but the bodies are not enslaved. You owe one another fidelity, but
not complaisance. Neither of you may give yourself to another, but
neither of you belongs to the other except at your own will.
"If it is true, dear Emile, that you would always be your wife's
lover, that she should always be your mistress and her own, be a
happy but respectful lover; obtain all from love and nothing from
duty, and let the slightest favours never be of right but of grace.
I know that modesty shuns formal confessions and requires to be
overcome; but with delicacy and true love, will the lover ever be
mistaken as to the real will? Will not he know when heart and eyes
grant what the lips refuse? Let both for ever be master of their
person and their caresses, let them have the right to bestow them
only at their own will. Remember that even in marriage this pleasure
is only lawful when the desire is mutual. Do not be afraid, my
children, that this law will keep you apart; on the contrary, it
will make both more eager to please, and will prevent satiety. True
to one another, nature and love will draw you to each other."
Emile is angry and cries out against these and similar suggestions.
Sophy is ashamed, she hides her face behind her fan and says nothing.
Perhaps while she is saying nothing, she is the most annoyed. Yet
I insist, without mercy; I make Emile blush for his lack of delicacy;
I undertake to be surety for Sophy that she will undertake her
share of the treaty. I incite her to speak, you may guess she will
not dare to say I am mistaken. Emile anxiously consults the eyes of
his young wife; he beholds them, through all her confusion, filled
with a, voluptuous anxiety which reassures him against the dangers
of trusting her. He flings himself at her feet, kisses with rapture
the hand extended to him, and swears that beyond the fidelity he
has already promised, he will renounce all other rights over her.
"My dear wife," said he, "be the arbiter of my pleasures as you are
already the arbiter of my life and fate. Should your cruelty cost
me life itself I would yield to you my most cherished rights. I
will owe nothing to your complaisance, but all to your heart."
Dear Emile, be comforted; Sophy herself is too generous to let you
fall a victim to your generosity.
In the evening, when I am about to leave them, I say in the most
solemn tone, "Remember both of you, that you are free, that there
is no question of marital rights; believe me, no false deference.
Emile will you come home with me? Sophy permits it." Emile is ready
to strike me in his anger. "And you, Sophy, what do you say? Shall
I take him away?" The little liar, blushing, answers, "Yes." A
tender and delightful falsehood, better than truth itself!
The next day. ... Men no longer delight in the picture of bliss;
their taste is as much depraved by the corruption of vice as their
hearts. They can no longer feel what is touching or perceive what
is truly delightful. You who, as a picture of voluptuous joys, see
only the happy lovers immersed in pleasure, your picture is very
imperfect; you have only its grosser part, the sweetest charms
of pleasure are not there. Which of you has seen a young couple,
happily married, on the morrow of their marriage? their chaste
yet languid looks betray the intoxication of the bliss they have
enjoyed, the blessed security of innocence, and the delightful
certainty that they will spend the rest of their life together. The
heart of man can behold no more rapturous sight; this is the real
picture of happiness; you have beheld it a hundred times without
heeding it; your hearts are so hard that you cannot love it. Sophy,
peaceful and happy, spends the day in the arms of her tender mother;
a pleasant resting place, after a night spent in the arms of her
husband.
The day after I am aware of a slight change. Emile tries to look
somewhat vexed; but through this pretence I notice such a tender
eagerness, and indeed so much submission, that I do not think there
is much amiss. As for Sophy she is merrier than she was yesterday;
her eyes are sparkling and she looks very well pleased with herself;
she is charming to Emile; she ventures to tease him a little and
vexes him still more.
These changes are almost imperceptible, but they do not escape me;
I am anxious and I question Emile in private, and I learn that,
to his great regret, and in spite of all entreaties, he was not
permitted last night to share Sophy's bed. That haughty lady had
made haste to assert her right. An explanation takes place. Emile
complains bitterly, Sophy laughs; but at last, seeing that Emile is
really getting angry, she looks at him with eyes full of tenderness
and love, and pressing my hand, she only says these two words, but
in a tone that goes to his heart, "Ungrateful man!" Emile is too
stupid to understand. But I understand, and I send Emile away and
speak to Sophy privately in her turn.
"I see," said I, "the reason for this whim. No one could be more
delicate, and no one could use that delicacy so ill. Dear Sophy, do
not be anxious, I have given you a man; do not be afraid to treat
him as such. You have had the first fruits of his youth; he has not
squandered his manhood and it will endure for you. My dear child,
I must explain to you why I said what I did in our conversation of
the day before yesterday. Perhaps you only understood it as a way
of restraining your pleasures to secure their continuance. Oh,
Sophy, there was another object, more worthy of my care. When Emile
became your husband, he became your head, it is yours to obey; this
is the will of nature. When the wife is like Sophy, it is, however,
good for the man to be led by her; that is another of nature's
laws, and it is to give you as much authority over his heart, as
his sex gives him over your person, that I have made you the arbiter
of his pleasures. It will be hard for you, but you will control him
if you can control yourself, and what has already happened shows me
that this difficult art is not beyond your courage. You will long
rule him by love if you make your favours scarce and precious, if
you know how to use them aright. If you want to have your husband
always in your power, keep him at a distance. But let your sternness
be the result of modesty not caprice; let him find you modest not
capricious; beware lest in controlling his love you make him doubt
your own. Be all the dearer for your favours and all the more
respected when you refuse them; let him honour his wife's chastity,
without having to complain of her coldness.
"Thus, my child, he will give you his confidence, he will listen
to your opinion, will consult you in his business, and will decide
nothing without you. Thus you may recall him to wisdom, if he strays,
and bring him back by a gentle persuasion, you may make yourself
lovable in order to be useful, you may employ coquetry on behalf
of virtue, and love on behalf of reason.
"Do not think that with all this, your art will always serve your
purpose. In spite of every precaution pleasures are destroyed by
possession, and love above all others. But when love has lasted long
enough, a gentle habit takes its place and the charm of confidence
succeeds the raptures of passion. Children form a bond between
their parents, a bond no less tender and a bond which is sometimes
stronger than love itself. When you cease to be Emile's mistress you
will be his friend and wife; you will be the mother of his children.
Then instead of your first reticence let there be the fullest
intimacy between you; no more separate beds, no more refusals, no
more caprices. Become so truly his better half that he can no longer
do without you, and if he must leave you, let him feel that he is
far from himself. You have made the charms of home life so powerful
in your father's home, let them prevail in your own. Every man who
is happy at home loves his wife. Remember that if your husband is
happy in his home, you will be a happy wife.
"For the present, do not be too hard on your lover; he deserves
more consideration; he will be offended by your fears; do not care
for his health at the cost of his happiness, and enjoy your own
happiness. You must neither wait for disgust nor repulse desire;
you must not refuse for the sake of refusing, but only to add to
the value of your favours."
Then, taking her back to Emile, I say to her young husband, one must
bear the yoke voluntarily imposed upon oneself. Let your deserts be
such that the yoke may be lightened. Above all, sacrifice to the
graces, and do not think that sulkiness will make you more amiable."
Peace is soon made, and everybody can guess its terms. The treaty
is signed with a kiss, after which I say to my pupil, "Dear Emile,
all his life through a man needs a guide and counsellor. So far
I have done my best to fulfil that duty; my lengthy task is now
ended, and another will undertake this duty. To-day I abdicate the
authority which you gave me; henceforward Sophy is your guardian."
Little by little the first raptures subside and they can peacefully
enjoy the delights of their new condition. Happy lovers, worthy
husband and wife! To do honour to their virtues, to paint their
felicity, would require the history of their lives. How often does
my heart throb with rapture when I behold in them the crown of my
life's work! How often do I take their hands in mine blessing God
with all my heart! How often do I kiss their clasped hands! How
often do their tears of joy fall upon mine! They are touched by
my joy and they share my raptures. Their worthy parents see their
own youth renewed in that of their children; they begin to live,
as it were, afresh in them; or rather they perceive, for the first
time, the true value of life; they curse their former wealth, which
prevented them from enjoying so delightful a lot when they were
young. If there is such a thing as happiness upon earth, you must
seek it in our abode.
One morning a few months later Emile enters my room and embraces
me, saying, "My master, congratulate your son; he hopes soon to
have the honour of being a father. What a responsibility will be
ours, how much we shall need you! Yet God forbid that I should let
you educate the son as you educated the father. God forbid that so
sweet and holy a task should be fulfilled by any but myself, even
though I should make as good a choice for my child as was made for
me! But continue to be the teacher of the young teachers. Advise
and control us; we shall be easily led; as long as I live I shall
need you. I need you more than ever now that I am taking up the
duties of manhood. You have done your own duty; teach me to follow
your example, while you enjoy your well-earned leisure."
THE END
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My sensations take place in myself, for they make me aware of my
own existence; but their cause is outside me, for they affect me
whether I have any reason for them or not, and they are produced
or destroyed independently of me. So I clearly perceive that my
sensation, which is within me, and its cause or its object, which
is outside me, are different things.
Thus, not only do I exist, but other entities exist also, that is
to say, the objects of my sensations; and even if these objects
are merely ideas, still these ideas are not me.
But everything outside myself, everything which acts upon my senses,
I call matter, and all the particles of matter which I suppose to be
united into separate entities I call bodies. Thus all the disputes
of the idealists and the realists have no meaning for me; their
distinctions between the appearance and the reality of bodies are
wholly fanciful.
I am now as convinced of the existence of the universe as of
my own. I next consider the objects of my sensations, and I find
that I have the power of comparing them, so I perceive that I am
endowed with an active force of which I was not previously aware.
To perceive is to feel; to compare is to judge; to judge and to feel
are not the same. Through sensation objects present themselves to
me separately and singly as they are in nature; by comparing them
I rearrange them, I shift them so to speak, I place one upon another
to decide whether they are alike or different, or more generally
to find out their relations. To my mind, the distinctive faculty of
an active or intelligent being is the power of understanding this
word "is." I seek in vain in the merely sensitive entity that
intelligent force which compares and judges; I can find no trace of
it in its nature. This passive entity will be aware of each object
separately, it will even be aware of the whole formed by the two
together, but having no power to place them side by side it can
never compare them, it can never form a judgment with regard to
them.
To see two things at once is not to see their relations nor to judge
of their differences; to perceive several objects, one beyond the
other, is not to relate them. I may have at the same moment an idea
of a big stick and a little stick without comparing them, without
judging that one is less than the other, just as I can see my whole
hand without counting my fingers. [Footnote: M. de le Cordamines'
narratives tell of a people who only know how to count up to three.
Yet the men of this nation, having hands, have often seen their
fingers without learning to count up to five.] These comparative
ideas, 'greater', 'smaller', together with number ideas of 'one',
'two', etc. are certainly not sensations, although my mind only
produces them when my sensations occur.
We are told that a sensitive being distinguishes sensations from each
other by the inherent differences in the sensations; this requires
explanation. When the sensations are different, the sensitive
being distinguishes them by their differences; when they are alike,
he distinguishes them because he is aware of them one beyond the
other. Otherwise, how could he distinguish between two equal objects
simultaneously experienced? He would necessarily confound the two
objects and take them for one object, especially under a system
which professed that the representative sensations of space have
no extension.
When we become aware of the two sensations to be compared, their
impression is made, each object is perceived, both are perceived,
but for all that their relation is not perceived. If the judgment
of this relation were merely a sensation, and came to me solely
from the object itself, my judgments would never be mistaken, for
it is never untrue that I feel what I feel.
Why then am I mistaken as to the relation between these two sticks,
especially when they are not parallel? Why, for example, do I say
the small stick is a third of the large, when it is only a quarter?
Why is the picture, which is the sensation, unlike its model which
is the object? It is because I am active when I judge, because
the operation of comparison is at fault; because my understanding,
which judges of relations, mingles its errors with the truth of
sensations, which only reveal to me things.
Add to this a consideration which will, I feel sure, appeal to
you when you have thought about it: it is this--If we were purely
passive in the use of our senses, there would be no communication
between them; it would be impossible to know that the body we are
touching and the thing we are looking at is the same. Either we
should never perceive anything outside ourselves, or there would
be for us five substances perceptible by the senses, whose identity
we should have no means of perceiving.
This power of my mind which brings my sensations together and
compares them may be called by any name; let it be called attention,
meditation, reflection, or what you will; it is still true that
it is in me and not in things, that it is I alone who produce it,
though I only produce it when I receive an impression from things.
Though I am compelled to feel or not to feel, I am free to examine
more or less what I feel.
Being now, so to speak, sure of myself, I begin to look at things
outside myself, and I behold myself with a sort of shudder flung
at random into this vast universe, plunged as it were into the vast
number of entities, knowing nothing of what they are in themselves
or in relation to me. I study them, I observe them; and the first
object which suggests itself for comparison with them is myself.
All that I perceive through the senses is matter, and I deduce
all the essential properties of matter from the sensible qualities
which make me perceive it, qualities which are inseparable from it.
I see it sometimes in motion, sometimes at rest, [Footnote: This
repose is, if you prefer it, merely relative; but as we perceive
more or less of motion, we may plainly conceive one of two extremes,
which is rest; and we conceive it so clearly that we are even
disposed to take for absolute rest what is only relative. But it
is not true that motion is of the essence of matter, if matter may
be conceived of as at rest.] hence I infer that neither motion nor
rest is essential to it, but motion, being an action, is the result
of a cause of which rest is only the absence. When, therefore,
there is nothing acting upon matter it does not move, and for the
very reason that rest and motion are indifferent to it, its natural
state is a state of rest.
I perceive two sorts of motions of bodies, acquired motion and
spontaneous or voluntary motion. In the first the cause is external
to the body moved, in the second it is within. I shall not conclude
from that that the motion, say of a watch, is spontaneous, for if no
external cause operated upon the spring it would run down and the
watch would cease to go. For the same reason I should not admit
that the movements of fluids are spontaneous, neither should I
attribute spontaneous motion to fire which causes their fluidity.
[Footnote: Chemists regard phlogiston or the element of fire as
diffused, motionless, and stagnant in the compounds of which it
forms part, until external forces set it free, collect it and set
it in motion, and change it into fire.]
You ask me if the movements of animals are spontaneous; my answer
is, "I cannot tell," but analogy points that way. You ask me again,
how do I know that there are spontaneous movements? I tell you, "I
know it because I feel them." I want to move my arm and I move it
without any other immediate cause of the movement but my own will.
In vain would any one try to argue me out of this feeling, it is
stronger than any proofs; you might as well try to convince me that
I do not exist.
If there were no spontaneity in men's actions, nor in anything
that happens on this earth, it would be all the more difficult to
imagine a first cause for all motion. For my own part, I feel myself
so thoroughly convinced that the natural state of matter is a state
of rest, and that it has no power of action in itself, that when
I see a body in motion I at once assume that it is either a living
body or that this motion has been imparted to it. My mind declines
to accept in any way the idea of inorganic matter moving of its
own accord, or giving rise to any action.
Yet this visible universe consists of matter, matter diffused and
dead, [Footnote: I have tried hard to grasp the idea of a living
molecule, but in vain. The idea of matter feeling without any senses
seems to me unintelligible and self-contradictory. To accept or
reject this idea one must first understand it, and I confess that
so far I have not succeeded.] matter which has none of the cohesion,
the organisation, the common feeling of the parts of a living body,
for it is certain that we who are parts have no consciousness of
the whole. This same universe is in motion, and in its movements,
ordered, uniform, and subject to fixed laws, it has none of that
freedom which appears in the spontaneous movements of men and
animals. So the world is not some huge animal which moves of its
own accord; its movements are therefore due to some external cause,
a cause which I cannot perceive, but the inner voice makes this
cause so apparent to me that I cannot watch the course of the
sun without imagining a force which drives it, and when the earth
revolves I think I see the hand that sets it in motion.
If I must accept general laws whose essential relation to matter
is unperceived by me, how much further have I got? These laws, not
being real things, not being substances, have therefore some other
basis unknown to me. Experiment and observation have acquainted us
with the laws of motion; these laws determine the results without
showing their causes; they are quite inadequate to explain the
system of the world and the course of the universe. With the help
of dice Descartes made heaven and earth; but he could not set his
dice in motion, nor start the action of his centrifugal force without
the help of rotation. Newton discovered the law of gravitation; but
gravitation alone would soon reduce the universe to a motionless
mass; he was compelled to add a projectile force to account for
the elliptical course of the celestial bodies; let Newton show us
the hand that launched the planets in the tangent of their orbits.
The first causes of motion are not to be found in matter; matter
receives and transmits motion, but does not produce it. The more
I observe the action and reaction of the forces of nature playing
on one another, the more I see that we must always go back from one
effect to another, till we arrive at a first cause in some will;
for to assume an infinite succession of causes is to assume that
there is no first cause. In a word, no motion which is not caused
by another motion can take place, except by a spontaneous, voluntary
action; inanimate bodies have no action but motion, and there is
no real action without will. This is my first principle. I believe,
therefore, that there is a will which sets the universe in motion
and gives life to nature. This is my first dogma, or the first
article of my creed.
How does a will produce a physical and corporeal action? I cannot
tell, but I perceive that it does so in myself; I will to do
something and I do it; I will to move my body and it moves, but
if an inanimate body, when at rest, should begin to move itself,
the thing is incomprehensible and without precedent. The will is
known to me in its action, not in its nature. I know this will as
a cause of motion, but to conceive of matter as producing motion
is clearly to conceive of an effect without a cause, which is not
to conceive at all.
It is no more possible for me to conceive how my will moves my body
than to conceive how my sensations affect my mind. I do not even
know why one of these mysteries has seemed less inexplicable than the
other. For my own part, whether I am active or passive, the means
of union of the two substances seem to me absolutely incomprehensible.
It is very strange that people make this very incomprehensibility a
step towards the compounding of the two substances, as if operations
so different in kind were more easily explained in one case than
in two.
The doctrine I have just laid down is indeed obscure; but at least
it suggests a meaning and there is nothing in it repugnant to reason
or experience; can we say as much of materialism? Is it not plain
that if motion is essential to matter it would be inseparable from
it, it would always be present in it in the same degree, always
present in every particle of matter, always the same in each
particle of matter, it would not be capable of transmission, it
could neither increase nor diminish, nor could we ever conceive of
matter at rest. When you tell me that motion is not essential to
matter but necessary to it, you try to cheat me with words which
would be easier to refute if there was a little more sense in them.
For either the motion of matter arises from the matter itself and
is therefore essential to it; or it arises from an external cause
and is not necessary to the matter, because the motive cause acts
upon it; we have got back to our original difficulty.
The chief source of human error is to be found in general and abstract
ideas; the jargon of metaphysics has never led to the discovery of
any single truth, and it has filled philosophy with absurdities of
which we are ashamed as soon as we strip them of their long words.
Tell me, my friend, when they talk to you of a blind force diffused
throughout nature, do they present any real idea to your mind? They
think they are saying something by these vague ｅxpressions--universal
force, essential motion--but they are saying nothing at all. The idea
of motion is nothing more than the idea of transference from place
to place; there is no motion without direction; for no individual
can move all ways at once. In what direction then does matter move
of necessity? Has the whole body of matter a uniform motion, or
has each atom its own motion? According to the first idea the whole
universe must form a solid and indivisible mass; according to the
second it can only form a diffused and incoherent fluid, which
would make the union of any two atoms impossible. What direction
shall be taken by this motion common to all matter? Shall it be
in a straight line, in a circle, or from above downwards, to the
right or to the left? If each molecule has its own direction, what
are the causes of all these directions and all these differences?
If every molecule or atom only revolved on its own axis, nothing
would ever leave its place and there would be no transmitted motion,
and even then this circular movement would require to follow some
direction. To set matter in motion by an abstraction is to utter
words without meaning, and to attribute to matter a given direction
is to assume a determining cause. The more examples I take, the
more causes I have to explain, without ever finding a common agent
which controls them. Far from being able to picture to myself an
entire absence of order in the fortuitous concurrence of elements,
I cannot even imagine such a strife, and the chaos of the universe
is less conceivable to me than its harmony. I can understand that
the mechanism of the universe may not be intelligible to the human
mind, but when a man sets to work to explain it, he must say what
men can understand.
If matter in motion points me to a will, matter in motion according
to fixed laws points me to an intelligence; that is the second article
of my creed. To act, to compare, to choose, are the operations of
an active, thinking being; so this being exists. Where do you find
him existing, you will say? Not merely in the revolving heavens,
nor in the sun which gives us light, not in myself alone, but in
the sheep that grazes, the bird that flies, the stone that falls,
and the leaf blown by the wind.
I judge of the order of the world, although I know nothing of its
purpose, for to judge of this order it is enough for me to compare
the parts one with another, to study their co-operation, their
relations, and to observe their united action. I know not why the
universe exists, but I see continually how it is changed; I never
fail to perceive the close connection by which the entities of
which it consists lend their aid one to another. I am like a man
who sees the works of a watch for the first time; he is never weary
of admiring the mechanism, though he does not know the use of the
instrument and has never seen its face. I do not know what this is
for, says he, but I see that each part of it is fitted to the rest,
I admire the workman in the details of his work, and I am quite
certain that all these wheels only work together in this fashion
for some common end which I cannot perceive.
Let us compare the special ends, the means, the ordered relations
of every kind, then let us listen to the inner voice of feeling;
what healthy mind can reject its evidence? Unless the eyes are
blinded by prejudices, can they fail to see that the visible order
of the universe proclaims a supreme intelligence? What sophisms
must be brought together before we fail to understand the harmony
of existence and the wonderful co-operation of every part for the
maintenance of the rest? Say what you will of combinations and
probabilities; what do you gain by reducing me to silence if you
cannot gain my consent? And how can you rob me of the spontaneous
feeling which, in spite of myself, continually gives you the lie?
If organised bodies had come together fortuitously in all sorts of
ways before assuming settled forms, if stomachs are made without
mouths, feet without heads, hands without arms, imperfect organs of
every kind which died because they could not preserve their life,
why do none of these imperfect attempts now meet our eyes; why has
nature at length prescribed laws to herself which she did not at
first recognise? I must not be surprised if that which is possible
should happen, and if the improbability of the event is compensated
for by the number of the attempts. I grant this; yet if any one
told me that printed characters scattered broadcast had produced
the Aeneid all complete, I would not condescend to take a single
step to verify this falsehood. You will tell me I am forgetting the
multitude of attempts. But how many such attempts must I assume to
bring the combination within the bounds of probability? For my own
part the only possible assumption is that the chances are infinity
to one that the product is not the work of chance. In addition to
this, chance combinations yield nothing but products of the same
nature as the elements combined, so that life and organisation will
not be produced by a flow of atoms, and a chemist when making his
compounds will never give them thought and feeling in his crucible.
[Footnote: Could one believe, if one had not seen it, that human
absurdity could go so far? Amatus Lusitanus asserts that he saw a
little man an inch long enclosed in a glass, which Julius Camillus,
like a second Prometheus, had made by alchemy. Paracelsis (De
natura rerum) teaches the method of making these tiny men, and he
maintains that the pygmies, fauns, satyrs, and nymphs have been made
by chemistry. Indeed I cannot see that there is anything more to
be done, to establish the possibility of these facts, unless it
is to assert that organic matter resists the heat of fire and that
its molecules can preserve their life in the hottest furnace.]
I was surprised and almost shocked when I read Neuwentit. How
could this man desire to make a book out of the wonders of nature,
wonders which show the wisdom of the author of nature? His book would
have been as large as the world itself before he had exhausted his
subject, and as soon as we attempt to give details, that greatest
wonder of all, the concord and harmony of the whole, escapes us.
The mere generation of living organic bodies is the despair of the
human mind; the insurmountable barrier raised by nature between the
various species, so that they should not mix with one another, is
the clearest proof of her intention. She is not content to have
established order, she has taken adequate measures to prevent the
disturbance of that order.
There is not a being in the universe which may not be regarded as
in some respects the common centre of all, around which they are
grouped, so that they are all reciprocally end and means in relation
to each other. The mind is confused and lost amid these innumerable
relations, not one of which is itself confused or lost in the
crowd. What absurd assumptions are required to deduce all this
harmony from the blind mechanism of matter set in motion by chance!
In vain do those who deny the unity of intention manifested in the
relations of all the parts of this great whole, in vain do they
conceal their nonsense under abstractions, co-ordinations, general
principles, symbolic ｅxpressions; whatever they do I find it
impossible to conceive of a system of entities so firmly ordered
unless I believe in an intelligence that orders them. It is not in
my power to believe that passive and dead matter can have brought
forth living and feeling beings, that blind chance has brought
forth intelligent beings, that that which does not think has brought
forth thinking beings.
I believe, therefore, that the world is governed by a wise and
powerful will; I see it or rather I feel it, and it is a great
thing to know this. But has this same world always existed, or has
it been created? Is there one source of all things? Are there two
or many? What is their nature? I know not; and what concern is it
of mine? When these things become of importance to me I will try
to learn them; till then I abjure these idle speculations, which may
trouble my peace, but cannot affect my conduct nor be comprehended
by my reason.
Recollect that I am not preaching my own opinion but explaining
it. Whether matter is eternal or created, whether its origin is
passive or not, it is still certain that the whole is one, and that
it proclaims a single intelligence; for I see nothing that is not
part of the same ordered system, nothing which does not co-operate
to the same end, namely, the conservation of all within the
established order. This being who wills and can perform his will,
this being active through his own power, this being, whoever he may
be, who moves the universe and orders all things, is what I call
God. To this name I add the ideas of intelligence, power, will,
which I have brought together, and that of kindness which is their
necessary consequence; but for all this I know no more of the being
to which I ascribe them. He hides himself alike from my senses
and my understanding; the more I think of him, the more perplexed
I am; I know full well that he exists, and that he exists of himself
alone; I know that my existence depends on his, and that everything
I know depends upon him also. I see God everywhere in his works;
I feel him within myself; I behold him all around me; but if I try
to ponder him himself, if I try to find out where he is, what he
is, what is his substance, he escapes me and my troubled spirit
finds nothing.
Convinced of my unfitness, I shall never argue about the nature of
God unless I am driven to it by the feeling of his relations with
myself. Such reasonings are always rash; a wise man should venture
on them with trembling, he should be certain that he can never
sound their abysses; for the most insolent attitude towards God is
not to abstain from thinking of him, but to think evil of him.
After the discovery of such of his attributes as enable me to conceive
of his existence, I return to myself, and I try to discover what is
my place in the order of things which he governs, and I can myself
examine. At once, and beyond possibility of doubt, I discover my
species; for by my own will and the instruments I can control to
carry out my will, I have more power to act upon all bodies about
me, either to make use of or to avoid their action at my pleasure,
than any of them has power to act upon me against my will by mere
physical impulsion; and through my intelligence I am the only one
who can examine all the rest. What being here below, except man,
can observe others, measure, calculate, forecast their motions,
their effects, and unite, so to speak, the feeling of a common
existence with that of his individual existence? What is there so
absurd in the thought that all things are made for me, when I alone
can relate all things to myself?
It is true, therefore, that man is lord of the earth on which he
dwells; for not only does he tame all the beasts, not only does he
control its elements through his industry; but he alone knows how
to control it; by contemplation he takes possession of the stars
which he cannot approach. Show me any other creature on earth who
can make a fire and who can behold with admiration the sun. What!
can I observe and know all creatures and their relations; can
I feel what is meant by order, beauty, and virtue; can I consider
the universe and raise myself towards the hand that guides it; can
I love good and perform it; and should I then liken myself to the
beasts? Wretched soul, it is your gloomy philosophy which makes
you like the beasts; or rather in vain do you seek to degrade
yourself; your genius belies your principles, your kindly heart
belies your doctrines, and even the abuse of your powers proves
their excellence in your own despite.
For myself, I am not pledged to the support of any system. I am a
plain and honest man, one who is not carried away by party spirit,
one who has no ambition to be head of a sect; I am content with
the place where God has set me; I see nothing, next to God himself,
which is better than my species; and if I had to choose my place in
the order of creation, what more could I choose than to be a man!
I am not puffed up by this thought, I am deeply moved by it; for
this state was no choice of mine, it was not due to the deserts
of a creature who as yet did not exist. Can I behold myself thus
distinguished without congratulating myself on this post of honour,
without blessing the hand which bestowed it? The first return to
self has given birth to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness
to the author of my species, and this feeling calls forth my first
homage to the beneficent Godhead. I worship his Almighty power and
my heart acknowledges his mercies. Is it not a natural consequence
of our self-love to honour our protector and to love our benefactor?
But when, in my desire to discover my own place within my species,
I consider its different ranks and the men who fill them, where am
I now? What a sight meets my eyes! Where is now the order I perceived?
Nature showed me a scene of harmony and proportion; the human race
shows me nothing but confusion and disorder. The elements agree
together; men are in a state of chaos. The beasts are happy; their
king alone is wretched. O Wisdom, where are thy laws? O Providence,
is this thy rule over the world? Merciful God, where is thy Power?
I behold the earth, and there is evil upon it.
Would you believe it, dear friend, from these gloomy thoughts and
apparent contradictions, there was shaped in my mind the sublime
idea of the soul, which all my seeking had hitherto failed to
discover? While I meditated upon man's nature, I seemed to discover
two distinct principles in it; one of them raised him to the study
of the eternal truths, to the love of justice, and of true morality,
to the regions of the world of thought, which the wise delight to
contemplate; the other led him downwards to himself, made him the
slave of his senses, of the passions which are their instruments,
and thus opposed everything suggested to him by the former principle.
When I felt myself carried away, distracted by these conflicting
motives, I said, No; man is not one; I will and I will not; I feel
myself at once a slave and a free man; I perceive what is right, I
love it, and I do what is wrong; I am active when I listen to the
voice of reason; I am passive when I am carried away by my passions;
and when I yield, my worst suffering is the knowledge that I might
have resisted.
Young man, hear me with confidence. I will always be honest with
you. If conscience is the creature of prejudice, I am certainly
wrong, and there is no such thing as a proof of morality; but if
to put oneself first is an inclination natural to man, and if the
first sentiment of justice is moreover inborn in the human heart,
let those who say man is a simple creature remove these contradictions
and I will grant that there is but one substance.
You will note that by this term 'substance' I understand generally
the being endowed with some primitive quality, apart from all special
and secondary modifications. If then all the primitive qualities
which are known to us can be united in one and the same being, we
should only acknowledge one substance; but if there are qualities
which are mutually exclusive, there are as many different substances
as there are such exclusions. You will think this over; for my
own part, whatever Locke may say, it is enough for me to recognise
matter as having merely extension and divisibility to convince
myself that it cannot think, and if a philosopher tells me that
trees feel and rocks think [Footnote: It seems to me that modern
philosophy, far from saying that rocks think, has discovered that
men do not think. It perceives nothing more in nature than sensitive
beings; and the only difference it finds between a man and a stone
is that a man is a sensitive being which experiences sensations, and
a stone is a sensitive being which does not experience sensations.
But if it is true that all matter feels, where shall I find the
sensitive unit, the individual ego? Shall it be in each molecule of
matter or in bodies as aggregates of molecules? Shall I place this
unity in fluids and solids alike, in compounds and in elements? You
tell me nature consists of individuals. But what are these individuals?
Is that stone an individual or an aggregate of individuals? Is
it a single sensitive being, or are there as many beings in it as
there are grains of sand? If every elementary atom is a sensitive
being, how shall I conceive of that intimate communication by which
one feels within the other, so that their two egos are blended in
one? Attraction may be a law of nature whose mystery is unknown to
us; but at least we conceive that there is nothing in attraction
acting in proportion to mass which is contrary to extension and
divisibility. Can you conceive of sensation in the same way? The
sensitive parts have extension, but the sensitive being is one and
indivisible; he cannot be cut in two, he is a whole or he is nothing;
therefore the sensitive being is not a material body. I know not
how our materialists understand it, but it seems to me that the
same difficulties which have led them to reject thought, should
have made them also reject feeling; and I see no reason why, when
the first step has been taken, they should not take the second
too; what more would it cost them? Since they are certain they do
not think, why do they dare to affirm that they feel?] in vain will
he perplex me with his cunning arguments; I merely regard him as
a dishonest sophist, who prefers to say that stones have feeling
rather than that men have souls.
Suppose a deaf man denies the existence of sounds because he has
never heard them. I put before his eyes a stringed instrument and
cause it to sound in unison by means of another instrument concealed
from him; the deaf man sees the chord vibrate. I tell him, "The
sound makes it do that." "Not at all," says he, "the string itself
is the cause of the vibration; to vibrate in that way is a quality
common to all bodies." "Then show me this vibration in other
bodies," I answer, "or at least show me its cause in this string."
"I cannot," replies the deaf man; "but because I do not understand
how that string vibrates why should I try to explain it by means of
your sounds, of which I have not the least idea? It is explaining
one obscure fact by means of a cause still more obscure. Make me
perceive your sounds; or I say there are no such things."
The more I consider thought and the nature of the human mind, the
more likeness I find between the arguments of the materialists and
those of the deaf man. Indeed, they are deaf to the inner voice
which cries aloud to them, in a tone which can hardly be mistaken.
A machine does not think, there is neither movement nor form which
can produce reflection; something within thee tries to break the
bands which confine it; space is not thy measure, the whole universe
does not suffice to contain thee; thy sentiments, thy desires, thy
anxiety, thy pride itself, have another origin than this small body
in which thou art imprisoned.
No material creature is in itself active, and I am active. In vain
do you argue this point with me; I feel it, and it is this feeling
which speaks to me more forcibly than the reason which disputes it.
I have a body which is acted upon by other bodies, and it acts in
turn upon them; there is no doubt about this reciprocal action;
but my will is independent of my senses; I consent or I resist;
I yield or I win the victory, and I know very well in myself when
I have done what I wanted and when I have merely given way to
my passions. I have always the power to will, but not always the
strength to do what I will. When I yield to temptation I surrender
myself to the action of external objects. When I blame myself for
this weakness, I listen to my own will alone; I am a slave in my
vices, a free man in my remorse; the feeling of freedom is never
effaced in me but when I myself do wrong, and when I at length
prevent the voice of the soul from protesting against the authority
of the body.
I am only aware of will through the consciousness of my own will,
and intelligence is no better known to me. When you ask me what
is the cause which determines my will, it is my turn to ask what
cause determines my judgment; for it is plain that these two causes
are but one; and if you understand clearly that man is active in
his judgments, that his intelligence is only the power to compare
and judge, you will see that his freedom is only a similar power
or one derived from this; he chooses between good and evil as he
judges between truth and falsehood; if his judgment is at fault, he
chooses amiss. What then is the cause that determines his will? It
is his judgment. And what is the cause that determines his judgment?
It is his intelligence, his power of judging; the determining cause
is in himself. Beyond that, I understand nothing.
No doubt I am not free not to desire my own welfare, I am not free
to desire my own hurt; but my freedom consists in this very thing,
that I can will what is for my own good, or what I esteem as such,
without any external compulsion. Does it follow that I am not my
own master because I cannot be other than myself?
The motive power of all action is in the will of a free creature; we
can go no farther. It is not the word freedom that is meaningless, but
the word necessity. To suppose some action which is not the effect
of an active motive power is indeed to suppose effects without
cause, to reason in a vicious circle. Either there is no original
impulse, or every original impulse has no antecedent cause, and
there is no will properly so-called without freedom. Man is therefore
free to act, and as such he is animated by an immaterial substance;
that is the third article of my creed. From these three you will
easily deduce the rest, so that I need not enumerate them.
If man is at once active and free, he acts of his own accord; what
he does freely is no part of the system marked out by Providence
and it cannot be imputed to Providence. Providence does not will
the evil that man does when he misuses the freedom given to him;
neither does Providence prevent him doing it, either because the
wrong done by so feeble a creature is as nothing in its eyes, or
because it could not prevent it without doing a greater wrong and
degrading his nature. Providence has made him free that he may
choose the good and refuse the evil. It has made him capable of this
choice if he uses rightly the faculties bestowed upon him, but it
has so strictly limited his powers that the misuse of his freedom
cannot disturb the general order. The evil that man does reacts
upon himself without affecting the system of the world, without
preventing the preservation of the human species in spite of
itself. To complain that God does not prevent us from doing wrong
is to complain because he has made man of so excellent a nature,
that he has endowed his actions with that morality by which they
are ennobled, that he has made virtue man's birthright. Supreme
happiness consists in self-content; that we may gain this self-content
we are placed upon this earth and endowed with freedom, we are
tempted by our passions and restrained by conscience. What more
could divine power itself have done on our behalf? Could it have made
our nature a contradiction, and have given the prize of well-doing
to one who was incapable of evil? To prevent a man from wickedness,
should Providence have restricted him to instinct and made him
a fool? Not so, O God of my soul, I will never reproach thee that
thou hast created me in thine own image, that I may be free and
good and happy like my Maker!
It is the abuse of our powers that makes us unhappy and wicked.
Our cares, our sorrows, our sufferings are of our own making. Moral
ills are undoubtedly the work of man, and physical ills would be
nothing but for our vices which have made us liable to them. Has
not nature made us feel our needs as a means to our preservation!
Is not bodily suffering a sign that the machine is out of order
and needs attention? Death.... Do not the wicked poison their own
life and ours? Who would wish to live for ever? Death is the cure
for the evils you bring upon yourself; nature would not have you
suffer perpetually. How few sufferings are felt by man living in
a state of primitive simplicity! His life is almost entirely free
from suffering and from passion; he neither fears nor feels death;
if he feels it, his sufferings make him desire it; henceforth it
is no evil in his eyes. If we were but content to be ourselves we
should have no cause to complain of our lot; but in the search for
an imaginary good we find a thousand real ills. He who cannot bear
a little pain must expect to suffer greatly. If a man injures his
constitution by dissipation, you try to cure him with medicine;
the ill he fears is added to the ill he feels; the thought of
death makes it horrible and hastens its approach; the more we seek
to escape from it, the more we are aware of it; and we go through
life in the fear of death, blaming nature for the evils we have
inflicted on ourselves by our neglect of her laws.
O Man! seek no further for the author of evil; thou art he. There
is no evil but the evil you do or the evil you suffer, and both
come from yourself. Evil in general can only spring from disorder,
and in the order of the world I find a never failing system. Evil
in particular cases exists only in the mind of those who experience
it; and this feeling is not the gift of nature, but the work of
man himself. Pain has little power over those who, having thought
little, look neither before nor after. Take away our fatal progress,
take away our faults and our vices, take away man's handiwork, and
all is well.
Where all is well, there is no such thing as injustice. Justice and
goodness are inseparable; now goodness is the necessary result of
boundless power and of that self-love which is innate in all sentient
beings. The omnipotent projects himself, so to speak, into the being
of his creatures. Creation and preservation are the everlasting
work of power; it does not act on that which has no existence; God
is not the God of the dead; he could not harm and destroy without
injury to himself. The omnipotent can only will what is good.
[Footnote: The ancients were right when they called the supreme
God Optimus Maximus, but it would have been better to say Maximus
Optimus, for his goodness springs from his power, he is good
because he is great.] Therefore he who is supremely good, because
he is supremely powerful, must also be supremely just, otherwise
he would contradict himself; for that love of order which creates
order we call goodness and that love of order which preserves order
we call justice.
Men say God owes nothing to his creatures. I think he owes them
all he promised when he gave them their being. Now to give them
the idea of something good and to make them feel the need of it,
is to promise it to them. The more closely I study myself, the more
carefully I consider, the more plainly do I read these words, "Be
just and you will be happy." It is not so, however, in the present
condition of things, the wicked prospers and the oppression of the
righteous continues. Observe how angry we are when this expectation
is disappointed. Conscience revolts and murmurs against her Creator;
she exclaims with cries and groans, "Thou hast deceived me."
"I have deceived thee, rash soul! Who told thee this? Is thy soul
destroyed? Hast thou ceased to exist? O Brutus! O my son! let there
be no stain upon the close of thy noble life; do not abandon thy
hope and thy glory with thy corpse upon the plains of Philippi.
Why dost thou say, 'Virtue is naught,' when thou art about to enjoy
the reward of virtue? Thou art about to die! Nay, thou shalt live,
and thus my promise is fulfilled."
One might judge from the complaints of impatient men that God owes
them the reward before they have deserved it, that he is bound to
pay for virtue in advance. Oh! let us first be good and then we
shall be happy. Let us not claim the prize before we have won it,
nor demand our wages before we have finished our work. "It is not
in the lists that we crown the victors in the sacred games," says
Plutarch, "it is when they have finished their course."
If the soul is immaterial, it may survive the body; and if
it so survives, Providence is justified. Had I no other proof of
the immaterial nature of the soul, the triumph of the wicked and
the oppression of the righteous in this world would be enough to
convince me. I should seek to resolve so appalling a discord in the
universal harmony. I should say to myself, "All is not over with
life, everything finds its place at death." I should still have to
answer the question, "What becomes of man when all we know of him
through our senses has vanished?" This question no longer presents
any difficulty to me when I admit the two substances. It is easy
to understand that what is imperceptible to those senses escapes
me, during my bodily life, when I perceive through my senses only.
When the union of soul and body is destroyed, I think one may be
dissolved and the other may be preserved. Why should the destruction
of the one imply the destruction of the other? on the contrary, so
unlike in their nature, they were during their union in a highly
unstable condition, and when this union comes to an end they both
return to their natural state; the active vital substance regains
all the force which it expended to set in motion the passive dead
substance. Alas! my vices make me only too well aware that man is
but half alive during this life; the life of the soul only begins
with the death of the body.
But what is that life? Is the soul of man in its nature immortal?
I know not. My finite understanding cannot hold the infinite; what
is called eternity eludes my grasp. What can I assert or deny, how
can I reason with regard to what I cannot conceive? I believe that
the soul survives the body for the maintenance of order; who knows
if this is enough to make it eternal? However, I know that the
body is worn out and destroyed by the division of its parts, but
I cannot conceive a similar destruction of the conscious nature,
and as I cannot imagine how it can die, I presume that it does not
die. As this assumption is consoling and in itself not unreasonable,
why should I fear to accept it?
I am aware of my soul; it is known to me in feeling and in thought;
I know what it is without knowing its essence; I cannot reason
about ideas which are unknown to me. What I do know is this, that
my personal identity depends upon memory, and that to be indeed
the same self I must remember that I have existed. Now after death
I could not recall what I was when alive unless I also remembered
what I felt and therefore what I did; and I have no doubt that
this remembrance will one day form the happiness of the good and
the torment of the bad. In this world our inner consciousness is
absorbed by the crowd of eager passions which cheat remorse. The
humiliation and disgrace involved in the practice of virtue do not
permit us to realise its charm. But when, freed from the illusions
of the bodily senses, we behold with joy the supreme Being and
the eternal truths which flow from him; when all the powers of our
soul are alive to the beauty of order and we are wholly occupied in
comparing what we have done with what we ought to have done, then
it is that the voice of conscience will regain its strength and sway;
then it is that the pure delight which springs from self-content,
and the sharp regret for our own degradation of that self, will
decide by means of overpowering feeling what shall be the fate
which each has prepared for himself. My good friend, do not ask me
whether there are other sources of happiness or suffering; I cannot
tell; that which my fancy pictures is enough to console me in this
life and to bid me look for a life to come. I do not say the good
will be rewarded, for what greater good can a truly good being expect
than to exist in accordance with his nature? But I do assert that
the good will be happy, because their maker, the author of all
justice, who has made them capable of feeling, has not made them
that they may suffer; moreover, they have not abused their freedom
upon earth and they have not changed their fate through any fault
of their own; yet they have suffered in this life and it will be made
up to them in the life to come. This feeling relies not so much on
man's deserts as on the idea of good which seems to me inseparable
from the divine essence. I only assume that the laws of order are
constant and that God is true to himself.
Do not ask me whether the torments of the wicked will endure for
ever, whether the goodness of their creator can condemn them to
the eternal suffering; again, I cannot tell, and I have no empty
curiosity for the investigation of useless problems. How does the
fate of the wicked concern me? I take little interest in it. All
the same I find it hard to believe that they will be condemned to
everlasting torments. If the supreme justice calls for vengeance,
it claims it in this life. The nations of the world with their errors
are its ministers. Justice uses self-inflicted ills to punish the
crimes which have deserved them. It is in your own insatiable souls,
devoured by envy, greed, and ambition, it is in the midst of your
false prosperity, that the avenging passions find the due reward
of your crimes. What need to seek a hell in the future life? It is
here in the breast of the wicked.
When our fleeting needs are over, and our mad desires are at rest,
there should also be an end of our passions and our crimes. Can
pure spirits be capable of any perversity? Having need of nothing,
why should they be wicked? If they are free from our gross senses,
if their happiness consists in the contemplation of other beings,
they can only desire what is good; and he who ceases to be bad can
never be miserable. This is what I am inclined to think though I
have not been at the pains to come to any decision. O God, merciful
and good, whatever thy decrees may be I adore them; if thou shouldst
commit the wicked to everlasting punishment, I abandon my feeble
reason to thy justice; but if the remorse of these wretched beings
should in the course of time be extinguished, if their sufferings
should come to an end, and if the same peace shall one day be the
lot of all mankind, I give thanks to thee for this. Is not the
wicked my brother? How often have I been tempted to be like him?
Let him be delivered from his misery and freed from the spirit of
hatred that accompanied it; let him be as happy as I myself; his
happiness, far from arousing my jealousy, will only increase my
own.
Thus it is that, in the contemplation of God in his works, and in
the study of such of his attributes as it concerned me to know,
I have slowly grasped and developed the idea, at first partial
and imperfect, which I have formed of this Infinite Being. But if
this idea has become nobler and greater it is also more suited to
the human reason. As I approach in spirit the eternal light, I am
confused and dazzled by its glory, and compelled to abandon all
the earthly notions which helped me to picture it to myself. God
is no longer corporeal and sensible; the supreme mind which rules
the world is no longer the world itself; in vain do I strive to
grasp his inconceivable essence. When I think that it is he that
gives life and movement to the living and moving substance which
controls all living bodies; when I hear it said that my soul is
spiritual and that God is a spirit, I revolt against this abasement
of the divine essence; as if God and my soul were of one and the
same nature! As if God were not the one and only absolute being,
the only really active, feeling, thinking, willing being, from whom
we derive our thought, feeling, motion, will, our freedom and our
very existence! We are free because he wills our freedom, and his
inexplicable substance is to our souls what our souls are to our
bodies. I know not whether he has created matter, body, soul, the
world itself. The idea of creation confounds me and eludes my grasp;
so far as I can conceive of it I believe it; but I know that he has
formed the universe and all that is, that he has made and ordered
all things. No doubt God is eternal; but can my mind grasp the idea
of eternity? Why should I cheat myself with meaningless words?
This is what I do understand; before things were--God was; he will
be when they are no more, and if all things come to an end he will
still endure. That a being beyond my comprehension should give life
to other beings, this is merely difficult and beyond my understanding;
but that Being and Nothing should be convertible terms, this is
indeed a palpable contradiction, an evident absurdity.
God is intelligent, but how? Man is intelligent when he reasons, but
the Supreme Intelligence does not need to reason; there is neither
premise nor conclusion for him, there is not even a proposition.
The Supreme Intelligence is wholly intuitive, it sees what is and
what shall be; all truths are one for it, as all places are but one
point and all time but one moment. Man's power makes use of means,
the divine power is self-active. God can because he wills; his
will is his power. God is good; this is certain; but man finds his
happiness in the welfare of his kind. God's happiness consists in
the love of order; for it is through order that he maintains what
is, and unites each part in the whole. God is just; of this I am
sure, it is a consequence of his goodness; man's injustice is not
God's work, but his own; that moral justice which seems to the
philosophers a presumption against Providence, is to me a proof of
its existence. But man's justice consists in giving to each his
due; God's justice consists in demanding from each of us an account
of that which he has given us.
If I have succeeded in discerning these attributes of which I have
no absolute idea, it is in the form of unavoidable deductions, and
by the right use of my reason; but I affirm them without understanding
them, and at bottom that is no affirmation at all. In vain do I
say, God is thus, I feel it, I experience it, none the more do I
understand how God can be thus.
In a word: the more I strive to envisage his infinite essence the
less do I comprehend it; but it is, and that is enough for me; the
less I understand, the more I adore. I abase myself, saying, "Being
of beings, I am because thou art; to fix my thoughts on thee is
to ascend to the source of my being. The best use I can make of my
reason is to resign it before thee; my mind delights, my weakness
rejoices, to feel myself overwhelmed by thy greatness."
Having thus deduced from the perception of objects of sense and
from my inner consciousness, which leads me to judge of causes by
my native reason, the principal truths which I require to know, I
must now seek such principles of conduct as I can draw from them,
and such rules as I must lay down for my guidance in the fulfilment
of my destiny in this world, according to the purpose of my Maker.
Still following the same method, I do not derive these rules from
the principles of the higher philosophy, I find them in the depths
of my heart, traced by nature in characters which nothing can efface.
I need only consult myself with regard to what I wish to do; what
I feel to be right is right, what I feel to be wrong is wrong;
conscience is the best casuist; and it is only when we haggle with
conscience that we have recourse to the subtleties of argument.
Our first duty is towards ourself; yet how often does the voice of
others tell us that in seeking our good at the expense of others
we are doing ill? We think we are following the guidance of nature,
and we are resisting it; we listen to what she says to our senses,
and we neglect what she says to our heart; the active being obeys,
the passive commands. Conscience is the voice of the soul, the
passions are the voice of the body. It is strange that these voices
often contradict each other? And then to which should we give heed?
Too often does reason deceive us; we have only too good a right to
doubt her; but conscience never deceives us; she is the true guide
of man; it is to the soul what instinct is to the body, [Footnote:
Modern philosophy, which only admits what it can understand, is
careful not to admit this obscure power called instinct which seems
to guide the animals to some end without any acquired experience.
Instinct, according to some of our wise philosophers, is only a
secret habit of reflection, acquired by reflection; and from the
way in which they explain this development one ought to suppose
that children reflect more than grown-up people: a paradox strange
enough to be worth examining. Without entering upon this discussion I
must ask what name I shall give to the eagerness with which my dog
makes war on the moles he does not eat, or to the patience with
which he sometimes watches them for hours and the skill with which
he seizes them, throws them to a distance from their earth as soon
as they emerge, and then kills them and leaves them. Yet no one
has trained him to this sport, nor even told him there were such
things as moles. Again, I ask, and this is a more important question,
why, when I threatened this same dog for the first time, why did
he throw himself on the ground with his paws folded, in such a
suppliant attitude .....calculated to touch me, a position which
he would have maintained if, without being touched by it, I had
continued to beat him in that position? What! Had my dog, little
more than a puppy, acquired moral ideas? Did he know the meaning
of mercy and generosity? By what acquired knowledge did he seek
to appease my wrath by yielding to my discretion? Every dog in the
world does almost the same thing in similar circumstances, and I
am asserting nothing but what any one can verify for himself. Will
the philosophers, who so scornfully reject instinct, kindly explain
this fact by the mere play of sensations and experience which they
assume we have acquired? Let them give an account of it which will
satisfy any sensible man; in that case I have nothing further to
urge, and I will say no more of instinct.] he who obeys his conscience
is following nature and he need not fear that he will go astray.
This is a matter of great importance, continued my benefactor,
seeing that I was about to interrupt him; let me stop awhile to
explain it more fully.
The morality of our actions consists entirely in the judgments we
ourselves form with regard to them. If good is good, it must be
good in the depth of our heart as well as in our actions; and the
first reward of justice is the consciousness that we are acting
justly. If moral goodness is in accordance with our nature, man can
only be healthy in mind and body when he is good. If it is not so,
and if man is by nature evil, he cannot cease to be evil without
corrupting his nature, and goodness in him is a crime against
nature. If he is made to do harm to his fellow-creatures, as the
wolf is made to devour his prey, a humane man would be as depraved
a creature as a pitiful wolf; and virtue alone would cause remorse.
My young friend, let us look within, let us set aside all personal
prejudices and see whither our inclinations lead us. Do we take
more pleasure in the sight of the sufferings of others or their
joys? Is it pleasanter to do a kind action or an unkind action,
and which leaves the more delightful memory behind it? Why do you
enjoy the theatre? Do you delight in the crimes you behold? Do you
weep over the punishment which overtakes the criminal? They say
we are indifferent to everything but self-interest; yet we find
our consolation in our sufferings in the charms of friendship and
humanity, and even in our pleasures we should be too lonely and
miserable if we had no one to share them with us. If there is no
such thing as morality in man's heart, what is the source of his
rapturous admiration of noble deeds, his passionate devotion to
great men? What connection is there between self-interest and this
enthusiasm for virtue? Why should I choose to be Cato dying by his
own hand, rather than Caesar in his triumphs? Take from our hearts
this love of what is noble and you rob us of the joy of life. The
mean-spirited man in whom these delicious feelings have been stifled
among vile passions, who by thinking of no one but himself comes
at last to love no one but himself, this man feels no raptures, his
cold heart no longer throbs with joy, and his eyes no longer fill
with the sweet tears of sympathy, he delights in nothing; the wretch
has neither life nor feeling, he is already dead.
There are many bad men in this world, but there are few of these
dead souls, alive only to self-interest, and insensible to all that
is right and good. We only delight in injustice so long as it is
to our own advantage; in every other case we wish the innocent to
be protected. If we see some act of violence or injustice in town
or country, our hearts are at once stirred to their depths by an
instinctive anger and wrath, which bids us go to the help of the
oppressed; but we are restrained by a stronger duty, and the law
deprives us of our right to protect the innocent. on the other hand,
if some deed of mercy or generosity meets our eye, what reverence
and love does it inspire! Do we not say to ourselves, "I should
like to have done that myself"? What does it matter to us that two
thousand years ago a man was just or unjust? and yet we take the
same interest in ancient history as if it happened yesterday. What
are the crimes of Cataline to me? I shall not be his victim. Why
then have I the same horror of his crimes as if he were living
now? We do not hate the wicked merely because of the harm they do
to ourselves, but because they are wicked. Not only do we wish to
be happy ourselves, we wish others to be happy too, and if this
happiness does not interfere with our own happiness, it increases
it. In conclusion, whether we will or not, we pity the unfortunate;
when we see their suffering we suffer too. Even the most depraved
are not wholly without this instinct, and it often leads them to
self-contradiction. The highwayman who robs the traveller, clothes
the nakedness of the poor; the fiercest murderer supports a fainting
man.
Men speak of the voice of remorse, the secret punishment of hidden
crimes, by which such are often brought to light. Alas! who does
not know its unwelcome voice? We speak from experience, and we
would gladly stifle this imperious feeling which causes us such
agony. Let us obey the call of nature; we shall see that her yoke
is easy and that when we give heed to her voice we find a joy in
the answer of a good conscience. The wicked fears and flees from
her; he delights to escape from himself; his anxious eyes look
around him for some object of diversion; without bitter satire and
rude mockery he would always be sorrowful; the scornful laugh is
his one pleasure. Not so the just man, who finds his peace within
himself; there is joy not malice in his laughter, a joy which
springs from his own heart; he is as cheerful alone as in company,
his satisfaction does not depend on those who approach him; it
includes them.
Cast your eyes over every nation of the world; peruse every volume
of its history; in the midst of all these strange and cruel forms
of worship, among this amazing variety of manners and customs, you
will everywhere find the same ideas of right and justice; everywhere
the same principles of morality, the same ideas of good and evil.
The old paganism gave birth to abominable gods who would have been
punished as scoundrels here below, gods who merely offered, as a
picture of supreme happiness, crimes to be committed and lust to
be gratified. But in vain did vice descend from the abode of the
gods armed with their sacred authority; the moral instinct refused to
admit it into the heart of man. While the debaucheries of Jupiter
were celebrated, the continence of Xenocrates was revered; the
chaste Lucrece adored the shameless Venus; the bold Roman offered
sacrifices to Fear; he invoked the god who mutilated his father,
and he died without a murmur at the hand of his own father. The
most unworthy gods were worshipped by the noblest men. The sacred
voice of nature was stronger than the voice of the gods, and won
reverence upon earth; it seemed to relegate guilt and the guilty
alike to heaven.
There is therefore at the bottom of our hearts an innate principle
of justice and virtue, by which, in spite of our maxims, we judge
our own actions or those of others to be good or evil; and it is
this principle that I call conscience.
But at this word I hear the murmurs of all the wise men so-called.
Childish errors, prejudices of our upbringing, they exclaim in
concert! There is nothing in the human mind but what it has gained
by experience; and we judge everything solely by means of the ideas
we have acquired. They go further; they even venture to reject the
clear and universal agreement of all peoples, and to set against
this striking unanimity in the judgment of mankind, they seek out
some obscure exception known to themselves alone; as if the whole
trend of nature were rendered null by the depravity of a single
nation, and as if the existence of monstrosities made an end
of species. But to what purpose does the sceptic Montaigne strive
himself to unearth in some obscure corner of the world a custom
which is contrary to the ideas of justice? To what purpose does
he credit the most untrustworthy travellers, while he refuses to
believe the greatest writers? A few strange and doubtful customs,
based on local causes, unknown to us; shall these destroy a general
inference based on the agreement of all the nations of the earth,
differing from each other in all else, but agreed in this? O
Montaigne, you pride yourself on your truth and honesty; be sincere
and truthful, if a philosopher can be so, and tell me if there is
any country upon earth where it is a crime to keep one's plighted
word, to be merciful, helpful, and generous, where the good man is
scorned, and the traitor is held in honour.
Self-interest, so they say, induces each of us to agree for the
common good. But bow is it that the good man consents to this to
his own hurt? Does a man go to death from self-interest? No doubt
each man acts for his own good, but if there is no such thing as
moral good to be taken into consideration, self-interest will only
enable you to account for the deeds of the wicked; possibly you
will not attempt to do more. A philosophy which could find no place
for good deeds would be too detestable; you would find yourself
compelled either to find some mean purpose, some wicked motive, or
to abuse Socrates and slander Regulus. If such doctrines ever took
root among us, the voice of nature, together with the voice of
reason, would constantly protest against them, till no adherent of
such teaching could plead an honest excuse for his partisanship.
It is no part of my scheme to enter at present into metaphysical
discussions which neither you nor I can understand, discussions
which really lead nowhere. I have told you already that I do not
wish to philosophise with you, but to help you to consult your own
heart. If all the philosophers in the world should prove that I am
wrong, and you feel that I am right, that is all I ask.
For this purpose it is enough to lead you to distinguish between
our acquired ideas and our natural feelings; for feeling precedes
knowledge; and since we do not learn to seek what is good for us
and avoid what is bad for us, but get this desire from nature, in
the same way the love of good and the hatred of evil are as natural
to us as our self-love. The decrees of conscience are not judgments
but feelings. Although all our ideas come from without, the feelings
by which they are weighed are within us, and it is by these feelings
alone that we perceive fitness or unfitness of things in relation
to ourselves, which leads us to seek or shun these things.
To exist is to feel; our feeling is undoubtedly earlier than our
intelligence, and we had feelings before we had ideas.[Footnote:
In some respects ideas are feelings and feelings are ideas. Both
terms are appropriate to any perception with which we are concerned,
appropriate both to the object of that perception and to ourselves
who are affected by it; it is merely the order in which we are
affected which decides the appropriate term. When we are chiefly
concerned with the object and only think of ourselves as it were by
reflection, that is an idea; when, on the other hand, the impression
received excites our chief attention and we only think in the second
place of the object which caused it, it is a feeling.] Whatever may
be the cause of our being, it has provided for our preservation by
giving us feelings suited to our nature; and no one can deny that
these at least are innate. These feelings, so far as the individual
is concerned, are self-love, fear, pain, the dread of death, the
desire for comfort. Again, if, as it is impossible to doubt, man
is by nature sociable, or at least fitted to become sociable, he
can only be so by means of other innate feelings, relative to his
kind; for if only physical well-being were considered, men would
certainly be scattered rather than brought together. But the motive
power of conscience is derived from the moral system formed through
this twofold relation to himself and to his fellow-men. To know
good is not to love it; this knowledge is not innate in man; but as
soon as his reason leads him to perceive it, his conscience impels
him to love it; it is this feeling which is innate.
So I do not think, my young friend, that it is impossible to explain
the immediate force of conscience as a result of our own nature,
independent of reason itself. And even should it be impossible,
it is unnecessary; for those who deny this principle, admitted and
received by everybody else in the world, do not prove that there
is no such thing; they are content to affirm, and when we affirm
its existence we have quite as good grounds as they, while we have
moreover the witness within us, the voice of conscience, which
speaks on its own behalf. If the first beams of judgment dazzle
us and confuse the objects we behold, let us wait till our feeble
sight grows clear and strong, and in the light of reason we shall
soon behold these very objects as nature has already showed them
to us. Or rather let us be simpler and less pretentious; let us be
content with the first feelings we experience in ourselves, since
science always brings us back to these, unless it has led us astray.
Conscience! Conscience! Divine instinct, immortal voice from
heaven; sure guide for a creature ignorant and finite indeed, yet
intelligent and free; infallible judge of good and evil, making
man like to God! In thee consists the excellence of man's nature
and the morality of his actions; apart from thee, I find nothing in
myself to raise me above the beasts--nothing but the sad privilege
of wandering from one error to another, by the help of an unbridled
understanding and a reason which knows no principle.
Thank heaven we have now got rid of all that alarming show of
philosophy; we may be men without being scholars; now that we need
not spend our life in the study of morality, we have found a less
costly and surer guide through this vast labyrinth of human thought.
But it is not enough to be aware that there is such a guide;
we must know her and follow her. If she speaks to all hearts, how
is it that so few give heed to her voice? She speaks to us in the
language of nature, and everything leads us to forget that tongue.
Conscience is timid, she loves peace and retirement; she is startled
by noise and numbers; the prejudices from which she is said to arise
are her worst enemies. She flees before them or she is silent; their
noisy voices drown her words, so that she cannot get a hearing;
fanaticism dares to counterfeit her voice and to inspire crimes
in her name. She is discouraged by ill-treatment; she no longer
speaks to us, no longer answers to our call; when she has been
scorned so long, it is as hard to recall her as it was to banish
her.
How often in the course of my inquiries have I grown weary of my
own coldness of heart! How often have grief and weariness poured
their poison into my first meditations and made them hateful to me!
My barren heart yielded nothing but a feeble zeal and a lukewarm
love of truth. I said to myself: Why should I strive to find what
does not exist? Moral good is a dream, the pleasures of sense
are the only real good. When once we have lost the taste for the
pleasures of the soul, how hard it is to recover it! How much more
difficult to acquire it if we have never possessed it! If there
were any man so wretched as never to have done anything all his life
long which he could remember with pleasure, and which would make him
glad to have lived, that man would be incapable of self-knowledge,
and for want of knowledge of goodness, of which his nature is
capable, he would be constrained to remain in his wickedness and
would be for ever miserable. But do you think there is any one man
upon earth so depraved that he has never yielded to the temptation
of well-doing? This temptation is so natural, so pleasant, that it
is impossible always to resist it; and the thought of the pleasure
it has once afforded is enough to recall it constantly to our
memory. Unluckily it is hard at first to find satisfaction for it;
we have any number of reasons for refusing to follow the inclinations
of our heart; prudence, so called, restricts the heart within the
limits of the self; a thousand efforts are needed to break these
bonds. The joy of well-doing is the prize of having done well,
and we must deserve the prize before we win it. There is nothing
sweeter than virtue; but we do not know this till we have tried it.
Like Proteus in the fable, she first assumes a thousand terrible
shapes when we would embrace her, and only shows her true self to
those who refuse to let her go.
Ever at strife between my natural feelings, which spoke of the
common weal, and my reason, which spoke of self, I should have
drifted through life in perpetual uncertainty, hating evil, loving
good, and always at war with myself, if my heart had not received
further light, if that truth which determined my opinions had not
also settled my conduct, and set me at peace with myself. Reason
alone is not a sufficient foundation for virtue; what solid ground
can be found? Virtue we are told is love of order. But can this
love prevail over my love for my own well-being, and ought it so
to prevail? Let them give me clear and sufficient reason for this
preference. Their so-called principle is in truth a mere playing
with words; for I also say that vice is love of order, differently
understood. Wherever there is feeling and intelligence, there
is some sort of moral order. The difference is this: the good man
orders his life with regard to all men; the wicked orders it for
self alone. The latter centres all things round himself; the other
measures his radius and remains on the circumference. Thus his
place depends on the common centre, which is God, and on all the
concentric circles which are His creatures. If there is no God,
the wicked is right and the good man is nothing but a fool.
My child! May you one day feel what a burden is removed when, having
fathomed the vanity of human thoughts and tasted the bitterness of
passion, you find at length near at hand the path of wisdom, the
prize of this life's labours, the source of that happiness which
you despaired of. Every duty of natural law, which man's injustice
had almost effaced from my heart, is engraven there, for the second
time in the name of that eternal justice which lays these duties
upon me and beholds my fulfilment of them. I feel myself merely the
instrument of the Omnipotent, who wills what is good, who performs
it, who will bring about my own good through the co-operation of my
will with his own, and by the right use of my liberty. I acquiesce
in the order he establishes, certain that one day I shall enjoy
that order and find my happiness in it; for what sweeter joy is
there than this, to feel oneself a part of a system where all is
good? A prey to pain, I bear it in patience, remembering that it
will soon be over, and that it results from a body which is not
mine. If I do a good deed in secret, I know that it is seen, and
my conduct in this life is a pledge of the life to come. When I
suffer injustice, I say to myself, the Almighty who does all things
well will reward me: my bodily needs, my poverty, make the idea
of death less intolerable. There will be all the fewer bonds to be
broken when my hour comes.
Why is my soul subjected to my senses, and imprisoned in this body
by which it is enslaved and thwarted? I know not; have I entered
into the counsels of the Almighty? But I may, without rashness,
venture on a modest conjecture. I say to myself: If man's soul
had remained in a state of freedom and innocence, what merit would
there have been in loving and obeying the order he found established,
an order which it would not have been to his advantage to disturb?
He would be happy, no doubt, but his happiness would not attain to
the highest point, the pride of virtue, and the witness of a good
conscience within him; he would be but as the angels are, and
no doubt the good man will be more than they. Bound to a mortal
body, by bonds as strange as they are powerful, his care for the
preservation of this body tempts the soul to think only of self,
and gives it an interest opposed to the general order of things,
which it is still capable of knowing and loving; then it is that
the right use of his freedom becomes at once the merit and the
reward; then it is that it prepares for itself unending happiness, by
resisting its earthly passions and following its original direction.
If even in the lowly position in which we are placed during our present
life our first impulses are always good, if all our vices are of
our own making, why should we complain that they are our masters?
Why should we blame the Creator for the ills we have ourselves
created, and the enemies we ourselves have armed against us? Oh,
let us leave man unspoilt; he will always find it easy to be good
and he will always be happy without remorse. The guilty, who assert
that they are driven to crime, are liars as well as evil-doers; how
is it that they fail to perceive that the weakness they bewail is
of their own making; that their earliest depravity was the result
of their own will; that by dint of wishing to yield to temptations,
they at length yield to them whether they will or no and make them
irresistible? No doubt they can no longer avoid being weak and
wicked, but they need not have become weak and wicked. Oh, how easy
would it be to preserve control of ourselves and of our passions,
even in this life, if with habits still unformed, with a mind
beginning to expand, we were able to keep to such things as we ought
to know, in order to value rightly what is unknown; if we really
wished to learn, not that we might shine before the eyes of others,
but that we might be wise and good in accordance with our nature,
that we might be happy in the performance of our duty. This study
seems tedious and painful to us, for we do not attempt it till we
are already corrupted by vice and enslaved by our passions. Our
judgments and our standards of worth are determined before we have
the knowledge of good and evil; and then we measure all things by
this false standard, and give nothing its true worth.
There is an age when the heart is still free, but eager, unquiet,
greedy of a happiness which is still unknown, a happiness which it
seeks in curiosity and doubt; deceived by the senses it settles at
length upon the empty show of happiness and thinks it has found it
where it is not. In my own case these illusions endured for a long
time. Alas! too late did I become aware of them, and I have not
succeeded in overcoming them altogether; they will last as long as
this mortal body from which they arise. If they lead me astray, I
am at least no longer deceived by them; I know them for what they
are, and even when I give way to them, I despise myself; far from
regarding them as the goal of my happiness, I behold in them an
obstacle to it. I long for the time when, freed from the fetters
of the body, I shall be myself, at one with myself, no longer torn
in two, when I myself shall suffice for my own happiness. Meanwhile
I am happy even in this life, for I make small account of all its
evils, in which I regard myself as having little or no part, while
all the real good that I can get out of this life depends on myself
alone.
To raise myself so far as may be even now to this state of happiness,
strength, and freedom, I exercise myself in lofty contemplation. I
consider the order of the universe, not to explain it by any futile
system, but to revere it without ceasing, to adore the wise Author
who reveals himself in it. I hold intercourse with him; I immerse
all my powers in his divine essence; I am overwhelmed by his kindness,
I bless him and his gifts, but I do not pray to him. What should I
ask of him--to change the order of nature, to work miracles on my
behalf? Should I, who am bound to love above all things the order
which he has established in his wisdom and maintained by his
providence, should I desire the disturbance of that order on my own
account? No, that rash prayer would deserve to be punished rather
than to be granted. Neither do I ask of him the power to do right;
why should I ask what he has given me already? Has he not given
me conscience that I may love the right, reason that I may perceive
it, and freedom that I may choose it? If I do evil, I have no
excuse; I do it of my own free will; to ask him to change my will
is to ask him to do what he asks of me; it is to want him to do
the work while I get the wages; to be dissatisfied with my lot is
to wish to be no longer a man, to wish to be other than what I am,
to wish for disorder and evil. Thou source of justice and truth,
merciful and gracious God, in thee do I trust, and the desire of
my heart is--Thy will be done. When I unite my will with thine, I
do what thou doest; I have a share in thy goodness; I believe that
I enjoy beforehand the supreme happiness which is the reward of
goodness.
In my well-founded self-distrust the only thing that I ask of God,
or rather expect from his justice, is to correct my error if I go
astray, if that error is dangerous to me. To be honest I need not
think myself infallible; my opinions, which seem to me true, may
be so many lies; for what man is there who does not cling to his
own beliefs; and how many men are agreed in everything? The illusion
which deceives me may indeed have its source in myself, but it
is God alone who can remove it. I have done all I can to attain
to truth; but its source is beyond my reach; is it my fault if my
strength fails me and I can go no further; it is for Truth to draw
near to me.
The good priest had spoken with passion; he and I were overcome
with emotion. It seemed to me as if I were listening to the divine
Orpheus when he sang the earliest hymns and taught men the worship
of the gods. I saw any number of objections which might be raised;
yet I raised none, for I perceived that they were more perplexing
than serious, and that my inclination took his part. When he spoke
to me according to his conscience, my own seemed to confirm what
he said.
"The novelty of the sentiments you have made known to me," said
I, "strikes me all the more because of what you confess you do not
know, than because of what you say you believe. They seem to be very
like that theism or natural religion, which Christians profess to
confound with atheism or irreligion which is their exact opposite.
But in the present state of my faith I should have to ascend
rather than descend to accept your views, and I find it difficult
to remain just where you are unless I were as wise as you. That I
may be at least as honest, I want time to take counsel with myself.
By your own showing, the inner voice must be my guide, and you have
yourself told me that when it has long been silenced it cannot be
recalled in a moment. I take what you have said to heart, and I must
consider it. If after I have thought things out, I am as convinced
as you are, you will be my final teacher, and I will be your disciple
till death. Continue your teaching however; you have only told me
half what I must know. Speak to me of revelation, of the Scriptures,
of those difficult doctrines among which I have strayed ever since
I was a child, incapable either of understanding or believing them,
unable to adopt or reject them."
"Yes, my child," said he, embracing me, "I will tell you all I
think; I will not open my heart to you by halves; but the desire
you express was necessary before I could cast aside all reserve. So
far I have told you nothing but what I thought would be of service
to you, nothing but what I was quite convinced of. The inquiry
which remains to be made is very difficult. It seems to me full
of perplexity, mystery, and darkness; I bring to it only doubt
and distrust. I make up my mind with trembling, and I tell you my
doubts rather than my convictions. If your own opinions were more
settled I should hesitate to show you mine; but in your present
condition, to think like me would be gain. [Footnote: I think the
worthy clergyman might say this at the present time to the general
public.] Moreover, give to my words only the authority of reason;
I know not whether I am mistaken. It is difficult in discussion
to avoid assuming sometimes a dogmatic tone; but remember in this
respect that all my assertions are but reasons to doubt me. Seek
truth for yourself, for my own part I only promise you sincerity.
"In my exposition you find nothing but natural religion; strange
that we should need more! How shall I become aware of this need?
What guilt can be mine so long as I serve God according to the
knowledge he has given to my mind, and the feelings he has put
into my heart? What purity of morals, what dogma useful to man and
worthy of its author, can I derive from a positive doctrine which
cannot be derived without the aid of this doctrine by the right
use of my faculties? Show me what you can add to the duties of the
natural law, for the glory of God, for the good of mankind, and for
my own welfare; and what virtue you will get from the new form of
religion which does not result from mine. The grandest ideas of
the Divine nature come to us from reason only. Behold the spectacle
of nature; listen to the inner voice. Has not God spoken it all to
our eyes, to our conscience, to our reason? What more can man tell
us? Their revelations do but degrade God, by investing him with
passions like our own. Far from throwing light upon the ideas of
the Supreme Being, special doctrines seem to me to confuse these
ideas; far from ennobling them, they degrade them; to the inconceivable
mysteries which surround the Almighty, they add absurd contradictions,
they make man proud, intolerant, and cruel; instead of bringing
peace upon earth, they bring fire and sword. I ask myself what
is the use of it all, and I find no answer. I see nothing but the
crimes of men and the misery of mankind.
"They tell me a revelation was required to teach men how God would
be served; as a proof of this they point to the many strange rites
which men have instituted, and they do not perceive that this very
diversity springs from the fanciful nature of the revelations. As
soon as the nations took to making God speak, every one made him
speak in his own fashion, and made him say what he himself wanted.
Had they listened only to what God says in the heart of man, there
would have been but one religion upon earth.
one form of worship was required; just so, but was this a matter
of such importance as to require all the power of the Godhead to
establish it? Do not let us confuse the outward forms of religion
with religion itself. The service God requires is of the heart; and
when the heart is sincere that is ever the same. It is a strange
sort of conceit which fancies that God takes such an interest in
the shape of the priest's vestments, the form of words he utters,
the gestures he makes before the altar and all his genuflections.
Oh, my friend, stand upright, you will still be too near the earth.
God desires to be worshipped in spirit and in truth; this duty
belongs to every religion, every country, every individual. As to
the form of worship, if order demands uniformity, that is only a
matter of discipline and needs no revelation.
"These thoughts did not come to me to begin with. Carried away by
the prejudices of my education, and by that dangerous vanity which
always strives to lift man out of his proper sphere, when I could
not raise my feeble thoughts up to the great Being, I tried to
bring him down to my own level. I tried to reduce the distance he
has placed between his nature and mine. I desired more immediate
relations, more individual instruction; not content to make God
in the image of man that I might be favoured above my fellows,
I desired supernatural knowledge; I required a special form of
worship; I wanted God to tell me what he had not told others, or
what others had not understood like myself.
"Considering the point I had now reached as the common centre from
which all believers set out on the quest for a more enlightened
form of religion, I merely found in natural religion the elements
of all religion. I beheld the multitude of diverse sects which hold
sway upon earth, each of which accuses the other of falsehood and
error; which of these, I asked, is the right? Every one replied,
'My own;' every one said, 'I alone and those who agree with me
think rightly, all the others are mistaken.' And how do you know
that your sect is in the right? Because God said so. And how do
you know God said so? [Footnote: "All men," said a wise and good
priest, "maintain that they hold and believe their religion (and
all use the same jargon), not of man, nor of any creature, but of
God. But to speak truly, without pretence or flattery, none of them
do so; whatever they may say, religions are taught by human hands
and means; take, for example, the way in which religions have been
received by the world, the way in which they are still received
every day by individuals; the nation, the country, the locality
gives the religion; we belong to the religion of the place where
we are born and brought up; we are baptised or circumcised, we are
Christians, Jews, Mohametans before we know that we are men; we
do not pick and choose our religion for see how ill the life and
conduct agree with the religion, see for what slight and human
causes men go against the teaching of their religion."--Charron,
De la Sagesse.--It seems clear that the honest creed of the holy
theologian of Condom would not have differed greatly from that of
the Savoyard priest.] And who told you that God said it? My pastor,
who knows all about it. My pastor tells me what to believe and I
believe it; he assures me that any one who says anything else is
mistaken, and I give not heed to them.
"What! thought I, is not truth one; can that which is true for me
be false for you? If those who follow the right path and those who
go astray have the same method, what merit or what blame can be
assigned to one more than to the other? Their choice is the result
of chance; it is unjust to hold them responsible for it, to reward
or punish them for being born in one country or another. To dare to
say that God judges us in this manner is an outrage on his justice.
"Either all religions are good and pleasing to God, or if there
is one which he prescribes for men, if they will be punished for
despising it, he will have distinguished it by plain and certain
signs by which it can be known as the only true religion; these
signs are alike in every time and place, equally plain to all men,
great or small, learned or unlearned, Europeans, Indians, Africans,
savages. If there were but one religion upon earth, and if all
beyond its pale were condemned to eternal punishment, and if there
were in any corner of the world one single honest man who was not
convinced by this evidence, the God of that religion would be the
most unjust and cruel of tyrants.
"Let us therefore seek honestly after truth; let us yield nothing
to the claims of birth, to the authority of parents and pastors,
but let us summon to the bar of conscience and of reason all that
they have taught us from our childhood. In vain do they exclaim,
'Submit your reason;' a deceiver might say as much; I must have
reasons for submitting my reason.
"All the theology I can get for myself by observation of the universe
and by the use of my faculties is contained in what I have already
told you. To know more one must have recourse to strange means.
These means cannot be the authority of men, for every man is of
the same species as myself, and all that a man knows by nature I am
capable of knowing, and another may be deceived as much as I; when
I believe what he says, it is not because he says it but because
he proves its truth. The witness of man is therefore nothing more
than the witness of my own reason, and it adds nothing to the
natural means which God has given me for the knowledge of truth.
"Apostle of truth, what have you to tell me of which I am not the
sole judge? God himself has spoken; give heed to his revelation.
That is another matter. God has spoken, these are indeed words which
demand attention. To whom has he spoken? He has spoken to men. Why
then have I heard nothing? He has instructed others to make known
his words to you. I understand; it is men who come and tell me what
God has said. I would rather have heard the words of God himself;
it would have been as easy for him and I should have been secure
from fraud. He protects you from fraud by showing that his envoys
come from him. How does he show this? By miracles. Where are these
miracles? In the books. And who wrote the books? Men. And who
saw the miracles? The men who bear witness to them. What! Nothing
but human testimony! Nothing but men who tell me what others told
them! How many men between God and me! Let us see, however, let
us examine, compare, and verify. Oh! if God had but deigned to free
me from all this labour, I would have served him with all my heart.
"Consider, my friend, the terrible controversy in which I am now
engaged; what vast learning is required to go back to the remotest
antiquity, to examine, weigh, confront prophecies, revelations,
facts, all the monuments of faith set forth throughout the world,
to assign their date, place, authorship, and occasion. What exactness
of critical judgment is needed to distinguish genuine documents from
forgeries, to compare objections with their answers, translations
with their originals; to decide as to the impartiality of witnesses,
their common-sense, their knowledge; to make sure that nothing
has been omitted, nothing added, nothing transposed, altered, or
falsified; to point out any remaining contradictions, to determine
what weight should be given to the silence of our adversaries
with regard to the charges brought against them; how far were they
aware of those charges; did they think them sufficiently serious
to require an answer; were books sufficiently well known for our
books to reach them; have we been honest enough to allow their
books to circulate among ourselves and to leave their strongest
objections unaltered?
"When the authenticity of all these documents is accepted, we must
now pass to the evidence of their authors' mission; we must know the
laws of chance, and probability, to decide which prophecy cannot
be fulfilled without a miracle; we must know the spirit of the
original languages, to distinguish between prophecy and figures of
speech; we must know what facts are in accordance with nature and
what facts are not, so that we may say how far a clever man may
deceive the eyes of the simple and may even astonish the learned;
we must discover what are the characteristics of a prodigy and how
its authenticity may be established, not only so far as to gain
credence, but so that doubt may be deserving of punishment; we must
compare the evidence for true and false miracles, and find sure
tests to distinguish between them; lastly we must say why God chose
as a witness to his words means which themselves require so much
evidence on their behalf, as if he were playing with human credulity,
and avoiding of set purpose the true means of persuasion.
"Assuming that the divine majesty condescends so far as to make a
man the channel of his sacred will, is it reasonable, is it fair,
to demand that the whole of mankind should obey the voice of this
minister without making him known as such? Is it just to give him
as his sole credentials certain private signs, performed in the
presence of a few obscure persons, signs which everybody else can
only know by hearsay? If one were to believe all the miracles that
the uneducated and credulous profess to have seen in every country
upon earth, every sect would be in the right; there would be more
miracles than ordinary events; and it would be the greatest miracle
if there were no miracles wherever there were persecuted fanatics.
The unchangeable order of nature is the chief witness to the wise
hand that guides it; if there were many exceptions, I should hardly
know what to think; for my own part I have too great a faith in God
to believe in so many miracles which are so little worthy of him.
"Let a man come and say to us: Mortals, I proclaim to you the will
of the Most Highest; accept my words as those of him who has sent
me; I bid the sun to change his course, the stars to range themselves
in a fresh order, the high places to become smooth, the floods to
rise up, the earth to change her face. By these miracles who will
not recognise the master of nature? She does not obey impostors,
their miracles are wrought in holes and corners, in deserts, within
closed doors, where they find easy dupes among a small company
of spectators already disposed to believe them. Who will venture
to tell me how many eye-witnesses are required to make a miracle
credible! What use are your miracles, performed if proof of your
doctrine, if they themselves require so much proof! You might as
well have let them alone.
"There still remains the most important inquiry of all with regard
to the doctrine proclaimed; for since those who tell us God works
miracles in this world, profess that the devil sometimes imitates
them, when we have found the best attested miracles we have got
very little further; and since the magicians of Pharaoh dared in
the presence of Moses to counterfeit the very signs he wrought at
God's command, why should they not, behind his back, claim a like
authority? So when we have proved our doctrine by means of miracles,
we must prove our miracles by means of doctrine, [Footnote: This
is expressly stated in many passages of Scripture, among others in
Deuteronomy xiii., where it is said that when a prophet preaching
strange gods confirms his words by means of miracles and what he
foretells comes to pass, far from giving heed to him, this prophet
must be put to death. If then the heathen put the apostles to
death when they preached a strange god and confirmed their words by
miracles which came to pass I cannot see what grounds we have for
complaint which they could not at once turn against us. Now, what
should be done in such a case? There is only one course; to return
to argument and let the miracles alone. It would have been better
not to have had recourse to them at all. That is plain common-sense
which can only be obscured by great subtlety of distinction. Subtleties
in Christianity! So Jesus Christ was mistaken when he promised the
kingdom of heaven to the simple, he was mistaken when he began his
finest discourse with the praise of the poor in spirit, if so much
wit is needed to understand his teaching and to get others to believe
in him. When you have convinced me that submission is my duty, all
will be well; but to convince me of this, come down to my level;
adapt your arguments to a lowly mind, or I shall not recognise you
as a true disciple of your master, and it is not his doctrine that
you are teaching me.] for fear lest we should take the devil's
doings for the handiwork of God. What think you of this dilemma?
"This doctrine, if it comes from God, should bear the sacred stamp
of the godhead; not only should it illumine the troubled thoughts
which reason imprints on our minds, but it should also offer us
a form of worship, a morality, and rules of conduct in accordance
with the attributes by means of which we alone conceive of God's
essence. If then it teaches us what is absurd and unreasonable, if
it inspires us with feelings of aversion for our fellows and terror
for ourselves, if it paints us a God, angry, jealous, revengeful,
partial, hating men, a God of war and battles, ever ready to strike
and to destroy, ever speaking of punishment and torment, boasting
even of the punishment of the innocent, my heart would not be drawn
towards this terrible God, I would take good care not to quit the
realm of natural religion to embrace such a religion as that; for
you see plainly I must choose between them. Your God is not ours.
He who begins by selecting a chosen people, and proscribing the rest
of mankind, is not our common father; he who consigns to eternal
punishment the greater part of his creatures, is not the merciful
and gracious God revealed to me by my reason.
"Reason tells me that dogmas should be plain, clear, and striking
in their simplicity. If there is something lacking in natural
religion, it is with respect to the obscurity in which it leaves
the great truths it teaches; revelation should teach us these truths
in a way which the mind of man can understand; it should bring them
within his reach, make him comprehend them, so that he may believe
them. Faith is confirmed and strengthened by understanding; the
best religion is of necessity the simplest. He who hides beneath
mysteries and contradictions the religion that he preaches to me,
teaches me at the same time to distrust that religion. The God whom
I adore is not the God of darkness, he has not given me understanding
in order to forbid me to use it; to tell me to submit my reason
is to insult the giver of reason. The minister of truth does not
tyrannise over my reason, he enlightens it.
"We have set aside all human authority, and without it I do not see
how any man can convince another by preaching a doctrine contrary
to reason. Let them fight it out, and let us see what they have to
say with that harshness of speech which is common to both.
"INSPIRATION: Reason tells you that the whole is greater than the
part; but I tell you, in God's name, that the part is greater than
the whole.
"REASON: And who are you to dare to tell me that God contradicts
himself? And which shall I choose to believe. God who teaches me,
through my reason, the eternal truth, or you who, in his name,
proclaim an absurdity?
"INSPIRATION: Believe me, for my teaching is more positive; and I
will prove to you beyond all manner of doubt that he has sent me.
"REASON: What! you will convince me that God has sent you to bear
witness against himself? What sort of proofs will you adduce to
convince me that God speaks more surely by your mouth than through
the understanding he has given me?
"INSPIRATION: The understanding he has given you! Petty, conceited
creature! As if you were the first impious person who had been led
astray through his reason corrupted by sin.
"REASON: Man of God, you would not be the first scoundrel who
asserts his arrogance as a proof of his mission.
"INSPIRATION: What! do even philosophers call names?
"REASON: Sometimes, when the saints set them the example.
"INSPIRATION: Oh, but I have a right to do it, for I am speaking
on God's behalf.
"REASON: You would do well to show your credentials before you make
use of your privileges.
"INSPIRATION: My credentials are authentic, earth and heaven will
bear witness on my behalf. Follow my arguments carefully, if you
please.
"REASON: Your arguments! You forget what you are saying. When you
teach me that my reason misleads me, do you not refute what it might
have said on your behalf? He who denies the right of reason, must
convince me without recourse to her aid. For suppose you have
convinced me by reason, how am I to know that it is not my reason,
corrupted by sin, which makes me accept what you say? besides,
what proof, what demonstration, can you advance, more self-evident
than the axiom it is to destroy? It is more credible that a good
syllogism is a lie, than that the part is greater than the whole.
"INSPIRATION: What a difference! There is no answer to my evidence;
it is of a supernatural kind.
"REASON: Supernatural! What do you mean by the word? I do not
understand it.
"INSPIRATION: I mean changes in the order of nature, prophecies,
signs, and wonders of every kind.
"REASON: Signs and wonders! I have never seen anything of the kind.
"INSPIRATION: Others have seen them for you. Clouds of witnesses--the
witness of whole nations....
"REASON: Is the witness of nations supernatural?
"INSPIRATION: No; but when it is unanimous, it is incontestable.
"REASON: There is nothing so incontestable as the principles of
reason, and one cannot accept an absurdity on human evidence. once
more, let us see your supernatural evidence, for the consent of
mankind is not supernatural.
"INSPIRATION: Oh, hardened heart, grace does not speak to you.
"REASON: That is not my fault; for by your own showing, one must
have already received grace before one is able to ask for it. Begin
by speaking to me in its stead.
"INSPIRATION: But that is just what I am doing, and you will not
listen. But what do you say to prophecy?
"REASON: In the first place, I say I have no more heard a prophet
than I have seen a miracle. In the next, I say that no prophet
could claim authority over me.
"INSPIRATION: Follower of the devil! Why should not the words of
the prophets have authority over you?
"REASON: Because three things are required, three things which will
never happen: firstly, I must have heard the prophecy; secondly,
I must have seen its fulfilment; and thirdly, it must be clearly
proved that the fulfilment of the prophecy could not by any possibility
have been a mere coincidence; for even if it was as precise, as
plain, and clear as an axiom of geometry, since the clearness of
a chance prediction does not make its fulfilment impossible, this
fulfilment when it does take place does not, strictly speaking,
prove what was foretold.
"See what your so-called supernatural proofs, your miracles, your
prophecies come to: believe all this upon the word of another,
Submit to the authority of men the authority of God which speaks to
my reason. If the eternal truths which my mind conceives of could
suffer any shock, there would be no sort of certainty for me; and
far from being sure that you speak to me on God's behalf, I should
not even be sure that there is a God.
"My child, here are difficulties enough, but these are not all.
Among so many religions, mutually excluding and proscribing each
other, one only is true, if indeed any one of them is true. To
recognise the true religion we must inquire into, not one, but all;
and in any question whatsoever we have no right to condemn unheard.
[Footnote: on the other hand, Plutarch relates that the Stoics
maintained, among other strange paradoxes, that it was no use hearing
both sides; for, said they, the first either proves his point or
he does not prove it; if he has proved it, there is an end of it,
and the other should be condemned: if he has not proved it, he
himself is in the wrong and judgment should be given against him.
I consider the method of those who accept an exclusive revelation
very much like that of these Stoics. When each of them claims to
be the sole guardian of truth, we must hear them all before we can
choose between them without injustice.] The objections must be
compared with the evidence; we must know what accusation each brings
against the other, and what answers they receive. The plainer any
feeling appears to us, the more we must try to discover why so many
other people refuse to accept it. We should be simple, indeed, if
we thought it enough to hear the doctors on our own side, in order
to acquaint ourselves with the arguments of the other. Where can
you find theologians who pride themselves on their honesty? Where
are those who, to refute the arguments of their opponents, do
not begin by making out that they are of little importance? A man
may make a good show among his own friends, and be very proud of
his arguments, who would cut a very poor figure with those same
arguments among those who are on the other side. Would you find
out for yourself from books? What learning you will need! What
languages you must learn; what libraries you must ransack; what an
amount of reading must be got through! Who will guide me in such
a choice? It will be hard to find the best books on the opposite
side in any one country, and all the harder to find those on all
sides; when found they would be easily answered. The absent are
always in the wrong, and bad arguments boldly asserted easily efface
good arguments put forward with scorn. Besides books are often very
misleading, and scarcely express the opinions of their authors.
If you think you can judge the Catholic faith from the writings
of Bossuet, you will find yourself greatly mistaken when you have
lived among us. You will see that the doctrines with which Protestants
are answered are quite different from those of the pulpit. To
judge a religion rightly, you must not study it in the books of its
partisans, you must learn it in their lives; this is quite another
matter. Each religion has its own traditions, meaning, customs,
prejudices, which form the spirit of its creed, and must be taken
in connection with it.
"How many great nations neither print books of their own nor read
ours! How shall they judge of our opinions, or we of theirs? We
laugh at them, they despise us; and if our travellers turn them
into ridicule, they need only travel among us to pay us back in
our own coin. Are there not, in every country, men of common-sense,
honesty, and good faith, lovers of truth, who only seek to know
what truth is that they may profess it? Yet every one finds truth
in his own religion, and thinks the religion of other nations
absurd; so all these foreign religions are not so absurd as they
seem to us, or else the reason we find for our own proves nothing.
"We have three principal forms of religion in Europe. one accepts
one revelation, another two, and another three. Each hates the
others, showers curses on them, accuses them of blindness, obstinacy,
hardness of heart, and falsehood. What fair-minded man will dare
to decide between them without first carefully weighing their
evidence, without listening attentively to their arguments? That
which accepts only one revelation is the oldest and seems the best
established; that which accepts three is the newest and seems the
most consistent; that which accepts two revelations and rejects the
third may perhaps be the best, but prejudice is certainly against
it; its inconsistency is glaring.
"In all three revelations the sacred books are written in languages
unknown to the people who believe in them. The Jews no longer
understand Hebrew, the Christians understand neither Hebrew nor
Greek; the Turks and Persians do not understand Arabic, and the
Arabs of our time do not speak the language of Mahomet. Is not
it a very foolish way of teaching, to teach people in an unknown
tongue? These books are translated, you say. What an answer! How
am I to know that the translations are correct, or how am I to
make sure that such a thing as a correct translation is possible?
If God has gone so far as to speak to men, why should he require
an interpreter?
"I can never believe that every man is obliged to know what is
contained in books, and that he who is out of reach of these books,
and of those who understand them, will be punished for an ignorance
which is no fault of his. Books upon books! What madness! As
all Europe is full of books, Europeans regard them as necessary,
forgetting that they are unknown throughout three-quarters of the
globe. Were not all these books written by men? Why then should a
man need them to teach him his duty, and how did he learn his duty
before these books were in existence? Either he must have learnt
his duties for himself, or his ignorance must have been excused.
"Our Catholics talk loudly of the authority of the Church; but what
is the use of it all, if they also need just as great an array of
proofs to establish that authority as the other seeks to establish
their doctrine? The Church decides that the Church has a right to
decide. What a well-founded authority! Go beyond it, and you are
back again in our discussions.
"Do you know many Christians who have taken the trouble to inquire
what the Jews allege against them? If any one knows anything at
all about it, it is from the writings of Christians. What a way of
ascertaining the arguments of our adversaries! But what is to be
done? If any one dared to publish in our day books which were openly
in favour of the Jewish religion, we should punish the author,
publisher, and bookseller. This regulation is a sure and certain
plan for always being in the right. It is easy to refute those who
dare not venture to speak.
"Those among us who have the opportunity of talking with Jews are
little better off. These unhappy people feel that they are in our
power; the tyranny they have suffered makes them timid; they know
that Christian charity thinks nothing of injustice and cruelty;
will they dare to run the risk of an outcry against blasphemy? Our
greed inspires us with zeal, and they are so rich that they must
be in the wrong. The more learned, the more enlightened they are,
the more cautious. You may convert some poor wretch whom you have
paid to slander his religion; you get some wretched old-clothes-man
to speak, and he says what you want; you may triumph over their
ignorance and cowardice, while all the time their men of learning
are laughing at your stupidity. But do you think you would get
off so easily in any place where they knew they were safe! At the
Sorbonne it is plain that the Messianic prophecies refer to Jesus
Christ. Among the rabbis of Amsterdam it is just as clear that they
have nothing to do with him. I do not think I have ever heard the
arguments of the Jews as to why they should not have a free state,
schools and universities, where they can speak and argue without
danger. Then alone can we know what they have to say.
"At Constantinople the Turks state their arguments, but we dare not
give ours; then it is our turn to cringe. Can we blame the Turks
if they require us to show the same respect for Mahomet, in whom
we do not believe, as we demand from the Jews with regard to Jesus
Christ in whom they do not believe? Are we right? on what grounds
of justice can we answer this question?
"Two-thirds of mankind are neither Jews, Mahometans, nor Christians;
and how many millions of men have never heard the name of Moses,
Jesus Christ, or Mahomet? They deny it; they maintain that our
missionaries go everywhere. That is easily said. But do they go into
the heart of Africa, still undiscovered, where as yet no European
has ever ventured? Do they go to Eastern Tartary to follow on
horseback the wandering tribes, whom no stranger approaches, who
not only know nothing of the pope, but have scarcely heard tell
of the Grand Lama! Do they penetrate into the vast continents
of America, where there are still whole nations unaware that the
people of another world have set foot on their shores? Do they
go to Japan, where their intrigues have led to their perpetual
banishment, where their predecessors are only known to the rising
generation as skilful plotters who came with feigned zeal to take
possession in secret of the empire? Do they reach the harems of the
Asiatic princes to preach the gospel to those thousands of poor
slaves? What have the women of those countries done that no missionary
may preach the faith to them? Will they all go to hell because of
their seclusion?
"If it were true that the gospel is preached throughout the world,
what advantage would there be? The day before the first missionary
set foot in any country, no doubt somebody died who could not hear
him. Now tell me what we shall do with him? If there were a single
soul in the whole world, to whom Jesus Christ had never been
preached, this objection would be as strong for that man as for a
quarter of the human race.
"If the ministers of the gospel have made themselves heard among
far-off nations, what have they told them which might reasonably be
accepted on their word, without further and more exact verification?
You preach to me God, born and dying, two thousand years ago, at
the other end of the world, in some small town I know not where;
and you tell me that all who have not believed this mystery are
damned. These are strange things to be believed so quickly on the
authority of an unknown person. Why did your God make these things
happen so far off, if he would compel me to know about them? Is
it a crime to be unaware of what is happening half a world away?
Could I guess that in another hemisphere there was a Hebrew nation
and a town called Jerusalem? You might as well expect me to know
what was happening in the moon. You say you have come to teach me;
but why did you not come and teach my father, or why do you consign
that good old man to damnation because he knew nothing of all
this? Must he be punished everlastingly for your laziness, he who
was so kind and helpful, he who sought only for truth? Be honest;
put yourself in my place; see if I ought to believe, on your word
alone, all these incredible things which you have told me, and
reconcile all this injustice with the just God you proclaim to
me. At least allow me to go and see this distant land where such
wonders, unheard of in my own country, took place; let me go and
see why the inhabitants of Jerusalem put their God to death as a
robber. You tell me they did not know he was God. What then shall
I do, I who have only heard of him from you? You say they have been
punished, dispersed, oppressed, enslaved; that none of them dare
approach that town. Indeed they richly deserved it; but what do its
present inhabitants say of their crime in slaying their God! They
deny him; they too refuse to recognise God as God. They are no
better than the children of the original inhabitants.
"What! In the very town where God was put to death, neither the
former nor the latter inhabitants knew him, and you expect that I
should know him, I who was born two thousand years after his time,
and two thousand leagues away? Do you not see that before I can
believe this book which you call sacred, but which I do not in the
least understand, I must know from others than yourself when and by
whom it was written, how it has been preserved, how it came into
your possession, what they say about it in those lands where it is
rejected, and what are their reasons for rejecting it, though they
know as well as you what you are telling me? You perceive I must
go to Europe, Asia, Palestine, to examine these things for myself;
it would be madness to listen to you before that.
"Not only does this seem reasonable to me, but I maintain that it
is what every wise man ought to say in similar circumstances; that
he ought to banish to a great distance the missionary who wants
to instruct and baptise him all of a sudden before the evidence is
verified. Now I maintain that there is no revelation against which
these or similar objections cannot be made, and with more force
than against Christianity. Hence it follows that if there is but
one true religion and if every man is bound to follow it under pain
of damnation, he must spend his whole life in studying, testing,
comparing all these religions, in travelling through the countries
in which they are established. No man is free from a man's first
duty; no one has a right to depend on another's judgment. The
artisan who earns his bread by his daily toil, the ploughboy who
cannot read, the delicate and timid maiden, the invalid who can
scarcely leave his bed, all without exception must study, consider,
argue, travel over the whole world; there will be no more fixed
and settled nations; the whole earth will swarm with pilgrims on
their way, at great cost of time and trouble, to verify, compare,
and examine for themselves the various religions to be found. Then
farewell to the trades, the arts, the sciences of mankind, farewell
to all peaceful occupations; there can be no study but that
of religion, even the strongest, the most industrious, the most
intelligent, the oldest, will hardly be able in his last years to
know where he is; and it will be a wonder if he manages to find
out what religion he ought to live by, before the hour of his death.
"Hard pressed by these arguments, some prefer to make God unjust
and to punish the innocent for the sins of their fathers, rather
than to renounce their barbarous dogmas. Others get out of the
difficulty by kindly sending an angel to instruct all those who
in invincible ignorance have lived a righteous life. A good idea,
that angel! Not content to be the slaves of their own inventions
they expect God to make use of them also!
"Behold, my son, the absurdities to which pride and intolerance
bring us, when everybody wants others to think as he does, and
everybody fancies that he has an exclusive claim upon the rest of
mankind. I call to witness the God of Peace whom I adore, and whom
I proclaim to you, that my inquiries were honestly made; but when
I discovered that they were and always would be unsuccessful, and
that I was embarked upon a boundless ocean, I turned back, and
restricted my faith within the limits of my primitive ideas. I
could never convince myself that God would require such learning
of me under pain of hell. So I closed all my books. There is one
book which is open to every one--the book of nature. In this good
and great volume I learn to serve and adore its Author. There
is no excuse for not reading this book, for it speaks to all in a
language they can understand. Suppose I had been born in a desert
island, suppose I had never seen any man but myself, suppose I had
never heard what took place in olden days in a remote corner of
the world; yet if I use my reason, if I cultivate it, if I employ
rightly the innate faculties which God bestows upon me, I shall
learn by myself to know and love him, to love his works, to will
what he wills, and to fulfil all my duties upon earth, that I may
do his pleasure. What more can all human learning teach me?
"With regard to revelation, if I were a more accomplished disputant,
or a more learned person, perhaps I should feel its truth, its
usefulness for those who are happy enough to perceive it; but if I
find evidence for it which I cannot combat, I also find objections
against it which I cannot overcome. There are so many weighty
reasons for and against that I do not know what to decide, so that
I neither accept nor reject it. I only reject all obligation to be
convinced of its truth; for this so-called obligation is incompatible
with God's justice, and far from removing objections in this way
it would multiply them, and would make them insurmountable for the
greater part of mankind. In this respect I maintain an attitude of
reverent doubt. I do not presume to think myself infallible; other
men may have been able to make up their minds though the matter
seems doubtful to myself; I am speaking for myself, not for them;
I neither blame them nor follow in their steps; their judgment may
be superior to mine, but it is no fault of mine that my judgment
does not agree with it.
"I own also that the holiness of the gospel speaks to my heart,
and that this is an argument which I should be sorry to refute.
Consider the books of the philosophers with all their outward show;
how petty they are in comparison! Can a book at once so grand and
so simple be the work of men? Is it possible that he whose history
is contained in this book is no more than man? Is the tone of this
book, the tone of the enthusiast or the ambitious sectary? What
gentleness and purity in his actions, what a touching grace in his
teaching, how lofty are his sayings, how profoundly wise are his
sermons, how ready, how discriminating, and how just are his answers!
What man, what sage, can live, suffer, and die without weakness
or ostentation? When Plato describes his imaginary good man,
overwhelmed with the disgrace of crime, and deserving of all the
rewards of virtue, every feature of the portrait is that of Christ;
the resemblance is so striking that it has been noticed by all
the Fathers, and there can be no doubt about it. What prejudices
and blindness must there be before we dare to compare the son of
Sophronisca with the son of Mary. How far apart they are! Socrates
dies a painless death, he is not put to open shame, and he plays
his part easily to the last; and if this easy death had not done
honour to his life, we might have doubted whether Socrates, with all
his intellect, was more than a mere sophist. He invented morality,
so they say; others before him had practised it; he only said
what they had done, and made use of their example in his teaching.
Aristides was just before Socrates defined justice; Leonidas died
for his country before Socrates declared that patriotism was a
virtue; Sparta was sober before Socrates extolled sobriety; there
were plenty of virtuous men in Greece before he defined virtue.
But among the men of his own time where did Jesus find that pure
and lofty morality of which he is both the teacher and pattern?
[Footnote: Cf. in the Sermon on the Mount the parallel he himself
draws between the teaching of Moses and his own.--Matt. v.] The
voice of loftiest wisdom arose among the fiercest fanaticism, the
simplicity of the most heroic virtues did honour to the most degraded
of nations one could wish no easier death than that of Socrates,
calmly discussing philosophy with his friends; one could fear nothing
worse than that of Jesus, dying in torment, among the insults,
the mockery, the curses of the whole nation. In the midst of these
terrible sufferings, Jesus prays for his cruel murderers. Yes,
if the life and death of Socrates are those of a philosopher, the
life and death of Christ are those of a God. Shall we say that the
gospel story is the work of the imagination? My friend, such things
are not imagined; and the doings of Socrates, which no one doubts,
are less well attested than those of Jesus Christ. At best, you
only put the difficulty from you; it would be still more incredible
that several persons should have agreed together to invent such a
book, than that there was one man who supplied its subject matter.
The tone and morality of this story are not those of any Jewish
authors, and the gospel indeed contains characters so great, so
striking, so entirely inimitable, that their invention would be
more astonishing than their hero. With all this the same gospel
is full of incredible things, things repugnant to reason, things
which no natural man can understand or accept. What can you do
among so many contradictions? You can be modest and wary, my child;
respect in silence what you can neither reject nor understand, and
humble yourself in the sight of the Divine Being who alone knows
the truth.
"This is the unwilling scepticism in which I rest; but this scepticism
is in no way painful to me, for it does not extend to matters of
practice, and I am well assured as to the principles underlying all
my duties. I serve God in the simplicity of my heart; I only seek
to know what affects my conduct. As to those dogmas which have
no effect upon action or morality, dogmas about which so many men
torment themselves, I give no heed to them. I regard all individual
religions as so many wholesome institutions which prescribe a
uniform method by which each country may do honour to God in public
worship; institutions which may each have its reason in the country,
the government, the genius of the people, or in other local causes
which make one preferable to another in a given time or place. I
think them all good alike, when God is served in a fitting manner.
True worship is of the heart. God rejects no homage, however offered,
provided it is sincere. Called to the service of the Church in
my own religion, I fulfil as scrupulously as I can all the duties
prescribed to me, and my conscience would reproach me if I were
knowingly wanting with regard to any point. You are aware that after
being suspended for a long time, I have, through the influence of
M. Mellarede, obtained permission to resume my priestly duties,
as a means of livelihood. I used to say Mass with the levity that
comes from long experience even of the most serious matters when
they are too familiar to us; with my new principles I now celebrate
it with more reverence; I dwell upon the majesty of the Supreme
Being, his presence, the insufficiency of the human mind, which
so little realises what concerns its Creator. When I consider how
I present before him the prayers of all the people in a form laid
down for me, I carry out the whole ritual exactly; I give heed
to what I say, I am careful not to omit the least word, the least
ceremony; when the moment of the consecration approaches, I collect my
powers, that I may do all things as required by the Church and by
the greatness of this sacrament; I strive to annihilate my own reason
before the Supreme Mind; I say to myself, Who art thou to measure
infinite power? I reverently pronounce the sacramental words, and
I give to their effect all the faith I can bestow. Whatever may
be this mystery which passes understanding, I am not afraid that
at the day of judgment I shall be punished for having profaned it
in my heart."
Honoured with the sacred ministry, though in its lowest ranks, I
will never do or say anything which may make me unworthy to fulfil
these sublime duties. I will always preach virtue and exhort men
to well-doing; and so far as I can I will set them a good example.
It will be my business to make religion attractive; it will be my
business to strengthen their faith in those doctrines which are
really useful, those which every man must believe; but, please God,
I shall never teach them to hate their neighbour, to say to other
men, You will be damned; to say, No salvation outside the Church.
[Footnote: The duty of following and loving the religion of our
country does not go so far as to require us to accept doctrines
contrary to good morals, such as intolerance. This horrible
doctrine sets men in arms against their fellow-men, and makes them
all enemies of mankind. The distinction between civil toleration
and theological toleration is vain and childish. These two kinds
of toleration are inseparable, and we cannot accept one without the
other. Even the angels could not live at peace with men whom they
regarded as the enemies of God.] If I were in a more conspicuous
position, this reticence might get me into trouble; but I am too
obscure to have much to fear, and I could hardly sink lower than I
am. Come what may, I will never blaspheme the justice of God, nor
lie against the Holy Ghost.
"I have long desired to have a parish of my own; it is still
my ambition, but I no longer hope to attain it. My dear friend, I
think there is nothing so delightful as to be a parish priest. A
good clergyman is a minister of mercy, as a good magistrate is a
minister of justice. A clergyman is never called upon to do evil;
if he cannot always do good himself, it is never out of place for
him to beg for others, and he often gets what he asks if he knows
how to gain respect. Oh! if I should ever have some poor mountain
parish where I might minister to kindly folk, I should be happy
indeed; for it seems to me that I should make my parishioners happy.
I should not bring them riches, but I should share their poverty;
I should remove from them the scorn and opprobrium which are harder
to bear than poverty. I should make them love peace and equality,
which often remove poverty, and always make it tolerable. When they
saw that I was in no way better off than themselves, and that yet
I was content with my lot, they would learn to put up with their
fate and to be content like me. In my sermons I would lay more stress
on the spirit of the gospel than on the spirit of the church; its
teaching is simple, its morality sublime; there is little in it
about the practices of religion, but much about works of charity.
Before I teach them what they ought to do, I would try to practise
it myself, that they might see that at least I think what I say.
If there were Protestants in the neighbourhood or in my parish, I
would make no difference between them and my own congregation so
far as concerns Christian charity; I would get them to love one
another, to consider themselves brethren, to respect all religions,
and each to live peaceably in his own religion. To ask any one to
abandon the religion in which he was born is, I consider, to ask
him to do wrong, and therefore to do wrong oneself. While we await
further knowledge, let us respect public order; in every country
let us respect the laws, let us not disturb the form of worship
prescribed by law; let us not lead its citizens into disobedience;
for we have no certain knowledge that it is good for them to abandon
their own opinions for others, and on the other hand we are quite
certain that it is a bad thing to disobey the law.
"My young friend, I have now repeated to you my creed as God reads
it in my heart; you are the first to whom I have told it; perhaps
you will be the last. As long as there is any true faith left among
men, we must not trouble quiet souls, nor scare the faith of the
ignorant with problems they cannot solve, with difficulties which
cause them uneasiness, but do not give them any guidance. But
when once everything is shaken, the trunk must be preserved at the
cost of the branches. Consciences, restless, uncertain, and almost
quenched like yours, require to be strengthened and aroused; to
set the feet again upon the foundation of eternal truth, we must
remove the trembling supports on which they think they rest.
"You are at that critical age when the mind is open to conviction,
when the heart receives its form and character, when we decide our
own fate for life, either for good or evil. At a later date, the
material has hardened and fresh impressions leave no trace. Young
man, take the stamp of truth upon your heart which is not yet
hardened, if I were more certain of myself, I should have adopted
a more decided and dogmatic tone; but I am a man ignorant and.
liable to error; what could I do? I have opened my heart fully to
you; and I have told what I myself hold for certain and sure; I
have told you my doubts as doubts, my opinions as opinions; I have
given you my reasons both for faith and doubt. It is now your turn
to judge; you have asked for time; that is a wise precaution and
it makes me think well of you. Begin by bringing your conscience
into that state in which it desires to see clearly; be honest with
yourself. Take to yourself such of my opinions as convince you,
reject the rest. You are not yet so depraved by vice as to run the
risk of choosing amiss. I would offer to argue with you, but as
soon as men dispute they lose their temper; pride and obstinacy
come in, and there is an end of honesty. My friend, never argue;
for by arguing we gain no light for ourselves or for others. So far
as I myself am concerned, I have only made up my mind after many
years of meditation; here I rest, my conscience is at peace, my
heart is satisfied. If I wanted to begin afresh the examination of
my feelings, I should not bring to the task a purer love of truth;
and my mind, which is already less active, would be less able to
perceive the truth. Here I shall rest, lest the love of contemplation,
developing step by step into an idle passion, should make me
lukewarm in the performance of my duties, lest I should fall into
my former scepticism without strength to struggle out of it. More
than half my life is spent; I have barely time to make good use of
what is left, to blot out my faults by my virtues. If I am mistaken,
it is against my will. He who reads my inmost heart knows that
I have no love for my blindness. As my own knowledge is powerless
to free me from this blindness, my only way out of it is by a good
life; and if God from the very stones can raise up children to
Abraham, every man has a right to hope that he may be taught the
truth, if he makes himself worthy of it.
"If my reflections lead you to think as I do, if you share my
feelings, if we have the same creed, I give you this advice: Do
not continue to expose your life to the temptations of poverty and
despair, nor waste it in degradation and at the mercy of strangers;
no longer eat the shameful bread of charity. Return to your own
country, go back to the religion of your fathers, and follow it in
sincerity of heart, and never forsake it; it is very simple and very
holy; I think there is no other religion upon earth whose morality
is purer, no other more satisfying to the reason. Do not trouble
about the cost of the journey, that will be provided for you.
Neither do you fear the false shame of a humiliating return; we
should blush to commit a fault, not to repair it. You are still at
an age when all is forgiven, but when we cannot go on sinning with
impunity. If you desire to listen to your conscience, a thousand
empty objections will disappear at her voice. You will feel that, in
our present state of uncertainty, it is an inexcusable presumption
to profess any faith but that we were born into, while it is
treachery not to practise honestly the faith we profess. If we go
astray, we deprive ourselves of a great excuse before the tribunal
of the sovereign judge. Will he not pardon the errors in which we
were brought up, rather than those of our own choosing?
"My son, keep your soul in such a state that you always desire
that there should be a God and you will never doubt it. Moreover,
whatever decision you come to, remember that the real duties of
religion are independent of human institutions; that a righteous
heart is the true temple of the Godhead; that in every land, in
every sect, to love God above all things and to love our neighbour
as ourself is the whole law; remember there is no religion which
absolves us from our moral duties; that these alone are really
essential, that the service of the heart is the first of these duties,
and that without faith there is no such thing as true virtue.
"Shun those who, under the pretence of explaining nature, sow
destructive doctrines in the heart of men, those whose apparent
scepticism is a hundredfold more self-assertive and dogmatic than
the firm tone of their opponents. Under the arrogant claim, that
they alone are enlightened, true, honest, they subject us imperiously
to their far-reaching decisions, and profess to give us, as the
true principles of all things, the unintelligible systems framed by
their imagination. Moreover, they overthrow, destroy, and trample
under foot all that men reverence; they rob the afflicted of
their last consolation in their misery; they deprive the rich and
powerful of the sole bridle of their passions; they tear from the
very depths of man's heart all remorse for crime, and all hope of
virtue; and they boast, moreover, that they are the benefactors of
the human race. Truth, they say, can never do a man harm. I think
so too, and to my mind that is strong evidence that what they
teach is not true. [Footnote: The rival parties attack each other
with so many sophistries that it would be a rash and overwhelming
enterprise to attempt to deal with all of them; it is difficult
enough to note some of them as they occur. one of the commonest
errors among the partisans of philosophy is to contrast a nation
of good philosophers with a nation of bad Christians; as if it were
easier to make a nation of good philosophers than a nation of good
Christians. I know not whether in individual cases it is easier to
discover one rather than the other; but I am quite certain that,
as far as nations are concerned, we must assume that there will
be those who misuse their philosophy without religion, just as our
people misuse their religion without philosophy, and that seems
to put quite a different face upon the matter.]--Bayle has proved
very satisfactorily that fanaticism is more harmful than atheism,
and that cannot be denied; but what he has not taken the trouble to
say, though it is none the less true, is this: Fanaticism, though
cruel and bloodthirsty, is still a great and powerful passion,
which stirs the heart of man, teaching him to despise death, and
giving him an enormous motive power, which only needs to be guided
rightly to produce the noblest virtues; while irreligion, and the
argumentative philosophic spirit generally, on the other hand,
assaults the life and enfeebles it, degrades the soul, concentrates
all the passions in the basest self-interest, in the meanness of
the human self; thus it saps unnoticed the very foundations of all
society, for what is common to all these private interests is so
small that it will never outweigh their opposing interests.--If
atheism does not lead to bloodshed, it is less from love of peace
than from indifference to what is good; as if it mattered little
what happened to others, provided the sage remained undisturbed in
his study. His principles do not kill men, but they prevent their
birth, by destroying the morals by which they were multiplied, by
detaching them from their fellows, by reducing all their affections
to a secret selfishness, as fatal to population as to virtue. The
indifference of the philosopher is like the peace in a despotic state;
it is the repose of death; war itself is not more destructive.--Thus
fanaticism though its immediate results are more fatal than those
of what is now called the philosophic mind, is much less fatal in
its after effects. Moreover, it is an easy matter to exhibit fine
maxims in books; but the real question is--Are they really in
accordance with your teaching, are they the necessary consequences
of it? and this has not been clearly proved so far. It remains
to be seen whether philosophy, safely enthroned, could control
successfully man's petty vanity, his self-interest, his ambition,
all the lesser passions of mankind, and whether it would practise
that sweet humanity which it boasts of, pen in hand.--In theory,
there is no good which philosophy can bring about which is not equally
secured by religion, while religion secures much that philosophy
cannot secure.--In practice, it is another matter; but still we
must put it to the proof. No man follows his religion in all things,
even if his religion is true; most people have hardly any religion,
and they do not in the least follow what they have; that is still
more true; but still there are some people who have a religion
and follow it, at least to some extent; and beyond doubt religious
motives do prevent them from wrong-doing, and win from them virtues,
praiseworthy actions, which would not have existed but for these
motives.--A monk denies that money was entrusted to him; what of
that? It only proves that the man who entrusted the money to him
was a fool. If Pascal had done the same, that would have proved that
Pascal was a hypocrite. But a monk! Are those who make a trade of
religion religious people? All the crimes committed by the clergy,
as by other men, do not prove that religion is useless, but that
very few people are religious.--Most certainly our modern governments
owe to Christianity their more stable authority, their less frequent
revolutions; it has made those governments less bloodthirsty; this
can be shown by comparing them with the governments of former times.
Apart from fanaticism, the best known religion has given greater
gentleness to Christian conduct. This change is not the result of
learning; for wherever learning has been most illustrious humanity
has been no more respected on that account; the cruelties of the
Athenians, the Egyptians, the Roman emperors, the Chinese bear
witness to this. What works of mercy spring from the gospel! How
many acts of restitution, reparation, confession does the gospel
lead to among Catholics! Among ourselves, as the times of communion
draw near, do they not lead us to reconciliation and to alms-giving?
Did not the Hebrew Jubilee make the grasping less greedy, did it
not prevent much poverty? The brotherhood of the Law made the nation
one; no beggar was found among them. Neither are there beggars
among the Turks, where there are countless pious institutions;
from motives of religion they even show hospitality to the foes of
their religion.--"The Mahometans say, according to Chardin, that
after the interrogation which will follow the general resurrection,
all bodies will traverse a bridge called Poul-Serrho, which is
thrown across the eternal fires, a bridge which may be called the
third and last test of the great Judgment, because it is there that
the good and bad will be separated, etc.--"The Persians, continues
Chardin, make a great point of this bridge; and when any one suffers
a wrong which he can never hope to wipe out by any means or at any
time, he finds his last consolation in these words: 'By the living
God, you will pay me double at the last day; you will never get
across the Poul-Serrho if you do not first do me justice; I will
hold the hem of your garment, I will cling about your knees.' I
have seen many eminent men, of every profession, who for fear lest
this hue and cry should be raised against them as they cross that
fearful bridge, beg pardon of those who complained against them;
it has happened to me myself on many occasions. Men of rank, who
had compelled me by their importunity to do what I did not wish
to do, have come to me when they thought my anger had had time to
cool, and have said to me; I pray you "Halal becon antchisra," that
is, "Make this matter lawful and right." Some of them have even
sent gifts and done me service, so that I might forgive them and
say I did it willingly; the cause of this is nothing else but this
belief that they will not be able to get across the bridge of hell
until they have paid the uttermost farthing to the oppressed."--Must
I think that the idea of this bridge where so many iniquities are
made good is of no avail? If the Persians were deprived of this
idea, if they were persuaded that there was no Poul-Serrho, nor
anything of the kind, where the oppressed were avenged of their
tyrants after death, is it not clear that they would be very much
at their ease, and they would be freed from the care of appeasing
the wretched? But it is false to say that this doctrine is hurtful;
yet it would not be true.--O Philosopher, your moral laws are all
very fine; but kindly show me their sanction. Cease to shirk the
question, and tell me plainly what you would put in the place of
Poul-Serrho.
"My good youth, be honest and humble; learn how to be ignorant, then
you will never deceive yourself or others. If ever your talents are
so far cultivated as to enable you to speak to other men, always
speak according to your conscience, without oaring for their
applause. The abuse of knowledge causes incredulity. The learned
always despise the opinions of the crowd; each of them must have his
own opinion. A haughty philosophy leads to atheism just as blind
devotion leads to fanaticism. Avoid these extremes; keep steadfastly
to the path of truth, or what seems to you truth, in simplicity of
heart, and never let yourself be turned aside by pride or weakness.
Dare to confess God before the philosophers; dare to preach humanity
to the intolerant. It may be you will stand alone, but you will
bear within you a witness which will make the witness of men of no
account with you. Let them love or hate, let them read your writings
or despise them; no matter. Speak the truth and do the right; the
one thing that really matters is to do one's duty in this world;
and when we forget ourselves we are really working for ourselves.
My child, self-interest misleads us; the hope of the just is the
only sure guide."
I have transcribed this document not as a rule for the sentiments
we should adopt in matters of religion, but as an example of the way
in which we may reason with our pupil without forsaking the method
I have tried to establish. So long as we yield nothing to human
authority, nor to the prejudices of our native land, the light of
reason alone, in a state of nature, can lead us no further than to
natural religion; and this is as far as I should go with Emile. If
he must have any other religion, I have no right to be his guide;
he must choose for himself.
We are working in agreement with nature, and while she is shaping
the physical man, we are striving to shape his moral being, but
we do not make the same progress. The body is already strong and
vigorous, the soul is still frail and delicate, and whatever can be
done by human art, the body is always ahead of the mind. Hitherto
all our care has been devoted to restrain the one and stimulate
the other, so that the man might be as far as possible at one with
himself. By developing his individuality, we have kept his growing
susceptibilities in check; we have controlled it by cultivating
his reason. Objects of thought moderate the influence of objects
of sense. By going back to the causes of things, we have withdrawn
him from the sway of the senses; it is an easy thing to raise him
from the study of nature to the search for the author of nature.
When we have reached this point, what a fresh hold we have got over
our pupil; what fresh ways of speaking to his heart! Then alone
does he find a real motive for being good, for doing right when he
is far from every human eye, and when he is not driven to it by
law. To be just in his own eyes and in the sight of God, to do his
duty, even at the cost of life itself, and to bear in his heart
virtue, not only for the love of order which we all subordinate
to the love of self, but for the love of the Author of his being,
a love which mingles with that self-love, so that he may at length
enjoy the lasting happiness which the peace of a good conscience
and the contemplation of that supreme being promise him in another
life, after he has used this life aright. Go beyond this, and I see
nothing but injustice, hypocrisy, and falsehood among men; private
interest, which in competition necessarily prevails over everything
else, teaches all things to adorn vice with the outward show of
virtue. Let all men do what is good for me at the cost of what is
good for themselves; let everything depend on me alone; let the
whole human race perish, if needs be, in suffering and want, to
spare me a moment's pain or hunger. Yes, I shall always maintain
that whoso says in his heart, "There is no God," while he takes
the name of God upon his lips, is either a liar or a madman.
Reader, it is all in vain; I perceive that you and I shall never
see Emile with the same eyes; you will always fancy him like your
own young people, hasty, impetuous, flighty, wandering from fete to
fete, from amusement to amusement, never able to settle to anything.
You smile when I expect to make a thinker, a philosopher, a young
theologian, of an ardent, lively, eager, and fiery young man,
at the most impulsive period of youth. This dreamer, you say, is
always in pursuit of his fancy; when he gives us a pupil of his
own making, he does not merely form him, he creates him, he makes
him up out of his own head; and while he thinks he is treading in
the steps of nature, he is getting further and further from her.
As for me, when I compare my pupil with yours, I can scarcely find
anything in common between them. So differently brought up, it is
almost a miracle if they are alike in any respect. As his childhood
was passed in the freedom they assume in youth, in his youth he
begins to bear the yoke they bore as children; this yoke becomes
hateful to them, they are sick of it, and they see in it nothing
but their masters' tyranny; when they escape from childhood, they
think they must shake off all control, they make up for the prolonged
restraint imposed upon them, as a prisoner, freed from his fetters,
moves and stretches and shakes his limbs. [Footnote: There is no
one who looks down upon childhood with such lofty scorn as those
who are barely grown-up; just as there is no country where rank is
more strictly regarded than that where there is little real inequality;
everybody is afraid of being confounded with his inferiors.] Emile,
however, is proud to be a man, and to submit to the yoke of his
growing reason; his body, already well grown, no longer needs so
much action, and begins to control itself, while his half-fledged
mind tries its wings on every occasion. Thus the age of reason
becomes for the one the age of licence; for the other, the age of
reasoning.
Would you know which of the two is nearer to the order of nature!
Consider the differences between those who are more or less removed
from a state of nature. Observe young villagers and see if they
are as undisciplined as your scholars. The Sieur de Beau says that
savages in childhood are always active, and ever busy with sports
that keep the body in motion; but scarcely do they reach adolescence
than they become quiet and dreamy; they no longer devote themselves
to games of skill or chance. Emile, who has been brought up in full
freedom like young peasants and savages, should behave like them
and change as he grows up. The whole difference is in this, that
instead of merely being active in sport or for food, he has, in the
course of his sports, learned to think. Having reached this stage,
and by this road, he is quite ready to enter upon the next stage to
which I introduce him; the subjects I suggest for his consideration
rouse his curiosity, because they are fine in themselves, because
they are quite new to him, and because he is able to understand
them. Your young people, on the other hand, are weary and overdone
with your stupid lessons, your long sermons, and your tedious
catechisms; why should they not refuse to devote their minds to
what has made them sad, to the burdensome precepts which have been
continually piled upon them, to the thought of the Author of their
being, who has been represented as the enemy of their pleasures?
All this has only inspired in them aversion, disgust, and weariness;
constraint has set them against it; why then should they devote
themselves to it when they are beginning to choose for themselves?
They require novelty, you must not repeat what they learned
as children. Just so with my own pupil, when he is a man I speak
to him as a man, and only tell him what is new to him; it is just
because they are tedious to your pupils that he will find them to
his taste.
This is how I doubly gain time for him by retarding nature to the
advantage of reason. But have I indeed retarded the progress of
nature? No, I have only prevented the imagination from hastening
it; I have employed another sort of teaching to counterbalance
the precocious instruction which the young man receives from other
sources. When he is carried away by the flood of existing customs
and I draw him in the opposite direction by means of other customs,
this is not to remove him from his place, but to keep him in it.
Nature's due time comes at length, as come it must. Since man must
die, he must reproduce himself, so that the species may endure and
the order of the world continue. When by the signs I have spoken of
you perceive that the critical moment is at hand, at once abandon
for ever your former tone. He is still your disciple, but not your
scholar. He is a man and your friend; henceforth you must treat
him as such.
What! Must I abdicate my authority when most I need it? Must I
abandon the adult to himself just when he least knows how to control
himself, when he may fall into the gravest errors! Must I renounce
my rights when it matters most that I should use them on his behalf?
Who bids you renounce them; he is only just becoming conscious of
them. Hitherto all you have gained has been won by force or guile;
authority, the law of duty, were unknown to him, you had to constrain
or deceive him to gain his obedience. But see what fresh chains
you have bound about his heart. Reason, friendship, affection,
gratitude, a thousand bonds of affection, speak to him in a voice
he cannot fail to hear. His ears are not yet dulled by vice, he
is still sensitive only to the passions of nature. Self-love, the
first of these, delivers him into your hands; habit confirms this.
If a passing transport tears him from you, regret restores him to
you without delay; the sentiment which attaches him to you is the
only lasting sentiment, all the rest are fleeting and self-effacing.
Do not let him become corrupt, and he will always be docile; he
will not begin to rebel till he is already perverted.
I grant you, indeed, that if you directly oppose his growing desires
and foolishly treat as crimes the fresh needs which are beginning
to make themselves felt in him, he will not listen to you for
long; but as soon as you abandon my method I cannot be answerable
for the consequences. Remember that you are nature's minister; you
will never be her foe.
But what shall we decide to do? You see no alternative but either
to favour his inclinations or to resist them; to tyrannise or to
wink at his misconduct; and both of these may lead to such dangerous
results that one must indeed hesitate between them.
The first way out of the difficulty is a very early marriage; this
is undoubtedly the safest and most natural plan. I doubt, however,
whether it is the best or the most useful. I will give my reasons
later; meanwhile I admit that young men should marry when they reach
a marriageable age. But this age comes too soon; we have made them
precocious; marriage should be postponed to maturity.
If it were merely a case of listening to their wishes and following
their lead it would be an easy matter; but there are so many
contradictions between the rights of nature and the laws of society
that to conciliate them we must continually contradict ourselves.
Much art is required to prevent man in society from being altogether
artificial.
For the reasons just stated, I consider that by the means I have
indicated and others like them the young man's desires may be kept
in ignorance and his senses pure up to the age of twenty. This is
so true that among the Germans a young man who lost his virginity
before that age was considered dishonoured; and the writers justly
attribute the vigour of constitution and the number of children
among the Germans to the continence of these nations during youth.
This period may be prolonged still further, and a few centuries
ago nothing was more common even in France. Among other well-known
examples, Montaigne's father, a man no less scrupulously truthful
than strong and healthy, swore that his was a virgin marriage at
three and thirty, and he had served for a long time in the Italian
wars. We may see in the writings of his son what strength and
spirit were shown by the father when he was over sixty. Certainly
the contrary opinion depends rather on our own morals and our own
prejudices than on the experience of the race as a whole.
I may, therefore, leave on one side the experience of our young
people; it proves nothing for those who have been educated in
another fashion. Considering that nature has fixed no exact limits
which cannot be advanced or postponed, I think I may, without going
beyond the law of nature, assume that under my care Emil has so far
remained in his first innocence, but I see that this happy period
is drawing to a close. Surrounded by ever-increasing perils, he
will escape me at the first opportunity in spite of all my efforts,
and this opportunity will not long be delayed; he will follow the
blind instinct of his senses; the chances are a thousand to one on
his ruin. I have considered the morals of mankind too profoundly
not to be aware of the irrevocable influence of this first moment
on all the rest of his life. If I dissimulate and pretend to see
nothing, he will take advantage of my weakness; if he thinks he
can deceive me, he will despise me, and I become an accomplice in
his destruction. If I try to recall him, the time is past, he no
longer heeds me, he finds me tiresome, hateful, intolerable; it
will not be long before he is rid of me. There is therefore only
one reasonable course open to me; I must make him accountable for
his own actions, I must at least preserve him from being taken
unawares, and I must show him plainly the dangers which beset his
path. I have restrained him so far through his ignorance; henceforward
his restraint must be his own knowledge.
This new teaching is of great importance, and we will take up our
story where we left it. This is the time to present my accounts,
to show him how his time and mine have been spent, to make known
to him what he is and what I am; what I have done, and what he has
done; what we owe to each other; all his moral relations, all the
undertakings to which he is pledged, all those to which others
have pledged themselves in respect to him; the stage he has reached
in the development of his faculties, the road that remains to be
travelled, the difficulties he will meet, and the way to overcome
them; how I can still help him and how he must henceforward help
himself; in a word, the critical time which he has reached, the
new dangers round about him, and all the valid reasons which should
induce him to keep a close watch upon himself before giving heed
to his growing desires.
Remember that to guide a grown man you must reverse all that you
did to guide the child. Do not hesitate to speak to him of those
dangerous mysteries which you have so carefully concealed from him
hitherto. Since he must become aware of them, let him not learn
them from another, nor from himself, but from you alone; since he
must henceforth fight against them, let him know his enemy, that
he may not be taken unawares.
Young people who are found to be aware of these matters, without
our knowing how they obtained their knowledge, have not obtained it
with impunity. This unwise teaching, which can have no honourable
object, stains the imagination of those who receive it if it does
nothing worse, and it inclines them to the vices of their instructors.
This is not all; servants, by this means, ingratiate themselves
with a child, gain his confidence, make him regard his tutor as a
gloomy and tiresome person; and one of the favourite subjects of
their secret colloquies is to slander him. When the pupil has got
so far, the master may abandon his task; he can do no good.
But why does the child choose special confidants? Because of the
tyranny of those who control him. Why should he hide himself from
them if he were not driven to it? Why should he complain if he had
nothing to complain of? Naturally those who control him are his
first confidants; you can see from his eagerness to tell them what
he thinks that he feels he has only half thought till he has told
his thoughts to them. You may be sure that when the child knows you
will neither preach nor scold, he will always tell you everything,
and that no one will dare to tell him anything he must conceal from
you, for they will know very well that he will tell you everything.
What makes me most confident in my method is this: when I follow
it out as closely as possible, I find no situation in the life of
my scholar which does not leave me some pleasing memory of him.
Even when he is carried away by his ardent temperament or when he
revolts against the hand that guides him, when he struggles and is
on the point of escaping from me, I still find his first simplicity
in his agitation and his anger; his heart as pure as his body, he
has no more knowledge of pretence than of vice; reproach and scorn
have not made a coward of him; base fears have never taught him
the art of concealment. He has all the indiscretion of innocence;
he is absolutely out-spoken; he does not even know the use of
deceit. Every impulse of his heart is betrayed either by word or
look, and I often know what he is feeling before he is aware of it
himself.
So long as his heart is thus freely opened to me, so long as he
delights to tell me what he feels, I have nothing to fear; the danger
is not yet at hand; but if he becomes more timid, more reserved,
if I perceive in his conversation the first signs of confusion and
shame, his instincts are beginning to develop, he is beginning to
connect the idea of evil with these instincts, there is not a moment
to lose, and if I do not hasten to instruct him, he will learn in
spite of me.
Some of my readers, even of those who agree with me, will think
that it is only a question of a conversation with the young man at
any time. Oh, this is not the way to control the human heart. What
we say has no meaning unless the opportunity has been carefully
chosen. Before we sow we must till the ground; the seed of virtue
is hard to grow; and a long period of preparation is required before
it will take root. one reason why sermons have so little effect is
that they are offered to everybody alike, without discrimination
or choice. How can any one imagine that the same sermon could be
suitable for so many hearers, with their different dispositions,
so unlike in mind, temper, age, sex, station, and opinion. Perhaps
there are not two among those to whom what is addressed to all is
really suitable; and all our affections are so transitory that perhaps
there are not even two occasions in the life of any man when the
same speech would have the same effect on him. Judge for yourself
whether the time when the eager senses disturb the understanding
and tyrannise over the will, is the time to listen to the solemn
lessons of wisdom. Therefore never reason with young men, even
when they have reached the age of reason, unless you have first
prepared the way. Most lectures miss their mark more through the
master's fault than the disciple's. The pedant and the teacher say
much the same; but the former says it at random, and the latter
only when he is sure of its effect.
As a somnambulist, wandering in his sleep, walks along the edge
of a precipice, over which he would fall if he were awake, so my
Emile, in the sleep of ignorance, escapes the perils which he does
not see; were I to wake him with a start, he might fall. Let us
first try to withdraw him from the edge of the precipice, and then
we will awake him to show him it from a distance.
Reading, solitude, idleness, a soft and sedentary life, intercourse
with women and young people, these are perilous paths for a young
man, and these lead him constantly into danger. I divert his senses
by other objects of sense; I trace another course for his spirits
by which I distract them from the course they would have taken; it
is by bodily exercise and hard work that I check the activity of
the imagination, which was leading him astray. When the arms are
hard at work, the imagination is quiet; when the body is very weary,
the passions are not easily inflamed. The quickest and easiest
precaution is to remove him from immediate danger. At once I take
him away from towns, away from things which might lead him into
temptation. But that is not enough; in what desert, in what wilds,
shall he escape from the thoughts which pursue him? It is not
enough to remove dangerous objects; if I fail to remove the memory
of them, if I fail to find a way to detach him from everything,
if I fail to distract him from himself, I might as well have left
him where he was.
Emile has learned a trade, but we do not have recourse to it; he
is fond of farming and understands it, but farming is not enough;
the occupations he is acquainted with degenerate into routine; when
he is engaged in them he is not really occupied; he is thinking of
other things; head and hand are at work on different subjects. He
must have some fresh occupation which has the interest of novelty--an
occupation which keeps him busy, diligent, and hard at work, an
occupation which he may become passionately fond of, one to which
he will devote himself entirely. Now the only one which seems to
possess all these characteristics is the chase. If hunting is ever
an innocent pleasure, if it is ever worthy of a man, now is the
time to betake ourselves to it. Emile is well-fitted to succeed in
it. He is strong, skilful, patient, unwearied. He is sure to take
a fancy to this sport; he will bring to it all the ardour of youth;
in it he will lose, at least for a time, the dangerous inclinations
which spring from softness. The chase hardens the heart a well as
the body; we get used to the sight of blood and cruelty. Diana is
represented as the enemy of love; and the allegory is true to life;
the languors of love are born of soft repose, and tender feelings
are stifled by violent exercise. In the woods and fields, the lover
and the sportsman are so diversely affected that they receive very
different impressions. The fresh shade, the arbours, the pleasant
resting-places of the one, to the other are but feeding grounds, or
places where the quarry will hide or turn to bay. Where the lover
hears the flute and the nightingale, the hunter hears the horn
and the hounds; one pictures to himself the nymphs and dryads, the
other sees the horses, the huntsman, and the pack. Take a country
walk with one or other of these men; their different conversation
will soon show you that they behold the earth with other eyes,
and that the direction of their thoughts is as different as their
favourite pursuit.
I understand how these tastes may be combined, and that at last men
find time for both. But the passions of youth cannot be divided in
this way. Give the youth a single occupation which he loves, and
the rest will soon be forgotten. Varied desires come with varied
knowledge, and the first pleasures we know are the only ones we
desire for long enough. I would not have the whole of Emile's youth
spent in killing creatures, and I do not even profess to justify
this cruel passion; it is enough for me that it serves to delay a
more dangerous passion, so that he may listen to me calmly when I
speak of it, and give me time to describe it without stimulating
it.
There are moments in human life which can never be forgotten. Such
is the time when Emile receives the instruction of which I have
spoken; its influence should endure all his life through. Let us
try to engrave it on his memory so that it may never fade away. It
is one of the faults of our age to rely too much on cold reason,
as if men were all mind. By neglecting the language of ｅxpression
we have lost the most forcible mode of speech. The spoken word is
always weak, and we speak to the heart rather through the eyes than
the ears. In our attempt to appeal to reason only, we have reduced
our precepts to words, we have not embodied them in deed. Mere
reason is not active; occasionally she restrains, more rarely she
stimulates, but she never does any great thing. Small minds have a
mania for reasoning. Strong souls speak a very different language,
and it is by this language that men are persuaded and driven to
action.
I observe that in modern times men only get a hold over others by
force or self-interest, while the ancients did more by persuasion,
by the affections of the heart; because they did not neglect the
language; of symbolic ｅxpression. All agreements were drawn up
solemnly, so that they might be more inviolable; before the reign
of force, the gods were the judges of mankind; in their presence,
individuals made their treaties and alliances, and pledged themselves
to perform their promises; the face of the earth was the book in
which the archives were preserved. The leaves of this book were
rocks, trees, piles of stones, made sacred by these transactions,
and regarded with reverence by barbarous men; and these pages were
always open before their eyes. The well of the oath, the well of
the living and seeing one; the ancient oak of Mamre, the stones of
witness, such were the simple but stately monuments of the sanctity
of contracts; none dared to lay a sacrilegious hand on these
monuments, and man's faith was more secure under the warrant of
these dumb witnesses than it is to-day upon all the rigour of the
law.
In government the people were over-awed by the pomp and splendour
of royal power. The symbols of greatness, a throne, a sceptre, a
purple robe, a crown, a fillet, these were sacred in their sight.
These symbols, and the respect which they inspired, led them to
reverence the venerable man whom they beheld adorned with them;
without soldiers and without threats, he spoke and was obeyed.
[Footnote: The Roman Catholic clergy have very wisely retained
these symbols, and certain republics, such as Venice, have followed
their example. Thus the Venetian government, despite the fallen
condition of the state, still enjoys, under the trappings of
its former greatness, all the affection, all the reverence of the
people; and next to the pope in his triple crown, there is perhaps
no king, no potentate, no person in the world so much respected
as the Doge of Venice; he has no power, no authority, but he is
rendered sacred by his pomp, and he wears beneath his ducal coronet
a woman's flowing locks. That ceremony of the Bucentaurius, which
stirs the laughter of fools, stirs the Venetian populace to shed
its life-blood for the maintenance of this tyrannical government.]
In our own day men profess to do away with these symbols. What are
the consequences of this contempt? The kingly majesty makes no
impression on all hearts, kings can only gain obedience by the help
of troops, and the respect of their subjects is based only on the
fear of punishment. Kings are spared the trouble of wearing their
crowns, and our nobles escape from the outward signs of their
station, but they must have a hundred thousand men at their command
if their orders are to be obeyed. Though this may seem a finer
thing, it is easy to see that in the long run they will gain nothing.
It is amazing what the ancients accomplished with the aid of
eloquence; but this eloquence did not merely consist in fine speeches
carefully prepared; and it was most effective when the orator said
least. The most startling speeches were expressed not in words but
in signs; they were not uttered but shown. A thing beheld by the
eyes kindles the imagination, stirs the curiosity, and keeps the
mind on the alert for what we are about to say, and often enough
the thing tells the whole story. Thrasybulus and Tarquin cutting
off the heads of the poppies, Alexander placing his seal on the
lips of his favourite, Diogenes marching before Zeno, do not these
speak more plainly than if they had uttered long orations? What
flow of words could have expressed the ideas as clearly? Darius,
in the course of the Scythian war, received from the king of the
Scythians a bird, a frog, a mouse, and five arrows. The ambassador
deposited this gift and retired without a word. In our days he would
have been taken for a madman. This terrible speech was understood,
and Darius withdrew to his own country with what speed he could.
Substitute a letter for these symbols and the more threatening it
was the less terror it would inspire; it would have been merely a
piece of bluff, to which Darius would have paid no attention.
What heed the Romans gave to the language of signs! Different ages
and different ranks had their appropriate garments, toga, tunic,
patrician robes, fringes and borders, seats of honour, lictors,
rods and axes, crowns of gold, crowns of leaves, crowns of flowers,
ovations, triumphs, everything had its pomp, its observances,
its ceremonial, and all these spoke to the heart of the citizens.
The state regarded it as a matter of importance that the populace
should assemble in one place rather than another, that they should
or should not behold the Capitol, that they should or should not
turn towards the Senate, that this day or that should be chosen for
their deliberations. The accused wore a special dress, so did the
candidates for election; warriors did not boast of their exploits,
they showed their scars. I can fancy one of our orators at the
death of Caesar exhausting all the commonplaces of rhetoric to give
a pathetic description of his wounds, his blood, his dead body;
Anthony was an orator, but he said none of this; he showed the
murdered Caesar. What rhetoric was this!
But this digression, like many others, is drawing me unawares away
from my subject; and my digressions are too frequent to be borne
with patience. I therefore return to the point.
Do not reason coldly with youth. Clothe your reason with a body,
if you would make it felt. Let the mind speak the language of the
heart, that it may be understood. I say again our opinions, not our
actions, may be influenced by cold argument; they set us thinking,
not doing; they show us what we ought to think, not what we ought
to do. If this is true of men, it is all the truer of young people
who are still enwrapped in their senses and cannot think otherwise
than they imagine.
Even after the preparations of which I have spoken, I shall take
good care not to go all of a sudden to Emile's room and preach a
long and heavy sermon on the subject in which he is to be instructed.
I shall begin by rousing his imagination; I shall choose the time,
place, and surroundings most favourable to the impression I wish
to make; I shall, so to speak, summon all nature as witness to our
conversations; I shall call upon the eternal God, the Creator of
nature, to bear witness to the truth of what I say. He shall judge
between Emile and myself; I will make the rocks, the woods, the
mountains round about us, the monuments of his promises and mine;
eyes, voice, and gesture shall show the enthusiasm I desire to
inspire. Then I will speak and he will listen, and his emotion will
be stirred by my own. The more impressed I am by the sanctity of
my duties, the more sacred he will regard his own. I will enforce
the voice of reason with images and figures, I will not give him
long-winded speeches or cold precepts, but my overflowing feelings
will break their bounds; my reason shall be grave and serious, but
my heart cannot speak too warmly. Then when I have shown him all
that I have done for him, I will show him how he is made for me;
he will see in my tender affection the cause of all my care. How
greatly shall I surprise and disturb him when I change my tone.
Instead of shrivelling up his soul by always talking of his own
interests, I shall henceforth speak of my own; he will be more
deeply touched by this. I will kindle in his young heart all the
sentiments of affection, generosity, and gratitude which I have
already called into being, and it will indeed be sweet to watch
their growth. I will press him to my bosom, and weep over him in
my emotion; I will say to him: "You are my wealth, my child, my
handiwork; my happiness is bound up in yours; if you frustrate my
hopes, you rob me of twenty years of my life, and you bring my grey
hairs with sorrow to the grave." This is the way to gain a hearing
and to impress what is said upon the heart and memory of the young
man.
Hitherto I have tried to give examples of the way in which a tutor
should instruct his pupil in cases of difficulty. I have tried to
do so in this instance; but after many attempts I have abandoned
the task, convinced that the French language is too artificial
to permit in print the plainness of speech required for the first
lessons in certain subjects.
They say French is more chaste than other languages; for my own
part I think it more obscene; for it seems to me that the purity
of a language does not consist in avoiding coarse ｅxpressions but
in having none. Indeed, if we are to avoid them, they must be in
our thoughts, and there is no language in which it is so difficult
to speak with purity on every subject than French. The reader is
always quicker to detect than the author to avoid a gross meaning,
and he is shocked and startled by everything. How can what is heard
by impure ears avoid coarseness? on the other hand, a nation whose
morals are pure has fit terms for everything, and these terms are
always right because they are rightly used. one could not imagine
more modest language than that of the Bible, just because of its
plainness of speech. The same things translated into French would
become immodest. What I ought to say to Emile will sound pure and
honourable to him; but to make the same impression in print would
demand a like purity of heart in the reader.
I should even think that reflections on true purity of speech
and the sham delicacy of vice might find a useful place in the
conversations as to morality to which this subject brings us; for
when he learns the language of plain-spoken goodness, he must also
learn the language of decency, and he must know why the two are
so different. However this may be, I maintain that if instead of
the empty precepts which are prematurely dinned into the ears of
children, only to be scoffed at when the time comes when they might
prove useful, if instead of this we bide our time, if we prepare
the way for a hearing, if we then show him the laws of nature in
all their truth, if we show him the sanction of these laws in the
physical and moral evils which overtake those who neglect them,
if while we speak to him of this great mystery of generation, we
join to the idea of the pleasure which the Author of nature has
given to this act the idea of the exclusive affection which makes
it delightful, the idea of the duties of faithfulness and modesty
which surround it, and redouble its charm while fulfilling its
purpose; if we paint to him marriage, not only as the sweetest form
of society, but also as the most sacred and inviolable of contracts,
if we tell him plainly all the reasons which lead men to respect
this sacred bond, and to pour hatred and curses upon him who dares
to dishonour it; if we give him a true and terrible picture of the
horrors of debauch, of its stupid brutality, of the downward road
by which a first act of misconduct leads from bad to worse, and at
last drags the sinner to his ruin; if, I say, we give him proofs
that on a desire for chastity depends health, strength, courage,
virtue, love itself, and all that is truly good for man--I maintain
that this chastity will be so dear and so desirable in his eyes,
that his mind will be ready to receive our teaching as to the way
to preserve it; for so long as we are chaste we respect chastity;
it is only when we have lost this virtue that we scorn it.
It is not true that the inclination to evil is beyond our control,
and that we cannot overcome it until we have acquired the habit of
yielding to it. Aurelius Victor says that many men were mad enough
to purchase a night with Cleopatra at the price of their life,
and this is not incredible in the madness of passion. But let us
suppose the maddest of men, the man who has his senses least under
control; let him see the preparations for his death, let him realise
that he will certainly die in torment a quarter of an hour later;
not only would that man, from that time forward, become able
to resist temptation, he would even find it easy to do so; the
terrible picture with which they are associated will soon distract
his attention from these temptations, and when they are continually
put aside they will cease to recur. The sole cause of our weakness
is the feebleness of our will, and we have always strength to
perform what we strongly desire. "Volenti nihil difficile!" Oh! if
only we hated vice as much as we love life, we should abstain as
easily from a pleasant sin as from a deadly poison in a delicious
dish.
How is it that you fail to perceive that if all the lessons given
to a young man on this subject have no effect, it is because they
are not adapted to his age, and that at every age reason must be
presented in a shape which will win his affection? Speak seriously
to him if required, but let what you say to him always have a charm
which will compel him to listen. Do not coldly oppose his wishes;
do not stifle his imagination, but direct it lest it should bring
forth monsters. Speak to him of love, of women, of pleasure; let
him find in your conversation a charm which delights his youthful
heart; spare no pains to make yourself his confidant; under this
name alone will you really be his master. Then you need not fear
he will find your conversation tedious; he will make you talk more
than you desire.
If I have managed to take all the requisite precautions in accordance
with these maxims, and have said the right things to Emile at the
age he has now reached, I am quite convinced that he will come of
his own accord to the point to which I would lead him, and will
eagerly confide himself to my care. When he sees the dangers by
which he is surrounded, he will say to me with all the warmth of
youth, "Oh, my friend, my protector, my master! resume the authority
you desire to lay aside at the very time when I most need it;
hitherto my weakness has given you this power. I now place it in
your hands of my own free-will, and it will be all the more sacred
in my eyes. Protect me from all the foes which are attacking me,
and above all from the traitors within the citadel; watch over
your work, that it may still be worthy of you. I mean to obey your
laws, I shall ever do so, that is my steadfast purpose; if I ever
disobey you, it will be against my will; make me free by guarding
me against the passions which do me violence; do not let me become
their slave; compel me to be my own master and to obey, not my
senses, but my reason."
When you have led your pupil so far (and it will be your own fault
if you fail to do so), beware of taking him too readily at his word,
lest your rule should seem too strict to him, and lest he should
think he has a right to escape from it, by accusing you of taking
him by surprise. This is the time for reserve and seriousness; and
this attitude will have all the more effect upon him seeing that
it is the first time you have adopted it towards him.
You will say to him therefore: "Young man, you readily make promises
which are hard to keep; you must understand what they mean before
you have a right to make them; you do not know how your fellows
are drawn by their passions into the whirlpool of vice masquerading
as pleasure. You are honourable, I know; you will never break your
word, but how often will you repent of having given it? How often
will you curse your friend, when, in order to guard you from the
ills which threaten you, he finds himself compelled to do violence
to your heart. Like Ulysses who, hearing the song of the Sirens,
cried aloud to his rowers to unbind him, you will break your
chains at the call of pleasure; you will importune me with your
lamentations, you will reproach me as a tyrant when I have your
welfare most at heart; when I am trying to make you happy, I shall
incur your hatred. Oh, Emile, I can never bear to be hateful in
your eyes; this is too heavy a price to pay even for your happiness.
My dear young man, do you not see that when you undertake to obey
me, you compel me to promise to be your guide, to forget myself
in my devotion to you, to refuse to listen to your murmurs and
complaints, to wage unceasing war against your wishes and my own.
Before we either of us undertake such a task, let us count our
resources; take your time, give me time to consider, and be sure
that the slower we are to promise, the more faithfully will our
promises be kept."
You may be sure that the more difficulty he finds in getting your
promise, the easier you will find it to carry it out. The young
man must learn that he is promising a great deal, and that you
are promising still more. When the time is come, when he has, so
to say, signed the contract, then change your tone, and make your
rule as gentle as you said it would be severe. Say to him, "My
young friend, it is experience that you lack; but I have taken care
that you do not lack reason. You are ready to see the motives of
my conduct in every respect; to do this you need only wait till
you are free from excitement. Always obey me first, and then ask
the reasons for my commands; I am always ready to give my reasons
so soon as you are ready to listen to them, and I shall never be
afraid to make you the judge between us. You promise to follow my
teaching, and I promise only to use your obedience to make you the
happiest of men. For proof of this I have the life you have lived
hitherto. Show me any one of your age who has led as happy a life
as yours, and I promise you nothing more."
When my authority is firmly established, my first care will be to
avoid the necessity of using it. I shall spare no pains to become
more and more firmly established in his confidence, to make myself
the confidant of his heart and the arbiter of his pleasures. Far
from combating his youthful tastes, I shall consult them that I
may be their master; I will look at things from his point of view
that I may be his guide; I will not seek a remote distant good at
the cost of his present happiness. I would always have him happy
always if that may be.
Those who desire to guide young people rightly and to preserve them
from the snares of sense give them a disgust for love, and would
willingly make the very thought of it a crime, as if love were
for the old. All these mistaken lessons have no effect; the heart
gives the lie to them. The young man, guided by a surer instinct,
laughs to himself over the gloomy maxims which he pretends to
accept, and only awaits the chance of disregarding them. All that
is contrary to nature. By following the opposite course I reach
the same end more safely. I am not afraid to encourage in him the
tender feeling for which he is so eager, I shall paint it as the
supreme joy of life, as indeed it is; when I picture it to him, I
desire that he shall give himself up to it; by making him feel the
charm which the union of hearts adds to the delights of sense, I
shall inspire him with a disgust for debauchery; I shall make him
a lover and a good man.
How narrow-minded to see nothing in the rising desires of a young
heart but obstacles to the teaching of reason. In my eyes, these
are the right means to make him obedient to that very teaching.
Only through passion can we gain the mastery over passions; their
tyranny must be controlled by their legitimate power, and nature
herself must furnish us with the means to control her.
Emile is not made to live alone, he is a member of society, and must
fulfil his duties as such. He is made to live among his fellow-men
and he must get to know them. He knows mankind in general; he has
still to learn to know individual men. He knows what goes on in the
world; he has now to learn how men live in the world. It is time
to show him the front of that vast stage, of which he already
knows the hidden workings. It will not arouse in him the foolish
admiration of a giddy youth, but the discrimination of an exact
and upright spirit. He may no doubt be deceived by his passions;
who is there who yields to his passions without being led astray
by them? At least he will not be deceived by the passions of other
people. If he sees them, he will regard them with the eye of the
wise, and will neither be led away by their example nor seduced by
their prejudices.
As there is a fitting age for the study of the sciences, so there
is a fitting age for the study of the ways of the world. Those who
learn these too soon, follow them throughout life, without choice
or consideration, and although they follow them fairly well they
never really know what they are about. But he who studies the ways
of the world and sees the reason for them, follows them with more
insight, and therefore more exactly and gracefully. Give me a child
of twelve who knows nothing at all; at fifteen I will restore him
to you knowing as much as those who have been under instruction
from infancy; with this difference, that your scholars only know
things by heart, while mine knows how to use his knowledge. In
the same way plunge a young man of twenty into society; under good
guidance, in a year's time, he will be more charming and more truly
polite than one brought up in society from childhood. For the former
is able to perceive the reasons for all the proceedings relating
to age, position, and sex, on which the customs of society depend,
and can reduce them to general principles, and apply them to
unforeseen emergencies; while the latter, who is guided solely by
habit, is at a loss when habit fails him.
Young French ladies are all brought up in convents till they are
married. Do they seem to find any difficulty in acquiring the ways
which are so new to them, and is it possible to accuse the ladies
of Paris of awkward and embarrassed manners or of ignorance of the
ways of society, because they have not acquired them in infancy!
This is the prejudice of men of the world, who know nothing of more
importance than this trifling science, and wrongly imagine that
you cannot begin to acquire it too soon.
On the other hand, it is quite true that we must not wait too long.
Any one who has spent the whole of his youth far from the great
world is all his life long awkward, constrained, out of place; his
manners will be heavy and clumsy, no amount of practice will get
rid of this, and he will only make himself more ridiculous by trying
to do so. There is a time for every kind of teaching and we ought
to recognise it, and each has its own dangers to be avoided. At this
age there are more dangers than at any other; but I do not expose
my pupil to them without safeguards.
When my method succeeds completely in attaining one object, and
when in avoiding one difficulty it also provides against another,
I then consider that it is a good method, and that I am on the
right track. This seems to be the case with regard to the expedient
suggested by me in the present case. If I desire to be stern and
cold towards my pupil, I shall lose his confidence, and he will soon
conceal himself from me. If I wish to be easy and complaisant, to
shut my eyes, what good does it do him to be under my care? I only
give my authority to his excesses, and relieve his conscience at
the expense of my own. If I introduce him into society with no
object but to teach him, he will learn more than I want. If I keep
him apart from society, what will he have learnt from me? Everything
perhaps, except the one art absolutely necessary to a civilised
man, the art of living among his fellow-men. If I try to attend to
this at a distance, it will be of no avail; he is only concerned
with the present. If I am content to supply him with amusement, he
will acquire habits of luxury and will learn nothing.
We will have none of this. My plan provides for everything. Your
heart, I say to the young man, requires a companion; let us go
in search of a fitting one; perhaps we shall not easily find such
a one, true worth is always rare, but we will be in no hurry, nor
will we be easily discouraged. No doubt there is such a one, and
we shall find her at last, or at least we shall find some one like
her. With an end so attractive to himself, I introduce him into
society. What more need I say? Have I not achieved my purpose?
By describing to him his future mistress, you may imagine whether
I shall gain a hearing, whether I shall succeed in making the
qualities he ought to love pleasing and dear to him, whether I shall
sway his feelings to seek or shun what is good or bad for him. I
shall be the stupidest of men if I fail to make him in love with he
knows not whom. No matter that the person I describe is imaginary,
it is enough to disgust him with those who might have attracted
him; it is enough if it is continually suggesting comparisons which
make him prefer his fancy to the real people he sees; and is not
love itself a fancy, a falsehood, an illusion? We are far more in
love with our own fancy than with the object of it. If we saw the
object of our affections as it is, there would be no such thing as
love. When we cease to love, the person we used to love remains
unchanged, but we no longer see with the same eyes; the magic veil
is drawn aside, and love disappears. But when I supply the object
of imagination, I have control over comparisons, and I am able
easily to prevent illusion with regard to realities.
For all that I would not mislead a young man by describing a model
of perfection which could never exist; but I would so choose the
faults of his mistress that they will suit him, that he will be
pleased by them, and they may serve to correct his own. Neither
would I lie to him and affirm that there really is such a person;
let him delight in the portrait, he will soon desire to find the
original. From desire to belief the transition is easy; it is a
matter of a little skilful description, which under more perceptible
features will give to this imaginary object an air of greater reality.
I would go so far as to give her a name; I would say, smiling. Let
us call your future mistress Sophy; Sophy is a name of good omen;
if it is not the name of the lady of your choice at least she will
be worthy of the name; we may honour her with it meanwhile. If
after all these details, without affirming or denying, we excuse
ourselves from giving an answer, his suspicions will become certainty;
he will think that his destined bride is purposely concealed from
him, and that he will see her in good time. If once he has arrived
at this conclusion and if the characteristics to be shown to him
have been well chosen, the rest is easy; there will be little risk
in exposing him to the world; protect him from his senses, and his
heart is safe.
But whether or no he personifies the model I have contrived to
make so attractive to him, this model, if well done, will attach
him none the less to everything that resembles itself, and will
give him as great a distaste for all that is unlike it as if Sophy
really existed. What a means to preserve his heart from the dangers
to which his appearance would expose him, to repress his senses
by means of his imagination, to rescue him from the hands of those
women who profess to educate young men, and make them pay so dear
for their teaching, and only teach a young man manners by making
him utterly shameless. Sophy is so modest? What would she think of
their advances! Sophy is so simple! How would she like their airs?
They are too far from his thoughts and his observations to be
dangerous.
Every one who deals with the control of children follows the same
prejudices and the same maxima, for their observation is at fault,
and their reflection still more so. A young man is led astray in
the first place neither by temperament nor by the senses, but by
popular opinion. If we were concerned with boys brought up in boarding
schools or girls in convents, I would show that this applies even
to them; for the first lessons they learn from each other, the only
lessons that bear fruit, are those of vice; and it is not nature
that corrupts them but example. But let us leave the boarders in
schools and convents to their bad morals; there is no cure for them.
I am dealing only with home training. Take a young man carefully
educated in his father's country house, and examine him when he
reaches Paris and makes his entrance into society; you will find
him thinking clearly about honest matters, and you will find his
will as wholesome as his reason. You will find scorn of vice and
disgust for debauchery; his face will betray his innocent horror at
the very mention of a prostitute. I maintain that no young man could
make up his mind to enter the gloomy abodes of these unfortunates
by himself, if indeed he were aware of their purpose and felt their
necessity.
See the same young man six months later, you will not know him;
from his bold conversation, his fashionable maxims, his easy air,
you would take him for another man, if his jests over his former
simplicity and his shame when any one recalls it did not show that
it is he indeed and that he is ashamed of himself. How greatly has
he changed in so short a time! What has brought about so sudden and
complete a change? His physical development? Would not that have
taken place in his father's house, and certainly he would not have
acquired these maxims and this tone at home? The first charms of
sense? on the contrary; those who are beginning to abandon themselves
to these pleasures are timid and anxious, they shun the light and
noise. The first pleasures are always mysterious, modesty gives
them their savour, and modesty conceals them; the first mistress
does not make a man bold but timid. Wholly absorbed in a situation
so novel to him, the young man retires into himself to enjoy it,
and trembles for fear it should escape him. If he is noisy he knows
neither passion nor love; however he may boast, he has not enjoyed.
These changes are merely the result of changed ideas. His heart is
the same, but his opinions have altered. His feelings, which change
more slowly, will at length yield to his opinions and it is then
that he is indeed corrupted. He has scarcely made his entrance
into society before he receives a second education quite unlike the
first, which teaches him to despise what he esteemed, and esteem
what he despised; he learns to consider the teaching of his parents
and masters as the jargon of pedants, and the duties they have
instilled into him as a childish morality, to be scorned now that
he is grown up. He thinks he is bound in honour to change his
conduct; he becomes forward without desire, and he talks foolishly
from false shame. He rails against morality before he has any taste
for vice, and prides himself on debauchery without knowing how to
set about it. I shall never forget the confession of a young officer
in the Swiss Guards, who was utterly sick of the noisy pleasures
of his comrades, but dared not refuse to take part in them lest he
should be laughed at. "I am getting used to it," he said, "as I am
getting used to taking snuff; the taste will come with practice;
it will not do to be a child for ever."
So a young man when he enters society must be preserved from vanity
rather than from sensibility; he succumbs rather to the tastes
of others than to his own, and self-love is responsible for more
libertines than love.
This being granted, I ask you. Is there any one on earth better
armed than my pupil against all that may attack his morals, his
sentiments, his principles; is there any one more able to resist the
flood? What seduction is there against which he is not forearmed?
If his desires attract him towards women, he fails to find what
he seeks, and his heart, already occupied, holds him back. If he
is disturbed and urged onward by his senses, where will he find
satisfaction? His horror of adultery and debauch keeps him at a
distance from prostitutes and married women, and the disorders of
youth may always be traced to one or other of these. A maiden may
be a coquette, but she will not be shameless, she will not fling
herself at the head of a young man who may marry her if he believes
in her virtue; besides she is always under supervision. Emile, too,
will not be left entirely to himself; both of them will be under
the guardianship of fear and shame, the constant companions of
a first passion; they will not proceed at once to misconduct, and
they will not have time to come to it gradually without hindrance.
If he behaves otherwise, he must have taken lessons from his comrades,
he must have learned from them to despise his self-control, and to
imitate their boldness. But there is no one in the whole world so
little given to imitation as Emile. What man is there who is so
little influenced by mockery as one who has no prejudices himself
and yields nothing to the prejudices of others. I have laboured
twenty years to arm him against mockery; they will not make him
their dupe in a day; for in his eyes ridicule is the argument of
fools, and nothing makes one less susceptible to raillery than to
be beyond the influence of prejudice. Instead of jests he must have
arguments, and while he is in this frame of mind, I am not afraid
that he will be carried away by young fools; conscience and truth
are on my side. If prejudice is to enter into the matter at all,
an affection of twenty years' standing counts for something; no one
will ever convince him that I have wearied him with vain lessons;
and in a heart so upright and so sensitive the voice of a tried and
trusted friend will soon efface the shouts of twenty libertines.
As it is therefore merely a question of showing him that he is
deceived, that while they pretend to treat him as a man they are
really treating him as a child, I shall choose to be always simple
but serious and plain in my arguments, so that he may feel that I
do indeed treat him as a man. I will say to him, You will see that
your welfare, in which my own is bound up, compels me to speak; I
can do nothing else. But why do these young men want to persuade
you? Because they desire to seduce you; they do not care for you,
they take no real interest in you; their only motive is a secret
spite because they see you are better than they; they want to
drag you down to their own level, and they only reproach you with
submitting to control that they may themselves control you. Do you
think you have anything to gain by this? Are they so much wiser
than I, is the affection of a day stronger than mine? To give any
weight to their jests they must give weight to their authority; and
by what experience do they support their maxima above ours? They
have only followed the example of other giddy youths, as they would
have you follow theirs. To escape from the so-called prejudices
of their fathers, they yield to those of their comrades. I cannot
see that they are any the better off; but I see that they lose two
things of value--the affection of their parents, whose advice is
that of tenderness and truth, and the wisdom of experience which
teaches us to judge by what we know; for their fathers have once
been young, but the young men have never been fathers.
But you think they are at least sincere in their foolish precepts.
Not so, dear Emile; they deceive themselves in order to deceive you;
they are not in agreement with themselves; their heart continually
revolts, and their very words often contradict themselves. This man
who mocks at everything good would be in despair if his wife held
the same views. Another extends his indifference to good morals even
to his future wife, or he sinks to such depths of infamy as to be
indifferent to his wife's conduct; but go a step further; speak to
him of his mother; is he willing to be treated as the child of an
adulteress and the son of a woman of bad character, is he ready
to assume the name of a family, to steal the patrimony of the true
heir, in a word will he bear being treated as a bastard? Which of
them will permit his daughter to be dishonoured as he dishonours
the daughter of another? There is not one of them who would not kill
you if you adopted in your conduct towards him all the principles
he tries to teach you. Thus they prove their inconsistency, and
we know they do not believe what they say. Here are reasons, dear
Emile; weigh their arguments if they have any, and compare them
with mine. If I wished to have recourse like them to scorn and
mockery, you would see that they lend themselves to ridicule as
much or more than myself. But I am not afraid of serious inquiry.
The triumph of mockers is soon over; truth endures, and their
foolish laughter dies away.
You do not think that Emile, at twenty, can possibly be docile. How
differently we think! I cannot understand how he could be docile
at ten, for what hold have I on him at that age? It took me fifteen
years of careful preparation to secure that hold. I was not educating
him, but preparing him for education. He is now sufficiently educated
to be docile; he recognises the voice of friendship and he knows
how to obey reason. It is true I allow him a show of freedom, but
he was never more completely under control, because he obeys of
his own free will. So long as I could not get the mastery over his
will, I retained my control over his person; I never left him for
a moment. Now I sometimes leave him to himself because I control
him continually. When I leave him I embrace him and I say with
confidence: Emile, I trust you to my friend, I leave you to his
honour; he will answer for you.
To corrupt healthy affections which have not been previously
depraved, to efface principles which are directly derived from our
own reasoning, is not the work of a moment. If any change takes
place during my absence, that absence will not be long, he will
never be able to conceal himself from me, so that I shall perceive
the danger before any harm comes of it, and I shall be in time to
provide a remedy. As we do not become depraved all at once, neither
do we learn to deceive all at once; and if ever there was a man
unskilled in the art of deception it is Emile, who has never had
any occasion for deceit.
By means of these precautions and others like them, I expect to
guard him so completely against strange sights and vulgar precepts
that I would rather see him in the worst company in Paris than alone
in his room or in a park left to all the restlessness of his age.
Whatever we may do, a young man's worst enemy is himself, and
this is an enemy we cannot avoid. Yet this is an enemy of our own
making, for, as I have said again and again, it is the imagination
which stirs the senses. Desire is not a physical need; it is not
true that it is a need at all. If no lascivious object had met our
eye, if no unclean thought had entered our mind, this so-called
need might never have made itself felt, and we should have remained
chaste, without temptation, effort, or merit. We do not know how
the blood of youth is stirred by certain situations and certain
sights, while the youth himself does not understand the cause of
his uneasiness-an uneasiness difficult to subdue and certain to
recur. For my own part, the more I consider this serious crisis
and its causes, immediate and remote, the more convinced I am that
a solitary brought up in some desert, apart from books, teaching,
and women, would die a virgin, however long he lived.
But we are not concerned with a savage of this sort. When we
educate a man among his fellow-men and for social life, we cannot,
and indeed we ought not to, bring him up in this wholesome ignorance,
and half knowledge is worse than none. The memory of things we have
observed, the ideas we have acquired, follow us into retirement
and people it, against our will, with images more seductive than
the things themselves, and these make solitude as fatal to those
who bring such ideas with them as it is wholesome for those who
have never left it.
Therefore, watch carefully over the young man; he can protect
himself from all other foes, but it is for you to protect him
against himself. Never leave him night or day, or at least share
his room; never let him go to bed till he is sleepy, and let him
rise as soon as he wakes. Distrust instinct as soon as you cease
to rely altogether upon it. Instinct was good while he acted under
its guidance only; now that he is in the midst of human institutions,
instinct is not to be trusted; it must not be destroyed, it must
be controlled, which is perhaps a more difficult matter. It would
be a dangerous matter if instinct taught your pupil to abuse his
senses; if once he acquires this dangerous habit he is ruined. From
that time forward, body and soul will be enervated; he will carry
to the grave the sad effects of this habit, the most fatal habit
which a young man can acquire. If you cannot attain to the mastery
of your passions, dear Emile, I pity you; but I shall not hesitate
for a moment, I will not permit the purposes of nature to be evaded.
If you must be a slave, I prefer to surrender you to a tyrant from
whom I may deliver you; whatever happens, I can free you more easily
from the slavery of women than from yourself.
Up to the age of twenty, the body is still growing and requires
all its strength; till that age continence is the law of nature,
and this law is rarely violated without injury to the constitution.
After twenty, continence is a moral duty; it is an important
duty, for it teaches us to control ourselves, to be masters of our
own appetites. But moral duties have their modifications, their
exceptions, their rules. When human weakness makes an alternative
inevitable, of two evils choose the least; in any case it is better
to commit a misdeed than to contract a vicious habit.
Remember, I am not talking of my pupil now, but of yours. His
passions, to which you have given way, are your master; yield to
them openly and without concealing his victory. If you are able
to show him it in its true light, he will be ashamed rather than
proud of it, and you will secure the right to guide him in his
wanderings, at least so as to avoid precipices. The disciple must
do nothing, not even evil, without the knowledge and consent of his
master; it is a hundredfold better that the tutor should approve
of a misdeed than that he should deceive himself or be deceived by
his pupil, and the wrong should be done without his knowledge. He
who thinks he must shut his eyes to one thing, must soon shut them
altogether; the first abuse which is permitted leads to others, and
this chain of consequences only ends in the complete overthrow of
all order and contempt for every law.
There is another mistake which I have already dealt with, a mistake
continually made by narrow-minded persons; they constantly affect
the dignity of a master, and wish to be regarded by their disciples
as perfect. This method is just the contrary of what should be
done. How is it that they fail to perceive that when they try to
strengthen their authority they are really destroying it; that to
gain a hearing one must put oneself in the place of our hearers,
and that to speak to the human heart, one must be a man. All these
perfect people neither touch nor persuade; people always say, "It
is easy for them to fight against passions they do not feel." Show
your pupil your own weaknesses if you want to cure his; let him
see in you struggles like his own; let him learn by your example
to master himself and let him not say like other young men, "These
old people, who are vexed because they are no longer young, want to
treat all young people as if they were old; and they make a crime
of our passions because their own passions are dead."
Montaigne tells us that he once asked Seigneur de Langey how often,
in his negotiations with Germany, he had got drunk in his king's
service. I would willingly ask the tutor of a certain young man
how often he has entered a house of ill-fame for his pupil's sake.
How often? I am wrong. If the first time has not cured the young
libertine of all desire to go there again, if he does not return
penitent and ashamed, if he does not shed torrents of tears upon
your bosom, leave him on the spot; either he is a monster or you
are a fool; you will never do him any good. But let us have done
with these last expedients, which are as distressing as they are
dangerous; our kind of education has no need of them.
What precautions we must take with a young man of good birth before
exposing him to the scandalous manners of our age! These precautions
are painful but necessary; negligence in this matter is the ruin of
all our young men; degeneracy is the result of youthful excesses,
and it is these excesses which make men what they are. Old and base
in their vices, their hearts are shrivelled, because their worn-out
bodies were corrupted at an early age; they have scarcely strength
to stir. The subtlety of their thoughts betrays a mind lacking in
substance; they are incapable of any great or noble feeling, they
have neither simplicity nor vigour; altogether abject and meanly
wicked, they are merely frivolous, deceitful, and false; they have
not even courage enough to be distinguished criminals. Such are
the despicable men produced by early debauchery; if there were but
one among them who knew how to be sober and temperate, to guard his
heart, his body, his morals from the contagion of bad example, at
the age of thirty he would crush all these insects, and would become
their master with far less trouble than it cost him to become master
of himself.
However little Emile owes to birth and fortune, he might be this
man if he chose; but he despises such people too much to condescend
to make them his slaves. Let us now watch him in their midst, as he
enters into society, not to claim the first place, but to acquaint
himself with it and to seek a helpmeet worthy of himself.
Whatever his rank or birth, whatever the society into which he
is introduced, his entrance into that society will be simple and
unaffected; God grant he may not be unlucky enough to shine in
society; the qualities which make a good impression at the first
glance are not his, he neither possesses them, nor desires to
possess them. He cares too little for the opinions of other people
to value their prejudices, and he is indifferent whether people
esteem him or not until they know him. His address is neither shy nor
conceited, but natural and sincere, he knows nothing of constraint
or concealment, and he is just the same among a group of people
as he is when he is alone. Will this make him rude, scornful, and
careless of others? on the contrary; if he were not heedless of
others when he lived alone, why should he be heedless of them now
that he is living among them? He does not prefer them to himself
in his manners, because he does not prefer them to himself in his
heart, but neither does he show them an indifference which he is far
from feeling; if he is unacquainted with the forms of politeness,
he is not unacquainted with the attentions dictated by humanity.
He cannot bear to see any one suffer; he will not give up his place
to another from mere external politeness, but he will willingly
yield it to him out of kindness if he sees that he is being neglected
and that this neglect hurts him; for it will be less disagreeable
to Emile to remain standing of his own accord than to see another
compelled to stand.
Although Emile has no very high opinion of people in general, he
does not show any scorn of them, because he pities them and is sorry
for them. As he cannot give them a taste for what is truly good, he
leaves them the imaginary good with which they are satisfied, lest
by robbing them of this he should leave them worse off than before.
So he neither argues nor contradicts; neither does he flatter nor
agree; he states his opinion without arguing with others, because
he loves liberty above all things, and freedom is one of the fairest
gifts of liberty.
He says little, for he is not anxious to attract attention; for the
same reason he only says what is to the point; who could induce him
to speak otherwise? Emile is too well informed to be a chatter-box.
A great flow of words comes either from a pretentious spirit, of
which I shall speak presently, or from the value laid upon trifles
which we foolishly think to be as important in the eyes of others
as in our own. He who knows enough of things to value them at
their true worth never says too much; for he can also judge of the
attention bestowed on him and the interest aroused by what he says.
People who know little are usually great talkers, while men who
know much say little. It is plain that an ignorant person thinks
everything he does know important, and he tells it to everybody.
But a well-educated man is not so ready to display his learning;
he would have too much to say, and he sees that there is much more
to be said, so he holds his peace.
Far from disregarding the ways of other people, Emile conforms to
them readily enough; not that he may appear to know all about them,
nor yet to affect the airs of a man of fashion, but on the contrary
for fear lest he should attract attention, and in order to pass
unnoticed; he is most at his ease when no one pays any attention
to him.
Although when he makes his entrance into society he knows nothing
of its customs, this does not make him shy or timid; if he keeps in
the background, it is not because he is embarrassed, but because,
if you want to see, you must not be seen; for he scarcely troubles
himself at all about what people think of him, and he is not the
least afraid of ridicule. Hence he is always quiet and self-possessed
and is not troubled with shyness. All he has to do is done as well
as he knows how to do it, whether people are looking at him or
not; and as he is always on the alert to observe other people, he
acquires their ways with an ease impossible to the slaves of other
people's opinions. We might say that he acquires the ways of society
just because he cares so little about them.
But do not make any mistake as to his bearing; it is not to be
compared with that of your young dandies. It is self-possessed, not
conceited; his manners are easy, not haughty; an insolent look is
the mark of a slave, there is nothing affected in independence. I
never saw a man of lofty soul who showed it in his bearing; this
affectation is more suited to vile and frivolous souls, who have
no other means of asserting themselves. I read somewhere that a
foreigner appeared one day in the presence of the famous Marcel,
who asked him what country he came from. "I am an Englishman,"
replied the stranger. "You are an Englishman!" replied the dancer,
"You come from that island where the citizens have a share in the
government, and form part of the sovereign power? [Footnote: As if
there were citizens who were not part of the city and had not, as
such, a share in sovereign power! But the French, who have thought
fit to usurp the honourable name of citizen which was formerly the
right of the members of the Gallic cities, have degraded the idea
till it has no longer any sort of meaning. A man who recently wrote
a number of silly criticisms on the "Nouvelle Heloise" added to
his signature the title "Citizen of Paimboeuf," and he thought it
a capital joke.] No, sir, that modest bearing, that timid glance,
that hesitating manner, proclaim only a slave adorned with the
title of an elector."
I cannot say whether this saying shows much knowledge of the true
relation between a man's character and his appearance. I have not
the honour of being a dancing master, and I should have thought just
the opposite. I should have said, "This Englishman is no courtier;
I never heard that courtiers have a timid bearing and a hesitating
manner. A man whose appearance is timid in the presence of a dancer
might not be timid in the House of Commons." Surely this M. Marcel
must take his fellow-countrymen for so many Romans.
He who loves desires to be loved, Emile loves his fellows and
desires to please them. Even more does he wish to please the women;
his age, his character, the object he has in view, all increase
this desire. I say his character, for this has a great effect; men
of good character are those who really adore women. They have not
the mocking jargon of gallantry like the rest, but their eagerness
is more genuinely tender, because it comes from the heart. In the
presence of a young woman, I could pick out a young man of character
and self-control from among a hundred thousand libertines. Consider
what Emile must be, with all the eagerness of early youth and so
many reasons for resistance! For in the presence of women
I think he will sometimes be shy and timid; but this shyness will
certainly not be displeasing, and the least foolish of them will
only too often find a way to enjoy it and augment it. Moreover, his
eagerness will take a different shape according to those he has to
do with. He will be more modest and respectful to married women,
more eager and tender towards young girls. He never loses sight of
his purpose, and it is always those who most recall it to him who
receive the greater share of his attentions.
No one could be more attentive to every consideration based upon
the laws of nature, and even on the laws of good society; but the
former are always preferred before the latter, and Emile will show
more respect to an elderly person in private life than to a young
magistrate of his own age. As he is generally one of the youngest
in the company, he will always be one of the most modest, not from
the vanity which apes humility, but from a natural feeling founded
upon reason. He will not have the effrontery of the young fop,
who speaks louder than the wise and interrupts the old in order to
amuse the company. He will never give any cause for the reply given
to Louis XV by an old gentleman who was asked whether he preferred
this century or the last: "Sire, I spent my youth in reverence
towards the old; I find myself compelled to spend my old age in
reverence towards the young."
His heart is tender and sensitive, but he cares nothing for the
weight of popular opinion, though he loves to give pleasure to
others; so he will care little to be thought a person of importance.
Hence he will be affectionate rather than polite, he will never be
pompous or affected, and he will be always more touched by a caress
than by much praise. For the same reasons he will never be careless
of his manners or his clothes; perhaps he will be rather particular
about his dress, not that he may show himself a man of taste, but
to make his appearance more pleasing; he will never require a gilt
frame, and he will never spoil his style by a display of wealth.
All this demands, as you see, no stock of precepts from me; it is
all the result of his early education. People make a great mystery
of the ways of society, as if, at the age when these ways are
acquired, we did not take to them quite naturally, and as if the
first laws of politeness were not to be found in a kindly heart.
True politeness consists in showing our goodwill towards men; it
shows its presence without any difficulty; those only who lack this
goodwill are compelled to reduce the outward signs of it to an art.
"The worst effect of artificial politeness is that it teaches
us how to dispense with the virtues it imitates. If our education
teaches us kindness and humanity, we shall be polite, or we shall
have no need of politeness.
"If we have not those qualities which display themselves gracefully
we shall have those which proclaim the honest man and the citizen;
we shall have no need for falsehood.
"Instead of seeking to please by artificiality, it will suffice
that we are kindly; instead of flattering the weaknesses of others
by falsehood, it will suffice to tolerate them.
"Those with whom we have to do will neither be puffed up nor
corrupted by such intercourse; they will only be grateful and will
be informed by it." [Footnote: Considerations sur les moeurs de ce
siecle, par M. Duclos.]
It seems to me that if any education is calculated to produce the
sort of politeness required by M. Duclos in this passage, it is
the education I have already described.
Yet I admit that with such different teaching Emile will not be just
like everybody else, and heaven preserve him from such a fate! But
where he is unlike other people, he will neither cause annoyance
nor will he be absurd; the difference will be perceptible but not
unpleasant. Emile will be, if you like, an agreeable foreigner. At
first his peculiarities will be excused with the phrase, "He will
learn." After a time people will get used to his ways, and seeing
that he does not change they will still make excuses for him and
say, "He is made that way."
He will not be feted as a charming man, but every one will like him
without knowing why; no one will praise his intellect, but every
one will be ready to make him the judge between men of intellect;
his own intelligence will be clear and limited, his mind will be
accurate, and his judgment sane. As he never runs after new ideas,
he cannot pride himself on his wit. I have convinced him that all
wholesome ideas, ideas which are really useful to mankind, were
among the earliest known, that in all times they have formed the
true bonds of society, and that there is nothing left for ambitious
minds but to seek distinction for themselves by means of ideas which
are injurious and fatal to mankind. This way of winning admiration
scarcely appeals to him; he knows how he ought to seek his
own happiness in life, and how he can contribute to the happiness
of others. The sphere of his knowledge is restricted to what is
profitable. His path is narrow and clearly defined; as he has no
temptation to leave it, he is lost in the crowd; he will neither
distinguish himself nor will he lose his way. Emile is a man
of common sense and he has no desire to be anything more; you may
try in vain to insult him by applying this phrase to him; he will
always consider it a title of honour.
Although from his wish to please he is no longer wholly indifferent
to the opinion of others, he only considers that opinion so far as
he himself is directly concerned, without troubling himself about
arbitrary values, which are subject to no law but that of fashion
or conventionality. He will have pride enough to wish to do well
in everything that he undertakes, and even to wish to do it better
than others; he will want to be the swiftest runner, the strongest
wrestler, the cleverest workman, the readiest in games of skill;
but he will not seek advantages which are not in themselves clear
gain, but need to be supported by the opinion of others, such as
to be thought wittier than another, a better speaker, more learned,
etc.; still less will he trouble himself with those which have
nothing to do with the man himself, such as higher birth, a greater
reputation for wealth, credit, or public estimation, or the impression
created by a showy exterior.
As he loves his fellows because they are like himself, he will
prefer him who is most like himself, because he will feel that he
is good; and as he will judge of this resemblance by similarity of
taste in morals, in all that belongs to a good character, he will
be delighted to win approval. He will not say to himself in so
many words, "I am delighted to gain approval," but "I am delighted
because they say I have done right; I am delighted because the men
who honour me are worthy of honour; while they judge so wisely, it
is a fine thing to win their respect."
As he studies men in their conduct in society, just as he formerly
studied them through their passions in history, he will often have
occasion to consider what it is that pleases or offends the human
heart. He is now busy with the philosophy of the principles of
taste, and this is the most suitable subject for his present study.
The further we seek our definitions of taste, the further we
go astray; taste is merely the power of judging what is pleasing
or displeasing to most people. Go beyond this, and you cannot say
what taste is. It does not follow that the men of taste are in the
majority; for though the majority judges wisely with regard to each
individual thing, there are few men who follow the judgment of the
majority in everything; and though the most general agreement in
taste constitutes good taste, there are few men of good taste just
as there are few beautiful people, although beauty consists in the
sum of the most usual features.
It must be observed that we are not here concerned with what we
like because it is serviceable, or hate because it is harmful to us.
Taste deals only with things that are indifferent to us, or which
affect at most our amusements, not those which relate to our needs;
taste is not required to judge of these, appetite only is sufficient.
It is this which makes mere decisions of taste so difficult and as
it seems so arbitrary; for beyond the instinct they follow there
appears to be no reason whatever for them. We must also make a
distinction between the laws of good taste in morals and its laws
in physical matters. In the latter the laws of taste appear to
be absolutely inexplicable. But it must be observed that there is
a moral element in everything which involves imitation.[Footnote:
This is demonstrated in an "Essay on the Origin of Languages"
which will be found in my collected works.] This is the explanation
of beauties which seem to be physical, but are not so in reality.
I may add that taste has local rules which make it dependent in
many respects on the country we are in, its manners, government,
institutions; it has other rules which depend upon age, sex, and
character, and it is in this sense that we must not dispute over
matters of taste.
Taste is natural to men; but all do not possess it in the same
degree, it is not developed to the same extent in every one; and
in every one it is liable to be modified by a variety of causes.
Such taste as we may possess depends on our native sensibility;
its cultivation and its form depend upon the society in which we
have lived. In the first place we must live in societies of many
different kinds, so as to compare much. In the next place, there
must be societies for amusement and idleness, for in business
relations, interest, not pleasure, is our rule. Lastly, there must
be societies in which people are fairly equal, where the tyranny of
public opinion may be moderate, where pleasure rather than vanity
is queen; where this is not so, fashion stifles taste, and we seek
what gives distinction rather than delight.
In the latter case it is no longer true that good taste is the taste
of the majority. Why is this? Because the purpose is different.
Then the crowd has no longer any opinion of its own, it only follows
the judgment of those who are supposed to know more about it; its
approval is bestowed not on what is good, but on what they have
already approved. At any time let every man have his own opinion,
and what is most pleasing in itself will always secure most votes.
Every beauty that is to be found in the works of man is imitated.
All the true models of taste are to be found in nature. The further
we get from the master, the worse are our pictures. Then it is
that we find our models in what we ourselves like, and the beauty
of fancy, subject to caprice and to authority, is nothing but what
is pleasing to our leaders.
Those leaders are the artists, the wealthy, and the great, and
they themselves follow the lead of self-interest or pride. Some
to display their wealth, others to profit by it, they seek eagerly
for new ways of spending it. This is how luxury acquires its power
and makes us love what is rare and costly; this so-called beauty
consists, not in following nature, but in disobeying her. Hence
luxury and bad taste are inseparable. Wherever taste is lavish, it
is bad.
Taste, good or bad, takes its shape especially in the intercourse
between the two sexes; the cultivation of taste is a necessary
consequence of this form of society. But when enjoyment is easily
obtained, and the desire to please becomes lukewarm, taste must
degenerate; and this is, in my opinion, one of the best reasons
why good taste implies good morals.
Consult the women's opinions in bodily matters, in all that concerns
the senses; consult the men in matters of morality and all that
concerns the understanding. When women are what they ought to be,
they will keep to what they can understand, and their judgment
will be right; but since they have set themselves up as judges of
literature, since they have begun to criticise books and to make them
with might and main, they are altogether astray. Authors who take
the advice of blue-stockings will always be ill-advised; gallants who
consult them about their clothes will always be absurdly dressed.
I shall presently have an opportunity of speaking of the real
talents of the female sex, the way to cultivate these talents,
and the matters in regard to which their decisions should receive
attention.
These are the elementary considerations which I shall lay down
as principles when I discuss with Emile this matter which is by
no means indifferent to him in his present inquiries. And to whom
should it be a matter of indifference? To know what people may
find pleasant or unpleasant is not only necessary to any one who
requires their help, it is still more necessary to any one who would
help them; you must please them if you would do them service; and
the art of writing is no idle pursuit if it is used to make men
hear the truth.
If in order to cultivate my pupil's taste, I were compelled to choose
between a country where this form of culture has not yet arisen
and those in which it has already degenerated, I would progress
backwards; I would begin his survey with the latter and end with the
former. My reason for this choice is, that taste becomes corrupted
through excessive delicacy, which makes it sensitive to things
which most men do not perceive; this delicacy leads to a spirit
of discussion, for the more subtle is our discrimination of things
the more things there are for us. This subtlety increases the
delicacy and decreases the uniformity of our touch. So there are as
many tastes as there are people. In disputes as to our preferences,
philosophy and knowledge are enlarged, and thus we learn to think.
It is only men accustomed to plenty of society who are capable of
very delicate observations, for these observations do not occur to
us till the last, and people who are unused to all sorts of society
exhaust their attention in the consideration of the more conspicuous
features. There is perhaps no civilised place upon earth where the
common taste is so bad as in Paris. Yet it is in this capital that
good taste is cultivated, and it seems that few books make any
impression in Europe whose authors have not studied in Paris. Those
who think it is enough to read our books are mistaken; there is
more to be learnt from the conversation of authors than from their
books; and it is not from the authors that we learn most. It is the
spirit of social life which develops a thinking mind, and carries
the eye as far as it can reach. If you have a spark of genius, go
and spend a year in Paris; you will soon be all that you are capable
of becoming, or you will never be good for anything at all.
One may learn to think in places where bad taste rules supreme;
but we must not think like those whose taste is bad, and it is very
difficult to avoid this if we spend much time among them. We must
use their efforts to perfect the machinery of judgment, but we
must be careful not to make the same use of it. I shall take care
not to polish Emile's judgment so far as to transform it, and when
he has acquired discernment enough to feel and compare the varied
tastes of men, I shall lead him to fix his own taste upon simpler
matters.
I will go still further in order to keep his taste pure and wholesome.
In the tumult of dissipation I shall find opportunities for useful
conversation with him; and while these conversations are always
about things in which he takes a delight, I shall take care to make
them as amusing as they are instructive. Now is the time to read
pleasant books; now is the time to teach him to analyse speech and
to appreciate all the beauties of eloquence and diction. It is a
small matter to learn languages, they are less useful than people
think; but the study of languages leads us on to that of grammar in
general. We must learn Latin if we would have a thorough knowledge
of French; these two languages must be studied and compared if we
would understand the rules of the art of speaking.
There is, moreover, a certain simplicity of taste which goes straight
to the heart; and this is only to be found in the classics. In
oratory, poetry, and every kind of literature, Emile will find the
classical authors as he found them in history, full of matter and
sober in their judgment. The authors of our own time, on the contrary,
say little and talk much. To take their judgment as our constant
law is not the way to form our own judgment. These differences of
taste make themselves felt in all that is left of classical times
and even on their tombs. Our monuments are covered with praises,
theirs recorded facts.
"Sta, viator; heroem calcas."
If I had found this epitaph on an ancient monument, I should at
once have guessed it was modern; for there is nothing so common
among us as heroes, but among the ancients they were rare. Instead
of saying a man was a hero, they would have said what he had done
to gain that name. With the epitaph of this hero compare that of
the effeminate Sardanapalus--
"Tarsus and Anchiales I built in a day, and now I am dead."
Which do you think says most? Our inflated monumental style is only
fit to trumpet forth the praises of pygmies. The ancients showed men
as they were, and it was plain that they were men indeed. Xenophon
did honour to the memory of some warriors who were slain by
treason during the retreat of the Ten Thousand. "They died," said
he, "without stain in war and in love." That is all, but think how
full was the heart of the author of this short and simple elegy.
Woe to him who fails to perceive its charm. The following words
were engraved on a tomb at Thermopylae--
"Go, Traveller, tell Sparta that here we fell in obedience to her
laws."
It is pretty clear that this was not the work of the Academy of
Inscriptions.
If I am not mistaken, the attention of my pupil, who sets so small
value upon words, will be directed in the first place to these
differences, and they will affect his choice in his reading. He
will be carried away by the manly eloquence of Demosthenes, and
will say, "This is an orator;" but when he reads Cicero, he will
say, "This is a lawyer."
Speaking generally Emile will have more taste for the books of the
ancients than for our own, just because they were the first, and
therefore the ancients are nearer to nature and their genius is
more distinct. Whatever La Motte and the Abbe Terrasson may say,
there is no real advance in human reason, for what we gain in one
direction we lose in another; for all minds start from the same
point, and as the time spent in learning what others have thought
is so much time lost in learning to think for ourselves, we have
more acquired knowledge and less vigour of mind. Our minds like our
arms are accustomed to use tools for everything, and to do nothing
for themselves. Fontenelle used to say that all these disputes as
to the ancients and the moderns came to this--Were the trees in
former times taller than they are now. If agriculture had changed,
it would be worth our while to ask this question.
After I have led Emile to the sources of pure literature, I will
also show him the channels into the reservoirs of modern compilers;
journals, translations, dictionaries, he shall cast a glance at
them all, and then leave them for ever. To amuse him he shall hear
the chatter of the academies; I will draw his attention to the fast
that every member of them is worth more by himself than he is as
a member of the society; he will then draw his own conclusions as
to the utility of these fine institutions.
I take him to the theatre to study taste, not morals; for in the
theatre above all taste is revealed to those who can think. Lay
aside precepts and morality, I should say; this is not the place
to study them. The stage is not made for truth; its object is to
flatter and amuse: there is no place where one can learn so completely
the art of pleasing and of interesting the human heart. The study
of plays leads to the study of poetry; both have the same end
in view. If he has the least glimmering of taste for poetry, how
eagerly will he study the languages of the poets, Greek, Latin,
and Italian! These studies will afford him unlimited amusement and
will be none the less valuable; they will be a delight to him at
an age and in circumstances when the heart finds so great a charm
in every kind of beauty which affects it. Picture to yourself on
the one hand Emile, on the other some young rascal from college,
reading the fourth book of the Aeneid, or Tibollus, or the Banquet
of Plato: what a difference between them! What stirs the heart of
Emile to its depths, makes not the least impression on the other!
Oh, good youth, stay, make a pause in your reading, you are too
deeply moved; I would have you find pleasure in the language of
love, but I would not have you carried away by it; be a wise man, but
be a good man too. If you are only one of these, you are nothing.
After this let him win fame or not in dead languages, in literature,
in poetry, I care little. He will be none the worse if he knows
nothing of them, and his education is not concerned with these mere
words.
My main object in teaching him to feel and love beauty of every
kind is to fix his affections and his taste on these, to prevent
the corruption of his natural appetites, lest he should have to
seek some day in the midst of his wealth for the means of happiness
which should be found close at hand. I have said elsewhere that
taste is only the art of being a connoisseur in matters of little
importance, and this is quite true; but since the charm of life
depends on a tissue of these matters of little importance, such
efforts are no small thing; through their means we learn how to
fill our life with the good things within our reach, with as much
truth as they may hold for us. I do not refer to the morally good
which depends on a good disposition of the heart, but only to that
which depends on the body, on real delight, apart from the prejudices
of public opinion.
The better to unfold my idea, allow me for a moment to leave Emile,
whose pure and wholesome heart cannot be taken as a rule for others,
and to seek in my own memory for an illustration better suited to
the reader and more in accordance with his own manners.
There are professions which seem to change a man's nature, to
recast, either for better or worse, the men who adopt them. A coward
becomes a brave man in the regiment of Navarre. It is not only in
the army that esprit de corps is acquired, and its effects are not
always for good. I have thought again and again with terror that
if I had the misfortune to fill a certain post I am thinking of in
a certain country, before to-morrow I should certainly be a tyrant,
an extortioner, a destroyer of the people, harmful to my king, and
a professed enemy of mankind, a foe to justice and every kind of
virtue.
In the same way, if I were rich, I should have done all that is
required to gain riches; I should therefore be insolent and degraded,
sensitive and feeling only on my own behalf, harsh and pitiless to
all besides, a scornful spectator of the sufferings of the lower
classes; for that is what I should call the poor, to make people
forget that I was once poor myself. Lastly I should make my fortune
a means to my own pleasures with which I should be wholly occupied;
and so far I should be just like other people.
But in one respect I should be very unlike them; I should be sensual
and voluptuous rather than proud and vain, and I should give myself
up to the luxury of comfort rather than to that of ostentation.
I should even be somewhat ashamed to make too great a show of
my wealth, and if I overwhelmed the envious with my pomp I should
always fancy I heard him saying, "Here is a rascal who is greatly
afraid lest we should take him for anything but what he is."
In the vast profusion of good things upon this earth I should seek
what I like best, and what I can best appropriate to myself.
To this end, the first use I should make of my wealth would be to
purchase leisure and freedom, to which I would add health, if it
were to be purchased; but health can only be bought by temperance,
and as there is no real pleasure without health, I should be
temperate from sensual motives.
I should also keep as close as possible to nature, to gratify the
senses given me by nature, being quite convinced that, the greater
her share in my pleasures, the more real I shall find them. In
the choice of models for imitation I shall always choose nature
as my pattern; in my appetites I will give her the preference; in
my tastes she shall always be consulted; in my food I will always
choose what most owes its charm to her, and what has passed through
the fewest possible hands on its way to table. I will be on my guard
against fraudulent shams; I will go out to meet pleasure. No cook
shall grow rich on my gross and foolish greediness; he shall not
poison me with fish which cost its weight in gold, my table shall
not be decked with fetid splendour or putrid flesh from far-off
lands. I will take any amount of trouble to gratify my sensibility,
since this trouble has a pleasure of its own, a pleasure more than
we expect. If I wished to taste a food from the ends of the earth,
I would go, like Apicius, in search of it, rather than send for
it; for the daintiest dishes always lack a charm which cannot be
brought along with them, a flavour which no cook can give them--the
air of the country where they are produced.
For the same reason I would not follow the example of those who are
never well off where they are, but are always setting the seasons
at nought, and confusing countries and their seasons; those who
seek winter in summer and summer in winter, and go to Italy to be
cold and to the north to be warm, do not consider that when they
think they are escaping from the severity of the seasons, they
are going to meet that severity in places where people are not
prepared for it. I shall stay in one place, or I shall adopt just
the opposite course; I should like to get all possible enjoyment
out of one season to discover what is peculiar to any given country.
I would have a variety of pleasures, and habits quite unlike one
another, but each according to nature; I would spend the summer at
Naples and the winter in St. Petersburg; sometimes I would breathe
the soft zephyr lying in the cool grottoes of Tarentum, and again
I would enjoy the illuminations of an ice palace, breathless and
wearied with the pleasures of the dance.
In the service of my table and the adornment of my dwelling I would
imitate in the simplest ornaments the variety of the seasons, and
draw from each its charm without anticipating its successor. There
is no taste but only difficulty to be found in thus disturbing the
order of nature; to snatch from her unwilling gifts, which she
yields regretfully, with her curse upon them; gifts which have
neither strength nor flavour, which can neither nourish the body
nor tickle the palate. Nothing is more insipid than forced fruits.
A wealthy man in Paris, with all his stoves and hot-houses, only
succeeds in getting all the year round poor fruit and poor vegetables
for his table at a very high price. If I had cherries in frost,
and golden melons in the depths of winter, what pleasure should I
find in them when my palate did not need moisture or refreshment.
Would the heavy chestnut be very pleasant in the heat of the
dog-days; should I prefer to have it hot from the stove, rather
than the gooseberry, the strawberry, the refreshing fruits which
the earth takes care to provide for me. A mantelpiece covered in
January with forced vegetation, with pale and scentless flowers,
is not winter adorned, but spring robbed of its beauty; we deprive
ourselves of the pleasure of seeking the first violet in the woods,
of noting the earliest buds, and exclaiming in a rapture of delight,
"Mortals, you are not forsaken, nature is living still."
To be well served I would have few servants; this has been said
before, but it is worth saying again. A tradesman gets more real
service from his one man than a duke from the ten gentlemen round
about him. It has often struck me when I am sitting at table with
my glass beside me that I can drink whenever I please; whereas, if
I were dining in state, twenty men would have to call for "Wine"
before I could quench my thirst. You may be sure that whatever is
done for you by other people is ill done. I would not send to the
shops, I would go myself; I would go so that my servants should
not make their own terms with the shopkeepers, and to get a better
choice and cheaper prices; I would go for the sake of pleasant
exercise and to get a glimpse of what was going on out of doors;
this is amusing and sometimes instructive; lastly I would go for
the sake of the walk; there is always something in that. A sedentary
life is the source of tedium; when we walk a good deal we are never
dull. A porter and footmen are poor interpreters, I should never
wish to have such people between the world and myself, nor would
I travel with all the fuss of a coach, as if I were afraid people
would speak to me. Shanks' mare is always ready; if she is tired
or ill, her owner is the first to know it; he need not be afraid
of being kept at home while his coachman is on the spree; on the
road he will not have to submit to all sorts of delays, nor will
he be consumed with impatience, nor compelled to stay in one place
a moment longer than he chooses. Lastly, since no one serves us so
well as we serve ourselves, had we the power of Alexander and the
wealth of Croesus we should accept no services from others, except
those we cannot perform for ourselves.
I would not live in a palace; for even in a palace I should only
occupy one room; every room which is common property belongs to
nobody, and the rooms of each of my servants would be as strange
to me as my neighbour's. The Orientals, although very voluptuous,
are lodged in plain and simply furnished dwellings. They consider
life as a journey, and their house as an inn. This reason scarcely
appeals to us rich people who propose to live for ever; but I should
find another reason which would have the same effect. It would seem
to me that if I settled myself in one place in the midst of such
splendour, I should banish myself from every other place, and
imprison myself, so to speak, in my palace. The world is a palace
fair enough for any one; and is not everything at the disposal of
the rich man when he seeks enjoyment? "Ubi bene, ibi patria," that
is his motto; his home is anywhere where money will carry him,
his country is anywhere where there is room for his strong-box,
as Philip considered as his own any place where a mule laden with
silver could enter. [Footnote: A stranger, splendidly clad, was asked
in Athens what country he belonged to. "I am one of the rich," was
his answer; and a very good answer in my opinion.] Why then should
we shut ourselves up within walls and gates as if we never meant
to leave them? If pestilence, war, or rebellion drive me from one
place, I go to another, and I find my hotel there before me. Why
should I build a mansion for myself when the world is already at my
disposal? Why should I be in such a hurry to live, to bring from
afar delights which I can find on the spot? It is impossible to
make a pleasant life for oneself when one is always at war with
oneself. Thus Empedocles reproached the men of Agrigentum with
heaping up pleasures as if they had but one day to live, and building
as if they would live for ever.
And what use have I for so large a dwelling, as I have so few people
to live in it, and still fewer goods to fill it? My furniture would
be as simple as my tastes; I would have neither picture-gallery
nor library, especially if I was fond of reading and knew something
about pictures. I should then know that such collections are never
complete, and that the lack of that which is wanting causes more
annoyance than if one had nothing at all. In this respect abundance
is the cause of want, as every collector knows to his cost. If you
are an expert, do not make a collection; if you know how to use
your cabinets, you will not have any to show.
Gambling is no sport for the rich, it is the resource of those
who have nothing to do; I shall be so busy with my pleasures that
I shall have no time to waste. I am poor and lonely and I never
play, unless it is a game of chess now and then, and that is more
than enough. If I were rich I would play even less, and for very
low stakes, so that I should not be disappointed myself, nor see
the disappointment of others. The wealthy man has no motive for
play, and the love of play will not degenerate into the passion
for gambling unless the disposition is evil. The rich man is always
more keenly aware of his losses than his gains, and as in games
where the stakes are not high the winnings are generally exhausted
in the long run, he will usually lose more than he gains, so that
if we reason rightly we shall scarcely take a great fancy to games
where the odds are against us. He who flatters his vanity so far
as to believe that Fortune favours him can seek her favour in more
exciting ways; and her favours are just as clearly shown when the
stakes are low as when they are high. The taste for play, the result
of greed and dullness, only lays hold of empty hearts and heads;
and I think I should have enough feeling and knowledge to dispense
with its help. Thinkers are seldom gamblers; gambling interrupts
the habit of thought and turns it towards barren combinations;
thus one good result, perhaps the only good result of the taste
for science, is that it deadens to some extent this vulgar passion;
people will prefer to try to discover the uses of play rather
than to devote themselves to it. I should argue with the gamblers
against gambling, and I should find more delight in scoffing at
their losses than in winning their money.
I should be the same in private life as in my social intercourse.
I should wish my fortune to bring comfort in its train, and never
to make people conscious of inequalities of wealth. Showy dress is
inconvenient in many ways. To preserve as much freedom as possible
among other men, I should like to be dressed in such a way that
I should not seem out of place among all classes, and should not
attract attention in any; so that without affectation or change I
might mingle with the crowd at the inn or with the nobility at the
Palais Royal. In this way I should be more than ever my own master,
and should be free to enjoy the pleasures of all sorts and conditions
of men. There are women, so they say, whose doors are closed to
embroidered cuffs, women who will only receive guests who wear lace
ruffles; I should spend my days elsewhere; though if these women
were young and pretty I might sometimes put on lace ruffles to
spend an evening or so in their company.
Mutual affection, similarity of tastes, suitability of character;
these are the only bonds between my companions and myself; among
them I would be a man, not a person of wealth; the charm of their
society should never be embittered by self-seeking. If my wealth
had not robbed me of all humanity, I would scatter my benefits and
my services broadcast, but I should want companions about me, not
courtiers, friends, not proteges; I should wish my friends to regard
me as their host, not their patron. Independence and equality would
leave to my relations with my friends the sincerity of goodwill;
while duty and self-seeking would have no place among us, and we
should know no law but that of pleasure and friendship.
Neither a friend nor a mistress can be bought. Women may be got
for money, but that road will never lead to love. Love is not only
not for sale; money strikes it dead. If a man pays, were he indeed
the most lovable of men, the mere fact of payment would prevent
any lasting affection. He will soon be paying for some one else,
or rather some one else will get his money; and in this double
connection based on self-seeking and debauchery, without love,
honour, or true pleasure, the woman is grasping, faithless, and
unhappy, and she is treated by the wretch to whom she gives her
money as she treats the fool who gives his money to her; she has
no love for either. It would be sweet to lie generous towards one
we love, if that did not make a bargain of love. I know only one
way of gratifying this desire with the woman one loves without
embittering love; it is to bestow our all upon her and to live at
her expense. It remains to be seen whether there is any woman with
regard to whom such conduct would not be unwise.
He who said, "Lais is mine, but I am not hers," was talking nonsense.
Possession which is not mutual is nothing at all; at most it is
the possession of the sex not of the individual. But where there
is no morality in love, why make such ado about the rest? Nothing
is so easy to find. A muleteer is in this respect as near to
happiness as a millionaire.
Oh, if we could thus trace out the unreasonableness of vice, how
often should we find that, when it has attained its object, it
discovers it is not what it seemed! Why is there this cruel haste
to corrupt innocence, to make, a victim of a young creature whom we
ought to protect, one who is dragged by this first false step into
a gulf of misery from which only death can release her? Brutality,
vanity, folly, error, and nothing more. This pleasure itself is
unnatural; it rests on popular opinion, and popular opinion at its
worst, since it depends on scorn of self. He who knows he is the
basest of men fears comparison with others, and would be the first
that he may be less hateful. See if those who are most greedy in
pursuit of such fancied pleasures are ever attractive young men--men
worthy of pleasing, men who might have some excuse if they were
hard to please. Not so; any one with good looks, merit, and feeling
has little fear of his mistress' experience; with well-placed
confidence he says to her, "You know what pleasure is, what is that
to me? my heart assures me that this is not so."
But an aged satyr, worn out with debauchery, with no charm, no
consideration, no thought for any but himself, with no shred of
honour, incapable and unworthy of finding favour in the eyes of any
woman who knows anything of men deserving of love, expects to make
up for all this with an innocent girl by trading on her inexperience
and stirring her emotions for the first time. His last hope is to
find favour as a novelty; no doubt this is the secret motive of
this desire; but he is mistaken, the horror he excites is just as
natural as the desires he wishes to arouse. He is also mistaken
in his foolish attempt; that very nature takes care to assert her
rights; every girl who sells herself is no longer a maid; she has
given herself to the man of her choice, and she is making the very
comparison he dreads. The pleasure purchased is imaginary, but none
the less hateful.
For my own part, however riches may change me, there is one matter
in which I shall never change. If I have neither morals nor virtue,
I shall not be wholly without taste, without sense, without delicacy;
and this will prevent me from spending my fortune in the pursuit
of empty dreams, from wasting my money and my strength in teaching
children to betray me and mock at me. If I were young, I would
seek the pleasures of youth; and as I would have them at their best
I would not seek them in the guise of a rich man. If I were at my
present age, it would be another matter; I would wisely confine
myself to the pleasures of my age; I would form tastes which I could
enjoy, and I would stifle those which could only cause suffering.
I would not go and offer my grey beard to the scornful jests of
young girls; I could never bear to sicken them with my disgusting
caresses, to furnish them at my expense with the most absurd
stories, to imagine them describing the vile pleasures of the old
ape, so as to avenge themselves for what they had endured. But if
habits unresisted had changed my former desires into needs, I would
perhaps satisfy those needs, but with shame and blushes. I would
distinguish between passion and necessity, I would find a suitable
mistress and would keep to her. I would not make a business of my
weakness, and above all I would only have one person aware of it.
Life has other pleasures when these fail us; by hastening in vain
after those that fly us, we deprive ourselves of those that remain.
Let our tastes change with our years, let us no more meddle with
age than with the seasons. We should be ourselves at all times,
instead of struggling against nature; such vain attempts exhaust
our strength and prevent the right use of life.
The lower classes are seldom dull, their life is full of activity;
if there is little variety in their amusements they do not recur
frequently; many days of labour teach them to enjoy their rare
holidays. Short intervals of leisure between long periods of labour
give a spice to the pleasures of their station. The chief curse of
the rich is dullness; in the midst of costly amusements, among so
many men striving to give them pleasure, they are devoured and slain
by dullness; their life is spent in fleeing from it and in being
overtaken by it; they are overwhelmed by the intolerable burden;
women more especially, who do not know how to work or play, are a
prey to tedium under the name of the vapours; with them it takes
the shape of a dreadful disease, which robs them of their reason
and even of their life. For my own part I know no more terrible
fate than that of a pretty woman in Paris, unless it is that of
the pretty manikin who devotes himself to her, who becomes idle
and effeminate like her, and so deprives himself twice over of his
manhood, while he prides himself on his successes and for their
sake endures the longest and dullest days which human being ever
put up with.
Proprieties, fashions, customs which depend on luxury and breeding,
confine the course of life within the limits of the most miserable
uniformity. The pleasure we desire to display to others is a pleasure
lost; we neither enjoy it ourselves, nor do others enjoy it.
[Footnote: Two ladies of fashion, who wished to seem to be enjoying
themselves greatly, decided never to go to bed before five o'clock
in the morning. In the depths of winter their servants spent the
night in the street waiting for them, and with great difficulty
kept themselves from freezing. one night, or rather one morning,
some one entered the room where these merry people spent their
hours without knowing how time passed. He found them quite alone;
each of them was asleep in her arm-chair.] Ridicule, which public
opinion dreads more than anything, is ever at hand to tyrannise,
and punish. It is only ceremony that makes us ridiculous; if we can
vary our place and our pleasures, to-day's impressions can efface
those of yesterday; in the mind of men they are as if they had
never been; but we enjoy ourselves for we throw ourselves into
every hour and everything. My only set rule would be this: wherever
I was I would pay no heed to anything else. I would take each day
as it came, as if there were neither yesterday nor to-morrow. As
I should be a man of the people, with the populace, I should be a
countryman in the fields; and if I spoke of farming, the peasant
should not laugh at my expense. I would not go and build a town
in the country nor erect the Tuileries at the door of my lodgings.
On some pleasant shady hill-side I would have a little cottage,
a white house with green shutters, and though a thatched roof is
the best all the year round, I would be grand enough to have, not
those gloomy slates, but tiles, because they look brighter and more
cheerful than thatch, and the houses in my own country are always
roofed with them, and so they would recall to me something of the
happy days of my youth. For my courtyard I would have a poultry-yard,
and for my stables a cowshed for the sake of the milk which I love.
My garden should be a kitchen-garden, and my park an orchard, like
the one described further on. The fruit would be free to those
who walked in the orchard, my gardener should neither count it nor
gather it; I would not, with greedy show, display before your eyes
superb espaliers which one scarcely dare touch. But this small
extravagance would not be costly, for I would choose my abode in
some remote province where silver is scarce and food plentiful,
where plenty and poverty have their seat.
There I would gather round me a company, select rather than numerous,
a band of friends who know what pleasure is, and how to enjoy it,
women who can leave their arm-chairs and betake themselves to outdoor
sports, women who can exchange the shuttle or the cards for the
fishing line or the bird-trap, the gleaner's rake or grape-gatherer's
basket. There all the pretensions of the town will be forgotten,
and we shall be villagers in a village; we shall find all sorts of
different sports and we shall hardly know how to choose the morrow's
occupation. Exercise and an active life will improve our digestion
and modify our tastes. Every meal will be a feast, where plenty will
be more pleasing than any delicacies. There are no such cooks in
the world as mirth, rural pursuits, and merry games; and the finest
made dishes are quite ridiculous in the eyes of people who have
been on foot since early dawn. Our meals will be served without
regard to order or elegance; we shall make our dining-room anywhere,
in the garden, on a boat, beneath a tree; sometimes at a distance
from the house on the banks of a running stream, on the fresh green
grass, among the clumps of willow and hazel; a long procession
of guests will carry the material for the feast with laughter and
singing; the turf will be our chairs and table, the banks of the
stream our side-board, and our dessert is hanging on the trees;
the dishes will be served in any order, appetite needs no ceremony;
each one of us, openly putting himself first, would gladly see
every one else do the same; from this warm-hearted and temperate
familiarity there would arise, without coarseness, pretence,
or constraint, a laughing conflict a hundredfold more delightful
than politeness, and more likely to cement our friendship. No
tedious flunkeys to listen to our words, to whisper criticisms on
our behaviour, to count every mouthful with greedy eyes, to amuse
themselves by keeping us waiting for our wine, to complain of the
length of our dinner. We will be our own servants, in order to be
our own masters. Time will fly unheeded, our meal will be an interval
of rest during the heat of the day. If some peasant comes our way,
returning from his work with his tools over his shoulder, I will
cheer his heart with kindly words, and a glass or two of good
wine, which will help him to bear his poverty more cheerfully; and
I too shall have the joy of feeling my heart stirred within me,
and I should say to myself--I too am a man.
If the inhabitants of the district assembled for some rustic feast,
I and my friends would be there among the first; if there were
marriages, more blessed than those of towns, celebrated near my
home, every one would know how I love to see people happy, and I
should be invited. I would take these good folks some gift as simple
as themselves, a gift which would be my share of the feast; and in
exchange I should obtain gifts beyond price, gifts so little known
among my equals, the gifts of freedom and true pleasure. I should
sup gaily at the head of their long table; I should join in the
chorus of some rustic song and I should dance in the barn more
merrily than at a ball in the Opera House.
"This is all very well so far," you will say, "but what about the
shooting! one must have some sport in the country." Just so; I only
wanted a farm, but I was wrong. I assume I am rich, I must keep
my pleasures to myself, I must be free to kill something; this is
quite another matter. I must have estates, woods, keepers, rents,
seignorial rights, particularly incense and holy water.
Well and good. But I shall have neighbours about my estate who are
jealous of their rights and anxious to encroach on those of others;
our keepers will quarrel, and possibly their masters will quarrel
too; this means altercations, disputes, ill-will, or law-suits at
the least; this in itself is not very pleasant. My tenants will not
enjoy finding my hares at work upon their corn, or my wild boars
among their beans. As they dare not kill the enemy, every one of
them will try to drive him from their fields; when the day has been
spent in cultivating the ground, they will be compelled to sit up
at night to watch it; they will have watch-dogs, drums, horns, and
bells; my sleep will be disturbed by their racket. Do what I will,
I cannot help thinking of the misery of these poor people, and
I cannot help blaming myself for it. If I had the honour of being
a prince, this would make little impression on me; but as I am a
self-made man who has only just come into his property, I am still
rather vulgar at heart.
That is not all; abundance of game attracts trespassers; I shall
soon have poachers to punish; I shall require prisons, gaolers,
guards, and galleys; all this strikes me as cruel. The wives of
those miserable creatures will besiege my door and disturb me with
their crying; they must either be driven away or roughly handled.
The poor people who are not poachers, whose harvest has been
destroyed by my game, will come next with their complaints. Some
people will be put to death for killing the game, the rest will
be punished for having spared it; what a choice of evils! on every
side I shall find nothing but misery and hear nothing but groans.
So far as I can see this must greatly disturb the pleasure of slaying
at one's ease heaps of partridges and hares which are tame enough
to run about one's feet.
If you would have pleasure without pain let there be no monopoly;
the more you leave it free to everybody, the purer will be your own
enjoyment. Therefore I should not do what I have just described,
but without change of tastes I would follow those which seem likely
to cause me least pain. I would fix my rustic abode in a district
where game is not preserved, and where I can have my sport without
hindrance. Game will be less plentiful, but there will be more
skill in finding it, and more pleasure in securing it. I remember
the start of delight with which my father watched the rise of his
first partridge and the rapture with which he found the hare he
had sought all day long. Yes, I declare, that alone with his dog,
carrying his own gun, cartridges, and game bag together with his
hare, he came home at nightfall, worn out with fatigue and torn to
pieces by brambles, but better pleased with his day's sport than
all your ordinary sportsmen, who on a good horse, with twenty guns
ready for them, merely take one gun after another, and shoot and
kill everything that comes their way, without skill, without glory,
and almost without exercise. The pleasure is none the less, and
the difficulties are removed; there is no estate to be preserved,
no poacher to be punished, and no wretches to be tormented; here are
solid grounds for preference. Whatever you do, you cannot torment
men for ever without experiencing some amount of discomfort; and
sooner or later the muttered curses of the people will spoil the
flavour of your game.
Again, monopoly destroys pleasure. Real pleasures are those which
we share with the crowd; we lose what we try to keep to ourselves
alone. If the walls I build round my park transform it into a
gloomy prison, I have only deprived myself, at great expense, of
the pleasure of a walk; I must now seek that pleasure at a distance.
The demon of property spoils everything he lays hands upon. A rich
man wants to be master everywhere, and he is never happy where he is;
he is continually driven to flee from himself. I shall therefore
continue to do in my prosperity what I did in my poverty.
Henceforward, richer in the wealth of others than I ever shall
be in my own wealth, I will take possession of everything in my
neighbourhood that takes my fancy; no conqueror is so determined as
I; I even usurp the rights of princes; I take possession of every
open place that pleases me, I give them names; this is my park,
chat is my terrace, and I am their owner; henceforward I wander
among them at will; I often return to maintain my proprietary rights;
I make what use I choose of the ground to walk upon, and you will
never convince me that the nominal owner of the property which I
have appropriated gets better value out of the money it yields him
than I do out of his land. No matter if I am interrupted by hedges
and ditches, I take my park on my back, and I carry it elsewhere;
there will be space enough for it near at hand, and I may plunder
my neighbours long enough before I outstay my welcome.
This is an attempt to show what is meant by good taste in the choice
of pleasant occupations for our leisure hours; this is the spirit
of enjoyment; all else is illusion, fancy, and foolish pride. He
who disobeys these rules, however rich he may be, will devour his
gold on a dung-hill, and will never know what it is to live.
You will say, no doubt, that such amusements lie within the reach
of all, that we need not be rich to enjoy them. That is the very
point I was coming to. Pleasure is ours when we want it; it is only
social prejudice which makes everything hard to obtain, and drives
pleasure before us. To be happy is a hundredfold easier than it
seems. If he really desires to enjoy himself the man of taste has
no need of riches; all he wants is to be free and to be his own
master. With health and daily bread we are rich enough, if we will
but get rid of our prejudices; this is the "Golden Mean" of Horace.
You folks with your strong-boxes may find some other use for your
wealth, for it cannot buy you pleasure. Emile knows this as well
as I, but his heart is purer and more healthy, so he will feel
it more strongly, and all that he has beheld in society will only
serve to confirm him in this opinion.
While our time is thus employed, we are ever on the look-out for
Sophy, and we have not yet found her. It was not desirable that
she should be found too easily, and I have taken care to look for
her where I knew we should not find her.
The time is come; we must now seek her in earnest, lest Emile should
mistake some one else for Sophy, and only discover his error when
it is too late. Then farewell Paris, far-famed Paris, with all your
noise and smoke and dirt, where the women have ceased to believe in
honour and the men in virtue. We are in search of love, happiness,
innocence; the further we go from Paris the better.
BOOK V
We have reached the last act of youth's drams; we are approaching
its closing scene.
It is not good that man should be alone. Emile is now a man, and
we must give him his promised helpmeet. That helpmeet is Sophy.
Where is her dwelling-place, where shall she be found? We must
know beforehand what she is, and then we can decide where to look
for her. And when she is found, our task is not ended. "Since our
young gentleman," says Locke, "is about to marry, it is time to leave
him with his mistress." And with these words he ends his book. As
I have not the honour of educating "A young gentleman," I shall
take care not to follow his example.
SOPHY, OR WOMAN
Sophy should be as truly a woman as Emile is a man, i.e., she
must possess all those characters of her sex which are required to
enable her to play her part in the physical and moral order. Let
us inquire to begin with in what respects her sex differs from our
own.
But for her sex, a woman is a man; she has the same organs, the
same needs, the same faculties. The machine is the same in its
construction; its parts, its working, and its appearance are similar.
Regard it as you will the difference is only in degree.
Yet where sex is concerned man and woman are unlike; each is the
complement of the other; the difficulty in comparing them lies in
our inability to decide, in either case, what is a matter of sex,
and what is not. General differences present themselves to the
comparative anatomist and even to the superficial observer; they
seem not to be a matter of sex; yet they are really sex differences,
though the connection eludes our observation. How far such differences
may extend we cannot tell; all we know for certain is that where man
and woman are alike we have to do with the characteristics of the
species; where they are unlike, we have to do with the characteristics
of sex. Considered from these two standpoints, we find so many
instances of likeness and unlikeness that it is perhaps one of the
greatest of marvels how nature has contrived to make two beings so
like and yet so different.
These resemblances and differences must have an influence on the
moral nature; this inference is obvious, and it is confirmed by
experience; it shows the vanity of the disputes as to the superiority
or the equality of the sexes; as if each sex, pursuing the path
marked out for it by nature, were not more perfect in that very
divergence than if it more closely resembled the other. A perfect
man and a perfect woman should no more be alike in mind than in
face, and perfection admits of neither less nor more.
In the union of the sexes each alike contributes to the common
end, but in different ways. From this diversity springs the first
difference which may be observed between man and woman in their
moral relations. The man should be strong and active; the woman
should be weak and passive; the one must have both the power and
the will; it is enough that the other should offer little resistance.
When this principle is admitted, it follows that woman is specially
made for man's delight. If man in his turn ought to be pleasing
in her eyes, the necessity is less urgent, his virtue is in his
strength, he pleases because he is strong. I grant you this is not
the law of love, but it is the law of nature, which is older than
love itself.
If woman is made to please and to be in subjection to man, she
ought to make herself pleasing in his eyes and not provoke him to
anger; her strength is in her charms, by their means she should
compel him to discover and use his strength. The surest way of
arousing this strength is to make it necessary by resistance. Thus
pride comes to the help of desire and each exults in the other's
victory. This is the origin of attack and defence, of the boldness
of one sex and the timidity of the other, and even of the shame
and modesty with which nature has armed the weak for the conquest
of the strong.
Who can possibly suppose that nature has prescribed the same advances
to the one sex as to the other, or that the first to feel desire
should be the first to show it? What strange depravity of judgment!
The consequences of the act being so different for the two sexes,
is it natural that they should enter upon it with equal boldness?
How can any one fail to see that when the share of each is so
unequal, if the one were not controlled by modesty as the other is
controlled by nature, the result would be the destruction of both,
and the human race would perish through the very means ordained
for its continuance?
Women so easily stir a man's senses and fan the ashes of a dying
passion, that if philosophy ever succeeded in introducing this
custom into any unlucky country, especially if it were a warm
country where more women are born than men, the men, tyrannised
over by the women, would at last become their victims, and would
be dragged to their death without the least chance of escape.
Female animals are without this sense of shame, but what of that?
Are their desires as boundless as those of women, which are curbed
by this shame? The desires of the animals are the result of necessity,
and when the need is satisfied, the desire ceases; they no longer
make a feint of repulsing the male, they do it in earnest. Their
seasons of complaisance are short and soon over. Impulse and
restraint are alike the work of nature. But what would take the
place of this negative instinct in women if you rob them of their
modesty?
The Most High has deigned to do honour to mankind; he has endowed
man with boundless passions, together with a law to guide them, so
that man may be alike free and self-controlled; though swayed by
these passions man is endowed with reason by which to control them.
Woman is also endowed with boundless passions; God has given her
modesty to restrain them. Moreover, he has given to both a present
reward for the right use of their powers, in the delight which
springs from that right use of them, i.e., the taste for right
conduct established as the law of our behaviour. To my mind this
is far higher than the instinct of the beasts.
Whether the woman shares the man's passion or not, whether she is
willing or unwilling to satisfy it, she always repulses him and
defends herself, though not always with the same vigour, and therefore
not always with the same success. If the siege is to be successful,
the besieged must permit or direct the attack. How skilfully can
she stimulate the efforts of the aggressor. The freest and most
delightful of activities does not permit of any real violence;
reason and nature are alike against it; nature, in that she has
given the weaker party strength enough to resist if she chooses;
reason, in that actual violence is not only most brutal in itself,
but it defeats its own ends, not only because the man thus declares
war against his companion and thus gives her a right to defend her
person and her liberty even at the cost of the enemy's life, but
also because the woman alone is the judge of her condition, and a
child would have no father if any man might usurp a father's rights.
Thus the different constitution of the two sexes leads us to a third
conclusion, that the stronger party seems to be master, but is as
a matter of fact dependent on the weaker, and that, not by any foolish
custom of gallantry, nor yet by the magnanimity of the protector,
but by an inexorable law of nature. For nature has endowed woman
with a power of stimulating man's passions in excess of man's power
of satisfying those passions, and has thus made him dependent on
her goodwill, and compelled him in his turn to endeavour to please
her, so that she may be willing to yield to his superior strength.
Is it weakness which yields to force, or is it voluntary self-surrender?
This uncertainty constitutes the chief charm of the man's victory,
and the woman is usually cunning enough to leave him in doubt. In
this respect the woman's mind exactly resembles her body; far from
being ashamed of her weakness, she is proud of it; her soft muscles
offer no resistance, she professes that she cannot lift the lightest
weight; she would be ashamed to be strong. And why? Not only to
gain an appearance of refinement; she is too clever for that; she
is providing herself beforehand with excuses, with the right to be
weak if she chooses.
The experience we have gained through our vices has considerably
modified the views held in older times; we rarely hear of violence
for which there is so little occasion that it would hardly be
credited, Yet such stories are common enough among the Jews and
ancient Greeks; for such views belong to the simplicity of nature,
and have only been uprooted by our profligacy. If fewer deeds
of violence are quoted in our days, it is not that men are more
temperate, but because they are less credulous, and a complaint
which would have been believed among a simple people would only
excite laughter among ourselves; therefore silence is the better
course. There is a law in Deuteronomy, under which the outraged
maiden was punished, along with her assailant, if the crime were
committed in a town; but if in the country or in a lonely place,
the latter alone was punished. "For," says the law, "the maiden
cried for help, and there was none to hear." From this merciful
interpretation of the law, girls learnt not to let themselves be
surprised in lonely places.
This change in public opinion has had a perceptible effect on our
morals. It has produced our modern gallantry. Men have found that
their pleasures depend, more than they expected, on the goodwill
of the fair sex, and have secured this goodwill by attentions which
have had their reward.
See how we find ourselves led unconsciously from the physical to
the moral constitution, how from the grosser union of the sexes
spring the sweet laws of love. Woman reigns, not by the will of
man, but by the decrees of nature herself; she had the power long
before she showed it. That same Hercules who proposed to violate
all the fifty daughters of Thespis was compelled to spin at the
feet of Omphale, and Samson, the strong man, was less strong than
Delilah. This power cannot be taken from woman; it is hers by right;
she would have lost it long ago, were it possible.
The consequences of sex are wholly unlike for man and woman. The
male is only a male now and again, the female is always a female,
or at least all her youth; everything reminds her of her sex; the
performance of her functions requires a special constitution. She
needs care during pregnancy and freedom from work when her child
is born; she must have a quiet, easy life while she nurses her
children; their education calls for patience and gentleness, for
a zeal and love which nothing can dismay; she forms a bond between
father and child, she alone can win the father's love for his
children and convince him that they are indeed his own. What loving
care is required to preserve a united family! And there should be
no question of virtue in all this, it must be a labour of love,
without which the human race would be doomed to extinction.
The mutual duties of the two sexes are not, and cannot be, equally
binding on both. Women do wrong to complain of the inequality of
man-made laws; this inequality is not of man's making, or at any
rate it is not the result of mere prejudice, but of reason. She
to whom nature has entrusted the care of the children must hold
herself responsible for them to their father. No doubt every breach
of faith is wrong, and every faithless husband, who robs his wife
of the sole reward of the stern duties of her sex, is cruel and
unjust; but the faithless wife is worse; she destroys the family
and breaks the bonds of nature; when she gives her husband children
who are not his own, she is false both to him and them, her crime
is not infidelity but treason. To my mind, it is the source of
dissension and of crime of every kind. Can any position be more
wretched than that of the unhappy father who, when he clasps his
child to his breast, is haunted by the suspicion that this is the
child of another, the badge of his own dishonour, a thief who is
robbing his own children of their inheritance. Under such circumstances
the family is little more than a group of secret enemies, armed
against each other by a guilty woman, who compels them to pretend
to love one another.
Thus it is not enough that a wife should be faithful; her husband,
along with his friends and neighbours, must believe in her fidelity;
she must be modest, devoted, retiring; she should have the witness
not only of a good conscience, but of a good reputation. In a word,
if a father must love his children, he must be able to respect their
mother. For these reasons it is not enough that the woman should
be chaste, she must preserve her reputation and her good name. From
these principles there arises not only a moral difference between
the sexes, but also a fresh motive for duty and propriety, which
prescribes to women in particular the most scrupulous attention
to their conduct, their manners, their behaviour. Vague assertions
as to the equality of the sexes and the similarity of their duties
are only empty words; they are no answer to my argument.
It is a poor sort of logic to quote isolated exceptions against
laws so firmly established. Women, you say, are not always bearing
children. Granted; yet that is their proper business. Because there
are a hundred or so of large towns in the world where women live
licentiously and have few children, will you maintain that it is
their business to have few children? And what would become of your
towns if the remote country districts, with their simpler and purer
women, did not make up for the barrenness of your fine ladies?
There are plenty of country places where women with only four or
five children are reckoned unfruitful. In conclusion, although here
and there a woman may have few children, what difference does it
make? [Footnote: Without this the race would necessarily diminish;
all things considered, for its preservation each woman ought to have
about four children, for about half the children born die before
they can become parents, and two must survive to replace the father
and mother. See whether the towns will supply them?] Is it any the
less a woman's business to be a mother? And to not the general laws
of nature and morality make provision for this state of things?
Even if there were these long intervals, which you assume, between
the periods of pregnancy, can a woman suddenly change her way of life
without danger? Can she be a nursing mother to-day and a soldier
to-morrow? Will she change her tastes and her feelings as a chameleon
changes his colour? Will she pass at once from the privacy of
household duties and indoor occupations to the buffeting of the
winds, the toils, the labours, the perils of war? Will she be now
timid, [Footnote: Women's timidity is yet another instinct of nature
against the double risk she runs during pregnancy.] now brave, now
fragile, now robust? If the young men of Paris find a soldier's
life too hard for them, how would a woman put up with it, a woman
who has hardly ventured out of doors without a parasol and who has
scarcely put a foot to the ground? Will she make a good soldier at
an age when even men are retiring from this arduous business?
There are countries, I grant you, where women bear and rear
children with little or no difficulty, but in those lands the men
go half-naked in all weathers, they strike down the wild beasts,
they carry a canoe as easily as a knapsack, they pursue the chase
for 700 or 800 leagues, they sleep in the open on the bare ground,
they bear incredible fatigues and go many days without food. When
women become strong, men become still stronger; when men become
soft, women become softer; change both the terms and the ratio
remains unaltered.
I am quite aware that Plato, in the Republic, assigns the same
gymnastics to women and men. Having got rid of the family there is
no place for women in his system of government, so he is forced to
turn them into men. That great genius has worked out his plans in
detail and has provided for every contingency; he has even provided
against a difficulty which in all likelihood no one would ever have
raised; but he has not succeeded in meeting the real difficulty. I
am not speaking of the alleged community of wives which has often
been laid to his charge; this assertion only shows that his detractors
have never read his works. I refer to that political promiscuity
under which the same occupations are assigned to both sexes alike,
a scheme which could only lead to intolerable evils; I refer to that
subversion of all the tenderest of our natural feelings, which he
sacrificed to an artificial sentiment which can only exist by their
aid. Will the bonds of convention hold firm without some foundation
in nature? Can devotion to the state exist apart from the love of
those near and dear to us? Can patriotism thrive except in the soil
of that miniature fatherland, the home? Is it not the good son,
the good husband, the good father, who makes the good citizen?
When once it is proved that men and women are and ought to be
unlike in constitution and in temperament, it follows that their
education must be different. Nature teaches us that they should work
together, but that each has its own share of the work; the end is
the same, but the means are different, as are also the feelings
which direct them. We have attempted to paint a natural man, let
us try to paint a helpmeet for him.
You must follow nature's guidance if you would walk aright. The
native characters of sex should be respected as nature's handiwork.
You are always saying, "Women have such and such faults, from which
we are free." You are misled by your vanity; what would be faults
in you are virtues in them; and things would go worse, if they
were without these so-called faults. Take care that they do not
degenerate into evil, but beware of destroying them.
On the other hand, women are always exclaiming that we educate them
for nothing but vanity and coquetry, that we keep them amused with
trifles that we may be their masters; we are responsible, so they
say, for the faults we attribute to them. How silly! What have men
to do with the education of girls? What is there to hinder their
mothers educating them as they please? There are no colleges for
girls; so much the better for them! Would God there were none for
the boys, their education would be more sensible and more wholesome.
Who is it that compels a girl to waste her time on foolish trifles?
Are they forced, against their will, to spend half their time over
their toilet, following the example set them by you? Who prevents
you teaching them, or having them taught, whatever seems good
in your eyes? Is it our fault that we are charmed by their beauty
and delighted by their airs and graces, if we are attracted and
flattered by the arts they learn from you, if we love to see them
prettily dressed, if we let them display at leisure the weapons
by which we are subjugated? Well then, educate them like men. The
more women are like men, the less influence they will have over
men, and then men will be masters indeed.
All the faculties common to both sexes are not equally shared
between them, but taken as a whole they are fairly divided. Woman
is worth more as a woman and less as a man; when she makes a good
use of her own rights, she has the best of it; when she tries to
usurp our rights, she is our inferior. It is impossible to controvert
this, except by quoting exceptions after the usual fashion of the
partisans of the fair sex.
To cultivate the masculine virtues in women and to neglect their
own is evidently to do them an injury. Women are too clear-sighted
to be thus deceived; when they try to usurp our privileges they do
not abandon their own; with this result: they are unable to make use
of two incompatible things, so they fall below their own level as
women, instead of rising to the level of men. If you are a sensible
mother you will take my advice. Do not try to make your daughter a
good man in defiance of nature. Make her a good woman, and be sure
it will be better both for her and us.
Does this mean that she must be brought up in ignorance and kept
to housework only? Is she to be man's handmaid or his help-meet?
Will he dispense with her greatest charm, her companionship? To keep
her a slave will he prevent her knowing and feeling? Will he make
an automaton of her? No, indeed, that is not the teaching of nature,
who has given women such a pleasant easy wit. on the contrary,
nature means them to think, to will, to love, to cultivate their
minds as well as their persons; she puts these weapons in their
hands to make up for their lack of strength and to enable them to
direct the strength of men. They should learn many things, but only
such things as are suitable.
When I consider the special purpose of woman, when I observe
her inclinations or reckon up her duties, everything combines to
indicate the mode of education she requires. Men and women are made
for each other, but their mutual dependence differs in degree; man
is dependent on woman through his desires; woman is dependent on
man through her desires and also through her needs; he could do
without her better than she can do without him. She cannot fulfil
her purpose in life without his aid, without his goodwill, without
his respect; she is dependent on our feelings, on the price we
put upon her virtue, and the opinion we have of her charms and her
deserts. Nature herself has decreed that woman, both for herself
and her children, should be at the mercy of man's judgment.
Worth alone will not suffice, a woman must be thought worthy; nor
beauty, she must be admired; nor virtue, she must be respected.
A woman's honour does not depend on her conduct alone, but on her
reputation, and no woman who permits herself to be considered vile
is really virtuous. A man has no one but himself to consider, and
so long as he does right he may defy public opinion; but when a
woman does right her task is only half finished, and what people
think of her matters as much as what she really is. Hence her
education must, in this respect, be different from man's education.
"What will people think" is the grave of a man's virtue and the
throne of a woman's.
The children's health depends in the first place on the mother's,
and the early education of man is also in a woman's hands; his
morals, his passions, his tastes, his pleasures, his happiness
itself, depend on her. A woman's education must therefore be planned
in relation to man. To be pleasing in his sight, to win his respect
and love, to train him in childhood, to tend him in manhood, to
counsel and console, to make his life pleasant and happy, these
are the duties of woman for all time, and this is what she should
be taught while she is young. The further we depart from this
principle, the further we shall be from our goal, and all our
precepts will fail to secure her happiness or our own.
Every woman desires to be pleasing in men's eyes, and this is right;
but there is a great difference between wishing to please a man of
worth, a really lovable man, and seeking to please those foppish
manikins who are a disgrace to their own sex and to the sex which
they imitate. Neither nature nor reason can induce a woman to love
an effeminate person, nor will she win love by imitating such a
person.
If a woman discards the quiet modest bearing of her sex, and
adopts the airs of such foolish creatures, she is not following
her vocation, she is forsaking it; she is robbing herself of the
rights to which she lays claim. "If we were different," she says,
"the men would not like us." She is mistaken. only a fool likes
folly; to wish to attract such men only shows her own foolishness. If
there were no frivolous men, women would soon make them, and women
are more responsible for men's follies than men are for theirs.
The woman who loves true manhood and seeks to find favour in its
sight will adopt means adapted to her ends. Woman is a coquette by
profession, but her coquetry varies with her aims; let these aims
be in accordance with those of nature, and a woman will receive a
fitting education.
Even the tiniest little girls love finery; they are not content to
be pretty, they must be admired; their little airs and graces show
that their heads are full of this idea, and as soon as they can
understand they are controlled by "What will people think of you?"
If you are foolish enough to try this way with little boys, it
will not have the same effect; give them their freedom and their
sports, and they care very little what people think; it is a work
of time to bring them under the control of this law.
However acquired, this early education of little girls is an
excellent thing in itself. As the birth of the body must precede
the birth of the mind, so the training of the body must precede
the cultivation of the mind. This is true of both sexes; but the
aim of physical training for boys and girls is not the same; in the
one case it is the development of strength, in the other of grace;
not that these qualities should be peculiar to either sex, but that
their relative values should be different. Women should be strong
enough to do anything gracefully; men should be skilful enough to
do anything easily.
The exaggeration of feminine delicacy leads to effeminacy in men.
Women should not be strong like men but for them, so that their
sons may be strong. Convents and boarding-schools, with their plain
food and ample opportunities for amusements, races, and games in
the open air and in the garden, are better in this respect than
the home, where the little girl is fed on delicacies, continually
encouraged or reproved, where she is kept sitting in a stuffy room,
always under her mother's eye, afraid to stand or walk or speak
or breathe, without a moment's freedom to play or jump or run or
shout, or to be her natural, lively, little self; there is either
harmful indulgence or misguided severity, and no trace of reason.
In this fashion heart and body are alike destroyed.
In Sparta the girls used to take part in military sports just like
the boys, not that they might go to war, but that they might bear
sons who could endure hardship. That is not what I desire. To provide
the state with soldiers it is not necessary that the mother should
carry a musket and master the Prussian drill. Yet, on the whole, I
think the Greeks were very wise in this matter of physical training.
Young girls frequently appeared in public, not with the boys, but
in groups apart. There was scarcely a festival, a sacrifice, or a
procession without its bands of maidens, the daughters of the chief
citizens. Crowned with flowers, chanting hymns, forming the chorus
of the dance, bearing baskets, vases, offerings, they presented a
charming spectacle to the depraved senses of the Greeks, a spectacle
well fitted to efface the evil effects of their unseemly gymnastics.
Whatever this custom may have done for the Greek men, it was well
fitted to develop in the Greek women a sound constitution by means
of pleasant, moderate, and healthy exercise; while the desire to
please would develop a keen and cultivated taste without risk to
character.
When the Greek women married, they disappeared from public life;
within the four walls of their home they devoted themselves to
the care of their household and family. This is the mode of life
prescribed for women alike by nature and reason. These women gave
birth to the healthiest, strongest, and best proportioned men who
ever lived, and except in certain islands of ill repute, no women
in the whole world, not even the Roman matrons, were ever at once
so wise and so charming, so beautiful and so virtuous, as the women
of ancient Greece.
It is admitted that their flowing garments, which did not cramp
the figure, preserved in men and women alike the fine proportions
which are seen in their statues. These are still the models of
art, although nature is so disfigured that they are no longer to
be found among us. The Gothic trammels, the innumerable bands which
confine our limbs as in a press, were quite unknown. The Greek
women were wholly unacquainted with those frames of whalebone in
which our women distort rather than display their figures. It seems
to me that this abuse, which is carried to an incredible degree of
folly in England, must sooner or later lead to the production of
a degenerate race. Moreover, I maintain that the charm which these
corsets are supposed to produce is in the worst possible taste; it
is not a pleasant thing to see a woman cut in two like a wasp--it
offends both the eye and the imagination. A slender waist has
its limits, like everything else, in proportion and suitability,
and beyond these limits it becomes a defect. This defect would be
a glaring one in the nude; why should it be beautiful under the
costume?
I will not venture upon the reasons which induce women to incase
themselves in these coats of mail. A clumsy figure, a large waist,
are no doubt very ugly at twenty, but at thirty they cease to offend
the eye, and as we are bound to be what nature has made us at any
given age, and as there is no deceiving the eye of man, such defects
are less offensive at any age than the foolish affectations of a
young thing of forty.
Everything which cramps and confines nature is in bad taste; this
is as true of the adornments of the person as of the ornaments of
the mind. Life, health, common-sense, and comfort must come first;
there is no grace in discomfort, languor is not refinement, there
is no charm in ill-health; suffering may excite pity, but pleasure
and delight demand the freshness of health.
Boys and girls have many games in common, and this is as it should
be; do they not play together when they are grown up? They have also
special tastes of their own. Boys want movement and noise, drums,
tops, toy-carts; girls prefer things which appeal to the eye,
and can be used for dressing-up--mirrors, jewellery, finery, and
specially dolls. The doll is the girl's special plaything; this shows
her instinctive bent towards her life's work. The art of pleasing
finds its physical basis in personal adornment, and this physical
side of the art is the only one which the child can cultivate.
Here is a little girl busy all day with her doll; she is always
changing its clothes, dressing and undressing it, trying new
combinations of trimmings well or ill matched; her fingers are
clumsy, her taste is crude, but there is no mistaking her bent; in
this endless occupation time flies unheeded, the hours slip away
unnoticed, even meals are forgotten. She is more eager for adornment
than for food. "But she is dressing her doll, not herself," you
will say. Just so; she sees her doll, she cannot see herself; she
cannot do anything for herself, she has neither the training, nor
the talent, nor the strength; as yet she herself is nothing, she is
engrossed in her doll and all her coquetry is devoted to it. This
will not always be so; in due time she will be her own doll.
We have here a very early and clearly-marked bent; you have only to
follow it and train it. What the little girl most clearly desires
is to dress her doll, to make its bows, its tippets, its sashes,
and its tuckers; she is dependent on other people's kindness in all
this, and it would be much pleasanter to be able to do it herself.
Here is a motive for her earliest lessons, they are not tasks
prescribed, but favours bestowed. Little girls always dislike learning
to read and write, but they are always ready to learn to sew. They
think they are grown up, and in imagination they are using their
knowledge for their own adornment.
The way is open and it is easy to follow it; cutting out, embroidery,
lace-making follow naturally. Tapestry is not popular; furniture is
too remote from the child's interests, it has nothing to do with
the person, it depends on conventional tastes. Tapestry is a woman's
amusement; young girls never care for it.
This voluntary course is easily extended to include drawing, an
art which is closely connected with taste in dress; but I would not
have them taught landscape and still less figure painting. Leaves,
fruit, flowers, draperies, anything that will make an elegant
trimming for the accessories of the toilet, and enable the girl
to design her own embroidery if she cannot find a pattern to her
taste; that will be quite enough. Speaking generally, if it is
desirable to restrict a man's studies to what is useful, this is
even more necessary for women, whose life, though less laborious,
should be even more industrious and more uniformly employed in a
variety of duties, so that one talent should not be encouraged at
the expense of others.
Whatever may be said by the scornful, good sense belongs to both
sexes alike. Girls are usually more docile than boys, and they
should be subjected to more authority, as I shall show later on,
but that is no reason why they should be required to do things
in which they can see neither rhyme nor reason. The mother's art
consists in showing the use of everything they are set to do, and
this is all the easier as the girl's intelligence is more precocious
than the boy's. This principle banishes, both for boys and girls,
not only those pursuits which never lead to any appreciable results,
not even increasing the charms of those who have pursued them, but
also those studies whose utility is beyond the scholar's present age
and can only be appreciated in later years. If I object to little
boys being made to learn to read, still more do I object to it
for little girls until they are able to see the use of reading; we
generally think more of our own ideas than theirs in our attempts
to convince them of the utility of this art. After all, why should
a little girl know how to read and write! Has she a house to manage?
Most of them make a bad use of this fatal knowledge, and girls are
so full of curiosity that few of them will fail to learn without
compulsion. Possibly cyphering should come first; there is nothing
so obviously useful, nothing which needs so much practice or gives
so much opportunity for error as reckoning. If the little girl
does not get the cherries for her lunch without an arithmetical
exercise, she will soon learn to count.
I once knew a little girl who learnt to write before she could read,
and she began to write with her needle. To begin with, she would
write nothing but O's; she was always making O's, large and small,
of all kinds and one within another, but always drawn backwards.
Unluckily one day she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass
while she was at this useful work, and thinking that the cramped
attitude was not pretty, like another Minerva she flung away her
pen and declined to make any more O's. Her brother was no fonder
of writing, but what he disliked was the constraint, not the look
of the thing. She was induced to go on with her writing in this way.
The child was fastidious and vain; she could not bear her sisters
to wear her clothes. Her things had been marked, they declined to
mark them any more, she must learn to mark them herself; there is
no need to continue the story.
Show the sense of the tasks you set your little girls, but keep them
busy. Idleness and insubordination are two very dangerous faults,
and very hard to cure when once established. Girls should be
attentive and industrious, but this is not enough by itself; they
should early be accustomed to restraint. This misfortune, if such
it be, is inherent in their sex, and they will never escape from it,
unless to endure more cruel sufferings. All their life long, they
will have to submit to the strictest and most enduring restraints,
those of propriety. They must be trained to bear the yoke from the
first, so that they may not feel it, to master their own caprices
and to submit themselves to the will of others. If they were always
eager to be at work, they should sometimes be compelled to do
nothing. Their childish faults, unchecked and unheeded, may easily
lead to dissipation, frivolity, and inconstancy. To guard against
this, teach them above all things self-control. Under our senseless
conditions, the life of a good woman is a perpetual struggle against
self; it is only fair that woman should bear her share of the ills
she has brought upon man.
Beware lest your girls become weary of their tasks and infatuated
with their amusements; this often happens under our ordinary methods
of education, where, as Fenelon says, all the tedium is on one side
and all the pleasure on the other. If the rules already laid down
are followed, the first of these dangers will be avoided, unless the
child dislikes those about her. A little girl who is fond of her
mother or her friend will work by her side all day without getting
tired; the chatter alone will make up for any loss of liberty. But
if her companion is distasteful to her, everything done under her
direction will be distasteful too. Children who take no delight
in their mother's company are not likely to turn out well; but to
judge of their real feelings you must watch them and not trust to
their words alone, for they are flatterers and deceitful and soon
learn to conceal their thoughts. Neither should they be told that
they ought to love their mother. Affection is not the result of
duty, and in this respect constraint is out of place. Continual
intercourse, constant care, habit itself, all these will lead
a child to love her mother, if the mother does nothing to deserve
the child's ill-will. The very control she exercises over the
child, if well directed, will increase rather than diminish the
affection, for women being made for dependence, girls feel themselves
made to obey.
Just because they have, or ought to have, little freedom, they are
apt to indulge themselves too fully with regard to such freedom
as they have; they carry everything to extremes, and they devote
themselves to their games with an enthusiasm even greater than that
of boys. This is the second difficulty to which I referred. This
enthusiasm must be kept in check, for it is the source of several
vices commonly found among women, caprice and that extravagant
admiration which leads a woman to regard a thing with rapture to-day
and to be quite indifferent to it to-morrow. This fickleness of
taste is as dangerous as exaggeration; and both spring from the same
cause. Do not deprive them of mirth, laughter, noise, and romping
games, but do not let them tire of one game and go off to another;
do not leave them for a moment without restraint. Train them to
break off their games and return to their other occupations without
a murmur. Habit is all that is needed, as you have nature on your
side.
This habitual restraint produces a docility which woman requires
all her life long, for she will always be in subjection to a man,
or to man's judgment, and she will never be free to set her own
opinion above his. What is most wanted in a woman is gentleness;
formed to obey a creature so imperfect as man, a creature often
vicious and always faulty, she should early learn to submit to
injustice and to suffer the wrongs inflicted on her by her husband
without complaint; she must be gentle for her own sake, not his.
Bitterness and obstinacy only multiply the sufferings of the wife
and the misdeeds of the husband; the man feels that these are
not the weapons to be used against him. Heaven did not make women
attractive and persuasive that they might degenerate into bitterness,
or meek that they should desire the mastery; their soft voice was
not meant for hard words, nor their delicate features for the frowns
of anger. When they lose their temper they forget themselves; often
enough they have just cause of complaint; but when they scold they
always put themselves in the wrong. We should each adopt the tone
which befits our sex; a soft-hearted husband may make an overbearing
wife, but a man, unless he is a perfect monster, will sooner or
later yield to his wife's gentleness, and the victory will be hers.
Daughters must always be obedient, but mothers need not always be
harsh. To make a girl docile you need not make her miserable; to
make her modest you need not terrify her; on the contrary, I should
not be sorry to see her allowed occasionally to exercise a little
ingenuity, not to escape punishment for her disobedience, but
to evade the necessity for obedience. Her dependence need not be
made unpleasant, it is enough that she should realise that she is
dependent. Cunning is a natural gift of woman, and so convinced
am I that all our natural inclinations are right, that I would
cultivate this among others, only guarding against its abuse.
For the truth of this I appeal to every honest observer. I do not
ask you to question women themselves, our cramping institutions may
compel them to sharpen their wits; I would have you examine girls,
little girls, newly-born so to speak; compare them with boys of the
same age, and I am greatly mistaken if you do not find the little
boys heavy, silly, and foolish, in comparison. Let me give one
illustration in all its childish simplicity.
Children are commonly forbidden to ask for anything at table, for
people think they can do nothing better in the way of education
than to burden them with useless precepts; as if a little bit of
this or that were not readily given or refused without leaving a
poor child dying of greediness intensified by hope. Every one knows
how cunningly a little boy brought up in this way asked for salt
when he had been overlooked at table. I do not suppose any one will
blame him for asking directly for salt and indirectly for meat;
the neglect was so cruel that I hardly think he would have been
punished had he broken the rule and said plainly that he was hungry.
But this is what I saw done by a little girl of six; the circumstances
were much more difficult, for not only was she strictly forbidden
to ask for anything directly or indirectly, but disobedience would
have been unpardonable, for she had eaten of every dish; one only
had been overlooked, and on this she had set her heart. This is what
she did to repair the omission without laying herself open to the
charge of disobedience; she pointed to every dish in turn, saying,
"I've had some of this; I've had some of this;" however she omitted
the one dish so markedly that some one noticed it and said, "Have
not you had some of this?" "Oh, no," replied the greedy little girl
with soft voice and downcast eyes. These instances are typical of
the cunning of the little boy and girl.
What is, is good, and no general law can be bad. This special skill
with which the female sex is endowed is a fair equivalent for its
lack of strength; without it woman would be man's slave, not his
helpmeet. By her superiority in this respect she maintains her equality
with man, and rules in obedience. She has everything against her,
our faults and her own weakness and timidity; her beauty and her
wiles are all that she has. Should she not cultivate both? Yet beauty
is not universal; it may be destroyed by all sorts of accidents,
it will disappear with years, and habit will destroy its influence.
A woman's real resource is her wit; not that foolish wit which is
so greatly admired in society, a wit which does nothing to make
life happier; but that wit which is adapted to her condition, the
art of taking advantage of our position and controlling us through
our own strength. Words cannot tell how beneficial this is to
man, what a charm it gives to the society of men and women, how it
checks the petulant child and restrains the brutal husband; without
it the home would be a scene of strife; with it, it is the abode
of happiness. I know that this power is abused by the sly and the
spiteful; but what is there that is not liable to abuse? Do not
destroy the means of happiness because the wicked use them to our
hurt.
The toilet may attract notice, but it is the person that wins our
hearts. Our finery is not us; its very artificiality often offends,
and that which is least noticeable in itself often wins the most
attention. The education of our girls is, in this respect, absolutely
topsy-turvy. Ornaments are promised them as rewards, and they are
taught to delight in elaborate finery. "How lovely she is!" people
say when she is most dressed up. on the contrary, they should be
taught that so much finery is only required to hide their defects,
and that beauty's real triumph is to shine alone. The love of
fashion is contrary to good taste, for faces do not change with the
fashion, and while the person remains unchanged, what suits it at
one time will suit it always.
If I saw a young girl decked out like a little peacock, I should
show myself anxious about her figure so disguised, and anxious what
people would think of her; I should say, "She is over-dressed with
all those ornaments; what a pity! Do you think she could do with
something simpler? Is she pretty enough to do without this or that?"
Possibly she herself would be the first to ask that her finery might
be taken off and that we should see how she looked without it. In
that case her beauty should receive such praise as it deserves. I
should never praise her unless simply dressed. If she only regards
fine clothes as an aid to personal beauty, and as a tacit confession
that she needs their aid, she will not be proud of her finery, she
will be humbled by it; and if she hears some one say, "How pretty
she is," when she is smarter than usual, she will blush for shame.
Moreover, though there are figures that require adornment there
are none that require expensive clothes. Extravagance in dress is
the folly of the class rather than the individual, it is merely
conventional. Genuine coquetry is sometimes carefully thought out,
but never sumptuous, and Juno dressed herself more magnificently
than Venus. "As you cannot make her beautiful you are making her
fine," said Apelles to an unskilful artist who was painting Helen
loaded with jewellery. I have also noticed that the smartest clothes
proclaim the plainest women; no folly could be more misguided. If
a young girl has good taste and a contempt for fashion, give her a
few yards of ribbon, muslin, and gauze, and a handful of flowers,
without any diamonds, fringes, or lace, and she will make herself
a dress a hundredfold more becoming than all the smart clothes of
La Duchapt.
Good is always good, and as you should always look your best, the
women who know what they are about select a good style and keep
to it, and as they are not always changing their style they think
less about dress than those who can never settle to any one style.
A genuine desire to dress becomingly does not require an elaborate
toilet. Young girls rarely give much time to dress; needlework and
lessons are the business of the day; yet, except for the rouge,
they are generally as carefully dressed as older women and often
in better taste. Contrary to the usual opinion, the real cause of
the abuse of the toilet is not vanity but lack of occupation. The
woman who devotes six hours to her toilet is well aware that she
is no better dressed than the woman who took half an hour, but she
has got rid of so many of the tedious hours and it is better to
amuse oneself with one's clothes than to be sick of everything.
Without the toilet how would she spend the time between dinner and
supper. With a crowd of women about her, she can at least cause
them annoyance, which is amusement of a kind; better still she avoids
a tete-a-tete with the husband whom she never sees at any other
time; then there are the tradespeople, the dealers in bric-a-brac,
the fine gentlemen, the minor poets with their songs, their verses,
and their pamphlets; how could you get them together but for the
toilet. Its only real advantage is the chance of a little more
display than is permitted by full dress, and perhaps this is less
than it seems and a woman gains less than she thinks. Do not be
afraid to educate your women as women; teach them a woman's business,
that they be modest, that they may know how to manage their house
and look after their family; the grand toilet will soon disappear,
and they will be more tastefully dressed.
Growing girls perceive at once that all this outside adornment is
not enough unless they have charms of their own. They cannot make
themselves beautiful, they are too young for coquetry, but they
are not too young to acquire graceful gestures, a pleasing voice,
a self-possessed manner, a light step, a graceful bearing, to choose
whatever advantages are within their reach. The voice extends its
range, it grows stronger and more resonant, the arms become plumper,
the bearing more assured, and they perceive that it is easy to
attract attention however dressed. Needlework and industry suffice
no longer, fresh gifts are developing and their usefulness is
already recognised.
I know that stern teachers would have us refuse to teach little
girls to sing or dance, or to acquire any of the pleasing arts.
This strikes me as absurd. Who should learn these arts--our boys?
Are these to be the favourite accomplishments of men or women? Of
neither, say they; profane songs are simply so many crimes, dancing
is an invention of the Evil one; her tasks and her prayers we all
the amusement a young girl should have. What strange amusements
for a child of ten! I fear that these little saints who have been
forced to spend their childhood in prayers to God will pass their
youth in another fashion; when they are married they will try to
make up for lost time. I think we must consider age as well as sex;
a young girl should not live like her grandmother; she should be
lively, merry, and eager; she should sing and dance to her heart's
content, and enjoy all the innocent pleasures of youth; the time
will come, all too soon, when she must settle down and adopt a more
serious tone.
But is this change in itself really necessary? Is it not merely
another result of our own prejudices? By making good women the slaves
of dismal duties, we have deprived marriage of its charm for men.
Can we wonder that the gloomy silence they find at home drives them
elsewhere, or inspires little desire to enter a state which offers
so few attractions? Christianity, by exaggerating every duty, has
made our duties impracticable and useless; by forbidding singing,
dancing, and amusements of every kind, it renders women sulky,
fault-finding, and intolerable at home. There is no religion which
imposes such strict duties upon married life, and none in which
such a sacred engagement is so often profaned. Such pains has been
taken to prevent wives being amiable, that their husbands have
become indifferent to them. This should not be, I grant you, but
it will be, since husbands are but men. I would have an English
maiden cultivate the talents which will delight her husband as
zealously as the Circassian cultivates the accomplishments of an
Eastern harem. Husbands, you say, care little for such accomplishments.
So I should suppose, when they are employed, not for the husband,
but to attract the young rakes who dishonour the home. But imagine
a virtuous and charming wife, adorned with such accomplishments
and devoting them to her husband's amusement; will she not add to
his happiness? When he leaves his office worn out with the day's
work, will she not prevent him seeking recreation elsewhere? Have
we not all beheld happy families gathered together, each contributing
to the general amusement? Are not the confidence and familiarity
thus established, the innocence and the charm of the pleasures thus
enjoyed, more than enough to make up for the more riotous pleasures
of public entertainments?
Pleasant accomplishments have been made too formal an affair of
rules and precepts, so that young people find them very tedious
Instead of a mere amusement or a merry game as they ought to be.
Nothing can be more absurd than an elderly singing or dancing
master frowning upon young people, whose one desire is to laugh,
and adopting a more pedantic and magisterial manner in teaching his
frivolous art than if he were teaching the catechism. Take the case
of singing; does this art depend on reading music; cannot the voice
be made true and flexible, can we not learn to sing with taste and
even to play an accompaniment without knowing a note? Does the same
kind of singing suit all voices alike? Is the same method adapted
to every mind? You will never persuade me that the same attitudes,
the same steps, the same movements, the same gestures, the same
dances will suit a lively little brunette and a tall fair maiden
with languishing eyes. So when I find a master giving the same
lessons to all his pupils I say, "He has his own routine, but he
knows nothing of his art!"
Should young girls have masters or mistresses? I cannot say; I wish
they could dispense with both; I wish they could learn of their
own accord what they are already so willing to learn. I wish there
were fewer of these dressed-up old ballet masters promenading our
streets. I fear our young people will get more harm from intercourse
with such people than profit from their instruction, and that their
jargon, their tone, their airs and graces, will instil a precocious
taste for the frivolities which the teacher thinks so important,
and to which the scholars are only too likely to devote themselves.
Where pleasure is the only end in view, any one may serve as
teacher--father, mother, brother, sister, friend, governess, the
girl's mirror, and above all her own taste. Do not offer to teach,
let her ask; do not make a task of what should be a reward, and in
these studies above all remember that the wish to succeed is the
first step. If formal instruction is required I leave it to you
to choose between a master and a mistress. How can I tell whether
a dancing master should take a young pupil by her soft white hand,
make her lift her skirt and raise her eyes, open her arms and advance
her throbbing bosom? but this I know, nothing on earth would induce
me to be that master.
Taste is formed partly by industry and partly by talent, and by
its means the mind is unconsciously opened to the idea of beauty
of every kind, till at length it attains to those moral ideas which
are so closely related to beauty. Perhaps this is one reason why
ideas of propriety and modesty are acquired earlier by girls than
by boys, for to suppose that this early feeling is due to the
teaching of the governesses would show little knowledge of their
style of teaching and of the natural development of the human mind.
The art of speaking stands first among the pleasing arts; it alone
can add fresh charms to those which have been blunted by habit. It
is the mind which not only gives life to the body, but renews, so
to speak, its youth; the flow of feelings and ideas give life and
variety to the countenance, and the conversation to which it gives
rise arouses and sustains attention, and fixes it continuously on
one object. I suppose this is why little girls so soon learn to
prattle prettily, and why men enjoy listening to them even before
the child can understand them; they are watching for the first
gleam of intelligence and sentiment.
Women have ready tongues; they talk earlier, more easily, and more
pleasantly than men. They are also said to talk more; this may
be true, but I am prepared to reckon it to their credit; eyes and
mouth are equally busy and for the same cause. A man says what he
knows, a woman says what will please; the one needs knowledge, the
other taste; utility should be the man's object; the woman speaks
to give pleasure. There should be nothing in common but truth.
You should not check a girl's prattle like a boy's by the harsh
question, "What is the use of that?" but by another question at
least as difficult to answer, "What effect will that have?" At this
early age when they know neither good nor evil, and are incapable
of judging others, they should make this their rule and never say
anything which is unpleasant to those about them; this rule is all
the more difficult to apply because it must always be subordinated
to our first rule, "Never tell a lie."
I can see many other difficulties, but they belong to a later stage.
For the present it is enough for your little girls to speak the
truth without grossness, and as they are naturally averse to what
is gross, education easily teaches them to avoid it. In social
intercourse I observe that a man's politeness is usually more
helpful and a woman's more caressing. This distinction is natural,
not artificial. A man seeks to serve, a woman seeks to please. Hence
a woman's politeness is less insincere than ours, whatever we may
think of her character; for she is only acting upon a fundamental
instinct; but when a man professes to put my interests before his
own, I detect the falsehood, however disguised. Hence it is easy
for women to be polite, and easy to teach little girls politeness.
The first lessons come by nature; art only supplements them and
determines the conventional form which politeness shall take. The
courtesy of woman to woman is another matter; their manner is so
constrained, their attentions so chilly, they find each other so
wearisome, that they take little pains to conceal the fact, and
seem sincere even in their falsehood, since they take so little
pains to conceal it. Still young girls do sometimes become sincerely
attached to one another. At their age good spirits take the place
of a good disposition, and they are so pleased with themselves that
they are pleased with every one else. Moreover, it is certain that
they kiss each other more affectionately and caress each other more
gracefully in the presence of men, for they are proud to be able
to arouse their envy without danger to themselves by the sight of
favours which they know will arouse that envy.
If young boys must not be allowed to ask unsuitable questions, much
more must they be forbidden to little girls; if their curiosity is
satisfied or unskilfully evaded it is a much more serious matter,
for they are so keen to guess the mysteries concealed from them and
so skilful to discover them. But while I would not permit them to
ask questions, I would have them questioned frequently, and pains
should be taken to make them talk; let them be teased to make them
speak freely, to make them answer readily, to loosen mind and
tongue while it can be done without danger. Such conversation always
leading to merriment, yet skilfully controlled and directed, would
form a delightful amusement at this age and might instil into these
youthful hearts the first and perhaps the most helpful lessons in
morals which they will ever receive, by teaching them in the guise
of pleasure and fun what qualities are esteemed by men and what is
the true glory and happiness of a good woman.
If boys are incapable of forming any true idea of religion, much
more is it beyond the grasp of girls; and for this reason I would
speak of it all the sooner to little girls, for if we wait till
they are ready for a serious discussion of these deep subjects we
should be in danger of never speaking of religion at all. A woman's
reason is practical, and therefore she soon arrives at a given
conclusion, but she fails to discover it for herself. The social
relation of the sexes is a wonderful thing. This relation produces
a moral person of which woman is the eye and man the hand, but the
two are so dependent on one another that the man teaches the woman
what to see, while she teaches him what to do. If women could
discover principles and if men had as good heads for detail, they
would be mutually independent, they would live in perpetual strife,
and there would be an end to all society. But in their mutual
harmony each contributes to a common purpose; each follows the
other's lead, each commands and each obeys.
As a woman's conduct is controlled by public opinion, so is her
religion ruled by authority. The daughter should follow her mother's
religion, the wife her husband's. Were that religion false, the
docility which leads mother and daughter to submit to nature's
laws would blot out the sin of error in the sight of God. Unable
to judge for themselves they should accept the judgment of father
and husband as that of the church.
While women unaided cannot deduce the rules of their faith, neither
can they assign limits to that faith by the evidence of reason;
they allow themselves to be driven hither and thither by all sorts
of external influences, they are ever above or below the truth. Extreme
in everything, they are either altogether reckless or altogether
pious; you never find them able to combine virtue and piety. Their
natural exaggeration is not wholly to blame; the ill-regulated
control exercised over them by men is partly responsible. Loose
morals bring religion into contempt; the terrors of remorse make
it a tyrant; this is why women have always too much or too little
religion.
As a woman's religion is controlled by authority it is more
important to show her plainly what to believe than to explain the
reasons for belief; for faith attached to ideas half-understood
is the main source of fanaticism, and faith demanded on behalf of
what is absurd leads to madness or unbelief. Whether our catechisms
tend to produce impiety rather than fanaticism I cannot say, but
I do know that they lead to one or other.
In the first place, when you teach religion to little girls never
make it gloomy or tiresome, never make it a task or a duty, and
therefore never give them anything to learn by heart, not even
their prayers. Be content to say your own prayers regularly in their
presence, but do not compel them to join you. Let their prayers
be short, as Christ himself has taught us. Let them always be said
with becoming reverence and respect; remember that if we ask the
Almighty to give heed to our words, we should at least give heed
to what we mean to say.
It does not much matter that a girl should learn her religion young,
but it does matter that she should learn it thoroughly, and still
more that she should learn to love it. If you make religion a
burden to her, if you always speak of God's anger, if in the name
of religion you impose all sorts of disagreeable duties, duties
which she never sees you perform, what can she suppose but that
to learn one's catechism and to say one's prayers is only the duty
of a little girl, and she will long to be grown-up to escape, like
you, from these duties. Example! Example! Without it you will never
succeed in teaching children anything.
When you explain the Articles of Faith let it be by direct teaching,
not by question and answer. Children should only answer what they
think, not what has been drilled into them. All the answers in the
catechism are the wrong way about; it is the scholar who instructs
the teacher; in the child's mouth they are a downright lie, since
they explain what he does not understand, and affirm what he cannot
believe. Find me, if you can, an intelligent man who could honestly
say his catechism. The first question I find in our catechism is as
follows: "Who created you and brought you into the world?" To which
the girl, who thinks it was her mother, replies without hesitation,
"It was God." All she knows is that she is asked a question which
she only half understands and she gives an answer she does not
understand at all.
I wish some one who really understands the development of children's
minds would write a catechism for them. It might be the most useful
book ever written, and, in my opinion, it would do its author no
little honour. This at least is certain--if it were a good book it
would be very unlike our catechisms.
Such a catechism will not be satisfactory unless the child can
answer the questions of its own accord without having to learn the
answers; indeed the child will often ask the questions itself. An
example is required to make my meaning plain and I feel how ill
equipped I am to furnish such an example. I will try to give some
sort of outline of my meaning.
To get to the first question in our catechism I suppose we must
begin somewhat after the following fashion.
NURSE: Do you remember when your mother was a little girl?
CHILD: No, nurse.
NURSE: Why not, when you have such a good memory?
CHILD: I was not alive.
NURSE: Then you were not always alive!
CHILD: No.
NURSE: Will you live for ever!
CHILD: Yes.
NURSE: Are you young or old?
CHILD: I am young.
NURSE: Is your grandmamma old or young?
CHILD: She is old.
NURSE: Was she ever young?
CHILD: Yes.
NURSE: Why is she not young now?
CHILD: She has grown old.
NURSE: Will you grow old too?
CHILD: I don't know.
NURSE: Where are your last year's frocks?
CHILD: They have been unpicked.
NURSE: Why!
CHILD: Because they were too small for me.
NURSE: Why were they too small?
CHILD: I have grown bigger.
NURSE: Will you grow any more!
CHILD: Oh, yes.
NURSE: And what becomes of big girls?
CHILD: They grow into women.
NURSE: And what becomes of women!
CHILD: They are mothers.
NURSE: And what becomes of mothers?
CHILD: They grow old.
NURSE: Will you grow old?
CHILD: When I am a mother.
NURSE: And what becomes of old people?
CHILD: I don't know.
NURSE: What became of your grandfather?
CHILD: He died. [Footnote: The child will say this because she has
heard it said; but you must make sure she knows what death is, for
the idea is not so simple and within the child's grasp as people
think. In that little poem "Abel" you will find an example of the way
to teach them. This charming work breathes a delightful simplicity
with which one should feed one's own mind so as to talk with
children.]
NURSE: Why did he die?
CHILD: Because he was so old.
NURSE: What becomes of old people!
CHILD: They die.
NURSE: And when you are old----?
CHILD: Oh nurse! I don't want to die!
NURSE: My dear, no one wants to die, and everybody dies.
CHILD: Why, will mamma die too!
NURSE: Yes, like everybody else. Women grow old as well as men,
and old age ends in death.
CHILD: What must I do to grow old very, very slowly?
NURSE: Be good while you are little.
CHILD: I will always be good, nurse.
NURSE: So much the better. But do you suppose you will live for
ever?
CHILD: When I am very, very old----
NURSE: Well?
CHILD: When we are so very old you say we must die?
NURSE: You must die some day.
CHILD: Oh dear! I suppose I must.
NURSE: Who lived before you?
CHILD: My father and mother.
NURSE: And before them?
CHILD: Their father and mother.
NURSE: Who will live after you?
CHILD: My children.
NURSE: Who will live after them?
CHILD: Their children.
In this way, by concrete examples, you will find a beginning and end
for the human race like everything else--that is to say, a father
and mother who never had a father and mother, and children who will
never have children of their own.
It is only after a long course of similar questions that we are
ready for the first question in the catechism; then alone can we
put the question and the child may be able to understand it. But
what a gap there is between the first and the second question which
is concerned with the definitions of the divine nature. When will
this chasm be bridged? "God is a spirit." "And what is a spirit?"
Shall I start the child upon this difficult question of metaphysics
which grown men find so hard to understand? These are no questions
for a little girl to answer; if she asks them, it is as much or more
than we can expect. In that case I should tell her quite simply,
"You ask me what God is; it is not easy to say; we can neither
hear nor see nor handle God; we can only know Him by His works. To
learn what He is, you must wait till you know what He has done."
If our dogmas are all equally true, they are not equally important.
It makes little difference to the glory of God that we should perceive
it everywhere, but it does make a difference to human society, and
to every member of that society, that a man should know and do the
duties which are laid upon him by the law of God, his duty to his
neighbour and to himself. This is what we should always be teaching
one another, and it is this which fathers and mothers are specially
bound to teach their little ones. Whether a virgin became the mother
of her Creator, whether she gave birth to God, or merely to a man
into whom God has entered, whether the Father and the Son are of
the same substance or of like substance only, whether the Spirit
proceeded from one or both of these who are but one, or from both
together, however important these questions may seem, I cannot
see that it is any more necessary for the human race to come to a
decision with regard to them than to know what day to keep Easter,
or whether we should tell our beads, fast, and refuse to eat meat,
speak Latin or French in church, adorn the walls with statues,
hear or say mass, and have no wife of our own. Let each think as
he pleases; I cannot see that it matters to any one but himself;
for my own part it is no concern of mine. But what does concern my
fellow-creatures and myself alike is to know that there is indeed
a judge of human fate, that we are all His children, that He bids
us all be just, He bids us love one another, He bids us be kindly
and merciful, He bids us keep our word with all men, even with our
own enemies and His; we must know that the apparent happiness of
this world is naught; that there is another life to come, in which
this Supreme Being will be the rewarder of the just and the judge
of the unjust. Children need to be taught these doctrines and others
like them and all citizens require to be persuaded of their truth.
Whoever sets his face against these doctrines is indeed guilty; he
is the disturber of the peace, the enemy of society. Whoever goes
beyond these doctrines and seeks to make us the slaves of his private
opinions, reaches the same goal by another way; to establish his
own kind of order he disturbs the peace; in his rash pride he makes
himself the interpreter of the Divine, and in His name demands the
homage and the reverence of mankind; so far as may be, he sets himself
in God's place; he should receive the punishment of sacrilege if
he is not punished for his intolerance.
Give no heed, therefore, to all those mysterious doctrines which
are words without ideas for us, all those strange teachings, the
study of which is too often offered as a substitute for virtue, a
study which more often makes men mad rather than good. Keep your
children ever within the little circle of dogmas which are related
to morality. Convince them that the only useful learning is that which
teaches us to act rightly. Do not make your daughters theologians
and casuists; only teach them such things of heaven as conduce
to human goodness; train them to feel that they are always in the
presence of God, who sees their thoughts and deeds, their virtue
and their pleasures; teach them to do good without ostentation and
because they love it, to suffer evil without a murmur, because God
will reward them; in a word to be all their life long what they
will be glad to have been when they appear in His presence. This
is true religion; this alone is incapable of abuse, impiety, or
fanaticism. Let those who will, teach a religion more sublime,
but this is the only religion I know.
Moreover, it is as well to observe that, until the age when the
reason becomes enlightened, when growing emotion gives a voice to
conscience, what is wrong for young people is what those about have
decided to be wrong. What they are told to do is good; what they
are forbidden to do is bad; that is all they ought to know: this
shows how important it is for girls, even more than for boys,
that the right people should be chosen to be with them and to have
authority over them. At last there comes a time when they begin to
judge things for themselves, and that is the time to change your
method of education.
Perhaps I have said too much already. To what shall we reduce the
education of our women if we give them no law but that of conventional
prejudice? Let us not degrade so far the set which rules over us,
and which does us honour when we have not made it vile. For all
mankind there is a law anterior to that of public opinion. All other
laws should bend before the inflexible control of this law; it is
the judge of public opinion, and only in so far as the esteem of
men is in accordance with this law has it any claim on our obedience.
This law is our individual conscience. I will not repeat what has
been said already; it is enough to point out that if these two
laws clash, the education of women will always be imperfect. Right
feeling without respect for public opinion will not give them that
delicacy of soul which lends to right conduct the charm of social
approval; while respect for public opinion without right feeling
will only make false and wicked women who put appearances in the
place of virtue.
It is, therefore, important to cultivate a faculty which serves
as judge between the two guides, which does not permit conscience
to go astray and corrects the errors of prejudice. That faculty
is reason. But what a crowd of questions arise at this word. Are
women capable of solid reason; should they cultivate it, can they
cultivate it successfully? Is this culture useful in relation to the
functions laid upon them? Is it compatible with becoming simplicity?
The different ways of envisaging and answering these questions lead
to two extremes; some would have us keep women indoors sewing and
spinning with their maids; thus they make them nothing more than
the chief servant of their master. Others, not content to secure
their rights, lead them to usurp ours; for to make woman our superior
in all the qualities proper to her sex, and to make her our equal
in all the rest, what is this but to transfer to the woman the
superiority which nature has given to her husband? The reason which
teaches a man his duties is not very complex; the reason which
teaches a woman hers is even simpler. The obedience and fidelity
which she owes to her husband, the tenderness and care due to her
children, are such natural and self-evident consequences of her
position that she cannot honestly refuse her consent to the inner
voice which is her guide, nor fail to discern her duty in her
natural inclination.
I would not altogether blame those who would restrict a woman to
the labours of her sex and would leave her in profound ignorance
of everything else; but that would require a standard of morality
at once very simple and very healthy, or a life withdrawn from the
world. In great towns, among immoral men, such a woman would be
too easily led astray; her virtue would too often be at the mercy
of circumstances; in this age of philosophy, virtue must be able
to resist temptation; she must know beforehand what she may hear
and what she should think of it.
Moreover, in submission to man's judgment she should deserve his
esteem; above all she should obtain the esteem of her husband;
she should not only make him love her person, she should make him
approve her conduct; she should justify his choice before the world,
and do honour to her husband through the honour given to the wife.
But how can she set about this task if she is ignorant of our
institutions, our customs, our notions of propriety, if she knows
nothing of the source of man's judgment, nor the passions by which
it is swayed! Since she depends both on her own conscience and
on public opinion, she must learn to know and reconcile these two
laws, and to put her own conscience first only when the two are
opposed to each other. She becomes the judge of her own judges,
she decides when she should obey and when she should refuse her
obedience. She weighs their prejudices before she accepts or rejects
them; she learns to trace them to their source, to foresee what
they will be, and to turn them in her own favour; she is careful
never to give cause for blame if duty allows her to avoid it. This
cannot be properly done without cultivating her mind and reason.
I always come back to my first principle and it supplies the
solution of all my difficulties. I study what is, I seek its cause,
and I discover in the end that what is, is good. I go to houses
where the master and mistress do the honours together. They are
equally well educated, equally polite, equally well equipped with
wit and good taste, both of them are inspired with the same desire
to give their guests a good reception and to send every one away
satisfied. The husband omits no pains to be attentive to every
one; he comes and goes and sees to every one and takes all sorts
of trouble; he is attention itself. The wife remains in her place;
a little circle gathers round her and apparently conceals the rest
of the company from her; yet she sees everything that goes on,
no one goes without a word with her; she has omitted nothing which
might interest anybody, she has said nothing unpleasant to any
one, and without any fuss the least is no more overlooked than
the greatest. Dinner is announced, they take their places; the
man knowing the assembled guests will place them according to his
knowledge; the wife, without previous acquaintance, never makes
a mistake; their looks and bearing have already shown her what is
wanted and every one will find himself where he wishes to be. I
do not assert that the servants forget no one. The master of the
house may have omitted no one, but the mistress perceives what you
like and sees that you get it; while she is talking to her neighbour
she has one eye on the other end of the table; she sees who is not
eating because he is not hungry and who is afraid to help himself
because he is clumsy and timid. When the guests leave the table
every one thinks she has had no thought but for him, everybody thinks
she has had no time to eat anything, but she has really eaten more
than anybody.
When the guests are gone, husband and wife tails over the events
of the evening. He relates what was said to him, what was said and
done by those with whom he conversed. If the lady is not always
quite exact in this respect, yet on the other hand she perceived
what was whispered at the other end of the room; she knows what
so-and-so thought, and what was the meaning of this speech or that
gesture; there is scarcely a change of ｅxpression for which she
has not an explanation in readiness, and she is almost always right.
The same turn of mind which makes a woman of the world such an
excellent hostess, enables a flirt to excel in the art of amusing
a number of suitors. Coquetry, cleverly carried out, demands an
even finer discernment than courtesy; provided a polite lady is
civil to everybody, she has done fairly well in any case; but the
flirt would soon lose her hold by such clumsy uniformity; if she
tries to be pleasant to all her lovers alike, she will disgust them
all. In ordinary social intercourse the manners adopted towards
everybody are good enough for all; no question is asked as to
private likes or dislikes provided all are alike well received. But
in love, a favour shared with others is an insult. A man of feeling
would rather be singled out for ill-treatment than be caressed with
the crowd, and the worst that can befall him is to be treated like
every one else. So a woman who wants to keep several lovers at
her feet must persuade every one of them that she prefers him, and
she must contrive to do this in the sight of all the rest, each of
whom is equally convinced that he is her favourite.
If you want to see a man in a quandary, place him between two
women with each of whom he has a secret understanding, and see what
a fool he looks. But put a woman in similar circumstances between
two men, and the results will be even more remarkable; you will be
astonished at the skill with which she cheats them both, and makes
them laugh at each other. Now if that woman were to show the same
confidence in both, if she were to be equally familiar with both,
how could they be deceived for a moment? If she treated them alike,
would she not show that they both had the same claims upon her?
Oh, she is far too clever for that; so far from treating them just
alike, she makes a marked difference between them, and she does
it so skilfully that the man she flatters thinks it is affection,
and the man she ill uses think it is spite. So that each of them
believes she is thinking of him, when she is thinking of no one
but herself.
A general desire to please suggests similar measures; people would
be disgusted with a woman's whims if they were not skilfully managed,
and when they are artistically distributed her servants are more
than ever enslaved.
"Usa ogn'arte la donna, onde sia colto
Nella sua rete alcun novello amante;
Ne con tutti, ne sempre un stesso volto
Serba; ma cangia a tempo atto e sembiante."
Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv., v. 87.
What is the secret of this art? Is it not the result of a delicate
and continuous observation which shows her what is taking place in
a man's heart, so that she is able to encourage or to check every
hidden impulse? Can this art be acquired? No; it is born with women;
it is common to them all, and men never show it to the same degree.
It is one of the distinctive characters of the sex. Self-possession,
penetration, delicate observation, this is a woman's science; the
skill to make use of it is her chief accomplishment.
This is what is, and we have seen why it is so. It is said that
women are false. They become false. They are really endowed with
skill not duplicity; in the genuine inclinations of their sex they
are not false even when they tell a lie. Why do you consult their
words when it is not their mouths that speak? Consult their eyes,
their colour, their breathing, their timid manner, their slight
resistance, that is the language nature gave them for your answer.
The lips always say "No," and rightly so; but the tone is not
always the same, and that cannot lie. Has not a woman the same needs
as a man, but without the same right to make them known? Her fate
would be too cruel if she had no language in which to express her
legitimate desires except the words which she dare not utter. Must
her modesty condemn her to misery? Does she not require a means
of indicating her inclinations without open ｅxpression? What skill
is needed to hide from her lover what she would fain reveal! Is it
not of vital importance that she should learn to touch his heart
without showing that she cares for him? It is a pretty story that
tale of Galatea with her apple and her clumsy flight. What more
is needed? Will she tell the shepherd who pursues her among the
willows that she only flees that he may follow? If she did, it would
be a lie; for she would no longer attract him. The more modest
a woman is, the more art she needs, even with her husband. Yes,
I maintain that coquetry, kept within bounds, becomes modest and
true, and out of it springs a law of right conduct.
One of my opponents has very truly asserted that virtue is one;
you cannot disintegrate it and choose this and reject the other.
If you love virtue, you love it in its entirety, and you close your
heart when you can, and you always close your lips to the feelings
which you ought not to allow. Moral truth is not only what is,
but what is good; what is bad ought not to be, and ought not to be
confessed, especially when that confession produces results which
might have been avoided. If I were tempted to steal, and in confessing
it I tempted another to become my accomplice, the very confession
of my temptation would amount to a yielding to that temptation. Why
do you say that modesty makes women false? Are those who lose their
modesty more sincere than the rest? Not so, they are a thousandfold
more deceitful. This degree of depravity is due to many vices, none
of which is rejected, vices which owe their power to intrigue and
falsehood. [Footnote: I know that women who have openly decided on
a certain course of conduct profess that their lack of concealment
is a virtue in itself, and swear that, with one exception, they are
possessed of all the virtues; but I am sure they never persuaded
any but fools to believe them. When the natural curb is removed
from their sex, what is there left to restrain them? What honour
will they prize when they have rejected the honour of their sex?
Having once given the rein to passion they have no longer any reason
for self-control. "Nec femina, amissa pudicitia, alia abnuerit."
No author ever understood more thoroughly the heart of both sexes
than Tacitus when he wrote those words.]
On the other hand, those who are not utterly shameless, who take no
pride in their faults, who are able to conceal their desires even
from those who inspire them, those who confess their passion most
reluctantly, these are the truest and most sincere, these are they
on whose fidelity you may generally rely.
The only example I know which might be quoted as a recognised exception
to these remarks is Mlle. de L'Enclos; and she was considered a
prodigy. In her scorn for the virtues of women, she practised, so
they say, the virtues of a man. She is praised for her frankness
and uprightness; she was a trustworthy acquaintance and a faithful
friend. To complete the picture of her glory it is said that she
became a man. That may be, but in spite of her high reputation I
should no more desire that man as my friend than as my mistress.
This is not so irrelevant as it seems. I am aware of the tendencies
of our modern philosophy which make a jest of female modesty and
its so-called insincerity; I also perceive that the most certain
result of this philosophy will be to deprive the women of this
century of such shreds of honour as they still possess.
On these grounds I think we may decide in general terms what sort
of education is suited to the female mind, and the objects to which
we should turn its attention in early youth.
As I have already said, the duties of their sex are more easily
recognised than performed. They must learn in the first place
to love those duties by considering the advantages to be derived
from them--that is the only way to make duty easy. Every age and
condition has its own duties. We are quick to see our duty if we
love it. Honour your position as a woman, and in whatever station
of life to which it shall please heaven to call you, you will be
well off. The essential thing is to be what nature has made you;
women are only too ready to be what men would have them.
The search for abstract and speculative truths, for principles and
axioms in science, for all that tends to wide generalisation, is
beyond a woman's grasp; their studies should be thoroughly practical.
It is their business to apply the principles discovered by men, it
is their place to make the observations which lead men to discover
those principles. A woman's thoughts, beyond the range of her immediate
duties, should be directed to the study of men, or the acquirement
of that agreeable learning whose sole end is the formation of taste;
for the works of genius are beyond her reach, and she has neither
the accuracy nor the attention for success in the exact sciences; as
for the physical sciences, to decide the relations between living
creatures and the laws of nature is the task of that sex which
is more active and enterprising, which sees more things, that sex
which is possessed of greater strength and is more accustomed to
the exercise of that strength. Woman, weak as she is and limited
in her range of observation, perceives and judges the forces at
her disposal to supplement her weakness, and those forces are the
passions of man. Her own mechanism is more powerful than ours; she
has many levers which may set the human heart in motion. She must
find a way to make us desire what she cannot achieve unaided and
what she considers necessary or pleasing; therefore she must have
a thorough knowledge of man's mind; not an abstract knowledge of
the mind of man in general, but the mind of those men who are about
her, the mind of those men who have authority over her, either by
law or custom. She must learn to divine their feelings from speech
and action, look and gesture. By her own speech and action, look
and gesture, she must be able to inspire them with the feelings she
desires, without seeming to have any such purpose. The men will
have a better philosophy of the human heart, but she will read
more accurately in the heart of men. Woman should discover, so to
speak, an experimental morality, man should reduce it to a system.
Woman has more wit, man more genius; woman observes, man reasons;
together they provide the clearest light and the profoundest
knowledge which is possible to the unaided human mind; in a word,
the surest knowledge of self and of others of which the human race
is capable. In this way art may constantly tend to the perfection
of the instrument which nature has given us.
The world is woman's book; if she reads it ill, it is either her
own fault or she is blinded by passion. Yet the genuine mother of
a family is no woman of the world, she is almost as much of a recluse
as the nun in her convent. Those who have marriageable daughters
should do what is or ought to be done for those who are entering
the cloisters: they should show them the pleasures they forsake
before they are allowed to renounce them, lest the deceitful picture
of unknown pleasures should creep in to disturb the happiness of
their retreat. In France it is the girls who live in convents and
the wives who flaunt in society. Among the ancients it was quite
otherwise; girls enjoyed, as I have said already, many games and
public festivals; the married women lived in retirement. This was
a more reasonable custom and more conducive to morality. A girl
may be allowed a certain amount of coquetry, and she may be mainly
occupied at amusement. A wife has other responsibilities at home,
and she is no longer on the look-out for a husband; but women
would not appreciate the change, and unluckily it is they who set
the fashion. Mothers, let your daughters be your companions. Give
them good sense and an honest heart, and then conceal from them
nothing that a pure eye may behold. Balls, assemblies, sports, the
theatre itself; everything which viewed amiss delights imprudent
youth may be safely displayed to a healthy mind. The more they
know of these noisy pleasures, the sooner they will cease to desire
them.
I can fancy the outcry with which this will be received. What girl
will resist such an example? Their heads are turned by the first
glimpse of the world; not one of them is ready to give it up. That
may be; but before you showed them this deceitful prospect, did
you prepare them to behold it without emotion? Did you tell them
plainly what it was they would see? Did you show it in its true
light? Did you arm them against the illusions of vanity? Did you
inspire their young hearts with a taste for the true pleasures
which are not to be met with in this tumult? What precautions, what
steps, did you take to preserve them from the false taste which
leads them astray? Not only have you done nothing to preserve
their minds from the tyranny of prejudice, you have fostered that
prejudice; you have taught them to desire every foolish amusement
they can get. Your own example is their teacher. Young people on
their entrance into society have no guide but their mother, who
is often just as silly as they are themselves, and quite unable to
show them things except as she sees them herself. Her example is
stronger than reason; it justifies them in their own eyes, and the
mother's authority is an unanswerable excuse for the daughter. If
I ask a mother to bring her daughter into society, I assume that
she will show it in its true light.
The evil begins still earlier; the convents are regular schools
of coquetry; not that honest coquetry which I have described, but
a coquetry the source of every kind of misconduct, a coquetry which
turns out girls who are the most ridiculous little madams. When
they leave the convent to take their place in smart society, young
women find themselves quite at home. They have been educated for
such a life; is it strange that they like it? I am afraid what I
am going to say may be based on prejudice rather than observation,
but so far as I can see, one finds more family affection, more good
wives and loving mothers in Protestant than in Catholic countries;
if that is so, we cannot fail to suspect that the difference is
partly due to the convent schools.
The charms of a peaceful family life must be known to be enjoyed;
their delights should be tasted in childhood. It is only in our
father's home that we learn to love our own, and a woman whose
mother did not educate her herself will not be willing to educate
her own children. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as home
education in our large towns. Society is so general and so mixed there
is no place left for retirement, and even in the home we live in
public. We live in company till we have no family, and we scarcely
know our own relations, we see them as strangers; and the simplicity
of home life disappears together with the sweet familiarity which
was its charm. In this wise do we draw with our mother's milk a
taste for the pleasures of the age and the maxims by which it is
controlled.
Girls are compelled to assume an air of propriety so that men may
be deceived into marrying them by their appearance. But watch these
young people for a moment; under a pretence of coyness they barely
conceal the passion which devours them, and already you may read
in their eager eyes their desire to imitate their mothers. It is
not a husband they want, but the licence of a married woman. What
need of a husband when there are so many other resources; but
a husband there must be to act as a screen. [Footnote: The way of
a man in his youth was one of the four things that the sage could
not understand; the fifth was the shamelessness of an adulteress.
"Quae comedit, et tergens os suum dicit; non sum operata malum."
Prov. xxx. 20.] There is modesty on the brow, but vice in the
heart; this sham modesty is one of its outward signs; they affect
it that they may be rid of it once for all. Women of Paris and
London, forgive me! There may be miracles everywhere, but I am not
aware of them; and if there is even one among you who is really
pure in heart, I know nothing of our institutions.
All these different methods of education lead alike to a taste for
the pleasures of the great world, and to the passions which this
taste so soon kindles. In our great towns depravity begins at birth;
in the smaller towns it begins with reason. Young women brought up
in the country are soon taught to despise the happy simplicity of
their lives, and hasten to Paris to share the corruption of ours.
Vices, cloaked under the fair name of accomplishments, are the sole
object of their journey; ashamed to find themselves so much behind
the noble licence of the Parisian ladies, they hasten to become
worthy of the name of Parisian. Which is responsible for the
evil--the place where it begins, or the place where it is accomplished?
I would not have a sensible mother bring her girl to Paris to show
her these sights so harmful to others; but I assert that if she
did so, either the girl has been badly brought up, or such sights
have little danger for her. With good taste, good sense, and a love
of what is right, these things are less attractive than to those
who abandon themselves to their charm. In Paris you may see giddy
young things hastening to adopt the tone and fashions of the town
for some six months, so that they may spend the rest of their life
in disgrace; but who gives any heed to those who, disgusted with
the rout, return to their distant home and are contented with their
lot when they have compared it with that which others desire. How
many young wives have I seen whose good-natured husbands have taken
them to Paris where they might live if they pleased; but they have
shrunk from it and returned home more willingly than they went,
saying tenderly, "Ah, let us go back to our cottage, life is happier
there than in these palaces." We do not know how many there are who
have not bowed the knee to Baal, who scorn his senseless worship.
Fools make a stir; good women pass unnoticed.
If so many women preserve a judgment which is proof against temptation,
in spite of universal prejudice, in spite of the bad education of
girls, what would their judgment have been, had it been strengthened
by suitable instruction, or rather left unaffected by evil teaching,
for to preserve or restore the natural feelings is our main business?
You can do this without preaching endless sermons to your daughters,
without crediting them with your harsh morality. The only effect
of such teaching is to inspire a dislike for the teacher and the
lessons. In talking to a young girl you need not make her afraid
of her duties, nor need you increase the burden laid upon her by
nature. When you explain her duties speak plainly and pleasantly;
do not let her suppose that the performance of these duties is
a dismal thing--away with every affectation of disgust or pride.
Every thought which we desire to arouse should find its ｅxpression
in our pupils, their catechism of conduct should be as brief and
plain as their catechism of religion, but it need not be so serious.
Show them that these same duties are the source of their pleasures
and the basis of their rights. Is it so hard to win love by love,
happiness by an amiable disposition, obedience by worth, and honour
by self-respect? How fair are these woman's rights, how worthy of
reverence, how dear to the heart of man when a woman is able to
show their worth! These rights are no privilege of years; a woman's
empire begins with her virtues; her charms are only in the bud,
yet she reigns already by the gentleness of her character and
the dignity of her modesty. Is there any man so hard-hearted and
uncivilised that he does not abate his pride and take heed to his
manners with a sweet and virtuous girl of sixteen, who listens but
says little; her bearing is modest, her conversation honest, her
beauty does not lead her to forget her sex and her youth, her very
timidity arouses interest, while she wins for herself the respect
which she shows to others?
These external signs are not devoid of meaning; they do not rest
entirely upon the charms of sense; they arise from that conviction
that we all feel that women are the natural judges of a man's
worth. Who would be scorned by women? not even he who has ceased
to desire their love. And do you suppose that I, who tell them such
harsh truths, am indifferent to their verdict? Reader, I care more
for their approval than for yours; you are often more effeminate
than they. While I scorn their morals, I will revere their justice;
I care not though they hate me, if I can compel their esteem.
What great things might be accomplished by their influence if only
we could bring it to bear! Alas for the age whose women lose their
ascendancy, and fail to make men respect their judgment! This
is the last stage of degradation. Every virtuous nation has shown
respect to women. Consider Sparta, Germany, and Rome; Rome the
throne of glory and virtue, if ever they were enthroned on earth.
The Roman women awarded honour to the deeds of great generals, they
mourned in public for the fathers of the country, their awards and
their tears were alike held sacred as the most solemn utterance of
the Republic. Every great revolution began with the women. Through
a woman Rome gained her liberty, through a woman the plebeians
won the consulate, through a woman the tyranny of the decemvirs
was overthrown; it was the women who saved Rome when besieged by
Coriolanus. What would you have said at the sight of this procession,
you Frenchmen who pride yourselves on your gallantry, would you
not have followed it with shouts of laughter? You and I see things
with such different eyes, and perhaps we are both right. Such
a procession formed of the fairest beauties of France would be an
indecent spectacle; but let it consist of Roman ladies, you will
all gaze with the eyes of the Volscians and feel with the heart of
Coriolanus.
I will go further and maintain that virtue is no less favourable
to love than to other rights of nature, and that it adds as much
to the power of the beloved as to that of the wife or mother. There
is no real love without enthusiasm, and no enthusiasm without an
object of perfection real or supposed, but always present in the
imagination. What is there to kindle the hearts of lovers for
whom this perfection is nothing, for whom the loved one is merely
the means to sensual pleasure? Nay, not thus is the heart kindled,
not thus does it abandon itself to those sublime transports which
form the rapture of lovers and the charm of love. Love is an
illusion, I grant you, but its reality consists in the feelings it
awakes, in the love of true beauty which it inspires. That beauty
is not to be found in the object of our affections, it is the
creation of our illusions. What matter! do we not still sacrifice
all those baser feelings to the imaginary model? and we still feed
our hearts on the virtues we attribute to the beloved, we still
withdraw ourselves from the baseness of human nature. What lover is
there who would not give his life for his mistress? What gross and
sensual passion is there in a man who is willing to die? We scoff
at the knights of old; they knew the meaning of love; we know
nothing but debauchery. When the teachings of romance began to seem
ridiculous, it was not so much the work of reason as of immorality.
Natural relations remain the same throughout the centuries, their
good or evil effects are unchanged; prejudices, masquerading as
reason, can but change their outward seeming; self-mastery, even
at the behest of fantastic opinions, will not cease to be great
and good. And the true motives of honour will not fail to appeal to
the heart of every woman who is able to seek happiness in life in
her woman's duties. To a high-souled woman chastity above all must
be a delightful virtue. She sees all the kingdoms of the world before
her and she triumphs over herself and them; she sits enthroned in
her own soul and all men do her homage; a few passing struggles
are crowned with perpetual glory; she secures the affection, or it
may be the envy, she secures in any case the esteem of both sexes
and the universal respect of her own. The loss is fleeting, the gain
is permanent. What a joy for a noble heart--the pride of virtue
combined with beauty. Let her be a heroine of romance; she will
taste delights more exquisite than those of Lais and Cleopatra; and
when her beauty is fled, her glory and her joys remain; she alone
can enjoy the past.
The harder and more important the duties, the stronger and clearer
must be the reasons on which they are based. There is a sort of
pious talk about the most serious subjects which is dinned in vain
into the ears of young people. This talk, quite unsuited to their
ideas and the small importance they attach to it in secret, inclines
them to yield readily to their inclinations, for lack of any
reasons for resistance drawn from the facts themselves. No doubt
a girl brought up to goodness and piety has strong weapons against
temptation; but one whose heart, or rather her ears, are merely
filled with the jargon of piety, will certainly fall a prey to the
first skilful seducer who attacks her. A young and beautiful girl
will never despise her body, she will never really deplore sins which
her beauty leads men to commit, she will never lament earnestly in
the sight of God that she is an object of desire, she will never
be convinced that the tenderest feeling is an invention of the Evil
One. Give her other and more pertinent reasons for her own sake,
for these will have no effect. It will be worse to instil, as is
often done, ideas which contradict each other, and after having
humbled and degraded her person and her charms as the stain of sin,
to bid her reverence that same vile body as the temple of Jesus
Christ. Ideas too sublime and too humble are equally ineffective
and they cannot both be true. A reason adapted to her age and sex
is what is needed. Considerations of duty are of no effect unless
they are combined with some motive for the performance of our duty.
"Quae quia non liceat non facit, illa facit."
OVID, Amor. I. iii. eleg. iv.
One would not suspect Ovid of such a harsh judgment.
If you would inspire young people with a love of good conduct avoid
saying, "Be good;" make it their interest to be good; make them
feel the value of goodness and they will love it. It is not enough
to show this effect in the distant future, show it now, in the
relations of the present, in the character of their lovers. Describe
a good man, a man of worth, teach them to recognise him when they
see him, to love him for their own sake; convince them that such
a man alone can make them happy as friend, wife, or mistress. Let
reason lead the way to virtue; make them feel that the empire of
their sex and all the advantages derived from it depend not merely
on the right conduct, the morality, of women, but also on that of
men; that they have little hold over the vile and base, and that
the lover is incapable of serving his mistress unless he can do
homage to virtue. You may then be sure that when you describe the
manners of our age you will inspire them with a genuine disgust;
when you show them men of fashion they will despise them; you
will give them a distaste for their maxims, an aversion to their
sentiments, and a scorn for their empty gallantry; you will arouse a
nobler ambition, to reign over great and strong souls, the ambition
of the Spartan women to rule over men. A bold, shameless, intriguing
woman, who can only attract her lovers by coquetry and retain
them by her favours, wins a servile obedience in common things; in
weighty and important matters she has no influence over them. But
the woman who is both virtuous, wise, and charming, she who, in
a word, combines love and esteem, can send them at her bidding to
the end of the world, to war, to glory, and to death at her behest.
This is a fine kingdom and worth the winning.
This is the spirit in which Sophy has been educated, she has been
trained carefully rather than strictly, and her taste has been
followed rather than thwarted. Let us say just a word about her
person, according to the description I have given to Emile and the
picture he himself has formed of the wife in whom he hopes to find
happiness.
I cannot repeat too often that I am not dealing with prodigies.
Emile is no prodigy, neither is Sophy. He is a man and she is a
woman; this is all they have to boast of. In the present confusion
between the sexes it is almost a miracle to belong to one's own
sex. Sophy is well born and she has a good disposition; she is
very warm-hearted, and this warmth of heart sometimes makes her
imagination run away with her. Her mind is keen rather than accurate,
her temper is pleasant but variable, her person pleasing though
nothing out of the common, her countenance bespeaks a soul and it
speaks true; you may meet her with indifference, but you will not
leave her without emotion. Others possess good qualities which
she lacks; others possess her good qualities in a higher degree,
but in no one are these qualities better blended to form a happy
disposition. She knows how to make the best of her very faults,
and if she were more perfect she would be less pleasing.
Sophy is not beautiful; but in her presence men forget the fairer
women, and the latter are dissatisfied with themselves. At first
sight she is hardly pretty; but the more we see her the prettier
she is; she wins where so many lose, and what she wins she keeps.
Her eyes might be finer, her mouth more beautiful, her stature more
imposing; but no one could have a more graceful figure, a finer
complexion, a whiter hand, a daintier foot, a sweeter look, and
a more expressive countenance. She does not dazzle; she arouses
interest; she delights us, we know not why.
Sophy is fond of dress, and she knows how to dress; her mother has
no other maid; she has taste enough to dress herself well; but she
hates rich clothes; her own are always simple but elegant. She does
not like showy but becoming things. She does not know what colours
are fashionable, but she makes no mistake about those that suit
her. No girl seems more simply dressed, but no one could take
more pains over her toilet; no article is selected at random, and
yet there is no trace of artificiality. Her dress is very modest
in appearance and very coquettish in reality; she does not display
her charms, she conceals them, but in such a way as to enhance
them. When you see her you say, "That is a good modest girl," but
while you are with her, you cannot take your eyes or your thoughts
off her and one might say that this very simple adornment is only
put on to be removed bit by bit by the imagination.
Sophy has natural gifts; she is aware of them, and they have not
been neglected; but never having had a chance of much training she
is content to use her pretty voice to sing tastefully and truly;
her little feet step lightly, easily, and gracefully, she can always
make an easy graceful courtesy. She has had no singing master but
her father, no dancing mistress but her mother; a neighbouring
organist has given her a few lessons in playing accompaniments
on the spinet, and she has improved herself by practice. At first
she only wished to show off her hand on the dark keys; then she
discovered that the thin clear tone of the spinet made her voice
sound sweeter; little by little she recognised the charms of
harmony; as she grew older she at last began to enjoy the charms
of ｅxpression, to love music for its own sake. But she has taste
rather than talent; she cannot read a simple air from notes.
Needlework is what Sophy likes best; and the feminine arts have
been taught her most carefully, even those you would not expect,
such as cutting out and dressmaking. There is nothing she cannot
do with her needle, and nothing that she does not take a delight in
doing; but lace-making is her favourite occupation, because there
is nothing which requires such a pleasing attitude, nothing which
calls for such grace and dexterity of finger. She has also studied
all the details of housekeeping; she understands cooking and
cleaning; she knows the prices of food, and also how to choose it;
she can keep accounts accurately, she is her mother's housekeeper.
Some day she will be the mother of a family; by managing her father's
house she is preparing to manage her own; she can take the place
of any of the servants and she is always ready to do so. You cannot
give orders unless you can do the work yourself; that is why her
mother sets her to do it. Sophy does not think of that; her first
duty is to be a good daughter, and that is all she thinks about for
the present. Her one idea is to help her mother and relieve her of
some of her anxieties. However, she does not like them all equally
well. For instance, she likes dainty food, but she does not like
cooking; the details of cookery offend her, and things are never
clean enough for her. She is extremely sensitive in this respect
and carries her sensitiveness to a fault; she would let the whole
dinner boil over into the fire rather than soil her cuffs. She has
always disliked inspecting the kitchen-garden for the same reason.
The soil is dirty, and as soon as she sees the manure heap she
fancies there is a disagreeable smell.
This defect is the result of her mother's teaching. According to
her, cleanliness is one of the most necessary of a woman's duties,
a special duty, of the highest importance and a duty imposed by
nature. Nothing could be more revolting than a dirty woman, and a
husband who tires of her is not to blame. She insisted so strongly
on this duty when Sophy was little, she required such absolute
cleanliness in her person, clothing, room, work, and toilet, that
use has become habit, till it absorbs one half of her time and
controls the other; so that she thinks less of how to do a thing
than of how to do it without getting dirty.
Yet this has not degenerated into mere affectation and softness;
there is none of the over refinement of luxury. Nothing but clean
water enters her room; she knows no perfumes but the scent of
flowers, and her husband will never find anything sweeter than her
breath. In conclusion, the attention she pays to the outside does
not blind her to the fact that time and strength are meant for greater
tasks; either she does not know or she despises that exaggerated
cleanliness of body which degrades the soul. Sophy is more than
clean, she is pure.
I said that Sophy was fond of good things. She was so by nature; but
she became temperate by habit and now she is temperate by virtue.
Little girls are not to be controlled, as little boys are, to
some extent, through their greediness. This tendency may have ill
effects on women and it is too dangerous to be left unchecked.
When Sophy was little, she did not always return empty handed if
she was sent to her mother's cupboard, and she was not quite to be
trusted with sweets and sugar-almonds. Her mother caught her, took
them from her, punished her, and made her go without her dinner.
At last she managed to persuade her that sweets were bad for the
teeth, and that over-eating spoiled the figure. Thus Sophy overcame
her faults; and when she grew older other tastes distracted her from
this low kind of self-indulgence. With awakening feeling greediness
ceases to be the ruling passion, both with men and women. Sophy
has preserved her feminine tastes; she likes milk and sweets; she
likes pastry and made-dishes, but not much meat. She has never
tasted wine or spirits; moreover, she eats sparingly; women, who do
not work so hard as men, have less waste to repair. In all things
she likes what is good, and knows how to appreciate it; but she
can also put up with what is not so good, or can go without it.
Sophy's mind is pleasing but not brilliant, and thorough but not
deep; it is the sort of mind which calls for no remark, as she
never seems cleverer or stupider than oneself. When people talk to
her they always find what she says attractive, though it may not be
highly ornamental according to modern ideas of an educated woman;
her mind has been formed not only by reading, but by conversation
with her father and mother, by her own reflections, and by her
own observations in the little world in which she has lived. Sophy
is naturally merry; as a child she was even giddy; but her mother
cured her of her silly ways, little by little, lest too sudden a
change should make her self-conscious. Thus she became modest and
retiring while still a child, and now that she is a child no longer,
she finds it easier to continue this conduct than it would have
been to acquire it without knowing why. It is amusing to see her
occasionally return to her old ways and indulge in childish mirth
and then suddenly check herself, with silent lips, downcast eyes,
and rosy blushes; neither child nor woman, she may well partake of
both.
Sophy is too sensitive to be always good humoured, but too gentle
to let this be really disagreeable to other people; it is only
herself who suffers. If you say anything that hurts her she does
not sulk, but her heart swells; she tries to run away and cry. In
the midst of her tears, at a word from her father or mother she
returns at once laughing and playing, secretly wiping her eyes and
trying to stifle her sobs.
Yet she has her whims; if her temper is too much indulged
it degenerates into rebellion, and then she forgets herself. But
give her time to come round and her way of making you forget her
wrong-doing is almost a virtue. If you punish her she is gentle
and submissive, and you see that she is more ashamed of the fault
than the punishment. If you say nothing, she never fails to make
amends, and she does it so frankly and so readily that you cannot
be angry with her. She would kiss the ground before the lowest servant
and would make no fuss about it; and as soon as she is forgiven,
you can see by her delight and her caresses that a load is taken
off her heart. In a word, she endures patiently the wrong-doing of
others, and she is eager to atone for her own. This amiability is
natural to her sex when unspoiled. Woman is made to submit to man
and to endure even injustice at his hands. You will never bring
young lads to this; their feelings rise in revolt against injustice;
nature has not fitted them to put up with it.
"Gravem Pelidae stomachum cedere nescii."
HORACE, lib. i. ode vi.
Sophy's religion is reasonable and simple, with few doctrines and
fewer observances; or rather as she knows no course of conduct but
the right her whole life is devoted to the service of God and to
doing good. In all her parents' teaching of religion she has been
trained to a reverent submission; they have often said, "My little
girl, this is too hard for you; your husband will teach you when
you are grown up." Instead of long sermons about piety, they have
been content to preach by their example, and this example is engraved
on her heart.
Sophy loves virtue; this love has come to be her ruling passion;
she loves virtue because there is nothing fairer in itself, she
loves it because it is a woman's glory and because a virtuous woman
is little lower than the angels; she loves virtue as the only road
to real happiness, because she sees nothing but poverty, neglect,
unhappiness, shame, and disgrace in the life of a bad woman; she
loves virtue because it is dear to her revered father and to her
tender and worthy mother; they are not content to be happy in their
own virtue, they desire hers; and she finds her chief happiness
in the hope of making them happy. All these feelings inspire an
enthusiasm which stirs her heart and keeps all its budding passions
in subjection to this noble enthusiasm. Sophy will be chaste and
good till her dying day; she has vowed it in her secret heart, and
not before she knew how hard it would be to keep her vow; she made
this vow at a time when she would have revoked it had she been the
slave of her senses.
Sophy is not so fortunate as to be a charming French woman,
cold-hearted and vain, who would rather attract attention than
give pleasure, who seeks amusement rather than delight. She suffers
from a consuming desire for love; it even disturbs and troubles
her heart in the midst of festivities; she has lost her former
liveliness, and her taste for merry games; far from being afraid of
the tedium of solitude she desires it. Her thoughts go out to him
who will make solitude sweet to her. She finds strangers tedious,
she wants a lover, not a circle of admirers. She would rather give
pleasure to one good man than be a general favourite, or win that
applause of society which lasts but a day and to-morrow is turned
to scorn.
A woman's judgment develops sooner than a man's; being on the
defensive from her childhood up, and intrusted with a treasure so
hard to keep, she is earlier acquainted with good and evil. Sophy
is precocious by temperament in everything, and her judgment is
more formed than that of most girls of her age. There is nothing
strange in that, maturity is not always reached at the same age.
Sophy has been taught the duties and rights of her own sex and
of ours. She knows men's faults and women's vices; she also knows
their corresponding good qualities and virtues, and has them
by heart. No one can have a higher ideal of a virtuous woman, but
she would rather think of a virtuous man, a man of true worth; she
knows that she is made for such a man, that she is worthy of him,
that she can make him as happy as he will make her; she is sure
she will know him when she sees him; the difficulty is to find him.
Women are by nature judges of a man's worth, as he is of theirs;
this right is reciprocal, and it is recognised as such both by men
and women. Sophy recognises this right and exercises it, but with
the modesty becoming her youth, her inexperience, and her position;
she confines her judgment to what she knows, and she only forms an
opinion when it may help to illustrate some useful precept. She
is extremely careful what she says about those who are absent,
particularly if they are women. She thinks that talking about each
other makes women spiteful and satirical; so long as they only talk
about men they are merely just. So Sophy stops there. As to women
she never says anything at all about them, except to tell the good
she knows; she thinks this is only fair to her sex; and if she
knows no good of any woman, she says nothing, and that is enough.
Sophy has little knowledge of society, but she is observant and
obliging, and all that she does is full of grace. A happy disposition
does more for her than much art. She has a certain courtesy of her
own, which is not dependent on fashion, and does not change with
its changes; it is not a matter of custom, but it arises from a
feminine desire to please. She is unacquainted with the language
of empty compliment, nor does she invent more elaborate compliments
of her own; she does not say that she is greatly obliged, that you
do her too much honour, that you should not take so much trouble,
etc. Still less does she try to make phrases of her own. She responds
to an attention or a customary piece of politeness by a courtesy or
a mere "Thank you;" but this phrase in her mouth is quite enough.
If you do her a real service, she lets her heart speak, and its
words are no empty compliment. She has never allowed French manners
to make her a slave to appearances; when she goes from one room
to another she does not take the arm of an old gentleman, whom she
would much rather help. When a scented fop offers her this empty
attention, she leaves him on the staircase and rushes into the
room saying that she is not lame. Indeed, she will never wear high
heels though she is not tall; her feet are small enough to dispense
with them.
Not only does she adopt a silent and respectful attitude towards
women, but also towards married men, or those who are much older
than herself; she will never take her place above them, unless
compelled to do so; and she will return to her own lower place as
soon as she can; for she knows that the rights of age take precedence
of those of sex, as age is presumably wiser than youth, and wisdom
should be held in the greatest honour.
With young folks of her own age it is another matter; she requires a
different manner to gain their respect, and she knows how to adopt
it without dropping the modest ways which become her. If they
themselves are shy and modest, she will gladly preserve the friendly
familiarity of youth; their innocent conversation will be merry but
suitable; if they become serious they must say something useful;
if they become silly, she soon puts a stop to it, for she has an
utter contempt for the jargon of gallantry, which she considers an
insult to her sex. She feels sure that the man she seeks does not
speak that jargon, and she will never permit in another what would
be displeasing to her in him whose character is engraved on her
heart. Her high opinion of the rights of women, her pride in the
purity of her feelings, that active virtue which is the basis of
her self-respect, make her indignant at the sentimental speeches
intended for her amusement. She does not receive them with open
anger, but with a disconcerting irony or an unexpected iciness.
If a fair Apollo displays his charms, and makes use of his wit in
the praise of her wit, her beauty, and her grace; at the risk of
offending him she is quite capable of saying politely, "Sir, I am
afraid I know that better than you; if we have nothing more interesting
to talk about, I think we may put an end to this conversation." To
say this with a deep courtesy, and then to withdraw to a considerable
distance, is the work of a moment. Ask your lady-killers if it is
easy to continue to babble to such, an unsympathetic ear.
It is not that she is not fond of praise if it is really sincere,
and if she thinks you believe what you say. You must show that you
appreciate her merit if you would have her believe you. Her proud
spirit may take pleasure in homage which is based upon esteem,
but empty compliments are always rejected; Sophy was not meant to
practise the small arts of the dancing-girl.
With a judgment so mature, and a mind like that of a woman of
twenty, Sophy, at fifteen, is no longer treated as a child by her
parents. No sooner do they perceive the first signs of youthful
disquiet than they hasten to anticipate its development, their
conversations with her are wise and tender. These wise and tender
conversations are in keeping with her age and disposition. If her
disposition is what I fancy why should not her father speak to her
somewhat after this fashion?
"You are a big girl now, Sophy, you will soon be a woman. We
want you to be happy, for our own sakes as well as yours, for our
happiness depends on yours. A good girl finds her own happiness
in the happiness of a good man, so we must consider your marriage;
we must think of it in good time, for marriage makes or mars our
whole life, and we cannot have too much time to consider it.
"There is nothing so hard to choose as a good husband, unless it
is a good wife. You will be that rare creature, Sophy, you will
be the crown of our life and the blessing of our declining years;
but however worthy you are, there are worthier people upon earth.
There is no one who would not do himself honour by marriage with
you; there are many who would do you even greater honour than
themselves. Among these we must try to find one who suits you, we
must get to know him and introduce you to him.
"The greatest possible happiness in marriage depends on so many
points of agreement that it is folly to expect to secure them all.
We must first consider the more important matters; if others are
to be found along with them, so much the better; if not we must do
without them. Perfect happiness is not to be found in this world,
but we can, at least, avoid the worst form of unhappiness, that
for which ourselves are to blame.
"There is a natural suitability, there is a suitability of established
usage, and a suitability which is merely conventional. Parents
should decide as to the two latters, and the children themselves
should decide as to the former. Marriages arranged by parents only
depend on a suitability of custom and convention; it is not two
people who are united, but two positions and two properties; but
these things may change, the people remain, they are always there;
and in spite of fortune it is the personal relation that makes a
happy or an unhappy marriage.
"Your mother had rank, I had wealth; this was all that our parents
considered in arranging our marriage. I lost my money, she lost
her position; forgotten by her family, what good did it do her to
be a lady born? In the midst of our misfortunes, the union of our
hearts has outweighed them all; the similarity of our tastes led
us to choose this retreat; we live happily in our poverty, we are
all in all to each other. Sophy is a treasure we hold in common,
and we thank Heaven which has bestowed this treasure and deprived
us of all others. You see, my child, whither we have been led
by Providence; the conventional motives which brought about our
marriage no longer exist, our happiness consists in that natural
suitability which was held of no account.
"Husband and wife should choose each other. A mutual liking should
be the first bond between them. They should follow the guidance of
their own eyes and hearts; when they are married their first duty
will be to love one another, and as love and hatred do not depend
on ourselves, this duty brings another with it, and they must begin
to love each other before marriage. That is the law of nature, and
no power can abrogate it; those who have fettered it by so many
legal restrictions have given heed rather to the outward show of
order than to the happiness of marriage or the morals of the citizen.
You see, my dear Sophy, we do not preach a harsh morality. It tends
to make you your own mistress and to make us leave the choice of
your husband to yourself.
"When we have told you our reasons for giving you full liberty, it
is only fair to speak of your reasons for making a wise use of that
liberty. My child, you are good and sensible, upright and pious, you
have the accomplishments of a good woman and you are not altogether
without charms; but you are poor; you have the gifts most worthy
of esteem, but not those which are most esteemed. Do not seek what
is beyond your reach, and let your ambition be controlled, not by
your ideas or ours, but by the opinion of others. If it were merely
a question of equal merits, I know not what limits to impose on
your hopes; but do not let your ambitions outrun your fortune, and
remember it is very small. Although a man worthy of you would not
consider this inequality an obstacle, you must do what he would not
do; Sophy must follow her mother's example and only enter a family
which counts it an honour to receive her. You never saw our wealth,
you were born in our poverty; you make it sweet for us, and you
share it without hardship. Believe me, Sophy, do not seek those
good things we indeed thank heaven for having taken from us; we
did not know what happiness was till we lost our money.
"You are so amiable that you will win affection, and you are not
go poor as to be a burden. You will be sought in marriage, it may
be by those who are unworthy of you. If they showed themselves in
their true colours, you would rate them at their real value; all
their outward show would not long deceive you; but though your
judgment is good and you know what merit is when you see it, you
are inexperienced and you do not know how people can conceal their
real selves. A skilful knave might study your tastes in order to
seduce you, and make a pretence of those virtues which he does not
possess. You would be ruined, Sophy, before you knew what you were
doing, and you would only perceive your error when you had cause to
lament it. The most dangerous snare, the only snare which reason
cannot avoid, is that of the senses; if ever you have the misfortune
to fall into its toils, you will perceive nothing but fancies and
illusions; your eyes will be fascinated, your judgment troubled,
your will corrupted, your very error will be dear to you, and even
if you were able to perceive it you would not be willing to escape
from it. My child, I trust you to Sophy's own reason; I do not
trust you to the fancies of your own heart. Judge for yourself so
long as your heart is untouched, but when you love betake yourself
to your mother's care.
"I propose a treaty between us which shows our esteem for you, and
restores the order of nature between us. Parents choose a husband
for their daughter and she is only consulted as a matter of form;
that is the custom. We shall do just the opposite; you will choose,
and we shall be consulted. Use your right, Sophy, use it freely
and wisely. The husband suitable for you should be chosen by you
not us. But it is for us to judge whether he is really suitable,
or whether, without knowing it, you are only following your own
wishes. Birth, wealth, position, conventional opinions will count
for nothing with us. Choose a good man whose person and character
suit you; whatever he may be in other respects, we will accept
him as our son-in-law. He will be rich enough if he has bodily
strength, a good character, and family affection. His position will
be good enough if it is ennobled by virtue. If everybody blames
us, we do not care. We do not seek the approbation of men, but your
happiness."
I cannot tell my readers what effect such words would have upon
girls brought up in their fashion. As for Sophy, she will have no
words to reply; shame and emotion will not permit her to express
herself easily; but I am sure that what was said will remain engraved
upon her heart as long as she lives, and that if any human resolution
may be trusted, we may rely on her determination to deserve her
parent's esteem.
At worst let us suppose her endowed with an ardent disposition
which will make her impatient of long delays; I maintain that her
judgment, her knowledge, her taste, her refinement, and, above all,
the sentiments in which she has been brought up from childhood, will
outweigh the impetuosity of the senses, and enable her to offer a
prolonged resistance, if not to overcome them altogether. She would
rather die a virgin martyr than distress her parents by marrying
a worthless man and exposing herself to the unhappiness of an
ill-assorted marriage. Ardent as an Italian and sentimental as an
Englishwoman, she has a curb upon heart and sense in the pride of
a Spaniard, who even when she seeks a lover does not easily discover
one worthy of her.
Not every one can realise the motive power to be found in a love of
what is right, nor the inner strength which results from a genuine
love of virtue. There are men who think that all greatness is a
figment of the brain, men who with their vile and degraded reason
will never recognise the power over human passions which is wielded
by the very madness of virtue. You can only teach such men by
examples; if they persist in denying their existence, so much the
worse for them. If I told them that Sophy is no imaginary person,
that her name alone is my invention, that her education, her conduct,
her character, her very features, really existed, and that her loss
is still mourned by a very worthy family, they would, no doubt,
refuse to believe me; but indeed why should I not venture to relate
word for word the story of a girl so like Sophy that this story
might be hers without surprising any one. Believe it or no, it is
all the same to me; call my history fiction if you will; in any
case I have explained my method and furthered my purpose.
This young girl with the temperament which I have attributed to
Sophy was so like her in other respects that she was worthy of the
name, and so we will continue to use it. After the conversation
related above, her father and mother thought that suitable husbands
would not be likely to offer themselves in the hamlet where they
lived; so they decided to send her to spend the winter in town,
under the care of an aunt who was privately acquainted with the
object of the journey; for Sophy's heart throbbed with noble pride
at the thought of her self-control; and however much she might
want to marry, she would rather have died a maid than have brought
herself to go in search of a husband.
In response to her parents' wishes her aunt introduced her to her
friends, took her into company, both private and public, showed
her society, or rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid little
heed to its bustle. Yet it was plain that she did not shrink from
young men of pleasing appearance and modest seemly behaviour.
Her very shyness had a charm of its own, which was very much like
coquetry; but after talking to them once or twice she repulsed them.
She soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to accept men's
homage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling politeness.
Always watchful over her conduct, she gave them no chance of doing
her the least service; it was perfectly plain that she was determined
not to accept any one of them.
Never did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, the
empty and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those who
think that a merry life is a happy life. Sophy did not find what
she sought, and she felt sure she never would, so she got tired
of the town. She loved her parents dearly and nothing made up for
their absence, nothing could make her forget them; she went home
long before the time fixed for the end of her visit.
Scarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived that
her temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she was
forgetful, impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret. At first
they thought she was in love and was ashamed to own it; they spoke
to her, but she repudiated the idea. She protested she had seen no
one who could touch her heart, and Sophy always spoke the truth.
Yet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to give
way. Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know the
reason for this change. She took her aside, and with the winning
speech and the irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ,
she said, "My child, whom I have borne beneath my heart, whom I bear
ever in my affection, confide your secret to your mother's bosom.
What secrets are these which a mother may not know? Who pities
your sufferings, who shares them, who would gladly relieve them,
if not your father and myself? Ah, my child! would you have me die
of grief for your sorrow without letting me share it?"
Far from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl asked
nothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but she
could not speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to describe
a condition so unworthy of her, as the emotion which disturbed her
senses in spite of all her efforts. At length her very shame gave
her mother a clue to her difficulty, and she drew from her the
humiliating confession. Far from distressing her with reproaches
or unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her, wept over her; she
was too wise to make a crime of an evil which virtue alone made so
cruel. But why put up with such an evil when there was no necessity
to do so, when the remedy was so easy and so legitimate? Why did
she not use the freedom they had granted her? Why did she not take
a husband? Why did she not make her choice? Did she not know that
she was perfectly independent in this matter, that whatever her
choice, it would be approved, for it was sure to be good? They had
sent her to town, but she would not stay; many suitors had offered
themselves, but she would have none of them. What did she expect?
What did she want? What an inexplicable contradiction?
The reply was simple. If it were only a question of the partner of
her youth, her choice would soon be made; but a master for life is
not so easily chosen; and since the two cannot be separated, people
must often wait and sacrifice their youth before they find the man
with whom they could spend their life. Such was Sophy's case; she
wanted a lover, but this lover must be her husband; and to discover
a heart such as she required, a lover and husband were equally
difficult to find. All these dashing young men were only her equals
in age, in everything else they were found lacking; their empty
wit, their vanity, their affectations of speech, their ill-regulated
conduct, their frivolous imitations alike disgusted her. She sought
a man and she found monkeys; she sought a soul and there was none
to be found.
"How unhappy I am!" said she to her mother; "I am compelled to love
and yet I am dissatisfied with every one. My heart rejects every
one who appeals to my senses. Every one of them stirs my passions
and all alike revolt them; a liking unaccompanied by respect cannot
last. That is not the sort of man for your Sophy; the delightful
image of her ideal is too deeply graven in her heart. She can love
no other; she can make no one happy but him, and she cannot be
happy without him. She would rather consume herself in ceaseless
conflicts, she would rather die free and wretched, than driven
desperate by the company of a man she did not love, a man she
would make as unhappy as herself; she would rather die than live
to suffer."
Amazed at these strange ideas, her mother found them so peculiar
that she could not fail to suspect some mystery. Sophy was neither
affected nor absurd. How could such exaggerated delicacy exist in
one who had been so carefully taught from her childhood to adapt
herself to those with whom she must live, and to make a virtue
of necessity? This ideal of the delightful man with which she was
so enchanted, who appeared so often in her conversation, made her
mother suspect that there was some foundation for her caprices
which was still unknown to her, and that Sophy had not told her
all. The unhappy girl, overwhelmed with her secret grief, was only
too eager to confide it to another. Her mother urged her to speak;
she hesitated, she yielded, and leaving the room without a word,
she presently returned with a book in her hand. "Have pity on your
unhappy daughter, there is no remedy for her grief, her tears cannot
be dried. You would know the cause: well, here it is," said she,
flinging the book on the table. Her mother took the book and opened
it; it was The Adventures of Telemachus. At first she could make
nothing of this riddle; by dint of questions and vague replies, she
discovered to her great surprise that her daughter was the rival
of Eucharis.
Sophy was in love with Telemachus, and loved him with a passion
which nothing could cure. When her father and mother became aware
of her infatuation, they laughed at it and tried to cure her by
reasoning with her. They were mistaken, reason was not altogether
on their side; Sophy had her own reason and knew how to use it.
Many a time did she reduce them to silence by turning their own
arguments against them, by showing them that it was all their own
fault for not having trained her to suit the men of that century;
that she would be compelled to adopt her husband's way of thinking
or he must adopt hers, that they had made the former course impossible
by the way she had been brought up, and that the latter was just
what she wanted. "Give me," said she, "a man who holds the same
opinions as I do, or one who will be willing to learn them from me,
and I will marry him; but until then, why do you scold me? Pity me;
I am miserable, but not mad. Is the heart controlled by the will?
Did my father not ask that very question? Is it my fault if I love
what has no existence? I am no visionary; I desire no prince, I
seek no Telemachus, I know he is only an imaginary person; I seek
some one like him. And why should there be no such person, since
there is such a person as I, I who feel that my heart is like his?
No, let us not wrong humanity so greatly, let us not think that
an amiable and virtuous man is a figment of the imagination. He
exists, he lives, perhaps he is seeking me; he is seeking a soul
which is capable of love for him. But who is he, where is he? I
know not; he is not among those I have seen; and no doubt I shall
never see him. Oh! mother, why did you make virtue too attractive?
If I can love nothing less, you are more to blame than I."
Must I continue this sad story to its close? Must I describe the
long struggles which preceded it? Must I show an impatient mother
exchanging her former caresses for severity? Must I paint an angry
father forgetting his former promises, and treating the most virtuous
of daughters as a mad woman? Must I portray the unhappy girl, more
than ever devoted to her imaginary hero, because of the persecution
brought upon her by that devotion, drawing nearer step by step
to her death, and descending into the grave when they were about
to force her to the altar? No; I will not dwell upon these gloomy
scenes; I have no need to go so far to show, by what I consider
a sufficiently striking example, that in spite of the prejudices
arising from the manners of our age, the enthusiasm for the good
and the beautiful is no more foreign to women than to men, and that
there is nothing which, under nature's guidance, cannot be obtained
from them as well as from us.
You stop me here to inquire whether it is nature which teaches us
to take such pains to repress our immoderate desires. No, I reply,
but neither is it nature who gives us these immoderate desires.
Now, all that is not from nature is contrary to nature, as I have
proved again and again.
Let us give Emile his Sophy; let us restore this sweet girl to life
and provide her with a less vivid imagination and a happier fate.
I desired to paint an ordinary woman, but by endowing her with a
great soul, I have disturbed her reason. I have gone astray. Let us
retrace our steps. Sophy has only a good disposition and an ordinary
heart; her education is responsible for everything in which she
excels other women.
In this book I intended to describe all that might be done and to
leave every one free to choose what he could out of all the good
things I described. I meant to train a helpmeet for Emile, from the
very first, and to educate them for each other and with each other.
But on consideration I thought all these premature arrangements
undesirable, for it was absurd to plan the marriage of two children
before I could tell whether this union was in accordance with
nature and whether they were really suited to each other. We must
not confuse what is suitable in a state of savagery with what is
suitable in civilised life. In the former, any woman will suit any
man, for both are still in their primitive and undifferentiated
condition; in the latter, all their characteristics have been
developed by social institutions, and each mind, having taken its
own settled form, not from education alone, but by the co-operation,
more or less well-regulated, of natural disposition and education,
we can only make a match by introducing them to each other to see
if they suit each other in every respect, or at least we can let them
make that choice which gives the most promise of mutual suitability.
The difficulty is this: while social life develops character
it differentiates classes, and these two classifications do not
correspond, so that the greater the social distinctions, the greater
the difficulty of finding the corresponding character. Hence we
have ill-assorted marriages and all their accompanying evils; and
we find that it follows logically that the further we get from
equality, the greater the change in our natural feelings; the wider
the distance between great and small, the looser the marriage tie;
the deeper the gulf between rich and poor the fewer husbands and
fathers. Neither master nor slave belongs to a family, but only to
a class.
If you would guard against these abuses, and secure happy marriages,
you must stifle your prejudices, forget human institutions, and
consult nature. Do not join together those who are only alike in
one given condition, those who will not suit one another if that
condition is changed; but those who are adapted to one another in
every situation, in every country, and in every rank in which they
may be placed. I do not say that conventional considerations are
of no importance in marriage, but I do say that the influence of
natural relations is so much more important, that our fate in life
is decided by them alone, and that there is such an agreement of
taste, temper, feeling, and disposition as should induce a wise
father, though he were a prince, to marry his son, without a moment's
hesitation, to the woman so adapted to him, were she born in a bad
home, were she even the hangman's daughter. I maintain indeed that
every possible misfortune may overtake husband and wife if they are
thus united, yet they will enjoy more real happiness while they
mingle their tears, than if they possessed all the riches of the
world, poisoned by divided hearts.
Instead of providing a wife for Emile in childhood, I have waited
till I knew what would suit him. It is not for me to decide, but
for nature; my task is to discover the choice she has made. My
business, mine I repeat, not his father's; for when he entrusted his
son to my care, he gave up his place to me. He gave me his rights;
it is I who am really Emile's father; it is I who have made a man
of him. I would have refused to educate him if I were not free to
marry him according to his own choice, which is mine. Nothing but
the pleasure of bestowing happiness on a man can repay me for the
cost of making him capable of happiness.
Do not suppose, however, that I have delayed to find a wife for
Emile till I sent him in search of her. This search is only a pretext
for acquainting him with women, so that he may perceive the value
of a suitable wife. Sophy was discovered long since; Emile may even
have seen her already, but he will not recognise her till the time
is come.
Although equality of rank is not essential in marriage, yet this
equality along with other kinds of suitability increases their
value; it is not to be weighed against any one of them, but, other
things being equal, it turns the scale.
A man, unless he is a king, cannot seek a wife in any and every
class; if he himself is free from prejudices, he will find them in
others; and this girl or that might perhaps suit him and yet she
would be beyond his reach. A wise father will therefore restrict
his inquiries within the bounds of prudence. He should not wish to
marry his pupil into a family above his own, for that is not within
his power. If he could do so he ought not desire it; for what
difference does rank make to a young man, at least to my pupil?
Yet, if he rises he is exposed to all sorts of real evils which
he will feel all his life long. I even say that he should not try
to adjust the balance between different gifts, such as rank and
money; for each of these adds less to the value of the other than
the amount deducted from its own value in the process of adjustment;
moreover, we can never agree as to a common denominator; and
finally the preference, which each feels for his own surroundings,
paves the way for discord between the two families and often to
difficulties between husband and wife.
It makes a considerable difference as to the suitability of
a marriage whether a man marries above or beneath him. The former
case is quite contrary to reason, the latter is more in conformity
with reason. As the family is only connected with society through
its head, it is the rank of that head which decides that of the
family as a whole. When he marries into a lower rank, a man does
not lower himself, he raises his wife; if, on the other hand, he
marries above his position, he lowers his wife and does not raise
himself. Thus there is in the first case good unmixed with evil,
in the other evil unmixed with good. Moreover, the law of nature
bids the woman obey the man. If he takes a wife from a lower class,
natural and civil law are in accordance and all goes well. When he
marries a woman of higher rank it is just the opposite case; the
man must choose between diminished rights or imperfect gratitude;
he must be ungrateful or despised. Then the wife, laying claim to
authority, makes herself a tyrant over her lawful head; and the
master, who has become a slave, is the most ridiculous and miserable
of creatures. Such are the unhappy favourites whom the sovereigns
of Asia honour and torment with their alliance; people tell us that
if they desire to sleep with their wife they must enter by the foot
of the bed.
I expect that many of my readers will remember that I think women
have a natural gift for managing men, and will accuse me of contradicting
myself; yet they are mistaken. There is a vast difference between
claiming the right to command, and managing him who commands. Woman's
reign is a reign of gentleness, tact, and kindness; her commands
are caresses, her threats are tears. She should reign in the home
as a minister reigns in the state, by contriving to be ordered to
do what she wants. In this sense, I grant you, that the best managed
homes are those where the wife has most power. But when she despises
the voice of her head, when she desires to usurp his rights and
take the command upon herself, this inversion of the proper order
of things leads only to misery, scandal, and dishonour.
There remains the choice between our equals and our inferiors; and
I think we ought also to make certain restrictions with regard to
the latter; for it is hard to find in the lowest stratum of society
a woman who is able to make a good man happy; not that the lower
classes are more vicious than the higher, but because they have so
little idea of what is good and beautiful, and because the injustice
of other classes makes its very vices seem right in the eyes of
this class.
By nature man thinks but seldom. He learns to think as he acquires
the other arts, but with even greater difficulty. In both sexes
alike I am only aware of two really distinct classes, those who
think and those who do not; and this difference is almost entirely
one of education. A man who thinks should not ally himself with a
woman who does not think, for he loses the chief delight of social
life if he has a wife who cannot share his thoughts. People who
spend their whole life in working for a living have no ideas beyond
their work and their own interests, and their mind seems to reside
in their arms. This ignorance is not necessarily unfavourable either
to their honesty or their morals; it is often favourable; we often
content ourselves with thinking about our duties, and in the end
we substitute words for things. Conscience is the most enlightened
philosopher; to be an honest man we need not read Cicero's De
Officiis, and the most virtuous woman in the world is probably she
who knows least about virtue. But it is none the less true that
a cultivated mind alone makes intercourse pleasant, and it is a
sad thing for a father of a family, who delights in his home, to
be forced to shut himself up in himself and to be unable to make
himself understood.
Moreover, if a woman is quite unaccustomed to think, how can she
bring up her children? How will she know what is good for them? How
can she incline them to virtues of which she is ignorant, to merit
of which she has no conception? She can only flatter or threaten,
she can only make them insolent or timid; she will make them
performing monkeys or noisy little rascals; she will never make
them intelligent or pleasing children.
Therefore it is not fitting that a man of education should choose
a wife who has none, or take her from a class where she cannot be
expected to have any education. But I would a thousand times rather
have a homely girl, simply brought up, than a learned lady and a
wit who would make a literary circle of my house and install herself
as its president. A female wit is a scourge to her husband, her
children, her friends, her servants, to everybody. From the lofty
height of her genius she scorns every womanly duty, and she is
always trying to make a man of herself after the fashion of Mlle.
de L'Enclos. Outside her home she always makes herself ridiculous
and she is very rightly a butt for criticism, as we always are when
we try to escape from our own position into one for which we are
unfitted. These highly talented women only get a hold over fools.
We can always tell what artist or friend holds the pen or pencil
when they are at work; we know what discreet man of letters dictates
their oracles in private. This trickery is unworthy of a decent
woman. If she really had talents, her pretentiousness would degrade
them. Her honour is to be unknown; her glory is the respect of
her husband; her joys the happiness of her family. I appeal to my
readers to give me an honest answer; when you enter a woman's room
what makes you think more highly of her, what makes you address
her with more respect--to see her busy with feminine occupations,
with her household duties, with her children's clothes about her,
or to find her writing verses at her toilet table surrounded with
pamphlets of every kind and with notes on tinted paper? If there
were none but wise men upon earth such a woman would die an old
maid.
"Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, galla? diserta es."
Martial xi. 20.
Looks must next be considered; they are the first thing that strikes
us and they ought to be the last, still they should not count for
nothing. I think that great beauty is rather to be shunned than
sought after in marriage. Possession soon exhausts our appreciation
of beauty; in six weeks' time we think no more about it, but its
dangers endure as long as life itself. Unless a beautiful woman
is an angel, her husband is the most miserable of men; and even if
she were an angel he would still be the centre of a hostile crowd
and she could not prevent it. If extreme ugliness were not repulsive
I should prefer it to extreme beauty; for before very long the
husband would cease to notice either, but beauty would still have
its disadvantages and ugliness its advantages. But ugliness which
is actually repulsive is the worst misfortune; repulsion increases
rather than diminishes, and it turns to hatred. Such a union is a
hell upon earth; better death than such a marriage.
Desire mediocrity in all things, even in beauty. A pleasant attractive
countenance, which inspires kindly feelings rather than love, is
what we should prefer; the husband runs no risk, and the advantages
are common to husband and wife; charm is less perishable than
beauty; it is a living thing, which constantly renews itself, and
after thirty years of married life, the charms of a good woman
delight her husband even as they did on the wedding-day.
Such are the considerations which decided my choice of Sophy.
Brought up, like Emile, by Nature, she is better suited to him than
any other; she will be his true mate. She is his equal in birth and
character, his inferior in fortune. She makes no great impression
at first sight, but day by day reveals fresh charms. Her chief
influence only takes effect gradually, it is only discovered in
friendly intercourse; and her husband will feel it more than any
one. Her education is neither showy nor neglected; she has taste
without deep study, talent without art, judgment without learning.
Her mind knows little, but it is trained to learn; it is well-tilled
soil ready for the sower. She has read no book but Bareme and
Telemachus which happened to fall into her hands; but no girl who
can feel so passionately towards Telemachus can have a heart without
feeling or a mind without discernment. What charming ignorance!
Happy is he who is destined to be her tutor. She will not be her
husband's teacher but his scholar; far from seeking to control his
tastes, she will share them. She will suit him far better than
a blue-stocking and he will have the pleasure of teaching her
everything. It is time they made acquaintance; let us try to plan
a meeting.
When we left Paris we were sorrowful and wrapped in thought. This
Babel is not our home. Emile casts a scornful glance towards the
great city, saying angrily, "What a time we have wasted; the bride
of my heart is not there. My friend, you knew it, but you think
nothing of my time, and you pay no heed to my sufferings." With
steady look and firm voice I reply, "Emile, do you mean what you
say?" At once he flings his arms round my neck and clasps me to
his breast without speaking. That is his answer when he knows he
is in the wrong.
And now we are wandering through the country like true knights-errant;
yet we are not seeking adventures when we leave Paris; we are escaping
from them; now fast now slow, we wander through the country like
knights-errants. By following my usual practice the taste for it
has become established; and I do not suppose any of my readers are
such slaves of custom as to picture us dozing in a post-chaise with
closed windows, travelling, yet seeing nothing, observing nothing,
making the time between our start and our arrival a mere blank,
and losing in the speed of our journey, the time we meant to save.
Men say life is short, and I see them doing their best to shorten
it. As they do not know how to spend their time they lament the
swiftness of its flight, and I perceive that for them it goes only
too slowly. Intent merely on the object of their pursuit, they behold
unwillingly the space between them and it; one desires to-morrow,
another looks a month ahead, another ten years beyond that. No
one wants to live to-day, no one contents himself with the present
hour, all complain that it passes slowly. When they complain that
time flies, they lie; they would gladly purchase the power to hasten
it; they would gladly spend their fortune to get rid of their whole
life; and there is probably not a single one who would not have
reduced his life to a few hours if he had been free to get rid of
those hours he found tedious, and those which separated him from
the desired moment. A man spends his whole life rushing from Paris
to Versailles, from Versailles to Paris, from town to country, from
country to town, from one district of the town to another; but he
would not know what to do with his time if he had not discovered
this way of wasting it, by leaving his business on purpose to find
something to do in coming back to it; he thinks he is saving the
time he spends, which would otherwise be unoccupied; or maybe he
rushes for the sake of rushing, and travels post in order to return
in the same fashion. When will mankind cease to slander nature? Why
do you complain that life is short when it is never short enough
for you? If there were but one of you, able to moderate his desires,
so that he did not desire the flight of time, he would never find
life too short; for him life and the joy of life would be one and
the same; should he die young, he would still die full of days.
If this were the only advantage of my way of travelling it would
be enough. I have brought Emile up neither to desire nor to wait,
but to enjoy; and when his desires are bent upon the future, their
ardour is not so great as to make time seem tedious. He will not
only enjoy the delights of longing, but the delights of approaching
the object of his desires; and his passions are under such restraint
that he lives to a great extent in the present.
So we do not travel like couriers but like explorers. We do not
merely consider the beginning and the end, but the space between.
The journey itself is a delight. We do not travel sitting, dismally
imprisoned, so to speak, in a tightly closed cage. We do not travel
with the ease and comfort of ladies. We do not deprive ourselves
of the fresh air, nor the sight of the things about us, nor the
opportunity of examining them at our pleasure. Emile will never
enter a post-chaise, nor will he ride post unless in a great hurry.
But what cause has Emile for haste? None but the joy of life. Shall
I add to this the desire to do good when he can? No, for that is
itself one of the joys of life.
I can only think of one way of travelling pleasanter than travelling
on horseback, and that is to travel on foot. You start at your own
time, you stop when you will, you do as much or as little as you
choose. You see the country, you turn off to the right or left;
you examine anything which interests you, you stop to admire every
view. Do I see a stream, I wander by its banks; a leafy wood, I
seek its shade; a cave, I enter it; a quarry, I study its geology.
If I like a place, I stop there. As soon as I am weary of it, I go
on. I am independent of horses and postillions; I need not stick
to regular routes or good roads; I go anywhere where a man can
go; I see all that a man can see; and as I am quite independent of
everybody, I enjoy all the freedom man can enjoy. If I am stopped
by bad weather and I find myself getting bored, then I take horses.
If I am tired--but Emile is hardly ever tired; he is strong; why
should he get tired? There is no hurry? If he stops, why should he
be bored? He always finds some amusement. He works at a trade; he
uses his arms to rest his feet.
To travel on foot is to travel in the fashion of Thales, Plato,
and Pythagoras. I find it hard to understand how a philosopher can
bring himself to travel in any other way; how he can tear himself
from the study of the wealth which lies before his eyes and beneath
his feet. Is there any one with an interest in agriculture, who
does not want to know the special products of the district through
which he is passing, and their method of cultivation? Is there
any one with a taste for natural history, who can pass a piece of
ground without examining it, a rock without breaking off a piece
of it, hills without looking for plants, and stones without seeking
for fossils?
Your town-bred scientists study natural history in cabinets; they
have small specimens; they know their names but nothing of their
nature. Emile's museum is richer than that of kings; it is the
whole world. Everything is in its right place; the Naturalist who
is its curator has taken care to arrange it in the fairest order;
Dauberton could do no better.
What varied pleasures we enjoy in this delightful way of travelling,
not to speak of increasing health and a cheerful spirit. I notice
that those who ride in nice, well-padded carriages are always wrapped
in thought, gloomy, fault-finding, or sick; while those who go on
foot are always merry, light-hearted, and delighted with everything.
How cheerful we are when we get near our lodging for the night!
How savoury is the coarse food! How we linger at table enjoying
our rest! How soundly we sleep on a hard bed! If you only want to
get to a place you may ride in a post-chaise; if you want to travel
you must go on foot.
If Sophy is not forgotten before we have gone fifty leagues in the
way I propose, either I am a bungler or Emile lacks curiosity; for
with an elementary knowledge of so many things, it is hardly to be
supposed that he will not be tempted to extend his knowledge. It
is knowledge that makes us curious; and Emile knows just enough to
want to know more.
One thing leads on to another, and we make our way forward. If I
chose a distant object for the end of our first journey, it is not
difficult to find an excuse for it; when we leave Paris we must
seek a wife at a distance.
A few days later we had wandered further than usual among hills and
valleys where no road was to be seen and we lost our way completely.
No matter, all roads are alike if they bring you to your journey's
end, but if you are hungry they must lead somewhere. Luckily we
came across a peasant who took up to his cottage; we enjoyed his
poor dinner with a hearty appetite. When he saw how hungry and
tired we were he said, "If the Lord had led you to the other side
of the hill you would have had a better welcome, you would have
found a good resting place, such good, kindly people! They could
not wish to do more for you than I, but they are richer, though
folks say they used to be much better off. Still they are not
reduced to poverty, and the whole country-side is the better for
what they have."
When Emile heard of these good people his heart warmed to them. "My
friend," said he, looking at me, "let us visit this house, whose
owners are a blessing to the district; I shall be very glad to
see them; perhaps they will be pleased to see us too; I am sure we
shall be welcome; we shall just suit each other."
Our host told us how to find our way to the house and we set off,
but lost our way in the woods. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm,
which delayed us further. At last we found the right path and in
the evening we reached the house, which had been described to us.
It was the only house among the cottages of the little hamlet, and
though plain it had an air of dignity. We went up to the door and
asked for hospitality. We were taken to the owner of the house, who
questioned us courteously; without telling him the object of our
journey, we told him why we had left our path. His former wealth
enabled him to judge a man's position by his manners; those who
have lived in society are rarely mistaken; with this passport we
were admitted.
The room we were shown into was very small, but clean and comfortable;
a fire was lighted, and we found linen, clothes, and everything
we needed. "Why," said Emile, in astonishment, one would think
they were expecting us. The peasant was quite right; how kind and
attentive, how considerate, and for strangers too! I shall think I
am living in the times of Homer." "I am glad you feel this," said
I, "but you need not be surprised; where strangers are scarce, they
are welcome; nothing makes people more hospitable than the fact
that calls upon their hospitality are rare; when guests are frequent
there is an end to hospitality. In Homer's time, people rarely
travelled, and travellers were everywhere welcome. Very likely we
are the only people who have passed this way this year." "Never
mind," said he, "to know how to do without guests and yet to give
them a kind welcome, is its own praise."
Having dried ourselves and changed our clothes, we rejoined the
master of the house, who introduced us to his wife; she received
us not merely with courtesy but with kindness. Her glance rested
on Emile. A mother, in her position, rarely receives a young man
into her house without some anxiety or some curiosity at least.
Supper was hurried forward on our account. When we went into the
dining-room there were five places laid; we took our seats and the
fifth chair remained empty. Presently a young girl entered, made
a deep courtesy, and modestly took her place without a word. Emile
was busy with his supper or considering how to reply to what was
said to him; he bowed to her and continued talking and eating.
The main object of his journey was as far from his thoughts as he
believed himself to be from the end of his journey. The conversation
turned upon our losing our way. "Sir," said the master of the house
to Emile, "you seem to be a pleasant well-behaved young gentleman,
and that reminds me that your tutor and you arrived wet and weary
like Telemachus and Mentor in the island of Calypso." "Indeed,"
said Emile, "we have found the hospitality of Calypso." His Mentor
added, "And the charms of Eucharis." But Emile knew the Odyssey and
he had not read Telemachus, so he knew nothing of Eucharis. As for
the young girl, I saw she blushed up to her eyebrows, fixed her
eyes on her plate, and hardly dared to breathe. Her mother, noticing
her confusion, made a sign to her father to turn the conversation.
When he talked of his lonely life, he unconsciously began to relate
the circumstances which brought him into it; his misfortunes, his
wife's fidelity, the consolations they found in their marriage,
their quiet, peaceful life in their retirement, and all this without
a word of the young girl; it is a pleasing and a touching story,
which cannot fail to interest. Emile, interested and sympathetic,
leaves off eating and listens. When finally this best of men
discourses with delight of the affection of the best of women, the
young traveller, carried away by his feelings, stretches one hand
to the husband, and taking the wife's hand with the other, he kisses
it rapturously and bathes it with his tears. Everybody is charmed
with the simple enthusiasm of the young man; but the daughter, more
deeply touched than the rest by this evidence of his kindly heart,
is reminded of Telemachus weeping for the woes of Philoctetus. She
looks at him shyly, the better to study his countenance; there is
nothing in it to give the lie to her comparison.
His easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners are
lively but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and his
ｅxpression more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep, is ready
to mingle her tears with his. With so good an excuse for tears,
she is restrained by a secret shame; she blames herself already for
the tears which tremble on her eyelids, as though it were wrong to
weep for one's family.
Her mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down to
supper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her on some
errand. The daughter returns directly, but so little recovered that
her distress is apparent to all. Her mother says gently, "Sophy,
control yourself; will you never cease to weep for the misfortunes
of your parents? Why should you, who are their chief comfort, be
more sensitive than they are themselves?"
At the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start. His
attention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at once
and looks eagerly at one who dares to bear it. Sophy! Are you the
Sophy whom my heart is seeking? Is it you that I love? He looks at
her; he watches her with a sort of fear and self-distrust. The face
is not quite what he pictured; he cannot tell whether he likes it
more or less. He studies every feature, he watches every movement,
every gesture; he has a hundred fleeting interpretations for them
all; he would give half his life if she would but speak. He looks
at me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions and
reproaches. His every glance seems to say, "Guide me while there
is yet time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived, I shall
never get over it."
There is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings than
Emile. How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatest
disturbance he has ever experienced, and under the eyes of four
spectators who are all watching him, while she who seems to heed
him least is really most occupied with him. His uneasiness does
not escape the keen eyes of Sophy; his own eyes tell her that she
is its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not yet love; what
matter? He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will be
very unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity.
Mothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too.
Sophy's mother smiles at the success of our schemes. She reads the
hearts of the young people; she sees that the time has come to
secure the heart of this new Telemachus; she makes her daughter
speak. Her daughter, with her native sweetness, replies in a timid
tone which makes all the more impression. At the first sound of
her voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy herself; there can be no
doubt about it. If it were not so, it would be too late to deny
it.
The charms of this maiden enchantress rush like torrents through
his heart, and he begins to drain the draughts of poison with which
he is intoxicated. He says nothing; questions pass unheeded; he
sees only Sophy, he hears only Sophy; if she says a word, he opens
his mouth; if her eyes are cast down, so are his; if he sees her
sigh, he sighs too; it is Sophy's heart which seems to speak in
his. What a change have these few moments wrought in her heart! It
is no longer her turn to tremble, it is Emile's. Farewell liberty,
simplicity, frankness. Confused, embarrassed, fearful, he dare not
look about him for fear he should see that we are watching him.
Ashamed that we should read his secret, he would fain become
invisible to every one, that he might feed in secret on the sight
of Sophy. Sophy, on the other hand, regains her confidence at the
sight of Emile's fear; she sees her triumph and rejoices in it.
"No'l mostra gia, ben che in suo cor ne rida."
Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv. v. 33.
Her ｅxpression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest look
and downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and it
tells her that she has found Telemachus.
If I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affections
you will accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken. Sufficient
attention is not given to the effect which the first connection
between man and woman is bound to produce on the future life of
both. People do not see that a first impression so vivid as that
of love, or the liking which takes the place of love, produces
lasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works on
education are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of the
imaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the most
important and most difficult part of their education, the crisis
which forms the bridge between the child and the man. If any part
of this work is really useful, it will be because I have dwelt at great
length on this matter, so essential in itself and so neglected by
other authors, and because I have not allowed myself to be discouraged
either by false delicacy or by the difficulties of ｅxpression. The
story of human nature is a fair romance. Am I to blame if it is
not found elsewhere? I am trying to write the history of mankind.
If my book is a romance, the fault lies with those who deprave
mankind.
This is supported by another reason; we are not dealing with a
youth given over from childhood to fear, greed, envy, pride, and
all those passions which are the common tools of the schoolmaster;
we have to do with a youth who is not only in love for the first
time, but with one who is also experiencing his first passion of
any kind; very likely it will be the only strong passion he will
ever know, and upon it depends the final formation of his character.
His mode of thought, his feelings, his tastes, determined by
a lasting passion, are about to become so fixed that they will be
incapable of further change.
You will easily understand that Emile and I do not spend the whole
of the night which follows after such an evening in sleep. Why! Do
you mean to tell me that a wise man should be so much affected by
a mere coincidence of name! Is there only one Sophy in the world?
Are they all alike in heart and in name? Is every Sophy he meets
his Sophy? Is he mad to fall in love with a person of whom he knows
so little, with whom he has scarcely exchanged a couple of words?
Wait, young man; examine, observe. You do not even know who our
hosts may be, and to hear you talk one would think the house was
your own.
This is no time for teaching, and what I say will receive scant
attention. It only serves to stimulate Emile to further interest
in Sophy, through his desire to find reasons for his fancy. The
unexpected coincidence in the name, the meeting which, so far as he
knows, was quite accidental, my very caution itself, only serve as
fuel to the fire. He is so convinced already of Sophy's excellence,
that he feels sure he can make me fond of her.
Next morning I have no doubt Emile will make himself as smart as
his old travelling suit permits. I am not mistaken; but I am amused
to see how eager he is to wear the clean linen put out for us. I
know his thoughts, and I am delighted to see that he is trying to
establish a means of intercourse, through the return and exchange
of the linen; so that he may have a right to return it and so pay
another visit to the house.
I expected to find Sophy rather more carefully dressed too; but I
was mistaken. Such common coquetry is all very well for those who
merely desire to please. The coquetry of true love is a more delicate
matter; it has quite another end in view. Sophy is dressed, if
possible, more simply than last night, though as usual her frock is
exquisitely clean. The only sign of coquetry is her self-consciousness.
She knows that an elaborate toilet is a sign of love, but she does
not know that a careless toilet is another of its signs; it shows
a desire to be like not merely for one's clothes but for oneself.
What does a lover care for her clothes if he knows she is thinking
of him? Sophy is already sure of her power over Emile, and she is
not content to delight his eyes if his heart is not hers also; he
must not only perceive her charms, he must divine them; has he not
seen enough to guess the rest?
We may take it for granted that while Emile and I were talking last
night, Sophy and her mother were not silent; a confession was made
and instructions given. The morning's meeting is not unprepared.
Twelve hours ago our young people had never met; they have never
said a word to each other; but it is clear that there is already
an understanding between them. Their greeting is formal, confused,
timid; they say nothing, their downcast eyes seem to avoid each
other, but that is in itself a sign that they understand, they
avoid each other with one consent; they already feel the need of
concealment, though not a word has been uttered. When we depart we
ask leave to come again to return the borrowed clothes in person,
Emile's words are addressed to the father and mother, but his eyes
seek Sophy's, and his looks are more eloquent than his words. Sophy
says nothing by word or gesture; she seems deaf and blind, but she
blushes, and that blush is an answer even plainer than that of her
parents.
We receive permission to come again, though we are not invited to
stay. This is only fitting; you offer shelter to benighted travellers,
but a lover does not sleep in the house of his mistress.
We have hardly left the beloved abode before Emile is thinking of
taking rooms in the neighbourhood; the nearest cottage seems too
far; he would like to sleep in the next ditch. "You young fool!" I
said in a tone of pity, "are you already blinded by passion? Have
you no regard for manners or for reason? Wretched youth, you call
yourself a lover and you would bring disgrace upon her you love!
What would people say of her if they knew that a young man who has
been staying at her house was sleeping close by? You say you love
her! Would you ruin her reputation? Is that the price you offer
for her parents' hospitality? Would you bring disgrace on her who
will one day make you the happiest of men?" "Why should we trouble
ourselves about the empty words and unjust suspicions of other
people?" said he eagerly. "Have you not taught me yourself to make
light of them? Who knows better than I how greatly I honour Sophy,
what respect I desire to show her? My attachment will not cause
her shame, it will be her glory, it shall be worthy of her. If my
heart and my actions continually give her the homage she deserves,
what harm can I do her?" "Dear Emile," I said, as I clasped him to
my heart, "you are thinking of yourself alone; learn to think for
her too. Do not compare the honour of one sex with that of the
other, they rest on different foundations. These foundations are
equally firm and right, because they are both laid by nature, and
that same virtue which makes you scorn what men say about yourself,
binds you to respect what they say of her you love. Your honour
is in your own keeping, her honour depends on others. To neglect
it is to wound your own honour, and you fail in what is due to
yourself if you do not give her the respect she deserves."
Then while I explain the reasons for this difference, I make him
realise how wrong it would be to pay no attention to it. Who can
say if he will really be Sophy's husband? He does not know how she
feels towards him; her own heart or her parents' will may already
have formed other engagements; he knows nothing of her, perhaps
there are none of those grounds of suitability which make a
happy marriage. Is he not aware that the least breath of scandal
with regard to a young girl is an indelible stain, which not even
marriage with him who has caused the scandal can efface? What man
of feeling would ruin the woman he loves? What man of honour would
desire that a miserable woman should for ever lament the misfortune
of having found favour in his eyes?
Always prone to extremes, the youth takes alarm at the consequences
which I have compelled him to consider, and now he thinks that
he cannot be too far from Sophy's home; he hastens his steps to
get further from it; he glances round to make sure that no one is
listening; he would sacrifice his own happiness a thousand times
to the honour of her whom he loves; he would rather never see her
again than cause her the least unpleasantness. This is the first
result of the pains I have taken ever since he was a child to make
him capable of affection.
We must therefore seek a lodging at a distance, but not too far.
We look about us, we make inquiries; we find that there is a town
at least two leagues away. We try and find lodgings in this town,
rather than in the nearer villages, where our presence might give
rise to suspicion. It is there that the new lover takes up his abode,
full of love, hope, joy, above all full of right feeling. In this
way, I guide his rising passion towards all that is honourable and
good, so that his inclinations unconsciously follow the same bent.
My course is drawing to a close; the end is in view. All the chief
difficulties are vanquished, the chief obstacles overcome; the
hardest thing left to do is to refrain from spoiling my work by
undue haste to complete it. Amid the uncertainty of human life, let
us shun that false prudence which seeks to sacrifice the present
to the future; what is, is too often sacrificed to what will never
be. Let us make man happy at every age lest in spite of our care
he should die without knowing the meaning of happiness. Now if there
is a time to enjoy life, it is undoubtedly the close of adolescence,
when the powers of mind and body have reached their greatest
strength, and when man in the midst of his course is furthest from
those two extremes which tell him "Life is short." If the imprudence
of youth deceives itself it is not in its desire for enjoyment, but
because it seeks enjoyment where it is not to be found, and lays
up misery for the future, while unable to enjoy the present.
Consider my Emile over twenty years of age, well formed, well developed
in mind and body, strong, healthy, active, skilful, robust, full
of sense, reason, kindness, humanity, possessed of good morals and
good taste, loving what is beautiful, doing what is good, free from
the sway of fierce passions, released from the tyranny of popular
prejudices, but subject to the law of wisdom, and easily guided
by the voice of a friend; gifted with so many useful and pleasant
accomplishments, caring little for wealth, able to earn a living
with his own hands, and not afraid of want, whatever may come. Behold
him in the intoxication of a growing passion; his heart opens to
the first beams of love; its pleasant fancies reveal to him a whole
world of new delights and enjoyments; he loves a sweet woman, whose
character is even more delightful than her person; he hopes, he
expects the reward which he deserves.
Their first attachment took its rise in mutual affection, in community
of honourable feelings; therefore this affection is lasting. It
abandons itself, with confidence, with reason, to the most delightful
madness, without fear, regret, remorse, or any other disturbing
thought, but that which is inseparable from all happiness. What
lacks there yet? Behold, inquire, imagine what still is lacking,
that can be combined with present joys. Every happiness which can
exist in combination is already present; nothing could be added
without taking away from what there is; he is as happy as man can
be. Shall I choose this time to cut short so sweet a period? Shall
I disturb such pure enjoyment? The happiness he enjoys is my life's
reward. What could I give that could outweigh what I should take
away? Even if I set the crown to his happiness I should destroy
its greatest charm. That supreme joy is a hundredfold greater in
anticipation than in possession; its savour is greater while we wait
for it than when it is ours. O worthy Emile! love and be loved!
prolong your enjoyment before it is yours; rejoice in your love and
in your innocence, find your paradise upon earth, while you await
your heaven. I shall not cut short this happy period of life. I will
draw out its enchantments, I will prolong them as far as possible.
Alas! it must come to an end and that soon; but it shall at least
linger in your memory, and you will never repent of its joys.
Emile has not forgotten that we have something to return. As soon
as the things are ready, we take horse and set off at a great pace,
for on this occasion he is anxious to get there. When the heart
opens the door to passion, it becomes conscious of the slow flight
of time. If my time has not been wasted he will not spend his life
like this.
Unluckily the road is intricate and the country difficult. We
lose our way; he is the first to notice it, and without losing his
temper, and without grumbling, he devotes his whole attention to
discovering the path; he wanders for a long time before he knows
where he is and always with the same self-control. You think nothing
of that; but I think it a matter of great importance, for I know
how eager he is; I see the results of the care I have taken from
his infancy to harden him to endure the blows of necessity.
We are there at last! Our reception is much simpler and more friendly
than on the previous occasion; we are already old acquaintances.
Emile and Sophy bow shyly and say nothing; what can they say in our
presence? What they wish to say requires no spectators. We walk in
the garden; a well-kept kitchen-garden takes the place of flower-beds,
the park is an orchard full of fine tall fruit trees of every
kind, divided by pretty streams and borders full of flowers. "What
a lovely place!" exclaims Emile, still thinking of his Homer,
and still full of enthusiasm, "I could fancy myself in the garden
of Alcinous." The daughter wishes she knew who Alcinous was;
her mother asks. "Alcinous," I tell them, "was a king of Coreyra.
Homer describes his garden and the critics think it too simple and
unadorned. [Footnote: "'When you leave the palace you enter a vast
garden, four acres in extent, walled in on every side, planted
with tall trees in blossom, and yielding pears, pomegranates, and
other goodly fruits, fig-trees with their luscious burden and green
olives. All the year round these fair trees are heavy with fruit;
summer and winter the soft breath of the west wind sways the trees
and ripens the fruit. Pears and apples wither on the branches, the
fig on the fig-tree, and the clusters of grapes on the vine. The
inexhaustible stock bears fresh grapes, some are baked, some are
spread out on the threshing floor to dry, others are made into
wine, while flowers, sour grapes, and those which are beginning
to wither are left upon the tree. At either end is a square garden
filled with flowers which bloom throughout the year, these gardens
are adorned by two fountains, one of these streams waters the
garden, the other passes through the palace and is then taken to a
lofty tower in the town to provide drinking water for its citizens.'
Such is the description of the royal garden of Alcinous in the 7th
book of the Odyssey, a garden in which, to the lasting disgrace
of that old dreamer Homer and the princes of his day, there were
neither trellises, statues, cascades, nor bowling-greens."] This
Alcinous had a charming daughter who dreamed the night before her
father received a stranger at his board that she would soon have
a husband." Sophy, taken unawares, blushed, hung her head, and
bit her lips; no one could be more confused. Her father, who was
enjoying her confusion, added that the young princess bent herself
to wash the linen in the river. "Do you think," said he, "she would
have scorned to touch the dirty clothes, saying, that they smelt of
grease?" Sophy, touched to the quick, forgot her natural timidity
and defended herself eagerly. Her papa knew very well all the
smaller things would have had no other laundress if she had been
allowed to wash them, and she would gladly have done more had she
been set to do it. [Footnote: I own I feel grateful to Sophy's
mother for not letting her spoil such pretty hands with soap, hands
which Emile will kiss so often.] Meanwhile she watched me secretly
with such anxiety that I could not suppress a smile, while I read
the terrors of her simple heart which urged her to speak. Her
father was cruel enough to continue this foolish sport, by asking
her, in jest, why she spoke on her own behalf and what had she in
common with the daughter of Alcinous. Trembling and ashamed she
dared hardly breathe or look at us. Charming girl! This is no time
for feigning, you have shown your true feelings in spite of yourself.
To all appearance this little scene is soon forgotten; luckily for
Sophy, Emile, at least, is unaware of it. We continue our walk,
the young people at first keeping close beside us; but they find
it hard to adapt themselves to our slower pace, and presently they
are a little in front of us, they are walking side by side, they
begin to talk, and before long they are a good way ahead. Sophy
seems to be listening quietly, Emile is talking and gesticulating
vigorously; they seem to find their conversation interesting. When
we turn homewards a full hour later, we call them to us and they
return slowly enough now, and we can see they are making good
use of their time. Their conversation ceases suddenly before they
come within earshot, and they hurry up to us. Emile meets us with
a frank affectionate ｅxpression; his eyes are sparkling with joy;
yet he looks anxiously at Sophy's mother to see how she takes it.
Sophy is not nearly so much at her ease; as she approaches us she
seems covered with confusion at finding herself tete-a-tete with
a young man, though she has met so many other young men frankly
enough, and without being found fault with for it. She runs up to
her mother, somewhat out of breath, and makes some trivial remark,
as if to pretend she had been with her for some time.
From the happy ｅxpression of these dear children we see that
this conversation has taken a load off their hearts. They are no
less reticent in their intercourse, but their reticence is less
embarrassing, it is only due to Emile's reverence and Sophy's
modesty, to the goodness of both. Emile ventures to say a few words
to her, she ventures to reply, but she always looks at her mother
before she dares to answer. The most remarkable change is in her
attitude towards me. She shows me the greatest respect, she watches
me with interest, she takes pains to please me; I see that I am
honoured with her esteem, and that she is not indifferent to mine.
I understand that Emile has been talking to her about me; you might
say they have been scheming to win me over to their side; yet it
is not so, and Sophy herself is not so easily won. Perhaps Emile
will have more need of my influence with her than of hers with
me. What a charming pair! When I consider that the tender love of
my young friend has brought my name so prominently into his first
conversation with his lady-love, I enjoy the reward of all my
trouble; his affection is a sufficient recompense.
Our visit is repeated. There are frequent conversations between the
young people. Emile is madly in love and thinks that his happiness
is within his grasp. Yet he does not succeed in winning any formal
avowal from Sophy; she listens to what he says and answers nothing.
Emile knows how modest she is, and is not surprised at her reticence;
he feels sure that she likes him; he knows that parents decide whom
their daughters shall marry; he supposes that Sophy is awaiting
her parents' commands; he asks her permission to speak to them, and
she makes no objection. He talks to me and I speak on his behalf
and in his presence. He is immensely surprised to hear that Sophy
is her own mistress, that his happiness depends on her alone. He
begins to be puzzled by her conduct. He is less self-confident,
he takes alarm, he sees that he has not made so much progress as
he expected, and then it is that his love appeals to her in the
tenderest and most moving language.
Emile is not the sort of man to guess what is the matter; if no one
told him he would never discover it as long as he lived, and Sophy
is too proud to tell him. What she considers obstacles, others would
call advantages. She has not forgotten her parents' teaching. She
is poor; Emile is rich; so much she knows. He must win her esteem;
his deserts must be great indeed to remove this inequality. But
how should he perceive these obstacles? Is Emile aware that he is
rich? Has he ever condescended to inquire? Thank heaven, he has
no need of riches, he can do good without their aid. The good he
does comes from his heart, not his purse. He gives the wretched
his time, his care, his affection, himself; and when he reckons
up what he has done, he hardly dares to mention the money spent on
the poor.
As he does not know what to make of his disgrace, he thinks it is
his own fault; for who would venture to accuse the adored one of
caprice. The shame of humiliation adds to the pangs of disappointed
love. He no longer approaches Sophy with that pleasant confidence
of his own worth; he is shy and timid in her presence. He no longer
hopes to win her affections, but to gain her pity. Sometimes he
loses patience and is almost angry with her. Sophy seems to guess
his angry feelings and she looks at him. Her glance is enough to
disarm and terrify him; he is more submissive than he used to be.
Disturbed by this stubborn resistance, this invincible silence, he
pours out his heart to his friend. He shares with him the pangs of
a heart devoured by sorrow; he implores his help and counsel. "How
mysterious it is, how hard to understand! She takes an interest
in me, that I am sure; far from avoiding me she is pleased to see
me; when I come she shows signs of pleasure, when I go she shows
regret; she receives my attentions kindly, my services seem to
give her pleasure, she condescends to give me her advice and even
her commands. Yet she rejects my requests and my prayers. When
I venture to speak of marriage, she bids me be silent; if I say
a word, she leaves me at once. Why on earth should she wish me to
be hers but refuse to be mine? She respects and loves you, and she
will not dare to refuse to listen to you. Speak to her, make her
answer. Come to your friend's help, and put the coping stone to all
you have done for him; do not let him fall a victim to your care!
If you fail to secure his happiness, your own teaching will have
been the cause of his misery."
I speak to Sophy, and have no difficulty in getting her to confide
her secret to me, a secret which was known to me already. It is not
so easy to get permission to tell Emile; but at last she gives me
leave and I tell him what is the matter. He cannot get over his
surprise at this explanation. He cannot understand this delicacy;
he cannot see how a few pounds more or less can affect his character
or his deserts. When I get him to see their effect on people's
prejudices he begins to laugh; he is so wild with delight that he
wants to be off at once to tear up his title deeds and renounce his
money, so as to have the honour of being as poor as Sophy, and to
return worthy to be her husband.
"Why," said I, trying to check him, and laughing in my turn at his
impetuosity, "will this young head never grow any older? Having
dabbled all your life in philosophy, will you never learn to reason?
Do not you see that your wild scheme would only make things worse,
and Sophy more obstinate? It is a small superiority to be rather
richer than she, but to give up all for her would be a very
great superiority; if her pride cannot bear to be under the small
obligation, how will she make up her mind to the greater? If she
cannot bear to think that her husband might taunt her with the fact
that he has enriched her, would she permit him to blame her for
having brought him to poverty? Wretched boy, beware lest she suspects
you of such a plan! on the contrary, be careful and economical
for her sake, lest she should accuse you of trying to gain her by
cunning, by sacrificing of your own free will what you are really
wasting through carelessness.
"Do you really think that she is afraid of wealth, and that she is
opposed to great possessions in themselves? No, dear Emile; there
are more serious and substantial grounds for her opinion, in the
effect produced by wealth on its possessor. She knows that those
who are possessed of fortune's gifts are apt to place them first.
The rich always put wealth before merit. When services are reckoned
against silver, the latter always outweighs the former, and those
who have spent their life in their master's service are considered
his debtors for the very bread they eat. What must you do, Emile,
to calm her fears? Let her get to know you better; that is not done
in a day. Show her the treasures of your heart, to counterbalance
the wealth which is unfortunately yours. Time and constancy will
overcome her resistance; let your great and noble feelings make her
forget your wealth. Love her, serve her, serve her worthy parents.
Convince her that these attentions are not the result of a foolish
fleeting passion, but of settled principles engraved upon your
heart. Show them the honour deserved by worth when exposed to the
buffets of Fortune; that is the only way to reconcile it with that
worth which basks in her smiles."
The transports of joy experienced by the young man at these words
may easily be imagined; they restore confidence and hope, his good
heart rejoices to do something to please Sophy, which he would
have done if there had been no such person, or if he had not been
in love with her. However little his character has been understood,
anybody can see how he would behave under such circumstances.
Here am I, the confidant of these two young people and the mediator
of their affection. What a fine task for a tutor! So fine that
never in all my life have I stood so high in my own eyes, nor felt
so pleased with myself. Moreover, this duty is not without its
charms. I am not unwelcome in the home; it is my business to see
that the lovers behave themselves; Emile, ever afraid of offending
me, was never so docile. The little lady herself overwhelms me with
a kindness which does not deceive me, and of which I only take my
proper share. This is her way of making up for her severity towards
Emile. For his sake she bestows on me a hundred tender caresses,
though she would die rather than bestow them on him; and he, knowing
that I would never stand in his way, is delighted that I should
get on so well with her. If she refuses his arm when we are out
walking, he consoles himself with the thought that she has taken
mine. He makes way for me without a murmur, be clasps my hand, and
voice and look alike whisper, "My friend, plead for me!" and his
eyes follow us with interest; he tries to read our feelings in our
faces, and to interpret our conversation by our gestures; he knows
that everything we are saying concerns him. Dear Sophy, how frank
and easy you are when you can talk to Mentor without being overheard
by Telemachus. How freely and delightfully you permit him to read
what is passing in your tender little heart! How delighted you are
to show him how you esteem his pupil! How cunningly and appealingly
you allow him to divine still tenderer sentiments. With what
a pretence of anger you dismiss Emile when his impatience leads
him to interrupt you? With what pretty vexation you reproach his
indiscretion when he comes and prevents you saying something to
his credit, or listening to what I say about him, or finding in my
words some new excuse to love him!
Having got so far as to be tolerated as an acknowledged lover,
Emile takes full advantage of his position; he speaks, he urges, he
implores, he demands. Hard words or ill treatment make no difference,
provided he gets a hearing. At length Sophy is persuaded, though
with some difficulty, to assume the authority of a betrothed, to
decide what he shall do, to command instead of to ask, to accept
instead of to thank, to control the frequency and the hours of his
visits, to forbid him to come till such a day or to stay beyond
such an hour. This is not done in play, but in earnest, and if it
was hard to induce her to accept these rights, she uses them so
sternly that Emile is often ready to regret that he gave them to
her. But whatever her commands, they are obeyed without question,
and often when at her bidding he is about to leave her, he glances
at me his eyes full of delight, as if to say, "You see she has taken
possession of me." Yet unknown to him, Sophy, with all her pride,
is observing him closely, and she is smiling to herself at the
pride of her slave.
Oh that I had the brush of an Alban or a Raphael to paint their
bliss, or the pen of the divine Milton to describe the pleasures
of love and innocence! Not so; let such hollow arts shrink back
before the sacred truth of nature. In tenderness and pureness of
heart let your imagination freely trace the raptures of these young
lovers, who under the eyes of parents and tutor, abandon themselves
to their blissful illusions; in the intoxication of passion they
are advancing step by step to its consummation; with flowers and
garlands they are weaving the bonds which are to bind them till
death do part. I am carried away by this succession of pictures,
I am so happy that I cannot group them in any sort of order or
scheme; any one with a heart in his breast can paint the charming
picture for himself and realise the different experiences of father,
mother, daughter, tutor, and pupil, and the part played by each
and all in the union of the most delightful couple whom love and
virtue have ever led to happiness.
Now that he is really eager to please, Emile begins to feel the
value of the accomplishments he has acquired. Sophy is fond of
singing, he sings with her; he does more, he teaches her music.
She is lively and light of foot, she loves skipping; he dances
with her, he perfects and develops her untrained movements into the
steps of the dance. These lessons, enlivened by the gayest mirth,
are quite delightful, they melt the timid respect of love; a lover
may enjoy teaching his betrothed--he has a right to be her teacher.
There is an old spinet quite out of order. Emile mends and tunes
it; he is a maker and mender of musical instruments as well as a
carpenter; it has always been his rule to learn to do everything he
can for himself. The house is picturesquely situated and he makes
several sketches of it, in some of which Sophy does her share, and
she hangs them in her father's study. The frames are not gilded,
nor do they require gilding. When she sees Emile drawing, she draws
too, and improves her own drawing; she cultivates all her talents,
and her grace gives a charm to all she does. Her father and mother
recall the days of their wealth, when they find themselves surrounded
by the works of art which alone gave value to wealth; the whole
house is adorned by love; love alone has enthroned among them,
without cost or effort, the very same pleasures which were gathered
together in former days by dint of toil and money.
As the idolater gives what he loves best to the shrine of the object
of his worship, so the lover is not content to see perfection in
his mistress, he must be ever trying to add to her adornment. She
does not need it for his pleasure, it is he who needs the pleasure
of giving, it is a fresh homage to be rendered to her, a fresh
pleasure in the joy of beholding her. Everything of beauty seems
to find its place only as an accessory to the supreme beauty.
It is both touching and amusing to see Emile eager to teach Sophy
everything he knows, without asking whether she wants to learn
it or whether it is suitable for her. He talks about all sorts of
things and explains them to her with boyish eagerness; he thinks
he has only to speak and she will understand; he looks forward to
arguing, and discussing philosophy with her; everything he cannot
display before her is so much useless learning; he is quite ashamed
of knowing more than she.
So he gives her lessons in philosophy, physics, mathematics, history,
and everything else. Sophy is delighted to share his enthusiasm
and to try and profit by it. How pleased Emile is when he can get
leave to give these lessons on his knees before her! He thinks
the heavens are open. Yet this position, more trying to pupil than
to teacher, is hardly favourable to study. It is not easy to know
where to look, to avoid meeting the eyes which follow our own, and
if they meet so much the worse for the lesson.
Women are no strangers to the art of thinking, but they should
only skim the surface of logic and metaphysics. Sophy understands
readily, but she soon forgets. She makes most progress in the moral
sciences and aesthetics; as to physical science she retains some
vague idea of the general laws and order of this world. Sometimes in
the course of their walks, the spectacle of the wonders of nature
bids them not fear to raise their pure and innocent hearts to
nature's God; they are not afraid of His presence, and they pour
out their hearts before him.
What! Two young lovers spending their time together talking of
religion! Have they nothing better to do than to say their catechism!
What profit is there in the attempt to degrade what is noble? Yes,
no doubt they are saying their catechism in their delightful land
of romance; they are perfect in each other's eyes; they love one
another, they talk eagerly of all that makes virtue worth having.
Their sacrifices to virtue make her all the dearer to them. Their
struggles after self-control draw from them tears purer than the
dew of heaven, and these sweet tears are the joy of life; no human
heart has ever experienced a sweeter intoxication. Their very
renunciation adds to their happiness, and their sacrifices increase
their self-respect. Sensual men, bodies without souls, some day
they will know your pleasures, and all their life long they will
recall with regret the happy days when they refused the cup of
pleasure.
In spite of this good understanding, differences and even quarrels
occur from time to time; the lady has her whims, the lover has a hot
temper; but these passing showers are soon over and only serve to
strengthen their union. Emile learns by experience not to attach too
much importance to them, he always gains more by the reconciliation
than he lost by the quarrel. The results of the first difference
made him expect a like result from all; he was mistaken, but even
if he does not make any appreciable step forward, he has always the
satisfaction of finding Sophy's genuine concern for his affection
more firmly established. "What advantage is this to him?" you
would ask. I will gladly tell you; all the more gladly because it
will give me an opportunity to establish clearly a very important
principle, and to combat a very deadly one.
Emile is in love, but he is not presuming; and you will easily
understand that the dignified Sophy is not the sort of girl to allow
any kind of familiarity. Yet virtue has its bounds like everything
else, and she is rather to be blamed for her severity than for
indulgence; even her father himself is sometimes afraid lest her
lofty pride should degenerate into a haughty spirit. When most
alone, Emile dare not ask for the slightest favour, he must not
even seem to desire it; and if she is gracious enough to take his
arm when they are out walking, a favour which she will never permit
him to claim as a right, it is only occasionally that he dare venture
with a sigh to press her hand to his heart. However, after a long
period of self-restraint, he ventured secretly to kiss the hem of
her dress, and several times he was lucky enough to find her willing
at least to pretend she was not aware of it. one day he attempts
to take the same privilege rather more openly, and Sophy takes it
into her head to be greatly offended. He persists, she gets angry
and speaks sharply to him; Emile will not put up with this without
reply; the rest of the day is given over to sulks, and they part
in a very ill temper.
Sophy is ill at ease; her mother is her confidant in all things,
how can she keep this from her? It is their first misunderstanding,
and the misunderstanding of an hour is such a serious business.
She is sorry for what she has done, she has her mother's permission
and her father's commands to make reparation.
The next day Emile returns somewhat earlier than usual and in a
state of some anxiety. Sophy is in her mother's dressing-room and
her father is also present. Emile enters respectfully but gloomily.
Scarcely have her parents greeted him than Sophy turns round and
holding out her hand asks him in an affectionate tone how he is.
That pretty hand is clearly held out to be kissed; he takes it but
does not kiss it. Sophy, rather ashamed of herself, withdraws her
hand as best she may. Emile, who is not used to a woman's whims,
and does not know how far caprice may be carried, does not forget
so easily or make friends again all at once. Sophy's father, seeing
her confusion, completes her discomfiture by his jokes. The poor
girl, confused and ashamed, does not know what to do with herself
and would gladly have a good cry. The more she tries to control
herself the worse she feels; at last a tear escapes in spite of all
she can do to prevent it. Emile, seeing this tear, rushes towards
her, falls on his knees, takes her hand and kisses it again
and again with the greatest devotion. "My word, you are too kind
to her," says her father, laughing; "if I were you, I should deal
more severely with these follies, I should punish the mouth that
wronged me." Emboldened by these words, Emile turns a suppliant
eye towards her mother, and thinking she is not unwilling, he
tremblingly approaches Sophy's face; she turns away her head, and
to save her mouth she exposes a blushing cheek. The daring young
man is not content with this; there is no great resistance. What
a kiss, if it were not taken under her mother's eyes. Have a care,
Sophy, in your severity; he will be ready enough to try to kiss
your dress if only you will sometimes say "No."
After this exemplary punishment, Sophy's father goes about his
business, and her mother makes some excuse for sending her out of
the room; then she speaks to Emile very seriously. "Sir," she says,
"I think a young man so well born and well bred as yourself, a man
of feeling and character, would never reward with dishonour the
confidence reposed in him by the friendship of this family. I am
neither prudish nor over strict; I know how to make excuses for
youthful folly, and what I have permitted in my own presence is
sufficient proof of this. Consult your friend as to your own duty,
he will tell you there is all the difference in the world between
the playful kisses sanctioned by the presence of father and mother,
and the same freedom taken in their absence and in betrayal of
their confidence, a freedom which makes a snare of the very favours
which in the parents' presence were wholly innocent. He will tell
you, sir, that my daughter is only to blame for not having perceived
from the first what she ought never to have permitted; he will tell
you that every favour, taken as such, is a favour, and that it is
unworthy of a man of honour to take advantage of a young girl's
innocence, to usurp in private the same freedom which she may
permit in the presence of others. For good manners teach us what
is permitted in public; but we do not know what a man will permit
to himself in private, if he makes himself the sole judge of his
conduct."
After this well-deserved rebuke, addressed rather to me than to
my pupil, the good mother leaves us, and I am amazed by her rare
prudence, in thinking it a little thing that Emile should kiss
her daughter's lips in her presence, while fearing lest he should
venture to kiss her dress when they are alone. When I consider
the folly of worldly maxims, whereby real purity is continually
sacrificed to a show of propriety, I understand why speech becomes
more refined while the heart becomes more corrupt, and why etiquette
is stricter while those who conform to it are most immoral.
While I am trying to convince Emile's heart with regard to these
duties which I ought to have instilled into him sooner, a new idea
occurs to me, an idea which perhaps does Sophy all the more credit,
though I shall take care not to tell her lover; this so-called
pride, for which she has been censured, is clearly only a very
wise precaution to protect her from herself. Being aware that,
unfortunately, her own temperament is inflammable, she dreads the
least spark, and keeps out of reach so far as she can. Her sternness
is due not to pride but to humility. She assumes a control over
Emile because she doubts her control of herself; she turns the one
against the other. If she had more confidence in herself she would
be much less haughty. With this exception is there anywhere on earth
a gentler, sweeter girl? Is there any who endures an affront with
greater patience, any who is more afraid of annoying others? Is
there any with less pretension, except in the matter of virtue?
Moreover, she is not proud of her virtue, she is only proud in order
to preserve her virtue, and if she can follow the guidance of her
heart without danger, she caresses her lover himself. But her wise
mother does not confide all this even to her father; men should
not hear everything.
Far from seeming proud of her conquest, Sophy has grown more friendly
and less exacting towards everybody, except perhaps the one person
who has wrought this change. Her noble heart no longer swells with
the feeling of independence. She triumphs modestly over a victory
gained at the price of her freedom. Her bearing is more restrained,
her speech more timid, since she has begun to blush at the word
"lover"; but contentment may be seen beneath her outward confusion
and this very shame is not painful. This change is most noticeable
in her behaviour towards the young men she meets. Now that she
has ceased to be afraid of them, much of her extreme reserve has
disappeared. Now that her choice is made, she does not hesitate
to be gracious to those to whom she is quite indifferent; taking
no more interest in them, she is less difficult to please, and she
always finds them pleasant enough for people who are of no importance
to her.
If true love were capable of coquetry, I should fancy I saw traces
of it in the way Sophy behaves towards other young men in her
lover's presence. one would say that not content with the ardent
passion she inspires by a mixture of shyness and caresses, she is
not sorry to rouse this passion by a little anxiety; one would say
that when she is purposely amusing her young guests she means to
torment Emile by the charms of a freedom she will not allow herself
with him; but Sophy is too considerate, too kindly, too wise to
really torment him. Love and honour take the place of prudence and
control the use of this dangerous weapon. She can alarm and reassure
him just as he needs it; and if she sometimes makes him uneasy she
never really gives him pain. The anxiety she causes to her beloved
may be forgiven because of her fear that he is not sufficiently
her own.
But what effect will this little performance have upon Emile?
Will he be jealous or not? That is what we must discover; for such
digressions form part of the purpose of my book, and they do not
lead me far from my main subject.
I have already shown how this passion of jealousy in matters
of convention finds its way into the heart of man. In love it is
another matter; then jealousy is so near akin to nature, that it
is hard to believe that it is not her work; and the example of the
very beasts, many of whom are madly jealous, seems to prove this
point beyond reply. Is it man's influence that has taught cooks to
tear each other to pieces or bulls to fight to the death?
No one can deny that the aversion to everything which may disturb
or interfere with our pleasures is a natural impulse. Up to a
certain point the desire for the exclusive possession of that which
ministers to our pleasure is in the same case. But when this desire
has become a passion, when it is transformed into madness, or into
a bitter and suspicious fancy known as jealousy, that is quite
another matter; such a passion may be natural or it may not; we
must distinguish between these different cases.
I have already analysed the example of the animal world in my
Discourse on Inequality, and on further consideration I think I may
refer my readers to that analysis as sufficiently thorough. I will
only add this further point to those already made in that work, that
the jealousy which springs from nature depends greatly on sexual
power, and that when sexual power is or appears to be boundless, that
jealousy is at its height; for then the male, measuring his rights
by his needs, can never see another male except as an unwelcome
rival. In such species the females always submit to the first
comer, they only belong to the male by right of conquest, and they
are the cause of unending strife.
Among the monogamous species, where intercourse seems to give rise
to some sort of moral bond, a kind of marriage, the female who
belongs by choice to the male on whom she has bestowed herself
usually denies herself to all others; and the male, having this
preference of affection as a pledge of her fidelity, is less uneasy
at the sight of other males and lives more peaceably with them.
Among these species the male shares the care of the little ones; and
by one of those touching laws of nature it seems as if the female
rewards the father for his love for his children.
Now consider the human species in its primitive simplicity; it is
easy to see, from the limited powers of the male, and the moderation
of his desires, that nature meant him to be content with one female;
this is confirmed by the numerical equality of the two sexes, at any
rate in our part of the world; an equality which does not exist in
anything like the same degree among those species in which several
females are collected around one male. Though a man does not brood
like a pigeon, and though he has no milk to suckle the young, and
must in this respect be classed with the quadrupeds, his children
are feeble and helpless for so long a time, that mother and children
could ill dispense with the father's affection, and the care which
results from it.
All these observations combine to prove that the jealous fury of
the males of certain animals proves nothing with regard to man;
and the exceptional case of those southern regions were polygamy
is the established custom, only confirms the rule, since it is the
plurality of wives that gives rise to the tyrannical precautions
of the husband, and the consciousness of his own weakness makes
the man resort to constraint to evade the laws of nature.
Among ourselves where these same laws are less frequently evaded in
this respect, but are more frequently evaded in another and even
more detestable manner, jealousy finds its motives in the passions of
society rather than in those of primitive instinct. In most irregular
connections the hatred of the lover for his rivals far exceeds his
love for his mistress; if he fears a rival in her affections it
is the effect of that self-love whose origin I have already traced
out, and he is moved by vanity rather than affection. Moreover,
our clumsy systems of education have made women so deceitful,
[Footnote: The kind of deceit referred to here is just the opposite
of that deceit becoming in a woman, and taught her by nature;
the latter consists in concealing her real feelings, the former
in feigning what she does not feel. Every society lady spends her
life in boasting of her supposed sensibility, when in reality she
cares for no one but herself.] and have so over-stimulated their
appetites, that you cannot rely even on the most clearly proved
affection; they can no longer display a preference which secures
you against the fear of a rival.
True love is another matter. I have shown, in the work already
referred to, that this sentiment is not so natural as men think,
and that there is a great difference between the gentle habit which
binds a man with cords of love to his helpmeet, and the unbridled
passion which is intoxicated by the fancied charms of an object
which he no longer sees in its true light. This passion which is
full of exclusions and preferences, only differs from vanity in
this respect, that vanity demands all and gives nothing, so that
it is always harmful, while love, bestowing as much as it demands,
is in itself a sentiment full of equity. Moreover, the more
exacting it is, the more credulous; that very illusion which gave
rise to it, makes it easy to persuade. If love is suspicious, esteem
is trustful; and love will never exist in an honest heart without
esteem, for every one loves in another the qualities which he
himself holds in honour.
When once this is clearly understood, we can predict with confidence
the kind of jealousy which Emile will be capable of experiencing;
as there is only the smallest germ of this passion in the human
heart, the form it takes must depend solely upon education: Emile,
full of love and jealousy, will not be angry, sullen, suspicious,
but delicate, sensitive, and timid; he will be more alarmed than vexed;
he will think more of securing his lady-love than of threatening his
rival; he will treat him as an obstacle to be removed if possible
from his path, rather than as a rival to be hated; if he hates
him, it is not because he presumes to compete with him for Sophy's
affection, but because Emile feels that there is a real danger of
losing that affection; he will not be so unjust and foolish as to
take offence at the rivalry itself; he understands that the law
of preference rests upon merit only, and that honour depends upon
success; he will redouble his efforts to make himself acceptable,
and he will probably succeed. His generous Sophy, though she has
given alarm to his love, is well able to allay that fear, to atone
for it; and the rivals who were only suffered to put him to the
proof are speedily dismissed.
But whither am I going? O Emile! what art thou now? Is this my pupil?
How art thou fallen! Where is that young man so sternly fashioned,
who braved all weathers, who devoted his body to the hardest tasks
and his soul to the laws of wisdom; untouched by prejudice or
passion, a lover of truth, swayed by reason only, unheeding all that
was not hers? Living in softness and idleness he now lets himself
be ruled by women; their amusements are the business of his life,
their wishes are his laws; a young girl is the arbiter of his
fate, he cringes and grovels before her; the earnest Emile is the
plaything of a child.
So shift the scenes of life; each age is swayed by its own motives,
but the man is the same. At ten his mind was set upon cakes, at
twenty it is set upon his mistress; at thirty it will be set upon
pleasure; at forty on ambition, at fifty on avarice; when will
he seek after wisdom only? Happy is he who is compelled to follow
her against his will! What matter who is the guide, if the end is
attained. Heroes and sages have themselves paid tribute to this
human weakness; and those who handled the distaff with clumsy
fingers were none the less great men.
If you would prolong the influence of a good education through
life itself, the good habits acquired in childhood must be carried
forward into adolescence, and when your pupil is what he ought to
be you must manage to keep him what he ought to be. This is the
coping-stone of your work. This is why it is of the first importance
that the tutor should remain with young men; otherwise there is
little doubt they will learn to make love without him. The great
mistake of tutors and still more of fathers is to think that one way
of living makes another impossible, and that as soon as the child
is grown up, you must abandon everything you used to do when he was
little. If that were so, why should we take such pains in childhood,
since the good or bad use we make of it will vanish with childhood
itself; if another way of life were necessarily accompanied by
other ways of thinking?
The stream of memory is only interrupted by great illnesses, and the
stream of conduct, by great passions. Our tastes and inclinations
may change, but this change, though it may be sudden enough, is
rendered less abrupt by our habits. The skilful artist, in a good
colour scheme, contrives so to mingle and blend his tints that the
transitions are imperceptible; and certain colour washes are spread
over the whole picture so that there may be no sudden breaks. So
should it be with our likings. Unbalanced characters are always
changing their affections, their tastes, their sentiments; the
only constant factor is the habit of change; but the man of settled
character always returns to his former habits and preserves to old
age the tastes and the pleasures of his childhood.
If you contrive that young people passing from one stage of life
to another do not despise what has gone before, that when they form
new habits, they do not forsake the old, and that they always love
to do what is right, in things new and old; then only are the fruits
of your toil secure, and you are sure of your scholars as long as
they live; for the revolution most to be dreaded is that of the age
over which you are now watching. As men always look back to this
period with regret so the tastes carried forward into it from
childhood are not easily destroyed; but if once interrupted they
are never resumed.
Most of the habits you think you have instilled into children and
young people are not really habits at all; they have only been
acquired under compulsion, and being followed reluctantly they
will be cast off at the first opportunity. However long you remain
in prison you never get a taste for prison life; so aversion is
increased rather than diminished by habit. Not so with Emile; as
a child he only did what he could do willingly and with pleasure,
and as a man he will do the same, and the force of habit will
only lend its help to the joys of freedom. An active life, bodily
labour, exercise, movement, have become so essential to him that
he could not relinquish them without suffering. Reduce him all at
once to a soft and sedentary life and you condemn him to chains
and imprisonment, you keep him in a condition of thraldom and
constraint; he would suffer, no doubt, both in health and temper.
He can scarcely breathe in a stuffy room, he requires open air,
movement, fatigue. Even at Sophy's feet he cannot help casting
a glance at the country and longing to explore it in her company.
Yet he remains if he must; but he is anxious and ill at ease;
he seems to be struggling with himself; he remains because he is
a captive. "Yes," you will say, "these are necessities to which
you have subjected him, a yoke which you have laid upon him." You
speak truly, I have subjected him to the yoke of manhood.
Emile loves Sophy; but what were the charms by which he was first
attracted? Sensibility, virtue, and love for things pure and honest.
When he loves this love in Sophy, will he cease to feel it himself?
And what price did she put upon herself? She required all her
lover's natural feelings--esteem of what is really good, frugality,
simplicity, generous unselfishness, a scorn of pomp and riches.
These virtues were Emile's before love claimed them of him. Is he
really changed? He has all the more reason to be himself; that is
the only difference. The careful reader will not suppose that all
the circumstances in which he is placed are the work of chance.
There were many charming girls in the town; is it chance that his
choice is discovered in a distant retreat? Is their meeting the work
of chance? Is it chance that makes them so suited to each other?
Is it chance that they cannot live in the same place, that he is
compelled to find a lodging so far from her? Is it chance that he
can see her so seldom and must purchase the pleasure of seeing her
at the price of such fatigue? You say he is becoming effeminate.
Not so, he is growing stronger; he must be fairly robust to stand
the fatigue he endures on Sophy's account.
He lives more than two leagues away. That distance serves to temper
the shafts of love. If they lived next door to each other, or if
he could drive to see her in a comfortable carriage, he would love
at his ease in the Paris fashion. Would Leander have braved death
for the sake of Hero if the sea had not lain between them? Need I
say more; if my reader is able to take my meaning, he will be able
to follow out my principles in detail.
The first time we went to see Sophy, we went on horseback, so as
to get there more quickly. We continue this convenient plan until
our fifth visit. We were expected; and more than half a league
from the house we see people on the road. Emile watches them, his
pulse quickens as he gets nearer, he recognises Sophy and dismounts
quickly; he hastens to join the charming family. Emile is fond of
good horses; his horse is fresh, he feels he is free, and gallops
off across the fields; I follow and with some difficulty I succeed
in catching him and bringing him back. Unluckily Sophy is afraid
of horses, and I dare not approach her. Emile has not seen what
happened, but Sophy whispers to him that he is giving his friend
a great deal of trouble. He hurries up quite ashamed of himself,
takes the horses, and follows after the party. It is only fair
that each should take his turn and he rides on to get rid of our
mounts. He has to leave Sophy behind him, and he no longer thinks
riding a convenient mode of travelling. He returns out of breath
and meets us half-way.
The next time, Emile will not hear of horses. "Why," say I, "we need
only take a servant to look after them." "Shall we put our worthy
friends to such expense?" he replies. "You see they would insist
on feeding man and horse." "That is true," I reply; "theirs is the
generous hospitality of the poor. The rich man in his niggardly
pride only welcomes his friends, but the poor find room for their
friends' horses." "Let us go on foot," says he; "won't you venture
on the walk, when you are always so ready to share the toilsome
pleasures of your child?" "I will gladly go with you," I reply at
once, "and it seems to me that love does not desire so much show."
As we draw near, we meet the mother and daughter even further from
home than on the last occasion. We have come at a great pace. Emile
is very warm; his beloved condescends to pass her handkerchief
over his cheeks. It would take a good many horses to make us ride
there after this.
But it is rather hard never to be able to spend an evening together.
Midsummer is long past and the days are growing shorter. Whatever
we say, we are not allowed to return home in the dark, and unless
we make a very early start, we have to go back almost as soon as
we get there. The mother is sorry for us and uneasy on our account,
and it occurs to her that, though it would not be proper for us to
stay in the house, beds might be found for us in the village, if
we liked to stay there occasionally. Emile claps his hands at this
idea and trembles with joy; Sophy, unwittingly, kisses her mother
rather oftener than usual on the day this idea occurs to her.
Little by little the charm of friendship and the familiarity
of innocence take root and grow among us. I generally accompany
my young friend on the days appointed by Sophy or her mother, but
sometimes I let him go alone. The heart thrives in the sunshine
of confidence, and a man must not be treated as a child; and what
have I accomplished so far, if my pupil is unworthy of my esteem?
Now and then I go without him; he is sorry, but he does not complain;
what use would it be? And then he knows I shall not interfere with
his interests. However, whether we go together or separately you
will understand that we are not stopped by the weather; we are only
too proud to arrive in a condition which calls for pity. Unluckily
Sophy deprives us of this honour and forbids us to come in bad
weather. This is the only occasion on which she rebels against
the rules which I laid down for her in private.
One day Emile had gone alone and I did not expect him back till the
following day, but he returned the same evening. "My dear Emile,"
said I, "have you come back to your old friend already?" But instead
of responding to my caresses he replied with some show of temper,
"You need not suppose I came back so soon of my own accord;
she insisted on it; it is for her sake not yours that I am here."
Touched by his frankness I renewed my caresses, saying, "Truthful
heart and faithful friend, do not conceal from me anything I ought
to know. If you came back for her sake, you told me so for my own;
your return is her doing, your frankness is mine. Continue to
preserve the noble candour of great souls; strangers may think what
they will, but it is a crime to let our friends think us better
than we are."
I take care not to let him underrate the cost of his confession
by assuming that there is more love than generosity in it, and by
telling him that he would rather deprive himself of the honour of
this return, than give it to Sophy. But this is how he revealed
to me, all unconsciously, what were his real feelings; if he had
returned slowly and comfortably, dreaming of his sweetheart, I
should know he was merely her lover; when he hurried back, even if
he was a little out of temper, he was the friend of his Mentor.
You see that the young man is very far from spending his days with
Sophy, and seeing as much of her as he wants. one or two visits
a week are all that is permitted, and these visits are often only
for the afternoon and are rarely extended to the next day. He spends
much more of his time in longing to see her, or in rejoicing that
he has seen her, than he actually spends in her presence. Even when
he goes to see her, more time is spent in going and returning than
by her side. His pleasures, genuine, pure, delicious, but more
imaginary than real, serve to kindle his love but not to make him
effeminate.
On the days when he does not see Sophy he is not sitting idle at
home. He is Emile himself and quite unchanged. He usually scours
the country round in pursuit of its natural history; he observes
and studies the soil, its products, and their mode of cultivation;
he compares the methods he sees with those with which he is already
familiar; he tries to find the reasons for any differences; if he
thinks other methods better than those of the locality, he introduces
them to the farmers' notice; if he suggests a better kind of
plough, he has one made from his own drawings; if he finds a lime
pit he teaches them how to use the lime on the land, a process
new to them; he often lends a hand himself; they are surprised to
find him handling all manner of tools more easily than they can
themselves; his furrows are deeper and straighter than theirs,
he is a more skilful sower, and his beds for early produce are
more cleverly planned. They do not scoff at him as a fine talker,
they see he knows what he is talking about. In a word, his zeal
and attention are bestowed on everything that is really useful to
everybody; nor does he stop there. He visits the peasants in their
homes; inquires into their circumstances, their families, the
number of their children, the extent of their holdings, the nature
of their produce, their markets, their rights, their burdens, their
debts, etc. He gives away very little money, for he knows it is
usually ill spent; but he himself directs the use of his money,
and makes it helpful to them without distributing it among them.
He supplies them with labourers, and often pays them for work done
by themselves, on tasks for their own benefit. For one he has the
falling thatch repaired or renewed; for another he clears a piece
of land which had gone out of cultivation for lack of means; to
another he gives a cow, a horse, or stock of any kind to replace
a loss; two neighbours are ready to go to law, he wins them over,
and makes them friends again; a peasant falls ill, he has him cared
for, he looks after him himself; [Footnote: To look after a sick
peasant is not merely to give him a pill, or medicine, or to send
a surgeon to him. That is not what these poor folk require in
sickness; what they want is more and better food. When you have
fever, you will do well to fast, but when your peasants have it, give
them meat and wine; illness, in their case, is nearly always due to
poverty and exhaustion; your cellar will supply the best draught,
your butchers will be the best apothecary.] another is harassed by
a rich and powerful neighbor, he protects him and speaks on his
behalf; young people are fond of one another, he helps forward their
marriage; a good woman has lost her beloved child, he goes to see
her, he speaks words of comfort and sits a while with her; he does
not despise the poor, he is in no hurry to avoid the unfortunate;
he often takes his dinner with some peasant he is helping, and he
will even accept a meal from those who have no need of his help;
though he is the benefactor of some and the friend of all, he is
none the less their equal. In conclusion, he always does as much
good by his personal efforts as by his money.
Sometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode;
he may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walking
without being seen. But Emile is always quite open in everything
he does; he neither can nor would deceive. His delicacy is of that
pleasing type in which pride rests on the foundation of a good
conscience. He keeps strictly within bounds, and never comes near
enough to gain from chance what he only desires to win from Sophy
herself. on the other hand, he delights to roam about the neighbourhood,
looking for the trace of Sophy's steps, feeling what pains she has
taken and what a distance she has walked to please him.
The day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm and
order a little feast for the morrow. We shall take our walk in that
direction without any special object, we shall turn in apparently
by chance; fruit, cakes, and cream are waiting for us. Sophy likes
sweets, so is not insensible to these attentions, and she is quite
ready to do honour to what we have provided; for I always have my
share of the credit even if I have had no part in the trouble; it
is a girl's way of returning thanks more easily. Her father and I
have cakes and wine; Emile keeps the ladies company and is always
on the look-out to secure a dish of cream in which Sophy has dipped
her spoon.
The cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run. Every
one wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; they
ask him if he can run as well as ever. "Better," says he; "I should
be sorry to forget how to run." one member of the company is dying
to see him run, but she dare not say so; some one else undertakes
to suggest it; he agrees and we send for two or three young men
of the neighbourhood; a prize is offered, and in imitation of our
earlier games a cake is placed on the goal. Every one is ready,
Sophy's father gives the signal by clapping his hands. The nimble
Emile flies like lightning and reaches the goal almost before the
others have started. He receives his prize at Sophy's hands, and
no less generous than Aeneas, he gives gifts to all the vanquished.
In the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor,
and to assert that she can run as fast as he. He does not refuse to
enter the lists with her, and while she is getting ready to start,
while she is tucking up her skirt at each side, more eager to show
Emile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him in the race, while she
is seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he whispers a word
to her mother who smiles and nods approval. Then he takes his place
by his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than she is off
like a bird.
Women were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken.
Running is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only thing
they do awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and pointed
backwards look ridiculous, and the high heels on which they are
perched make them look like so many grasshoppers trying to run
instead of to jump.
Emile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, does
not deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a smile
of mockery. But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low heels;
she needs no pretence to make her foot look smaller; she runs so
quickly that he has only just time to overtake this new Atalanta
when he sees her so far ahead. Then he starts like an eagle dashing
upon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps her at last
quite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm about her,
he lifts her like a feather, and pressing his sweet burden to his
heart, he finishes the race, makes her touch the goal first, and
then exclaiming, "Sophy wins!" he sinks on one knee before her and
owns himself beaten.
Along with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt. one
day a week at least, and every day when the weather is too bad for
country pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner.
We do not work for show, like people above our trade; we work in
earnest like regular workmen. once when Sophy's father came to see
us, he found us at work, and did not fail to report his wonder to
his wife and daughter. "Go and see that young man in the workshop,"
said he, "and you will soon see if he despises the condition of
the poor." You may fancy how pleased Sophy was at this! They talk
it over, and they decide to surprise him at his work. They question
me, apparently without any special object, and having made sure of
the time, mother and daughter take a little carriage and come to
town on that very day.
On her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a young
man in his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at work
that he does not see her; she makes a sign to her mother. Emile,
a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, is just finishing
a mortise; then he saws a piece of wood and places it in the vice
in order to polish it. The sight of this does not set Sophy laughing;
it affects her greatly; it wins her respect. Woman, honour your
master; he it is who works for you, he it is who gives you bread
to eat; this is he!
While they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile by
the sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to them
with an exclamation of delight. After he has given way to his first
raptures, he makes them take a seat and he goes back to his work.
But Sophy cannot keep quiet; she gets up hastily, runs about the
workshop, looks at the tools, feels the polish of the boards, picks
up shavings, looks at our hands, and says she likes this trade, it
is so clean. The merry girl tries to copy Emile. With her delicate
white hand she passes a plane over a bit of wood; the plane slips
and makes no impression. It seems to me that Love himself is hovering
over us and beating his wings; I think I can hear his joyous cries,
"Hercules is avenged."
Yet Sophy's mother questions the master. "Sir, how much do you pay
these two men a day?" "I give them each tenpence a day and their
food; but if that young fellow wanted he could earn much more, for
he is the best workman in the country." "Tenpence a day and their
food," said she looking at us tenderly. "That is so, madam," replied
the master. At these words she hurries up to Emile, kisses him,
and clasps him to her breast with tears; unable to say more she
repeats again and again, "My son, my son!"
When they had spent some time chatting with us, but without
interrupting our work, "We must be going now," said the mother to
her daughter, "it is getting late and we must not keep your father
waiting." Then approaching Emile she tapped him playfully on the
cheek, saying, "Well, my good workman, won't you come with us?" He
replied sadly, "I am at work, ask the master." The master is asked
if he can spare us. He replies that he cannot. "I have work on
hand," said he, "which is wanted the day after to-morrow, so there
is not much time. Counting on these gentlemen I refused other
workmen who came; if they fail me I don't know how to replace them
and I shall not be able to send the work home at the time promised."
The mother said nothing, she was waiting to hear what Emile would
say. Emile hung his head in silence. "Sir," she said, somewhat
surprised at this, "have you nothing to say to that?" Emile looked
tenderly at her daughter and merely said, "You see I am bound to
stay." Then the ladies left us. Emile went with them to the door,
gazed after them as long as they were in sight, and returned to
his work without a word.
On the way home, the mother, somewhat vexed at his conduct, spoke
to her daughter of the strange way in which he had behaved. "Why,"
said she, "was it so difficult to arrange matters with the master
without being obliged to stay. The young man is generous enough
and ready to spend money when there is no need for it, could not
he spend a little on such a fitting occasion?" "Oh, mamma," replied
Sophy, "I trust Emile will never rely so much on money as to use it
to break an engagement, to fail to keep his own word, and to make
another break his! I know he could easily give the master a trifle
to make up for the slight inconvenience caused by his absence; but
his soul would become the slave of riches, he would become accustomed
to place wealth before duty, and he would think that any duty might
be neglected provided he was ready to pay. That is not Emile's way
of thinking, and I hope he will never change on my account. Do you
think it cost him nothing to stay? You are quite wrong, mamma; it
was for my sake that he stayed; I saw it in his eyes."
It is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love; on
the contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather not
be loved at all than be loved half-heartedly. Hers is the noble
pride of worth, conscious of its own value, self-respecting and
claiming a like honour from others. She would scorn a heart that
did not recognise the full worth of her own; that did not love
her for her virtues as much and more than for her charms; a heart
which did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything. She did
not desire a lover who knew no will but hers. She wished to reign
over a man whom she had not spoilt. Thus Circe, having changed into
swine the comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on him over whom
she had no power.
Except for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealous
of her own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them,
how zealously he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes,
how exactly he arrives at the appointed time; she will have him
neither late nor early; he must arrive to the moment. To come early
is to think more of himself than of her; to come late is to neglect
her. To neglect Sophy, that could not happen twice. An unfounded
suspicion on her part nearly ruined everything, but Sophy is really
just and knows how to atone for her faults.
They were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders.
They came to meet us, but we were not there. What has become of us?
What accident have we met with? No message from us! The evening
is spent in expectation of our arrival. Sophy thinks we are dead;
she is miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the night
through. In the course of the evening a messenger was despatched to
inquire after us and bring back news in the morning. The messenger
returns together with another messenger sent by us, who makes our
excuses verbally and says we are quite well. Then the scene is
changed; Sophy dries her tears, or if she still weeps it is for
anger. It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know that we
are alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting.
When we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parents
desire her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding at
once what course she will take she assumes a calm and contented
ｅxpression which would deceive most people. Her father comes forward
to receive us saying, "You have made your friends very uneasy;
there are people here who will not forgive you very readily." "Who
are they, papa," said Sophy with the most gracious smile she could
assume. "What business is that of yours," said her father, "if it
is not you?" Sophy bent over her work without reply. Her mother
received us coldly and formally. Emile was so confused he dared not
speak to Sophy. She spoke first, inquired how he was, asked him to
take a chair, and pretended so cleverly that the poor young fellow,
who as yet knew nothing of the language of angry passions, was quite
deceived by her apparent indifference, and ready to take offence
on his own account.
To undeceive him I was going to take Sophy's hand and raise it to
my lips as I sometimes did; she drew it back so hastily, with the
word, "Sir," uttered in such a strange manner that Emile's eyes
were opened at once by this involuntary movement.
Sophy herself, seeing that she had betrayed herself, exercised less
control over herself. Her apparent indifference was succeeded by
scornful irony. She replied to everything he said in monosyllables
uttered slowly and hesitatingly as if she were afraid her anger
should show itself too plainly. Emile half dead with terror stared
at her full of sorrow, and tried to get her to look at him so that
his eyes might read in hers her real feelings. Sophy, still more
angry at his boldness, gave him one look which removed all wish
for another. Luckily for himself, Emile, trembling and dumbfounded,
dared neither look at her nor speak to her again; for had he not
been guilty, had he been able to endure her wrath, she would never
have forgiven him.
Seeing that it was my turn now, and that the time was ripe for
explanation, I returned to Sophy. I took her hand and this time
she did not snatch it away; she was ready to faint. I said gently,
"Dear Sophy, we are the victims of misfortune; but you are just and
reasonable; you will not judge us unheard; listen to what we have
to say." She said nothing and I proceeded--
"We set out yesterday at four o'clock; we were told to be here at
seven, and we always allow ourselves rather more time than we need,
so as to rest a little before we get here. We were more than half
way here when we heard lamentable groans, which came from a little
valley in the hillside, some distance off. We hurried towards the
place and found an unlucky peasant who had taken rather more wine
than was good for him; on his way home he had fallen heavily from
his horse and broken his leg. We shouted and called for help; there
was no answer; we tried to lift the injured man on his horse, but
without success; the least movement caused intense agony. We decided
to tie up the horse in a quiet part of the wood; then we made a
chair of our crossed arms and carried the man as gently as possible,
following his directions till we got him home. The way was long,
and we were constantly obliged to stop and rest. At last we got
there, but thoroughly exhausted. We were surprised and sorry to find
that it was a house we knew already and that the wretched creature
we had carried with such difficulty was the very man who received
us so kindly when first we came. We had all been so upset that
until that moment we had not recognised each other.
"There were only two little children. His wife was about to present
him with another, and she was so overwhelmed at the sight of him
brought home in such a condition, that she was taken ill and a few
hours later gave birth to another little one. What was to be done
under such circumstances in a lonely cottage far from any help?
Emile decided to fetch the horse we had left in the wood, to ride
as fast as he could into the town and fetch a surgeon. He let the
surgeon have the horse, and not succeeding in finding a nurse all
at once, he returned on foot with a servant, after having sent a
messenger to you; meanwhile I hardly knew what to do between a man
with a broken leg and a woman in travail, but I got ready as well
as I could such things in the house as I thought would be needed
for the relief of both.
"I will pass over the rest of the details; they are not to the
point. It was two o'clock in the morning before we got a moment's
rest. At last we returned before daybreak to our lodging close at
hand, where we waited till you were up to let you know what had
happened to us."
That was all I said. But before any one could speak Emile,
approaching Sophy, raised his voice and said with greater firmness
than I expected, "Sophy, my fate is in your hands, as you very well
know. You may condemn me to die of grief; but do not hope to make
me forget the rights of humanity; they are even more sacred in my
eyes than your own rights; I will never renounce them for you."
For all answer, Sophy rose, put her arm round his neck, and kissed
him on the cheek; then offering him her hand with inimitable grace
she said to him, "Emile, take this hand; it is yours. When you will,
you shall be my husband and my master; I will try to be worthy of
that honour."
Scarcely had she kissed him, when her delighted father clapped his
hands calling, "Encore, encore," and Sophy without further ado,
kissed him twice on the other cheek; but afraid of what she had done
she took refuge at once in her mother's arms and hid her blushing
face on the maternal bosom.
I will not describe our happiness; everybody will feel with us.
After dinner Sophy asked if it were too far to go and see the
poor invalids. It was her wish and it was a work of mercy. When we
got there we found them both in bed--Emile had sent for a second
bedstead; there were people there to look after them--Emile had
seen to it. But in spite of this everything was so untidy that they
suffered almost as much from discomfort as from their condition.
Sophy asked for one of the good wife's aprons and set to work to
make her more comfortable in her bed; then she did as much for the
man; her soft and gentle hand seemed to find out what was hurting
them and how to settle them into less painful positions. Her
very presence seemed to make them more comfortable; she seemed to
guess what was the matter. This fastidious girl was not disgusted
by the dirt or smells, and she managed to get rid of both without
disturbing the sick people. She who had always appeared so modest
and sometimes so disdainful, she who would not for all the world
have touched a man's bed with her little finger, lifted the sick
man and changed his linen without any fuss, and placed him to rest
in a more comfortable position. The zeal of charity is of more
value than modesty. What she did was done so skilfully and with
such a light touch that he felt better almost without knowing she
had touched him. Husband and wife mingled their blessings upon the
kindly girl who tended, pitied, and consoled them. She was an angel
from heaven come to visit them; she was an angel in face and manner,
in gentleness and goodness. Emile was greatly touched by all this
and he watched her without speaking. O man, love thy helpmeet. God
gave her to relieve thy sufferings, to comfort thee in thy troubles.
This is she!
The new-born baby was baptised. The two lovers were its god-parents,
and as they held it at the font they were longing, at the bottom of
their hearts, for the time when they should have a child of their
own to be baptised. They longed for their wedding day; they thought
it was close at hand; all Sophy's scruples had vanished, but mine
remained. They had not got so far as they expected; every one must
have his turn.
One morning when they had not seen each other for two whole days,
I entered Emile's room with a letter in my hands, and looking
fixedly at him I said to him, "What would you do if some one told
you Sophy were dead?" He uttered a loud cry, got up and struck his
hands together, and without saying a single word, he looked at me
with eyes of desperation. "Answer me," I continued with the same
calmness. Vexed at my composure, he then approached me with eyes
blazing with anger; and checking himself in an almost threatening
attitude, "What would I do? I know not; but this I do know, I would
never set eyes again upon the person who brought me such news."
"Comfort yourself," said I, smiling, "she lives, she is well, and
they are expecting us this evening. But let us go for a short walk
and we can talk things over."
The passion which engrosses him will no longer permit him to devote
himself as in former days to discussions of pure reason; this very
passion must be called to our aid if his attention is to be given
to my teaching. That is why I made use of this terrible preface;
I am quite sure he will listen to me now.
"We must be happy, dear Emile; it is the end of every feeling
creature; it is the first desire taught us by nature, and the only
one which never leaves us. But where is happiness? Who knows? Every
one seeks it, and no one finds it. We spend our lives in the search
and we die before the end is attained. My young friend, when I
took you, a new-born infant, in my arms, and called God himself to
witness to the vow I dared to make that I would devote my life to
the happiness of your life, did I know myself what I was undertaking?
No; I only knew that in making you happy, I was sure of my own
happiness. By making this useful inquiry on your account, I made
it for us both.
"So long as we do not know what to do, wisdom consists in doing
nothing. Of all rules there is none so greatly needed by man, and
none which he is less able to obey. In seeking happiness when we
know not where it is, we are perhaps getting further and further
from it, we are running as many risks as there are roads to choose
from. But it is not every one that can keep still. Our passion
for our own well-being makes us so uneasy, that we would rather
deceive ourselves in the search for happiness than sit still and do
nothing; and when once we have left the place where we might have
known happiness, we can never return.
"In ignorance like this I tried to avoid a similar fault. When
I took charge of you I decided to take no useless steps and to
prevent you from doing so too. I kept to the path of nature, until
she should show me the path of happiness. And lo! their paths were
the same, and without knowing it this was the path I trod.
"Be at once my witness and my judge; I will never refuse to accept
your decision. Your early years have not been sacrificed to those
that were to follow, you have enjoyed all the good gifts which
nature bestowed upon you. Of the ills to which you were by nature
subject, and from which I could shelter you, you have only experienced
such as would harden you to bear others. You have never suffered
any evil, except to escape a greater. You have known neither hatred
nor servitude. Free and happy, you have remained just and kindly;
for suffering and vice are inseparable, and no man ever became bad
until he was unhappy. May the memory of your childhood remain with
you to old age! I am not afraid that your kind heart will ever
recall the hand that trained it without a blessing upon it.
"When you reached the age of reason, I secured you from the influence
of human prejudice; when your heart awoke I preserved you from the
sway of passion. Had I been able to prolong this inner tranquillity
till your life's end, my work would have been secure, and you would
have been as happy as man can be; but, my dear Emile, in vain did
I dip you in the waters of Styx, I could not make you everywhere
invulnerable; a fresh enemy has appeared, whom you have not yet
learnt to conquer, and from whom I cannot save you. That enemy
is yourself. Nature and fortune had left you free. You could face
poverty, you could bear bodily pain; the sufferings of the heart
were unknown to you; you were then dependent on nothing but your
position as a human being; now you depend on all the ties you have
formed for yourself; you have learnt to desire, and you are now
the slave of your desires. Without any change in yourself, without
any insult, any injury to yourself, what sorrows may attack your
soul, what pains may you suffer without sickness, how many deaths
may you die and yet live! A lie, an error, a suspicion, may plunge
you in despair.
"At the theatre you used to see heroes, abandoned to depths of woe,
making the stage re-echo with their wild cries, lamenting like
women, weeping like children, and thus securing the applause of the
audience. Do you remember how shocked you were by those lamentations,
cries, and groans, in men from whom one would only expect deeds of
constancy and heroism. 'Why,' said you, 'are those the patterns we
are to follow, the models set for our imitation! Are they afraid
man will not be small enough, unhappy enough, weak enough, if his
weakness is not enshrined under a false show of virtue.' My young
friend, henceforward you must be more merciful to the stage; you
have become one of those heroes.
"You know how to suffer and to die; you know how to bear the heavy
yoke of necessity in ills of the body, but you have not yet learnt
to give a law to the desires of your heart; and the difficulties
of life arise rather from our affections than from our needs. Our
desires are vast, our strength is little better than nothing. In his
wishes man is dependent on many things; in himself he is dependent
on nothing, not even on his own life; the more his connections are
multiplied, the greater his sufferings. Everything upon earth has
an end; sooner or later all that we love escapes from our fingers,
and we behave as if it would last for ever. What was your terror at
the mere suspicion of Sophy's death? Do you suppose she will live
for ever? Do not young people of her age die? She must die, my son,
and perhaps before you. Who knows if she is alive at this moment?
Nature meant you to die but once; you have prepared a second death
for yourself.
"A slave to your unbridled passions, how greatly are you to be
pitied! Ever privations, losses, alarms; you will not even enjoy
what is left. You will possess nothing because of the fear of losing
it; you will never be able to satisfy your passions, because you
desired to follow them continually. You will ever be seeking that
which will fly before you; you will be miserable and you will
become wicked. How can you be otherwise, having no care but your
unbridled passions! If you cannot put up with involuntary privations
how will you voluntarily deprive yourself? How can you sacrifice
desire to duty, and resist your heart in order to listen to your
reason? You would never see that man again who dared to bring you
word of the death of your mistress; how would you behold him who
would deprive you of her living self, him who would dare to tell
you, 'She is dead to you, virtue puts a gulf between you'? If you
must live with her whatever happens, whether Sophy is married or
single, whether you are free or not, whether she loves or hates
you, whether she is given or refused to you, no matter, it is your
will and you must have her at any price. Tell me then what crime
will stop a man who has no law but his heart's desires, who knows
not how to resist his own passions.
"My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue without
a struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifying
strength, and strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue is
the heritage of a creature weak by nature but strong by will; that
is the whole merit of the righteous man; and though we call God good
we do not call Him virtuous, because He does good without effort.
I waited to explain the meaning of this word, so often profaned,
until you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue is quite
easy to practise, there is little need to know it. This need arises
with the awakening of the passions; your time has come.
"When I brought you up in all the simplicity of nature, instead
of preaching disagreeable duties, I secured for you immunity from
the vices which make such duties disagreeable; I made lying not
so much hateful as unnecessary in your sight; I taught you not so
much to give others their due, as to care little about your own
rights; I made you kindly rather than virtuous. But the kindly man
is only kind so long as he finds it pleasant; kindness falls to
pieces at the shook of human passions; the kindly man is only kind
to himself.
"What is meant by a virtuous man? He who can conquer his affections;
for then he follows his reason, his conscience; he does his duty;
he is his own master and nothing can turn him from the right way.
So far you have had only the semblance of liberty, the precarious
liberty of the slave who has not received his orders. Now is the
time for real freedom; learn to be your own master; control your
heart, my Emile, and you will be virtuous.
"There is another apprenticeship before you, an apprenticeship more
difficult than the former; for nature delivers us from the evils
she lays upon us, or else she teaches us to submit to them; but
she has no message for us with regard to our self-imposed evils;
she leaves us to ourselves; she leaves us, victims of our own
passions, to succumb to our vain sorrows, to pride ourselves on
the tears of which we should be ashamed.
"This is your first passion. Perhaps it is the only passion worthy
of you. If you can control it like a man, it will be the last; you
will be master of all the rest, and you will obey nothing but the
passion for virtue.
"There is nothing criminal in this passion; I know it; it is as
pure as the hearts which experience it. It was born of honour and
nursed by innocence. Happy lovers! for you the charms of virtue do
but add to those of love; and the blessed union to which you are
looking forward is less the reward of your goodness than of your
affection. But tell me, O truthful man, though this passion is
pure, is it any the less your master? Are you the less its slave?
And if to-morrow it should cease to be innocent, would you strangle
it on the spot? Now is the time to try your strength; there is no
time for that in hours of danger. These perilous efforts should be
made when danger is still afar. We do not practise the use of our
weapons when we are face to face with the enemy, we do that before
the war; we come to the battle-field ready prepared.
"It is a mistake to classify the passions as lawful and unlawful,
so as to yield to the one and refuse the other. All alike are good
if we are their masters; all alike are bad if we abandon ourselves to
them. Nature forbids us to extend our relations beyond the limits
of our strength; reason forbids us to want what we cannot get,
conscience forbids us, not to be tempted, but to yield to temptation.
To feel or not to feel a passion is beyond our control, but we can
control ourselves. Every sentiment under our own control is lawful;
those which control us are criminal. A man is not guilty if he
loves his neighbour's wife, provided he keeps this unhappy passion
under the control of the law of duty; he is guilty if he loves his
own wife so greatly as to sacrifice everything to that love.
"Do not expect me to supply you with lengthy precepts of morality,
I have only one rule to give you which sums up all the rest. Be a
man; restrain your heart within the limits of your manhood. Study
and know these limits; however narrow they may be, we are not
unhappy within them; it is only when we wish to go beyond them that
we are unhappy, only when, in our mad passions, we try to attain
the impossible; we are unhappy when we forget our manhood to make
an imaginary world for ourselves, from which we are always slipping
back into our own. The only good things, whose loss really affects
us, are those which we claim as our rights. If it is clear that
we cannot obtain what we want, our mind turns away from it; wishes
without hope cease to torture us. A beggar is not tormented by a
desire to be a king; a king only wishes to be a god when he thinks
himself more than man.
"The illusions of pride are the source of our greatest ills; but
the contemplation of human suffering keeps the wise humble. He
keeps to his proper place and makes no attempt to depart from it;
he does not waste his strength in getting what he cannot keep; and
his whole strength being devoted to the right employment of what
he has, he is in reality richer and more powerful in proportion as
he desires less than we. A man, subject to death and change, shall
I forge for myself lasting chains upon this earth, where everything
changes and disappears, whence I myself shall shortly vanish! Oh,
Emile! my son! if I were to lose you, what would be left of myself?
And yet I must learn to lose you, for who knows when you may be
taken from me?
"Would you live in wisdom and happiness, fix your heart on the
beauty that is eternal; let your desires be limited by your position,
let your duties take precedence of your wishes; extend the law of
necessity into the region of morals; learn to lose what may be taken
from you; learn to forsake all things at the command of virtue,
to set yourself above the chances of life, to detach your heart
before it is torn in pieces, to be brave in adversity so that you
may never be wretched, to be steadfast in duty that you may never
be guilty of a crime. Then you will be happy in spite of fortune,
and good in spite of your passions. You will find a pleasure that
cannot be destroyed, even in the possession of the most fragile
things; you will possess them, they will not possess you, and you
will realise that the man who loses everything, only enjoys what
he knows how to resign. It is true you will not enjoy the illusions
of imaginary pleasures, neither will you feel the sufferings which
are their result. You will profit greatly by this exchange, for
the sufferings are real and frequent, the pleasures are rare and
empty. Victor over so many deceitful ideas, you will also vanquish
the idea that attaches such an excessive value to life. You will
spend your life in peace, and you will leave it without terror; you
will detach yourself from life as from other things. Let others,
horror-struck, believe that when this life is ended they cease to
be; conscious of the nothingness of life, you will think that you
are but entering upon the true life. To the wicked, death is the
close of life; to the just it is its dawn."
Emile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After such
a startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion. He foresaw
that when I showed him how necessary it is to practise the strength
of the soul, I desired to subject him to this stern discipline; he
was like a wounded man who shrinks from the surgeon, and fancies
he already feels the painful but healing touch which will cure the
deadly wound.
Uncertain, anxious, eager to know what I am driving at, he does
not answer, he questions me but timidly. "What must I do?" says
he almost trembling, not daring to raise his eyes. "What must you
do?" I reply firmly. "You must leave Sophy." "What are you saying?"
he exclaimed angrily. "Leave Sophy, leave Sophy, deceive her, become
a traitor, a villain, a perjurer!" "Why!" I continue, interrupting
him; "does Emile suppose I shall teach him to deserve such titles?"
"No," he continued with the same vigour. "Neither you nor any one
else; I am capable of preserving your work; I shall not deserve
such reproaches."
I was prepared for this first outburst; I let it pass unheeded. If
I had not the moderation I preach it would not be much use preaching
it! Emile knows me too well to believe me capable of demanding
any wrong action from him, and he knows that it would be wrong to
leave Sophy, in the sense he attaches to the phrase. So he waits
for an explanation. Then I resume my speech.
"My dear Emile, do you think any man whatsoever can be happier than
you have been for the last three months? If you think so, undeceive
yourself. Before tasting the pleasures of life you have plumbed
the depths of its happiness. There is nothing more than you have
already experienced. The joys of sense are soon over; habit invariably
destroys them. You have tasted greater joys through hope than you
will ever enjoy in reality. The imagination which adorns what we
long for, deserts its possession. With the exception of the one
self-existing Being, there is nothing beautiful except that which
is not. If that state could have lasted for ever, you would have
found perfect happiness. But all that is related to man shares his
decline; all is finite, all is fleeting in human life, and even
if the conditions which make us happy could be prolonged for ever,
habit would deprive us of all taste for that happiness. If external
circumstances remain unchanged, the heart changes; either happiness
forsakes us, or we forsake her.
"During your infatuation time has passed unheeded. Summer is over,
winter is at hand. Even if our expeditions were possible, at such
a time of year they would not be permitted. Whether we wish it or
no, we shall have to change our way of life; it cannot continue.
I read in your eager eyes that this does not disturb you greatly;
Sophy's confession and your own wishes suggest a simple plan
for avoiding the snow and escaping the journey. The plan has its
advantages, no doubt; but when spring returns, the snow will melt
and the marriage will remain; you must reckon for all seasons.
"You wish to marry Sophy and you have only known her five months!
You wish to marry her, not because she is a fit wife for you,
but because she pleases you; as if love were never mistaken as to
fitness, as if those, who begin with love, never ended with hatred!
I know she is virtuous; but is that enough? Is fitness merely a matter
of honour? It is not her virtue I misdoubt, it is her disposition.
Does a woman show her real character in a day? Do you know how
often you must have seen her and under what varying conditions to
really know her temper? Is four months of liking a sufficient pledge
for the rest of your life? A couple of months hence you may have
forgotten her; as soon as you are gone another may efface your
image in her heart; on your return you may find her as indifferent
as you have hitherto found her affectionate. Sentiments are not
a matter of principle; she may be perfectly virtuous and yet cease
to love you. I am inclined to think she will be faithful and true;
but who will answer for her, and who will answer for you if you
are not put to the proof? Will you postpone this trial till it is
too late, will you wait to know your true selves till parting is
no longer possible?
"Sophy is not eighteen, and you are barely twenty-two; this is the
age for love, but not for marriage. What a father and mother for
a family! If you want to know how to bring up children, you should
at least wait till you yourselves are children no longer. Do you
not know that too early motherhood has weakened the constitution,
destroyed the health, and shortened the life of many young women?
Do you not know that many children have always been weak and sickly
because their mother was little more than a child herself? When
mother and child are both growing, the strength required for their
growth is divided, and neither gets all that nature intended; are
not both sure to suffer? Either I know very little of Emile, or
he would rather wait and have a healthy wife and children, than
satisfy his impatience at the price of their life and health.
"Let us speak of yourself. You hope to be a husband and a father;
have you seriously considered your duties? When you become the head
of a family you will become a citizen of your country. And what is
a citizen of the state? What do you know about it? You have studied
your duties as a man, but what do you know of the duties of a
citizen? Do you know the meaning of such terms as government, laws,
country? Do you know the price you must pay for life, and for what
you must be prepared to die? You think you know everything, when
you really know nothing at all. Before you take your place in the
civil order, learn to perceive and know what is your proper place.
"Emile, you must leave Sophy; I do not bid you forsake her; if you
were capable of such conduct, she would be only too happy not to
have married you; you must leave her in order to return worthy of
her. Do not be vain enough to think yourself already worthy. How
much remains to be done! Come and fulfil this splendid task; come
and learn to submit to absence; come and earn the prize of fidelity,
so that when you return you may indeed deserve some honour, and
may ask her hand not as a favour but as a reward."
Unaccustomed to struggle with himself, untrained to desire one thing
and to will another, the young man will not give way; he resists,
he argues. Why should he refuse the happiness which awaits him?
Would he not despise the hand which is offered him if he hesitated
to accept it? Why need he leave her to learn what he ought to know?
And if it were necessary to leave her why not leave her as his
wife with a certain pledge of his return? Let him be her husband,
and he is ready to follow me; let them be married and he will leave
her without fear. "Marry her in order to leave her, dear Emile! what
a contradiction! A lover who can leave his mistress shows himself
capable of great things; a husband should never leave his wife
unless through necessity. To cure your scruples, I see the delay
must be involuntary on your part; you must be able to tell Sophy
you leave her against your will. Very well, be content, and since
you will not follow the commands of reason, you must submit to
another master. You have not forgotten your promise. Emile, you
must leave Sophy; I will have it."
For a moment or two he was downcast, silent, and thoughtful,
then looking me full in the face he said, "When do we start?" "In
a week's time," I replied; "Sophy must be prepared for our going.
Women are weaker than we are, and we must show consideration for
them; and this parting is not a duty for her as it is for you, so
she may be allowed to bear it less bravely."
The temptation to continue the daily history of their love up
to the time of their separation is very great; but I have already
presumed too much upon the good nature of my readers; let us abridge
the story so as to bring it to an end. Will Emile face the situation
as bravely at his mistress' feet as he has done in conversation
with his friend? I think he will; his confidence is rooted in the
sincerity of his love. He would be more at a loss with her, if it
cost him less to leave her; he would leave her feeling himself to
blame, and that is a difficult part for a man of honour to play;
but the greater the sacrifice, the more credit he demands for it
in the sight of her who makes it so difficult. He has no fear that
she will misunderstand his motives. Every look seems to say, "Oh,
Sophy, read my heart and be faithful to me; your lover is not
without virtue."
Sophy tries to bear the unforeseen blow with her usual pride
and dignity. She tries to seem as if she did not care, but as the
honours of war are not hers, but Emile's, her strength is less
equal to the task. She weeps, she sighs against her will, and the
fear of being forgotten embitters the pain of parting. She does
not weep in her lover's sight, she does not let him see her terror;
she would die rather than utter a sigh in his presence. I am the
recipient of her lamentations, I behold her tears, it is I who am
supposed to be her confidant. Women are very clever and know how to
conceal their cleverness; the more she frets in private, the more
pains she takes to please me; she feels that her fate is in my
hands.
I console and comfort her; I make myself answerable for her lover,
or rather for her husband; let her be as true to him as he to
her and I promise they shall be married in two years' time. She
respects me enough to believe that I do not want to deceive her.
I am guarantor to each for the other. Their hearts, their virtue,
my honesty, the confidence of their parents, all combine to reassure
them. But what can reason avail against weakness? They part as if
they were never to meet again.
Then it is that Sophy recalls the regrets of Eucharis, and fancies
herself in her place. Do not let us revive that fantastic affection
during his absence "Sophy," say I one day, "exchange books with
Emile; let him have your Telemachus that he may learn to be like
him, and let him give you his Spectator which you enjoy reading.
Study the duties of good wives in it, and remember that in two years'
time you will undertake those duties." The exchange gave pleasure
to both and inspired them with confidence. At last the sad day
arrived and they must part.
Sophy's worthy father, with whom I had arranged the whole business,
took affectionate leave of me, and taking me aside, he spoke
seriously and somewhat emphatically, saying, "I have done everything
to please you; I knew I had to do with a man of honour; I have only
one word to say. Remembering your pupil has signed his contract of
marriage on my daughter's lips."
What a difference in the behaviour of the two lovers! Emile,
impetuous, eager, excited, almost beside himself, cries aloud
and sheds torrents of tears upon the hands of father, mother, and
daughter; with sobs he embraces every one in the house and repeats
the same thing over and over again in a way that would be ludicrous
at any other time. Sophy, pale, sorrowful, doleful, and heavy-eyed,
remains quiet without a word or a tear, she sees no one, not even
Emile. In vain he takes her hand, and clasps her in his arms; she
remains motionless, unheeding his tears, his caresses, and everything
he does; so far as she is concerned, he is gone already. A sight
more moving than the prolonged lamentations and noisy regrets of her
lover! He sees, he feels, he is heartbroken. I drag him reluctantly
away; if I left him another minute, he would never go. I am delighted
that he should carry this touching picture with him. If he should
ever be tempted to forget what is due to Sophy, his heart must
have strayed very far indeed if I cannot bring it back to her by
recalling her as he saw her last.
OF TRAVEL
Is it good for young people to travel? The question is often asked
and as often hotly disputed. If it were stated otherwise--Are
men the better for having travelled?--perhaps there would be less
difference of opinion.
The misuse of books is the death of sound learning. People think
they know what they have read, and take no pains to learn. Too much
reading only produces a pretentious ignoramus. There was never so
much reading in any age as the present, and never was there less
learning; in no country of Europe are so many histories and books
of travel printed as in France, and nowhere is there less knowledge
of the mind and manners of other nations. So many books lead us to
neglect the book of the world; if we read it at all, we keep each
to our own page. If the phrase, "Can one become a Persian," were
unknown to me, I should suspect on hearing it that it came from
the country where national prejudice is most prevalent and from
the sex which does most to increase it.
A Parisian thinks he has a knowledge of men and he knows only
Frenchmen; his town is always full of foreigners, but he considers
every foreigner as a strange phenomenon which has no equal in the
universe. You must have a close acquaintance with the middle classes
of that great city, you must have lived among them, before you can
believe that people could be at once so witty and so stupid. The
strangest thing about it is that probably every one of them has
read a dozen times a description of the country whose inhabitants
inspire him with such wonder.
To discover the truth amidst our own prejudices and those of the
authors is too hard a task. I have been reading books of travels
all my life, but I never found two that gave me the same idea of
the same nation. on comparing my own scanty observations with what
I have read, I have decided to abandon the travellers and I regret
the time wasted in trying to learn from their books; for I am
quite convinced that for that sort of study, seeing not reading is
required. That would be true enough if every traveller were honest,
if he only said what he saw and believed, and if truth were not
tinged with false colours from his own eyes. What must it be when
we have to disentangle the truth from the web of lies and ill-faith?
Let us leave the boasted resources of books to those who are content
to use them. Like the art of Raymond Lully they are able to set
people chattering about things they do not know. They are able to
set fifteen-year-old Platos discussing philosophy in the clubs, and
teaching people the customs of Egypt and the Indies on the word of
Paul Lucas or Tavernier.
I maintain that it is beyond dispute that any one who has only seen
one nation does not know men; he only knows those men among whom
he has lived. Hence there is another way of stating the question
about travel: "Is it enough for a well-educated man to know his
fellow-countrymen, or ought he to know mankind in general?" Then
there is no place for argument or uncertainty. See how greatly the
solution of a difficult problem may depend on the way in which it
is stated.
But is it necessary to travel the whole globe to study mankind? Need
we go to Japan to study Europeans? Need we know every individual
before we know the species? No, there are men so much alike that it
is not worth while to study them individually. When you have seen
a dozen Frenchmen you have seen them all. Though one cannot say
as much of the English and other nations, it is, however, certain
that every nation has its own specific character, which is derived
by induction from the study, not of one, but many of its members.
He who has compared a dozen nations knows men, just he who has
compared a dozen Frenchmen knows the French.
To acquire knowledge it is not enough to travel hastily through a
country. Observation demands eyes, and the power of directing them
towards the object we desire to know. There are plenty of people
who learn no more from their travels than from their books, because
they do not know how to think; because in reading their mind is
at least under the guidance of the author, and in their travels
they do not know how to see for themselves. Others learn nothing,
because they have no desire to learn. Their object is so entirely
different, that this never occurs to them; it is very unlikely
that you will see clearly what you take no trouble to look for. The
French travel more than any other nation, but they are so taken up
with their own customs, that everything else is confused together.
There are Frenchmen in every corner of the globe. In no country
of the world do you find more people who have travelled than in
France. And yet of all the nations of Europe, that which has seen
most, knows least. The English are also travellers, but they travel
in another fashion; these two nations must always be at opposite
extremes. The English nobility travels, the French stays at home;
the French people travel, the English stay at home. This difference
does credit, I think, to the English. The French almost always
travel for their own ends; the English do not seek their fortune
in other lands, unless in the way of commerce and with their hands
full; when they travel it is to spend their money, not to live by
their wits; they are too proud to cringe before strangers. This
is why they learn more abroad than the French who have other fish
to fry. Yet the English have their national prejudices; but these
prejudices are not so much the result of ignorance as of feeling.
The Englishman's prejudices are the result of pride, the Frenchman's
are due to vanity.
Just as the least cultivated nations are usually the best, so those
travel best who travel least; they have made less progress than we
in our frivolous pursuits, they are less concerned with the objects
of our empty curiosity, so that they give their attention to what
is really useful. I hardly know any but the Spaniards who travel
in this fashion. While the Frenchman is running after all the
artists of the country, while the Englishman is getting a copy of
some antique, while the German is taking his album to every man
of science, the Spaniard is silently studying the government, the
manners of the country, its police, and he is the only one of the
four who from all that he has seen will carry home any observation
useful to his own country.
The ancients travelled little, read little, and wrote few books;
yet we see in those books that remain to us, that they observed each
other more thoroughly than we observe our contemporaries. Without
going back to the days of Homer, the only poet who transports us
to the country he describes, we cannot deny to Herodotus the glory
of having painted manners in his history, though he does it rather
by narrative than by comment; still he does it better than all our
historians whose books are overladen with portraits and characters.
Tacitus has described the Germans of his time better than any
author has described the Germans of to-day. There can be no doubt
that those who have devoted themselves to ancient history know more
about the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Gauls, and Persians than
any nation of to-day knows about its neighbours.
It must also be admitted that the original characteristics of
different nations are changing day by day, and are therefore more
difficult to grasp. As races blend and nations intermingle, those
national differences which formerly struck the observer at first
sight gradually disappear. Before our time every nation remained
more or less cut off from the rest; the means of communication were
fewer; there was less travelling, less of mutual or conflicting
interests, less political and civil intercourse between nation and
nation; those intricate schemes of royalty, miscalled diplomacy,
were less frequent; there were no permanent ambassadors resident
at foreign courts; long voyages were rare, there was little foreign
trade, and what little there was, was either the work of princes,
who employed foreigners, or of people of no account who had no
influence on others and did nothing to bring the nations together.
The relations between Europe and Asia in the present century are
a hundredfold more numerous than those between Gaul and Spain in
the past; Europe alone was less accessible than the whole world is
now.
Moreover, the peoples of antiquity usually considered themselves
as the original inhabitants of their country; they had dwelt there
so long that all record was lost of the far-off times when their
ancestors settled there; they had been there so long that the
place had made a lasting impression on them; but in modern Europe
the invasions of the barbarians, following upon the Roman conquests,
have caused an extraordinary confusion. The Frenchmen of to-day
are no longer the big fair men of old; the Greeks are no longer
beautiful enough to serve as a sculptor's model; the very face of
the Romans has changed as well as their character; the Persians,
originally from Tartary, are daily losing their native ugliness
through the intermixture of Circassian blood. Europeans are no longer
Gauls, Germans, Iberians, Allobroges; they are all Scythians, more
or less degenerate in countenance, and still more so in conduct.
This is why the ancient distinctions of race, the effect of soil
and climate, made a greater difference between nation and nation
in respect of temperament, looks, manners, and character than can
be distinguished in our own time, when the fickleness of Europe
leaves no time for natural causes to work, when the forests are
cut down and the marshes drained, when the earth is more generally,
though less thoroughly, tilled, so that the same differences between
country and country can no longer be detected even in purely physical
features.
If they considered these facts perhaps people would not be in such
a hurry to ridicule Herodotus, Ctesias, Pliny for having described
the inhabitants of different countries each with its own peculiarities
and with striking differences which we no longer see. To recognise
such types of face we should need to see the men themselves; no
change must have passed over them, if they are to remain the same.
If we could behold all the people who have ever lived, who can
doubt that we should find greater variations between one century
and another, than are now found between nation and nation.
At the same time, while observation becomes more difficult, it
is more carelessly and badly done; this is another reason for the
small success of our researches into the natural history of the
human race. The information acquired by travel depends upon the
object of the journey. If this object is a system of philosophy, the
traveller only sees what he desires to see; if it is self-interest,
it engrosses the whole attention of those concerned. Commerce and
the arts which blend and mingle the nations at the same time prevent
them from studying each other. If they know how to make a profit
out of their neighbours, what more do they need to know?
It is a good thing to know all the places where we might live, so
as to choose those where we can live most comfortably. If every
one lived by his own efforts, all he would need to know would be
how much land would keep him in food. The savage, who has need of
no one, and envies no one, neither knows nor seeks to know any other
country but his own. If he requires more land for his subsistence
he shuns inhabited places; he makes war upon the wild beasts
and feeds on them. But for us, to whom civilised life has become
a necessity, for us who must needs devour our fellow-creatures,
self-interest prompts each one of us to frequent those districts
where there are most people to be devoured. This is why we all
flock to Rome, Paris, and London. Human flesh and blood are always
cheapest in the capital cities. Thus we only know the great nations,
which are just like one another.
They say that men of learning travel to obtain information; not so,
they travel like other people from interested motives. Philosophers
like Plato and Pythagoras are no longer to be found, or if they
are, it must be in far-off lands. Our men of learning only travel
at the king's command; they are sent out, their expenses are paid,
they receive a salary for seeing such and such things, and the
object of that journey is certainly not the study of any question
of morals. Their whole time is required for the object of their
journey, and they are too honest not to earn their pay. If in any
country whatsoever there are people travelling at their own expense,
you may be sure it is not to study men but to teach them. It is
not knowledge they desire but ostentation. How should their travels
teach them to shake off the yoke of prejudice? It is prejudice that
sends them on their travels.
To travel to see foreign lands or to see foreign nations are two
very different things. The former is the usual aim of the curious,
the latter is merely subordinate to it. If you wish to travel as
a philosopher you should reverse this order. The child observes
things till he is old enough to study men. Man should begin by
studying his fellows; he can study things later if time permits.
It is therefore illogical to conclude that travel is useless
because we travel ill. But granting the usefulness of travel, does
it follow that it is good for all of us? Far from it; there are
very few people who are really fit to travel; it is only good for
those who are strong enough in themselves to listen to the voice
of error without being deceived, strong enough to see the example
of vice without being led away by it. Travelling accelerates the
progress of nature, and completes the man for good or evil. When
a man returns from travelling about the world, he is what he will
be all his life; there are more who return bad than good, because
there are more who start with an inclination towards evil. In the
course of their travels, young people, ill-educated and ill-behaved,
pick up all the vices of the nations among whom they have sojourned,
and none of the virtues with which those vices are associated; but
those who, happily for themselves, are well-born, those whose good
disposition has been well cultivated, those who travel with a real
desire to learn, all such return better and wiser than they went.
Emile will travel in this fashion; in this fashion there travelled
another young man, worthy of a nobler age; one whose worth was the
admiration of Europe, one who died for his country in the flower
of his manhood; he deserved to live, and his tomb, ennobled by his
virtues only, received no honour till a stranger's hand adorned it
with flowers.
Everything that is done in reason should have its rules. Travel,
undertaken as a part of education, should therefore have its rules.
To travel for travelling's sake is to wander, to be a vagabond; to
travel to learn is still too vague; learning without some definite
aim is worthless. I would give a young man a personal interest
in learning, and that interest, well-chosen, will also decide the
nature of the instruction. This is merely the continuation of the
method I have hitherto practised.
Now after he has considered himself in his physical relations
to other creatures, in his moral relations with other men, there
remains to be considered his civil relations with his fellow-citizens.
To do this he must first study the nature of government in general,
then the different forms of government, and lastly the particular
government under which he was born, to know if it suits him to live
under it; for by a right which nothing can abrogate, every man,
when he comes of age, becomes his own master, free to renounce the
contract by which he forms part of the community, by leaving the
country in which that contract holds good. It is only by sojourning
in that country, after he has come to years of discretion, that
he is supposed to have tacitly confirmed the pledge given by his
ancestors. He acquires the right to renounce his country, just as
he has the right to renounce all claim to his father's lands; yet
his place of birth was a gift of nature, and in renouncing it, he
renounces what is his own. Strictly speaking, every man remains in
the land of his birth at his own risk unless he voluntarily submits
to its laws in order to acquire a right to their protection.
For example, I should say to Emile, "Hitherto you have lived under
my guidance, you were unable to rule yourself. But now you are
approaching the age when the law, giving you the control over your
property, makes you master of your person. You are about to find
yourself alone in society, dependent on everything, even on your
patrimony. You mean to marry; that is a praiseworthy intention,
it is one of the duties of man; but before you marry you must know
what sort of man you want to be, how you wish to spend your life,
what steps you mean to take to secure a living for your family
and for yourself; for although we should not make this our main
business, it must be definitely considered. Do you wish to be
dependent on men whom you despise? Do you wish to establish your
fortune and determine your position by means of civil relations which
will make you always dependent on the choice of others, which will
compel you, if you would escape from knaves, to become a knave
yourself?"
In the next place I would show him every possible way of using his
money in trade, in the civil service, in finance, and I shall show
him that in every one of these there are risks to be taken, every
one of them places him in a precarious and dependent position, and
compels him to adapt his morals, his sentiments, his conduct to
the example and the prejudices of others.
"There is yet another way of spending your time and money; you may
join the army; that is to say, you may hire yourself out at very
high wages to go and kill men who never did you any harm. This trade
is held in great honour among men, and they cannot think too highly
of those who are fit for nothing better. Moreover, this profession,
far from making you independent of other resources, makes them all
the more necessary; for it is a point of honour in this profession
to ruin those who have adopted it. It is true they are not all
ruined; it is even becoming fashionable to grow rich in this as in
other professions; but if I told you how people manage to do it,
I doubt whether you would desire to follow their example.
"Moreover, you must know that, even in this trade, it is no longer
a question of courage or valour, unless with regard to the ladies;
on the contrary, the more cringing, mean, and degraded you are, the
more honour you obtain; if you have decided to take your profession
seriously, you will be despised, you will be hated, you will very
possibly be driven out of the service, or at least you will fall a
victim to favouritism and be supplanted by your comrades, because
you have been doing your duty in the trenches, while they have been
attending to their toilet."
We can hardly suppose that any of these occupations will be much
to Emile's taste. "Why," he will exclaim, "have I forgotten the
amusements of my childhood? Have I lost the use of my arms? Is
my strength failing me? Do I not know how to work? What do I care
about all your fine professions and all the silly prejudices of
others? I know no other pride than to be kindly and just; no other
happiness than to live in independence with her I love, gaining
health and a good appetite by the day's work. All these difficulties
you speak of do not concern me. The only property I desire is
a little farm in some quiet corner. I will devote all my efforts
after wealth to making it pay, and I will live without a care. Give
me Sophy and my land, and I shall be rich."
"Yes, my dear friend, that is all a wise man requires, a wife and
land of his own; but these treasures are scarcer than you think.
The rarest you have found already; let us discuss the other.
"A field of your own, dear Emile! Where will you find it, in what
remote corner of the earth can you say, 'Here am I master of myself
and of this estate which belongs to me?' We know where a man may
grow rich; who knows where he can do without riches? Who knows
where to live free and independent, without ill-treating others
and without fear of being ill-treated himself! Do you think it is
so easy to find a place where you can always live like an honest man?
If there is any safe and lawful way of living without intrigues,
without lawsuits, without dependence on others, it is, I admit,
to live by the labour of our hands, by the cultivation of our own
land; but where is the state in which a man can say, 'The earth
which I dig is my own?' Before choosing this happy spot, be sure
that you will find the peace you desire; beware lest an unjust
government, a persecuting religion, and evil habits should disturb
you in your home. Secure yourself against the excessive taxes which
devour the fruits of your labours, and the endless lawsuits which
consume your capital. Take care that you can live rightly without
having to pay court to intendents, to their deputies, to judges,
to priests, to powerful neighbours, and to knaves of every kind,
who are always ready to annoy you if you neglect them. Above all,
secure yourself from annoyance on the part of the rich and great;
remember that their estates may anywhere adjoin your Naboth's vineyard.
If unluckily for you some great man buys or builds a house near
your cottage, make sure that he will not find a way, under some
pretence or other, to encroach on your lands to round off his estate,
or that you do not find him at once absorbing all your resources
to make a wide highroad. If you keep sufficient credit to ward off
all these disagreeables, you might as well keep your money, for it
will cost you no more to keep it. Riches and credit lean upon each
other, the one can hardly stand without the other.
"I have more experience than you, dear Emile; I see more clearly
the difficulties in the way of your scheme. Yet it is a fine scheme
and honourable; it would make you happy indeed. Let us try to carry
it out. I have a suggestion to make; let us devote the two years
from now till the time of your return to choosing a place in
Europe where you could live happily with your family, secure from
all the dangers I have just described. If we succeed, you will
have discovered that true happiness, so often sought for in vain;
and you will not have to regret the time spent in its search. If
we fail, you will be cured of a mistaken idea; you will console
yourself for an inevitable ill, and you will bow to the law of
necessity."
I do not know whether all my readers will see whither this suggested
inquiry will lead us; but this I do know, if Emile returns from his
travels, begun and continued with this end in view, without a full
knowledge of questions of government, public morality, and political
philosophy of every kind, we are greatly lacking, he in intelligence
and I in judgment.
The science of politics is and probably always will be unknown.
Grotius, our leader in this branch of learning, is only a child,
and what is worse an untruthful child. When I hear Grotius praised
to the skies and Hobbes overwhelmed with abuse, I perceive how
little sensible men have read or understood these authors. As a
matter of fact, their principles are exactly alike, they only differ
in their mode of ｅxpression. Their methods are also different:
Hobbes relies on sophism; Grotius relies on the poets; they are
agreed in everything else. In modern times the only man who could
have created this vast and useless science was the illustrious
Montesquieu. But he was not concerned with the principles of
political law; he was content to deal with the positive laws of
settled governments; and nothing could be more different than these
two branches of study.
Yet he who would judge wisely in matters of actual government is
forced to combine the two; he must know what ought to be in order
to judge what is. The chief difficulty in the way of throwing light
upon this important matter is to induce an individual to discuss
and to answer these two questions. "How does it concern me; and
what can I do?" Emile is in a position to answer both.
The next difficulty is due to the prejudices of childhood, the
principles in which we were brought up; it is due above all to the
partiality of authors, who are always talking about truth, though
they care very little about it; it is only their own interests
that they care for, and of these they say nothing. Now the nation
has neither professorships, nor pensions, nor membership of the
academies to bestow. How then shall its rights be established by
men of that type? The education I have given him has removed this
difficulty also from Emile's path. He scarcely knows what is meant
by government; his business is to find the best; he does not want
to write books; if ever he did so, it would not be to pay court to
those in authority, but to establish the rights of humanity.
There is a third difficulty, more specious than real; a difficulty
which I neither desire to solve nor even to state; enough that I am
not afraid of it; sure I am that in inquiries of this kind, great
talents are less necessary than a genuine love of justice and a
sincere reverence for truth. If matters of government can ever be
fairly discussed, now or never is our chance.
Before beginning our observations we must lay down rules of procedure;
we must find a scale with which to compare our measurements. Our
principles of political law are our scale. Our actual measurements
are the civil law of each country.
Our elementary notions are plain and simple, being taken directly
from the nature of things. They will take the form of problems
discussed between us, and they will not be formulated into principles,
until we have found a satisfactory solution of our problems.
For example, we shall begin with the state of nature, we shall see
whether men are born slaves or free, in a community or independent;
is their association the result of free will or of force? Can the
force which compels them to united action ever form a permanent
law, by which this original force becomes binding, even when another
has been imposed upon it, so that since the power of King Nimrod,
who is said to have been the first conqueror, every other power
which has overthrown the original power is unjust and usurping,
so that there are no lawful kings but the descendants of Nimrod or
their representatives; or if this original power has ceased, has
the power which succeeded it any right over us, and does it destroy
the binding force of the former power, so that we are not bound to
obey except under compulsion, and we are free to rebel as soon as
we are capable of resistance? Such a right is not very different
from might; it is little more than a play upon words.
We shall inquire whether man might not say that all sickness comes
from God, and that it is therefore a crime to send for the doctor.
Again, we shall inquire whether we are bound by our conscience to
give our purse to a highwayman when we might conceal it from him,
for the pistol in his hand is also a power.
Does this word power in this context mean something different from
a power which is lawful and therefore subject to the laws to which
it owes its being?
Suppose we reject this theory that might is right and admit the
right of nature, or the authority of the father, as the foundation
of society; we shall inquire into the extent of this authority; what
is its foundation in nature? Has it any other grounds but that of
its usefulness to the child, his weakness, and the natural love
which his father feels towards him? When the child is no longer
feeble, when he is grown-up in mind as well as in body, does not
he become the sole judge of what is necessary for his preservation?
Is he not therefore his own master, independent of all men, even
of his father himself? For is it not still more certain that the
son loves himself, than that the father loves the son?
The father being dead, should the children obey the eldest brother,
or some other person who has not the natural affection of a father?
Should there always be, from family to family, one single head to
whom all the family owe obedience? If so, how has power ever come
to be divided, and how is it that there is more than one head to
govern the human race throughout the world?
Suppose the nations to have been formed each by its own choice; we
shall then distinguish between right and fact; being thus subjected
to their brothers, uncles, or other relations, not because they
were obliged, but because they choose, we shall inquire whether
this kind of society is not a sort of free and voluntary association?
Taking next the law of slavery, we shall inquire whether a man can
make over to another his right to himself, without restriction,
without reserve, without any kind of conditions; that is to say,
can he renounce his person, his life, his reason, his very self,
can he renounce all morality in his actions; in a word, can he
cease to exist before his death, in spite of nature who places him
directly in charge of his own preservation, in spite of reason and
conscience which tell him what to do and what to leave undone?
If there is any reservation or restriction in the deed of slavery,
we shall discuss whether this deed does not then become a true
contract, in which both the contracting powers, having in this respect
no common master, [Footnote: If they had such a common master, he
would be no other than the sovereign, and then the right of slavery
resting on the right of sovereignty would not be its origin.]
remain their own judge as to the conditions of the contract, and
therefore free to this extent, and able to break the contract as
soon as it becomes hurtful.
If then a slave cannot convey himself altogether to his master,
how can a nation convey itself altogether to its head? If a slave
is to judge whether his master is fulfilling his contract, is not
the nation to judge whether its head is fulfilling his contract?
Thus we are compelled to retrace our steps, and when we consider
the meaning of this collective nation we shall inquire whether some
contract, a tacit contract at the least, is not required to make
a nation, a contract anterior to that which we are assuming.
Since the nation was a nation before it chose a king, what made it
a nation, except the social contract? Therefore the social contract
is the foundation of all civil society, and it is in the nature of
this contract that we must seek the nature of the society formed
by it.
We will inquire into the meaning of this contract; may it not be
fairly well expressed in this formula? As an individual every one
of us contributes his goods, his person, his life, to the common
stock, under the supreme direction of the general will; while as
a body we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole.
Assuming this, in order to define the terms we require, we shall
observe that, instead of the individual person of each contracting
party, this deed of association produces a moral and collective body,
consisting of as many members as there are votes in the Assembly.
This public personality is usually called the body politic, which
is called by its members the State when it is passive, and the
Sovereign when it is active, and a Power when compared with its
equals. With regard to the members themselves, collectively they
are known as the nation, and individually as citizens as members
of the city or partakers in the sovereign power, and subjects as
obedient to the same authority.
We shall note that this contract of association includes a mutual
pledge on the part of the public and the individual; and that each
individual, entering, so to speak, into a contract with himself,
finds himself in a twofold capacity, i.e., as a member of the
sovereign with regard to others, as member of the state with regard
to the sovereign.
We shall also note that while no one is bound by any engagement to
which he was not himself a party, the general deliberation which
may be binding on all the subjects with regard to the sovereign,
because of the two different relations under which each of them is
envisaged, cannot be binding on the state with regard to itself.
Hence we see that there is not, and cannot be, any other fundamental
law, properly so called, except the social contract only. This does
not mean that the body politic cannot, in certain respects, pledge
itself to others; for in regard to the foreigner, it then becomes
a simple creature, an individual.
Thus the two contracting parties, i.e., each individual and the
public, have no common superior to decide their differences; so we
will inquire if each of them remains free to break the contract at
will, that is to repudiate it on his side as soon as he considers
it hurtful.
To clear up this difficulty, we shall observe that, according to
the social pact, the sovereign power is only able to act through
the common, general will; so its decrees can only have a general
or common aim; hence it follows that a private individual cannot
be directly injured by the sovereign, unless all are injured, which
is impossible, for that would be to want to harm oneself. Thus the
social contract has no need of any warrant but the general power,
for it can only be broken by individuals, and they are not therefore
freed from their engagement, but punished for having broken it.
To decide all such questions rightly, we must always bear in mind
that the nature of the social pact is private and peculiar to
itself, in that the nation only contracts with itself, i.e., the
people as a whole as sovereign, with the individuals as subjects;
this condition is essential to the construction and working of the
political machine, it alone makes pledges lawful, reasonable, and
secure, without which it would be absurd, tyrannical, and liable
to the grossest abuse.
Individuals having only submitted themselves to the sovereign, and
the sovereign power being only the general will, we shall see that
every man in obeying the sovereign only obeys himself, and how much
freer are we under the social part than in the state of nature.
Having compared natural and civil liberty with regard to persons,
we will compare them as to property, the rights of ownership and
the rights of sovereignty, the private and the common domain. If
the sovereign power rests upon the right of ownership, there is no
right more worthy of respect; it is inviolable and sacred for the
sovereign power, so long as it remains a private individual right; as
soon as it is viewed as common to all the citizens, it is subject
to the common will, and this will may destroy it. Thus the sovereign
has no right to touch the property of one or many; but he may
lawfully take possession of the property of all, as was done in
Sparta in the time of Lycurgus; while the abolition of debts by
Solon was an unlawful deed.
Since nothing is binding on the subjects except the general will,
let us inquire how this will is made manifest, by what signs we may
recognise it with certainty, what is a law, and what are the true
characters of the law? This is quite a fresh subject; we have still
to define the term law.
As soon as the nation considers one or more of its members, the
nation is divided. A relation is established between the whole and
its part which makes of them two separate entities, of which the
part is one, and the whole, minus that part, is the other. But the
whole minus the part is not the whole; as long as this relation
exists, there is no longer a whole, but two unequal parts.
On the other hand, if the whole nation makes a law for the whole
nation, it is only considering itself; and if a relation is set
up, it is between the whole community regarded from one point of
view, and the whole community regarded from another point of view,
without any division of that whole. Then the object of the statute
is general, and the will which makes that statute is general too.
Let us see if there is any other kind of decree which may bear the
name of law.
If the sovereign can only speak through laws, and if the law can
never have any but a general purpose, concerning all the members
of the state, it follows that the sovereign never has the power
to make any law with regard to particular cases; and yet it is
necessary for the preservation of the state that particular oases
should also be dealt with; let us see how this can be done.
The decrees of the sovereign can only be decrees of the general
will, that is laws; there must also be determining decrees, decrees
of power or government, for the execution of those laws; and these,
on the other hand, can only have particular aims. Thus the decrees
by which the sovereign decides that a chief shall be elected is
a law; the decree by which that chief is elected, in pursuance of
the law, is only a decree of government.
This is a third relation in which the assembled people may be
considered, i.e., as magistrates or executors of the law which it
has passed in its capacity as sovereign. [Footnote: These problems
and theorems are mostly taken from the Treatise on the Social
Contract, itself a summary of a larger work, undertaken without
due consideration of my own powers, and long since abandoned.]
We will now inquire whether it is possible for the nation to deprive
itself of its right of sovereignty, to bestow it on one or more
persons; for the decree of election not being a law, and the people
in this decree not being themselves sovereign, we do not see how
they can transfer a right which they do not possess.
The essence of sovereignty consisting in the general will, it is
equally hard to see how we can be certain that an individual will
shall always be in agreement with the general will. We should
rather assume that it will often be opposed to it; for individual
interest always tends to privileges, while the common interest
always tends to equality, and if such an agreement were possible,
no sovereign right could exist, unless the agreement were either
necessary or indestructible.
We will inquire if, without violating the social pact, the heads of
the nation, under whatever name they are chosen, can ever be more
than the officers of the people, entrusted by them with the duty
of carrying the law into execution. Are not these chiefs themselves
accountable for their administration, and are not they themselves
subject to the laws which it is their business to see carried out?
If the nation cannot alienate its supreme right, can it entrust
it to others for a time? Cannot it give itself a master, cannot it
find representatives? This is an important question and deserves
discussion.
If the nation can have neither sovereign nor representatives we
will inquire how it can pass its own laws; must there be many laws;
must they be often altered; is it easy for a great nation to be
its own lawgiver?
Was not the Roman people a great nation?
Is it a good thing that there should be great nations?
It follows from considerations already established that there is
an intermediate body in the state between subjects and sovereign;
and this intermediate body, consisting of one or more members, is
entrusted with the public administration, the carrying out of the
laws, and the maintenance of civil and political liberty.
The members of this body are called magistrates or kings, that is
to say, rulers. This body, as a whole, considered in relation to
its members, is called the prince, and considered in its actions
it is called the government.
If we consider the action of the whole body upon itself, that is
to say, the relation of the whole to the whole, of the sovereign
to the state, we can compare this relation to that of the extremes
in a proportion of which the government is the middle term. The
magistrate receives from the sovereign the commands which he gives
to the nation, and when it is reckoned up his product or his power
is in the same degree as the product or power of the citizens
who are subjects on one side of the proportion and sovereigns on
the other. None of the three terms can be varied without at once
destroying this proportion. If the sovereign tries to govern, and
if the prince wants to make the laws, or if the subject refuses to
obey them, disorder takes the place of order, and the state falls
to pieces under despotism or anarchy.
Let us suppose that this state consists of ten thousand citizens.
The sovereign can only be considered collectively and as a body,
but each individual, as a subject, has his private and independent
existence. Thus the sovereign is as ten thousand to one; that is
to say, every member of the state has, as his own share, only one
ten-thousandth part of the sovereign power, although he is subject
to the whole. Let the nation be composed of one hundred thousand
men, the position of the subjects is unchanged, and each continues
to bear the whole weight of the laws, while his vote, reduced to the
one hundred-thousandth part, has ten times less influence in the
making of the laws. Thus the subject being always one, the sovereign
is relatively greater as the number of the citizens is increased.
Hence it follows that the larger the state the less liberty.
Now the greater the disproportion between private wishes and the
general will, i.e., between manners and laws, the greater must be
the power of repression. on the other side, the greatness of the
state gives the depositaries of public authority greater temptations
and additional means of abusing that authority, so that the more
power is required by the government to control the people, the more
power should there be in the sovereign to control the government.
From this twofold relation it follows that the continued proportion
between the sovereign, the prince, and the people is not an arbitrary
idea, but a consequence of the nature of the state. Moreover, it
follows that one of the extremes, i.e., the nation, being constant,
every time the double ratio increases or decreases, the simple
ratio increases or diminishes in its turn; which cannot be unless
the middle term is as often changed. From this we may conclude that
there is no single absolute form of government, but there must
be as many different forms of government as there are states of
different size.
If the greater the numbers of the nation the less the ratio between
its manners and its laws, by a fairly clear analogy, we may also
say, the more numerous the magistrates, the weaker the government.
To make this principle clearer we will distinguish three essentially
different wills in the person of each magistrate; first, his
own will as an individual, which looks to his own advantage only;
secondly, the common will of the magistrates, which is concerned
only with the advantage of the prince, a will which may be called
corporate, and one which is general in relation to the government
and particular in relation to the state of which the government
forms part; thirdly, the will of the people, or the sovereign will,
which is general, as much in relation to the state viewed as the
whole as in relation to the government viewed as a part of the
whole. In a perfect legislature the private individual will should
be almost nothing; the corporate will belonging to the government
should be quite subordinate, and therefore the general and sovereign
will is the master of all the others. on the other hand, in the
natural order, these different wills become more and more active in
proportion as they become centralised; the general will is always
weak, the corporate will takes the second place, the individual
will is preferred to all; so that every one is himself first, then
a magistrate, and then a citizen; a series just the opposite of
that required by the social order.
Having laid down this principle, let us assume that the government
is in the hands of one man. In this case the individual and the
corporate will are absolutely one, and therefore this will has
reached the greatest possible degree of intensity. Now the use of
power depends on the degree of this intensity, and as the absolute
power of the government is always that of the people, and therefore
invariable, it follows that the rule of one man is the most active
form of government.
If, on the other hand, we unite the government with the supreme
power, and make the prince the sovereign and the citizens so many
magistrates, then the corporate will is completely lost in the general
will, and will have no more activity than the general will, and it
will leave the individual will in full vigour. Thus the government,
though its absolute force is constant, will have the minimum of
activity.
These rules are incontestable in themselves, and other considerations
only serve to confirm them. For example, we see the magistrates
as a body far more active than the citizens as a body, so that the
individual will always counts for more. For each magistrate usually
has charge of some particular duty of government; while each citizen,
in himself, has no particular duty of sovereignty. Moreover, the
greater the state the greater its real power, although its power
does not increase because of the increase in territory; but the
state remaining unchanged, the magistrates are multiplied in vain,
the government acquires no further real strength, because it is
the depositary of that of the state, which I have assumed to be
constant. Thus, this plurality of magistrates decreases the activity
of the government without increasing its power.
Having found that the power of the government is relaxed in
proportion as the number of magistrates is multiplied, and that
the more numerous the people, the more the controlling power must
be increased, we shall infer that the ratio between the magistrates
and the government should be inverse to that between subjects and
sovereign, that is to say, that the greater the state, the smaller
the government, and that in like manner the number of chiefs should
be diminished because of the increased numbers of the people.
In order to make this diversity of forms clearer, and to assign
them their different names, we shall observe in the first place
that the sovereign may entrust the care of the government to the
whole nation or to the greater part of the nation, so that there
are more citizen magistrates than private citizens. This form of
government is called Democracy.
Or the sovereign may restrict the government in the hands of a lesser
number, so that there are more plain citizens than magistrates;
and this form of government is called Aristocracy.
Finally, the sovereign may concentrate the whole government in the
hands of one man. This is the third and commonest form of government,
and is called Monarchy or royal government.
We shall observe that all these forms, or the first and second at
least, may be less or more, and that within tolerably wide limits.
For the democracy may include the whole nation, or may be confined
to one half of it. The aristocracy, in its turn, may shrink from
the half of the nation to the smallest number. Even royalty may be
shared, either between father and son, between two brothers, or in
some other fashion. There were always two kings in Sparta, and in
the Roman empire there were as many as eight emperors at once, and
yet it cannot be said that the empire was divided. There is a point
where each form of government blends with the next; and under the
three specific forms there may be really as many forms of government
as there are citizens in the state.
Nor is this all. In certain respects each of these governments is
capable of subdivision into different parts, each administered in
one of these three ways. From these forms in combination there may
arise a multitude of mixed forms, since each may be multiplied by
all the simple forms.
In all ages there have been great disputes as to which is the best
form of government, and people have failed to consider that each
is the best in some cases and the worst in others. For ourselves,
if the number of magistrates [Footnote: You will remember that
I mean, in this context, the supreme magistrates or heads of the
nation, the others being only their deputies in this or that respect.]
in the various states is to be in inverse ratio to the number of
the citizens, we infer that generally a democratic government is
adapted to small states, an aristocratic government to those of
moderate size, and a monarchy to large states.
These inquiries furnish us with a clue by which we may discover
what are the duties and rights of citizens, and whether they can
be separated one from the other; what is our country, in what does
it really consist, and how can each of us ascertain whether he has
a country or no?
Having thus considered every kind of civil society in itself, we
shall compare them, so as to note their relations one with another;
great and small, strong and weak, attacking one another, insulting
one another, destroying one another; and in this perpetual action
and reaction causing more misery and loss of life than if men had
preserved their original freedom. We shall inquire whether too much
or too little has not been accomplished in the matter of social
institutions; whether individuals who are subject to law and to
men, while societies preserve the independence of nature, are not
exposed to the ills of both conditions without the advantages of
either, and whether it would not be better to have no civil society
in the world rather than to have many such societies. Is it not
that mixed condition which partakes of both and secures neither?
"Per quem neutrum licet, nec tanquam in bello paratum esse, nec
tanquam in pace securum."--Seneca De Trang: Animi, cap. I.
Is it not this partial and imperfect association which gives rise
to tyranny and war? And are not tyranny and war the worst scourges
of humanity?
Finally we will inquire how men seek to get rid of these difficulties
by means of leagues and confederations, which leave each state
its own master in internal affairs, while they arm it against any
unjust aggression. We will inquire how a good federal association
may be established, what can make it lasting, and how far the rights
of the federation may be stretched without destroying the right of
sovereignty.
The Abbe de Saint-Pierre suggested an association of all the states
of Europe to maintain perpetual peace among themselves. Is this
association practicable, and supposing that it were established,
would it be likely to last? These inquiries lead us straight to all
the questions of international law which may clear up the remaining
difficulties of political law. Finally we shall lay down the real
principles of the laws of war, and we shall see why Grotius and
others have only stated false principles.
I should not be surprised if my pupil, who is a sensible young man,
should interrupt me saying, one would think we were building our
edifice of wood and not of men; we are putting everything so exactly
in its place!" That is true; but remember that the law does not
bow to the passions of men, and that we have first to establish
the true principles of political law. Now that our foundations are
laid, come and see what men have built upon them; and you will see
some strange sights!
Then I set him to read Telemachus, and we pursue our journey; we
are seeking that happy Salentum and the good Idomeneus made wise
by misfortunes. By the way we find many like Protesilas and no
Philocles, neither can Adrastes, King of the Daunians, be found.
But let our readers picture our travels for themselves, or take
the same journeys with Telemachus in their hand; and let us not
suggest to them painful applications which the author himself avoids
or makes in spite of himself.
Moreover, Emile is not a king, nor am I a god, so that we are not
distressed that we cannot imitate Telemachus and Mentor in the good
they did; none know better than we how to keep to our own place,
none have less desire to leave it. We know that the same task
is allotted to all; that whoever loves what is right with all his
heart, and does the right so far as it is in his power, has fulfilled
that task. We know that Telemachus and Mentor are creatures of the
imagination. Emile does not travel in idleness and he does more
good than if he were a prince. If we were kings we should be no
greater benefactors. If we were kings and benefactors we should
cause any number of real evils for every apparent good we supposed
we were doing. If we were kings and sages, the first good deed we
should desire to perform, for ourselves and for others, would be
to abdicate our kingship and return to our present position.
I have said why travel does so little for every one. What makes it
still more barren for the young is the way in which they are sent
on their travels. Tutors, more concerned to amuse than to instruct,
take them from town to town, from palace to palace, where if they
are men of learning and letters, they make them spend their time
in libraries, or visiting antiquaries, or rummaging among old
buildings transcribing ancient inscriptions. In every country they
are busy over some other century, as if they were living in another
country; so that after they have travelled all over Europe at great
expense, a prey to frivolity or tedium, they return, having seen
nothing to interest them, and having learnt nothing that could be
of any possible use to them.
All capitals are just alike, they are a mixture of all nations and
all ways of living; they are not the place in which to study the
nations. Paris and London seem to me the same town. Their inhabitants
have a few prejudices of their own, but each has as many as the
other, and all their rules of conduct are the same. We know the
kind of people who will throng the court. We know the way of living
which the crowds of people and the unequal distribution of wealth
will produce. As soon as any one tells me of a town with two hundred
thousand people, I know its life already. What I do not know about
it is not worth going there to learn.
To study the genius and character of a nation you should go to the
more remote provinces, where there is less stir, less commerce,
where strangers seldom travel, where the inhabitants stay in one
place, where there are fewer changes of wealth and position. Take
a look at the capital on your way, but go and study the country
far away from that capital. The French are not in Paris, but in
Touraine; the English are more English in Mercia than in London,
and the Spaniards more Spanish in Galicia than in Madrid. In these
remoter provinces a nation assumes its true character and shows
what it really is; there the good or ill effects of the government
are best perceived, just as you can measure the arc more exactly
at a greater radius.
The necessary relations between character and government have been
so clearly pointed out in the book of L'Esprit des Lois, that one
cannot do better than have recourse to that work for the study of
those relations. But speaking generally, there are two plain and
simple standards by which to decide whether governments are good or
bad. one is the population. Every country in which the population
is decreasing is on its way to ruin; and the countries in which
the population increases most rapidly, even were they the poorest
countries in the world, are certainly the best governed. [Footnote:
I only know one exception to this rule--it is China.] But this
population must be the natural result of the government and the
national character, for if it is caused by colonisation or any other
temporary and accidental cause, then the remedy itself is evidence
of the disease. When Augustus passed laws against celibacy, those
laws showed that the Roman empire was already beginning to decline.
Citizens must be induced to marry by the goodness of the government,
not compelled to marry by law; you must not examine the effects
of force, for the law which strives against the constitution has
little or no effect; you should study what is done by the influence
of public morals and by the natural inclination of the government,
for these alone produce a lasting effect. It was the policy of
the worthy Abbe de Saint-Pierre always to look for a little remedy
for every individual ill, instead of tracing them to their common
source and seeing if they could not all be cured together. You
do not need to treat separately every sore on a rich man's body;
you should purify the blood which produces them. They say that in
England there are prizes for agriculture; that is enough for me;
that is proof enough that agriculture will not flourish there much
longer.
The second sign of the goodness or badness of the government and
the laws is also to be found in the population, but it is to be
found not in its numbers but in its distribution. Two states equal
in size and population may be very unequal in strength; and the
more powerful is always that in which the people are more evenly
distributed over its territory; the country which has fewer large
towns, and makes less show on this account, will always defeat the
other. It is the great towns which exhaust the state and are the
cause of its weakness; the wealth which they produce is a sham
wealth, there is much money and few goods. They say the town of
Paris is worth a whole province to the King of France; for my own
part I believe it costs him more than several provinces. I believe
that Paris is fed by the provinces in more senses than one, and
that the greater part of their revenues is poured into that town
and stays there, without ever returning to the people or to the
king. It is inconceivable that in this age of calculators there
is no one to see that France would be much more powerful if Paris
were destroyed. Not only is this ill-distributed population not
advantageous to the state, it is more ruinous than depopulation
itself, because depopulation only gives as produce nought, and
the ill-regulated addition of still more people gives a negative
result. When I hear an Englishman and a Frenchman so proud of the
size of their capitals, and disputing whether London or Paris has
more inhabitants, it seems to me that they are quarrelling as to
which nation can claim the honour of being the worst governed.
Study the nation outside its towns; thus only will you really get
to know it. It is nothing to see the apparent form of a government,
overladen with the machinery of administration and the jargon
of the administrators, if you have not also studied its nature as
seen in the effects it has upon the people, and in every degree of
administration. The difference of form is really shared by every
degree of the administration, and it is only by including every
degree that you really know the difference. In one country you
begin to feel the spirit of the minister in the manoeuvres of his
underlings; in another you must see the election of members of
parliament to see if the nation is really free; in each and every
country, he who has only seen the towns cannot possibly know what
the government is like, as its spirit is never the same in town
and country. Now it is the agricultural districts which form the
country, and the country people who make the nation.
This study of different nations in their remoter provinces, and
in the simplicity of their native genius, gives a general result
which is very satisfactory, to my thinking, and very consoling to
the human heart; it is this: All the nations, if you observe them
in this fashion, seem much better worth observing; the nearer they
are to nature, the more does kindness hold sway in their character;
it is only when they are cooped up in towns, it is only when they
are changed by cultivation, that they become depraved, that certain
faults which were rather coarse than injurious are exchanged for
pleasant but pernicious vices.
From this observation we see another advantage in the mode of
travel I suggest; for young men, sojourning less in the big towns
which are horribly corrupt, are less likely to catch the infection
of vice; among simpler people and less numerous company, they will
preserve a surer judgment, a healthier taste, and better morals.
Besides this contagion of vice is hardly to be feared for Emile;
he has everything to protect him from it. Among all the precautions
I have taken, I reckon much on the love he bears in his heart.
We do not know the power of true love over youthful desires, because
we are ourselves as ignorant of it as they are, and those who have
control over the young turn them from true love. Yet a young man
must either love or fall into bad ways. It is easy to be deceived
by appearances. You will quote any number of young men who are said
to live very chastely without love; but show me one grown man, a
real man, who can truly say that his youth was thus spent? In all
our virtues, all our duties, people are content with appearances;
for my own part I want the reality, and I am much mistaken if there
is any other way of securing it beyond the means I have suggested.
The idea of letting Emile fall in love before taking him on his
travels is not my own. It was suggested to me by the following
incident.
I was in Venice calling on the tutor of a young Englishman. It was
winter and we were sitting round the fire. The tutor's letters were
brought from the post office. He glanced at them, and then read
them aloud to his pupil. They were in English; I understood not a
word, but while he was reading I saw the young man tear some fine
point lace ruffles which he was wearing, and throw them in the fire
one after another, as quietly as he could, so that no one should
see it. Surprised at this whim, I looked at his face and thought
I perceived some emotion; but the external signs of passion, though
much alike in all men, have national differences which may easily
lead one astray. Nations have a different language of facial ｅxpression
as well as of speech. I waited till the letters were finished and
then showing the tutor the bare wrists of his pupil, which he did
his best to hide, I said, "May I ask the meaning of this?"
The tutor seeing what had happened began to laugh; he embraced his
pupil with an air of satisfaction and, with his consent, he gave
me the desired explanation.
"The ruffles," said he, "which Mr. John has just torn to pieces,
were a present from a lady in this town, who made them for him not
long ago. Now you must know that Mr. John is engaged to a young
lady in his own country, with whom he is greatly in love, and she
well deserves it. This letter is from the lady's mother, and I will
translate the passage which caused the destruction you beheld.
"'Lucy is always at work upon Mr. John's ruffles. Yesterday Miss
Betty Roldham came to spend the afternoon and insisted on doing
some of her work. I knew that Lucy was up very early this morning
and I wanted to see what she was doing; I found her busy unpicking
what Miss Betty had done. She would not have a single stitch in
her present done by any hand but her own.'"
Mr. John went to fetch another pair of ruffles, and I said to his
tutor: "Your pupil has a very good disposition; but tell me is
not the letter from Miss Lucy's mother a put up job? Is it not an
expedient of your designing against the lady of the ruffles?" "No,"
said he, "it is quite genuine; I am not so artful as that; I have
made use of simplicity and zeal, and God has blessed my efforts."
This incident with regard to the young man stuck in my mind; it
was sure to set a dreamer like me thinking.
But it is time we finished. Let us take Mr. John back to Miss Lucy,
or rather Emile to Sophy. He brings her a heart as tender as ever,
and a more enlightened mind, and he returns to his native land all
the bettor for having made acquaintance with foreign governments
through their vices and foreign nations through their virtues.
I have even taken care that he should associate himself with some
man of worth in every nation, by means of a treaty of hospitality
after the fashion of the ancients, and I shall not be sorry if this
acquaintance is kept up by means of letters. Not only may this be
useful, not only is it always pleasant to have a correspondent in
foreign lands, it is also an excellent antidote against the sway
of patriotic prejudices, to which we are liable all through our
life, and to which sooner or later we are more or less enslaved.
Nothing is better calculated to lessen the hold of such prejudices
than a friendly interchange of opinions with sensible people whom
we respect; they are free from our prejudices and we find ourselves
face to face with theirs, and so we can set the one set of prejudices
against the other and be safe from both. It is not the same thing
to have to do with strangers in our own country and in theirs.
In the former case there is always a certain amount of politeness
which either makes them conceal their real opinions, or makes them
think more favourably of our country while they are with us; when
they get home again this disappears, and they merely do us justice.
I should be very glad if the foreigner I consult has seen my country,
but I shall not ask what he thinks of it till he is at home again.
When we have spent nearly two years travelling in a few of the
great countries and many of the smaller countries of Europe, when
we have learnt two or three of the chief languages, when we have
seen what is really interesting in natural history, government,
arts, or men, Emile, devoured by impatience, reminds me that our
time is almost up. Then I say, "Well, my friend, you remember the
main object of our journey; you have seen and observed; what is
the final result of your observations? What decision have you come
to?" Either my method is wrong, or he will answer me somewhat after
this fashion--
"What decision have I come to? I have decided to be what you made
me; of my own free will I will add no fetters to those imposed
upon me by nature and the laws. The more I study the works of men
in their institutions, the more clearly I see that, in their efforts
after independence, they become slaves, and that their very freedom
is wasted in vain attempts to assure its continuance. That they
may not be carried away by the flood of things, they form all sorts
of attachments; then as soon as they wish to move forward they are
surprised to find that everything drags them back. It seems to me
that to set oneself free we need do nothing, we need only continue
to desire freedom. My master, you have made me free by teaching
me to yield to necessity. Let her come when she will, I follow her
without compulsion; I lay hold of nothing to keep me back. In our
travels I have sought for some corner of the earth where I might
be absolutely my own; but where can one dwell among men without
being dependent on their passions? on further consideration I have
discovered that my desire contradicted itself; for were I to hold
to nothing else, I should at least hold to the spot on which I had
settled; my life would be attached to that spot, as the dryads were
attached to their trees. I have discovered that the words liberty
and empire are incompatible; I can only be master of a cottage by
ceasing to be master of myself.
"'Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus.'
Horace, lib. ii., sat. vi.
"I remember that my property was the origin of our inquiries. You
argued very forcibly that I could not keep both my wealth and my
liberty; but when you wished me to be free and at the same time
without needs, you desired two incompatible things, for I could
only be independent of men by returning to dependence on nature.
What then shall I do with the fortune bequeathed to me by my
parents? To begin with, I will not be dependent on it; I will cut
myself loose from all the ties which bind me to it; if it is left
in my hands, I shall keep it; if I am deprived of it, I shall not
be dragged away with it. I shall not trouble myself to keep it,
but I shall keep steadfastly to my own place. Rich or poor, I shall
be free. I shall be free not merely in this country or in that; I
shall be free in any part of the world. All the chains of prejudice
are broken; as far as I am concerned I know only the bonds of
necessity. I have been trained to endure them from my childhood,
and I shall endure them until death, for I am a man; and why should
I not wear those chains as a free man, for I should have to wear
them even if I were a slave, together with the additional fetters
of slavery?
"What matters my place in the world? What matters it where I am?
Wherever there are men, I am among my brethren; wherever there
are none, I am in my own home. So long as I may be independent and
rich, and have wherewithal to live, and I shall live. If my wealth
makes a slave of me, I shall find it easy to renounce it. I have
hands to work, and I shall get a living. If my hands fail me, I
shall live if others will support me; if they forsake me I shall
die; I shall die even if I am not forsaken, for death is not the
penalty of poverty, it is a law of nature. Whensoever death comes
I defy it; it shall never find me making preparations for life; it
shall never prevent me having lived.
"My father, this is my decision. But for my passions, I should be
in my manhood independent as God himself, for I only desire what
is and I should never fight against fate. At least, there is only
one chain, a chain which I shall ever wear, a chain of which I may
be justly proud. Come then, give me my Sophy, and I am free."
"Dear Emile, I am glad indeed to hear you speak like a man, and
to behold the feelings of your heart. At your age this exaggerated
unselfishness is not unpleasing. It will decrease when you have
children of your own, and then you will be just what a good father
and a wise man ought to be. I knew what the result would be before
our travels; I knew that when you saw our institutions you would be
far from reposing a confidence in them which they do not deserve.
In vain do we seek freedom under the power of the laws. The laws!
Where is there any law? Where is there any respect for law? Under
the name of law you have everywhere seen the rule of self-interest
and human passion. But the eternal laws of nature and of order
exist. For the wise man they take the place of positive law; they
are written in the depths of his heart by conscience and reason;
let him obey these laws and be free; for there is no slave but the
evil-doer, for he always does evil against his will. Liberty is
not to be found in any form of government, she is in the heart of
the free man, he bears her with him everywhere. The vile man bears
his slavery in himself; the one would be a slave in Geneva, the
other free in Paris.
"If I spoke to you of the duties of a citizen, you would perhaps
ask me, 'Which is my country?' And you would think you had put me
to confusion. Yet you would be mistaken, dear Emile, for he who
has no country has, at least, the land in which he lives. There is
always a government and certain so-called laws under which he has
lived in peace. What matter though the social contract has not been
observed, if he has been protected by private interest against the
general will, if he has been secured by public violence against
private aggressions, if the evil he has beheld has taught him to
love the good, and if our institutions themselves have made him
perceive and hate their own iniquities? Oh, Emile, where is the
man who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever that
land may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by
man, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue. Born in
the depths of a forest he would have lived in greater happiness
and freedom; but being able to follow his inclinations without a
struggle there would have been no merit in his goodness, he would
not have been virtuous, as he may be now, in spite of his passions.
The mere sight of order teaches him to know and love it. The public
good, which to others is a mere pretext, is a real motive for him.
He learns to fight against himself and to prevail, to sacrifice
his own interest to the common weal. It is not true that he gains
nothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even in
the midst of the wicked. It is not true that they have failed to
make him free; they have taught him to rule himself.
"Do not say therefore, 'What matter where I am?' It does matter
that you should be where you can best do your duty; and one of
these duties is to love your native land. Your fellow-countrymen
protected you in childhood; you should love them in your manhood.
You should live among them, or at least you should live where you
can serve them to the best of your power, and where they know where
to find you if ever they are in need of you. There are circumstances
in which a man may be of more use to his fellow-countrymen outside
his country than within it. Then he should listen only to his own
zeal and should bear his exile without a murmur; that exile is one
of his duties. But you, dear Emile, you have not undertaken the
painful task of telling men the truth, you must live in the midst
of your fellow-creatures, cultivating their friendship in pleasant
intercourse; you must be their benefactor, their pattern; your
example will do more than all our books, and the good they see you
do will touch them more deeply than all our empty words.
"Yet I do not exhort you to live in a town; on the contrary, one
of the examples which the good should give to others is that of a
patriarchal, rural life, the earliest life of man, the most peaceful,
the most natural, and the most attractive to the uncorrupted heart.
Happy is the land, my young friend, where one need not seek peace
in the wilderness! But where is that country? A man of good will
finds it hard to satisfy his inclinations in the midst of towns,
where he can find few but frauds and rogues to work for. The welcome
given by the towns to those idlers who flock to them to seek their
fortunes only completes the ruin of the country, when the country
ought really to be repopulated at the cost of the towns. All the
men who withdraw from high society are useful just because of their
withdrawal, since its vices are the result of its numbers. They are
also useful when they can bring with them into the desert places
life, culture, and the love of their first condition. I like
to think what benefits Emile and Sophy, in their simple home, may
spread about them, what a stimulus they may give to the country,
how they may revive the zeal of the unlucky villagers.
"In fancy I see the population increasing, the land coming under
cultivation, the earth clothed with fresh beauty. Many workers and
plenteous crops transform the labours of the fields into holidays; I
see the young couple in the midst of the rustic sports which they
have revived, and I hear the shouts of joy and the blessings of
those about them. Men say the golden age is a fable; it always will
be for those whose feelings and taste are depraved. People do not
really regret the golden age, for they do nothing to restore it.
What is needed for its restoration? one thing only, and that is an
impossibility; we must love the golden age.
"Already it seems to be reviving around Sophy's home; together you
will only complete what her worthy parents have begun. But, dear
Emile, you must not let so pleasant a life give you a distaste for
sterner duties, if every they are laid upon you; remember that the
Romans sometimes left the plough to become consul. If the prince
or the state calls you to the service of your country, leave all
to fulfil the honourable duties of a citizen in the post assigned
to you. If you find that duty onerous, there is a sure and honourable
means of escaping from it; do your duty so honestly that it will
not long be left in your hands. Moreover, you need not fear the
difficulties of such a test; while there are men of our own time,
they will not summon you to serve the state."
Why may I not paint the return of Emile to Sophy and the end of
their love, or rather the beginning of their wedded love! A love
founded on esteem which will last with life itself, on virtues
which will not fade with fading beauty, on fitness of character
which gives a charm to intercourse, and prolongs to old age the
delights of early love. But all such details would be pleasing but
not useful, and so far I have not permitted myself to give attractive
details unless I thought they would be useful. Shall I abandon
this rule when my task is nearly ended? No, I feel that my pen is
weary. Too feeble for such prolonged labours, I should abandon
this if it were not so nearly completed; if it is not to be left
imperfect it is time it were finished.
At last I see the happy day approaching, the happiest day of
Emile's life and my own; I see the crown of my labours, I begin to
appreciate their results. The noble pair are united till death do
part; heart and lips confirm no empty vows; they are man and wife.
When they return from the church, they follow where they are led;
they know not where they are, whither they are going, or what is
happening around them. They heed nothing, they answer at random;
their eyes are troubled and they see nothing. Oh, rapture! Oh,
human weakness! Man is overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, he
is not strong enough to bear it.
There are few people who know how to talk to the newly-married
couple. The gloomy propriety of some and the light conversation
of others seem to me equally out of place. I would rather their
young hearts were left to themselves, to abandon themselves to an
agitation which is not without its charm, rather than that they
should be so cruelly distressed by a false modesty, or annoyed by
coarse witticisms which, even if they appealed to them at other
times, are surely out of place on such a day.
I behold our young people, wrapped in a pleasant languor, giving
no heed to what is said. Shall I, who desire that they should enjoy
all the days of their life, shall I let them lose this precious
day? No, I desire that they shall taste its pleasures and enjoy
them. I rescue them from the foolish crowd, and walk with them in
some quiet place; I recall them to themselves by speaking of them
I wish to speak, not merely to their ears, but to their hearts,
and I know that there is only one subject of which they can think
to-day.
"My children," say I, taking a hand of each, "it is three years
since I beheld the birth of the pure and vigorous passion which is
your happiness to-day. It has gone on growing; your eyes tell me
that it has reached its highest point; it must inevitably decline."
My readers can fancy the raptures, the anger, the vows of Emile,
and the scornful air with which Sophy withdraws her hand from mine;
how their eyes protest that they will adore each other till their
latest breath. I let them have their way; then I continue:
"I have often thought that if the happiness of love could continue
in marriage, we should find a Paradise upon earth. So far this has
never been. But if it were not quite impossible, you two are quite
worthy to set an example you have not received, an example which
few married couples could follow. My children, shall I tell you
what I think is the way, and the only way, to do it?"
They look at one another and smile at my simplicity. Emile thanks
me curtly for my prescription, saying that he thinks Sophy has a
better, at any rate it is good enough for him. Sophy agrees with
him and seems just as certain. Yet in spite of her mockery, I think
I see a trace of curiosity. I study Emile; his eager eyes are fixed
upon his wife's beauty; he has no curiosity for anything else; and
he pays little heed to what I say. It is my turn to smile, and I
say to myself, "I will soon get your attention."
The almost imperceptible difference between these two hidden impulses
is characteristic of a real difference between the two sexes; it
is that men are generally less constant than women, and are sooner
weary of success in love. A woman foresees man's future inconstancy,
and is anxious; it is this which makes her more jealous. [Footnote:
In France it is the wives who first emancipate themselves; and
necessarily so, for having very little heart, and only desiring
attention, when a husband ceases to pay them attention they
care very little for himself. In other countries it is not so; it
is the husband who first emancipates himself; and necessarily so,
for women, faithful, but foolish, importune men with their desires
and only disgust them. There may be plenty of exceptions to these
general truths; but I still think they are truths.] When his
passion begins to cool she is compelled to pay him the attentions
he used to bestow on her for her pleasure; she weeps, it is her
turn to humiliate herself, and she is rarely successful. Affection
and kind deeds rarely win hearts, and they hardly ever win them
back. I return to my prescription against the cooling of love in
marriage.
"It is plain and simple," I continue. "It consists in remaining
lovers when you are husband and wife."
"Indeed," said Emile, laughing at my secret, "we shall not find
that hard."
"Perhaps you will find it harder than you think. Pray give me time
to explain.
"Cords too tightly stretched are soon broken. This is what happens
when the marriage bond is subjected to too great a strain. The
fidelity imposed by it upon husband and wife is the most sacred of
all rights; but it gives to each too great a power over the other.
Constraint and love do not agree together, and pleasure is not to
be had for the asking. Do not blush, Sophy, and do not try to run
away. God forbid that I should offend your modesty! But your fate
for life is at stake. For so great a cause, permit a conversation
between your husband and your father which you would not permit
elsewhere.
"It is not so much possession as mastery of which people tire, and
affection is often more prolonged with regard to a mistress than
a wife. How can people make a duty of the tenderest caresses, and
a right of the sweetest pledges of love? It is mutual desire which
gives the right, and nature knows no other. The law may restrict
this right, it cannot extend it. The pleasure is so sweet in itself!
Should it owe to sad constraint the power which it cannot gain from
its own charms? No, my children, in marriage the hearts are bound,
but the bodies are not enslaved. You owe one another fidelity, but
not complaisance. Neither of you may give yourself to another, but
neither of you belongs to the other except at your own will.
"If it is true, dear Emile, that you would always be your wife's
lover, that she should always be your mistress and her own, be a
happy but respectful lover; obtain all from love and nothing from
duty, and let the slightest favours never be of right but of grace.
I know that modesty shuns formal confessions and requires to be
overcome; but with delicacy and true love, will the lover ever be
mistaken as to the real will? Will not he know when heart and eyes
grant what the lips refuse? Let both for ever be master of their
person and their caresses, let them have the right to bestow them
only at their own will. Remember that even in marriage this pleasure
is only lawful when the desire is mutual. Do not be afraid, my
children, that this law will keep you apart; on the contrary, it
will make both more eager to please, and will prevent satiety. True
to one another, nature and love will draw you to each other."
Emile is angry and cries out against these and similar suggestions.
Sophy is ashamed, she hides her face behind her fan and says nothing.
Perhaps while she is saying nothing, she is the most annoyed. Yet
I insist, without mercy; I make Emile blush for his lack of delicacy;
I undertake to be surety for Sophy that she will undertake her
share of the treaty. I incite her to speak, you may guess she will
not dare to say I am mistaken. Emile anxiously consults the eyes of
his young wife; he beholds them, through all her confusion, filled
with a, voluptuous anxiety which reassures him against the dangers
of trusting her. He flings himself at her feet, kisses with rapture
the hand extended to him, and swears that beyond the fidelity he
has already promised, he will renounce all other rights over her.
"My dear wife," said he, "be the arbiter of my pleasures as you are
already the arbiter of my life and fate. Should your cruelty cost
me life itself I would yield to you my most cherished rights. I
will owe nothing to your complaisance, but all to your heart."
Dear Emile, be comforted; Sophy herself is too generous to let you
fall a victim to your generosity.
In the evening, when I am about to leave them, I say in the most
solemn tone, "Remember both of you, that you are free, that there
is no question of marital rights; believe me, no false deference.
Emile will you come home with me? Sophy permits it." Emile is ready
to strike me in his anger. "And you, Sophy, what do you say? Shall
I take him away?" The little liar, blushing, answers, "Yes." A
tender and delightful falsehood, better than truth itself!
The next day. ... Men no longer delight in the picture of bliss;
their taste is as much depraved by the corruption of vice as their
hearts. They can no longer feel what is touching or perceive what
is truly delightful. You who, as a picture of voluptuous joys, see
only the happy lovers immersed in pleasure, your picture is very
imperfect; you have only its grosser part, the sweetest charms
of pleasure are not there. Which of you has seen a young couple,
happily married, on the morrow of their marriage? their chaste
yet languid looks betray the intoxication of the bliss they have
enjoyed, the blessed security of innocence, and the delightful
certainty that they will spend the rest of their life together. The
heart of man can behold no more rapturous sight; this is the real
picture of happiness; you have beheld it a hundred times without
heeding it; your hearts are so hard that you cannot love it. Sophy,
peaceful and happy, spends the day in the arms of her tender mother;
a pleasant resting place, after a night spent in the arms of her
husband.
The day after I am aware of a slight change. Emile tries to look
somewhat vexed; but through this pretence I notice such a tender
eagerness, and indeed so much submission, that I do not think there
is much amiss. As for Sophy she is merrier than she was yesterday;
her eyes are sparkling and she looks very well pleased with herself;
she is charming to Emile; she ventures to tease him a little and
vexes him still more.
These changes are almost imperceptible, but they do not escape me;
I am anxious and I question Emile in private, and I learn that,
to his great regret, and in spite of all entreaties, he was not
permitted last night to share Sophy's bed. That haughty lady had
made haste to assert her right. An explanation takes place. Emile
complains bitterly, Sophy laughs; but at last, seeing that Emile is
really getting angry, she looks at him with eyes full of tenderness
and love, and pressing my hand, she only says these two words, but
in a tone that goes to his heart, "Ungrateful man!" Emile is too
stupid to understand. But I understand, and I send Emile away and
speak to Sophy privately in her turn.
"I see," said I, "the reason for this whim. No one could be more
delicate, and no one could use that delicacy so ill. Dear Sophy, do
not be anxious, I have given you a man; do not be afraid to treat
him as such. You have had the first fruits of his youth; he has not
squandered his manhood and it will endure for you. My dear child,
I must explain to you why I said what I did in our conversation of
the day before yesterday. Perhaps you only understood it as a way
of restraining your pleasures to secure their continuance. Oh,
Sophy, there was another object, more worthy of my care. When Emile
became your husband, he became your head, it is yours to obey; this
is the will of nature. When the wife is like Sophy, it is, however,
good for the man to be led by her; that is another of nature's
laws, and it is to give you as much authority over his heart, as
his sex gives him over your person, that I have made you the arbiter
of his pleasures. It will be hard for you, but you will control him
if you can control yourself, and what has already happened shows me
that this difficult art is not beyond your courage. You will long
rule him by love if you make your favours scarce and precious, if
you know how to use them aright. If you want to have your husband
always in your power, keep him at a distance. But let your sternness
be the result of modesty not caprice; let him find you modest not
capricious; beware lest in controlling his love you make him doubt
your own. Be all the dearer for your favours and all the more
respected when you refuse them; let him honour his wife's chastity,
without having to complain of her coldness.
"Thus, my child, he will give you his confidence, he will listen
to your opinion, will consult you in his business, and will decide
nothing without you. Thus you may recall him to wisdom, if he strays,
and bring him back by a gentle persuasion, you may make yourself
lovable in order to be useful, you may employ coquetry on behalf
of virtue, and love on behalf of reason.
"Do not think that with all this, your art will always serve your
purpose. In spite of every precaution pleasures are destroyed by
possession, and love above all others. But when love has lasted long
enough, a gentle habit takes its place and the charm of confidence
succeeds the raptures of passion. Children form a bond between
their parents, a bond no less tender and a bond which is sometimes
stronger than love itself. When you cease to be Emile's mistress you
will be his friend and wife; you will be the mother of his children.
Then instead of your first reticence let there be the fullest
intimacy between you; no more separate beds, no more refusals, no
more caprices. Become so truly his better half that he can no longer
do without you, and if he must leave you, let him feel that he is
far from himself. You have made the charms of home life so powerful
in your father's home, let them prevail in your own. Every man who
is happy at home loves his wife. Remember that if your husband is
happy in his home, you will be a happy wife.
"For the present, do not be too hard on your lover; he deserves
more consideration; he will be offended by your fears; do not care
for his health at the cost of his happiness, and enjoy your own
happiness. You must neither wait for disgust nor repulse desire;
you must not refuse for the sake of refusing, but only to add to
the value of your favours."
Then, taking her back to Emile, I say to her young husband, one must
bear the yoke voluntarily imposed upon oneself. Let your deserts be
such that the yoke may be lightened. Above all, sacrifice to the
graces, and do not think that sulkiness will make you more amiable."
Peace is soon made, and everybody can guess its terms. The treaty
is signed with a kiss, after which I say to my pupil, "Dear Emile,
all his life through a man needs a guide and counsellor. So far
I have done my best to fulfil that duty; my lengthy task is now
ended, and another will undertake this duty. To-day I abdicate the
authority which you gave me; henceforward Sophy is your guardian."
Little by little the first raptures subside and they can peacefully
enjoy the delights of their new condition. Happy lovers, worthy
husband and wife! To do honour to their virtues, to paint their
felicity, would require the history of their lives. How often does
my heart throb with rapture when I behold in them the crown of my
life's work! How often do I take their hands in mine blessing God
with all my heart! How often do I kiss their clasped hands! How
often do their tears of joy fall upon mine! They are touched by
my joy and they share my raptures. Their worthy parents see their
own youth renewed in that of their children; they begin to live,
as it were, afresh in them; or rather they perceive, for the first
time, the true value of life; they curse their former wealth, which
prevented them from enjoying so delightful a lot when they were
young. If there is such a thing as happiness upon earth, you must
seek it in our abode.
One morning a few months later Emile enters my room and embraces
me, saying, "My master, congratulate your son; he hopes soon to
have the honour of being a father. What a responsibility will be
ours, how much we shall need you! Yet God forbid that I should let
you educate the son as you educated the father. God forbid that so
sweet and holy a task should be fulfilled by any but myself, even
though I should make as good a choice for my child as was made for
me! But continue to be the teacher of the young teachers. Advise
and control us; we shall be easily led; as long as I live I shall
need you. I need you more than ever now that I am taking up the
duties of manhood. You have done your own duty; teach me to follow
your example, while you enjoy your well-earned leisure."
THE END
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